Kellen loaded the plate and handed it to Patty, then made her way to the copper-topped dining table and created an oasis of artful mystery weekend food. The living ladies descended, and as Patty had predicted, they picked the trays clean.
“Egyptian scarab beetles,” she called from the floor.
Tammy confided to Kellen, “Usually we buy a mystery weekend package that includes the script—who dies, who’s the killer and why, and we open the envelopes as we go. But Carson Lennex has seen us come year after year and this time he’s the one passing out the clues. We’re in ancient Egypt. I’m so glad. I do love a good Egyptian mystery!”
Kellen looked at their early-and mid-twentieth century costumes and raised her eyebrows.
“We didn’t know our setting until we got here,” Debbie explained.
Candy joined them. “The great thing about having Carson in charge is we have lines to read.”
From the floor, they heard, “All my lines consisted of Argh, and then death.”
“It was a very realistic death.” Carson went into his study, came out with his Academy Award and handed it to Patty. “And the award goes to…”
“Now she’s going to give a speech,” Rita said in resignation.
“Damned right I’m going to!” Patty sat up. “I’ve been rehearsing this my whole life!”
“Lie down,” Carson instructed. “You can give a speech, but you’re still dead.”
While Patty thanked the Academy and all the little people who contributed to her success, Kellen inched toward the bookshelves and examined the contents.
Carson joined her. “No need to listen. I’ve heard a few of these speeches in my day. Although she is pitch-perfect.”
Kellen indicated the swath of hardcovers. “Egypt?”
“Mesopotamia, Greece, Rome, Persia, China, the Mayans and the Aztecs… I love the romance of ancient civilizations, and I came this close to finishing an archaeology degree.” He chuckled and with his fingers indicated a short distance.
Archaeology. Really. She looked sideways at him. “What happened?”
“When I was twenty, the department sent me on a dinosaur dig. In the summer. In Utah. My God, what a miserable place. Desert in the middle of nowhere, dirt in my teeth, dried rations, no liquor, certainly no romantic ancient civilizations…” He stepped back from her. “Are you well? You look a little stupefied.”
“I didn’t get much sleep last night.” I was listening to the single remaining Monuments Man who is searching for a mass murderer who also might do well with an archaeology degree.
“You carry the weight of responsibility for the resort, so I hear.” He smiled with all the charm of an aging roué. “Leo and Annie have a good staff. Depend on them to do their work and you’ll be fine.”
“Thank you. I’ll remember that.”
Patty proclaimed, “And now, the award for best director—Carson Lennex!”
“Excuse me, I’m being paged.” He gave a little nod to Kellen and went to accept his Academy Award back.
Kellen stared after him. His face had graced movie screens across the world. He was self-deprecating, friendly in the cautious way of any celebrity, going out of his way to charm the Shivering Sherlocks. Although she had wondered at his decision to remain in Washington for the winter, she had never doubted his intelligence. Staying afloat for forty-five years in the entertainment business required a keen mind and a strong survival instinct, two talents that would serve him well…if he was the Librarian.
“Look!” Rita pointed out the wide window. “The storm is gone!”
“A pristine night!” Carson threw open the sliding double doors.
The ocean-chilled breeze swept in, and everyone, even Patty the Dead, crowded onto the wraparound balcony.
The night sky was absolutely black with a crescent moon and stars so big and close they could hypnotize a romantic.
Luckily, every romantic sinew and nerve in Kellen’s body had been transformed to steel, and she took the opportunity to see what Carson Lennex viewed from his penthouse.
This would be the ideal location for the Librarian. From here, the resort was laid out like a map: the marriage grove to the north and east; the ocean, beach and dock to the west; the lighted paths, the wings of the hotel and the cottages scattered like gems across the landscape. She looked toward the cliffs, half expecting to see another flash of light, but all was dark and still.
Then, in the farthest end of the darkened west wing, a door opened, and in the square of light, a thin man was silhouetted. He bent, put something down, stepped back and shut the door again.
Lloyd Magnuson. That damned policeman wasn’t just working in the west wing, he was also hiding out there, cell phone off to avoid speaking to her.
He was going to be sorry.
21
Kellen turned on her heel. “I should refresh the appetizers,” she said and briskly arranged what was left on one plate, took the empty tray and left. On the way down, she contacted Sheri Jean. “I’ve done the first shift. Send someone up with the next round of food and drink.” Sheri Jean started to object, and Kellen said, “No. I’ve neglected my security duties and now there’s a problem.”
Sheri Jean wanted to question her.
Firmly, Kellen hung up and steamed through the occupied part of the hotel into the dark and quiet west wing. She flipped on the tactical flashlight that Birdie had given her, and fantasized about using the serrated head to put a divot in Lloyd Magnuson’s chin. The corridor was a maze of old drapes piled beside a stack of new, uninstalled doors, half-used cans of varnish and paint, rolls of new carpet covered by a fine sprinkling of sawdust and irritation. The irritation was her own.
Not only was Lloyd abusing his privileges by staying at the resort—he reminded her of Chad Griffin—but with the resort staff worried about the murder and guests checking out, it was callous of him to leave them stewing about the coroner’s report.
