He leaned forward the few inches it took to bring his lips to hers, kissed her with a lazy, lingering gentleness that nearly undid her. Ainsley lifted a hand, cupped his stubbled cheek.
“You have beard burn,” he said when they pulled apart again. He glanced down. “In lots of places. I should have shaved.”
“I like it.”
His smile turned wicked. “Well then. I’ll have to come up with some other areas to mark you. I don’t know about you, but I could use a shower.”
“Together?”
“I wouldn’t want you to slip and fall. You need someone there to catch you.”
“Convenient.”
“Very.” Cal stood up, reached out a hand to pull her up also.
And then his phone rang.
They looked toward his jeans, and then back at each other.
“I want to ignore it,” he said. “But it might be important.”
Ainsley sighed. “I guess you better answer it.”
“YOU have an employee named Wesley Fisher,” Ben said without preamble when Cal answered. “When’s the last time you spoke with him?”
“Independent contractor,” Cal replied. “Not employee. And I spoke with him a few hours ago. Why?”
“Because I need to talk to him ASAP.”
“He’s at the gallery.”
Ben turned his head, looked at the sign that hung on the gallery door, and tried the handle. “If he was, he’s not now.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the door’s locked, and there’s a sign saying Be back in fifteen minutes. It was here when I came in about thirty minutes ago.”
“Maybe he stepped out to pick up something to eat. You want me to give him a call?”
“Yes. But do me a favor and don’t give him a heads up that I’m waiting to speak with him.”
After a significant pause, Cal said “Can I assume this is in relation to Sabrina?”
“You can assume whatever you want.”
Thankfully the other man didn’t press the issue. “I’ll call you back.”
When he clicked off, Ben drew in several deep breaths. Stepping closer to the building’s front door, he peered through the glass. If Wes Fisher had indeed gone out to get something to eat, he’d likely hit one of the restaurants on the square. Although why anyone would venture out in this weather when there was a perfectly good restaurant right here, he had no idea.
Ben wanted to beat his head against the glass. Wesley Fisher was on their list of people to talk to – though they hadn’t been able to reach him as of yet – because his number had shown up on Bree’s call log. Not that surprising, since they both worked here, but the frequency of the calls and the amount of texts exchanged between them suggested that they knew each other fairly well.
Or very well, Ben amended. Well enough that Bree had felt comfortable with having him photograph her naked.
He was also friends with Joe Cooper.
The sound of a ringing telephone distracted him, and Ben turned around. He glanced toward The Tasting Room, but it didn’t seem to be coming from that open door. Brows drawing together, Ben stepped toward the gallery door, leaned to the side so that he could see toward the back. The sound seemed to be coming from the desk. Or more specifically, from the cell phone lying there.
Ben frowned. The ringing stopped, and then a few moments later, his own phone rang.
“He didn’t answer,” Cal said.
“I think,” Ben said slowly “that’s because his phone is lying on the desk in your place. How quickly can you get here? Unless you want me to break the glass on your door.”
“Shit. Give me fifteen minutes.”
Cal hung up, and Ben rattled the doorknob again, even though he knew it was locked. Tamping down his frustration, he strode across the hall to The Tasting Room, poked his head in the door.
The guy that worked there – Jones or Johnson, he still couldn’t remember – with a face as average as his name. Although at the moment it was sporting a spectacular bruise along the right side of his jaw. Anyway, the man was assisting a customer. He lifted a hand in acknowledgement when he saw Ben.
“You need something, Sheriff?”
“Can I speak with you for just a moment?”
“Sure.” The man apologized to the female customer, who made a gesture indicating it was no problem before smiling at Ben. Jones or Johnson crossed the distance, an expression of curiosity and slight apprehension on his face. When he spoke, he kept his voice low. “Is there a problem?”
“I’m not sure. Did you happen to see the man who works across the hall leaving, by any chance?”
“You mean Callum?”
