Intimate Portraits

by Cheryl B. Dale

  He readied the gun beneath the towel. “Room service, ma’am.” An old ploy, but effective.

  A few minutes passed. The inner chain rattled, and the bolt clicked back to let the door open. A sleepy face peered out.

  A woman’s face beneath a frizzy cloud of dark hair.

  “Did you order room service, baby?” she called over her shoulder, stifling a yawn.

  The gun, half-hidden by the towel draped over his arm, was whisked out of sight. “Smith? Allen Smith?” he had the presence of mind to ask. Quick on his feet, Sam prided himself in being.

  “No, I’m Mrs. Kinsellen.” She frowned at his towel.

  He made a pretense of looking at the door number. “Oh, terribly sorry, I must have the wrong room.”

  A man’s voice, raspy from sleep, called out a second before the door closed, “Who is it, hon?”

  Sam didn’t hear what she answered. He was striding down the hall, stripping off his borrowed waiter’s jacket and fuming.

  Shit, what a close one. Who the shit is she?

  Someone familiar.

  His mind was already churning, sorting new facts, filing them into old.

  Ah. He had her.

  One of the jazzy brunettes in the photographer’s group last night, the one clinging to a placid man happy to be clung to. Yeah, the man back in the bed who had spoken as Sam escaped. Somehow this couple and the other had switched rooms on him.

  Shit.

  Now, now, take it easy, don’t get your bowels in an uproar.

  Stress was the cause of most heart attacks in middle-aged men. And excess weight. He’d never had a weight problem, and hitting the gym three times a week helped his stress levels. But for moments like this, he had a set of mental exercises.

  Breathe in, breathe out. Imagine floating in a clear pool of water in warm sunshine. Imagine petting the dog’s silky ears. Imagine lying on the beach listening to the ocean.

  Okay, heart was back to normal, temper under control.

  He looked around the hotel for the Lexus, but it was gone. The blonde and her man must have borrowed the room for a while last night.

  Never mind. This little setback could be handled. All he had to do was watch and wait. The two lovebirds upstairs should lead him to the Merriwell chick if he waited and watched long enough. And patience was part of the job.

  He moved his van to a place where he could monitor both hotel doors.

  ****

  The kitchen of the cabin was crowded, too crowded for Autumn. There was no chance of being alone with Rennie this morning, with everyone fixing their own breakfast and chattering.

  Elena and John came in, with Elena bubbling over about their night at the hotel.

  “—wonderful, lying in that Jacuzzi in front of the fire. I still can’t believe John thought of surprising me all by himself.” Laney planted an enthusiastic kiss on her husband’s beaming forehead but spoiled her accolade by adding, “He’s usually so unimaginative.”

  John helped himself to coffee. “I saw it was either find a hotel or spend another night listening to people going in and out of that one bathroom beside our bedroom.”

  “Oh, John, don’t spoil your romantic gesture.” Laney did a happy pirouette before turning to Autumn and Victoria and confiding, “The thing was, the bed creaked so much—”

  “Elena.” John spilled his coffee. “Do you have to share everything?”

  “—that someone next door kept bumping on the wall and screaming at us every time we tried to do anything innovative,” she continued, sending a mischievous look toward her husband that quickly dissolved into perplexity. “Then some dimwit bellman woke us up at the crack of dawn this morning, can you believe it? And you know what?” Her brown eyes, slanted like Rennie’s, widened. “He was carrying a gun under a little towel draped over his arm.”

  “A gun?” Autumn and Victoria echoed.

  Fran groaned and rolled his eyes.

  “Laney,” her annoyed husband injected with a long-suffering expression that said he was far too familiar with her vivid imagination. “You didn’t see a gun, hon.”

  “It was a gun.”

  “We've gone over this. It couldn’t have been a gun.”

  Her eyes flashed. “You weren’t awake, John, you were practically comatose after spending half the night in the Jacuzzi and the other half getting a whole-body massage. You were in bed and never saw the man. He had a gun.”

  “It was a coffeepot or a serving spoon or something you mistook for a gun.”

