Tightrope (Burning Cove #3)(8)

He did, however, allow himself to admire the view as he followed her up the impressive staircase. She moved with a fluid grace and a sure-footed strength and agility that made him think of cats and ballerinas. Luther had mentioned that until recently she had worked as a trapeze artist. He had no trouble believing that. Something in her intelligent, watchful hazel green eyes told him that, like felines and dancers, she knew how to land on her feet.

She was wearing a fluttery little yellow frock that emphasized her lithe, slender figure and a pair of strappy heels that showed off excellent ankles. Her coffee brown hair was parted on one side and fell in deep waves to her shoulders.

At the landing she led the way down the hall and opened the door of number six. She stepped into the room and paused to flip the light switch.

He did a quick survey of the suite. It was expensively furnished with an impressive bed and a padded leather reading chair. A handsome beveled mirror was mounted on the wall above a chest of drawers. The door to the bath stood ajar, revealing a lot of gleaming green and black tile. A suitcase stood on a luggage rack.

“Doesn’t look like anything has been disturbed,” he said. “That’s good.”

“Gosh, I can’t tell you how happy I am to know that you don’t think I stole any of my guest’s things,” Amalie said.

Each word dripped acid. It didn’t take any psychic talent to figure out that she was more than a little annoyed.

“Sorry,” he said. “Just stating facts. Don’t take it personally.”

She gave him a steely smile. “Trust me, Jones, I am taking it very personally.”

The atmosphere between them had started out tense and the situation was rapidly deteriorating. That was not helpful. He tried to conjure something that might placate her but he had never been very good at charming others, mostly because that particular skill required a certain amount of judicious lying. He was an excellent liar—brilliant, in fact. But he preferred to avoid it whenever possible. He considered his talent for lying the same way he did his gun—a useful tool that was handy to have available when needed but not the sort of thing a man wanted to rely on routinely.

“I’ll make this as quick as I can,” he said.

“Help yourself.” Amalie swept out a hand to indicate the room. Then she folded her arms and propped one shoulder against the wall. “But I’m going to watch. For all I know you talked your way into my home and place of business so that you can prowl through Pickwell’s things and maybe help yourself to a few items.”

That hurt, mostly because there was some truth in the accusation.

“I thought Brandon cleared me,” Matthias said.

“Brandon did no such thing. He just made it plain that you and Luther Pell are working together. For your information, I took that as a warning, not a testimonial to your sterling character.”

“You don’t trust Luther Pell, either?”

“I have never met the man but I’ve heard the rumors about him. It’s obvious that what he says goes in this town, at least as far as the local police are concerned.”

Matthias realized that he was clenching his back teeth but he did not have the time to try to convince her that Pell was an upstanding member of the community. Actually, it was highly doubtful that he could have made her believe that, because Luther Pell was not exactly as pure as the new-driven snow. And neither am I, he thought.

He gave up on the small talk and focused on the suitcase. It was unlocked, which told him that there was nothing inside that he would find useful. When he raised the lid, he saw some neatly folded underwear, a clean shirt, and a Dopp kit, which contained an assortment of masculine toiletries, including a shaving kit.

Amalie straightened away from the wall, unfolded her arms, and walked closer to the suitcase.

“He didn’t unpack all of his things,” she said. She sounded surprised. “He did seem very tense and anxious.”

“Did he tell you how long he planned to stay?” Matthias asked.

“The reservation was for two nights. He said that he was expecting a lot of publicity after the demonstration and he wanted to be available to give interviews to reporters. Pickwell was my very first guest. Unfortunately I didn’t ask for payment in advance.”

Matthias took a penknife out of his pocket, snapped it open, and slit the suitcase lining.

“What are you doing?” Amalie yelped. “That’s Dr. Pickwell’s personal property.”

“I told you, Pickwell is dead.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean you can destroy his possessions. His family will probably arrive in a day or so to claim his things. What am I supposed to tell them when they see that someone took a knife to his suitcase?”

“Send them to me.”

There was no sign of a false bottom or a secret compartment in the suitcase. He went to the closet. When he opened the door he saw a navy blue jacket and a pair of cream-colored trousers.

“Those were the clothes he was wearing when he arrived on the train today,” Amalie said. “I remember asking him about the robot. He said he had shipped it in a wooden crate that was taken from the baggage car to the theater by his assistant.”

Matthias glanced at her. “The assistant’s name is Charlie Hubbard. He disappeared tonight. The police are looking for him. Did Pickwell book a room for Hubbard?”