“Give us ten minutes. I’ll have it brought around front.”
“No,” I said evenly. “Have them take it to the back entrance.”
“But we prefer—”
“I prefer the back entrance,” I repeated. “I’m not used to driving in Denver, but I know my way from there. We’re heading into the mountains.”
She smiled. “It is easier to avoid downtown traffic that way.” She ripped off a copy of my rental agreement and handed it to me. “The back entrance, fifteen minutes.”
I found Patrice and Cara tucked in a far back booth, right up against the wall.
“Finish your coffee,” I told Patrice, who promptly drained her cup. She laid down a five to take care of the two cups of coffee and the tip. Cara hadn’t touched hers.
We gathered our bags and ducked through the lobby, past the bank of elevators, down the hall and to the back entrance. A few minutes later, a white Subaru pulled up, and a young Hispanic man hopped out of the driver’s seat.
“Ms. Whitcomb?” He flashed a smile as we came through the doors.
“Yes,” I answered, showing him my receipt. He helped us load our bags, and I tipped him well, but not enough to remember us, I hoped. Cara, though, he’d remember. He was staring a hole right through her. And the blind lady with the dog.
I drove away, cut over a few blocks and pulled onto a side street and into a parking space a couple of blocks down from the Denver Art Museum. I turned to Cara, who was sitting in the passenger seat. Patrice was in the backseat with Odin.
“There’s a hotel in Taos, New Mexico—the Wind Whistler’s Inn. I’ve been there before. It’s as secure as any place you could find, and they allow pets. It shouldn’t take you more than about five hours to get there. It’s straight south from here.”
“What are you talking about?” Cara demanded.
I handed Patrice one of my charge cards. “Check in under the name on this card, Evelyn Garrett. Get to a computer. I’m sure they have them at the hotel, maybe even to rent. They hold conventions and seminars there. But if not there, then the library. Cara, you set up a new Hotmail account and e-mail me right away through my Hotmail account. Don’t use the college account. Give me your room number but don’t mention the inn’s name. I want to hear from you as soon as possible, tomorrow morning at the latest, so I’ll know you’re all right.”
“Mom—”
“If for some reason you can’t do e-mail,” I rushed on, “leave a message for Ms. Whitcomb at the check-in desk of the Hyatt. Tell them you realize I’m no longer registered, but I will be stopping by for messages. If you have absolutely no other choice, drive to the next town and call me on my cell phone from a pay phone using a phone card.”
I reached into my bag, pulled out an envelope and handed it to Patrice. It contained enough money to keep them for a good while.
“Taos is a wonderful place. Be sure to visit the galleries.”
Cara grabbed hold of my arm. “Just where do you think you’re going?”
“Back,” I told her. “Not to the Hyatt, but to a hotel downtown.”
“You are not staying,” she said evenly. “We stick together or—”
“She’s right, Cara,” Patrice said. “Odin’s a liability. He draws attention to us. And you’re your mother’s Achilles’ heel. She needs free rein.”
“To do what? Get herself killed?” Cara demanded.
“That’s not going to happen,” I assured her.
My main goal had always been to keep Cara safe. Sending her to Taos, I hoped, would do exactly that. But it was only a temporary solution. If we were to ever put all this behind us and Cara was to have back the life she’d worked so hard to build, I had to see this through. I still had business in Denver. I had to see for myself where Stephen died. I had to know exactly what had happened to him. It wouldn’t be easy to kill someone like him. Whoever had managed it was going to pay.
“I won’t take long,” I promised. “I’ll join you before you’ve had time to miss me.”
Cara let out an exasperated growl.
“Your mother can do more without us,” Patrice agreed. “The four of us stand out like a flag. Who wouldn’t remember a beautiful young woman and a blind woman with her dog?”
“You’re both nuts!” Cara threw up her hands.
I could understand Cara’s frustration. Besides, I pretty much agreed with her. I must be nuts. “They don’t want me dead. I have the photos and the atlas to give to them if they catch up with me.”
