Rick pointed at the sign. “That’s about as bland as it gets. Bor-ing.”
Adam turned sideways in his seat. “Do not in any way consider this place to be on the same level as your B&B. This was built in the sixties when everything was going up on the cheap. The only inspiration for this place was money. That old house of yours was built back when construction was art. By the time this was built, art was a poster you hung on the walls.”
“There’s been a resurgence of art in architecture,” Rick said.
“I just gave you a compliment, buddy.”
“Right. Sorry. I should have said, ‘Thank you.’”
Adam quirked his cheek and gave Rick a thumbs up. “Good job. Now, let’s see what our friend Mr. Villari has to say for himself and his guest.”
Unlike the B&B, the inn had a dedicated front office, which was up a flight of stairs. Rick had only been here a couple of times, and both times it had been on police business. There were times he might have even enjoyed talking shop with Ray, but they had such different approaches to business he doubted they could find common ground.
The front office was empty, so the deputy went straight to the desk and rapped the bell on the counter. Ray came through a side door, looking much as he had the last time Rick had seen him—three-day beard, short-cropped auburn hair, and amber eyes.
“About time you got here, Adam.” Ray ran his fingers through his hair and tilted his chin in Rick’s direction. “Why’d you bring him?”
“He’s my consultant. If you’d prefer that we left…”
Ray’s intense stare settled on Rick, then returned to Adam. “I’ll take you up there. Her name’s Paulson and I want to get her out ASAP.”
When Ray slipped through the doorway and left them alone, Adam tapped his fingers on the countertop and huffed. “I don’t like it. This smells like he’s using me to evict a guest he doesn’t want.”
“Why would he…” Rick stopped as Ray returned from the back room with a key in his hand.
“Come with me.”
Deputy Cunningham huffed, but followed Ray through the back door and along a cement walk. Palms, hibiscus, and low-growing shrubs gave the impression of a tropical garden, but it was December and the series of storms that had rolled in off the ocean had left the plants looking battered. They climbed the steps to the second floor in silence—Ray in the lead, Deputy Cunningham right behind him, and Rick in the rear doing a little reconnaissance of the pool area.
The coffee bistro Ray had talked about putting in last summer was currently closed. And why wouldn’t it be? Who wanted to sit around a dirty pool on a cold morning drinking coffee?
At the top of the stairs, Ray turned left, but Deputy Cunningham stopped. He waited until Ray turned around and faced him. “Now what, Adam?”
“I thought you said she was playing loud music.” Deputy Cunningham cocked his head to one side. “I don’t hear anything. It’s quiet as can be.”
Rick surveyed the pool area, then the trees waving in the breeze overhead. It was quiet. Peaceful.
“Must have stopped,” Ray said. “Are you going to talk to her, or do I need to call Francine?” He did another of his Ray huffs and came closer. “I need her out of that room.”
“What’s going on, Ray?” Deputy Cunningham asked. “Why are you so determined to get rid of this woman?”
They waited as Ray’s complexion took on a rosy hue. His gaze flitted nervously around the grounds, then in the direction of the back parking lot. “My maid found something in the trash.”
Deputy Cunningham hooked his thumbs into his belt and shook his head. “A lot of things go in the trash. Stop wasting my time.”
“Okay, okay. It was a sweater. It had blood on it.”
Rick felt his eyes widen, his pulse quicken. “What kind of sweater?”
“Like the ones Ken and Dennis had at the party.”
Deputy Cunningham pulled out his notepad. “What did you do with it?”
“We put it back. You want it?”
“Not yet,” Deputy Cunningham said. “Did you handle this sweater?”
“We wore gloves. Neither of us wanted to get blood…on our hands.”
“You’re positive it’s the same as what Ken and Dennis had?” Rick asked.
“As sure as we can be without having them side-by-side.” Ray shrugged. “It sure looks the same.”
“What time did this happen?”
