Dead Girl Running (Cape Charade #1)(42)
He’d heard about that, had he? Nils Brooks knew too much, and she didn’t know enough. So she went fishing. “I have another question. If you’re trying to crack a smuggling ring, what are you doing in here? Shouldn’t you be out in the dark and the storm spying on the smugglers, seeing who they are, what they’re doing?”
“I didn’t come to disable the smuggling. It’s not as simple as that.”
“That would interrupt the flow of cash.”
“Only temporarily, and only at this site. No. My ultimate goal is, must be, to identify and capture the Librarian. He—or she—isn’t going to be the one out there collecting the goods or doing a drop-off. That’s what flunkies are for.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out his black-rimmed glasses and slipped them on with the seeming confidence of Superman disappearing behind Clark Kent’s disguise. “I’m the author with writer’s block who wanders the resort looking for inspiration in all the wrong places and observing everyone with a profiler’s eye.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?” She’d managed to surprise him.
“That’s what I figured. I wanted to hear you say it. I have to go. At this moment, I’m way more afraid of Mara than I am of the Librarian. Later!” Kellen jumped off his porch.
He called, “Think about suspects!”
She lifted her hand. Rain splattered her in the face. Somewhere behind the roiling storm clouds, dawn was breaking. She started down the path to her cottage, thinking, Race to the resort, shower and change, call and check on Annie. And Leo. But mostly Annie. Then—
“Kellen!” Mara stood under the light on Kellen’s porch, clothed in her close-fitting, water-shedding running gear. “What were you doing out at this hour?”
“Nils Brooks got lost on the way to his cottage.” Which was the truth.
“He doesn’t seem to be very bright.”
“Agreed.” Anybody who arrived alone to seek out a murderous smuggler didn’t get a gold star for smarts, at least not on Kellen’s chart.
“Do you like him?” Mara sounded anxious.
“No.” Not him, nor his astute observations and his blunt way of attacking. “Hang on. Let me duck in here and we’ll get going.” Inside, she shed her clothes and stashed her pistol. She pulled on her running gear, then hurried out to meet Mara. She said, “I can’t do kickboxing this morning. Too much to do, not enough sleep. Maybe tomorrow. Let’s run!” She leaped off her own porch and headed along the lighted pathways, headed toward the behemoth of a hotel where her day would begin.
After a minute, Mara was running at her heels, shouting, “How do you expect me to win the International Ninja Challenge if you’re not dedicated to my cause?”
“Determination!” Kellen shouted back. “Yours!” Today she didn’t allow Mara to set the pace. Not today. Today Kellen was in charge.
18
Kellen stomped her way through the morning, taking on the battling chefs and banging their heads together until they promised to cooperate, calling the security idiots on the carpet and discussing the spa schedule with a sulky Mara. She told Chad Griffin the weather was due to clear, so he would want to be on his way, and the thoroughly offended pilot cleared out. Finally, she sought Sheri Jean to discuss the current and delicate employee relations.
In between conferences, she reflected that she should go sleepless more often. Problems seemed to melt away when she ceased trying to solve employee issues and told them to handle their jobs with the competence for which they were hired.
Now if she could just get Lloyd Magnuson to answer his phone, she’d straighten him out, too. Take Priscilla’s body up to the Virtue Falls coroner and not call in with a report. Could he be more inconsiderate?
In passing, she glimpsed Nils, glasses on, earnest expression in place, interviewing the various members of the staff for his “book.”
She found Sheri Jean in the lobby speaking with two of their guests, a middle-aged black woman from San Francisco and her teenaged daughter.
Sheri Jean smiled at Kellen in a clenched teeth sort of way and introduced her. “This is Mrs. Kazah and her daughter, Jasmine. These two ladies would like to check out two days early. I explained we have a policy of, in these circumstances, keeping the room deposit, but they have expressed unhappiness about the storms. I thought perhaps you could okay the change of policy.”
Kellen smiled at the thirteen-year-old Jasmine. “The weather has been ghastly, hasn’t it?”
“It’s dark all the time, not just cloudy, but night lasts for hours! And hours! The hotel is so empty it’s spooky. Is it always like this?” Jasmine asked.
“It’s my first year here, but they tell me this winter’s storms have been unusually ferocious.” Kellen put her hand on Sheri Jean’s shoulder and ignored Sheri Jean’s flinch of rejection. “Of course we’ll refund the deposit.”
“I do like the food here!” Jasmine stared toward the lobby, where Frances was putting out a plate of cookies, a bowl of apples and some finger sandwiches, and she sounded a lot more like the adolescent she was.
“Then you’d better go get a little more before you move on with your vacation!” Kellen said.
Mrs. Kazah watched her daughter leave, then in a low voice said, “I appreciate this. We really can’t afford this resort at any other time of the year, and we would stay, but news of the murder rattled Jasmine and she had nightmares. After the divorce, she’s grown so sensitive to atmosphere—and it is very dark and quiet here. So many empty corridors.”