'Til Death Do Us Part (43 page)

I arrived downstairs at the spa with just a few minutes to spare. It was actually a large addition to the inn, abutting the eastern edge of the building. The decor was Asian-inspired: beige walls, cracked stone floors, bamboo plants in large putty-colored pots, and hallways lined with sheer beige curtains that poofed outward from the breeze you created walking by them. It was very different from the decor of the inn, but because they both featured such muted tones, it all seemed to work together.

I undressed in a spacious dressing area, then waited for ten minutes in the so-called relaxation room. Haunting Asian music played in the background, water gurgled over stones in a small fountain, and the scent of green tea wafted from two flickering candles. I tried to let go and relish it, but I felt a little silly. It was as if I’d somehow stumbled into a scene from
Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.

Fortunately, it was only a few minutes before I was led to a treatment room. I could barely wait for my massage to start, for the chance to have those sore muscles unknotted. My only concern was that it had been so long since I’d had any physical contact with another member of my species that I might begin to whimper at the first touch—like a poor little pound puppy. Unfortunately, on a scale of one to ten, the massage was no more than a seven. My “therapist,” a red-haired woman in her thirties, was skilled enough and had plenty of strength in her hands, but she seemed distracted, pausing at odd moments as she worked. It was enough to make me wonder if I had something weird happening on my butt—like a humongous boil—that was forcing her to stop and gape in horror. I was almost relieved when I was finally back in my suite and could totally veg.

After ordering a club sandwich and a glass of Merlot from room service, I unpacked most of the rest of the stuff from my bag, sticking my underwear and shirts in a dresser. In the early days that I’d traveled I used to wonder who actually
used
hotel dressers, but lately, at the ripe old age of thirty-three I’d come to discover that I prefer not having to forage through my suitcase each time I get dressed.

My food arrived within twenty minutes, and, ravenous, I devoured it. Then, after opening the window a crack, I undressed and turned back the thick white duvet on the bed. I was looking forward to reading between sheets that felt as if they exceeded a three-hundred-thread count.

As I lay between said silky sheets, though, I could feel my mind itching to go places it shouldn’t. In other words, it was dying to ruminate about my most recent love trouble. His name was Jack Herlihy, and he was a thirty-five-year-old professor of psychology from Washington, D.C., whom I’d met in May after he’d come up to teach a summer course in New York. At the time, Jack had come across like a breath of fresh air compared to most of the guys I’d been meeting. He was great looking, nice without being a wuss, and an amazing listener (well, he was a shrink), and he managed to be all of these things without ever showing up, like some New York men, with too much product in his hair. He seemed like a straight shooter, not the kind of guy who promises to call the next day but doesn’t for weeks, giving you reason to believe that he calculates his time in dog years. Jack didn’t like games—or at least that’s what I assumed before he started playing them.

Most of my Jack ruminations generally involved trying to figure out how I’d blown things. Admittedly, our romance had gotten off to a slow start, but he’d seemed okay with the pace, and it was certainly fine with me. I’d been fairly skittish since my ex-husband—the attorney-at-law and gambler-at-large— had fled the scene. Jack and I had some fun nights in the Village (he was hoping to eventually relocate to New York), one glorious day on the beach on Fire Island, and a night of half-naked groping in his apartment, during which I explained I wanted to wait a little longer for the full-frontal variety.

Then, in the beginning of July, Jack announced that his younger sister had meningitis and he was going to be going home to Pittsburgh each weekend to help his family. Since his life was about to become insane, he wanted to put our relationship on hold for the next few weeks—until he and his family were through the worst. I promised to be there when his life returned to normal.

We’d stayed in phone contact through July and the first week of August, and then suddenly I stopped hearing from him. I told myself to be patient, that he was caught up in the crisis. But after several weeks had gone by and he was still incommunicado, I started to panic. Since I didn’t have any reason to believe he’d entered the Federal Witness Protection Program, I suspected that I’d been given the boot.

But wait, things get worse. Just before Labor Day, as I was cruising the Village in search of fall shoes, I spotted him from a distance with a couple of cute female student types—he seemed talky, flirtatious, Mister Not-a-Friggin’-Care-in-the-World. As I’d ducked on wobbly legs into a store to avoid being seen, it was finally clear that it was o-v-e-r.

The only question left in my mind was why? Had he not been that interested in me to begin with and his sister’s illness had become a good excuse to put distance between us? Had he met someone else in the weeks we’d been apart? Had my request to take the sexual part of the relationship slowly discouraged him despite the fact that he had sounded okay with it?

Just as I was about to travel this tiresome ground in my mind for the millionth time, the phone rang.

“Bailey, it’s Danny. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

As she spoke I could see her in my mind’s eye. She was in her early sixties, pretty, or rather handsome, I’d say, with blondish gray hair lightly curled. And she was
tiny
—only about five feet tall and as slim as a candlewick.

“No, no, I’m just lying in bed with a book,” I said. “Danny, your inn is absolutely gorgeous. You’ve done an
amazing
job with it.”

“Thank you so much, dearest. How has your evening been?”

“Terrific. I had a lovely massage, then a light dinner up here in my room—or should I say my suite fit for a princess.”

“Who was your massage therapist, do you recall?”

“A woman. Redhead. Name started with a P, I think.”

“Piper. She has wonderful hands, don’t you think?”

“Yes, definitely.” I wasn’t going to get Piper in any kind of trouble by saying her heart hadn’t been totally into her work that night.

“By the way, I’ve set up a meeting for you and Josh,
the spa manager, at four tomorrow—if that’s still okay with you.”