Ray swallowed hard. “Around ten-fifteen. Elsa was putting the trash in the dumpster when she noticed a plastic bag that had blood on it. She came and got me, and when we pulled it out, one of the towels from the Paulson woman’s room was inside.”
“Wait. How do you know it was from hers?” Deputy Cunningham asked.
“It had her room key holder in the same bag.”
“It’s almost noon.” Deputy Cunningham glared at Ray. “Why did you wait so long to call this in?”
“I thought she might leave.”
“In other words, you thought you’d avoid the bad PR.” Deputy Cunningham snapped. “Murder suspect holed up at Seaside Cove Inn. Jeezus, Ray.”
“What do you want to do, Deputy?” Rick asked.
“Now I do want to talk to this woman. Which room is she in?”
“Third door.” Ray turned away and started back down the stairs.
He’d only gone a couple of steps when Deputy Cunningham shot back, “You and I will be having a separate conversation about legal responsibilities, Ray.” The deputy didn’t wait for an answer, but headed straight to the third door. He knocked, counted under his breath to three, then knocked again.
A woman’s voice came from inside. “I’m coming. Hold on. Let me get dressed.”
Rick took a step backwards, braced himself against the railing, and shot a glance back toward the front office. Paulson? No way.
“You okay?” Adam asked.
“That voice…no. It’s just my imagination.”
The deadbolt clicked, then the doorknob twisted.
A woman with flaming red hair and captivating blue eyes stood before him. Her lips curved upwards into a smile when her gaze settled on his.
He knew this woman.
All too well.
Her name wasn’t Paulson. It was Giselle Atwood.
She was his wife.
CHAPTER 28
ALEX
Daddy has a saying he uses sometimes when he’s in a really bad situation. I kinda get what he means ‘cause of Marquetta asking me so many questions. If I tell her what I know, she might want to add more restrictions to our deal. If I don’t tell her and she finds out…
She said no secrets, so I gotta trust her.
“Marquetta?”
“What, Sweetie?”
“I think you’ve got me between a rock and a hard place.”
She shakes her head. “Nope. Won’t work. You’re not getting out of telling me where you heard Ken might be thinking about selling. Or are you welshing on our deal already?”
“No.” There’s no way I can lie to Marquetta. That means I’m gonna have to tell her about the text to Sasha, too. But maybe that’ll help ‘cause Marquetta said she’d answer questions if they were relevant.
“On the way home from the party, Sasha’s mom was talking about Mr. Grayson. She said Mr. Waldorf wanted to take over the restaurant.”
“So you’ve got Sasha passing you information now?”
I can’t believe this is happening. Now I totally get that rock thing. “Yes. But people in town talk all the time. Mr. Van Horn even wants me to…”
“Wants you to what?”
My shoulders slump and I look up at her. “Did you like work for the CIA or something?”
She smiles at me. “All right. I think I know what Devon asked you to do. Talk to your dad. If writing for the Cove Talkers newsletter is okay with him, I won’t have any objections. Now, about your question. Do you remember the town meeting a few months ago?”
I bite my lip and think for a seco
nd—mostly to make this take longer. Mr. Van Horn’s gonna be showing up any minute and I need to keep Marquetta distracted. “Oh, I remember! So Mr. Waldorf wants people to sell their stores to him ‘cause he wants to sell them to Exploration International?”
“Not exactly. It’s more like he’s working for them as their agent. He makes the deal happen, and then he gets a commission.”
There’s a noise on the other side of the butler door. It’s gotta be Mr. Van Horn. Why’d he have to be so noisy? Marquetta’s looking like she’s gonna go check it out.
“That’s almost sounds like a ladder,” she says and starts toward the door.
“It’s just a couple of guests playing a game at one of the dining room tables.” Oh, man, super lame.
She stops and looks at me, then shrugs. “If you say so.”
I look over my shoulder at the mixing bowl on the counter. “What are we baking?”
Marquetta wrinkles her brow and looks at the door again. When there’s no more noise, she shrugs. “I thought we might do a cranberry bread.”
