Dead Girl Running (Cape Charade #1)
Christina Dodd
1
Washington State’s Pacific Coast
Yearning Sands Resort
September of last year
Before Priscilla Carter came to Yearning Sands to be the resort’s assistant manager, she supposed her life here would involve a blend of poetry, nature and wealth. She imagined long walks among the towering pines, evenings spent in the luxurious lobby, sipping a cocktail while watching the sun set across the restless Pacific, and a wealthy, interesting man who would catch sight of her and rush to her side, drawn by the rhapsody of their souls.
That hadn’t happened.
When a wealthy, interesting man did show up—and they did, on a regular basis, because Yearning Sands was a destination resort—he was usually married to someone smart, pretty and young. If a single guy caught her gazing at the sunset, he would inevitably tell her his room needed to be cleaned. Her two seemingly good prospects bought her a couple of drinks, gave her a quick grope and rushed for the finish line, and when she demanded romance and promises, they couldn’t be bothered. Every viable candidate treated her as if she was a slave, and not the kind they wanted to handcuff and spank and have wild sex with, either. More like a faceless vehicle who lived to make their lives easier. That was so not her.
The man she considered her best prospect, actor Carson Lennex, had reported her brazen behavior to the resort owners. In forceful terms, Mr. Di Luca had reminded Priscilla that her role here was to assist Mrs. Di Luca, the resort’s manager. He’d used words like probation and trial period and suggested she might consider chasing her dreams elsewhere.
Elsewhere? She didn’t have another position—or a runaway marriage—lined up. So she went to work and got her chores done…mostly.
Priscilla was in training to take over from Annie Di Luca when Annie had one of her sick spells—Annie was really old and suffered from rheumatoid arthritis—or when the Di Lucas went on one of their rare vacations.
The main hotel building resembled a European castle with towers and turrets, and 592 rooms. Forty-eight cottages were scattered around the property. The resort hosted whale-watching tours and fishing expeditions off their dock, hiking trips to the nearby Olympic Mountains and expertly led scientific treks seeking local flora and fauna. They rented all-terrain vehicles, bicycles and small launches. They had four bars, twenty-seven miles of running paths and a beach access that led to the second-longest beach in Washington State. Luxury-inclined guests indulged in the infinity pool, the fine restaurants and the top-notch spa services. When the hotel was at capacity, they had two thousand guests, and ordering and organizing for the resort required hours and hours. Priscilla got tired and impatient and sourly commented that it seemed as if all of the guests were complaining all the time. But surely no sane person could expect her to do it all and do it all with a smile.
Apparently someone did, because that someone complained about her sullen attitude and Mr. Di Luca called her in again and gave her another tedious lecture about being polite to the guests and even the rest of the staff. Like they mattered. He made Priscilla so mad she couldn’t sleep.
That was the night it happened.
The resort had lodged her in a rustic cottage at the farthest end of the property, supposedly so when she was off duty, she’d have privacy. Priscilla suspected it was to keep the lowly employees away from the privileged guests.
She went upstairs to the bedroom to try to sleep. No luck. At midnight, she got up and poured a glass of wine. She went out to the front porch and paced and drank. She got another glass, sat in the porch swing and rocked and drank.
She got madder. She put her foot up on the arm of the swing, looked at her silver toe ring, at the Celtic knot with a purple topaz. That ring was the only memento she had from her mother. It kept her safe.
Finally, she abandoned the wine and headed along a path toward the beach, walking fast and angry and muttering curses on the entire Yearning Sands Resort staff.
Off in the distance, she heard a motor, a boat on the ocean. Probably someone illegally fishing…
But it wasn’t illegal fishing.
A person clad in dark clothing ran the path from the dock and toward the wind-warped pine the locals called the One-Finger Salute. Belated caution made Priscilla duck into a nearby pile of boulders. In the moonless night, she couldn’t see who it was or if the person was male or female. She only knew whoever it was bent to place a package at the base of the tree and then ran back to the dock. The motor started again and the boat raced away.
She saw no one lurking in the darkness. Fueled by curiosity, recklessness and wine, she scurried to the tree and groped for the package. She found it in a shallow hole—an oblong box wrapped in paper. For its size, it was heavy; she knelt in the dirt and lifted it free. Hugging it to her chest, she got to her feet and ran toward her cottage. She arrived out of breath and out-of-proportion excited, as if she had been given a late birthday present. She scurried inside, locked the door and hustled through the cottage, closing the blinds as she went. She climbed the stairs to the bedroom, turned on a lamp and placed the box on the bedside table.
She stared at the dirt-smudged package and wondered what she had gotten herself into. Whatever this was, someone had smuggled it onshore in the middle of the night. Logically, someone was now scheduled to pick it up. So it was valuable, and she was an idiot for sticking her neck out to grab it.
But her hopes of a rich husband had been crushed, she’d been working hard and gotten nothing for her labors but a reprimand, so why not open this in the hope of finding treasure inside?
Tearing off the paper, she lifted the lid. Inside, she discovered Bubble Wrapped packages of various sizes, and when she unpacked the largest and heaviest, she discovered the red stone figure of a man squatting on his haunches, an immense penis protruding between his legs. She was so startled she dropped the grotesque thing. It landed on the mattress, and she stood breathing hard.
What was that?
She opened another, smaller package and found a similar stone carving of a woman’s naked pregnant body. Then a series of broad-cheeked faces with glaring eyes and ferocious scowls. Finally, a flat stone carved with weird symbols. She lined everything up and looked at the hideous things.
Someone was sneaking around for this? Her knees were wet and dirty for this? For a bunch of ugly rocks?
She went into the bathroom and brushed her teeth. She intended to go to bed, damn it, go to sleep, and… Okay. Those statues looked old. They were worth something to somebody. One quick online search and she found photos of those very statues in an article about Central American tomb looting. In Guatemala, armed thieves had held archaeologists at gunpoint and stolen statuary worth millions on the private collectors market.
“Holy shit,” she whispered. She stared at the ugly statues lined up on her nightstand. Millions.
She double-checked to make sure the blinds were tightly closed.
One of the archaeologists claimed the symbols on the flat piece of stone were a tomb curse that had been chiseled out, and whoever possessed that would be doubly cursed.
Yeah, sure. Cursed with money.
She should turn this find over to the authorities. Maybe there was a reward. Or maybe she’d be in trouble for…for stealing the statues.
Millions. That meant someone around here was going to be plenty mad not to find the box by the tree. Better return these at once.
Except…she’d never before been this close to anything worth millions. She deserved something for knowing about the smuggling and keeping her mouth shut. This was her opportunity. If she had the guts.
Getting the resort stationery and the resort pen, she wrote, “Leave $2,000—”