“Well, that sounds very promising.”
He leaned into me. “I can even give you a little preview.”
He dipped his head toward mine and his lips captured mine in a long, satisfying kiss. His arms slid around my waist and mine roamed up and down his back and then . . .
His cell phone chirped.
He broke away reluctantly, hand dipping into his jeans pocket. He glanced at the screen and sighed. “I’m sorry. Duty calls. I’ve got to get over to the Field Office right away.”
I tightened my grip around his waist. “What are you, the only agent on duty? What about Samms? He is still with the FBI, right?”
“Actually, he’s—” Daniel held up a finger as his cell chirped again. He glanced quickly at the screen. “I’m sorry. I really have to go,” he said, slipping the phone back into his pocket. “But first let me finish that preview.”
He pulled me to him and pressed me against his rock-hard length. His lips came down on mine in a crushing kiss. And then, with a brisk wave, he was gone. I put a finger against my tingling lips and then let out a gasp as an image of Samms’s chiseled features rose before me.
I bit my lip. Here I had a perfectly nice boyfriend, one other girls would kill for, yet it only took seconds for me to fall back into a schoolgirl crush. I saw Nick watching me, head cocked, and sighed. “I know, I know. Kiss one guy and dream of another. My mother would have said I’m fickle.”
Nick opened his mouth wide in a yawn.
“So you think my love life is boring, do you? I’d call it more of a puzzle myself.” I gave his derrière a swift pat. “Get your rear in gear, bud . . . and let’s go see Desiree. Look on the bright side—if you can call it that. With no date to get ready for tonight, at least we don’t have to rush back.”
• • •
A half hour later I guided my silver SUV down the circular driveway and into the parking lot of the Cruz Inn. The quaint, vine-covered edifice had always reminded me of the inn from the old Murder, She Wrote TV series. In fact, each time I passed I half expected to see Jessica Fletcher whiz by on her bicycle or Amos Tupper cruise by in his police car, and I was always oddly disappointed when neither made an appearance (although if they had, I’d have had to be carted off to the nearest mental hospital—immediately!). I parked under a spreading elm, shut off the engine, and stole a glance at my companion curled up in a ball in the passenger seat. Nick lifted his head, and I gave him a quick scratch on the white spot behind his ear.
“So, what do you say? Ready to face the lion known as Desiree in her den?” Nick flicked his ears and gave his long black tail a twitch. I took that as an affirmative.
We entered the lobby, and as always, I paused for a second to admire the cozy setting. Dark paneling set off the thick wall-to-wall raspberry pink shag carpeting. A small berry-colored damask couch and wing chair sat in front of the large bay window. In the center of the room was a tall table with a vase of fresh-cut flowers and a guest registry. A chandelier hung gracefully above it. At one end was a large mahogany reception desk where a redheaded guy in his early twenties sat behind a massive computer, one ear glued to the telephone tucked under his chin. At the other end stood a marble fireplace, flanked by high-backed chairs, clearly the focal point of the lobby. The mantel was a combination of mahogany, walnut and oak, with designs of flowers and leaves carved into it. A beveled mirror hung directly above it in its center, flanked by hand-painted tiles. Embers glowed from its depths, but there was no mistaking the fact the piece generated plenty of heat on its own merits.
I bypassed the front desk and went straight to the bank of elevators at the rear. The clerk glanced up as we sailed past, then returned to his conversation. There was a cage ready and waiting; Nick and I stepped inside and I pressed the button for the fifth floor. We emerged onto thick sky-blue carpeting and walls covered in blue-and-cream-striped wallpaper. A sign right in front of us read Rooms 501–523, followed by an arrow pointing to the left, so we headed in that direction, my heels and Nick’s paws sinking into the three-inch pile carpeting as we made our way down the hall. Room 523 turned out to be the corner one. I paused and raised my hand to knock on the wood-paneled door, but it was flung open before I ever made contact.