“Awesome. Is that special for the holidays?” I pick up the bag of cranberries. “They’re a pretty red.”
“They are. I’m surprised you don’t have more questions about what’s going on with Mr. Grayson. You don’t normally give up so easily.”
Marquetta’s right. I gotta think fast. “What would happen if Mr. Grayson sold the restaurant?”
“It’s called ‘divide and conquer.’ Right now, the town has a united front. As long as none of the businesses sell to Exploration International, the company has no leverage. Once one business sells, the pressure increases on the others.”
“That sucks.”
Marquetta smiles. “It does. Let’s hope everyone holds out.”
“Would Exploration International close the Crooked Mast?”
“I’m sure they would.”
There’s another noise outside the kitchen door. This time Marquetta’s got that I-don’t-believe-you look on her face. “Are you telling me the truth about the guests playing a game? That doesn’t sound anything like dice or…I’ll be right back.”
Mr. Van Horn is so gonna blow this. “Marquetta! Wait!”
But she’s not waiting. She pushes open the door and I’m right behind her. My mouth drops open ‘cause Mr. Van Horn is gone. So is his ladder. Holy moley. He did it.
“How strange.” Marquetta stares at me. “Where are the guests, Alex?”
“They must’ve finished.”
I smile at her, but I don’t think she believes me ‘cause she starts toward the front of the house. While I’m standing there, I look up.
There’s the mistletoe. Up on the ceiling. Right where I wanted it.
Mr. Van Horn rocks. He’s totally the best handyman ever!
CHAPTER 29
RICK
Rick stared at the woman standing in the open doorway. He was unable to think…breathe…or move. All he could come up with was, “What are you doing here, Giselle?”
Deputy Cunningham did a double take and peered at Rick. Had he detected Rick’s anger? His contempt?
“You two…” The deputy stopped in mid-sentence, then did another double take. “This is Giselle?”
“Yes,” Rick said. “Adam, meet my wife, Giselle Atwood, not Paulson.” He glared at her. “Or have you just adopted his name to help your career?”
“Ricky…”
“I’m as surprised as you, Adam,” Rick said. “I had no idea she was in town.” His breath caught as he recalled Ken’s description of the mysterious redhead who had dinner with Thorne Waldorf on Friday night. “Better yet, why she’s here.”
“I can explain, Ricky.”
“Don’t!” Rick held up a hand, his fingers splayed. “I don’t want to hear it, Giselle. No wheedling. No excuses. Deputy Cunningham has some questions for you and you’d better hope you have some good answers.”
The deputy nodded and put a hand on Rick’s shoulder. “Do you want me to handle this alone?”
“No. I’m very curious about her sudden appearance.” He turned back to Giselle. “Why were you with Thorne Waldorf on Friday night?”
Giselle huffed, then turned her smile on Deputy Cunningham. “That sounds like more of an accusation. I don’t have to answer that, do I?”
“Mrs. Atwood, you do need to answer. However, I’ll be asking the rest of the questions.” Deputy Cunningham raised his eyebrows and his tone sharpened. “Won’t I?”
“Yes,” Rick said. He was not about to let Giselle manipulate Adam, though. He also had to figure out what to tell Alex. Guess what? Your mother’s here, and she’s a suspect in Thorne Waldorf’s murder.
“Did you have dinner with Thorne Waldorf on Friday night?” Deputy Cunningham asked.
Giselle rolled her eyes; she almost sounded bored as she spoke. “Yes. He’s my attorney. It was a business meeting.”
“What business could you possibly have here?” Rick demanded.
“I’ll ask the questions, Rick. If you need to take a breather…”
Rick shook his head. “No. I’m sorry, Adam. It won’t happen again.”
The deputy pulled out his notepad, turned to Giselle, and said, “Mrs. Atwood?”
She pulled on a strand of red hair and smiled sweetly. “It’s a private matter.”
“I see. Why didn’t you meet with Mr. Waldorf during normal business hours? You flew all the way from New York. I’m sure he could have made time for you.”
