by Joyce Lamb
Noah rubbed at his chin. So she’d forgotten something in her room. Was that significant? “Did anyone come through the door behind her?”
“Not that I saw, but that doesn’t mean no one did. Harry finally showed up, and we left for Marco.” She reached out and patted his arm. “I’m so sorry about your friend, Mr. Lassiter.”
“Thank you. I appreciate the information. If you think of anything else”—he slipped a business card out of his back pocket and handed it to her—“please don’t hesitate to call me.”
A few minutes later, he was taking in the fresh coat of shiny gray paint that slathered the walls of Stairwell Number One and wishing he knew what the hell he was looking for.
He was about to give up when the door opened, and a maintenance guy backed through pulling a wheeled bucket with a mop.
“Hello,” Noah said, not wanting to startle the guy.
He flinched anyway and turned to look at him with wide, dark brown eyes. The guy’s youth surprised Noah, who’d been expecting the usual old fart. But then he realized: Maintenance guys saw stuff, noticed details, that other people didn’t. He took a step forward, extending his hand. “I’m—”
He broke off when a tall, thin woman pushed through the stairwell door and stopped when she saw them. She had unnaturally blond hair and wore high-heeled sandals and a white skirt that showed off slim, deeply tanned legs. Her blue and white horizontally striped shirt scooped into a low V, displaying rounded, sun-worn cleavage.
She glanced at the maintenance guy. “The guests in three-twelve are having trouble with their Internet connection, Skip. Can you check it out?”
He nodded and wheeled the bucket behind the stairs before going on his way.
The woman, Donna Keene, Hotel Manager, according to the shiny gold name tag pinned to her shirt, turned to Noah and smiled. “Are you lost?”
He smiled back. “Just looking around.” He gestured at the walls and steps. “Nice paint job. Professional?”
Sky blue eyes narrowed slightly but somehow stayed friendly. “You’ve been questioning my guests.”
“Just making conversation.”
“About a dead woman.”
“She was a friend of mine.”
“I’m sorry about what happened to her, but my guests are on vacation, and the police are already questioning them.”
Okay, subtle charm wasn’t working. Time for the big guns. He donned his best, most conciliatory smile and extended his hand. “Noah Lassiter.”
Her gaze dropped briefly to his mouth before she put her hand in his. “Donna Keene.”
Her chin lifted a notch when his hand engulfed hers, and he stared deeply into her eyes. Come to papa. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said, holding her hand extra long to let her know he meant it.
She glanced away first, and he saw her swallow. Hooked.
“So you’re the manager,” he said, gesturing at her name tag.
“Owner, actually.”
“It must be a good living. Every room seems full.”
“I could do better. Bigger hotel, more rooms, higher rates.”
He grinned. “Richer clientele?”
She returned his smile, but it seemed more sarcastic than warm. “Right.”
“So I don’t suppose you met Laurette Atkins when she was here.”
Her gaze sharpened, her lips pursing. “Are you a cop?”
He kept his expression fixed, but the question alarmed him. He wasn’t that obvious, was he? “Why would you think that?”
“You’re asking questions like a cop.”
Shit. Lost her already. Maybe the truth would work. “I’m a Chicago police detective, but I’m here as a friend.”
She folded her arms under her fake breasts. “I suggest you leave my guests alone, Detective Lassiter, or I’ll be forced to let the Lake Avalon police know what you’re up to.”
“I’m a man alone on vacation,” he said, steering clear of any hint of threat. “I’m allowed to make friends, and I happen to like the crowd here at the Royal Palm very much.”
She started to fire a retort at him but seemed to think better of it. Her lips thinned into a frosty smile. “Enjoy your stay, detective.”
She stomped up the stairs, and Noah watched her go. If he’d been the least bit interested in anyone other than a certain journalist, he might have appreciated her hip-swaying indignation.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Charlie coasted in slow-moving beach traffic and wondered whether it was dumb to go meet the mysterious AnnaCoreen Tesch. I mean, really, chasing after a woman whose name she just happened to remember from a conversation with Nana months ago? Maybe she was still drunk from the night before. Thinking crazy because a gorgeous, shirtless, barefoot guy had not only cooked for her but had also gotten enraged over the bruises her mother had left on her. See, Dad? That’s how it’s done.
