Dark Paradise (41 page)

belly and shoved herself toward the door.

Stand up!
 
Run!

The light from the hall beckoned like a beam from heaven and she headed

for it, trying to crawl, to run, to escape.

Run!
 
Run!

Something large and hard connected violently with the side of her head,

and everything went black.

The intruder ran into the hall and to freedom.

Marilee lay on the carpet, motionless, the telephone a foot out of

reach, her mind floating in a void.

A voice came over the receiver sounding pleasantly concerned. "Front

desk. How may we help you?"

Drew was despondent over the attack.

He paced back and forth along one end of the room in a black Reebok

warm-up suit. His shoes were untied. His hair stood up in tufts that he

continuously ran his hands back over as if to soothe himself. "This is

terrible," he said for the fourth time. "We've never had anything like

this happen."

Marilee tried not to watch him pace. Moving her eyeballs intensified the

pain drumming relentlessly in her head.

Sheriff Quinn had been rousted out of his bed for the event on Drew's

insistence. He leaned against the dresser, looking glum, while a deputy

poked around the room. Raoul the night manager hovered outside the open

door, trying not to appear superfluous.

"God, I feel so guilty," Kevin said. He reached for Marilee's hand and

gave it a squeeze. He sat beside her on the disheveled bed, looking like

an ad for Calvin Klein nightwear. A navy blue silk robe was loosely

belted at his slim waist, the V opening revealing a smooth, tightly

muscled chest. Baggy beach shorts stopped just short of his knees. He

was barefoot. "We've been talking about replacing these old locks with

card keys for months. Maybe if we'd done it, this wouldn't have happened."

"It's not your fault, Kev," Marilee murmured, tightening her fingers

around his, offering him more comfort than he was giving her.

"You didn't get a look at the fella at all?" Quinn said with a yawn.

She started to shake her head but caught herself. "It was dark. I hit

the first switch when I came in, but the light bulb was burned out. At

least, that's what I assumed. Then everything happened too fast. He had

on dark clothes and a ski mask. That's all I can say for certain."

"Was he tall, short, big, small?"

"Taller than me. Stronger than me." At the moment she figured anyone not

on a life support system was probably stronger than she was. Nausea

swirled through her head and stomach. Her skull felt like a cracked egg.

She gingerly touched the sore spot just behind her right temple. Her

fingers came away sticky with congealing blood.

Kevin turned a little gray at the sight. "I'll go get you an ice bag,"

he offered, and left the room, nearly bowling Raoul over on his way out.

"Can you tell if anything was taken?" Quinn asked, rubbing the bridge of

his crooked nose. He looked as if he had been sleeping in his uniform

shirt. His hair was a field of wheat stubble that had been ravaged by

cyclone winds.

Marilee's first instinctive fear had been for her guitar, but it sat

unharmed in a corner. The rest of the room was strewn with clothes and

upended furniture. She didn't have anything worth taking. No expensive

jewelry, no stashes of cash or traveler's checks. The thief had struck

out picking her room - if it had been a thief at all.

Her head boomed and echoed with the possibilities.

"Nothing was taken as far as I could tell," she said.

She looked sideways at the big sheriff, wondering if he would be

receptive to hearing her theories concerning Lucy. Not, she decided. Dan

Quinn struck her as a simple man. Steak and potatoes. The missionary

position. Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone.

He glanced at Drew. "Anybody else report hearing anything, seeing

anything unusual?"

"Not at all. It was a normal night until this." Drew dropped down on one

knee in front of Marilee and gazed up at her, tortured with guilt. "I'm

so very sorry, luv."

"It wasn't your fault."

"I'll have Raoul move your things to a suite while we're gone to the

emergency room." At the door, the night manager brightened like a

terrier at the prospect of importance. Drew's expression toughened as

Marilee opened her mouth to protest. "You're having that bump checked,

and that's the end of it. I'll drive you myself."

"We'll dust the room for prints," Quinn said, fighting another yawn.

"And we'll question the rest of the guests on this floor in the morning.

See if they might have noticed anything. I've got the deputies on patrol

looking out for anyone suspicious. Reckon he's either long gone or gone

to ground by now, but we'll keep our eyes peeled."

He looked as if he needed his peeled with a paring knife. The man was

ready to fall asleep on his feet. Marilee bit back her own questions.

They could wait until morning, at least until the sheriff had gotten

some sleep.

