At Any Cost

by Lauren Nichols

  “Yeah, I can’t get rid of them if I don’t know what they’re all about. Different species prefer different foods, and react to different treatments.” He turned to leave, speaking over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll get back to you soon—hopefully within the hour.”

  Jenna followed him to the door, her mind alive with questions. “Mr. Gannon, wait. Isn’t it unusual to see ants in the winter?”

  “Not if they’re living in the walls,” he said, and another chill moved through her. “It is unusual to see them during the winter in a home that’s never had an ant problem before, though.” Sending her a reassuring smile, he tilted the jelly jar. “I want to do this right. As soon as I find out who these guys are, I’ll be back and we’ll decide on a plan of attack.”

  When he’d gone, Molly came into the kitchen. “What did he say?”

  Jenna sighed. “Apparently we have alien ants. He left to do some research on the best way to get rid of them. Mrs. Bolton hasn’t stirred yet?”

  “No. And it’s getting late.”

  Jenna glanced at the kitchen clock. “Okay, I’ll go check on her.”

  “And I’ll get the phone,” Molly said as it began to ring.

  A minute later, Jenna knocked softly at the Blue Room’s door, then listened for the reply that didn’t come. She knocked again, louder this time. “Mrs. Bolton? Are you up?” But again, nothing stirred beyond the door.

  Now she was beginning to worry. Was the woman a deep sleeper? Or was she sick and in need of help?

  Quickly returning to the foyer, Jenna retrieved the master key and rushed back upstairs. She unlocked the door—opened it a crack. “Mrs. Bolton?”

  Cool morning light filtered through a narrow space between the drawn drapes, laying a thin ribbon of sunlight across the Blue Room’s perfectly made, silky-smooth, quilted floral comforter. And a feeling of dread settled over her.

  The bed hadn’t been slept in.

  Rushing inside, Jenna yanked open the drapes, flooding the room with sunshine. She took a disbelieving glance around, then checked the closet and armoire—opened the bureau drawers. Empty! She enlarged her search. There wasn’t a thing out of place. Not a tissue in the wastebasket, a hair in the bathroom sink, or a wrinkle in the quilted shams or accent pillows stacked against the carved headboard.

  She strode to the window, pulled back the sheers and looked down at the empty parking space in the Blackberry’s small lot. Audrey Bolton was gone.

  Then movement caught her eye, and Jenna’s heart fell as she watched a half dozen moving specks skitter over the windowsill and scale the wood frames.

  Dear God in Heaven. They were up here, too.

  FIVE

  Beau and Aunt Molly were deep in discussion when Jenna came downstairs a minute later, and from the somber look on his face, her aunt had just told him how their morning had gone.

  “Sorry about the ants,” he said when she’d reached the last step.

  “Thanks. Me, too.” She stepped down to the floor. “I’m even sorrier that we’re missing a guest.”

  Molly stared incredulously. “She’s not up there?”

  “No. She’s gone, and there are ants in the Blue Room, too. I killed at least a dozen.”

  Molly’s parchment complexion seemed to pale even more. “I just booked that room.”

  “Then we’re going to have to un-book it.”

  “Hang on a minute,” Beau said, his brow creasing. As always, he wore jeans and boots. A gray sweatshirt showed beneath his open brown bomber jacket. “I don’t get this ant thing. I just repaired a wall in that room. If the ants had been there last week, I would’ve seen them.”

  Jenna answered wearily. “Apparently they’re just making their way up from the kitchen. Aunt Molly, when did your guest want to arrive?”

  “Tomorrow evening. They planned to stay for three days. But I fear that’s not going to work now.”

  Jenna shook her head. This just didn’t make any sense. Aunt Molly hadn’t mentioned finding ants in her quarters, and she kept a small amount of food upstairs. Why would there be ants in a room that was food free, except for the occasional snack brought in by her guests? Also, if Mrs. Bolton had seen ants, it seemed as though someone as frank as she’d been would’ve said something. That reasoning also seemed to apply if she’d had an emergency or received a cell phone call that took her away. Audrey Bolton would have left a note.

