A Body to Die For (29 page)

As I nibbled listlessly at the apple, I tried mentally to recreate my experience in the spa. My guess was that only a minute
or two passed between the time Cordelia left the room and when the lights went off. It certainly could have been Cordelia
who had scared me, but it might also have been someone who spotted her walking away and slipped in right after that. Josh
had been around and could have done it. So could anyone else who was affiliated with the spa.

I tossed my half-eaten apple back into the basket, called the front desk to ask for a wake-up call at eight-thirty, and fell
dead asleep. I knew as I was drifting off that I might regret my nap later, but I was too exhausted to keep my eyes open.

I was out in front of the inn by eight-fifty. I’d splashed cold water on my face after my nap, then applied lip gloss, blush,
mascara, and a few smears of concealer to cover the pillow crease marks on my face.

Beck pulled up at one minute after nine, and rather than get out, he leaned across the front seat and opened the door for
me. He gave me one of those smiles of his that seemed half smile, half grimace. He was wearing dark pants and a denim shirt
under a sports coat. Since I knew he wasn’t a fan of auto chitchat, I leaned back in my seat and watched the houses and trees
zip by.

I was tempted to tell him what had happened. But I knew that if I spilled the story, it would only confirm that I was a snoop
and someone wanted me out of there. So I said nothing. We drove out past the strip where Leo’s was situated and then onto
a rural road. We pulled up to a small bar/restaurant made of logs called the Trading Post.

Inside, it wasn’t unlike the Bridge Street Tavern in atmosphere, though smaller, and tonight there was hardly anyone there.
We sat at the bar. I ordered a beer. He asked for a Maker’s Mark, straight.

“This is the kind of bar I wish they could just plunk down in New York City,” I said. Ah, tonight I’d abandoned my smartass
convo style and was going for something cuter, channeling Meg Ryan.

“You’ve got plenty of bars to choose from down there.”

“But none like this. You’ve spent time in New York?”

“Not in a while. Look, I wanted to talk to you about last night.”

I felt my cheeks redden. From his tone, I suddenly realized that this wasn’t date two. This was the blow-off.

“Okay,” was all I could manage.

“I enjoyed having dinner with you,” Beck said. “But I stepped out of bounds, and I shouldn’t have.”

“You mean it’s against some regulation? It’s not as if I’m a witness to anything.”

“No, but your account helps pinpoint the time of death. If there’s a trial, you might have to testify. Besides, you’re a friend
of Mrs. Hubner’s. And as you know, we’ve questioned her husband. I have to be careful with this case. It’s very important.”

“I understand,” I said quietly. “I appreciate your being straight with me.”

And I did. Beck was taking the rational path and his cooling things down solved my quandary over plunging back into a relationship
with Jack while entertaining a yen for a country sheriff. Still, being rejected smarted.

There were a few silent, awkward moments, and then he began to tell a story about a brawl he’d broken up here, at the Trading
Post, practically his first day on the force, and how he’d gotten a black eye. I chugged my beer, figuring since he’d taken
me out to tell me he couldn’t date me, he certainly didn’t want to be sitting around with me all night.

We were in and out of the Trading Post in less than thirty minutes. He nodded good night to the bartender, and we walked silently
across the parking lot. It was pitch black out, though the sky was scattered with a zillion stars and the filmy swath of the
Milky Way. Beck walked over to my side of the car to unlock my door and stopped.

“Look, I’m sorry about all this,” he said. “Maybe when the case is finished, our paths will cross again.”

I glanced up at him in surprise.

“In fact, if you play your cards right, I’ll take you to Leo’s again,” he said, smiling.

“I’d like that,” I said.

“Would you?” he asked. Even in the darkness I could see that his eyes held a quizzical expression.

“Sure,” I replied, not knowing what else to say. “And look, don’t feel bad about what happened. It was only a kiss. I won’t
tell if you don’t.”

To my total shock, he leaned forward and kissed me again, hard and deep. He leaned his body into mine, and I could feel his
erection pushing into me. I let my tongue slip into his mouth, and as I did, his right hand slipped through my open jeans
jacket and grabbed my breast so hard that it hurt. He pulled away almost as quickly as he’d kissed me.

“Deal,” he said.

We drove in silence, except for a comment he made about Massachusetts drivers, and when we reached the inn he said good night
and leaned across me to open the door. No kiss this time. But just as he had the other night, he waited until I was inside
the inn before zooming away.

I practically ran to my room, the key poised in my hand. The inn seemed less than half-full this week, and as far as I knew,
I was one of the few people staying along this corridor. Just as I reached my door, I heard a loud creak. My head shot to
the right, in the direction of the back stairs that led to the spa. There was nothing there.

Once I was inside I went through the usual routine: flipping on the dead bolt, pulling the table up against the door, checking
out the suite for signs of visitors. I felt the most nervous I’d felt since last Friday. It was clear from what had happened
in the spa tonight that I was rattling someone’s cage. One of any number of people could have slipped into the treatment room
after Cordelia left. Yet I hadn’t a clue who the culprit was.

As I lay in bed with one ear cocked to listen for weird sounds, I started ruminating about Beck—and Jack. Beck had pulled
a strange double-take on me earlier, suggesting that we might get together in the future, and kissing me again. I hadn’t wanted
that kiss to end; I’d wanted to go further. But I didn’t know if I wanted anything
more
than that from Beck. I had all these good feelings for Jack—when I wasn’t pissed at him.

I was up by seven-thirty Friday morning, after a shortage of REM sleep so severe that it would have been illegal for me to
operate heavy machinery. I made a small pot of coffee with the little machine in the bathroom and dressed in my black pants
and a black turtleneck sweater. No one was at the front desk when I arrived downstairs, though I could hear music coming from
the area of Danny’s office. I walked behind the reception desk and down the corridor. Natalie was standing over Danny’s desk,
tidying stacks of papers as Céline Dion sang in the background. When she saw me out of the corner of her eye, she jumped so
high that she was practically airborne.

