“Excuse me, young man?”
He looked up to see a tall, elderly woman with short, pure white hair and silver wire-framed glasses perched on the end of her nose. “Yes, ma’am?”
“You’re the one who knew the young woman who was hit by the car?”
He nodded, his heart skipping a beat. “Yes. Her name was Laurette.”
“I sure wish I’d known about the accident sooner. My Harry and I spent the day yesterday on Marco Island, so we didn’t hear about the tragedy until we returned last night.”
Realizing he should ask her to sit, he sprang to his feet and gestured toward his chair. “Please.”
She waved a dismissive hand. “No, no, if I sit down I won’t want to get back up.”
“So you remember Laurette?”
“Yes, yes. We didn’t speak, I’m afraid. And I’m not sure I can offer you anything that you don’t already know.”
“Anything you have would be helpful, Mrs. . . .”
“Dillard. Mary Dillard.”
He extended his hand. “Noah Lassiter.”
Her hand as she clasped his was cool and dry. “Down from Chicago, hm?”
He chuckled. “Must be the accent.”
She beamed. “It’s a game I like to play, trying to figure out where people hail from.”
“I’m sure you get to play that game a lot around here.”
“Oh, yes, oh, yes.”
“So where exactly did you see Laurette?”
“I was sitting right here, in fact, drinking my morning coffee and eating a banana nut muffin. That’s my morning ritual here. Coffee and a muffin, mostly banana nut, sometimes blueberry, and I people-watch while I wait for Harry to get his cranky old butt in gear. I do love to watch people, especially the characters around here. Don’t even get me started.”
He didn’t plan to, unless it had to do with Laurette. “You saw Laurette at breakfast?”
“No, I saw her come out of the stairwell. Right over there.”
He turned his head to look at the door marked STAIRS.
“I noticed because she was so young and pretty. Most of the guests here are old geezers, as you’ve probably noticed.”
“Did she look upset or anything?” he asked, trying to keep her on track.
“Distracted, really. She walked through that door and paused to search through her bag for a minute. Then she looked around, as though trying to decide whether to turn around and go back. Clearly indecisive.”
Noah rubbed at his chin. So she’d forgotten something in her room. Was that significant? “Did anyone come through the door behind her?”
“Not that I saw, but that doesn’t mean no one did. Harry finally showed up, and we left for Marco.” She reached out and patted his arm. “I’m so sorry about your friend, Mr. Lassiter.”
“Thank you. I appreciate the information. If you think of anything else”—he slipped a business card out of his back pocket and handed it to her—“please don’t hesitate to call me.”
A few minutes later, he was taking in the fresh coat of shiny gray paint that slathered the walls of Stairwell Number One and wishing he knew what the hell he was looking for.
He was about to give up when the door opened, and a maintenance guy backed through pulling a wheeled bucket with a mop.
“Hello,” Noah said, not wanting to startle the guy.
He flinched anyway and turned to look at him with wide, dark brown eyes. The guy’s youth surprised Noah, who’d been expecting the usual old fart. But then he realized: Maintenance guys saw stuff, noticed details, that other people didn’t. He took a step forward, extending his hand. “I’m—”
He broke off when a tall, thin woman pushed through the stairwell door and stopped when she saw them. She had unnaturally blond hair and wore high-heeled sandals and a white skirt that showed off slim, deeply tanned legs. Her blue and white horizontally striped shirt scooped into a low V, displaying rounded, sun-worn cleavage.
She glanced at the maintenance guy. “The guests in three-twelve are having trouble with their Internet connection, Skip. Can you check it out?”
He nodded and wheeled the bucket behind the stairs before going on his way.
The woman, Donna Keene, Hotel Manager, according to the shiny gold name tag pinned to her shirt, turned to Noah and smiled. “Are you lost?”
He smiled back. “Just looking around.” He gestured at the walls and steps. “Nice paint job. Professional?”
Sky blue eyes narrowed slightly but somehow stayed friendly. “You’ve been questioning my guests.”
“Just making conversation.”
“About a dead woman.”
“She was a friend of mine.”
“I’m sorry about what happened to her, but my guests are on vacation, and the police are already questioning them.”
