by Joanna Wayne
She didn’t know a Maizie Henderson. “I’ve talked to a number of locals during the course of the investigation. No one mentioned ghosts to me.”
“They’re not big on talking about their superstitions, especially to outsiders.”
“And just how would you know that, Mr. Seattle cop?”
“My grandparents lived just a few miles from here up until my parents moved them to an assisted living facility in Seattle a few months ago. My grandfather was big into mountain lore.”
Great. Now Rich was not only the authority on homicide, he was also the authority on the locals. She wasn’t sure why that irritated her so, but it did.
He slowed to a crawl. “Aren’t we near the spot where Bart stopped that night?”
“Just around the next curve.”
He took the curve, then pulled off the road and killed the engine and the headlights. A blast of cold air hit her in the face when he opened his door. She grabbed her parka from the back seat, and pulled it on as she stepped out of the car. An owl hooted somewhere above her and something rustled the grass a few feet away.
“Ready to hike?” Rich asked, cutting away a wide swath of black with the bright beam of his flashlight.
All of a sudden she had the bizarre but almost overwhelming feeling that someone was watching them. But it couldn’t be. She and Rich were the only living souls around. “I’m ready,” she lied.
He handed her a flashlight. “Want to lead the way?”
“Sure.” Lead the way right past the spot where Bart had been shot. Right to the ravine where Elora Nicholas’s body had been found, her stomach branded with some weird design. She breathed in a huge gulp of cold night air and started walking. She would not be spooked by the dark or ghost tales. Or by the icy tingles climbing her spine.
IT WAS ten past nine when Bart took the service elevator to the first floor, then followed the strains of a waltz to the Glacier Ballroom. According to information in the hotel lobby, the ballroom was the site of fabulous Christmas balls held every Saturday night in December. The soirees were acclaimed as a not-to-be-missed activity, and Bart had no intention of missing this one.
Not that he was into balls, but it was an excellent opportunity to check out the guests, at least sixteen of whom also had been guests the night the woman had been abducted, and he’d been shot. Apparently, people couldn’t get enough of this place. Considering the prices they charged, he found that pretty amazing.
But then the hotel did have an ambiance he hadn’t expected. Elegant, yet the staff was warm and friendly. Breathtaking scenery, rugged yet serene. Remote, but there was a shuttle that made a run a few times a day to the ski trails an hour northwest of here.
He adjusted the jacket of the black suit he’d “borrowed” from the servant supply closet on the first floor. The fit wasn’t great, but it would do for a waiter. For the most part he hoped to go unnoticed amid the party crowd. He was here to observe and overhear, not to be seen.
The ballroom was already crowded when he followed a middle-aged couple through the open double doors. Men in black tuxes and women in elegant dresses that swept the polished wood floor filled the dance floor and sat at white-clothed tables listening to the music and sipping champagne.
Huge crystal chandeliers hung from the domed ceiling, and everywhere he looked there were huge bouquets of flowers and tables of food accented with delicately carved ice statues. It was a far cry from his usual Saturday night burger and a couple of beers at Jake’s Bar and Grill.
The band started a new number, this time a tune he recognized, though he didn’t know the name of it. A woman walked past him, close enough that the silky fabric of her gown brushed his fingers and the fragrance of her perfume crawled inside him and evoked a memory he’d thought was dead and buried.
It got to him a lot more than it should have. He took a few steps backward, then stopped, mesmerized by a woman across the room.
Her hair was the color of molten gold, though the strands that caught the glow of the chandeliers took on a reddish tint. It was piled high on top of her head, with curly tendrils falling about her cheeks and forehead.
Her dress was emerald-green, cut low enough to show cleavage. It fit tightly around her tiny waist, then swirled into yards of satin that didn’t stop until they reached the floor. But the jewel of the outfit hung from a silver chain around her neck, a huge emerald surrounded by pale yellow diamonds. He’d never seen anything so spectacular in all his life.
He looked around, half-expecting the rest of the people to be staring at her the way he was. They weren’t. They were dancing, filling crystal flutes with the champagne that bubbled from a fountain or snaring delicacies from the trays of waiters who meandered the ballroom.
Only he seemed to be enchanted by the woman, and not just by her physical appearance and the pendant. She had an ethereal quality about her that made it seem as if she were more dream than reality.
He started toward her. A middle-aged woman in red bumped into him. Her champagne spilled and dripped onto his slacks and the toe of his shoes. He bent to brush it off. When he looked up again the woman in the emerald gown had disappeared.
He hurried across the room, searching the crowds for a glimpse of her. When he didn’t find her, he pushed through the double doors that led to the garden. Still no sign of her.
Yet somehow he knew he’d see her again.
Chapter Two
The cold sneaked into Carrie’s lungs as she and Rich tramped the near frozen ground. The mountains had a whole different feel at night. Eerie shapes coalesced in the mist, and crept across the rugged terrain at the far edges of their flashlight beams like translucent shadows.
