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Monday, September 13
Beverly yanked her luggage through the revolving doorway in annoyance. Already worn out from the trip, the ticketing hassles, and trying to appear inconspicuous, that damned door was one more obstacle she didn’t need.
But this place, oh this place, was everything she’d expected it to be. It was the quintessential symbol of luxury pamper-porn.
The sprawling Vermont resort spa bustled with autumn looky-loo tourists, or “leaf peepers,” as the train conductor had called them. Syrupy music from hidden speakers matched the complimentary bottles of maple syrup handed out to guests. The columns were marble, the brocade fabric chairs had gold threads, and the light pendants looked like Swarovski crystal. The air reeked of Chanel No.5, sandalwood oil, and money.
All told, it was the perfect place for her to hide in plain sight.
Her gaze landed on a Japanese ceramic vase that she stopped to examine, then she grimaced as she noticed the backstamp. Just a contemporary Prouna piece, probably cost a couple grand, but hardly interesting. Not like the treasure she was in town to steal.
Heading toward the reception desk, she paused to study the people around her. No one seemed to be interested in her. Good. She waited for the group closest to her to move on until she gave her name to the clerk, “It’s under Beverly Laborde.”
After the too-cheerful clerk verified Beverly’s reservation and checked her in, the clerk motioned to a valet to take the bags. Beverly stepped between her luggage and the valet, saying, “That won’t be necessary. They’re not heavy,” and waved him off. She gripped the maroon leather overnight case in one hand—no rolling along a hard floor for that one—and headed to her room.
Stepping inside, she nodded her approval. Four-poster bed, elegant sitting area with two turquoise and gray damask chairs, a Jacuzzi tub near the fireplace, and a stocked bar in the mini-refrigerator that greeted her with an alluring humming. She scanned a card on the table beside the bed that listed the à la carte spa services. The body wrap with neem black clay and skin-cupping was seven hundred dollars.
Much better than last week’s cramped box-of-a-room or the hotel next to the railroad tracks the week before that. She looked out the windows toward the White Mountains. Other areas around the world could boast of snowy-sand beaches or historic pyramids or Amazon rainforests. But in Vermont, it was the autumn leaves in their fluorescent glory.
She gently laid the overnight case on the bed, dialed in the security code on the lock, and unzipped the top, holding her breath as she peered inside. Still there and undamaged. She reached into a pocket in the front of the case, pulled out a manila envelope and map, and settled in one of the padded wingback chairs.
The notes she’d jotted down in the margins on the papers from the envelope were scribbled hastily, and she strained now to read them. Instead of fake reading glasses, maybe she was way overdue getting a real pair.
Next, she picked up old man Kornelson’s treasure map and turned it around to compare it to her notes. The yellowing map’s edges were only slightly smudged, and the lettering was remarkably vibrant and the printing legible.
She’d looked at the thing hundreds of times—what had she missed? She was just tired, that must be it.
Tossing the map, papers, and envelope on the coffee table in front of her chair, she rubbed her temples. When was the last time she’d traveled with someone else? She couldn’t remember. It must have been her grandmother, that trip to the antiques fair near Boston, six, no seven years ago. Three months before Grammie died. Beverly ran a hand across her eyes. She was not going to cry. Not now.
The room phone rang and made her jump out of her chair. No one could possibly know she was here, could they? It was a call transferred from the front desk, a call that made her forget all about crying.
“Is this Beverly Laborde?” the baritone voice asked.
“Who is this?”
“I’m Detective Adam Dutton with the Ironwood Junction PD. I’d like to come by and ask you a few questions.”
“If this is about that parking ticket in Hanover, I paid it off,” she forced a laugh. “Although I think a hundred dollars was a tad steep.”
“Not a parking ticket, no. Would four o’clock be convenient?”
“Of course. I’ll meet you in the lobby.” Beverly hung up, battling with the part of her that wanted to run away. She’d expected something like this might happen but hoped it wouldn’t. Oh well, another cop, another performance.
She picked up the notes and map again, but her blurred vision from lack of sleep made it hard to concentrate, so she gave up and headed to the mini-bar to pour herself a glass of wine. Maybe it would help give her some bottled courage before her appointment with Detective Dutton.
Glancing at her watch, she noted with chagrin that four o’clock was only ten minutes away. She hated to rush the Chablis but took a few hurried gulps of the flinty liquid with its pleasant aftertaste of green apples.
Well. Those few law enforcement types she had not been able to avoid were much the same. This being a smaller town and not Boston or New York, Dutton was bound to be a fat, dumpy, slow-witted Cro-Magnon type with a beer belly and low brow ridge. He probably went home every night to his cold-fish-of-a-wife and four rambunctious kids, two boys who were into Little League, and two girls who were cheerleaders.
