by Sharon Dunn
“You said they seem to find you when you’re at the hotel?” Kindra jumped out of the swing to face Xabier.
“I don’t know their names.”
“We don’t need to know their names. Maybe we should set some kind of trap for them. Where have they spotted you?”
“The first time was outside my hotel room.” He pounded a fist on the metal leg of the swing set. “That’s when they showed me the paper with Dad’s. signature on it. The other times it was in the lobby or one of the restaurants.”
“So they’re waiting for you in public places. I bet they’re staking out the lobby.” She touched his hand. “Xabier, what if we stalked the stalkers? We could follow them and find out where they’re staying, find out the name of the business.” She plumped back into the swing. “That invoice has to be in their stuff.”
“It might work.” He pulled back on the swing, holding her so her feet dangled. “It would be like an acting job.”
She fingered the swing chain. “‘Course, we would let the police take over once we found out the name of the business.”
“Why?” he barked. He let go of her, pushing hard on her back before she swung away.
Kindra pumped her legs. She had tried. Xabier wasn’t going to overcome his distrust of the police any time soon. “’Cause it would be safer that way.”
Xabier pushed her even harder, probably working out some flare of frustration. Clouds filled her vision and then grew distant. She closed her eyes and relished the sensation of speed. The sun warmed her skin. The force of his pushing decreased until he stopped altogether. She giggled, held her legs out, and leaned back. The arc of the swing decreased.
Xabier pulled her to a stop. He stood over her. “Safe, who wants to be safe?” His hand swept over her cheek.
An electric tingle enveloped her. Xabier leaned toward her, his face inches from hers. He brushed butterfly-soft fingers along her jaw and under her chin, then leaned in and kissed her.
The warmth of his touch made any thought of her checklist fall completely from her mind.
Ginger slammed the empty drink on the counter. “Thanks for the recharge.” She pushed off on the bike and placed her feet on the pedals. The street had been closed to through traffic for the garage sales, so there were no cars to block her view. Simpson rounded a curve as he rode away from the buildings that bordered the lake.
She pumped harder. The bike was old, the kind without gears. So far, the road was level. She breathed a little heavier. Pain flared in her leg muscles. What would she do if she had to climb a hill? Biking at high speeds was maybe not on the list of recommended activities for a fifty-seven-year-old woman.
She pedaled through the curve. Mr. Simpson was maybe a hundred yards in front of her and in full view.
He glanced behind, then angled the bike and slipped onto a side street. Ginger turned as well. She sped past a minimart and into a residential neighborhood where most of the lawns were brown from lack of care. Simpson zigzagged through the streets. The bad news was that she was a fifty-seven-year-old who rode like a fifty-seven-year-old. The good news was that Mr. Simpson wasn’t much younger and was even more out of shape. She closed in on him. Thirty yards. Her lungs felt like they’d been scraped with an X-Acto knife. Twenty yards.
Her breathing became labored. Push the pedal down, Ginger. She stood up on the bike and straightened her leg.
Simpson pedaled toward a long, unpaved alley. The residential neighborhood transformed into taller buildings. She followed him, working even harder when the tires hit the rocky dirt of the alley.
He got to the end of the alley and turned left.
When she rounded the corner, Mr. Simpson’s bike rested on its side, not too far from a door. The back wheel spun. She stared up at the tall brick building, probably the backside of an older hotel.
Ginger glanced up and down the street. Nothing. The street was long enough that she should have seen Simpson running if he had decided to hoof it. He’d ditched the bike. He must have gone into the hotel. She pulled the black door open.
Applause floated down the long corridor. She had stumbled onto some late-afternoon show. She walked past a door that said Drake the Magnificent. Drake’s door was locked. She trotted down the hallway, peeking into the only open door, which was an empty dressing room whose central feature was a cage with a yellow and black snake having his noontime nap.