“My God, you scared me,” she exclaimed breathlessly.

“I’m sorry. I heard the music and wondered who it could be this early.”

“I’ve got some filing to do, so I put the music on. It scares me to be back here alone.”

“I thought you usually come in later. Where’s the early morning guy?”

“He’s having a break. I’m just here to get caught up, and then I’m coming back later.”

“It must be hard for you—dealing with everything that’s going on.”

“My parents want me to quit,” she said, her face filled with worry. “They get freaked every day I leave for work. They said
I could only stay if my shift ended earlier. Danny’s arranged for me to work until eight o’clock every night, rather than
midnight.”

“I’m sure the police will catch the killer and you’ll feel safe again.”

“I guess. I mean, there was that other situation here just two months ago. That man dying. It just never seems normal here
anymore.”

“Are you thinking that the two incidents could be connected?”

“No, I didn’t say that. It’s just that it was awful when he died. There were police around for weeks, asking questions, and
all these reporters and that guy’s family was all upset and Danny was worried that the inn might get into some kind of trouble.
And then we’re barely done with it when Anna gets murdered, which is about a million times worse.”

“Did you know Anna?”

“No. By sight, yes, but not to speak to. She hardly said two words to me the entire time she was here.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know if she’d been dating anyone lately—I mean, did you ever see her with a guy?”

She lowered her eyes, as if she felt awkward discussing Anna. “I know she used to date Eric—but that was quite a while ago.
Since then I’ve only seen her alone. She didn’t look like the settling-down type.”

Before I left, I asked for a map of New England. All she had was the office copy, but she offered to loan it to me.

I had lots to think about that morning, but the directions to Wallingford were tricky enough and the traffic heavy enough
that I was forced to keep my mind mostly on the road. I picked up the Massachusetts Turnpike, this time going east, and took
it for about thirty miles, where I got on 1–91 and eventually something called the Wilbur Cross Parkway, and finally US-5.
When I figured I was about twenty minutes from Wallingford, I pulled into a rest area, took out my notes from my phone call
to the school, and called the main number again. I was pretty sure the woman who answered was the same perky chick I’d spoken
to yesterday.

“Bob Kass,” I said, trying to sound all nice and familiar, as if Bob and I went way back. I almost died when I heard her reply.

“Bob’s not in today.”

“You’re kidding,” I exclaimed. “I was supposed to speak with him.”

“He’s out sick.”

Now what? I couldn’t immediately ask her to put me through to one of the teachers on my list or she’d suspect something. I
signed off and drove the last fifteen minutes to Wallingford.

It was a fairly good-size town, blue-collar in feel, with lots of industry on the outskirts and a sleepy little downtown.
I found a place to park in town, bought a bagel and a cup of coffee, and called the school again. I tried to disguise my voice,
and this time I asked for the math teacher.

“She’s in class right now. Can I take a message for her?”

“What’s the best time to reach her?”

“Around lunchtime, I’d say. She might be in the teachers room then. Can I help you with something?”

“Uh, no. Thanks.”

It was going to be impossible to get by this babe. I called 411 and asked for a Bob Kass in Wallingford. There was a Robert
Kass and a B. Kass, and I chose option one.

I knew I had the right number when a man answered sounding as if he had a towel stuffed up his nose.

“Bob Kass?”

“Speaking,” he said, though he sounded half-dead.

“I’m so sorry to bother you at home when you’re sick. But it’s rather urgent. My name is Bailey Weggins. I don’t know if you’ve
heard, but a former student at the school, Anna Gianelli, was murdered while working for a friend of mine in Warren, Massachusetts.
My friend is very anxious that the killer be found, but the police are moving at a snail’s pace. I’m a professional journalist
and I’m helping her. We’ve been told there may have been some kind of trouble in Anna’s past, and we’re trying to learn whatever
we can about it—in case it’s linked somehow to her death. I’m hoping I could speak to you.”

There was a long pause before he replied, and I prayed he wouldn’t blow me off.

“No, I hadn’t heard,” he said finally. “That’s terrible. How was she murdered? When?”

“She was strangled. Just a few days ago. You knew her, then?”

“Not well. But I remember her.”

“Would it be possible for me to talk to you? I’ve driven all the way to Wallingford today to try to learn whatever I can.”

“I’m sick as a dog with this cold. But I could give you a couple of minutes if you want to drive over to my place.”

“That’s wonderful, thank you. Do you know if there
was
anything—I mean, any kind of incident in her past?”

“Yes,” he said. “There was something.”

W
HATEVER HAD HAPPENED
to Anna Gianelli Cole, it was big enough that a man who hadn’t known her well remembered it twenty years later.

He said his house wasn’t far from downtown, but his directions were lousy. I found myself driving away from the center of
town and suspected that I had taken a wrong turn. I asked for help from a man climbing into his car, and he told me to turn
around and head back in the direction I’d come from. When I finally located the street, I realized Kass had said right once
when he’d meant left.

His house was in an older development, maybe 1960s, which today, with so many fully grown trees, seemed almost quaint. He
greeted me wearing Dockers and a plaid shirt, but I suspected he’d hastily changed from a bathrobe after my phone call. He
was a pleasant-looking guy, mid-fifties, I guessed, with thinning, sandy-colored hair and hazel eyes that glistened from his
cold. There was a dog with him, a golden retriever, white around the muzzle from age.

“Thanks again for seeing me,” I said as Kass opened the screen door to let me in. “Especially when you’re sick.”