  The phone rang again. Hoping the caller was their missing guest, Jenna moved behind the desk to pick up the receiver. She was surprised when Jim Gannon identified himself. He’d only been gone ten or fifteen minutes.

  “Ms. Harper, have you had children staying with you recently?”

  She cocked her head, thinking it a strange question. “As a matter of fact, yes. She left this morning with her grandparents.”

  “That could explain your problem, then. The ants you found are called red harvesters. They’re mostly found in the plains of west Texas, and they don’t invade homes or gravitate toward sugar. They’re seed gatherers.”

  Seed gatherers? Jenna’s mind spun. “I—I don’t understand. If they’re primarily found on the Texas plains and they don’t invade homes, how did they get here?”

  “I was puzzled by that, too, until I read that harvesters are generally sold for ant farms. I doubt you have a colony, Ms. Harper. I think some of them went AWOL. Any chance the little girl you mentioned could have—”

  “Brought an ant farm inside and allowed a few of them to escape?” Her fear, still so close to the surface, began to build. “No, this little girl was a sweet six-year-old, and her grandparents were good people. If anything like that had happened, they would have let me know about it. Even if it was an accident.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “As certain as I can be.”

  “Then I’m sorry, but I think somebody’s messing with you. I’ll fix you up with some ant traps. That should take care of the remaining troublemakers. In the meantime, if you have borax on hand—”

  The rest of his words barely registered as Jenna’s scalp began to prickle. Clamping the phone between her cheek and shoulder, she quickly called up a file on her computer. A few seconds later, she was staring at an empty screen. All of Audrey Bolton’s information—her name, address, credit card number and room assignment—had vanished along with her. Heart pounding, she met the sober question in Beau’s eyes. Her computer was password protected, and there was no way she’d left it on last night before she went to bed.

  Murmuring her thanks to Gannon, she said goodbye, hung up and moved to the front of the desk to speak to her great-aunt. She’d obviously been following Jenna’s side of the conversation and the distress in her eyes said she’d made the correct assumptions. “Apparently ants weren’t the only undesirables that infiltrated the inn last night. We need to close the Blackberry for a few days.”

  “You’re sure.”

  “We don’t have a choice. Before she left, ‘Mrs. Bolton’ erased all of her information from the computer. She’s not who she pretended to be.”

  Thankfully, this was their slow season. The only immediate reservations they had on the books were for tomorrow and Saturday evening, and they weren’t expecting more guests until several of Charity’s former residents came in during Christmas week.

  Understanding what needed to be done, Molly nodded gravely and moved behind the desk. “I’ll cancel the Addams, Crafts and Lamberts with our regrets and suggest a few other places they could stay. I’ll also offer them a discount for the next time they stay with us.”

  Good idea. “Thank you, Aunt Molly.”

  Beau didn’t say a word until Molly had picked up the phone and began speaking. Then he ambled closer to Jenna and lowered his voice. “Would you like to tell me about it now? No pressure. Your choice.”

  She nodded, knowing what he meant and needing his support. “But first I’d better see what else Mrs. Bolton might’ve left behind.”

  * * *

  M
inutes later, Beau watched Jenna rip the huge four-poster bed apart, fierce determination lining her classic features. He fielded the three accent pillows she tossed him and stacked them on a wing chair, then helped her remove the quilted floral spread.

  “Want to take the comforter and pillow shams to the hall? They’ll need to be dry cleaned before I put them back on the bed.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Whatever you need.”

  “Thank you. Just toss them on the floor for now.” Barely looking up, she pulled off the top sheet and blanket—started tugging up the mattress pad.

  He’d just dropped the bedclothes beside the laundry chute when he heard her cry out. He was beside her in an instant. She was staring at the bare mattress. Beau’s stomach did a weird little flop. It had been slashed repeatedly, and the incisions had been stuffed with razor blades.

  Jenna’s blue eyes filled with tears. “He’s found me. He’s here to finish the job he started two years ago.”