Stage noises grew louder. Circus music? Through side curtains, she had a view of the performance. The stage contained two rings. One featured two jugglers who kept dropping their bowling pins. In the other, a man in a leg cast dragged himself across the stage. A sparkling vest accentuated his chest hair and potbelly. Three feet away, a tiger lay on its side. At the snap of the tamers whip, the tiger flipped his tail and yawned. In a box above the stage, a ringmaster announced, “See Drake the Magnificent bring the fierce tiger under his control.” Two overweight trapeze artists took turns twirling on the swing and standing on the platform with the ringmaster.
Ginger placed a hand on her hip. She couldn’t just walk across the stage. She pivoted and pushed another curtain aside. Ah, four stairs that led to a polished wood floor. Glasses tinkled, and low-level murmurs filled the air. This had to be the way out to the audience, the most likely place to find Mr. Simpson.
Ginger waited for her eyes to adjust to the subdued lighting. Odd, considering the sun blazed outside. In this place, it was night all the time. Twelve to fifteen people were spread out among about thirty tables and a bar. Ginger squinted. Half the tables were empty. If Simpson was here, he would be easy enough to find.
She surveyed the room for possible exits Simpson might have taken while the circus continued behind her. Two double doors on the right side of the bar seemed likely to lead to the rest of the hotel. First, though, she would figure out if he had settled into the audience. If he had gone out into the hotel, it would be almost impossible to find him. Please, God, let him be here.
The doors that led to the rest of the hotel burst open, and a woman weighted down by at least six shopping bags wandered over to the bar and chose a stool.
“Give me something strong.” The woman rested her forehead against her palm.
It took Ginger a moment to realize that the woman was Fiona Truman, the Shopping Channel lady. Earl had said something about her being interested in their invention. Ginger had stopped pushing for the success of the invention, and God had opened this door. Ginger offered her a smile. Fiona turned her back and slumped protectively over her drink. So much for open doors. There would be no chitchat with Fiona Truman today.
Ginger stepped toward the center of the floor, hoping that being in plain view would jar Simpson out of hiding. Talk about eye strain. The lighting was so bad, it was hard to discern if people were men or women. Near as she could tell, nobody jerked or rose from his seat. Onstage, the intensity of the music increased. A second lethargic tiger had been brought out into the ring. The jugglers had switched to dropping oranges.
No one in the audience so much as glanced in her direction. All eyes were on Drake as he fanned his blue satin cape like wings and demonstrated his ability to subdue heavily medicated tigers.
Ginger slipped up onto a va can’t stool three down from where Fiona sent out her antisocial signals. The Shopping Channel hostess remained slumped over her drink and stared at the bar. Ginger scanned audience heads, eliminating them one by one.
“Can I get you anything?” The bartender wiped down the counter by Ginger.
“Oh … umm.” The ICEE hadn’t done much to quench her thirst. “I just had quite a workout. I don’t suppose you have a glass of water?”
He pulled a bottled water out from underneath the counter. “That’ll be two dollars.”
“For water?” She patted her empty pocket.
He shrugged. “This is the desert.”
Ginger turned back around. A man who had been hidden in a corner booth made his way toward the stairs that led to the dressing rooms. Eurek
a. Simpson had escaped while she had her attention on the gold-plated water. She pushed the bottled water back toward the bartender. “Think I’ll pass.”
She bolted toward the curtain, trying to pad softly. She had a feeling, though, that even a loud explosion wouldn’t draw this audience’s attention away from the insomnia-producing performance.
Ginger parted the curtains and dashed up the four stairs. She stepped into the dressing room corridor just as the outside door shut. She wasn’t about to lose him after all that biking. She bolted toward the door. A woman in a leotard and wearing the yellow and black snake for an accessory stepped out of the dressing room, blocking her escape.
“There you are!” she accused.
Ginger looked behind her. No one else was in the hallway. “I’m sorry, I think you have me mistaken—”
“Where are the mice? You were supposed to be here half an hour ago.”
“I’m sorry, but I—” Ginger tried to step to one side, only to be greeted with a face Rill of snake. She jumped back, touching a flat hand to her thudding heart.
