“Then you can feed me later, too.” Patty rubbed her naturally expansive padding.
Mr. Lennex fetched a small square plate and a silver spoon and fork wrapped in a linen napkin.
Kellen loaded the plate and handed it to Patty, then made her way to the copper-topped dining table and created an oasis of artful mystery weekend food. The living ladies descended, and as Patty had predicted, they picked the trays clean.
“Egyptian scarab beetles,” she called from the floor.
Tammy confided to Kellen, “Usually we buy a mystery weekend package that includes the script—who dies, who’s the killer and why, and we open the envelopes as we go. But Carson Lennex has seen us come year after year and this time he’s the one passing out the clues. We’re in ancient Egypt. I’m so glad. I do love a good Egyptian mystery!”
Kellen looked at their early-and mid-twentieth century costumes and raised her eyebrows.
“We didn’t know our setting until we got here,” Debbie explained.
Candy joined them. “The great thing about having Carson in charge is we have lines to read.”
From the floor, they heard, “All my lines consisted of Argh, and then death.”
“It was a very realistic death.” Carson went into his study, came out with his Academy Award and handed it to Patty. “And the award goes to…”
“Now she’s going to give a speech,” Rita said in resignation.
“Damned right I’m going to!” Patty sat up. “I’ve been rehearsing this my whole life!”
“Lie down,” Carson instructed. “You can give a speech, but you’re still dead.”
While Patty thanked the Academy and all the little people who contributed to her success, Kellen inched toward the bookshelves and examined the contents.
Carson joined her. “No need to listen. I’ve heard a few of these speeches in my day. Although she is pitch-perfect.”
Kellen indicated the swath of hardcovers. “Egypt?”
“Mesopotamia, Greece, Rome, Persia, China, the Mayans and the Aztecs… I love the romance of ancient civilizations, and I came this close to finishing an archaeology degree.” He chuckled and with his fingers indicated a short distance.
Archaeology. Really. She looked sideways at him. “What happened?”
“When I was twenty, the department sent me on a dinosaur dig. In the summer. In Utah. My God, what a miserable place. Desert in the middle of nowhere, dirt in my teeth, dried rations, no liquor, certainly no romantic ancient civilizations…” He stepped back from her. “Are you well? You look a little stupefied.”
“I didn’t get much sleep last night.” I was listening to the single remaining Monuments Man who is searching for a mass murderer who also might do well with an archaeology degree.
“You carry the weight of responsibility for the resort, so I hear.” He smiled with all the charm of an aging roué. “Leo and Annie have a good staff. Depend on them to do their work and you’ll be fine.”
“Thank you. I’ll remember that.”
Patty proclaimed, “And now, the award for best director—Carson Lennex!”
“Excuse me, I’m being paged.” He gave a little nod to Kellen and went to accept his Academy Award back.
Kellen stared after him. His face had graced movie screens across the world. He was self-deprecating, friendly in the cautious way of any celebrity, going out of his way to charm the Shivering Sherlocks. Although she had wondered at his decision to remain in Washington for the winter, she had never doubted his intelligence. Staying afloat for forty-five years in the entertainment business required a keen mind and a strong survival instinct, two talents that would serve him well…if he was the Librarian.
“Look!” Rita pointed out the wide window. “The storm is gone!”
“A pristine night!” Carson threw open the sliding double doors.
The ocean-chilled breeze swept in, and everyone, even Patty the Dead, crowded onto the wraparound balcony.
The night sky was absolutely black with a crescent moon and stars so big and close they could hypnotize a romantic.
Luckily, every romantic sinew and nerve in Kellen’s body had been transformed to steel, and she took the opportunity to see what Carson Lennex viewed from his penthouse.
This would be the ideal location for the Librarian. From here, the resort was laid out like a map: the marriage grove to the north and east; the ocean, beach and dock to the west; the lighted paths, the wings of the hotel and the cottages scattered like gems across the landscape. She looked toward the cliffs, half expecting to see another flash of light, but all was dark and still.
Then, in the farthest end of the darkened west wing, a door opened, and in the square of light, a thin man was silhouetted. He bent, put something down, stepped back and shut the door again.
Lloyd Magnuson. That damned policeman wasn’t just working in the west wing, he was also hiding out there, cell phone off to avoid speaking to her.
He was going to be sorry.
21
Kellen turned on her heel. “I should refresh the appetizers,” she said and briskly arranged what was left on one plate, took the empty tray and left. On the way down, she contacted Sheri Jean. “I’ve done the first shift. Send someone up with the next round of food and drink.” Sheri Jean started to object, and Kellen said, “No. I’ve neglected my security duties and now there’s a problem.”
Sheri Jean wanted to question her.
Firmly, Kellen hung up and steamed through the occupied part of the hotel into the dark and quiet west wing. She flipped on the tactical flashlight that Birdie had given her, and fantasized about using the serrated head to put a divot in Lloyd Magnuson’s chin. The corridor was a maze of old drapes piled beside a stack of new, uninstalled doors, half-used cans of varnish and paint, rolls of new carpet covered by a fine sprinkling of sawdust and irritation. The irritation was her own.
Not only was Lloyd abusing his privileges by staying at the resort—he reminded her of Chad Griffin—but with the resort staff worried about the murder and guests checking out, it was callous of him to leave them stewing about the coroner’s report.
She got to the end of the corridor, to the luxury suite that had one door that opened into the hotel and another that opened onto a private patio. That was the door she’d seen open and close from above. The suite had a doorbell; she rang it, pounded on the door, then decided she didn’t care if she caught Lloyd in his underwear, she was going in. In fact, she hoped she caught him in a compromising act with a blow-up doll. The embarrassment would serve him right.
She inserted her pass card in the lock.
Before she could turn the handle, the door opened, yanking the card from her fingers, and she found herself staring at dark eyes, hair and skin, bony body—Vincent Gilfilen.
She had jumped to the wrong conclusion.
“Miss Adams, good to see you. I’m on vacation.” He extracted her pass card from the door and handed it back. “What are you doing here?”
“I was in Carson Lennex’s suite. I saw someone open the outside door and I thought it was… Never mind. You’re not on vacation.” Shock gave way and her brain began to click. She considered his personality and his habits. She considered the odd way Leo had sounded when she asked about Mr. Gilfilen. And she knew she was right. “You’re dressed to go outside, Mr. Gilfilen. What are you doing outside at night? Or should I guess?”
In that coolly polite way of his, he said, “You seem to think you know.”
“You’re investigating a smuggling ring.”
“Investigating? Or leading?”
Not an answer. Not really. He was probing to discover what she knew. And she would tell him…within limits, and with the clear understanding an exchange of information could, and would, be required. “Whoever is leading this smuggling ring must travel extensively. According to your records, you never leave the resort.” She gestured toward the suite. “Obviously. You’re still here.”
He opened the door wide.
She saw a wall of security monitors and a chair with a half-eaten meal beside it.
“You might as well come in,” he said. “Let’s talk.”