“No, this is one of his employees – contractors, whatever. The guy who does the photography that hangs on the walls in the upstairs hall.”
“Oh, Wes Fisher. He’s not here very often – lives in some off the grid cabin and hikes all over taking his photographs. I know he stays in the hotel when he’s in town – has some kind of arrangement with the manager… well, had.” He grimaced. “I still can’t quite believe that Joe is dead. But anyway, I’m afraid that I haven’t seen Wes today.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem.”
“What happened to your face?”
The man reddened, and then sighed, rubbing his hand over his jaw. “I tripped over my cat. Fell into the kitchen counter.”
Despite his anxiety, one side of Ben’s mouth lifted. “Maybe you should just tell people you got into a bar fight.”
“Anything would be better than the truth.”
Ben nodded toward the customer before leaving, and then he strode down the hall toward the lower part of the Cajun restaurant. As it was an off time – after lunch, before dinner – the place was deserted.
The bartender looked up from where he was wiping down the bar. “Hey Ben.”
“Mickey,” he said, recognizing the man. “I thought you worked out at the golf club.”
“Wanted a change of pace,” he said. “There’re only so many pastel shirts you can look at before you go blind. Can I get you something?”
“Has a man been in here, around six-one, auburn hair? He works in the gallery part of the time. Name’s Wesley Fisher, in case you’re familiar.”
“Can’t say that I am, but then I’ve only been working here for a week. I don’t know everyone in the building yet.”
Ben stifled his frustration, glanced around. “You mind if I have a look in the bathroom?”
“Knock yourself out.”
Ben pushed through the door at the end of the bar, and since it held a single stall it didn’t take him long to determine that Wesley Fisher wasn’t there. Nor was he in the upstairs bathroom, or the restaurant. Ben had checked there before calling Cal.
“Thanks,” he said to the bartender on his way back through, and by the time he walked back into the hall, he saw Cal opening the main door so that Ainsley could walk through on her crutches.
Cal followed her inside, closing down the umbrella he’d been holding.
Ben frowned at his cousin. “You didn’t have to come out in this.”
“Better than sitting at Cal’s house, staring at the walls.”
Ben started to say something, and then narrowed his eyes. “Your shirt’s on inside out,” he said.
Ainsley looked down sharply, and then shot a look at Cal.
“Don’t look at me,” he said. “You’re the one who put it on.”
“I don’t want to hear this,” Ben muttered. “Open the door, Elias.”
Cal selected a key from his ring and opened the door. He started to walk in, but Ben stopped him. “Let me go first.”
Cal’s brows crunched together, but he stepped aside and motioned Ben forward with the sweep of his arm.
As soon as Ben walked in, the hair on the back of his neck stood up, as it often did when his senses told him that something was wrong. He held up a hand to indicate that Ben and Ainsley should remain in the hall,
and then unholstered his firearm. He crossed toward the desk on which the cell phone lay, looked behind it. No one lay on the floor there.
Continuing on, he scanned the rest of the gallery, most of which was visible from where he stood. Except for the room that lay behind the door in the back.
He looked over his shoulder, lifted his chin at Cal, who murmured something to Ainsley before striding over, tension and alertness in every line of his body.
“What’s in the back?” Ben asked.
“Storage room and the bathroom,” he said, and then hesitated. “You want me to back you up?”
“Are you carrying?”
“After last night? Absolutely.”
Ben nodded. He wasn’t sure what they would find in the storage room, if anything, but given those little hairs on his neck, he’d rather be safe than sorry. He could call one of his deputies, but Cal was standing right here, and Ben knew he was a reliable marksman.
“I’m temporarily deputizing you in order to render assistance,” Ben murmured “so if anything goes down, you were acting in an official capacity. But don’t do anything stupid.”
Cal scowled at him, but nodded, and then retrieved his own weapon from the holster at the small of his back.
Ben crossed the distance to the door, Cal at his back, and then held up three fingers. On one, he pushed open the door, sweeping the room with his gun.
