Goodbye Arizona (5 page)

Eden scowled. “There’s no need to be
vulgaire
.”

“Oh yeah? You were not so clean yourself when you wrote those horrors on Deb’s walls.”

“What horrors? Ah… It’s about your precious Deborah. Again.” The woman spat the name with enough venom to curdle cream. “It’s the same old song, time and again. She shows up, and you become
complètement gaga
. Irrational. She leads you by the—”

“Who’s vulgar now? Answer my questions!”

She flipped her wrist in dismissal, and started toward her handbag. Marcus yanked her around. “Why did you trash our rooms? Cajoling and gentle persuasion didn’t work, so you decided to add a warning of your own? Are you responsible for that idiotic poem, too? A cheap way to interest people in the conference?”

Eden straightened up in anger, which nearly brought them eye to eye. He released her arm.

Her red mouth twisted in distaste. “Just a minute ago, you reminded me of my insistence about canceling your big announcement. Anyone here will soon learn about your little
tour de passe-passe
, isn’t it? So why would I want anyone to look at this circus too closely?”

She had him there. Marcus growled, “I’m still not hearing you deny you trashed our rooms.”

“I have more interesting things to do than listen to your absurd accusations. Do you really think I bother about
argent de poche
?”

“Fifteen percent of Flint’s income is hardly pocket-change.” He couldn’t believe his ears. Had she just called vandalism a
bother
? Marcus struggled to stay calm. She was selfish and greedy. She would use any situation to her own means. However, he didn’t see her shooting someone in the head.

“
Assez!
That’s enough. You’re not the police, and I don’t have to hear any of this. I didn’t do anything. Contrary to your sweet little Deborah, I don’t disgrace myself by breaking into hotel rooms. Get out.”

Her throaty drawl reached abnormal heights. Eden pulled the door open, and stopped dead in her tracks in front of the sheriff.

Chapter Six

Deb crossed the terrace through hysterical shouts and manic giggles. The pleasant alley leading from the main building to the small villa that housed the spa was so packed, she felt like a salmon swimming upriver.

“Propose free alcohol and you’ll end up with a stampede,” she grumbled under her breath. The crowd around her rushed and yelped, impermeable to anything that was not liquid. A pointy elbow bit into her breast as one of the banshees tried to push her out of her way.

“Hey!”

The hand attached to the arm flipped up as if to say sorry. Deb suspected the gesture would have been slightly less polite if her assailant hadn’t almost been run over by another thirsty maenad.

Someone stomped on her foot. A blow in her back sent her headfirst into the bay window. She avoided the crash by a hair, banging against a clay pot instead. Deb clasped Marcus’s laptop to her chest like a shield with one hand, the other rubbing her bruised hip. “Jesus…”

She started to regret not taking Marcus’s advice to wait for him inside. The barman had pumped up the volume of the music to add cadence to the ruckus, then grinned from ear to ear, delighted with the ear-splitting squeal that followed. Deb glowered at him and tried to figure out a new path toward safety.

Two vicious tackles and countless blows later, she reached the end of the pool. Her hip hurt. The nauseating noise that she just heard sounded suspiciously like her blouse ripping at the shoulder.

Out of breath, and very irritated, Deb didn’t realize the prick on her shoulder wasn’t just the strap of the satchel pinching her skin.

****

“I do hope you’re not interfering with my job, Mr. Turner.”

Marcus glared at the petite woman in the ill-fitted beige suit, but wisely kept his mouth shut. Pooley glanced around. She frowned when she saw Eden’s pricy bags. “I can’t authorize you to leave, Miss Guillot. My investigation isn’t over.”

“But I’m innocent.”

“So you say.”

Pooley ignored Marcus’s snigger while Eden shot daggers at him with her glare. She must have figured sarcasm would lead her nowhere because she changed tactics. “Sheriff, I’m so scared… That poor Sybil … and Clare… I can’t stay here. I’m a bundle of nerves.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. You can consult with the department psychologist, if you wish.” Eden’s triumphant smirk died out. “In any case, someone within your happy little group is a murderer. Until I find out who, I want you all at my disposal. In fact, I’d like to clarify a few things.”

Pooley shot a glare toward Marcus, who crossed his arms over his chest to make it clear that it would take a crane to move him. The sheriff pinched her lips, then returned her attention to Eden.

****

“Hey, is she okay?”

“Yes. I have it. Too much heat and alcohol.”

“Oh, okay…” A grin flashed, an invitation. “I’ll see you tonight, then?”