“Jeremy will have to go on without his dinner. You know, when I signed the contract for this gig, they said that meals would be part of the deal for all of the performers. It’s not like I can just go down to the buffet and get Jeremy some shrimp on a stick.” The woman put the snake’s head close to her face and kissed him while he flicked his tongue at her.
Ginger angled her head to stare at the door Mr. Simpson had just gone through. “Please, I am not the mouse-supply lady.” She stepped to one side, careful to keep her distance from the snake.
The woman stomped her foot. “They said an older woman would be coming from the pet store with Jeremy’s lunch.” She checked her watch. “I have to go on in ten minutes.”
Cutting a wide circle around the snake, Ginger slipped past the woman. “I’m real sorry your snake has an empty stomach, but I gotta run.”
Ginger pushed the back door open. The bike and Mr. Simpson were gone. She glanced up and down the empty street. Her chest and legs ached. She’d had just about enough of playing detective. Time to make nice with the professionals.
“Frankenstein has entered the building.”
Even through her thick fake hair, Xabier’s breath tickled Kindra’s ear. She smoothed the skirt of her silky dress. Who would have thought that a dark wig and red lipstick could turn her into a different person? “Are you sure?”
They’d chosen the two vinyl chairs in the lobby that provided them with a view of the front desk and elevator. Xabier tugged on his tie and nodded. He looked cute in a suit.
“Now what?”
He spoke without moving his lips. “Lets just watch him.”
Frankenstein scanned the lobby, almost as if he sensed someone was watching him. Kindra’s breath caught when his gaze rested on them. Xabier shifted in his chair so his face was more toward her than Frankenstein. “Remember, he’s looking for a guy by himself.” He tugged on his shirt cuffs. “Just don’t do anything to alarm him, slow moves. We don’t want him to look at us too closely.”
Frankenstein stomped toward the front desk. His nickname suited him almost too well. Those clunky boots had to be at least a size fourteen. He probably put the bolts in his neck when he went to bed.
“He’s talking to Tiffany.”
Vinyl squeaked when Xabier swiveled slightly in his chair. “Hmm. He likes her. When you lean toward someone like that, it indicates attraction.” He shifted his weight so he was closer to Kindra.
“You should know.” Kindra sunk down in her chair, enjoying Xabier’s proximity and the memory of the kiss. Excitement pulsed through her. Before tonight, her idea of daring was to use two colors of highlighter to mark her calculus book. “Tiffany just handed him a skeleton key.”
“You were right. He is staying in the hotel.” He patted her knee. “Smart girl.”
Frankenstein thundered across the lobby toward the elevator.
Xabier slipped his hand in Kindra’s. “Come on. Lets stalk the stalker.” He placed fingers over his lips. “Just be cool.”
Xabier seemed to be some kind of an adrenaline junkie. By the time they had arrived at the closed elevator doors, an older couple stood beside Frankenstein. The doors slid open. The couple stepped in, followed by Frankenstein. Xabier pulled Kindra through as the doors closed.
The older woman chimed. “Seven. Could you push seven?”
The faint scent of rose water saturated the tiny space.
Frankenstein’s meaty finger trailed down the panel. He pressed the seven and then the eight. He angled his head toward Kindra and Xabier. Kindra’s toes curled in her Audrey Hepburn flats. Her internal alarm system flashed bright red. Warning. Danger. Get out. She managed a gurgling sound.
Xabier glanced at the elevator board. “We’re going up to eight too.”
He sounded so casual, so in control.
Frankenstein arched a bushy brow and then turned his attention to the elevator doors. His sports jacket stretched tight against his back, threatening to rip the center seam at any moment. Xabier gave Kindra’s hand a squeeze. She focused on the numbers. Two. Three. Four. Come on, five.
The elevator jarred to a stop.
“Huh,” said Frankenstein.
“Is it broken?” The older woman stepped toward the panel.
He pushed several buttons. “I’m sure it’s nuthin.”
Tension threaded through the elevator. The speed of Frankenstein’s button pushing increased. “Hmm.”
