Sunset Beach(103)
Drue held her breath as she hip-checked the gate, which swung open easily. Finally!
A smallish, kidney-shaped pool lay before her. The landscaping here was not nearly as lush or well-maintained as the rest of the property, and indeed, the whole area had the feeling of steerage class on a luxury liner. She gazed up at the building and realized that the architectural style here was also markedly different from the rest of the resort facility. It was a boxy concrete block tower, four floors, with each room outfitted with an abbreviated wrought-iron balcony just large enough for a pair of inexpensive plastic armchairs. This, she thought, was probably the earliest phase of the resort, featuring the most inexpensive rooms, without a beach view.
Lights shone in only a handful of the rooms looking out on the pool. To her disappointment, the first level of balconies was actually elevated about six feet above the pool decking. She stood under the shadow of the balconies and gazed upward, wondering if the theory she’d formed after watching hours of security camera video would hold water.
Would it be possible for someone to access a balcony, and from there, a room, from here? She looked wildly around the deck, searching for something to use as a ladder. Most of the pool furniture looked too flimsy to support her weight.
The most substantial item she spotted was a concrete-encased trash barrel that stood beside an ice maker and a Coke machine. Drue leaned against the barrel and sighed. No way could she move this thing by herself. She was shocked, though, when the barrel seemed to roll out from under her.
She ducked down and saw that the barrel was actually mounted on rollers. Hallelujah!
Drue walked to the far side of the pool area and counted sets of sliding-glass doors. If the rooms on this side of the building were odd-numbered, she calculated that 133 could be the third room from the far end. The room was dark. With any luck, it was also vacant tonight.
Her knee was throbbing badly, but she pushed the trash barrel toward the far end of the building, stopping once or twice to check her progress. Finally, when she had the barrel in position, she ducked down again, and using the flashlight on her cell phone, checked to see if the casters were equipped with some kind of brakes.
Nope. But she spotted a forgotten beach towel slung over the back of a chaise lounge near the pool. She fetched the towel and wrapped it around the casters to immobilize them, then dragged a chair over to the trash barrel. She kicked off her flip flops. Gritting her teeth, she climbed from the seat of the chair onto the top of the barrel placing her feet on opposite sides of the barrel edges, praying the whole thing wouldn’t topple over beneath her weight.
She held her breath, and slowly stood, her calves and thigh muscles screaming in tandem at the unexpected workout.
Drue found herself at eye level with the top of the wrought-iron balcony railing. She swallowed hard and hooked her left leg over the railing, with her right leg in midair. Suddenly a beam of light flashed in her eyes and a man’s voice sliced through the darkness.
“Stay right there, ma’am.”
Drue froze momentarily, but she didn’t dare obey the order, because she simply didn’t have the strength to climb down. Instead she propelled herself upward and onto the balcony. The flashlight beam was blinding.
“Ma’am? The police have been called. Now I need you to come right back down here, the way you went up.”
“I wish I could,” she said with a sigh, shielding her eyes with her arm. Her knees and calves were shaking so badly it was all she could do to sink onto the floor of the balcony.
48
August 19, 1976
Colleen sat in the perfect living room of her perfect house. It was just a cracker box, really, the smallest house on the block, and it was only a rental, but it was on Snell Isle, the ritziest neighborhood in St. Pete, and only a few blocks from Allen’s parents’ waterfront mansion on Brightwaters Boulevard, which was all that mattered to her husband.
A car honked outside, causing her to startle, just a little. Allen emerged from the hallway, loaded down with a suitcase, tackle box and his deep-sea fishing rod. “That’s Dad,” he announced, looking out the front picture window.
Colleen stood and walked him to the door. He set the baggage down and pulled her close, tipping her chin up and kissing her. “Be good,” he said. He kissed her again, for good measure, thrusting his tongue down her throat, then giving her left nipple a vicious twist.
“You too,” she said, forcing a smile and opening the door. It had gotten dark, but she stepped outside and waved at Morton Hicks, who was behind the wheel of his station wagon with his twenty-one-foot Boston Whaler in tow.
“See you Sunday night,” Allen called, right before he climbed in the front seat of the Vista Cruiser.
The station wagon pulled away from the curb and she stood, watching, as the distinctive curved taillights receded into the steamy summer night. When she finally saw them make the turn onto Brightwaters Boulevard, she exhaled slowly.
* * *
Colleen took the cream-colored Samsonite train case from the top shelf of her closet and set it on the quilted floral-print bedspread. This was her favorite room in the house, and she would miss it. She’d picked out the avocado green and orange floral bedspread and curtains herself, coordinating them with the thick wall-to-wall carpet she’d badgered their landlord into installing throughout the house.
She didn’t plan to take much with her. Just toiletries and cosmetics. Everything else she’d buy new, when she arrived in Atlanta. She had a second thought then, and her lips curved in a dreamy smile.