  She flushed bright red. “Serving spoon?” She jabbed a finger into her husband’s chest. “You’re crazy, John.” She jabbed him again. “I tell you he had a gun.” Another jab. “You think I don’t know a gun when I see one? You think I’m a dummy?” One last jab.

  “Stop that. You’re as dingy as that weirdo next door.”

  She screamed and hit him with the side of a fist. “Kiki isn’t a weirdo and neither am I. Take that back.”

  He dodged when she would have hit him again. “Cool it, hon. Remember your work with battered spouses.”

  While the others observed, Rennie braved the storm. “Yeah, cut it out, Laney. You’re getting to be as bad as Norma. We’ll all testify for John if he decides to divorce you.”

  “You butt out, Rennie. This is between John and me.”

  Rennie held up his hands. “John, call on us as witnesses if you decide to take legal action.”

  Autumn tactfully nursed her coffee as Laney sat down, sulking. Anger looked good on Laney. For that matter, any emotion looked good on Laney. Like her siblings, her dramatic Spanish face was eye-catching, no matter whether she was happy or sad.

  Frowning seemed to be the order of the day. Even Fran, in his khakis and button-down shirt, seemed preoccupied. At least till Victoria elbowed him and earned a grin.

  As Autumn and the others nibbled at toast and cereal, Laney tried her best to pick a quarrel with John. “The next time someone shows me a gun, I’ll shoot you with it. Maybe then you’ll admit I was right.”

  John, accustomed to his temperamental wife after two years of marriage, stopped arguing. He refused to do anything but shake his head in an amiable manner supposed to deescalate Laney’s anger but in fact doing the exact opposite.

  Autumn fingered the rim of her cup. A gun.

  Had Laney actually seen a gun? Surely not. The Degardoveras, with the exceptions of Rennie and his youngest sister Cristina, tended to drag every ounce of drama out of ordinary situations. Laney, while not quite as theatrical as Norma, was still pretty good at performing.

  A slanting glance toward the one never-ruffled Degardovera showed him disinterested in his sister’s antics. The corduroys and bulky sweater didn’t mask his slim hips and wide shoulders as he stood, mug in hand, looking out a tall window and brooding.

  Neither Autumn nor he had said anything to each other except for the inevitable morning greetings. He must have been rethinking his admissions to her advances because he’d avoided her all morning.

  Heat warmed her cheeks.

  All right. If that was how it was to be. She got up to put her cup and bowl in the sink and turned her back to him. They had a three hour drive back to Atlanta this afternoon. Alone.

  Try and get away from me then, Dr. Degardovera. She would make him accept her as a desirable woman or alienate him forever.

  This friend stuff was getting old.

  Fran, as Laney’s diatribe increased in volume, made a spurious leap up from the breakfast table in a patent attempt to stop his sister from further browbeating his brother-in-law. “Anybody want to go for a short walk to the lake before we have to leave? It isn’t far to the trail from the deck. If we start now, we can be back in an hour, plenty of time before checkout at noon. Victoria?”

  “I don’t know, Fran,” Victoria demurred. “I’m not much for hiking. My ankle tends to swell if I walk far.”

  He bent over her, stretching both hands out to the back of her chair as if to trap her between his a
rms, and gazed into her eyes. “Vicky, even a couch potato like you can do this walk. Come on, sweet thing. I’ll carry you if you can’t make it. I promise.”

  “I don’t know.” She threw a flirtatious glance toward Rennie. “Are you going, Rennie?”

  “Sure,” he said in his easy manner. “I’m game.”

  Autumn was the lone holdout.

  “Come on, Autumn, it’ll be fun.” Fran left Rennie to keep Victoria from backing out while he came over and tugged at Autumn’s hand. He entwined his fingers in hers, flashing the intimate smile that seldom failed to bring the feminine object of his attentions to her knees.

  Autumn, immune to Fran’s charms, unwound her hand. “I think I’ll laze around here.” Her shoulder still hurt from the fiasco on the bridge.