I write a few travel articles each year—it’s a way to see the world free and also a nice break from the crime grind—and Danny was hoping that while I was ensconced at the inn I could provide some ideas on how better to pitch her place to editors and travel writers.

“Of course,” I said. “But when do I get to see
you
?”

“How about breakfast together tomorrow morning?” Danny asked. “Would ten work for you?”

“Absolutely—though I still may be in a stupor from my massage.”

She laughed lightly, like someone jangling her keys. “Well, you know what I always say—too much of a good thing is wonderful. Just wait till you have some of the other treatments I’ve booked for you. Have you ever had a massage with hot stones?”

“No—but I’m game for anything as long as it doesn’t involve colonics.”

“Oh, Bailey, you always make me laugh,” she said. “Well, I’m going to turn in now because my head is throbbing for some reason. I’m staying here at the inn tonight, by the way, in case you need to reach me.”

“Do you do that to see things from the guests’ perspective?”

“Partly. But also George is out of town, and I hate staying alone. Our house isn’t far from here, but it’s very secluded. Shall we meet in the lobby then?”

“See you then. I can’t wait.”

And I meant it. I felt a tremendous debt to Danny. She had been so good to me when my father died the year I was twelve, taking me on all sorts of little adventures and day-trips at a time when my mother was struggling so much it was hard for her to comfort me. Danny must have sensed early on my fascination for the macabre because one of our excursions had been to Salem, to learn more about the witch trials. My mother had looked slightly agog at both of us when she’d learned where we’d ended up that day, but it had been pure heaven for me.

My family eventually lost touch with Danny, during a period when she’d lived out West in a bad marriage. But after she moved back to Massachusetts (with a new husband) to open her inn, she and my mother had reconnected. Though I was only now paying a visit to the inn, Danny and I had spoken a few times on the phone, and I’d had lunch with her once in New York when she’d come to the city on business.

The call from Danny had managed to take my mind off Jack, and I picked up the book I’d taken into bed with me. It was, of all things, a decorating book. Lately I’d been feeling in desperate need of a change in my Greenwich Village apartment. After my divorce, I’d jettisoned all the modern stuff my ex encouraged us to buy and introduced a Sante Fe feeling—with the help of cinnamon-colored walls and some cheap baskets. But it was suddenly boring me, adding to my burned-out feeling. Last week I’d asked the
Gloss
decorating editor for some guidance and been forced to watch him recoil in horror as I described my place to him. You would have thought I’d announced I’d just installed wall-to-wall shag carpet.

“Santa Fe is totally stupid to do east of the Mississippi,” he’d said. “The light is all wrong for it. Besides, who wants to see another turquoise coyote with a kerchief around its neck.”

He’d suggested I go “minimal” and pulled a book from his shelf for me to consult.

I’d gone through four or five chapters, covering everything from the value of white space to the pure evil of tchotchkes, when I instinctively glanced at my wrist to check the time. My watch wasn’t there.

I felt a tiny swell of panic. It had been my father’s watch, an old stainless-steel Rolex I’d started wearing shortly after he died. My mind raced, trying to recall where I’d left it. It had been on my wrist during the drive to Massachusetts because I recalled checking it. Since it was waterproof, I never took it off when I showered. The
massage
. Rather than leave it in the locker, I’d worn it into the treatment room and placed it on a small stool in the corner. I would never fall asleep if I didn’t retrieve it.

I dialed the spa number, which was listed on a panel on the phone. As I counted the rings, I leaned out of bed and glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table: 10:25. I wasn’t surprised when no one picked up.

Plan B. I’d just head down there. There might still be someone on-site, cleaning up and not bothering to answer the phone.

I threw off the covers and dressed in the same clothes I’d worn earlier. My room was on the second floor of the inn, not far from a back staircase that ended near a side entrance to the spa. Hurrying along the corridor, I was surprised at how deadly quiet it was—no murmur of voices, no hum of TVs, and definitely no headboard banging. Guests here obviously preferred getting loofahed to getting laid.

The door to the spa was solid glass, and I could look directly into the small reception area that was reserved for the use of the inn’s guests. It was dark, except for a backlight in a case of beauty products. I tapped on the door, then tried to open it. No luck. As I turned away, though, I thought I heard a sound, something thudlike that I couldn’t identify, from deep within the spa.

It sounded as if someone
might
still be there, but I was going to have to try the main reception area, which could only be reached from the outside. Walking along the ground-floor corridor, I found an emergency exit and let myself out. I was on the edge of the parking lot, dark, except for a few perimeter security lights and a big puddle of moonlight. I headed around the edge of the building, toward the main entrance of the spa.

I was surprised at how cool the night was. The early-October temperature had hovered around seventy earlier in the day, almost balmy, but it had dropped at least twenty degrees. There was a stiff, choppy wind, making the tree branches shake. This was one of those nights that told you that if you’d been hoping the summery weather would last forever, you were a fool.

Before I even reached the door of the spa, I could see I’d wasted my time. There was a narrow window alongside each side of the front door, and it was dark inside. There were no cars at that end, not a soul in sight. It was totally silent, too, except for the wind and the faint yawning of cars speeding along a far-off highway. I felt nervous all of sudden, standing out there in the darkness all by myself.

I quickly broke into a jog and crossed the distance of the parking lot to the front of the inn. There were about twenty cars at that end, obviously belonging to guests. The front door was open, and I walked into the reception area, where a girl no more than twenty-five was sitting at the front desk, staring at a terminal screen. Like my massage therapist, she had bright red hair, held off her face with a tiny blue clip. Without giving her time to inquire if she could help me, I explained the situation to her and asked if she could open up the spa.