“Who died and left you to make all the decisions?” Cara asked.
“Your father,” I said softly. “I’ll join you in a few days.”
“And if you don’t?” Cara asked.
“I promise.” I knew she was thinking about the promise she’d made me at Patrice’s to leave, in the van, the one she’d broken. I touched her face. I refused to cry, and she was determined to prove she was every bit as stubborn as I was. She turned her face away and I touched her hair. “I love you, little daughter.”
She turned back and grabbed me, pulling me to her. “Mama, please don’t.”
“I’ll see you soon,” I whispered into her ear. Then I pulled away, her tears on my cheek, and got out of the SUV. Patrice came around to slide into my place. Cara was too upset to drive.
“Go south on I-25,” I told Patrice, “and don’t speed. You don’t want to get stopped for any reason. You three take care of each other.” I reached in the back and patted Odin’s neck.
I hugged Patrice through the window and then turned my back, put up the hood on my jacket and walked around the far side of the museum, where the car couldn’t go. I jaywalked across streets and headed back to the heart of downtown, my heart pounding, praying that I was doing the right thing, for Cara’s sake, for all our sakes.
Chapter 15
I thought I knew what lonely felt like—all those nights, over the years, sitting on the side of the bed, watching Cara sleep, stroking her hair, wondering where the hell her father was. But once I’d shut the door to my room at the Hilton across town from the first hotel, I knew what it was like to be truly alone. Stephen wasn’t coming back. Not even to bring by a bottle of scotch and drink half of it before I threw him out. That was what had happened the last time I’d seen him. The last regret I’d have to carry was not making him tell me then what was bothering him, not forcing him, finally, to be honest with me.
There wasn’t much I could do for him now—except keep his daughter safe. I swore an oath to him, then and there, whether he could hear me or not, to do just that.
What I intended to do would have enraged him. I wanted proof against both the man who had killed him and the man who had ordered it done. Ackerman had gotten away with my sister Josie’s death all those years ago. I wouldn’t let him get away with Stephen’s. And Will Donovan’s. And Jayne Donovan’s. A whole family destroyed.
If I’d allowed myself to think about what I was planning to do or my decision to go it alone, I would have been terrified. But I was determined to play it safe. I would be hard to find. A woman alone, operating under a new alias.
I felt certain Cara and Patrice were safe. I couldn’t afford to be distracted worrying about them, and sending them to Taos would allow me to concentrate. I had a plan to put together.
I ordered room service—an outrageously expensive BLT and a bowl of vegetable soup. Then I shook out the contents of the envelope Stephen had sent me on the bed. I tapped my finger on the atlas. What secret did it hold? Why did Donovan want it? Stephen hadn’t meant me to give it to him. He’d meant it for James. But that was before he was murdered.
I rolled onto my back and thought about Patrice’s first husband, Peter Hirsch. Stephen hadn’t mentioned Peter in…well, as long as I could remember.
When Patrice and Peter had called it quits after six years, I’d claimed Patrice in the divorce even though I’d always liked Peter. She’d moved to New York with their young son, remarried and made a new life with her new husba
nd, an art dealer—until her son, Marc, had died. His death put too much strain on the marriage. That was when Patrice filed for divorce and moved back to Pennsylvania. Marc’s death also severed her last connection to Peter. I thought Stephen had lost contact with him, as well, even though he lived in D.C. But maybe I was wrong. That showed, again, how little I knew about my husband.
Donovan knew Peter. Peter knew Stephen. Maybe he was Stephen’s link to Donovan.
I needed an ally. At one time Peter had been my friend. Could I trust him? Was that what had gotten Stephen killed—trusting Peter? Did I dare contact him? I needed more information.
The TV droned in the background. Donovan’s news conference had gone forward. The trial would continue.
I fell asleep right there, lying on top of the covers, the hum of commercial TV in the background.
When I awoke it was close to nine the next morning. I showered and changed and ordered a cab from my room. I was on my way to ski country, the last place Stephen had been seen alive.