Okay, subtle charm wasn’t working. Time for the big guns. He donned his best, most conciliatory smile and extended his hand. “Noah Lassiter.”
Her gaze dropped briefly to his mouth before she put her hand in his. “Donna Keene.”
Her chin lifted a notch when his hand engulfed hers, and he stared deeply into her eyes. Come to papa. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said, holding her hand extra long to let her know he meant it.
She glanced away first, and he saw her swallow. Hooked.
“So you’re the manager,” he said, gesturing at her name tag.
“Owner, actually.”
“It must be a good living. Every room seems full.”
“I could do better. Bigger hotel, more rooms, higher rates.”
He grinned. “Richer clientele?”
She returned his smile, but it seemed more sarcastic than warm. “Right.”
“So I don’t suppose you met Laurette Atkins when she was here.”
Her gaze sharpened, her lips pursing. “Are you a cop?”
He kept his expression fixed, but the question alarmed him. He wasn’t
that
obvious, was he? “Why would you think that?”
“You’re asking questions like a cop.”
Shit. Lost her already. Maybe the truth would work. “I’m a Chicago police detective, but I’m here as a friend.”
She folded her arms under her fake breasts. “I suggest you leave my guests alone, Detective Lassiter, or I’ll be forced to let the Lake Avalon police know what you’re up to.”
“I’m a man alone on vacation,” he said, steering clear of any hint of threat. “I’m allowed to make friends, and I happen to like the crowd here at the Royal Palm very much.”
She started to fire a retort at him but seemed to think better of it. Her lips thinned into a frosty smile. “Enjoy your stay, detective.”
She stomped up the stairs, and Noah watched her go. If he’d been the least bit interested in anyone other than a certain journalist, he might have appreciated her hip-swaying indignation.
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
C
harlie coasted in slow-moving beach traffic and wondered whether it was dumb to go meet the mysterious AnnaCoreen Tesch. I mean, really, chasing after a woman whose name she just happened to remember from a conversation with Nana months ago? Maybe she was still drunk from the night before. Thinking crazy because a gorgeous, shirtless, barefoot guy had not only cooked for her but had also gotten enraged over the bruises her mother had left on her. See, Dad? That’s how it’s done.
Or, hell, maybe she was just trying to avoid the other stuff going on.
Such as her connection to Laurette Atkins. She needed to fess up to Noah that her mother did indeed have a sister. She would have done it last night if he’d asked, but he hadn’t. Which was confusing, really. Why else had he hung around so long if not to pick her brain about Trudeau family secrets? He couldn’t possibly have missed the part in her story about the photos she’d found in her mother’s lingerie drawer. People she’d never met? A mother who went ape shit when she discovered her daughter with the photo album? Hello? She’d waved the red flags all over the place. Mom had a nasty secret that made her vicious. Go ahead and ask me about it.
Not that Charlie thought for a second that her mother would kill someone to try to keep that secret covered . . . well, maybe she did think it for a second. But certainly not for more than that. She was her
mother
, after all. Mothers didn’t kill people. Well, not hers anyway. Sure, she could fly into a blind fury and smack the crap out of her unsuspecting kid, but kill? No way.
Charlie felt her lips twist into a sardonic smile. She’d never known she could embrace denial so wholeheartedly. She’d started off the day of denial by leaving the newspaper in its plastic wrap on the porch, too terrified to open it and find nothing but stories and photos and graphics filling page after page that should have been lousy with ads.
But now she was tired of sitting in traffic and not accomplishing anything, so she retrieved her cell phone and dialed Mac’s number. He might not want to talk to her, but she’d give it a shot.
“Newsroom. Mac Hunter.”
“Hey.”
A pause, a breath, then, “Hey.”
“Are you still hating me?” Her throat felt constricted, as though something lodged there that she couldn’t swallow away. Her heart, perhaps.
“I wasn’t hating you,” he said, not all that convincing. “But I’m still mad, yeah. What’d you expect? It’s been a whole fucking day.”
God, so cold she found it difficult to remember that she’d found passion and solace in his arms just three months ago. And before that, a profound friendship that meant the world to her but now seemed so far gone she started to choke up. “I’m sorry everything’s such a mess. I never intended—”
“I’ll keep that in mind while I’m signing up for unemployment.”
