Dead Girl Running (Cape Charade #1)(16)
Kellen wasn’t surprised at his fast promotion. Temo’s near-fatal injuries, his long recovery, his rehabilitation had put fire to his already iron ambition. Before it was over, this guy would own the resort. Which made this display of temper unlike him.
She wiped the phone clean on her skirt, handed it over and asked mildly, “What’s up?”
“None of the new room controls for the gas fireplaces are working and those bastards who sold them to us are ignoring us. Smart controls, my ass.”
She’d been the one to recommend they try something more than a timer. “Are you going to be able to make them work soon?”
“If I had a manual written by someone whose first language is English!” Temo’s Spanish accent was fierce, but he had been educated in American schools and he had no sympathy for foreign firms who used a translation program for their communications.
“Okay,” she said in a bright tone. “About the animal carcass…”
Temo stuck his phone into his pocket. “I haven’t had a chance to get out there.”
“I’d bet none of the guests will venture out in this weather, but now that I’ve said that, some intrepid soul will go exploring. Can you send one of your guys?”
“My guys? The guys I inherited from the last maintenance man? The guys who can’t scratch their own balls without an instruction manual?” Temo’s color rose. “Too bad none of them can read a manual, English or Chinese or Spanish or any other language known to man. Maybe Klingon!”
“All of them are idiots?”
Temo sighed and subsided. “Two of them are okay. The rest of them have to go, but not until I find someone to replace them.”
“Have you checked in town?”
He eyeballed her evilly.
She backed away. “I just asked!”
“I’m looking around the US, trying to find old friends. If you don’t mind, I’ll go to LA and check on…friends.”
The way he said the word friends made her think he was trying to tell her something. But while she remembered every chart and schedule she’d ever seen, she couldn’t understand the unspoken words of a man who had faced too many challenges. She took his hand. “Go when you need to. Just…come back.”
“Sure. I can’t stay down there. There’s nothing for me there. My mom…and that guy she calls my stepfather.”
“What about your sister?”
“Poor kid.” He shook his head. “Poor kid.” He attached his leg, shoved his arms through the sweatshirt hanging on the back of his chair, got up and stretched. “I’ll go rescue that carcass from the scavengers. I could use a ride in the fresh air, plus it’s the only way I know to get Smart Home to call, so they can complain I was out of touch.” He headed toward the coatrack, wrapped himself in a muddle of scarves, hats and the warmest gloves he could root out. Yep, that was Temo. Add the slightest touch of winter and the guy froze. You could take the boy out of LA, but you couldn’t keep him warm.
Birdie walked out of the changing room.
BIRDIE HAYNES:
FEMALE, 24, 5’10”, 130 LBS., AMERICAN OF COLOR—HISPANIC, AFRICAN AND FAR EASTERN. BIG RAW HANDS, LONG FINGERS, CONSTANT BAND-AID ON AT LEAST ONE KNUCKLE. BEAUTIFUL SMILE IN A NOT-BEAUTIFUL FACE. ARMY VETERAN, HONORABLE DISCHARGE. RECENT WIDOW. EMPLOYED 70 DAYS. LEAD MECHANIC, GARAGE MANAGER. BEST FRIEND.
Birdie wore a starched white button-up shirt, the resort’s blue scarf and black slacks, and she held keys in her hand. When she spotted Kellen, she headed right for her. “I’m off to the landing strip to pick up the guests. I’ve got nobody to ride shotgun. Can you come?”
“I’m not dressed.” In the appropriate outfit for welcoming guests, Kellen meant. Then she looked around.
Temo was gone. Mitch had returned and slipped into greasy coveralls. Adrian was dirty, and due to his big mouth, he was never appropriate to greet guests.
Kellen ran through the working roster in her mind; in the whole resort, everyone was either on vacation or trying to cover for everyone else. She was stuck. “Only if I can drive.”
“Feeling out of control?” Birdie asked.
“Driving would help.” Driving always helped. Feeling the vehicle respond to her command promptly, smoothly, efficiently gave her a measure of peace. “Do you have the hors d’oeuvres?”
“I ordered them. You get them from the kitchen. I’ll bring the van around.”
“Give me thirty minutes. I’ll change and meet you at the kitchen door.” She grabbed an ATV and drove fast toward her cottage at the farthest corner of the resort’s property. She had to hustle; it had been her idea to serve hors d’oeuvres to newly arrived guests. Invariably, the travelers were tired, hungry and crabby, and a prompt application of salmon cakes, tofu bites with chai tea crema, and prosciutto-wrapped artichokes never failed to put them in good humor. Kellen had implemented a successful strategy: a pain in the rear, but successful.
At her cottage, she jumped into her hospitality costume: like Birdie’s, a starched white button-up shirt and blue scarf, black slacks. Then she did as Xander advised; she looked around and took a moment to breathe.
She loved her cottage. Its rustic exterior blended well with the wildness of the coastline, its blue door gave it a shocking pop of color and the interior was pure Pacific Northwest: comfortable furniture, an efficiency kitchen and a bedroom loft that had sloped ceilings, gable seats and a bed so comfortable the resort sold them to enamored guests. The decor was a blend of Asian, Native American and local artists. After a day dealing with suppliers, staff and guests, she relished the coziness and the isolation.