She got to the end of the corridor, to the luxury suite that had one door that opened into the hotel and another that opened onto a private patio. That was the door she’d seen open and close from above. The suite had a doorbell; she rang it, pounded on the door, then decided she didn’t care if she caught Lloyd in his underwear, she was going in. In fact, she hoped she caught him in a compromising act with a blow-up doll. The embarrassment would serve him right.
She inserted her pass card in the lock.
Before she could turn the handle, the door opened, yanking the card from her fingers, and she found herself staring at dark eyes, hair and skin, bony body—Vincent Gilfilen.
She had jumped to the wrong conclusion.
“Miss Adams, good to see you. I’m on vacation.” He extracted her pass card from the door and handed it back. “What are you doing here?”
“I was in Carson Lennex’s suite. I saw someone open the outside door and I thought it was… Never mind. You’re not on vacation.” Shock gave way and her brain began to click. She considered his personality and his habits. She considered the odd way Leo had sounded when she asked about Mr. Gilfilen. And she knew she was right. “You’re dressed to go outside, Mr. Gilfilen. What are you doing outside at night? Or should I guess?”
In that coolly polite way of his, he said, “You seem to think you know.”
“You’re investigating a smuggling ring.”
“Investigating? Or leading?”
Not an answer. Not really. He was probing to discover what she knew. And she would tell him…within limits, and with the clear understanding an exchange of information could, and would, be required. “Whoever is leading this smuggling ring must travel extensively. According to your records, you never leave the resort.” She gestured toward the suite. “Obviously. You’re still here.”
He opened the door wide.
She saw a wall of security monitors and a chair with a
half-eaten meal beside it.
“You might as well come in,” he said. “Let’s talk.”
* * *
Kellen already knew Mr. Gilfilen was a very peculiar and formal man, but visiting him in this place put the O in odd.
He gave Kellen a small glass of cabernet port—he had apparently noted not only that she liked a small glass of port in the evening, but also the brand—put a plate of Scottish shortbread cookies by her elbow, sat opposite and waited for her to initiate the conversation.
She asked what had precipitated this investigation on his part.
He explained he had gone to Leo and Annie and stated his belief that one of the Yearning Sands employees was using the dock to conduct a smuggling operation. After they got over their disbelief and dismay, he gave them his list of possible candidates.
“Who?” Kellen asked.
“That is not your concern, Miss Adams.”
He’d suggested that, at such time when the guests were sparse and those employees remained at work, he would pretend to go on vacation, hide in a room he’d prepared, sleep in the daytime and go out at night.
He stated he didn’t suspect her; although she had the talents, she hadn’t been in the United States long enough.
While she tried to decide how she felt about that—apparently her character was suspect, but her location proved to be her alibi—he stood, opened the outer door and let in a cat. A mangy-looking, skinny cat. He dried the poor thing, carried it to a food bowl on the floor in the kitchen and fed it some kibble. “Someone dumped it on the property,” he said. “They do that occasionally. When this is over, I’ll find it a home.”
Kellen nodded. Because of guest allergies, cats were absolutely forbidden in the main hotel building. Mr. Gilfilen was a stickler for following the rules. Yet he’d saved the cat and betrayed his position to her when he’d opened the door.
Fascinating. “You might want to dim the lights before you open the outer door. Anyone who is looking for a reason to be suspicious will find it in that square of light.”
Mr. Gilfilen nodded. “I’ll remember.”
He wasn’t as shocked to hear about Priscilla as he should be, so Kellen knew he’d spoken with Leo. But his narrow, dark face tightened with disdain and horror when she reported Priscilla’s mutilation.
He advised her on the handling of resort security personnel and let her know he was watching the monitors both inside and out. Unless he called her on an issue, she didn’t really have to worry about it. That was one thing off her plate, and she was grateful for it.
Then he turned to her and demanded information.
She told him everything she should know…if she hadn’t spoken with Nils Brooks. She told him what she’d seen the night before and asked if he had investigated. He admitted he had, but he had worn night goggles to help him see what was going on, and the smugglers had flashed a light in his direction and blinded him.
“So they knew you were there,” Kellen said.
“I don’t know if they knew someone was there, or if that’s simply a precaution they employ. In the future, I should expect more professionalism from these people.” He picked a piece of lint off his knee. “I originally believed this smuggling was the work of an amateur, and I saw no reason to think it wouldn’t be easily handled. I now think I will be handling the situation differently.”
“What do you intend to do?”
“I’ll position myself in the rocks and watch for a landing. I want to know who’s doing this. If I can find that out and pass the information to the Coast Guard, that will simplify their very difficult job.”
“Are smugglers there every night?”
“If they were, the Coast Guard would have already arrested them. They’re watching, but—winter weather blasts the coast with one crisis after another, boaters go out in terrific storms, rescue takes precedence over smuggling and the Coasties are spread thin.”
“So you’re going to sit out in the rocks in the storms and the rain and the wind and the cold until you catch somebody in the act?”
“I do know how to care for myself, Miss Adams.”