The decline grew sharper, and she had to grab on to the trunks of spindly trees or to low-hanging branches to keep her balance as her boots crashed through the layers of leaves, twigs and exposed roots.
“I still can’t imagine why the man dragged Elora all the way out here to kill her,” Carrie said.
“Maybe he wasn’t planning on killing her. He may have been taking her somewhere, then panicked when he crossed paths with Bart.”
“Taking her where?”
“Maybe a mountain hideaway or an old cave. It might have been a kidnapping that turned deadly.”
Could have been, but she hadn’t uncovered any evidence to indicate that was the case. “The body was found over there,” she said, aiming the beam of her flashlight at the ravine just past a downed tree. There were still remnants of the yellow crime scene tape. The rest had been blown away.
Rich stepped over the trunk of the fallen tree, then shot a beam of light into the ravine.
Carrie stayed back. “You’re not crawling down in the ravine, are you?”
“No, I can see enough from here. Mainly I wanted to get a feel for what it was like out here in the dark. It helps me put myself in the killer’s shoes.”
“I don’t know about the killer, but I’m sure Elora must have been terrified.”
“Yet she apparently didn’t make enough fuss when they left the hotel that anyone noticed.”
“He probably had a gun to her head. She may have even been gagged.”
“Or she may have known him. I’m sure you checked for any sign of a lover’s triangle.”
“I checked. Not even a hint of one.”
“And the husband checked out.”
“I didn’t find any reason to suspect him. If anything he seemed very much in love with her. He’d even blown his Christmas bonus to bring her here for their tenth anniversary.”
Carrie was certain Rich would check all this out for himself, if he hadn’t already. He was just get ting her take on the details, probably to find fault with it.
“But they’d argued just before she disappeared?”
“He wanted another drink and she wanted to go back to the room so she could call and check on the kids. She stormed off, and that was the last time she was seen alive.”
“But one of the shoes she was wearing
was found by the back service entrance?”
“Right.”
“Have you got any leads on those markings the killer carved into her stomach?”
“No. One squiggly line intersected by a straight one, but not at right angles.”
“Yeah. I’ve seen the crime scene photos,” Rich said. “Still hard to figure. He had a gun, so why kill the woman by slitting her throat?”
“And then throw her into a ravine,” Carrie added.
“That made sense. Like the condom he used, the water would make it more difficult to collect DNA evidence.”
Carrie stamped her feet a few times to warm them. “It’s almost like the type of pattern you’d find from a serial killer.”
“Or someone who’d given this crime a lot of thought before he committed it. Be nice if someone had found either the gun or the knife.”
“Agreed. We have the bullet that hit the squad car. It was from a .38.”
Crazy, but she almost felt guilty talking to Rich about this case. Bart had been the only partner she’d ever worked with. He’d taken her on when she was so green she didn’t even know her way around a warrant. He was her mentor, her friend, her…
“Had to be a man who not only knew about evidence, but also knew his way around the mountains and around the hotel,” Rich said, breaking into her troubling thoughts. “A stranger to these parts would never have taken off through the woods on a pitch-dark night. Reminds me of some other murders that occurred near here a few years back.”
Damn. She didn’t know about any other murders. Not one person had mentioned them, not even Sheriff Powell.
“A serial killer?”
“No. A mass slaughter. Four female campers had their throats cut one summer night. Two were found in the tent, apparently killed while they slept. The other two were killed in the surrounding woods. It appeared they’d tried to run away, but the lunatic had chased them down.”
“How long ago did that happen?”
“Twenty years or so. I was in junior high. It made quite an impression on me at the time.”
“What happened to the killer?”
“He was never officially apprehended, but some transient who’d been sleeping at the camp grounds killed himself a few days later, and most thought he’d done it from guilt.”
“I’m surprised the sheriff hasn’t mentioned those murders in view of the present investigation.”
“Why? No reason to think there’s any connection between those and what we’re dealing with.” He rested one foot on the trunk of the downed tree and lifted his head as if studying the dark haze that surrounded them. “Ready to head back to the car and a little warmth?”
She nodded, but the campsite killings stayed on her mind during the hike back, making the woods feel more eerie than ever.
Rich didn’t talk at all until they reached the car. “See, that wasn’t so bad,” he said, opening his door and sliding behind the wheel.
“Not bad at all,” she lied. “I found the mountain air invigorating.”
And she missed Bart so much it hurt.
THREE DAYS LATER, Bart had still not run into the woman who’d mesmerized him in the ballroom. He had seen Rich McFarland several times, however—always at a distance.
It galled him that Rich had replaced him as Carrie’s partner. This should have been his case all the way. He wouldn’t interfere with what they were doing, but he wouldn’t let them interfere with what he had to do, either. And he’d keep an eye on Car rie the way he’d done since the day he’d taken her on as a partner.
She was smart, but she still had a lot to learn. Not the kind of things you could learn from books. She’d aced all of that in her classes at the university. The knowledge she lacked was the kind that came from experience.