As promised, Drew delivered her to the New Eden Community Hospital

himself. Kevin, admittedly woozy at the prospect of needles and blood,

stayed behind to supervise while the deputy dusted the room for

fingerprints and Raoul began the moving process. They took Drew's black

Porsche to the small hospital. Marilee leaned back in the reclining

leather seat and tried to concentrate on something other than the need

to throw up.

"It's such a shock," Drew said. "One simply doesn't expect crime in a

place like New Eden. That's part of the lure, isn't it?
 
Clean air,

idyllic setting, utopian values."

He was talking to himself. Trying to reason away the shock. Marilee

listened, understanding perfectly. Paradise wasn't supposed to have a

dark side. She felt as if that were the only side she was seeing, the

parallel universe, where everything was cast in sinister shadows. Like

cutting open a perfect apple and finding it full of rot and worms.

Her stomach rolled at the analogy.

"Drew," she said weakly as sweat misted across her skin. "Do you have

any idea what Lucy might have been into?"

"Into?" He wheeled the Porsche under the portico at the emergency room

entrance. The white glow of fluorescent lighting spilled out of the

hospital doors like artificial moonlight. "How do you mean?" he asked

carefully.

"You said she liked to be in the thick of things, stirring up trouble.

What if she poked at the wrong hornet's nest?
 
Did you ever think about

that?"

He frowned, looking handsome and rumpled, his lean cheeks shadowed with

stubble, his brows slashing down above his green eyes. "I think you took

a nasty smack on the noggin. We ought to concentrate on that for the

moment. Don't let's worry about Lucy. There's nothing we can do to help

her now."

He started to turn for the door, but Marilee caught his arm. Just that

much movement unbalanced her enough to send dinner sluicing up the back

of her throat. Her brain felt disconnected from her body, as if her

psyche were trying to escape.

"Drew?" she asked, wanting desperately to slide into unconsciousness

again. "Do you think Lucy could have been blackmailing someone?"

"I think you're on the verge of delirium," he said brusquely. "Let's get

you inside."

She spent what was left of the night in the hospital. Dr. Larimer - who

also had to be called in from the comfort of his bed - checked her eyes

and reflexes, put three stitches in the cut on her head, and pronounced

her fit.

"Fit for what?" Drew demanded, incensed at the man's lack of concern.

The doctor, a squat man with unflattering hornrimmed glasses and a

retreating dark hairline, gave Drew an impatient look. "For whatever.

It's just a mild concussion."

Nothing he didn't see every day in the course of treating ranch hands

and rodeo cowboys. This was tough country full of hardy folk. The look

he leveled at Drew clearly set him outside that realm.

"We'll keep you overnight for observation," Larimer pronounced to

Marilee, obviously sensing the potential for trouble from these

outsiders.

Marilee sent Drew back to the Moose. All she wanted was a bed and a

handful of painkillers, something to shut out the pounding and the

suspicions for a few hours.

What she got was a room across the hall from a crying baby. She lay in

bed, the smell of bleach from the pillowcase burning her nose, thoughts

of Lucy chasing each other through her head, the sound of crying rubbing

her nerve endings raw.

She longed for comfort and thought of J.D. Had it been only hours

earlier that she had lain in bed with him, listening to the rain?
 
The

memory was real enough for her to recall the warmth of his body, the

strength of his arm around her, the pleasant scent of man and

lovemaking. And yet it seemed surreal enough to make her wonder if she

hadn't imagined the whole encounter. She didn't fall in lust with alpha

males. She hadn't come to Montana looking to bed a cowboy.

Even so, she closed her eyes and pretended he was there now, that she

was tucked back to front against his big, muscular body. She pretended

they belonged together, she pretended that he cared. The alternative was

to feel alone. And on a night when thoughts of Lucy haunted her,

thoughts of a death in the wilderness and a life with no one to love,

alone was the last thing she wanted to feel.

Quinn looked better with a shave and a fresh shirt. His mood hadn't

improved with the light of a new day, however. He sat behind his desk,

longing to sink his teeth into the fudge-caramel brownies his wife had

sent to work with him for his coffee break, but he had the sinking

feeling his coffee break wasn't going to happen any time soon.

Marilee Jennings sat across from him, pale, dark-eyed with an ugly

bruise on her cheek and an earnest expression that boded ill. It was

almost enough to distract him from the fact that she was wearing another

of her red skirts, padoc boots, a man-size denim jacket over a

Save-the-Planet T-shirt.

Quinn didn't like to think of anyone getting attacked in his territory.

He especially didn't like to think of any outsider getting attacked.

