A Viola Roberts Cozy Mystery Collection

by Shéa MacLeod

  “So, you must have heard about that woman they found dead on the beach.”

  There was only the slightest pause as he dumped ice into the glass. Then he shrugged. “Sure. Who hasn’t?” He splashed brown liquid into the glass and handed it to me. “Seven dollars.”

  I gave him my room number so he could put it on my tab and took a sip to brace myself. Delicious. “Weren’t you dancing with her at the party the night she died?” I asked, all innocent-like. I might have even batted my lashes. I’m not above such things when strictly necessary.

  He hesitated as if not sure how to answer. Then he shrugged. “Sure. I was dancing with her. What of it? Not like I saw her after that.”

  I leaned forward and lowered my voice conspiratorially. “I was just wondering, you know, because they say her husband did it.”

  That seemed to put him at ease. He gave me another one of those wide, semi-flirtatious smiles that was probably more about tips than anything. “Oh, really?”

  “Yeah. So I was wondering if you, you know, saw them together or something. I mean, you could have witnessed something important. Have the police talked to you?”

  He leaned forward and lowered his own voice. “Yeah. Someone spilled the beans I was dancing with Natasha that night, so of course they questioned me. But I didn’t see anything. After she got in a fight with that skinny chick, I booked.” I could only assume that by “skinny chick” he meant Cheryl, who wasn’t exactly what I’d call skinny. More slender. “Don’t need that kind of negative attention, you know. I wasn’t exactly supposed to be at that party, if you know what I mean.” He straightened up and started wiping down the bar with a white towel.

  I did know what he meant. I doubted fraternizing with guests was something the resort approved of, and I was pretty sure Kyle’s activities with Natasha went far beyond a couple dances at a party.

  “You know,” I said conspiratorially, tapping one fingernail on the edge of my glass, “just between you and me, the police apparently found a note in her room. Something about a meeting that night.”

  He shrugged. “So whoever she met killed her.”

  “I imagine so,” I said with a knowing nod and a raised brow.

  “What did the note say?” he asked, feigning mild disinterest, but I could see he was hanging on to every word.

  “I don’t know the details, but I do know there was a time and location. One of the empty rooms, I think. I imagine the police will be checking it out. Doing that CSI thing.”

  He stiffened at that. “Nothing else? On the note, I mean.”

  I held back a smile. I casually swirled my drink, the ice clinking against the side of the glass. “Well, I think there was a name. At least, that’s what I heard.” I leaned forward and winked. “But you never know. Police like to hold things back. Smoke out the guilty party. Am I right?”

  Was it my imagination, or did he go a bit pale under his tan? He wiped the bar almost obsessively, over and over as if trying to rub out a stain. “You hear the name?”

  I sighed. “No. I wish. I’m dying of curiosity. Aren’t you?”

  He shrugged. “Not my business. Listen, it was nice talking to you, but I gotta get back to work.”

  “Sure, sure. No worries. One thing before you go, though,” I said as a thought struck me. Kyle probably knew a lot of people at the resort. Maybe he’d recognize the bracelet. I pulled the silver bangle out of my handbag and held it up. “Do you recognize this? Maybe it belongs to somebody who works here?” Was it me? Or was that a glimmer of recognition?

  Kyle eyed it with disinterest. “Nope. ’Fraid not. Where’d you find it?”

  “On the beach last night.”

  “Really? Huh. Well, you should turn it into Lost and Found.”

  “Sure, I’ll do that,” I said, tucking the bracelet back into my pocket. “Sorry to disturb you. I’ve got a class to get to.” I waved him off airily as I downed the last swallow of bourbon. I slid from the stool and walked slowly away from the bar toward the automatic doors leading to the courtyard. I dashed to the side and took up a seat at one of the umbrella-covered tables, sliding a pair of oversized sunglasses on my face. Not much of a disguise, but I doubted Kyle would be looking for me.