Or, hell, maybe she was just trying to avoid the other stuff going on.
Such as her connection to Laurette Atkins. She needed to fess up to Noah that her mother did indeed have a sister. She would have done it last night if he’d asked, but he hadn’t. Which was confusing, really. Why else had he hung around so long if not to pick her brain about Trudeau family secrets? He couldn’t possibly have missed the part in her story about the photos she’d found in her mother’s lingerie drawer. People she’d never met? A mother who went ape shit when she discovered her daughter with the photo album? Hello? She’d waved the red flags all over the place. Mom had a nasty secret that made her vicious. Go ahead and ask me about it.
Not that Charlie thought for a second that her mother would kill someone to try to keep that secret covered . . . well, maybe she did think it for a second. But certainly not for more than that. She was her mother, after all. Mothers didn’t kill people. Well, not hers anyway. Sure, she could fly into a blind fury and smack the crap out of her unsuspecting kid, but kill? No way.
Charlie felt her lips twist into a sardonic smile. She’d never known she could embrace denial so wholeheartedly. She’d started off the day of denial by leaving the newspaper in its plastic wrap on the porch, too terrified to open it and find nothing but stories and photos and graphics filling page after page that should have been lousy with ads.
But now she was tired of sitting in traffic and not accomplishing anything, so she retrieved her cell phone and dialed Mac’s number. He might not want to talk to her, but she’d give it a shot.
“Newsroom. Mac Hunter.”
“Hey.”
A pause, a breath, then, “Hey.”
“Are you still hating me?” Her throat felt constricted, as though something lodged there that she couldn’t swallow away. Her heart, perhaps.
“I wasn’t hating you,” he said, not all that convincing. “But I’m still mad, yeah. What’d you expect? It’s been a whole fucking day.”
God, so cold she found it difficult to remember that she’d found passion and solace in his arms just three months ago. And before that, a profound friendship that meant the world to her but now seemed so far gone she started to choke up. “I’m sorry everything’s such a mess. I never intended—”
“I’ll keep that in mind while I’m signing up for unemployment.”
She closed her eyes against the burn. She needed to be stronger, less emotional. “I didn’t do it to hurt you. I didn’t do it to hurt anyone.”
“Was there something you wanted or did you just call hoping I’d pat you on the back and say you did the right thing, damn the consequences?”
“Mac, come on. You know me better than that.”
He sighed. “It’s just going to take time, okay? Can you give me some time?”
She swallowed hard. “Okay.” As if she had a choice. “I . . . is everything okay there? Do people know yet?”
“It’s great, Charlie. Everything’s just fucking great. No one knows a goddamn thing because your dad’s not telling us shit. He hasn’t been here since yesterday morning when he chewed me a new one for
letting you fuck us all over.”
“Mac—”
“I have to go.”
The click in her ear sounded like a gunshot.
Numbly, she put the phone in a cubby in the console and blew out a long, shaky breath.
So many regrets, so little time.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Charlie slowed the Escape to a coast to check out 1237 Sandy Beach Way, home of Nana’s mysterious friend, AnnaCoreen Tesch. It wasn’t a dump, exactly. Okay, sure, the shack’s warped, hot pink walls looked like they’d been beaten by several hurricanes and perhaps a tornado or two. And was that a rusty tin roof?
Even so, the place didn’t necessarily stand out on this two-lane road lined with beachside hotels, surf shops, restaurants and convenience stores in pink, teal and purple. Then she spotted the neon pink and blue sign to the left of the shack and stomped on the brake. PSYCHIC READINGS, $10 FOR 10 MINUTES.
Nana had sent her to a psychic? She needed an expert, not Miss Cleo.
A horn sounded behind her, and she snapped out of her shock to steer the car onto the gravel shoulder.