  Besides, Victoria had resumed her proprietary air toward Rennie this morning. There was no reason to tag along while the chic newscaster hung onto his every word.

  And Autumn didn’t want to chance ending up alone with Rennie until she could be sure they would have time to finish what she intended to start.

  Sooner or later he would offer considerate apologies and reasoned arguments for not making love to her. Unless she had time to break down his resistance, his apologies would be one more block in the barrier between them.

  When she thought about throwing herself at him, she got sick to her stomach.

  But what else can I do?

  How often had she tried to become a part of her uncle and aunt’s closeness, and how often had she been disappointed? How often had she joined in the Degardoveras’ adventures only to find herself eventually sent back to her aunt and uncle?

  All her life, she’d been left on the outside, looking in at happiness.

  If she lost her chance to be a part of Rennie’s future because she was afraid of rejection…

  Well, she wouldn’t. That’s all there was to it.

  In the end, everyone except Autumn went down to the trail.

  Chapter 12

  As his beige van crawled down the deserted street, Sam Bogatti checked out the positions of the isolated cabins.

  Cars took up most of the parking spaces in front of the lower cottage where the couple from the hotel had disappeared, but that didn’t matter. He wasn’t about to park there.

  Smoke rose from the chimney pipe. The photographer would be inside with her friends, curled up beside a warm fire. Laughing and enjoying herself. Unsuspecting. Must not have heard about the fire or she’d have rushed home. Maybe his luck would hold and he could take her before she got word.

  As Sam chewed his gum, he brooded.

  Seemed a shame, wasting a pretty woman like that when she had a good-looking boyfriend and no small talent for taking sexy pictures.

  Everything to look forward to, future looking all rosy.

  Except it wasn’t.

  Life was a bitch.

  “The wife’s right. I'm too soft-hearted. I've got to toughen up. Can’t worry about everybody.”

  Parking down the street across from another set of cabins, he lay back against the headrest. In his rearview mirror he could see the front of the cabin hiding his mark.

  From the number of cars, several people were inside. He didn’t want to take her out in front of witnesses, but he couldn’t stay here either. Not for long. Park officials were the worst of bureaucrats, the kind who routed out unauthorized vehicles and ticketed them. He for frigging sure couldn’t afford to be questioned or recalled after what was going down today.

  Ten fifteen. They’d check out and leave for Atlanta soon. No way was he trailing them back down there. It’d take him another half day to get started home.

  Either he could knock on the door and risk being seen, or stay here and wait, hoping she would come outside where he could get to her. And he didn’t have long to decide.

  Below him, on a path circling the lake behind the cabins, a group of exuberant hikers swarmed into sight. Despite the distance, he recognized the couple from the hotel. With them were the two brothers and the perky TV broad from last night.

  Nobody else. He sat up for a closer look. Yep, no blonde photographer among them.

  The group disappeared behind trees.

  Leaning back, he considered. Autumn Merriwell might not be inside the cottage.

  No, odds were good that she was. The rest of the walkers had been with her last night in the pizza place, along with that older couple and the other sister and her admirer. The older couple had left early—he’d heard them say they had a long drive back to Atlanta—but the second brunette and her stocky man had been with the group milling around afterward.

  They weren’t with the walkers. That meant maybe three people in the cabin. He could cope with three.

  Okay, he’d wait here and watch the entrance a little longer. If everything seemed okay, he’d try the door. Wouldn’t take two minutes to get in, do her and whoever was with her, then get out.

  He stroked the Ruger. Its cold smoothness cleared his mind.

  Yeah, he was right to use it. No time for niceties out here in the boonies. He’d played around long enough, been frustrated once too often. Give her five minutes and if she didn’t come out, he’d go to the door and finish it.

  As he put the silenced Ruger in his lap and took a ski mask from the console compartment, his rearview mirror showed a Ferrari pull up and park in front of the cabins. He stiffened at a splash of blue emerging.

  The blue-coated driver leaned back in before straightening with some plastic grocery sacks. Her jacket hem flared like a cape while the morning sun reflected blonde highlights.

