High Stakes

by Barbara Dunlop

  He was still danger with a capital D.

  “You’d lose,” she said to Jenna, folding the remaining drawings.

  “We’ll see,” said Jenna.

  Candice took the leftover drawings back to the file drawer. “How do I get to the basement?”

  The office door opened and Tyler appeared.

  “Through the spa,” said Jenna. “There’s a door from the garden.”

  “A door from the garden to what?” asked Tyler.

  “The basement,” said Jenna.

  Tyler grinned as he strode into the room. “Ahh. The basement. That’s where we lock up the bodies.”

  “Any of those bodies from 1940?” asked Candice. “The more artifacts we can present to the Historical Society the better.”

  Tyler wrapped an arm around Jenna’s waist. “I’m sure there are. The Elliots owned the building back then. Gambling, extortion, infidelity. They must have committed a murder or two.” He pulled Jenna back into the cradle of his thighs. “This office bring back any memories, babe?”

  Jenna smacked his hand. “Behave. You’re a married man.”

  Candice pointed at the door with her thumb, joking, since Henry was due back any minute. “You two want me to make myself scarce?”

  “Yes,” said Tyler.

  “No,” said Jenna. She tipped her head back to look up at him. “There’s something wrong with you.”

  “True. But you’ve got the cure.”

  “Can you get us into the basement?” asked Candice.

  “Don’t have the key. Derek does though.”

  Candice shivered at the thought of seeing Derek again. If it were a shiver of fright, she wouldn’t have been worried. But it was a shiver of anticipation, excitement even. This was not good.

  “Think you could get it from him?” she asked Tyler.

  Tyler shook his head. “Got a meeting in ten minutes.”

  Candice gave Jenna a hopeful look. “You?”

  Jenna shrugged apologetically. “I’ve got a meeting on the library proposal.”

  Candice swore under her breath. “I promised Derek I wasn’t going to bother him with the research.”

  “But you’re willing to send us in to bother him?” asked Tyler.

  “You’re family,” said Candice.

  “She’s ruthless,” Tyler said to Jenna.

  Candice considered her options. “Does the security office have a key?”

  Tyler shrugged. “They must have one somewhere. But they’re not going to let you go down there without Derek’s permission.”

  Jenna touched Candice’s arm, her voice full of falsely inflated compassion. “Don’t worry. If you did it in a limo, you can do it in the basement, too.”

  Candice’s face heated.

  Tyler held up his palms. “Hey, I don’t know nuthin’.”

  She shook her head. “I knew there was a reason we Hammonds stayed away from you Reeves-DuCarters all these years.”

  9

  CANDICE WAS STAYING WELL AWAY from a certain Reeves-DuCarter for the foreseeable future. She figured if she hurried, she could be in and out of the basement before anybody noticed.

  She made it into the spa without any trouble. And then she made it safely into the garden. And it didn’t take long to spot the concrete staircase leading to an old basement door.

  Perfect. All she had to do was casually make her way past the potted ferns, flower beds and cedar hedges, slip down the stairs and jimmy the lock with her credit card. She’d seen it done a million times on television. How strong was the lock likely to be, considering the door was accessed through an interior garden?

  She strolled past a young couple sitting on one of the wooden benches. A pair of elderly women smiled at her as they admired the late-blooming roses. She took a quick look over her shoulder and through the glass wall of the spa. Nobody seemed to be paying any attention to her, so she scooted down the stairs.

  The temperature cooled as she descended into the damp concrete stairwell. The cement was chipped and cracked in places, and fuzzy moss had crept along the dark corners. An old wooden-plank door was crossed with iron supports and held shut by a sliding metal bolt. The bolt was held in place by a rusty padlock. And she was in luck. The lock had been left hanging open.

  With a final glance back up at the garden, she wriggled the lock from the latch and worked the bolt through the holes. With a creak and a groan, the big door yawned inward.

  Bingo.

  If this decorating gig didn’t work out, maybe she could join the CIA.

  She felt around the end of the wall, quickly locating a light switch. She held her breath and flicked it up. Fluorescent lights buzzed to life, slowly sheeting the big room with white light. She walked down the three wooden stairs that led to floor level and pushed the door closed behind her.

  The high ceiling was a crisscross of water pipes and electrical wiring. Huge water boilers stood to one side, obviously no longer in use, since they were still, cold and quiet. Candice rubbed her chilled arms as she took a few steps across the concrete.

  She peered through the first doorway into a darkened room. Again, it was easy to find the light switch, and she turned on the lights. It was the old laundry room, full of industrial washers and dryers. Clothes-lines were strung at intervals across the ceiling. But there was nothing of historical significance.

  She continued down the wide corridor, discovering staff washrooms and changing rooms, a service ramp and an electrical room.

  Just when she thought she’d come away empty-handed, she discovered a bank of white closet doors at the far end of the hallway. She opened the first one to reveal a row of maid uniforms. They were dusty, but in surprisingly good condition. On the shelf above were starched caps, and on the floor below, pairs of shoes still attached together by plastic straps and marked with their sizes.