My first thought was her book jacket photo didn’t do her justice. Desiree was even more striking in person. Tall and narrow with an angular face and snapping brown eyes, she wore her short dirty-blonde hair cut in an angled bob that curved softly toward her delicate chin. Her skin was smooth and clear. She had to be in her early sixties but she appeared at least ten years younger, maybe even late forties. She was dressed stylishly in a long black-and-white-striped tunic with matching black leggings and ballerina flats. Her chest heaved slightly, almost as though she were straining to catch her breath. She placed one well-manicured hand over her heart and her full, red-glossed lips parted in a wide smile, revealing teeth that resembled wet Chiclets.
“Ah, finally! You have to be Nora,” she said in a breathy voice. “I’d know you anywhere. That red hair, those green eyes . . . it’s almost as if I’m looking at your mother again.” She swung the door wide. “Please, come in.”
I stepped over the threshold, Nick at my heels, and gave a quick look around. The room was large, furnished with heavy, ornate furniture that included a queen-sized feather bed set between a dark wood head and footboard. A gas-fired fireplace (definitely not as ornate as the lobby’s) occupied one end of the room, flanked by two Queen Anne chairs. At the other end was a door I presumed led to the bathroom. It was partially open, so as I crossed to the overstuffed chair by the window I took a quick peek. It boasted a whirlpool tub large enough for two, framed with dark-edged wood, a sink and a shower. Only the pair of khaki-colored pants and turquoise blouse tossed in a careless ball underneath the sink disturbed the apple-pie order of the suite. Desiree saw me looking and glided over to the bathroom and pulled the door all the way shut with an apologetic shrug.
I sat down on the edge of the chair. Nick lofted his tubby self onto the window ledge and arranged himself, paws folded in front of him. I saw Desiree’s eyes widen as she noticed him for the first time.
“Yours?” She inclined her head slightly.
I nodded. “This is Nick.”
Her eyes clouded for a second, and then her expression cleared and the wide smile was back. “Nick Charles. How clever.” She pointed at the cat. “He’s a handsome fellow, too. I asked because this hotel allows pets, you know, and they let them roam free. Imagine that! One has to be careful. I’ve already had to evict a parrot and a Maltese today. The little buggers just seem to sneak in whenever I open the door.”
I chuckled. “Yes, they’re pretty informal with the rules here. I think it’s one of the reasons they’re so popular with tourists.” I crossed my legs at the ankles. “I’m sorry I’m so late.”
“No problem. I appreciate your doing me this favor.” She crossed over to the other side of the room, pausing before a small cart with a covered silver tray and coffeepot on top. Desiree lifted the lid with a flourish, revealing a large silver bowl filled with an assortment of cut fruit. “Can I get you something? Coffee, fruit?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
She poured herself a cup of coffee and I noticed her hand trembled slightly as she added cream and sugar to the china cup. She took a sip, then perched herself on the edge of the bed. “I can’t tell you how nice it is to finally meet you in person, Nora. I’ve heard quite a bit about you through the years.”
“Likewise.” I smiled at her. “My mother thought very highly of you, Dora—I’m sorry, Desiree.”
Her face took on a wistful expression. “Lord, it’s been ages since someone called me that! Forty years, to be exact. I legally changed my name to Desiree Sanders when I was twenty-two and started writing. I haven’t been Dora Slater for so long it seems like another lifetime. She let out a deep sigh. “A much simpler lifetime, I must say.” She took another sip of coffee and set the cup down. “I grew up
here and I’ve got to tell you, when I graduated high school I couldn’t get out of here fast enough. It was the best day of my life when I got that scholarship to Kenyon College. I wrote for the Kenyon Review, you know. Won an O. Henry Short Story Award in my sophomore year, and interned in my last two. It gave me an excellent look at the publication process, I can tell you that.” She sniffed. “It was just one of the many perks I brought to my partnership with that two-bit, good-for-nothing hack who has the nerve to call herself a writer. Hah! Want to know where she went to school? She didn’t! Why, if it weren’t for me—”
I decided to stop her before the name-calling got any more intense. “Do you have any idea what might have precipitated all this? I mean, it sounds to me as if all this happened rather . . . suddenly.”
“You bet your ass it did—oops, sorry. No need to be a potty mouth.” She gave her cheek a light slap and then clasped both hands in her lap. “I guess I should begin at the beginning.”