  I sent Cheryl a quick text to tell her what I was up to. Her response came almost immediately and questioned my sanity while ordering me to remain where I was. She was on her way. I thought about texting Lucas. Having someone with muscles along could come in handy. Then I nixed the idea. Granted, he was in on the investigation, but I still wasn’t sure I could trust him entirely. What if he blabbed to the cops or something?

  Cheryl still hadn’t arrived when Kyle exited the building, a key card clutched tightly in his hand. He didn’t see me, just kept his focus straight ahead, a determined expression on his face.

  When he was halfway across the courtyard, I got up and followed him. What I wouldn’t give for a scarf or a big floppy hat. A disguise.

  He got on the elevator, and I watched it slide upward. I’d no doubt he was headed for the fifth floor.

  I dashed down the open-air hall and took the stairs as fast as my legs would take me. By the third floor, I was out of breath. By the fourth floor, my legs were rubber. By the time I hit the fifth floor, there was a stitch in my side so bad I was nearly doubled over. This investigation thing was a lot more physically involved than I’d imagined. Maybe I should start working out?

  Panting for breath and clinging to the handrail for dear life, I made my way down the walkway toward room 506. The door was held open a few inches by the deadbolt, and I could hear footsteps inside. Yep, Kyle was definitely in there.

  Now what? I fidgeted, not sure what to do. What would Jessica Fletcher do? She’d march right in there and confront him, that’s what. Or she’d sneak in and see what he was doing then confront him later. Yeah, great idea.

  I sent Cheryl another quick text to let her know where I was and what I was doing—no sense being stupid about it—then turned my phone on silent. Carefully edging open the door, I slipped inside and let it close softly behind me. I could hear Kyle moving around in the front room. What on earth was he doing in there? Sounded like moving furniture.

  I crept to the end of the hall and peered around the corner. Sure enough, Kyle was shoving the couch back against the wall. Clearly he’d been searching for something under or behind the couch. Whatever it was, it didn’t look like he’d found it, if the frown on his face was anything to go by.

  The lamp beside the couch lit the room only dimly. The curtains were drawn tight so not a drop of sunshine slipped in. It was odd, though. I was sure the curtains had been open earlier that day. Had the maid closed them? Or had Kyle?

  Kyle made a growl of frustration and kicked the couch viciously. He ran a hand through his hair, mussing up the blond strands, before turning toward the hall. I had nowhere to go but to duck into the bathroom, where he’d likely see me anyway. As quietly as I could, I stepped into the tub and huddled behind the shower curtain.

  The light in the front room snapped off, and Kyle’s shoes thudded across the floor. His dark shape passed by the bathroom, then I heard the creak of the door as it opened. A slash of light streaked across the hallway before narrowing once again. I didn’t breathe easy until the door slammed shut.

  What had Kyle been looking for? Some kind of evidence of his assignation with Natasha? Had he killed her here and then dragged her body out to the cabana? Unlikely. There probably would have been drag marks in the sand, not to mention sand all over her. I was no expert, but it looked to me like she’d been killed right there on the beach.

  I was tempted to do a search myself. Why not? Clearly, Natasha had been in the room the night she died or Kyle wouldn’t have gone straight for it the minute he had a chance.

  Stepping out from behind the shower curtain, I crept toward the hallway. I glanced left and right before snapping on the light in the hall. I wasn’t sure where to start, but since Kyle had been searching the couch, that s
eemed a logical place. Maybe in his haste, he’d overlooked something.

  I’d just lifted the first couch cushion when the scrape of something against the tile behind me sent chills up my spine. I froze before turning around very slowly.

  “Well, now,” Kyle said, his face an angry mask. “What have we here? A nosey little mouse come to poke into what isn’t her business. What shall we do about that little mouse?”

  I opened my mouth, but nothing came out except a squeak. For in Kyle’s hand was clutched a very sharp knife.

  Chapter 7

  A Clue

  “NOW, KYLE,” I SAID, holding up my hands in the universal sign of surrender. “Let’s not be hasty.” I backed up until my legs hit the mattress of the nearest bed. Kyle was going to kill me. I really should listen to Cheryl more often.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said with a frustrated snort.