  Candice smiled, leaving the door open as she moved onto the next closet. There she found bottles of bleach, liquid cleaner, brooms and mops.

  Next, she discovered a stack of old menus, and her brain snapped to attention. Not only were the menus artifacts, but the chef might consider using them to come up with some “retro-specials” for the current restaurant.

  Her brain humming with ideas for incorporating the historic menu, she turned her attention to the shelf below. There she found a thick leather-bound book. She picked it up and let out a little shriek of excitement.

  It was a hotel register.

  She crouched down on one knee, peering into the depths of the shelf and finding a whole stack of hotel registers. Scanning the dates, she discovered they were from the earliest days of the Quayside. There was no telling who had stayed here.

  “Stand up slowly,” said a man’s voice behind her, “and step away from the cabinet.”

  Candice’s stomach lurched. She quickly swiveled on the balls of her feet to see a young security guard, one hand on his holstered gun, the other pointing at her.

  “Ma’am,” he said. “I’m going to have to ask you to put down the book, and step away—”

  “You don’t understand.” Candice shook her head as she slowly rose. “I work here. I was just—”

  “May I see some ID?” he asked.

  She straightened. “Of course.”

  “Put the book down, please.”

  “Right.” She set it back down on the shelf and opened her purse.

  “Slowly,” he said, eyeing her with suspicion.

  She forced a friendly smile as she hunted for her wallet. “There’s a perfectly logical explanation for this. I’m doing a historical report on the hotel, and—”

  “Just the ID for now, ma’am.”

  She pulled out her driver’s license and held it out to him.

  He took it from her hand, glancing down at her picture. “This is your driver’s license.”

  “Right.”

  “I’ll need your hotel ID.”

  “Oh. No. You don’t understand. I’m not actually an employee. I’m a con—”


  “You’d better come with me.” He took a step to one side and gestured for her to precede him.

  “But…” She looked longingly back at the open cupboards. She didn’t want to let the guest registers out of her sight.

  “This way, please.”

  “There are plenty of people who can vouch for me.”

  “We’ll call them when we get to the security office.” He picked up his walkie-talkie. “John? Got an intruder in the basement. I’m bringing her up. You want to contact the police?”

  The police? Now Candice was getting annoyed. “I’m not an intruder. I was hired by Henry Wenchel.”

  The security guard raised his eyebrows and gestured toward the door.

  She pointed to the walkie-talkie. “Call Henry on that thing. He’ll tell you who I am.”

  The security guard’s expression and the tone of his voice made it clear he didn’t believe her. “We can call Henry from upstairs.”

  She couldn’t keep the sarcasm from her own voice. “You mean after they cuff me?”

  “Ma’am.” He gestured again.

  Candice shook her head, taking a frustrated breath as she marched for the door. She didn’t need this. She’d discovered a treasure trove, and she couldn’t wait to see what else was hiding in the cabinets.

  The security guard fell into step behind her, sticking close, as if he expected her to bolt. Yeah. She was a mastermind criminal about to rip them off for some cleaning supplies and vintage maid uniforms. That made such good sense.

  She kept her head high, trying not to feel self-conscious as she crossed the spa and the lobby. As far as any of the guests knew, she and the nice security guard were talking about decorating his office. They had no way of knowing she was practically under arrest.

  Still, she squirmed every time somebody’s gaze rested on her.

  She was grateful when they finally made it to the security office. That is, until he sat her in a chair in a little back room, left her there alone and locked the door behind him.

  She jumped up and shouted through the door. “Call Henry Wenchel.”

  Then she sat back down in the hard chair and rested her head in her hands. This was all going to be resolved in a few minutes, she told herself. Sure, it had been embarrassing, but the security guard was the one who’d feel stupid once Henry confirmed who she was.

  She couldn’t imagine anyone making a big deal about the fact that she hadn’t had formal permission to go down to the basement. She’d had free run of the hotel for weeks now. It wasn’t like she’d even broken a lock.

  The door opened again, and the security guard stepped back in.

  Thank goodness.

  “—don’t know what she was doing down there,” he said as two uniformed police officers filed in behind him. “What with the ambassador’s upcoming stay, I didn’t want to take any chances.”

  The ambassador? What ambassador?

  “Did you call Henry?” she asked.

  “Henry’s unavailable,” said the security guard.

  The police officers closed the door behind them, standing shoulder to shoulder in the tiny room. “Mind if we ask you a few questions, ma’am?”

  Candice was beginning to hate the word ma’am. It conveyed such false respect. She kept her attention on the security guard, pretending the cops weren’t there. “Can you call Tyler Reeves? He knows who I am.”

  “Why don’t you answer our questions first,” said one of the officers, pulling out a notebook.

  She switched her gaze to him. “Because if one of you calls Tyler Reeves, there won’t be any need for questions.”

  “What were you doing in the basement?” asked the second officer.

  Candice couldn’t decide whether to answer the stupid questions or remain mulishly silent until somebody did the right thing. She glanced from cop to security guard to cop. “I was researching a project on the history of the hotel.”