She slid the wine glass onto the table where it made a disapproving ping. Fine, then, have it your way, Chablis. She grabbed the glass, took a few sips, walked to the door, and then stopped and listened. Was that someone coming down the hall? It was, but when the steps came and went, she relaxed and gulped down the rest of the wine.
After a quick touch-up of face powder and perfume, she headed downstairs, ready to bat her eyelashes coated in sapphire mascara and to smile with lips plumped with Fuchsia Fever. The poor unsuspecting detective wouldn’t know what hit him.
She spied the receptionist talking to a man and then turning to point at Beverly. That must be the cop she was expecting? If so, he was hardly a Cro-Magnon and definitely no low brow ridge. He was actually quite . . . appealing. Part of her hoped it was him, part of her hoped it wasn’t. She sucked in her stomach and straightened up.
The man in question headed toward her, his lean frame sporting a casual suit and tie. He strolled with a lanky, confident walk, not so much a caveman as a panther in an urban jungle. His thick sandy-colored hair, combed carelessly to one side, matched the light stubble on his face. Handsome in a well-seasoned, combat-carved way. At least, she’d have something nice to look at during her ordeal.
“Miss Laborde?” he asked, and she nodded. “I’m Detective Adam Dutton. Is there some quiet place where we could go to talk?”
“I just checked in, myself. But I noticed a tea room over there.” She indicated a room off to the right.
He looked in that direction and studied the room for a moment. “That’ll be fine.” He held out one hand, indicating the way. “Shall we?”
She maneuvered around him to get in front. Beverly Laborde never followed anyone. Looking around, she spotted a table in a corner away from other diners and headed for it.
“Tea room” was a misnomer since the place also served coffee, smoothies, and alcohol. She craved more Chablis but opted for a staid serving of chamomile. After all, suspects never drank chamomile, did they?
Apparently, detectives on duty didn’t drink anything, even if it was non-alcoholic. Dutton refused a drink at first until the waitress recognized him and offered him a cup of coffee on the house. Beverly watched him closely as he stirred in some sugar, his spoon clinking rhythmically in the cup. Then she said, “I didn’t know I was meeting with a local celebrity.”
He shrugged. “I arrested her husband once.”
“I’m surprised she didn’t throw the coffee at you. Unless she’s trying to stay on your good side.”
“She was glad to get rid of him.” Dutton took a sip of the coffee.
“You must see all kinds. And get all kinds of cases. I can’t imagine it ever getting dull.” This is where she’d ordinarily bat her eyelashes. But in this instance, she didn’t. His steady gaze was unsettling, and her sixth sense was telling her that he wouldn’t fall for the vixen routine.
He replied, “The work is interesting enough. And as for the cases, let’s say I don’t think I’ll be out of a job anytime soon. You’d be surprised at how much trouble is attracted to this area.” He studied her over his cup with a half-smile.
“And here I was thinking a nice spa vacation would be pleasantly dull.”
“You don’t seem like the spa type.”
“Oh? And what exactly is the spa type?”
“Middle-aged, married,” he glanced at her bare left hand. “And a little heavyish.”
“Sexist and ageist, Detective Dutton?”
He laughed. “Profile-ist. I’m only talking about the law of averages. It’s the outliers you have to watch out for.”
“Outliers like the mild-mannered Lizzie Borden?”
“Not that extreme.”
Beverly traced the rim of the warm cup with her finger. Dutton was wearing a cedar musk cologne or aftershave. Why did he have to smell so distracting? She cleared her throat. “I assure you I’m no Lizzie Borden, Detective. Just a tired girl in need of a massage and a pedicure.”
“Maybe if Lizzie had gotten a massage and pedicure, she wouldn’t have taken an axe to her parents.”
Beverly bit back a laugh. “Touché.” She needed to focus, play along. But the caution alarms were screaming inside her head, and the urge to flee was overwhelming. Should she stay? Should she run? For the first time in quite a while, she didn’t know what to do.
Then she remembered her grandmother sitting in the nursing home, not eating, staring out into space with unfocused eyes that were like cloudy window glass. When they ruined her grandmother’s antiques business, they ruined her life—she hadn’t lived long after. Even the hospice nurse said it was clear she died of a broken heart. Beverly was doing all of this for her, and she wasn’t going to back down now.
She took a deep breath, counted to five, and batted her eyelashes at Dutton. Just another performance, another day, another town. But she didn’t have the chance for any more stalling tactics because he got right down to the point. “I’ll tell you why I’m here today. I’m looking for a scam artist. Perhaps you can help me find her.”