“You can count on it. I wouldn’t miss that gala for anything…”

****

“Where were you last night between ten p.m. and three a.m.?”

Marcus jumped. Eden scowled. “Me? You’re accusing me?”

“Not accusing—yet. I’m asking.”

“This is ludicrous.”

Pooley raised an eyebrow. Her non-verbal posture reminded Marcus of a hound on a trail.

“I was working! I’ve been working like a mule for weeks to counter the disaster this
imbecile
is about to unleash.” She pointed a manicured fingernail to the hotel pamphlet on a table. “I called room service for a salad and a bottle of Perrier. Check with the clerk.”

Pooley’s grin climbed one shade above sardonic. “I did. Do you care to explain why the said clerk mentioned seeing you in front of Miss Stone’s suite this morning after he departed the hotel with Mr. Turner?”

Eden turned a very deep pink. Marcus opened his mouth. “What?”

“Mr. Turner!”

He whipped his head toward the sheriff to argue. Before he could proffer a sound, his phone chimed.

The image attached to the wordless text message curdled his blood.

****

Deb jolted awake, gasping for air. Her head fell back on the hard surface under her as she struggled to breathe. She forced her lungs to work, inhaling and expulsing the stale oxygen, almost relieved by the uncomfortable humidity around her. For a terrorizing minute, she felt trapped underwater, drowning.

With another deep breath, she straightened up, and blinked to accommodate. Her vision cleared from a golden blur to a world of honey-colored flat surfaces and white angles. She fluttered her lashes and finally made out wood panels and square ceramics.

She placed her bare feet gingerly on the tiled floor. It was warm, hot even, but not unbearable. Deb looked down at herself. She was down to her underwear, but sweat still pearled on her skin.

“At least my bra and panties match.”

Hearing her own voice and the attempt at humor quieted the harried pulse in her veins.

Whoever had taken her clothes and shoes had tossed a small spongy towel on the bench next to her. The fabric was damp, and it clung to her skin, but once Deb had wrapped it around her torso, she felt better. She pushed tangled locks away from her clammy cheeks, and braced herself on the bench to stand.

The small effort it required pushing upright made her giddy. Blood pounded on her eardrums. She pressed one palm on the wall to support herself against it. The room around her reeled so badly that her head hurt. Her throat burned. Nausea battled the rampant fear lurking too close to the surface. Deb fell on her knees and vomited.

****

The body on the grainy photograph was twisted in a fetal position. Eden grouched, “What is it now?”

Marcus’s eyes stayed glued to the small screen. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t think. Deb… What had happened to Deb? Minutes ago, he was arguing with her and now… Her face was flushed, her skin unnaturally red. He tried to swallow so his heart would regain its normal place inside his chest.

He fisted the Southern Belle’s blouse with both hands. He almost yanked her off her feet. Eden screeched, “Marcus!”

“What did you do? What did you do to her?”

“Mr. Turner.” The blood pounding in his ears made him conveniently deaf. “You’d better tell me this minute where Deb is, or I swear—”

Pooley picked up the phone he’d dropped, to scan the image. At the same time, a text’s arrival pinged. She read it aloud.

“‘But shh, here comes the beautiful Ophelia. Nymph, please pray for my sins.’”

****

With her stomach empty, she felt better, and managed to stand on shaky legs.

The room was about twelve feet wide, with a semi-circular wooden bench on one side. The opposite wall was also paneled, and bare, except for one minuscule frosted-glass window, and a knob.

“Here you are. Open Sesame.”

Deb grabbed the handle and pulled. And pulled again. “Damn it. Come
on
!”

She shook the knob over and over. Her throat seized up, as the heat and panic made it hard to breathe. Sweat trickled down her spine, dampening her palms. She nearly lost her footing on the humid floor and sank back on the bench.

Her eyes tingled.

No crying. It’s okay. You’ll think of something. Just calm down, Deb, you’re going to be all right.

Deb took in wobbly gulps of air, one painful hiss after another, until she felt steadier. She licked her lips, choosing to blame the salty sweat instead of tears. She glared at the closed door, and remained seated.

She wasn’t hungry, so she could assume only a short amount of time had passed. A couple of hours, maybe even less than that. “It’s still daylight. Your kidnapper couldn’t go far with you in tow. It was already risky with all these people around to take you,” Deb reasoned. A nasty murmur in her head blabbered about the alcoholic focus of the crowd, the possible excuses about a blackout. “He or she locked you somewhere close. And if you’re still at the resort, then there must be people around. Someone will hear if you make enough noise. Someone has to…”

With renewed energy, Deb approached the door again.