  The cop jotted down some notes.

  “And this project,” he said, “it was for…”

  Candice paused. She wasn’t sure if she should say anything about the heritage designation. The security guard might leak it to the other staff. If the information was made public before the announcement, it would dilute the impact of any PR campaign.

  “We can ask these same questions downtown,” said the other cop.

  Before she could respond, the door to the little office opened, and the security guard was forced to step quickly to one side and hunch his shoulders while he hugged the wall.

  Derek filled the doorway.

  Suddenly going downtown didn’t look so bad.

  He glanced around the room, gaze coming to rest on Candice.

  “I can take it from here,” he said to the cops. Then he smiled affably and held out his hand to each of them. “Thanks for responding so quickly.”

  “You know this woman?” asked the cop with the notepad.

  “I know her,” said Derek, and the security guard paled a little.

  The cops both tipped their hats and left the office.

  Derek turned to the security guard, again holding out his hand. “Good work.”

  The security guard visibly relaxed.

  “But she’s legit,” said Derek.

  The man tensed again. “I’m very—”

  “Not a problem,” said Derek, clapping the man on the shoulder. “You did your job.” Then he opened the door, and the security guard quickly took his cue.

  Derek clicked the door shut, leaning back against it. He grinned broadly, and it was obvious he was trying not to laugh.

  Candice wasn’t feeling nearly so jovial about the whole thing. “You did your job?” she mimicked.

  “He did,” said Derek. “You expect him to ignore a strange woman poking around in an abandoned basement? You could have been setting explosives.”

  “I was reading old menus.”

  “He had no way of knowing that.”

  “Well he could have checked the facts before calling in the cavalry. I thought they were going to cuff me and haul me downtown.”

  Derek took a step forward. “I’d have bailed you out.”

  Candice stood up. Their height difference was bad enough without her sitting on a chair. “Thanks so much.”

  “What were you doing down there?”

  “I was looking for historical information and artifacts for the presentation.”

  “Find anything?”

  “Yes.” Candice pushed the humiliation of the last half hour out of her mind. She was still thrilled with her discovery. “I found the original guest registers. I want to get back down there.”

  “Then, let’s go.”

  “What do you mean, let’s go?”

  “I mean, I’ll come with you. That way you won’t get yourself arrested again.”

  “I didn’t get arrested.”

  “Almost.” He looked her up and down, his grin widening. “I should have waited until they got the cuffs out.”

  “Pervert.”

  His eyes lit up. “You know it.”

  Candice ignored the little thrill that rushed along her bloodstream. “Don’t you have important things to do?”

  “Nope.”

  “You must have a meeting? A conference? Something to sign?”

  “None of the above.”

  “I thought you were a busy and important man?”

  “You caught me in a lull.” He opened the door. “Let’s go search the basement.”

  WITH CANDICE HEADING down the hall in front of him, Derek pulled out his cell phone and sent a quick text message to his secretary, telling her to cancel his three o’clock meeting. He wasn’t comfortable letting Candice stumble around the old basement by herself—hotel liability if nothing else.

  He flipped the phone shut, stuffed it back in his suit pocket, and caught up to her. “So what’s your approach?”

  She glanced up. “Hunt around in the basement until I find stuff that’s interesting.”

  “
I meant your approach to the presentation. You must have a theme in mind.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Why do you want to know?”

  They descended the mezzanine stairs to the main lobby. A long lineup stretched from the check-in counter, and Derek automatically checked to see that all of the stations were manned. They were.

  “Because it’s my building, my restaurant. Am I not allowed to ask questions?”

  She still looked suspicious as they headed across the lobby to the spa entrance. “I thought you were leaving the project to me?”

  “I changed my mind.”

  “But—”

  “I’m joking, Candy. I won’t get in your way. I’m just curious about how it’s going.”

  She opened the spa door, and he grabbed it from the top, holding it ajar while she walked through. The temperature and humidity immediately rose as they left the lobby behind.

  “I haven’t decided on a theme,” she said, her enthusiasm obviously overcoming her reluctance to talk to him. “When I found the menus, I thought we could focus on the fashion styles of the day, maybe find some information on the social life around lavish dinner parties.”

  Derek stuck close as she negotiated around the whirlpool tubs on her way to the garden door.

  “But then I found the guest register, and how many famous people had stayed here. We might be able come up with something spectacular if we researched notable guests.”

  Derek nodded. It had flash. It had pizzazz. Marketing would latch on to tales of famous, or infamous, guests.

  He scooted past her to open the garden door and hold it for her. “I like it.”

  She glanced up. “You do?”

  “Yes. It’s good. Have you thought about talking to Marco Elliot?”

  “Who?”

  “Marco Elliot. My family bought the hotel from his family in the midsixties. They were the original owners.”

  Candice looked instantly interested. “And he’s still alive?”

  “He’s forty-five. The grandson of the man who built the Quayside.”

  Candice nodded. “I’ll definitely talk to him.”