by Joanna Wayne
“May I help you?”
“We have an appointment with Chuck Everly,” Rich said, stepping up to the desk.
The receptionist checked an appointment book. “You must be Deputies McFarland and Fransen. Mr. Everly’s expecting you. Follow me, and I’ll show you to his office.”
They followed. Chuck Everly was at his desk, sitting just in front of a large window with a spectacular view of the wooded area and the beginning of the maze of paths that led to the individual cabins. He also had carpet, potted plants, a couple of upholstered chairs and framed prints of the Cascades on his walls. Nice setup for an assistant manager. It said a lot for Fernhaven’s profit margin.
Although Carrie had met Chuck a couple of times and talked to him extensively about the case, this was the first time she’d been to his office. On the previous occasions they’d talked over coffee at a back table in the employee dining room. Rich han’t met him at all since Chuck had been out of town on business ever since Rich had been assigned to the case.
He stood when they came in and smiled widely, showing a mouthful of perfect white teeth. He was middle-aged, still in shape and dressed in a suit and the trademark green tie that all the male management team wore.
“Good to see you again, Deputy Fransen, though I wish it were under better circumstances.”
“So do I.”
“I don’t know how we messed up with Jason Pe ters—or rather Harlan Grant. We screen the background of all our employees.”
“Your screen must have a few holes,” Rich said, then introduced himself. They took the chairs Chuck offered.
“So exactly where are we with Harlan Grant?” Chuck asked. “Can we assume he’s out of the area?”
“I wouldn’t advise any assumptions where he’s concerned,” Rich said.
“Then I’ll definitely alert my security staff to be on the lookout for him.” He leaned back in his chair. “What else did you want to discuss?”
“I’d like to see a list of any guest complaints,” Rich said.
“What are you looking for?”
“At this point we’re searching for anything that would help us identify the man who abducted Elora Nicholas from your hotel. Maybe a guest reporting suspicious behavior of an employee or even another guest,” Rich added.
“Our files are private.”
Carrie cringed. Wrong response. Rich was neither patient nor tactful.
“You goofed up once by hiring Harlan Grant,” Rich said. “Let’s not complicate things with a bunch of privacy boloney. We’re not here to write a gossip column. We’re here to keep your guests safe.”
Chuck frowned. “Privacy is an important issue with us, but of course the safety of our guests is our number one concern. I just want you to understand that what you read should not be released publicly.”
“Not unless it directly relates to our case.”
“Then why don’t I go through them while you check out the facilities? I’ll pull anything that might offer you any valuable information.”
“I appreciate the offer, but I think we’ll just look through the files ourselves.”
“You’ll waste a lot of time.”
“We work fast. You could have someone bring in a pot of coffee, though. Some of those cinnamon rolls from the coffee shop would be nice, too.”
“Whatever you’d like, deputy.”
“We appreciate your need for confidentiality,” Carrie assured him, trying to diffuse the man’s obvious irritation. “I promise you that nothing will go outside this room unless it directly affects our investigation.”
“I appreciate that, Deputy Fransen.” He smiled at her, and ignored Rich. “I can let you see the files under those conditions, but I think it best that I give you a brief summary of what to expect before you start perusing the files.”
Something in his voice made Carrie uneasy. It was as if he was warning them that they’d find something they didn’t like.
“I don’t know how much you know about the history of the hotel or the area,” Chuck said.
“We know the original Fernhaven burned down over seven decades ago,” Carrie said, “and that the current hotel was rebuilt in the same spot to look almost identical to the original.”
Chuck nodded. “That’s part of the problem.”
Rich crossed an ankle over his knee. “Problem as in…?”
“You know how some people are. They get it in their heads the hotel is haunted just because people died on this spot. They start to imagine that they see and hear things.”
“What sort of things?”
“Harmless things like music coming from the ballroom late at night. We check it out. The doors are locked, and the room is quiet and empty.”
“Is that a frequent complaint?”
“I’ve heard it several times, maybe a dozen. But you know how it is. One person says they hear something, and everybody else gets in on the act.”
“Any other strange complaints?” Rich asked.
“Occasionally guests have mentioned things being moved from place to place, lights going out or coming on, unusual shadows on the wall. The typical things people imagine when they believe a place is haunted.”
Carrie took a deep breath. “What time does the band quit playing in the ballroom?”
“The traditional Fernhaven ball is only on Saturday nights. The band plays until one and sometimes two for that.”
“What about the other nights?”
“Normally they don’t play at all, but during the month of December we have music for dancing from nine until midnight, Tuesday through Saturday. And there’s live music in the lounge every night until midnight. I’m sure that’s what some of the guests heard.”
There was always a reasonable explanation for everything—even at the Fernhaven Hotel.
Ghosts and illusions were only figments of troubled minds.
And the music she’d thought she’d heard coming from the ballroom hadn’t come from the hotel’s band.