However, the crumpled form lying on the floor beneath a set of metal shelving didn’t appear to present a threat.
“Shit,” Cal said from behind him, and Ben stepped over cans of paint and boxes of office supplies so that he could crouch down, press his fingers to the man’s neck.
“He has a pulse. Help me get this off of him. On three,” he said when Cal grabbed the other side, and they hefted the shelves up and over.
“Let me have a look at him. I have medical training,” he said when Ben glanced up. “And I’ve dealt with worse.”
Ben moved out of his way, placed a call for an ambulance as he watched Cal do a cursory examination. When he turned the other man slightly, Ben saw the blood pooling beneath his head.
On a muttered oath, Ben told the dispatcher that they were dealing with a head wound.
“Closed head wound,” Cal clarified, “with a lacerated scalp. That’s why there’s so much blood.” Ben relayed the information while Cal leaned over to snatch a towel of some sort from where it had fallen onto the floor, and gently tucked it under Fisher’s head.
“An ambulance is on the way,” Ben said, clicking off. “Is there anything we should do for him in the meantime?”
“There’s not much we can do. His pulse is slow, but basically steady. I don’t want to risk moving him without a neck brace, just to be safe.” He looked at the shelves, frowned. “There’s no reason those should have fallen over.”
Ben studied the scene. “Where does that door lead?”
“Into another storage area. This old building is like a maze. There’s a door on the other side that you can access from the hall, although it’s usually locked.”
“Who has the key?”
“I imagine the hotel manager, or maybe the head housekeeper. I think they use it to store extra linens and furniture and such.” He looked back down at Wesley Fisher, and then up at Ben. “Why did you want to talk to him? And don’t stonewall me. This is my gallery. One of my people.”
Ben considered the advisability of imparting that information, and figured it wouldn’t hurt. Cal might even know something worth sharing.
“One of his photos in the upstairs hall is of Sabrina. Were you aware that they ever collaborated?”
“No.” Cal shook his head. “I knew that they were friendly, but given the way we’re set up here, we don’t spend much time all together. It’s usually one or two of us here at a time, so I haven’t really had much opportunity to observe them together.” He assessed Ben. “You think he had something to do with her disappearance.”
It wasn’t really a question. “I think that he was on our list of people to talk to –everyone who works here was – but we haven’t been able to reach him.” He hesitated. “And the photograph of my sister suggests that they were comfortable enough together for her to pose nude.”
Which meant that there were two men who’d taken nude photographs of his sister. The session with Fisher at least suggested an artistic, professional basis, but Ben still couldn’t quite understand the single non-professional photograph of Sabrina uploaded to Joe Cooper’s computer. There was no record of communication between the two in Bree’s call log, or photographs of him or of them together stored on her phone – and that photo suggested intimacy. They were still waiting for a tech to unlock Cooper’s phone, and it might reveal a different story. Maybe he had dozens of photos of Sabrina on his phone.
He glanced at Fisher. Rather convenient that the man had been incapacitated by a randomly falling set of shelves.
Just as it was convenient that Joe Cooper shot himself.
It was difficult to get answers from a dead man.
“Something,” Cal said “really fucked up is going on.”
“You’re telling me.”
Sirens sounded outside, and Ben looked over his shoulder. “That’ll be the EMTs. I’d appreciate it if you would wait out in the hall with Ainsley. I’m sure I’ll have some more questions after they get Fisher out of here.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE rain had stopped by the time Cal was finished answering questions, but the sky remained heavy, bringing on both premature dusk and rapidly falling temperatures.
He glanced at Ainsley, saw her shiver as they walked along the sidewalk. “You cold?”
“A little. I’ll be fine once we get to the car and crank the heater. Do you know him well?”
Cal understood that she was talking about Wesley. “Not really. We never hung out together outside the gallery or anything. He’s a little reclusive, but a damn good photographer.”
