by Joanna Wayne
“He worries about me.”
“Why would he?”
“I’ve… I’m not myself. That’s how he puts it, how my family puts it, too.” Now her voice sounded strained, and she’d caught a lock of her hair between her thumb and forefinger and was rubbing it as if removing a stubborn stain. “You’re here about that woman that was taken from the hotel, aren’t you?”
It wouldn’t actually be breaking the bargain she’d made with Owen to answer. She’d only promised not to ask questions.
“We’re trying to find the man who killed her.”
For the first time Selma looked directly at Carrie. “Why would you come to see us?”
“It’s just a routine visit,” Carrie assured her quickly. “We’re talking to everyone who lives in the area, just to see if they’ve heard or seen anything that might lead us to the perpetrator.”
Finally Selma left the window and perched on the edge of a wooden rocker. “You’ll never find him,” she said.
“Never find who?”
“The man who abducted and murdered that woman.”
Carrie leaned in closer. “You talk as if you know who he is.”
Selma clasped her hands in her lap. “No, I don’t know him.”
She knew she’d promised Owen not to ask questions, but there was no way she could let Selma’s previous statement go unchallenged.
“Why do you say we’ll never catch him?”
“Because he’s…” Selma slapped her hand over her mouth as if to silence words she had no control over.
“Because he’s what?”
“I don’t know.”
She started rocking, back and forth, staring into space.
Selma’s hold on reality seemed so tenuous that Carrie feared it might snap altogether. Was that what had happened to Tom? Had they experienced something so terrifying in the mountains that it literally drove them crazy?
Carrie took a deep breath. How would Bart handle this? What would he ask Selma?
When in doubt, always go with your gut instincts.
His words flashed across her mind as if he were standing beside her whispering them in her ear.
The back door creaked open. The noise startled her, but it was only Rich and Owen joining Selma and her in the house. Owen crossed the room and put his hands on his wife’s shoulders protectively.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine. Deputy Fransen and I were just talk ing about the fact that we might get snow for Christmas.”
Interesting that she felt she had to lie to her husband about their conversation. Carrie would have to find a way to talk to her when Owen wasn’t around. And even then, she had to remember that anything Selma said might just be the meanderings of a haunted mind.
IT WAS LATE afternoon and the chill of night had already crept into the air when Carrie took the wide double doors to the garden. She and Rich had spent the past two hours viewing films from the hotel’s surveillance cameras from the day of the abduction.
They’d gone through all the film and found nothing suspicious, but Rich was still at it, reviewing ad nauseam. She sipped on the cup of coffee she’d poured from a huge urn in the lobby and dropped to an ornate iron garden bench. The sweet smell of hothouse flowers and the soothing sound of falling water did little to clear her mind.
Ever since their visit to the Billings’s home, snippets of her conversation with Selma had played in her mind. It would be easy to dismiss everything she said on the basis of her mental and emotional condition, but suppose it wasn’t just idle ravings. If that were the case, she might be their only link to the killer.
“Lift your chin a half inch higher.”
Carrie turned to the right at the sound of the weird request. A tall, very nice-looking guy with light brown hair and a fancy camera was smiling at her.
“I said raise your chin, not turn it,” he teased, walking toward her.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I was trying to take your picture. You messed up the shot.”
“Why are you taking my picture?”
“I liked the contrast. Beautiful cop with a gun on her hip sitting peacefully in a tranquil garden.” He slung the camera strap over his shoulder, freeing his hands. He extended the right one to Carrie. “Name’s Jeff Matthews.”
“I’m Deputy Carrie Fransen,” she said, “and I don’t like to have my picture taken by strangers.”
“We’re no longer strangers. We’re acquaintances. Go to the bar with me, I’ll buy you a drink, and we might even become friends.”
“I don’t drink on duty.”
“So when do you get off duty?”
“And I’m not looking for new friends,” she added.
“Then I guess I won’t ever get to show you the great photos I snapped of you while you were deep in thought.”
“I could confiscate the camera,” she said.
“Why don’t you just pat me down, and we’ll call it even.”
His light brown eyes danced when he smiled, and his lips crinkled just right, lending a mischievous air to the masculine lines of his face. She might have been a bit premature in turning down his offer of friendship, but she wasn’t ready to deal with anything that even hinted at a romantic relationship right now.
She might, however, be interested in his photos. “Do you work for the hotel?”
“No. I’m freelance. I write and photograph, mostly for travel magazines, but I’ll sell to anyone who’s willing to pay. The Fernhaven Hotel is the new in-place for rich Americans and European and Asian jet-setters.”
“I don’t want my picture turning up in a travel magazine.”
“Nor would the hotel. They’d be afraid a picture of a sheriff’s deputy would remind readers of Elora Nicholas’s abduction. Besides, I never include a picture of a guest without their permission. You never know who is vacationing with a party other than their own wife or husband. Travel magazines don’t like lawsuits.”
“Do you have many pictures of the guests?”
“Quite a few.”