“Dinner was his suggestion. I got in late and it had been a trying day. I needed to unwind a little.”
“Did you leave the restaurant with your attorney?” The deputy paused for only a moment before he added, “There were witnesses who saw you there, Mrs. Atwood.”
“Our meeting was at four-thirty. It was a leisurely dinner. I don’t remember what time we finished.”
The deputy looked straight at Giselle and spoke matter-of-factly. “That’s not what I asked. Did you leave with your attorney?”
“He picked me up, we had dinner, then he dropped me back here. What of it?”
Rick stiffened at the blatant lie, but the deputy shook his head and said, “And yet you won’t tell me what your business was.”
“Fine. We discussed a number of things including my career, the differences in life between a small town and a big city like New York…” She stopped, glared at Rick, and sniffled. “And how I might need local representation to help in the dispute with my husband.”
Rick’s stomach tightened. Things had been going along so well. But he’d had Jordan file those divorce papers. Knowing Giselle, she wanted money. Lots of it.
Deputy Cunningham kept his tone level as he asked, “Do you mean your divorce?”
“Yes.”
“Very well, Mrs. Atwood. Were you aware Mr. Waldorf died Friday night?”
Giselle swallowed hard and the muscles in her jaw tightened. “No. I tried calling him, but only got his answering machine. He hasn’t called me back.” A few seconds later, she said, “He’s dead?”
The deputy ignored her comment. “Are you sure you weren’t aware?”
“I…I’ve had a rough couple of days.”
“Mrs. Atwood, are you familiar with the term perjury?”
Giselle blinked several times and her color drained. “Yes.”
“I have a witness who says she saw you with Mr. Waldorf at his home around eight-thirty on Friday evening. Let me ask you again. What time did you last see Mr. Waldorf? And where were you at that time?”
Giselle bit her lower lip and she stared into Rick’s eyes. He wasn’t sure what he saw there, but it might have been a plea for mercy.
“He didn’t pick me up here. We met at his office. But I didn’t kill him. He was drunk by the time we got back to his office, and I couldn’t keep him off me. When that woman showed up, I ran out the front door and left.”
“Can you describe this woman?”
“Dark hair. Pigtails. I don’t know. I was too d
istraught.”
Rick exchanged a quick glance with Deputy Cunningham. Could Giselle be describing Laurel? “Did you get this woman’s name?”
“No. She came in and started calling me all sorts of names. That’s all I know about her.”
“Where did you go?” Deputy Cunningham asked.
Giselle’s gaze flicked around the small room before it settled on the deputy. “I went for a walk.”
Another lie, Rick thought. She hated small towns and had never gone for walks in all the time he’d known her. But the timing was right. It couldn’t be—but there was no other explanation. He regarded Giselle with renewed curiosity. “You went to the B&B on Friday night, didn’t you?”
Deputy Cunningham’s eyes widened, but rather than scolding Rick for asking another question, he merely said, “Mrs. Atwood?”
She ran her fingers over her throat as she seemed to consider her answer. “What if I did? I was curious.”
“So you left your attorney’s office and went to Rick’s B&B?” Deputy Cunningham made a note. “What time was this?”
“Sometime after eight-thirty.”
“Did you go inside?”
“No. I just looked in. I saw all the Christmas decorations…”
Her voice trailed off and for a moment she sounded almost nostalgic. Then, her jaw puckered and she sucked in a quick breath. “Anyway, I peeked inside and then went for a walk down by the shore. It was very…pleasant. Refreshing after such a long day.”
Adam finished making a note, then turned a cool, dispassionate stare on Giselle. “Mrs. Atwood, it was raining Friday night.”
“I needed to think. As I said, Deputy, it had been a long day.”
“Did anyone see you?”
“Probably not. I came back to my room at about quarter to ten, took a sleeping pill, and slept for almost twelve hours.” She crossed her arms in front of her and her jawline tightened. “I was cold, wet, and exhausted.”
The Killer Christmas Sweater Club Page 11