“I went upstairs. While you were talking to Ben,” she clarified. “I went upstairs and looked at the photograph he took of Sabrina. It’s gorgeous. You almost can’t tell it’s her, because of the subtlety of the lighting, but her hair gives it away.” She hesitated. “Did he – his name is Wesley, right? Did Wesley say anything about Sabrina when you spoke to him on the phone? About her disappearance?”
“No,” Cal said. “And being preoccupied, I didn’t think of the fact that he might not have heard. I know that he was planning to hike part of the Appalachian Trail, get some photos of the foliage while it’s at its peak. So he was away when Sabrina went missing.”
Ainsley chewed her lip. “I can’t stop thinking about the fact that photography seems to be playing a role in this. The whole thing – including Carly’s murder. What if it was her camera that she handed to the man I saw? It was never found, so she almost had to have had it with her that night. And the photo of Bree, naked and in the moonlight…” She looked up at Cal. “It just strikes me as an eerie coincidence. This man, Wesley Fisher. What do you know about him? Did he grow up here? Would he have known Carly?”
“Yeah, he grew up here. I didn’t know him well at all in high school – he was a year behind me, and a little on the nerdy side. Kind of a loner. But I’m pretty sure he must have been in the photography club.”
“I want to have a look at those photo albums that were in your garden shed.”
“Why? If they had anything incriminating in them, then surely whoever took the journals would have jacked those as well. Especially if we’re assuming that this person and Carly’s killer are one in the same.”
“Maybe he was interrupted, or couldn’t carry them, or…” her shoulders lifted in frustration. “I don’t know. But I can’t help feeling like there’s something that we’re missing.”
“Ben took the albums. If there’s something there, he’ll probably catch it.”
“Ben is so busy and so exhausted and so stressed that he doesn’t even know which way is up.”
>
“Do you really think he’s going to let a defense attorney – the enemy – have a look at potential evidence? Even if she is his cousin?”
Ainsley sighed. “No.”
“Ms. Tidwell?”
They both turned to see Cindy Becker – the front desk clerk from Ainsley’s former hotel – crossing the street, waving in their direction.
“I’m so glad that I caught you,” she said when she reached them, slightly out of breath. “Your father called the front desk and asked to be connected to your room, and I had to tell him that you’d checked out. He wanted to know where you’d gone, but I had to say that I didn’t know, nor did I know how to get in touch with you.” She looked apologetic. “I’m still just so mortified about your electronics being stolen. The manager had a meeting with the whole staff, and one of the housekeepers broke down and admitted that she often left her key card lying on her cart when she cleaned instead of wearing it on a lanyard, like she’s required to do. All someone had to do was walk by, swipe the card and let him or herself into a few rooms before putting it back. They must have gotten cold feet after they stole your things, though, because none of our other guests were hit. I’m so sorry.”
Cal didn’t disabuse her of the notion that the robbery had simply been random, and neither did Ainsley.
“It’s absolutely not your fault,” Ainsley said. “And I didn’t leave because of the breakin, or at least not in the way you’re concerned about, so don’t worry that I’m going to be bad-mouthing the hotel all over the internet.”
“Oh, thank you.” She smiled her relief. “The manager of course wants to do something to make it up to you anyway, and he’s distraught that he doesn’t know how to get in contact with you. As is your father.” She slanted a look toward Cal.
Cal, however, wasn’t going to confirm that she was staying with him. It was none of anyone else’s business. “We’ll be stopping by the cellular store to pick her up a new cell phone,” Cal said. “As soon as possible.”
“I promise that I will call the manager as soon as I have my phone,” Ainsley added. “And thank you for telling me that my father called.”
“Sure thing,” she said, dividing a smile between her and Callum. Then she looked down toward the gallery. “I understand that you had an accident in the store today? I hope no one was seriously hurt.”
The Southern Comfort Prequel Trilogy Box Set Page 52