  Instinct took over, and Beau held her close while his mind spun. She was quaking like an aspen in a windstorm. Any other time, he would’ve enjoyed having a beautiful woman cling to him, but the fear he’d seen in her eyes was scary. This wasn’t the Jenna he’d come to know. She was strong, confident and she didn’t fall apart. “You need to call the police,” he murmured against her hair.

  Nodding, she slowly released her grip on him, then took a defeated walk to the phone on the nightstand. When she’d spoken to Sarah French at the Charity P.D., she hung up, drew a breath and went to the window. Beau followed. He watched her pull back the sheer curtains, nervously scan the sill and frames, then stare down at the backyard.

  The temperature had risen, but a few inches of snow remained in the woods behind the inn, some piled on top of her bird feeders where cardinals were hogging the seed. Now a gutsy chickadee gathered his courage and sailed in for his share.

  “I’ve always been a terrible judge of men,” she began quietly. “From high school to the workplace, I chose men who weren’t right for me. Then I met Courtland Dane at a charity event.”

  “Fancy name.”

  Jenna sent him a beaten smile. “Fancy man. He was the CFO of Prime Trust and Investments of Michigan. Are you familiar with it?

  Beau shook his head.

  “Well, it’s big. Not Fortune Five Hundred big, but big.” She swallowed. “Anyway, Court was wealthy, good-looking and charming, and we enjoyed the same things. The theatre…art…music.”

  “So you accepted when he asked you out.”

  “Yes. He took me to the opera—La Bohème—then to dinner at a spot the rich-and-connected frequent in Detroit. It was a wonderful night, and the next time he called, I said yes again.”

  She shuddered, and somehow Beau resisted the soul-deep urge to hold her again.

  “I should’ve known there was something off about him. He never talked about family and he didn’t seem to have friends, only business associates who were polite, but distant. Then on our fourth date as he was driving me home, he got strange. He seemed to want to change me—mold me into something I wasn’t. He suggested that I wear my hair differently and dress in a more sophisticated way—go heavier on my eye makeup.”

  Beau scowled. Wealthy or not, the jerk was a loser. What man with a working brain would say that to any woman? Especially one who was as beautifully put together as Jenna was.

  “That was my wake-up call. When we got to my apartment, I told him that I wasn’t the woman he was looking for, and it was best that we didn’t see each other again.”

  “How did he take it?”

  “He got very cool and quiet, but I expected that.” She glanced at him, then folded her arms over her chest and stared out again. “I had a problem with my car a few days later. So a friend—one of the student teachers from school—followed me to my mechanic’s shop so I could drop it off, then drove me back to my apartment building. I invited him in for coffee and dessert to thank him. Afterward, I walked him to the door and gave him a hug. Just a friendly, very platonic, thank-you hug.”

  Her expression grew distant and Beau realized that she was seeing it all unfold again.

  “I could hear Mrs. Thompson’s TV blaring from behind her closed door. She was watching a game show—Jeopardy! Anyway, I watched Malcolm walk to the end of the hall and turn right toward the elevator, then I stepped back inside.” She swallowed. “I was closing the door when Courtland forced his way in, shoved me on the floor and kicked the door shut.”

  Beau’s stomach churned. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear any more.

  “I’d never seen rage like that,” Jenna went on. “His face was—I can’t even describe it—and his eyes were blue ice. I tried to get him talking—asked him how he got in. I lived in a secure building.”

  But “secure” was a relative term. The freak had probably waited near the entrance until another resident stepped out, then slipped inside before the door could lock again.

  “He never answered. He started raving, calling me every crude name he could think of and accusing me of sleeping with Mal. He said that he and I had a relationship, and that I’d betrayed him. I was on my feet by then and screaming back that I’d call security if he didn’t leave.”

  She exhaled a shaky breath. “I tried to explain about my car trouble and why Mal was with me, but by that time, he was beyond hearing anything I said. When I ran for the kitchen phone, he pulled a filet knife from the wooden block on the counter.”

  Beau’s stomach fell to his feet.