She closed her eyes against the burn. She needed to be stronger, less emotional. “I didn’t do it to hurt you. I didn’t do it to hurt anyone.”
“Was there something you wanted or did you just call hoping I’d pat you on the back and say you did the right thing, damn the consequences?”
“Mac, come on. You know me better than that.”
He sighed. “It’s just going to take time, okay? Can you give me some time?”
She swallowed hard. “Okay.” As if she had a choice. “I . . . is everything okay there? Do people know yet?”
“It’s great, Charlie. Everything’s just fucking great. No one knows a goddamn thing because your dad’s not telling us shit. He hasn’t been here since yesterday morning when he chewed me a new one for letting you fuck us all over.”
“Mac—”
“I have to go.”
The click in her ear sounded like a gunshot.
Numbly, she put the phone in a cubby in the console and blew out a long, shaky breath.
So many regrets, so little time.
CHAPTER
TWENTY
C
harlie slowed the Escape to a coast to check out 1237 Sandy Beach Way, home of Nana’s mysterious friend, AnnaCoreen Tesch. It wasn’t a dump, exactly. Okay, sure, the shack’s warped, hot pink walls looked like they’d been beaten by several hurricanes and perhaps a tornado or two. And was that a rusty tin roof?
Even so, the place didn’t necessarily stand out on this two-lane road lined with beachside hotels, surf shops, restaurants and convenience stores in pink, teal and purple. Then she spotted the neon pink and blue sign to the left of the shack and stomped on the brake. PSYCHIC READINGS, $10 FOR 10 MINUTES.
Nana had sent her to a
psychic
? She needed an expert, not Miss Cleo.
A horn sounded behind her, and she snapped out of her shock to steer the car onto the gravel shoulder.
Okay, she thought. The woman had to be on the up-and-up or Nana wouldn’t have nudged her in this direction. And Charlie acknowledged it was somewhat disingenuous not to give a psychic the benefit of the doubt when she herself had her own mystical ability. But still.
She sat there and waffled. If she didn’t seek the counsel of AnnaCoreen Tesch, what would she do instead? She needed advice, needed
answers
. If not AnnaCoreen Tesch, beach psychic, then who?
Resigned to at least give it a shot, she shut off the car and got out. The stone walk leading up to the shack was flanked on both sides by sparse grass peeking through white sand. Pots of all sizes held flowers that spilled over in shades of pink, purple and blue, giving off sweet scents that mixed with the salty tang of the Gulf air. Coupled with the roll and retreat of the waves on the beach about ten yards away, it was actually a pretty soothing location.
Her skepticism kicked in all over again when she saw the shack’s purple door. A psychic could make a decent living off of tourists here. A
criminal
psychic could make an
indecent
living. She made a mental note to check on AnnaCoreen Tesch’s business permits. Then she admonished herself for falling into her reporter’s habits. Those days were over.
The door opened before she could knock, and Charlie almost burst out laughing. The petite woman standing before her wore a floor-length, red silk dress with long, draped sleeves, a gold rope belt and a hood artfully arranged around her long, wavy blond hair. A large crystal hung from a gold chain around her neck, nestled in ample cleavage.
“Welcome to AnnaCoreen’s,” she said, her radiant smile showing off model-like cheekbones. Her makeup consisted of red lipstick, too much blush and dark eye shadow framing eerie light blue eyes. Charlie, who could usually guess someone’s age, had to settle on a range of midforties to sixty.
“Hi,” Charlie said, doing her best to offer her most sincere smile. “I’m, uh, here for a reading.”
AnnaCoreen stepped back and invited her in with a sweep of her arm. “Please.”
The décor was hokey. Big surprise. Red scarves draped over lamps gave the dim interior a reddish glow. A round, black table sat in the center of the room, surrounded by four chairs. AnnaCoreen’s must have been the one topped with a crushed red velvet cushion with gold tassels. A throne for the queen.
“Would you like some herbal tea?” AnnaCoreen asked in a lilting voice that carried a hint of a British accent.
“No, thanks.” She didn’t plan to stay long enough for tea.