The unseasonably warm weather that had swept through last week had put a damper on the hotel’s business, although there was plenty of snow in those hills. The parking lot had only a handful of cars in it. It was a Tuesday, which might explain the lack of business. Either way, it suited me well. I didn’t want an audience.
The main building looked like an old lodge, but it couldn’t have been built more than a few years ago. Everything, from the huge fieldstone fireplace to the plaid sofas facing the Native American inspired rugs—even the antlers over the reservation desk—had a newness about it.
The young clerk seemed excited to see me while he explained that only one of the slopes was currently open. With a bit of luck, and an expected dip in temperatures, all of them should be available by the weekend if I was staying that long. I could rent equipment in the ski shop and…
Stephen had stood here, checking in, maybe talking with this same man, less than a month ago. Alive. Vibrant.
“I’m not here to ski,” I told the clerk and watched his face fall. I took a deep breath. “A few weeks ago my husband died at this resort.”
He flushed a bright red. “You must be Mrs. Phelps…. Would you mind… I’ll get someone right away.”
I turned my back and leaned against the counter, steadying myself, while he scampered away. So Stephen had registered under the name of Phelps. I couldn’t help but smile. Mission: Impossible had been about the only TV show he’d watched in reruns. It made me wonder what other aliases he’d traveled under. More inventive ones than my own.
“Mrs. Phelps?” I heard a voice call and turned. Definitely older. Definitely more composed. He was tall, lanky in a Jimmy Stewart sort of way, wearing brown slacks and a cardigan sweater over his shirt and tie. Based solely on looks, I’d bet ten to one he’d never had on a pair of skis in his life.
He offered his hand. “Grant Stover. So nice to meet you. I wish it were under more pleasant circumstances. If you would please come this way, I’ll be glad to assist you.”
He ushered me into his office and closed the door, offering me a chair, lifting the phone and ordering coffee. Then he seated himself behind the large, rustic-looking desk that also appeared newer than the distressed marks embedded in the soft wood had intended.
“First, let me assure you how sorry both my staff and I are about the death of your husband. These types of accidents happen—”
“Accidents,” I repeated, more to myself than to him.
“Your husband’s is the first death in my twelve years with the company and the first ever at this resort. Despite all our efforts to minimize the dangers, all sports, unfortunately, carry inherent risks,” he said.
No sport had killed Stephen Larocca.
“Mrs. Phelps, I wish there was some way I could make this right for you.”
“I wish there was, too,” I said.
A soft knock sounded on the door, and a young woman pushed it open and placed a tray with a coffee service on the desk. He poured a cup and slid it in my direction, then poured himself one. I took a sip and clung to the mug, seeking comfort in its warmth. Being here was proving harder than I’d thought it would be.
I cleared my throat and sat up. “My husband and I were estranged, Mr. Stover, which makes his death even more difficult for me.” My words were closer to the truth than I cared to think about.
“My grief counselor suggested that I come, walk through the building, the grounds, see where my husband died, retrace his final days.” I dropped my gaze. I’m not a good liar. “You must think I’m morbid.”
“No, of course not. How can I help you?”
“All I really want to know is how long he was here before…before he died. And who was with him. He told me he was meeting one of his brothers here, but there might have been a woman….”
“There was no woman that I know of,” he assured me. “Mr. Phelps was here with his brother, and I believe there was one other man in their party, but I’ll check to make sure.”
“Thank you so much. I’d like the third man’s physical description, if at all possible, as well as his brother’s. He had several.”
The ruse had worked with Frawley. I was banking on it working again.
Stover raised an eyebrow. “Surely you’ve spoken with his brother.”
My stare bored through him. “As I said, Mr. Phelps and I were estranged. I don’t speak with his family, but I’m his executor. It’s all been very difficult without his family’s cooperation.”
“I see.”
I paused, sipping my coffee, caught between the make-believe and the real.
“Who found him?” I asked in a voice barely above a whisper.
“I’m not sure,” he confessed. “I’ll have to check my files. Do you have other questions, as well?”