  “He…he did some damage. I don’t know how I managed to get across the apartment floor and make it into the hall after losing so much blood. That part’s a blur. God was with me, I guess.”

  God and half of Heaven. Beau spoke softly. “Who found you?”

  “Mrs. Thompson. At some point, she came out of her apartment to take her terrier for a walk. Long story short, there were some surgeries and I lost—” She looked away for a long moment, fresh tears welling in her eyes. “I lost my…spleen. But I guess the rest of me is still functional.”

  The sadness in her voice got to him, and Beau wondered about that pause. Suddenly he was afraid the attack had cost her even more.

  “I’m just thankful that Malcolm didn’t pay the same price.”

  “He went after your friend?”

  Jenna sent him a wan smile. “No, I’d told him that Mal was a colleague, so he knew we taught at the same school. The next day he…allegedly…smashed the windows out of Mal’s cobalt-blue 1966 Chevelle Super Sport. Apparently he’d seen it parked in my space.”

  “He hurt you, then stuck around long enough to do that?”

  “I imagine he thought I was dead until he heard otherwise—and I was in no shape to speak to the police for days. He had time. And now, no one knows where he is. He hasn’t been seen since that night two years ago. But men with his kind of money are very capable of hiding. Sometimes in plain sight.”

  Against his better judgment, Beau took her hand. “You thought you saw him yesterday. The man with the cane.”

  She nodded. “His features were similar.”

  “But not exact.”

  “No. I doubt I would have noticed him until Elmer pointed him out if I hadn’t caught him staring at me.”

  He smiled. “He was probably just admiring a beautiful woman.”

  She smiled back and murmured her thanks, but he could see that she still had doubts. He squeezed her hand, then released it. “Now, at the risk of sounding like I know what I’m talking about, we should get out of this room in case your guest left fingerprints or other evidence behind for the police. We don’t want to mess up an investigation.”

  Nodding, Jenna combed her fingers through her hair. It slid back to frame her high cheekbones and watery blue eyes. “You’re right. Let’s wait downstairs. Sarah said Chief Perris would be here shortly.”

  They didn’t have long to wait. She’d barely filled a stunned Aunt Molly in on her disturbing findings when a black-and-white poli
ce cruiser pulled into the driveway. A half minute later, Jenna ushered Lon Perris inside. With a nod and clipped “Good morning,” he stamped a trace of wet snow from his shoes, and unzipped his fur-collared black uniform jacket. He carried a small aluminum case, and there was a camera slung around his neck.

  Everything about Perris was by-the-book, as they said on television police dramas. Everything from the C.P.D. patch on his sleeve, to his severe salt-and-pepper buzz cut, to his military bearing. Years ago he’d lost his battle with teenage acne, and his pockmarked cheeks and black eyes added a menacing look to his features. Former Philadelphia police officer Lon Perris was new to Charity. He’d only held the chief position for six or seven months.

  “Thanks for coming,” Jenna said, then motioned him toward the curved staircase. “It’s the second door on the left at the top of the stairs. As I told Sarah, I probably shouldn’t have stripped the bed, but if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have found the razor blades.”

  He didn’t respond, just nodded cordially to Beau, ignored Aunt Molly and started up the stairs. Rolling her eyes at the slight, Molly lifted her skirt a few inches and followed.

  Jenna looked back at Beau. “Are you coming?” He met her eyes, and despite her nervousness, she felt those undeniable strains of attraction again. Maybe because he’d held and spoken to her with such tenderness. Maybe because he’d called her beautiful.

  Straightening from the desk, he shook his head. “No, you can handle Perris. I’m going to take advantage of the inn being empty and make some noisy headway. I’ll be in the sitting room when you’re through upstairs if you want to talk.”

  Hiding her disappointment, she nodded and ascended the stairs.

  Perris was fast, but hopefully thorough, Jenna decided. Or maybe it didn’t take longer than half an hour to process a crime scene. After she’d washed the faint residue of ink from her fingers, she walked into the sitting room. Beau had already removed the pine window molding and sill, and was now prying the baseboards loose.