  “What?” He wasn’t going to kill me? I felt a flood of relief followed by complete and utter confusion. “You’re not going to kill me?” I blurted.

  He gave me a baffled look. “Why would I do that?”

  I stabbed a finger in his general direction. “You’re brandishing a knife.”

  He stared down at the knife in his hand as if he’d forgotten it was there. “Oh, that,” he said, staring at the knife in his hand as if he’d never seen it before. “I thought you were the killer after me.”

  “Well, that’s ridiculous. I’m the one who found the body. Why would I kill you?”

  “You could have been a burglar or something.” He frowned. “Well, you are, I guess, but I mean a dangerous one.”

  “Oh, yes,” I said dryly. “I’m exceptionally dangerous. Now would you put that thing down and tell me why you lied to me?”

  He sighed and padded back to the kitchen, where he tossed the knife into the sink. Then he turned to me, resignation written all over his face. “Come on. Would you admit you’d banged a murder victim, like, minutes before her death?”

  “Er, no. Certainly not.” I tried not to wince at the word “bang.” Not to be a fuddy-duddy or anything, but it was just so...uncouth. There were a lot more interesting and creative words for such an...event. “So, why did you come back? To the room I mean?”

  He shrugged, running a hand through his spiky hair. “To make sure nothing got left behind. In case the police search the room.”

  I would have bought it if I hadn’t seen the search. He’d been looking for something specific. Of that, I had no doubt. “What did you leave behind?”

  “I lost my key card, okay? I figured even if they couldn’t trace it to me, it probably had my fingerprints on it or something. I thought maybe it got lost in the couch, but it isn’t here, so I’m good.” He seemed genuinely relieved.

  “Won’t your boss want to know where the card went?” I asked.

  “Naw. Guests lose their cards all the time. Or take them home or magnetically wipe them. It’s not uncommon to end up with missing cards. It was keyed in under the manager’s name anyway. I ain’t dumb enough to put it under my own name.” He grinned cockily as if he’d done something super smart. Frankly I was surprised he’d been that forward thinking. From what I’d seen of him, he pretty much appeared to let his hormones do the thinking.

  I eyeballed him thoughtfully. Kyle might be guilty of fornication with a woman old enough to be his mother (as well as having very poor taste in women), but he hadn’t done anything an innocent person wouldn’t have done. Heck, if I could have lied to the police about finding Natasha’s body, I probably would have. I just hadn’t thought they’d suspect me. Silly me.

  I wasn’t quite ready to write him off the suspect list entirely, but he wasn’t looking nearly as suspicious as I’d originally thought. Everything could be easily explained. And what motive did he have anyway? I honestly couldn’t think of one.

  “Listen, you aren’t going to tell anyone are you?” Kyle asked, looking suddenly worried. “I could lose my job, and I really need it.”

  “Don’t worry,” I assured him. “As far as I’m concerned, your boss doesn’t need to know about any of this.”

  He breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks.” He flashed a genuine grin, not the fake one from the bar. “I owe you one.”

  “Sure kid.” What I didn’t say was that I planned to tell Detective Hottie first chance I got. Anything less would be illegal. Messing with an investigation or something, and I’d already done plenty of that. Besides, it might get Costa off Cheryl’s and my back.

  We said a brief goodbye at the door, and Kyle took off for parts unknown. I started for the elevator when a hiss from somewhere to my right startled me so bad I nearly swallowed my tongue. I whipped around only to find a dark, huddled shape in the shadows behind a giant potted palm. I was pretty sure I knew who it was.

  “Cheryl, is that you?”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  “No need. Kyle already caught me.”

  She stood up, sunlight picking out the reds and golds in her mostly brown hair. She was wearing a navy blue t-shirt with the phrase “Obstinate, headstrong girl” in white, swirly letters.

  “What?” She sounded horrified.

  I waved off her concern. “Don’t worry. We talked it out. He had a perfectly reasonable explanation.” I quickly told her about my conversation with Kyle.

  “So, he’s not a suspect then?” she asked doubtfully.