“What about the hotel employees? Do you have candid shots of them as well?”
“A few. Why? Don’t tell me you think we have a criminal among us—other than the Washington politicians who seem to swarm here on the weekends?”
“I hope not.” But it was a definite possibility. “I’d like to take a look at your photos.”
“Come by my room, and I’ll show you what I have. I’m always glad to cooperate with pretty deputies.”
“When’s a good time?”
“Now works for me,” he said, flashing her another of his sexy smiles.
“Good. I’ll just need to let my partner know where I am. He may want to join us.”
“He. You are a party pooper. But it’s room 211. Near the elevator.”
Two doors down from the room Elora had shared with her husband. They walked to the patio and reached the double doors into the hotel at the same time as Rich. He grabbed her arm and pulled her aside. “Something’s turned up.”
“Like what?”
“Our first halfway decent lead.”
“From the films?” she asked doubtfully.
“No. I got a call from Stella at headquarters. One of the fingerprints from the last batch came back positive. Turns out one of the hotel employees has a prison record.”
“What was the crime?”
“Sexual molestation of his neighbor’s three daughters, all minors.”
She cringed. “The sick bastard. What’s he doing here?”
“Baking, a skill he picked up in a Kansas peni tentiary. I’m sure his culinary diploma is as fake as the name and other info he put on his application.”
“Is he here now?”
“No. This is his day off.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“One of the cooks gave me directions, said it’s about twenty minutes from here. I figure if we leave now, we can make it in fifteen.”
&nb
sp; “Let’s shoot for fourteen,” she said, already looking around for the photographer, just to let him know she couldn’t look at the pictures now. He’d disappeared, probably already in his room, practicing his pickup lines.
She followed Rich back inside, gearing up for the interrogation while trying not to become too optimistic. But it was great to finally have a lead.
KATRINA WATCHED Carrie walk away with the other uniformed law officer. She’d been watching her ever since she’d come into the garden, trying to familiarize herself with everything about the young woman.
It didn’t surprise her that Carrie was beautiful. She’d expected that, but Katrina had trouble getting past the fact that she carried a gun. It didn’t seem right, and Katrina had no idea what effect that would have on what she had to do.
It was the first time she’d ever done anything like this, though she’d known the day would come for a long, long time. She’d thought she was ready. Now she wasn’t sure.
It wasn’t the pendant that worried her. She knew its powers—and its limitations. It was Katrina’s own shortcomings that worried her. She’d have to use every option at her disposal to make sure she successfully finished what she was here to do.
And she couldn’t let anything get in her way, certainly not the man who had captured her with his gaze the other night and who had come looking for her in the garden. She didn’t know his name. It was probably better that way, and yet she found herself looking for him every time she stepped into the garden and listening for the sound of his voice in the hotel’s long hallways.
She would like to see him again, but she wasn’t sure how much longer she’d be here. Once her task was completed, she’d move on. That was the way it worked. Feelings and desires meant nothing. She was dead to them, at least she should be.
The wide double doors to the hotel opened. A young couple walked out hand and hand, and music drifted into the garden. He took her in his arms on the stone patio and held her close, gazing into her eyes before he took her mouth with his.
And the desires that Katrina wasn’t supposed to feel became a raw ache that all but tore her apart.
SELMA STOOD in the narrow kitchen, stirring the pot of stew she’d thrown together after the two deputies had left. She knew their visit would upset Owen, and when he got upset, she could count on a miserable evening. And he was most always upset these days.
She should never have told him about that afternoon in the mountains. Not that she could have kept it a secret. She’d been in such a state of shock, it had taken her hours to find her way back home. Her shirt had been torn open, her jeans ripped from the brush she’d staggered through. And there were the bruises.
Owen padded into the kitchen in his bare feet in spite of the cold. His hair was wet from the shower and all he wore was a towel knotted at his waist. The fluffy, jade-green towels had been a wedding present from her sister Louella. Now Louella would barely talk to her. Like Owen, Louella thought Selma had brought the situation on herself.
And maybe she had.
“I made stew,” she said, turning back to watch Owen pull a glass from the shelf next to the sink. “I put in lots of onions, the way you like it.”
“I’m eating in town tonight.”
“If you’re upset about the deputies’ visit, you needn’t be. They were just here on a routine call. Deputy Fransen said so.” It was the first time either of them had mentioned the visit since the deputies had left. Usually it was better not to talk about things that upset Owen, but he was already upset, so it didn’t matter much what she said.
“What did you and the woman deputy talk about?”
“Just the weather, like I told you.”
“You’re sure you didn’t mention what you did that day in the mountains.”
Her insides started to shake, and she felt as if she were going to pass out. She grabbed hold of the counter for support. “I didn’t do anything, Owen. I’ve told you that over and over. I didn’t do anything.”
He didn’t believe her. He never had. She was such a horrible liar. A horrible person. That’s why it had happened and why she’d lost the baby. It was all her fault. “Please don’t go and leave me alone tonight, Owen. Please don’t.”