As if the moment had been choreographed, they all tilted their heads and stared up at the immobile numbers.
Perspiration trickled from underneath Kindra’s dark wig, down her temple.
Frankenstein turned his back to the doors. “We are in a pickle.”
Ginger drove through downtown Calamity until she approached the police station. Just like Detective Mallory had described it over the phone, the station resembled a miniature White House with several dome structures on either side of it.
This rental car didn’t make revving motor noises like her Pontiac back in Montana. She missed her old car and her cute little blue house with the porch swing … and life before the police thought she was a criminal. Hopefully, she’d be able to change that last part with this conversation.
Ginger parked the car and stepped out. She took several deep breaths to calm the nerves that turned her stomach into a swelling tsunami. She strode up the stairs. After one more deep breath, she pushed the door open and stepped into the police station. She was in some kind of lobby or waiting area complete with new couches and several closed doors, one of which was designated as belonging to the county attorney. A woman in a suit that screamed lawyer sat on one of the couches, reading through a stack of papers. Several other people milled through, disappearing down hallways and stairs and through doors. Ginger walked over to the building directory. Mallory had told her that her office was on the third floor.
A slender, dark-haired woman approached Ginger. “Are you Ginger Salinski?”
Ginger nodded.
“Detective Mallory sent me to escort you in.” She touched the ID badge around her neck. “Kind of hard to get around here unless you’re official.”
The woman led her toward the elevator. They rode up in silence. The number three lighted up, causing Ginger’s arm muscles to tense. The doors slid open.
“Just down the hall. Hope it goes okay.”
Did she look that nervous?
The dark-haired woman waved right before the elevator doors closed.
Each door was labeled with a different detectives name. The third door belonged to Mallory.
Mallory opened the door just as Ginger’s fist touched the wood. The detective must be off duty. Even in the casual gray sweats and with her auburn hair sloppily pulled up in a scrunchie, the detective came across as imposing and in control. She wasn’t that much taller than Ginger. Maybe it was the perfect posture.
Mallory bent her head. “Mrs. Salinski.
I’m sorry I didn’t answer your first call. We got a little busy at the hotel.”
Ginger tugged at the neckline of her shirt. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.” The churning in her stomach hadn’t subsided, and now her neck warmed. People would be able to fry eggs on her forehead before this conversation was over. The Ginger Grill open for business.
“This case is taking a lot of my time. Just like you, I am anxious for it to be wrapped up.” Mallory’s eyes closed momentarily as she massaged her shoulder.
She’s not the enemy. She’s human just like me … and weary of all this.
Mallory stepped to one side so Ginger could come in. She led her into a sparse office.
No papers cluttered the desk. The pencils in The Andy Griffith Show canister were all sharpened and the same length. The computer was on but turned so the screen was not visible.
A lone photo of a younger Mallory in uniform rested on the shelf, no pictures of a smiling family at a lake or in Mickey Mouse hats posing with Snow White.
Ginger rubbed the knuckle of her index finger. Seeing the human side of the detective didn’t make this any easier.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Mallory tilted her head in the direction of a small refrigerator but didn’t move toward it, indicating she already knew what Ginger’s answer would be.
Ginger adjusted the shoulder strap of the cheap replacement purse she’d purchased. This wasn’t a social visit, and they both knew it. “No, thank you.” Her throat was drier than the MREs she bought for Earl’s hunting trips. “Did you catch Mr. Simpson?”
“No, but we searched his hotel room. No jewels.” She picked up a pencil and rolled it between her flat hands. “If he is on a bicycle, like you said, he can’t get far. All the patrol officers have been alerted.” Mallory set the pencil down and crossed her arms. “Were watching the hotel.”
She didn’t like the way Mallory punched the words like you said. Despite the offer of refreshments, the whole thing felt like a standoff at the O.K. Corral, two gunfighters staring at each other waiting for the other to blink. What did she have to do to win this woman over? “I’m not a criminal,” Ginger blurted.
