Ornaments of Death by Jane K. Cleland Read Free Book Online Page B

favor.”
    â€œShoot.”
    â€œI don’t want to see it on the front page of tomorrow’s paper.”
    â€œNo problem, Josie. You asked for a favor. You’ve got it.”
    â€œWow, Wes. I wasn’t expecting that.”
    â€œJeez, Josie. Why not? We’re friends.”
    An unexpected wave of emotion washed over me, and I choked and coughed, finally managing a croaking “Sorry.” I pawed around in my tote bag for a bottle of water. “One sec.” I drank some water and tried talking again. “That means a lot to me, Wes. Thanks.” I explained the situation. “I’m hoping you might be able to get more information from the hotel, or whether his credit cards had been used, or something. I’m so worried.”
    â€œGive me an hour.”
    *   *   *
    I was in my office struggling to read my accountant’s latest good-news report, unable to concentrate. I swiveled to stare out my window. An inch or so of snow covered each tiny twig, a brown and white kaleidoscope of winter. I squinted my eyes and tilted my head and watched as reality mutated into abstract art. Finally, right on schedule, Wes called.
    â€œI have some info,” Wes said, “but no shockeroonies.”
    I was used to Wes’s colorful vocabulary. “I’m ready,” I said.
    â€œIan’s in room two-eighteen. His keycard was last swiped at one thirty-eight Sunday afternoon.”
    I didn’t ask him how he’d learned that. From past experience, I knew Wes’s web of contacts was both broad and deep—and confidential. He might have sweet-talked a hotel employee into revealing Ian’s keycard swipes, but it was just as likely he had an in at the security company that monitored the activity.
    â€œWe left the restaurant at ten after one,” I said, “so Ian must have gone directly back to his room. Did he leave the hotel after that?”
    â€œThe system doesn’t record when people leave their rooms, only keycard swipes, so there is no way of knowing when, or if, he left.”
    â€œWhat about security cameras? I saw a bunch in the lobby.”
    â€œThere are none on the guest floors, only where you were, in the lobby, and in the back office. Plus, he could have gone out a side entrance.”
    â€œCan you get his rental car’s license plate number? I don’t know which company he used, but he was driving a silver Taurus.”
    â€œGot it,” he said, and rattled off a Massachusetts plate number. “It looks like the hotel was right and he’s in his room. At least, he hasn’t used his charge cards.”
    â€œThanks, Wes.”
    â€œAnything for a pal,” he said, and hung up.
    I rushed downstairs, told Cara I didn’t know when I’d be back, and retraced my route to the Rocky Point Sea View Hotel, certain the car I’d seen in the parking would prove to be Ian’s.
    I found the Taurus parked in the same spot. From the snow cover, I could tell that it hadn’t been disturbed since my earlier visit. I drove around the vehicle so I could see the rear plate. The tags were from Vermont. It wasn’t Ian’s rental.
    My eyes filled. I’d felt so hopeful. I brushed the wetness aside with the side of my hand.
    I cruised the property and checked the overflow parking lot, which was empty, no surprise in January. There were six cars in the staff lot, none of them a Taurus.
    I drove back to the guest lot and parked. Stairs led to the side of the wraparound porch and a door. A laminated sign penned in elegant calligraphy hung from a gold hook near the top of the door. It read:
    After ten p.m.,
    please use the front entrance.
    I stepped inside.
    In front of me was a long corridor leading to the ground-floor guest rooms. To my right was a back staircase leading up. Wes said there were no security cameras in the hallways.
    I climbed the steps. Room 218 faced the ocean. I knocked, then