Dead Girl Running (Cape Charade #1)(30)

“Sure. We can do this. This might help.” Mara wandered in casually dropping information like Gretel with her pieces of bread. “I wanted you to know. I have a contact at the FBI. I talked to him.”

All of us out here are running away from something.

“Will the FBI show up to investigate?” Which would be a relief, considering the situation.

“Doubt it. They’ll wait for the coroner’s report.” Mara made her way to the model of the resort and looked down at the landscape. “They’ll put the information in their files, and they’ll say Priscilla’s been dead four months and nothing has happened since. If another body pops up, they’ll be here.” Mara shrugged. “That won’t happen, so brief answer—no FBI. They’re overworked, you know.”

“You know an awful lot about the FBI.” A less than subtle inquiry.

“Old boyfriend.” Mara used the sleeve of her hoodie to carefully clean the glass over the model. “Listen, the spa girls are upset, so I had them bunk in the hotel, two to a room. I hope that’s okay.”

“Good idea. I don’t want them driving between Cape Charade and the resort. Let’s keep them here and safe.”

Mara started for the door, then backtracked. “You know, I was thinking. Priscilla’s death happened four months ago, and nothing’s happened since. I think everybody’s overreacting.”

“Yes. Possibly. But we have a killer who apparently threatened her, frightened her, managed to capture her and hold her long enough to kill her and cut off her hands. That’s…vicious. Maybe the sick bastard is gone from here, never to return, but I think this warrants extra caution.”

“Wow. When you put it like that, I agree. If you want, I can find you someone to bunk with, too.”

“No.” Nightmares. Flashbacks. “No, I’m on call all the time now, and I thought being manager was a big job. Being manager and security manager of a resort with a murder is so overwhelming, no one will want to room with me. I’ll be up and down all night long.”

Mara slapped the door frame, turned, and in that bright, snappish way of hers, she said, “Still, you’d sleep better if you weren’t alone.”

“I wouldn’t sleep at all.” For fear I’d scream in terror or cry in pain and grief.

“Your call. But remember, Priscilla lived in your cottage. Still, if no one’s spotted her ghost in four months, I suppose she’s not hanging around.”

“I suppose not.” Kellen watched Mara walk away and was all too bitterly aware of the obvious.

It wasn’t Priscilla’s ghost she needed to worry about.

It was Priscilla’s killer.





12

Kellen had a checklist of tasks left. Sheri Jean held the number one slot. But when Kellen walked into the lobby lounge, she found Sheri Jean leading the predinner wine tasting.

The newlyweds were nowhere in sight. Naturally.

The Shivering Sherlocks were there en masse, dressed in costumes: one wore a man’s suit, tie and fedora; the twins had on flapper costumes complete with fringe and feathers; Rita had tied her red hair in a kerchief for an admirable imitation of I Love Lucy’s Lucille Ball; Tammy had painted on high-arched eyebrows and pretend-smoked a cigarette; and Patty had pasted on a jaunty mustache and rocked as a stout Hercule Poirot.

Carson Lennex sat in their midst. He looked every inch of his urbane self, not at all the kind of man who lurked in hotel hallways, abducting rolls of toilet paper. He seemed to be enjoying the ladies’ conversation. Since they were all about the same age, Kellen supposed they related on a shared experience level.

Nils Brooks sat off to the side, and when he saw Kellen, he pushed his black-rimmed glasses up his nose and observed her with interest.

Kellen walked into the lounge and smiled. “Are we enjoying ourselves?” She sounded like a manic nurse in charge of recovering patients.

The guests cheerfully returned her greeting.

One of the Shivering Sherlocks twins waved her over. “Dear, is there a problem? I’m trying to call my husband and I can’t get cell reception.”

The gray-haired twin whipped around and snapped, “For God’s sake, Candy, Randy will survive for one night without you checking on him.”

“Debbie, when the poor man retired, he didn’t know how to turn on the oven!”

“Whose fault is that?”

“It’s mine,” Candy said softly. “He worked so many hours and I didn’t want him to have to come home and cook.”

“You worked, too!”

“I was only a teacher. He worked the pipeline.”

“I’d rather weld something than care for thirty pimply-faced, angst-ridden adolescents every day.” In an aside to Kellen, Debbie said, “I’m not totally heartless. I gave Randy a cookbook when he retired. The man can read.”

For the first time, Candy looked ruffled. “Well, he can’t follow instructions!”

“Show me a man who can,” Debbie said with some humor. To Kellen, she said, “Any word on the communications outage?”

Kellen hadn’t realized there was a communications outage, but a quick check on her phone proved Candy was right. “The storm probably knocked out our cell tower. Let me find out if our landline phones are working and I’ll get you through to your husband.”