I leaned back in the chair. “That seems logical.”
“O-kay then, well—” She rose and started to pace back and forth in front of the bed. “I’ve sensed the past few months that something was the matter. Marlene contributed less than usual to our latest book, and I was pretty irritable, I must admit, having to do all the work and meet all the deadlines by my lonesome. Then, two weeks ago, she springs it on me that she’s not going to be able to do any publicity tours for the book, and then she took it a step further. She’s not doing ’em, ever again. Well, I was incensed, I can tell you that. As much as I hate to admit it, Marlene’s got all the charisma and she’s probably the reason Tiffany Blake got so popular. Anyway, then she tells me that ‘thirty-some years is enough, don’t you think?’ And then she up and says Love’s Deepest Desire is our last book.
“I was enraged. I told her she couldn’t just up and do that, and she says right back, ‘Oh yes I can. Remember our original agreement? All one partner has to do is notify the other in writing they want it dissolved and voilà! Thirty days later it’s a done deal.’” She jumped up, crossed over to a high bureau, and whipped out a piece of paper, which she shoved right under my nose. “See, here it is. Marlene’s official notification to me she wants out.”
I took the paper and read it. It was indeed a formal letter, to Desiree from Marlene, on embossed stationery no less, requesting their partnership be dissolved. The date of the letter was twenty-nine days ago, which would make it official tomorrow.
“Certainly seems as if she covered all her bases.” I handed Desiree back the paper. “It does seem odd, though. You make a lot of money from your books, and you enjoy a certain amount of fame in the literary world. Why would she suddenly want to give all that up?”
Desiree paused, hands on hips. “She’s got something else up her sleeve, I just know it. She’s hinted at writing a book on her own. Can you believe that? She told me I’ve been cramping her style, can you believe the nerve? If anything, I’ve enhanced it. She couldn’t string two sentences together when we met, not that she’s any great shakes now. The hints have been flying for a while now about striking out on her own, but I never took her seriously. I tried confronting her about what she had in mind, but all she’d say was ‘you’ll just have to wait and see.’ That’s trouble, right there. Wait and see with her means a floodgate of trouble is about to open. Oh, she’s got something up her sleeve, all right.” Desiree paused in her tirade to kneel in front of me and grab both my hands. “You were a top-notch reporter. You know how to get the truth out of people. That’s what I need you to do.
“I need you to get the truth out of Marlene. I need you to find out the real reason she wants our partnership finito.”
Three
I paused, unsure of how to answer Desiree. She must have sensed my uneasiness because she laid her hand on my arm and said, “It’s simple, really. All you have to do is tell her you want to do a story on her. That hack glory-hound lives for interviews and publicity. She’ll eat it right up.” I opened my mouth to protest but she held up her hand. “I know, I know. You’re not a reporter anymore. Marlene doesn’t know that.”
“I don’t think I’d be comfortable lying to her,” I said. “However, I happen to know there’s a local reporter who’s been tasked with getting an interview with her. I’m sure if we explain the situation . . .”
“No!” Her eyes held a wild light, and she gripped my arm. “No one else. I-I only trust you.”
I studied Desiree for a moment, took in her overbright eyes, her flushed cheeks, and I could hear my mother’s voice in my head: For pity’s sakes, Nora, the woman’s a wreck. Help her. I released the breath I’d been holding in a gentle whoosh. “I do write articles part-time for an online magazine. I could say that I heard a rumor regarding the breakup and I’d like to know if she’ll tell her side of the story.”
Desiree clapped her hands together. “Oh, that’ll probably work. You are such an angel to do this for me!”
Angel? More like sucker. “I could make some time tomorrow afternoon . . .”
“Tomorrow!” Her face twisted into an expression of mingled annoyance and dismay. “Couldn’t you do it today? Maybe . . . now?” At my raised eyebrow she added with a thin smile, “Sorry. Patience was never my strong suit. This just has me so upset . . . I won’t be able to rest until I know exactly what that witch is planning.”