“Hey! Hello? Is anyone there?” She banged her fist on the window. “Hello? I’m locked in! Hello?”

****

He dashed out of the room. In Shakespeare’s play, Ophelia drowned. He’d used the name on purpose for one of the victims in
Storm Watcher
, so like Hamlet, his hero grieved and regretted his actions.

The stairs moved past as a blur. The lobby was cold and empty. His radar zoomed in on the crowd outside. Marcus broke into a run and bullied his way to the counter.

“Have you seen a beautiful brunette? She wore shorts and a short-sleeve cherry jersey.”

His question splintered under a deafening uproar. Bodies swayed. The stench of alcohol and bar food overwhelmed him. The bartender barely spared a glance in his direction. “Nope. Who’s next?”

Empty glasses clinked in response, craving attention. Marcus thrust the picture of Deb’s inert form—
please, God, let her be just unconscious
—under the guy’s nose. “Look, asshole! Look at her! Where is she?”

“Hey, back off, man. I’m sorry for your girl, but look around you. It’s a jungle out here.”

“Where. Is. My.
Wife
!”

Marcus’s voice grew in volume with every word. Women stepped back with the look of frightened gazelles on their faces, ideas of free drinks forgotten.

A small hand pressed firmly on his forearm. “Mr. Turner, let me handle this.”

The sheriff took the phone from his hand to present it to the barman again. Her badge appeared on the counter at the same time. The man grabbed a full pitcher of sangria.

“I’m Sheriff Pooley.” The name earned a fleeting glimpse to the badge on the counter, then another nod. Suddenly, the terrace seemed very quiet, despite the samba blasting from the speakers. “Do you recognize the place she’s in? Is it in the hotel?”

“I—I don’t know, ma’am. I—I don’t work here. I mean I work here, but I’m just a hired hand. For the weekend.”

“Julio, give me that.”

An elfin redhead with blue and green locks expertly balanced a tray from one hand to the other and picked up the pitcher before the flavored wine could topple over. The young man exhaled in relief. She put it back on the counter and nodded at the sheriff. “Can I see the photograph?”

Pooley handed it to her. The newcomer peered at the screen. “It’s hard to tell, but it looks like one of the saunas.”

“Which one?”

“Huh, I don’t know. A few of the guesthouses have those, but—”

Marcus didn’t wait for the end of her sentence and scampered off. He would break into each bungalow if he needed to.

****

Screaming in the heat consumed more energy than she had. Deb coughed, gritting her teeth at the pain in her throat. Air rasped through the constricted pipe like sandpaper. She tried the knob again, to no avail. The door was locked tight.

Half-panting, half-wheezing, Deb resumed her hitting on the window. Someone would pass by at some point and hear her. Or Marcus would start to worry, and—

“Marcus… Oh, God…”

They had parted right after fighting in relatively amiable ways, but he knew her tendency to sulk. She didn’t exactly hold grudges, but she brooded, sometimes for days. What if he thought she’d disappeared to punish him? He’d never talked to her the way he had this afternoon. Her legs betrayed her and her bottom hit the bench. What if he decided he’d had enough of her caprices? What if he chose to give up on her, for good this time?

Tears welled again and she let them fall, too tired and too scared to fight the desperation any longer. She was doomed. Her kidnapper had left her to rot in that oven of a place. She would die here, of thirst or of hunger, alone. Marcus would forever think that she had abandoned him, that she was the reckless child he had accused her to be only hours ago.

A heart-rending mewl filtered through her parched lips. Her chest constricted, squeezing so hard her heart tried to escape up her throat. Deb curled on the bench, her hands balled close to her mouth. She closed her eyes to block out the nauseating whirlpool her prison had become.

Breathing turned into a battle. The faint smell of rosemary on her skin stopped being reassuring. She didn’t want to die. Not here. Not like that. She wanted to live. She wanted a chance to apologize for reading his work when she had sworn not to. She wanted to prove he could trust her, a chance to say ‘I love you’ a thousand more times. She wanted to see another sunset in the Valley, to dine with Marcus on the patio overlooking the apple orchard. To bicker with him because he cheated at cards and left dirty clothes on the bathroom floor. She wanted to decorate another Christmas tree, and tease him about singing carols out of tune. She wanted to make a home with him, raise a family…

“Deb!”

The voice she knew so well—his voice—echoed in her head like a cruel taunt.
You’ll never hear him say your name again. You’re pitiful and useless. He spoiled you and you threw it back in his face.