He glared at her for a few seconds, then turned and walked away. She followed him into the bedroom and watched while he got dressed in the only good slacks he owned, the pair he’d worn the day they were married in the little chapel in Cedar Cove.
He took a blue shirt from the closet, one she’d starched and ironed that morning. He buttoned it, then put on his socks and Sunday shoes.
“Where will you go?” She always asked. He never said, but she knew it was to some other woman, someone he didn’t think was tainted. She knew he still loved her. At times he could be so tender. He took her to the doctor to get her medicine. He’d taken care of her after the miscarriage and held her head when she was so sick that nothing would stay on her stomach.
But he hadn’t made love to her. Not once since that evening when she’d come down from the mountains in tears.
“Don’t wait up for me. I’ll be late,” he said, picking up his jacket and poking his arms through the sleeves.
Owen had changed since that day in the mountains, but he was still a good man. She’d hurt him, hurt him bad. And even he didn’t know the full truth. It would kill him if he did.
That’s why she’d have to live with the horrible secret until she died. Sometimes she thought that day couldn’t come soon enough.
THERE WAS SOMETHING strange going on at the Fernhaven Hotel. Bart still didn’t have a good handle on the situation, but there was too much whispering and too many frightened looks exchanged between the housekeeping crew to believe things were running smoothly.
He did know that one of the maids had been fired that afternoon for allegedly going through one of the guest’s belongings. The guest had claimed that her clothes had been moved around in the closet and that at least one of her ball gowns had been taken from the hanger and rehung carelessly. The supposition was that the employee had worn or at least tried on the garment.
At least that was what Bart had gotten from talk in the hotel’s laundry room. He didn’t have access to the kind of surveillance equipment he’d have had if he’d been on duty officially, but a good cop always found his way around that.
Bart had made friends with one of the third-floor maids right after he’d taken up residence and she kept him informed of all the gossip. She was strange herself, had old-fashioned values and a quaint way of talking that fascinated him.
Most important, she could be trusted not to let anyone else on staff know that he was a cop with a vested interest in the ongoing criminal investigation that the hotel management was trying to keep quiet.
But he had a feeling she wanted something from him. He hadn’t figured out exactly what yet, and he didn’t have time to give it a lot of thought. Solving his own mystery was the main focus of everything he did—at least it was when Katrina didn’t haunt his mind.
He walked down the wide first-floor halls, past the restrooms and a row of conference rooms to the library down by the west stairwell. He’d discovered the library on the first day, but hadn’t been back since. Libraries had made him nervous even as a kid. All that whispering as if talk were going to scare the books off the shelves.
But he’d overheard two of the maids whispering about a book in the library on the history of the original hotel, the one that had been destroyed by the deadliest fire northern Washington had ever seen. Evidently it was the first time they’d ever heard of the tragedy. They were freaked out big time to be working in a spot where so many people had died.
In Bart’s mind, they should have been a lot more worried that they might have a killer working alongside them. The dead were the least of their worries. He didn’t waste his time pointing that out to them.
The library was stuffy, elegant and deserted. The walls were dark and lined with bookshelves. The rest of the room consis
ted of clusters of sofas and upholstered chairs, similar to those in the sitting areas in the massive lobby, except that in this light the dark wood seemed almost black.
The local interest books were on the most prominent bookshelves. One on local fauna. One on local flora. One on Indian lore. And a large bound book titled Ferhanven, Its Promise and Its Downfall.
He picked up the heavy volume and took it to one of the chairs. He skimmed the first pages, all about the dream of the man and wife who’d first conceived the idea for building the lavish hotel at what he referred to as the crowning point of the Cascades, where the sky and the earth met in an explosion of light and beauty.
No mention of the damp mist that blanketed the area every evening and morning or the wind that could cut right to the bone. But when the sun finally broke through, the skies here were as blue as he’d ever seen them. Not that he’d ever seen that much blue sky growing up in L.A.
He kept skimming, past the details on the construction, stopping at the chapter on the grand opening. He studied the pictures, then leafed through the rest of the book to the last chapter. The Band Plays as Tragedy Strikes.
He’d always thought of the 1930s as a time of depression when the county was in bread lines. But obviously even then, there had been a core of the elite who managed to live the good life. The men were in suits and ties, the woman in bright-colored dresses that swept the floor, their ears and necks dripping with diamonds and jewels, just as they were every night now in the Glacier Ballroom.
He started to close the book. That’s when he saw her. The green satin dress. The red curls framing her beautiful face. The pendant. One magnificent emerald surrounded by flawless pale yellow diamonds.
His Katrina in a picture taken over seventy years ago.
Chapter Five
The mountain road narrowed even more once it passed the turnoff for Fernhaven. The climb was steeper, and the curves were sharper with treacherous cliffs on the right. Carrie was thankful Rich was doing the driving and that they’d only passed one car and two motorbikes so far.
“Strange place for an ex-con from Kansas to end up,” Rich said.