ALTHOUGH SUBTLE, and all but invisible to the unschooled eye, security around the main hotel had been beefed up since Harlan Grant had disappeared. There were two more men on duty today. Bart had picked them out early.
One was dressed in a pair of jeans and a navy blue parka. He’d spent most of the morning outside, hiking the trail that wove in and out among the more isolated rental cabins.
The other man looked as if he’d stepped off the pages of a men’s fashion magazine. He had the layered look that Bart usually adopted for Sunday morning. Only Bart’s layers consisted of an old T-shirt, a flannel shirt and a worn denim jacket or Seahawks sweatshirt.
This guy’s layers were a white T-shirt, a light blue cotton shirt, opened at the neck, and a v-neck sweater in shades of blues, golds and tawny reds. Few of the guests gave him a second look as they hurried by him and the book he appeared to be reading.
They’d have never noticed the way Bart had that he’d been on the same page all morning. Nor would they have noticed that from his vantage point, the man could see everyone who entered or exited the hotel through the main doors.
Bart had already concluded that the main hotel was relatively safe. The cabins were another story. They’d been designed for guests who wanted more privacy. They got plenty of that. Though they were within walking distance to the main hotel, each one was situated so that it couldn’t be seen from any other cabin or any other structure on the property.
They’d have been a much easier target for an abduction than the main building, which made Bart wonder why the perp had taken such risk. The variable that sealed the choice may have been that the cabins were occupied for the most part by couples or families and Elora had been going to her room alone after the argument with her husband.
Had the perp seen them argue and followed her? Or was there more to his selection and timing than that? Random? Or specifically chosen? A spur-of-the-moment crime or had he been watching and waiting for the chance to abduct and kill Elora Nicholas?
If Bart had the answers to those questions, he’d feel a lot better about the situation. As it was, he had to expect the worst—that the choice of victim had been random and that the perp could strike again at any time.
It might have been Harlan Grant, but there wasn’t enough evidence to that effect for Bart to let down his guard. He still thought it was someone who knew their way around the hotel. That could include kitchen help if Harlan had made it his business to check out everything.
But it could also be a security guard, a maintenance engineer, someone from housekeeping—or a photographer who roamed the hotel at all hours of the day and night shooting candid shots. There were plenty of possibilities still in the immediate vicinity.
But when Bart walked away, it was Katrina who took over his mind. He hadn’t seen her since two nights ago when he’d kissed her in the garden, but she’d never been far from his thoughts. His fascination with her bordered on the obsessive, and that frightened him.
No woman had ever mesmerized him the way Katrina did.
Katrina’s lips had been incredibly soft, like cotton candy without the sticky sweetness. And when he’d kissed her, he’d felt as if he were floating on air.
And here he was thinking like some damn frustrated poet. The woman got to him. That was all there was to it. He’d have to be more careful with his feelings. This would be the worst possible time to became entangled with a woman who could lure him away from the task at hand.
But he knew if he got half a chance, he’d kiss her again. And he’d love to keep her company when tonight’s blizzard came in. And he had a feeling, almost a premonition that he’d get that chance.
Unless the abductor struck first.
HE STOOD in the shadows of the dining room, unnoticed behind the huge urns and potted ferns. His gaze was fixed on the young deputy. She intrigued him and irritated him at the same time.
He’d seen the look on her face when she’d come out of the office of the assistant manager. She was spooked by the creepy things that went on and the mystique of the rebuilt hotel. But that wouldn’t turn her away, it would only make her dig deeper. She’d keep prying until she found out something.
He had to kill again. The urge was eating away at him, so strong he could barely hold food in his stomach anymore. So intense, he dreamed about Elora Nicholas night after night, waking up in a cold sweat but with his body hard and hungry for more of the same.
He had to kill again. So why not make Deputy Carrie Fransen his next victim? All he needed was opportunity, and one of the sharp knives from the hotel kitchen.
Chapter Seven
Carrie sat in the more informal of the two Fernhaven restaurants, sipping a caramel latte topped with a curl of whipped cream and watching the first flakes of snow fall from the gray sky. They’d finished going through the files a half hour ago, and one word seemed to be stuck in her mind.
Haunted.
It was a strange and chilling word. It conjured up images of ghostly figures in white floating down dark, deserted hallways. Images of old houses draped in spiderwebs and with bats clinging to moldy ceilings and rats scampering across splintered floors.
The Fernahaven Hotel didn’t gel with the images. So why had there been so many complaints of cryptic sounds and happenings, unless it was just as Chuck said. People came there knowing the original hotel had been destroyed by fire and then let their imaginations work overtime.
That could be all it was. More than one of her psychology instructors had stressed that the phenomena of people seeing and hearing what they expected to see and hear wrecked havoc on eyewitness testimony. No one ever saw any incident in exactly the same way, and much of what people saw was based on their expectations.