“More than I can remember at the moment. Is there any way I could see your files?”
I could see a blip of panic cross his features.
“I’m not going to sue, Mr. Stover. My husband was extremely wealthy. He was an adult who often made risky choices. No one can blame your lodge for that. Please, if you could give me copies of those files, I would appreciate it. If I have an argument, it’s with the insurance company. They’re loath to pay out on a double indemnity clause, but I’m certain your records will demonstrate that Mr. Phelps’s death was entirely accidental and in no way due to negligence on the part of the resort.”
I could tell from his look that he understood me. Both the grieving widow and the lodge would benefit from a quick resolution with the insurance company over an accidental death.
“I’ll have the files copied for you right away. How long will you be staying with us, as our guest, of course?”
“Only as long as it takes you to get the information I’ve requested together.” I had more questions for Mr. Stover, but they could wait until I had the copies of the files in my hands.
“I’ll have Matthew show you to a suite, and I’ll have some lunch sent up to you while you wait.”
“That would be kind of you, but do you think it might be possible for me to wait in the room Mr. Phelps occupied? I’d like to see it.”
Stover’s eyebrow went up again. “If you wish. I believe that room is currently open. We won’t begin filling up until later in the week.”
“Thank you, Mr. Stover. You’ve been most helpful.”
As Matthew, the young man who’d helped me at the counter, pushed open the door, I felt my throat constrict once again. I wanted to turn and run, but I needed to get this over with, to witness where Stephen had spent his last days.
The room was on the first floor and quite ordinary. A standard two-bed, with a TV resting on a low bureau, a small desk and twin upholstered chairs at the window.
I opened the blinds, and the view took my breath away. The mountains were magnificent, tree-studded and laced with snow against the bright blueness of the sky.
“Is there anything else I can get you?” he asked.
I s
hook my head, and he pulled the door shut behind him.
I forced my pulse rate to slow. I needed my wits, not my feelings, to do what I had to do. I inspected the furniture. There were no signs of struggle, no signs of blood. I bent down and sniffed the carpet. It had neither been changed nor shampooed. I pushed open the doors to the closet. It was barren except for a few hangers, an unused plastic laundry bag and an iron and ironing board hanging at the side. The bathroom sparkled. If Stephen had died in that room, there were no signs of it.
But he could have died anywhere. His neck was broken. It’d been a clean kill.
A clean kill. Had I become so distanced that I could think of Stephen’s death as “a clean kill”?
Hardly.
I pulled back the bedspread and drew the pillow to my face, searching for his scent. It wasn’t there. But of course it wouldn’t have been. It’d been weeks since he’d slept in that bed.
I buried my face in the down, aching for Stephen. All the emotion I’d pushed away threatened to well up and explode inside me. Then it died away again as I took a deep breath. I felt moisture gathering at the corners of my eyes. I blinked it back. I wasn’t here to mourn. Any unfinished business I had with Stephen would have to wait.
I dropped the pillow back onto the bed. He could have been killed on the slopes where his body was found. But he didn’t ski. So he’d been dressed, most likely, by the murderer to fit the scene. It might have been easier in this room. There were only two ways in and out: the main door and a door to the adjoining room. Whoever had killed him—if he’d indeed been killed here—had come through one of them. Who would Stephen have let in? Why hadn’t he fought them—wherever he’d died?
I was looking out at the view and finishing the pasta salad and grilled vegetables that the manager had sent up, when he knocked on the door. I called for him to come in. Almost shyly he thrust a packet of papers into my hands.
“Here are copies of all the information that I thought you might want. Your husband arrived with two other gentleman, one of whom, his brother, shared this room while the other took the adjoining room. The brother was tall and dark-haired, close to your husband’s age. The other gentleman was blond and a good deal younger, probably in his twenties. I’m sorry to say we don’t have a copy of the sheriff’s report. I’m sure you can get one by stopping past the office, Mrs. Phelps.”
No Safe Place Page 10