“Of course you do.” She couldn’t tell if he was sarcastic or merely austere. The cat came over and wound itself around her ankles. She absentmindedly leaned down to pet it, tried to think how best to warn him of the danger he courted. “Mr. Gilfilen, I think we can make the assumption that Priscilla ran into these smugglers and was murdered. Whoever this is, they’re ruthless and cruel. I beg you, be vigilant, and if you need help, please know you can contact me and I will somehow assist you.” She found herself making the offer in an imitation of his dry and formal manner. “I also know how to take care of myself.”
“I appreciate that, Miss Adams. You will be the one I call.” He stood and gestured her toward the door. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to start my nightly vigil.”
Right. She was being invited to leave. She gave the cat a last scratch, gave Mr. Gilfilen a nod and stepped out into the corridor.
In the darkness, surrounded by the rubbery smell of new carpet and the moldy smell of old drapes, she made a decision: her working day was officially over.
Outside, the clear sky had dropped the temperature to below freezing. Kellen went through the employee dining room, located a winter coat that was both too big and not heavy enough and headed across the grounds to her cottage. As she walked, her phone rang. She pulled it out of her pocket and looked at it.
Leo. Good news, she hoped. She answered, “Hi, Leo, how’s Annie?”
“She’s doing well. Sitting up, eating solids and complaining that she wants out of the hospital so the Di Luca Late and Cheery Christmas celebration can begin. The doctor promises, if she continues to do well, she can leave in the morning.”
“That’s wonderful. I’ll let everyone know. Did you hear anything about our autopsy?”
“That’s one of the things I’m calling about. I talked to Mike Sun. He hasn’t seen Lloyd Magnuson. He hasn’t seen a body.”
Kellen stopped walking. “What? Lloyd didn’t deliver?”
“I talked to Sheriff Kwinault in Virtue Falls. She hasn’t heard from Lloyd Magnuson at all. She didn’t know we’d found a body here.”
Kellen couldn’t believe it. She knew Lloyd was ill suited for the police job, but this was ridiculous. “He said he was going to inform all necessary law enforcement. Where did he take the body?”
Leo spelled it out. “No one’s seen him. His phone is going to voice mail. Lloyd Magnuson has disappeared.”
Kellen’s exasperation turned to dread, and as it did, she pivoted and looked at her surroundings. Beyond her stretched the cold darkness that reached into space and in all directions as far as the eye could see. Yet she stood in a lighted path, a clear target for the enemy. For the cruelly deceptive Librarian. Kellen turned back toward the resort and started walking again, more briskly and with a clear destination in mind. “What do we suspect? That he ran off with the body?”
“I’ve known Lloyd Magnuson since he arrived in Cape Charade. He’s not a master criminal. He’s not even a petty thief. He might not be terribly bright, but he’s honest. He wouldn’t steal Priscilla’s body, so…”
“So somehow he was diverted from his destination.”
“Yes. Before I called, I sent a neighbor over to check his house. The door was unlocked—”
“Unlocked?”
“Cape Charade’s a small town. No one locks the door unless they’re having an affair.”
“I guess that makes sense.”
“Lloyd’s not home. No sign of him, no sign of foul play. Sheriff Kwinault has alerted her officers to watch along his route.”
“Okay.” The situation had suddenly become a lot more tense. “Leo, do you have firearms here at the resort?”
“Yes, of course.” His voice turned taut, worried. “But
—”
“I’m former military. I know how to handle firearms and I’m not quick on the draw.” She didn’t mind giving him reassurance; having an armed employee was a serious matter and he had no idea of her shooting temperament. “I’ve got a Glock 21 SF that I can carry for my own safety and the safety of others at the resort. But it’s too big to be easily concealed and I don’t want to alarm guests or employees.”
He snapped to the situation. “Yes. I understand. You need something more compact. Get Annie’s keys. Go to my office…” He gave her directions to his gun safe and a list of the weapons he kept inside. He gave her permission to choose what she wanted.
“I’ll be smart and careful,” she said.
“I know. I trust you.”
His words gave her a comfort nothing else about this day had offered. “You said there were a couple of things you called about. What was the second thing?”
“Annie wants to talk to you.”
He must have thrust the phone at his wife, for Annie was on the phone at once. “Dear, I’m so sorry to have abandoned you in such a crisis.”
“It’s been exciting.” Kellen kept her tone low-key. “But knowing you’re better will make everyone at the resort so much happier.”
“I have such a loyal staff, and I have a security solution for you. I’m sending up our great-nephew…or maybe he’s our great-great-nephew…to take Mr. Gilfilen’s place until he returns from vacation.”
Kellen sighed in relief.
“His name is Maximilian Di Luca.” Annie paused momentously.
“I’m pleased.”
“Pleased?”
Annie seemed to expect something more, so Kellen perked up her voice. “So pleased! He has experience?”
“In security? Well. Hmm. Yes. He worked his way up through the family hierarchy, including time working security, and in a family crunch situation, Maximilian is always the man to call on.” Annie seemed to be fumbling for the right information to impart. “Now he’s the Di Luca family’s East Coast wine distributor. He has a home in Pennsylvania.”
Dead Girl Running Page 15