Okay, she thought. The woman had to be on the up-and-up or Nana wouldn’t have nudged her in this direction. And Charlie acknowledged it was somewhat disingenuous not to give a psychic the benefit of the doubt when she herself had her own mystical ability. But still.
She sat there and waffled. If she didn’t seek the counsel of AnnaCoreen Tesch, what would she do instead? She needed advice, needed answers. If not AnnaCoreen Tesch, beach psychic, then who?
Resigned to at least give it a shot, she shut off the car and got out. The stone walk leading up to the shack was flanked on both sides by sparse grass peeking through white sand. Pots of all sizes held flowers that spilled over in shades of pink, purple and blue, giving off sweet scents that mixed with the salty tang of the Gulf air. Coupled with the roll and retreat of the waves on the beach about ten yards away, it was actually a pretty soothing location.
Her skepticism kicked in all over again when she saw the shack’s purple door. A psychic could make a decent living off of tourists here. A criminal psychic could make an indecent living. She made a mental note to check on AnnaCoreen Tesch’s business permits. Then she admonished herself for falling into her reporter’s habits. Those days were over.
The door opened before she could knock, and Charlie almost burst out laughing. The petite woman standing before her wore a floor-length, red silk dress with long, draped sleeves, a gold rope belt and a hood artfully arranged around her long, wavy blond hair. A large crystal hung from a gold chain around her neck, nestled in ample cleavage.
“Welcome to AnnaCoreen’s,” she said, her radiant smile showing off model-like cheekbones. Her makeup consisted of red lipstick, too much blush and dark eye shadow framing eerie light blue eyes. Charlie, who could usually guess someone’s age, had to settle on a range of midforties to sixty.
“Hi,” Charlie said, doing her best to offer her most sincere smile. “I’m, uh, here for a reading.”
AnnaCoreen stepped back and invited her in with a sweep of her arm. “Please.”
The décor was hokey. Big surprise. Red scarves draped over lamps gave the dim interior a reddish glow. A round, black table sat in the center of the room, surrounded by four chairs. AnnaCoreen’s must have been the one topped with a crushed red velvet cushion with gold tassels. A throne for the queen.
“Would you like some herbal tea?” AnnaCoreen asked in a lilting voice that carried a hint of a British accent.
“No, thanks.” She didn’t plan to stay long enough for tea.
Still smiling, AnnaCoreen pivoted to tend to a teapot on a banquet that matched the table. “I hope you won’t mind if I have some.”
“Of course not.”
When AnnaCoreen turned with a teacup in hand, she indicated one of the chairs facing the throne. “Please have a seat.”
Once Charlie was situated, AnnaCoreen lowered herself onto her chair and folded her hands on the table. Rings adorned every finger, her nails a garish, glittery red. Still, Charlie noticed, she had nice hands, grandmotherly hands.
“What brings you to AnnaCoreen today?”
Charlie blurted, “Lily sent me.”
AnnaCoreen cocked her head, her blue eyes shimmering with an odd light. “Lily?”
“Lillian Trudeau. My grandmother.”
AnnaCoreen sat back on her throne and smiled. “I see.”
The intensity of the older woman’s gaze unsettled Charlie. “She passed away three months ago,” Charlie said.
“Yes, I know. I was at her funeral.”
“I don’t remember seeing you there.”
“I stopped in only briefly to pay my respects.”
The older woman’s gentle smile calmed some of Charlie’s anxiety. “Nana told me that if my sisters or I ever needed . . . guidance, that we should come see you.”
She nodded, her smile never wavering. In fact, it hadn’t wavered since Charlie had arrived. But it wasn’t creepy. It was sweet, affectionate, perhaps even a little knowing. “I can’t tell you how nice it is to finally meet you. Charlie, right?”
Whoa. The woman knew Charlie from her other two sisters? Well, she was psychic. She almost laughed. God, first her life was a mess. Now her brain was joining in on the fun. “You knew my grandmother well?”
“Not really, no. I met her only a few times. But I liked her very much.”
“I don’t understand why she would send me or my sisters here.”