I hesitated. I hadn’t planned on another side trip, but there was something, an undercurrent in Desiree’s voice. Panic? Fear? I glanced quickly at my watch and said, “I am done at the shop for the day so I guess I could make a quick trip out there.”
“Perfect,” Desiree said. Her gaze roved to Nick. “Do you need me to watch your cat while you’re gone?”
Nick had left his post on the window ledge and was comfortably arranged near Desiree’s chair, flopped on his back, paws in the air. At Desiree’s words he closed his eyes, wiggled his legs, and purred loudly before flopping comfortably over on his side. I walked over and prodded him with the toe of my shoe. His head swiveled around, and he let out an injured “merow.”
I tossed him a look that said plainly, Oh, no, you don’t. You got me into this. I gave him another nudge and he lumbered to his feet, shook himself, and then pranced over to the door, tail held high.
I gave Desiree a grin. “Not necessary. He’ll come with me.”
• • •
The old Porter house was in actuality a bungalow remodeled into a modest two-story with a compact front yard planted with dark green ivy instead of the more common green grass. Pink, mauve and lavender impatiens bloomed in bright ceramic pots on either side of the door, which was painted a dark purple, almost black. A large rattan welcome mat with a grinning dog on it proclaimed “Welcome” in faded black letters. I wondered what on earth had ever possessed a woman like Marlene McCambridge to rent such a monstrosity of a house, and then decided that possibly that was the reason.
If she was looking for anonymity, what better place? No one would expect a famous author like her to reside in a place like this in a million years. No, wait . . . make that two million.
It was that bad.
I turned off the car, and eyed Nick, who was sitting up straight in the passenger seat, his gaze trained on the house. “This is a fine kettle of fish,” I murmured.
At the word fish Nick’s ears flicked forward.
“I knew that would get your attention. No treats for you until we figure out how we’re going to broach the partnership topic to Marlene.” I sighed. “Too bad she didn’t go for letting Jenks in on this. We could have killed two birds with one stone.”
At mention of Jenks’s name, Nick let out a soft grr that turned into a deep, rumbling purr at the word birds.
We exited the car and walked up the path to the house and up the short flight of steps to the front door. I rang the bell and stood, my arms folded across my chest. Nick hefted himself up to the porch railing, where he sat, tail extended behind him. Directly across the street stood a large bro
wn stucco house, set back from the road. Farther down was a smaller, light pink bungalow, a twin no doubt of this one before its renovation, all but its sloping roof obscured by a thick patch of trees. I started to turn away, then stopped, certain I’d seen a curtain move ever so slightly in one of the brown stucco house’s second-floor windows. Hmm, I’d have to take back that thought about nosy neighbors. Still, what could they see? The house was a good seventy, eighty yards away, unless they had a pair of binoculars at the ready. I waited a few minutes, but the movement wasn’t repeated.
“Guess my imagination’s on overdrive again,” I murmured. I squared my shoulders and pressed the bell beside the doorframe.
I could hear the chimes echo eerily through the house, but no one came to the door. Nick suddenly let out a sharp meow. Next thing I knew, he’d hopped down from the railing and started to trot around the house. I hesitated only briefly and then hurried after him. Around the side of the house was a wall comprised of glass doors. Nick paused before it, his tail sticking straight out in back of him. I walked over to the doors and saw that one was slightly ajar. Nick turned and looked at me expectantly.
“Oh, no.” I shook my head. “That’s breaking and entering, buddy. We can’t just barge in here.”
Nick turned his back on me, and before I could do more than blink, he’d miraculously managed to squeeze his plump body through the opening.
“Great,” I muttered. Well, I couldn’t just abandon him. I walked over to the door and gave it a tentative push. It swung back, and I stepped inside.
The house was deceptive. It was definitely larger than it appeared, which might have been part of its charm and could account for Marlene’s decision to acquire the rental. As I moved cautiously around, poking my head into rooms filled with antique trappings and silk-covered sofas definitely too fragile to sit on, I realized why most people had been loath to rent it. Who wanted to live in a museum? I kept on meandering, calling out Marlene’s name, but only a thick silence answered me.
Hiss H for Homicide Page 3