That was the perfect explanation for the complaints, especially since only a small fraction of the guests voiced any concerns that could be considered eerie. Perfect, except Carrie hadn’t expected to hear flapper music at four in the morning, yet she’d heard it. Perfect, except that one of the guests who’d had the most bizarre complaint of all had been the renowned psychiatrist, Marjorie Libscomb.
Carrie wrapped both hands around her coffee cup, soaking up the warmth. Just thinking about the statements in Marjorie’s file gave her goose bumps. She couldn’t wait to talk to her about the claims in person.
Actually, she’d wanted to meet Dr. Lipscomb ever since she’d studied her books and attended one of her lectures at the university. She had been much of the influence for Carrie’s putting her unhappy childhood behind her and taking charge of her life. She’d been the primary reason Carrie had gone into law enforcement. It forced her to take control and not let life push her around anymore.
“Hello, Deputy.”
She looked up to find Jeff Matthews standing over her, his boyish grin in place. He dropped into the chair next to hers without being invited.
“What brings you out in the storm?”
She wiped her mouth with the green napkin. “A few snowflakes don’t qualify as a storm.”
“But according to the latest weather report, a serious winter storm is headed our way.”
“I plan to be home long before it arrives.”
“You could always share my room. Save yourself a drive.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Are you here alone?”
“No, my partner’s around, making a phone call. We’re heading down the mountain as soon as he finishes.” Which might be another half hour. The man spent more time on the phone than any woman she’d ever met.
“Too bad you’re not staying over. It would be a great day for you to check out my photographs. You’ll have to do it soon if you’re going to see them. I’ll only be around a few more days. After that my room shoots back up to the regular rate.”
“I’d have thought you stayed free in exchange for favorable press.”
“But I don’t guarantee favorable press. I just tell it like it is.”
“Then why do you have a reduced rate to start with?”
“It’s an Internet special that I’m sure they offered before they realized they’d be booked solid for the month of December. Still expensive, but luckily it’s a tax write-off.”
“So how do you rate the hotel?”
“First class all the way. A great vacation spot for those who can afford the very best.”
“Or those who can write it off,” she countered.
“Perks of the job, though few of the places I write about are this luxurious. Fernhaven is a throwback to the days when people knew how to vacation.”
“Then you have no negatives to report?”
“There are always negatives.” He waved off the approaching waitress, letting her know he wasn’t interested in ordering.
“What kind of negatives?” Carrie asked, probably a little too eagerly.
“You’ll have to check out the articles to discover that. First one comes out in Elite Travel next spring. And I’ve sold short articles to a couple of airline publications.”
“I’ll be sure to look them up.” But she didn’t want to wait that long to have her question answered. “I’ve heard some people say the hotel is haunted. I don’t suppose you caught any ghosts on film.”
The easy smile faded from his lips and the mischievous gaze grew guarded. “Do you believe in ghosts, Deputy?”
She considered the question. She didn’t, and yet…
She was saved from having to answer by Rich’s timely appearance. “We have to go,” he said, without acknowledging Jeff’s presence or venturing too far into the restaurant.
She was used to his brusqueness, but he seemed agitated as well. She stood and grabbed her parka from the back of her chair. “Have you heard an update on the weather?”
“No, but I got a call from Maizie.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Tom’s missing. Maizie thinks he may have wandered into the wooded area behind the house.”
Dread kicked in. This was not the day to get lost in th
e mountains. By the time she shoved her arms into her coat, Rich was gone.
“Guess I’ll have to see the photographs later,” she called to Jeff as she raced to catch up with her partner before he drove off without her. The snow was barely falling now, but storms had a way of intensifying fast in the Cascades. If they didn’t find Tom soon, they wouldn’t find him until after the blizzard. And by then he might be dead.
CARRIE TRIED her cell phone as they left the hotel, but as usual, there was no signal. She used the police radio to report the missing man.
“Don’t expect much help,” Rich said. “There’s no time to get a search and rescue crew in action before the storm hits. It will just be us and family and neighbors.”
“How long has it been since anyone’s seen Tom?”
“A little over an hour.” Rich leaned forward and wiped the condensation from the inside of the windshield with the back of his sleeve. “Maizie drove into Burlington for supplies. The neighbors were watching out for him, but everyone got busy preparing for the storm.”
“So they forgot all about him?”
“You can’t blame them. No one expected him to wander off. He hasn’t left the property since his stroke.”
“He picked a great time to start exploring again,” she said. She pictured a frail, sickly man trudging through the snow. “How’s he dressed?”
“Last time anyone saw him, he was in the old storage shed behind the house. He was wearing his barn jacket and boots then. He’s probably warm enough, at least for now.”
“Maizie must be scared to death.”
“Sounded that way.”
Rich said little else on the drive to Maizie’s.
Finally, Rich turned down the road that led past his grandparents’ house. “You can stay with Maizie,” he said. “She’ll need someone to keep her from worrying herself to death.”
Carrie’s blood pressure shot up. “I’m not a babysitter. I’m a deputy, remember? The same as you.”