  Bingo. Patience was rewarded. Thank you, lady luck.

  Cranking the van, he swung it around. Behind the parked cars, he rolled down the window just as she reached the steps leading down to the two cabins and stopped.

  With her back toward him, not six feet away, she dug into her purse like she was looking for a door key. The blue jacket stretched out nice and inviting across her shoulders.

  An easy mark.

  One smooth movement and the Ruger lay steady on the window frame.

  He popped her three times. Once through the head and twice in the back.

  She crumpled to her knees.

  Plastic sacks hit the ground. A roll of paper towels and a six-pack spilled out into the dirt alongside a carton of light bulbs.

  She fell on her face beside them, bright blood spreading over the blue coat.

  Nausea struck.

  Jeez, his stomach. This part always got him.

  Think about something else.

  Stash the gun. He inhaled and exhaled as he stuck the Ruger under the seat. The queasiness subsided. He drove off.

  If she wasn’t dead when she hit the ground, she would be in minutes, bleeding like water from a faucet.

  No one had seen him. The few people he’d spotted since entering the park were the hikers lost on the trail below and the drivers of occasional cars on the main road.

  His license plates were obscured by mud. He was safe.

  The weekend was shot to hell, but for consolation, he’d be home in time for the kid’s hockey practice Tuesday afternoon.

  A weight lifted.

  As he wheeled the van down the hill toward the park exit, a man emerged from the woods and started down the road toward the cabins.

  Sam drove past him, putting his hand up to his face. But the walker never looked his way.

  Dark face, dark hair, athletic build.

  The photographer’s boyfriend. Too bad he had to come back to that. And too bad a woman with Autumn Merriwell’s talent for taking pictures had to die.

  Sometimes his conscience bothered him.

  You’re getting soft, Sammy.

  Time to think of leaving this business. He could look into buying that motel in Florida his brother-in-law kept yammering about going halves on.

  Nah, he was tired. The past few days had been hell, what with Sarita—Sarita Sartowe!—turning out to be his target, and then the
screw-up with the photos and the trouble finding the photographer.

  All over now. He’d put in a few more years, then retire like he planned.

  He found a decent music station on the radio, stuck a fresh piece of gum in his mouth, and kept driving.

  Going home. Yeah, man.

  ****

  Autumn jumped. Her eyes flew open. Her heart raced.

  What was that?

  Dazzling white light highlighted cedar paneling, black stovepipe, and brown carpet under dark high-beamed ceilings.

  Where was she?

  The park cabin. Helen. Rennie.

  The bright light came from sunshine streaming through tall windows. The woodstove window glowed red in front of the loveseat where she sat with feet up on an ottoman and head on a cushion.

  She’d been thumbing through a magazine while the others went for a walk.

  Ah. Now she remembered.

  Her heartbeat slowed to normal.

  I must have dozed off.

  She rubbed her eyes. Something seemed wrong. Out of place. The cabin lay silent except for the crackle of burning wood,

  What had cut through her sleep so abruptly?

  And she had been asleep. Fast asleep.

  A strange turbulence charged the air. Sitting up, she stretched, then mentally shook herself. She was being foolish. Worrying about what she would say to Rennie and what he would say to her had worn her down.

  A noise—physical and not supernatural—had awakened her.

  Backfire. There hadn’t been much traffic on the road by the cabin, but loud cars abounded wherever you went nowadays.

  Or firecrackers. It could have been a firecracker. There’d been lots of them in Helen last night.

  She yawned and listened, but heard nothing more.

  What time was it? Rennie had agreed that checking out at eleven would give them plenty of time to eat lunch and catch the live glockenspiel at two.

  Ten thirty-five. He and the others hadn’t been gone long enough to circle around the lake.

  Restless, she picked up the magazine dropped on the floor. It was the latest issue of a popular Atlanta magazine, and the cover showed a smiling Danielle Huertole in businesslike navy suit and white ruffled blouse. She stood with her arms crossed, posed so that the High Museum of Arts loomed in the background to her side.