Bart had gotten his experience the hard way, working his way up the L.A.P.D. He didn’t miss it anymore—at least not often. He breathed a lot better in the Cascades.
The sun was fighting its way through the early-morning haze when he took the service elevator to the first floor and slipped into the garden. It was too cold for blossoms, but the maze of perfectly manicured shrubbery still made for some interesting scenery.
Besides, if he went all the way to the far south corner, he could watch the arriving employees and the departing night staff. You could learn a lot by seeing who left in groups and who took off alone.
The garden was empty except for an older woman sitting on one of the stone benches. She looked to be at least in her seventies with paper-thin skin and deep wrinkles around her mouth and eyes. A full, dark skirt hung to her ankles revealing only a glimpse of her black leather boots. A woolen cloak shrouded her, covering her head, but he could see enough of her hair to tell it was gray.
She looked up when he approached. “Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning. What brings you out so early?” he asked, mostly making small talk, but somewhat curious as to why she was out and about before the sun had cleared the horizon.
“I like to watch the sunrise from the garden.”
“Do you come here often?”
“Too often.”
A strange answer, but he wasn’t about to pry into her business. “Enjoy your day,” he said, in way of goodbye. He’d already walked by her when she responded.
“He’ll kill again.”
Bart stopped and spun around, wondering if he’d heard her wrong. “What did you say?”
“He’ll kill again.”
“Who’ll kill again?”
“The man who abducted the woman and shot you.”
The statement threw him off. He’d been certain no one knew who he was or why he was here. “How do you know who I am?”
“I listen.”
That didn’t explain much, but his thoughts were rushing ahead. “Do you know who abducted the woman?”
“No. Why are you looking for him?”
“I just want to find him and make certain he goes to prison before he strikes again.”
“Is that your duty?”
“That’s the way I see it.”
She nodded and pulled her cloak tighter. “Maybe you should reconsider your priorities.”
She stood and walked to a nearby fountain. Slowly, she slipped off her gloves and stuffed them into her skirt pockets. She spread her open arms in front of the spray the way people held their hands in front of the fireplace to get them warm. After a few seconds, she pressed her damp fingers to her thin lips.
“He kills because of what was done to him.” Her voice was low and she was still facing the fountain, more as if she were muttering to herself than talking to him. He stepped toward her.
“You seem to have given the killer a lot of thought.”
“No, but the mist is full of whispers.”
Bart was beginning to doubt the woman was totally lucid, but she knew about him, so maybe she knew about other people as well. “I’ve been looking for a woman I saw the other night in the ballroom,” he said. “She was wearing a long, green satin dress and a magnificent diamond-and-emerald pendant.”
“Katrina.”
“Is that her name?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know her room number?”
“No, but if you watch for her, you’ll see her again.”
“What’s her last name?”
“Katrina is all I know.”
“Is she here with someone.”
“No. She is always alone.”
He heard voices on the path just beyond the garden. He checked his watch. Ten before six. The first of the day crew were arriving. The restaurant opened at seven, but room service ran all night, and the silver urn in the foyer was filled with hot coffee at exactly six-thirty every morning.
When he turned around again, the old woman was gone. But at least now he had a name for the mysterious woman. “Katrina.” He said the name out loud, liking the sound of it as it rolled off his tongue.
Katrina. Beautiful. Elusive. And much too enchanting to sp
end her nights all alone.
CARRIE PUSHED UP the sleeve of her uniform and glanced at her watch. Only eight-thirty, and Rich was already getting on her nerves. It was the third day into the partnership, and she was still desperately searching for a sign it might actually work.
“I’ve already questioned half these people,” she said, tossing the list of names he’d just handed her to the top of his desk. The same way she’d already questioned Elora Nicholas’s husband, but Rich had spent the past two days putting the poor guy through an intensive interrogation.
“So, we’ll talk to them again.”
Her hands flew to her hips in spite of her determination not to butt heads with him today. “So what’s the problem? Do you think I don’t know how to handle a few questions?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then what makes you think we need to redo everything I’ve done for the past month.”
“The case isn’t solved, and we’ve got a killer out there threatening to strike again.”
Like she needed him to point that out to her.
Rich picked up his coffee mug, an ugly green one with the logo of a Seattle pharmacy emblazoned across it in black. He took a long sip, then pushed back from his desk and grabbed his jacket. “You got a better idea for how to spend the day, Fransen, or do you just want to sit around here and jaw about it?”
“Jaw about it?”
“Okay.” He gave a mock bow. “Is it your wish, Deputy Fransen, that we remain at the office and discuss this matter further?”
“It’s my wish that we not waste time backtracking.”
“So, what do you have in mind?”
“I know the hotel owners won’t like it, but I think it’s time to start tracking down all the guests who were staying at the hotel that night.”
“According to your notes, you already ruled them out.”
“I did cursory background checks on all of them,” she said, “but I think we should interrogate some of them further.”
“For what purpose? The only red flags you reported were James Fox from Portland, a one-time shoplifting charge from twenty years ago, and Bailey Ledlow who did time for embezzlement.”