AnnaCoreen rose, every movement so fluid she seemed to float. “Let’s take this conversation to the house, shall we?”
Charlie followed her out a back door and into a lush, vibrant garden. A narrow brick path led to a small house that she hadn’t noticed earlier because all her horrified attention had been focused on the pink eyesore. The beach house, the antithesis of the shack, was a fresh, sunny yellow with bright white trim. They entered through the kitchen. Red, blue and yellow touches kept the gleaming white floors, appliances and wicker furniture from being blinding.
AnnaCoreen gestured toward the front room, also white, surrounded by paned floor-to-ceiling windows. French doors led to a wraparound porch that faced the white-sand beach. Yellow-and-white-striped cushions on rocking chairs invited guests to get comfortable and rock the day away. Charlie immediately wanted to go out there and settle in with a glass of iced tea. Sweetened.
AnnaCoreen said, “Please make yourself comfortable on the porch while I change. I’ll bring out some iced tea. The herbal stuff gives me a headache.”
Alone on the porch, Charlie settled onto a rocking chair and looked out at the rolling waves, glistening in the late afternoon sun. Usually the expanse of the Gulf humbled her, made her problems seem so small and pointless. Not today.
When AnnaCoreen returned, she carried a tray with two tall glasses and a pitcher of ice- and lemon-laden tea. As thirsty as she was, Charlie couldn’t stop staring at the woman’s shocking transformation.
A simple red dress conformed to delicate curves and showed off bare legs that could have belonged to a dancer. The blond wig was gone, revealing short, reddish blond hair that had an amazing amount of body considering it had recently been flattened by a wig. She’d washed off the brassy eye makeup and lipstick and replaced them with simple foundation and a little pink blush and lip gloss. But the smile and cheekbones lived on in bold Technicolor.
While the costume had changed, her movements were the same—graceful, precise—as she set the tray on the wide porch railing and began to pour tea with a clink of ice.
“This is sweet tea, the kind my momma used to brew,” she said. A slight Southern drawl had replaced the faint British accent.
Charlie suppressed her sigh. So it was all a big fake-out. The shack, the crystal, the scarves over the lamps. While she couldn’t help but be impressed at how well the woman pulled it off, she couldn’t imagine that someone so adept at show business would be able to help her with her problem. Like she’d t
hought earlier: She needed an expert.
AnnaCoreen handed her a glass of tea, and her smile seemed to reach deep into Charlie’s eyes. “You need to relax, honey. I’m all the expert you need.”
Charlie felt her mouth drop open. What the?
AnnaCoreen continued to smile as she drifted down onto a rocking chair. “Let’s say you start from the beginning.”
Noah sat in the Mustang parked up the street from the pink shack and tapped his fingers on his knee. A psychic? Charlie Trudeau, journalist, was visiting a psychic?
Not for the first time, he wondered what the hell he was doing following her around. Laurette’s death had swiped his legs out from under him. Someone killed her, and he couldn’t find a damn bit of evidence as to why. Except for Charlie and her family secrets.
As much as he didn’t want Charlie to be the key, he knew in his gut that she was. So he followed her and hoped she led him somewhere useful, somewhere that wouldn’t somehow end up destroying her in the process.
Sighing, he glanced sideways at the seat next to him. There sat the large envelope John Logan had given him of what Laurette had had on her when she’d been hit. He’d retrieved the rest of her things at the Royal Palm’s front desk, stashed the suitcase in the Mustang’s trunk and put the carry-on and a clear plastic bag on the floor of the passenger side. He dreaded going through her things, smelling her scent on them, considered boxing it all up and shipping it to her sister. But he had to sort through it all, had to search for something significant.
Bracing himself, he reached for the envelope and upended its contents into the seat. The usual stuff tumbled out. A tiny clutch bag, sunglasses, the amethyst ring she always wore on her right hand, the small diamond-stud earrings. Nothing unusual or unlike Laurette. Nothing worth killing over.
He opened the clutch purse and peered inside. Cash, lipstick, a tampon, a couple of credit cards, some loose change, a card key for the Royal Palm.
