hotel guests and employees. People automatically resented
being questioned because it implied guilt, so it
would be an unpleasant and tiresome task. And
Smilow, they knew from experience, was an unrelenting
and merciless taskmaster.
He now turned to Dr. Madison again. "Can you get
this done quickly?"
"A couple of days."
"Monday?"
"It'll mean my weekend's shot to hell."
"So's mine," Smilow said unapologetically. "I
want toxicology, everything."
"You always do," Madison said with a good-natured
smile. "I'll do my best."
"You always do."
After the body had been removed, Smilow addressed
one of the CSU techs. "How is it?"
"It's in our favor that the hotel is new. Not that
many fingerprints, so most of them will probably be
Pettijohn's."
"Or the perp's."
"I wouldn't count on that," the technician said,
frowning. "It's as clean a site as I've ever seen."
When the suite was empty, Smilow walked
through it himself. He personally checked everything,
opening every drawer, checking the closet and
the built-in safe, looking between the mattresses, underneath
the bed, inside the bathroom medicine cabinet,
the tank of the toilet, looking for anything that
Lute Pettijohn might have left behind that hinted at
his killer's identity.
The sum total of Smilow's find was a Gideon
Bible and the Charleston telephone directory. He
found nothing personal belonging to Lute Pettijohn, no date book, receipts, tickets, scribbled notes, food
wrappers, nothing.
Smilow counted two bottles of scotch missing
from the minibar, but only one glass had been used,
unless the murderer had been smart enough to take
the one he'd used with him when he left. But Smilow
learned after checking with housekeeping that the
standard number of highball glasses stocked in a suite
was four, and three clean ones remained.
As crime scenes go, it was virtually sterile--except
for the bloodstain on the sitting room carpet.
"Detective?"
Smilow, who'd been thoughtfully staring at the
blood-soaked carpet, raised his head.
The officer standing in the open doorway hitched
his thumb toward the corridor. "She insisted on coming
in."
"She?"
"Me." A woman nudged aside the patrol officer as
though he were of no significance whatsoever, removed
the crime scene tape from the doorway, and
stepped inside. Quick, dark eyes swept the room.
When she saw the dark bloodstain, she expelled a
breath of disappointment and disgust. "Madison has
already got the body? Damn!"
Smilow, crooking his arm in order to read the face
of his wristwatch, said, "Congratulations, Steffi.
You've broken your own speed record."
CHAPTER 3
I thought you might be waiting on the husband and
kids."
"When?"
"When you came into the pavilion."
"Oh."
She didn't take Hammond's bait, but only continued
licking her ice-cream bar. Not until the wooden
stick was clean did she say, "Is that your way of asking
if I'm married?"
He made a pained face. "And here I thought I was
being so subtle."
"Thanks for the chocolate nut bar."
"Is that your way of avoiding an answer?"
Laughing, they approached a set of uneven
wooden steps leading down to a pier. The platform
stood about three feet above the surface of the water
and was about ten yards square. Water lapped gently
against the pilings beneath the weathered planks.
Wooden benches formed the perimeter, their backs
serving as a safety railing. Hammond took her ice-cream
stick and wrapper and discarded them along
with his in a trash can, then motioned her toward one
of the benches.
At each corner of the deck was a light pole, but the
bulbs were dim and unobtrusive. Clear Christmas
lights like those on the ceiling of the pavilion had
been strung between the light poles. They softened
the rusticity, making the ordinary, unattractive pier a
romantic setting.
The breeze was soft, but strong enough to give one
a fighting chance against mosquitoes. Frogs croaked
in the dense undergrowth lining the riverbank. Cicadas
sang from the low-hanging, moss-strewn
branches of the sheltering live oak trees.
"Nice out here," Hammond remarked.
"Hmm. I'm surprised no one else has discovered
it."
"I reserved it so we could have it all to ourselves."
She laughed. They had laughed a lot in the last
couple hours while sampling the high-caloric fares of
the food vendors and walking aimlessly from booth
to booth. They had admired home-canned peaches
and string beans, got a lesson on the latest in workout
equipment, and tried out the cushioned seats of high-tech
tractors. He had won a miniature teddy bear for
her at a baseball toss. She had declined to try on a
wig, although the saleswoman had been very persuasive.
They had taken a ride on the Ferris wheel. When
their car stopped at the summit and swayed precariously,
Hammond had felt downright giddy. It was one
of the most carefree moments he could remember
since . . .
He couldn't remember a more carefree moment.
The tethers that kept him grounded so securely-- people, work, obligations--seemed to have been
snipped. For a few minutes he had been floating free.
He had felt free to enjoy the thrill of being suspended
high above the fairgrounds. Free to enjoy a lightheartedness
he rarely experienced anymore. Free to
enjoy the company of a woman he had met less than
two hours ago.
Spontaneously he turned to her now and asked, "Are you married?"
She laughed and ducked her head even as she
shook it. "So much for subtlety."
"Subtlety wasn't doing it for me."
"No, I'm not married. Are you?"
"No." Then, "Whew! I'm glad we got that clarified."
Raising her head, she looked across at him, smiling.
"So am I."
Then they stopped smiling and just looked at each
other. The stare stretched into seconds, then moments,
long, still, quiet moments on the outside, but
clamorous where emotions were housed.