  “I wouldn’t say that exactly, but he’s low on the list. His explanation made sense. Besides, what motive would he have? He barely knew Natasha, and she was much older than he. I have no doubt she was a fling. Probably one of many. Kyle’s a good-looking kid, for his age, and gets plenty of attention from guests. He doesn’t exactly strike me as being above taking advantage of said attention. Natasha was just another notch in the bedpost, so to speak.”

  “Good point,” Cheryl said. She propped her hands on her hips. “So now what?”

  I checked the time on my phone. “It’s too late to call Costa, so I’ll ring him in the morning. How about we grab a nightcap and see if anything interesting is happening?”

  She grinned. “Sounds like a plan.”

  IT WAS EARLY ENOUGH that the Flying Fish was still open. NWA Conference attendees, clearly marked by the blue badges hanging from lanyards around their necks, huddled in groups around long tables, chatting in hushed tones. It was clear that Natasha’s murder was the topic on everyone’s minds. Couldn’t say I blamed them. She seemed to be taking up more than her fair share of space in my head.

  On the far side of the room, I caught sight of two women sitting alone. Both were what one might consider “of a certain age.” They were clearly caught in an intense argument. I nudged Cheryl. “Look at that.”

  She squinted. “Is that Yvonne Kittering? Natasha’s editor from Romantic Press?” she asked, subtly indicating the woman on the right. She had the vague outline of a fireplug, square and squat, with muddy brown eyes and short, graying hair. An unlit cigarette was clutched between two fingers and a bottle of antacids sat beside her wine glass.

  I nodded. “It is. And it looks like she’s having a heated conversation with Natasha’s personal assistant.”

  Cheryl frowned. “That doesn’t look like Piper.”

  “No, it’s the new one. Greta something.”

  “Oh, yeah. Morris.”

  It was well known in the romance community that Natasha had fired her original PA, Piper Ross, the woman who’d been with her since the beginning, before she’d gotten successful. Word on the circuit was that Piper and Jason Winters had gotten extremely cozy, and Natasha found out. She’d fired the former and began divorce proceedings on the latter. Although I’d never heard that Piper cared much about getting fired. Natasha had been a major pain to work for even back then, although perhaps not as big a diva as she eventually became.

  In any case, Natasha’s new PA, Greta Morris, was about as different from her old PA as two women could be. While Piper was young, attractive, and a go-ge
tter, Greta was past middle age, plump, graying, and scared of her own shadow.

  I pulled Cheryl to an empty table not far from the two women. “Let’s see if we can learn anything.”

  “You mean eavesdrop?” she hissed.

  I shrugged. “If you insist.” It was semantics, really. If I was going to learn anything at all, underhanded tactics would be involved. It wasn’t like I could march up to either woman and ask them if they bumped off Natasha.

  We sat down as quietly as possible, trying to look natural and inconspicuous. I’m not sure we were terribly successful, but Yvonne and Greta were so deep in conversation they didn’t even look up when the waiter came to take our order.

  Unfortunately the Flying Fish didn’t serve blackberry bourbon. I needed a clear head, anyway, so I ordered iced tea. Cheryl asked for a beer.

  “What?” she hissed when I shot her a look. “I need to calm my nerves. I swear you’re going to give me heart palpitations with all this investigating nonsense.”

  I hushed her. The last thing we needed was people cottoning on to our investigation. Subtlety was key here.

  The women’s voices grew louder by the minute. By the time the waiter brought our order, they were practically screaming. I expected that from Yvonne—she and Natasha had more than one screaming match over the years—but from Greta it was totally unexpected.

  “It wasn’t my idea,” Greta all but shouted. “You’re the one who got me into this. I won’t go down for—.”

  “Shut up, you fool,” Yvonne snapped. “Do you want everyone to know about...” she trailed off. Her small, muddy brown eyes darted around the Flying Fish while everyone else pretended to be engrossed in their drinks. “Come on. We’ll continue this conversation elsewhere.” She stood up and tossed a few bills on the table before storming out, Greta followed along in her wake. Both of the women were flushed, eyes snapping with anger.

  I leaned closer to Cheryl. “Come on, let’s follow them.”