For Hammond it was one of those once-in a lifetime if you're-lucky
moments. The kind that even
the most talented movie directors and actors can't
quite capture on film. The kind of connecting moment
that poets and songwriters try to describe in
their compositions, but never quite nail. Up till now,
Hammond had been under the misconception that
they'd done a fair job of it. Only now did he realize
how miserably they had failed.
How could one, anyone, describe the instant when
it all comes together? How to describe that burst of
clarity when one knows that his life has only just now
begun, that everything that's happened before was rot
compared to this, and that nothing will ever be the
same again? The elusive answers to all the questions
ceased to matter, and he realized that the only truth he
really needed to know was right here, right now. This
moment.
He had never felt like this in his life.
Nobody had ever felt like this.
He was still rocking on the top car of the Ferris
wheel and he never wanted to come down.
Just as he said, "Will you dance with me again?"
she said, "I really need to go."
"Go?" "Dance?"
They spoke at the same time again, but Hammond
overrode her. "Dance with me again. I wasn't in top
form last time, what with the Marine Corps watching
my every step."
She turned her head and looked in the direction of
the parking lot on the far side of the fairgrounds.
He didn't want to press her. Any attempt at coercion
probably would send her running. But he couldn't let
her go. Not yet. "Please?"
Her expression full of uncertainty, she looked back
at him, then gave him a small smile. "All right. One
dance."
They stood up. She started for the steps, but he
reached for her hand and brought her around.
"What's wrong with here?"
She pulled in a breath, released it slowly, shakily.
"Nothing, I guess."
He hadn't touched her since their last dance, short
of placing his hand lightly on the small of her back to
guide her around a bottleneck in the crowd. He'd offered
her his hand when they stepped into and out of
the Ferris wheel car. They'd been elbow to elbow and
hip to hip for the duration of the ride. But other than
those few exceptions, he had curbed every temptation
to touch her, not wanting to scare her off, or come
across as a creep, or insult her.
Now he pulled her forward gently, but firmly, until
they were standing toe to toe. Then he curved his arm
around her waist and drew her close. Closer than before.
Against him. She went hesitantly, but she didn't
try to angle away. She raised her arm to his shoulder.
He felt the imprint of her hand at the base of his neck.
The band had called it a night. Music was now
being provided by a DJ who had been playing a variety
ranging from Creedence Clearwater to Streisand.
Because it was growing late and the mood of the
dancers had turned more mellow, he was playing
slower songs.
Hammond recognized the tune, but couldn't name
the singer or the song currently coming from the
pavilion. It didn't matter. The ballad was slow and
sweet and romantic. At first he tried to get his feet to
execute the sequence of steps that he had learned as a
youth reluctantly attending cotillions his mother
roped him into. But the longer he held her, the more
impossible it became to concentrate on anything except
her.
One song segued into another, but they never
missed a beat, despite her agreeing to only one dance.
In fact, neither noticed when the music changed.
Their eyes and minds were locked on each other.
He brought their clasped hands up to his chest and
pressed hers palm down, then covered it with his. She
tipped her head forward and down until her forehead
was resting on his collarbone. He rubbed his cheek
against her hair. He felt rather than actually heard the
small sound of want that vibrated in her throat. His
own desire echoed it.
Their feet shuffled to a decreasing tempo until
eventually they stopped moving altogether. They
were still except for the strands of her hair that the
breeze brushed against his face. The heat emanating
from every point of contact seemed to forge them together.
Hammond dipped his head for the kiss that he
believed was inevitable.
"I must go." She broke away and turned abruptly
toward the bench where she'd left her handbag and
cardigan.
For several seconds he was too stunned to react.
After taking up her things, she made to move past
him with a rushed, "Thanks for everything. It was
lovely. Truly."
"Wait a minute."
She eluded his touch and quickly went up the
steps, tripping once in her haste. "I have to go."
"Why now?"
"I can't. . . can't do this."
She tossed the words over her shoulder as she hurriedly
made her way toward the parking area. She
followed the string of pennants, avoiding the midway,
the pavilion, and the waning activity in the
booths. Some of the attractions already had closed.
Exhibitioners were tearing down their booths and
packing up their arts and crafts. Families loaded
down with souvenirs and prizes trudged toward their
vans. The noises weren't so joyful or so loud as earlier.
The music in the pavilion now sounded more forlorn
than romantic.
Hammond stayed even with her. "I don't understand."
"What's not to understand? I've told you I must
go. That's all there is to it."
"I don't believe that." Desperate to detain her, he
reached for her arm. She stopped, took several deep
breaths, and turned to face him, although she didn't
look at him directly.
"I had a lovely time." She spoke in a flat voice
with little inflection, as though these were lines she
had memorized. "But now the evening is over and I
have to leave."
"But--"
"I don't owe you an explanation. I don't owe you
anything." Her eyes made brief contact with his before
skittering away again. "Now please, don't try
and stop me again."
Hammond released her arm and stepped back,
raising his hands as though in surrender.
"Goodbye," was all she said before turning away
from him and picking her way over the rough ground
toward the designated parking area.
Stefanie Mundell tossed Smilow the keys to her
Acura. "You drive while I change." They had left the
hotel by the East Bay Street entrance and were moving
briskly down the sidewalk, which was congested
not only with the usual Saturday night crowd, but