They tended to squeal like stuck pigs at the least provocation - not that

getting clubbed wasn't just cause for outrage - and they tended to drag

lawyers around with them like Dobermans on leashes. A simple case could

suddenly be blown into the crime of the century with packs of roving

media people sniffing around town for dirt and the lawyers preaching on

the street corners like demented evangelists. The prospects set his

stomach to churning. He frowned at the pyramid of brownies and the

coffee growing cold in his Super Dad mug.

Life here had been a whole of a lot simpler B.C. - before celebrities.

"How are you doing this morning, Miz Jennings?" he asked politely.

Leaning his elbows on the desktop, he discreetly pushed the plate of

brownies out of his range of vision.

She gave him a crooked smile that held more humor than he would have

expected. "I have a new sympathy for soccer balls - which is exactly what

my head feels like. I'm told I'll be fine in a day or two."

"You didn't really need to come in this morning, ma'am. It could have

waited."

"I take it there's no sign of the man who attacked me?"

He shook his head, waiting for the diatribe on the incompetency of

small-town police to begin. Marilee Jennings just looked sad, a little

haunted maybe.

"I wouldn't worry about him bothering you again," he said. "He's likely

moved on to another town. Thieves tend to get skittish when they've come

close to being caught."

"If he was just a thief."

Quinn tipped his head. "What do you mean?"

Marilee took a deep breath, tightening her fingers into a knot in her

lap. "I'm not sure he was there to rob me. I think he may have been

looking for something in particular."

"Such as?"

"I'm not sure." He looked impatient and she rushed on before her courage

could run out. "You know Lucy MacAdam's house was broken into a few days

after her death-"

"Vandals," he said, moving his huge shoulders. "Sure I know about it.

J.D. Rafferty called me out to have a look."

"But what if it wasn't vandals?
 
Miller Daggrepont's office was broken

into not long after. Daggrepont was Lucy's attorney. Don't you find that

strange?"

"Not especially." He cut a glance at his brownies, unconsciously flicked

his tongue across his lower lip, and looked back at Marilee. He seemed

to get larger and more intimidating the thinner his patience became.

"It's not unusual for a ranch house to get broken into when kids think

there's no one around to care or to catch them. I'm not saying it's a

common thing, but it happens. As for Daggrepont's office, it's just

across the alley from the Hell and Gone. Gets broken into a couple times

a year. I keep telling Miller to put a better lock on the door, but I

guess he'd rather collect the insurance on that junk he claims is

antique."

"But now my hotel room has been broken into," Marilee pointed out,

struggling to hold on to her own small scrap of patience. She was

exhausted and her head was pounding. She wanted to take a couple of the

painkillers Dr. Larimer had prescribed, climb into bed, and sleep for a

week, but she had thought - hoped - she could arouse Quinn's cop instincts

first. If he saw anything in her suspicions, he might assign someone to

check out the coincidences, and he might approach the case of her attack

from a different angle.

He wasn't looking aroused.

"Doesn't that seem a little too coincidental?" she pressed on. "I was a

friend of Lucy's. She left all her stuff to me. What if she left me

something someone wanted badly enough to commit a crime to get?"

"Did she?"

She closed her eyes against the frustration and the pain. He probably

already thought she was a lunatic. Another "I don't know" would seal her

fate with him. "She left a letter for me in the event of her death - which

in itself was strange. In the letter she mentioned a book

Martindale-Hubbell, it's a directory of attorneys. There's a set in her

study, but one is missing."

"If it's missing and you think it's what the thief was after, then why

would he break into Miller's office or into your room?
 
He could have

gotten it out of Miz MacAdam's study when he broke in there."

"Lucy might have hidden it. He might have thought she gave it to

Daggrepont for safekeeping or that I had somehow managed to get ahold of

it."

"And why would she hide a directory of attorneys?"

"Maybe there's something in it."

"Such as?"

I don't know. Three words guaranteed to jerk a cop's chain. They were

linear thinkers, cops. They liked evidence and logic and simple

explanations. She could give Quinn none of those things. All she had was

a matrix of ugly possibilities and hunches with Lucy at the center. If

she told him she saw Judge MacDonald Townsend snorting cocaine at a

party, he would likely ask her what she was on at the time.

Townsend was above reproach. She probably wouldn't have believed it

herself if she hadn't seen it with her own two eyes, and if she hadn't

known about the judge and Lucy. Nor was Quinn liable to see anything

strange about Ben Lucas representing Sheffield in the case of Lucy's

death. Lucas was a prominent attorney with a license to practice in

Montana. He ran in the same circles as Sheffield. So what if he had

known Lucy back in Sacramento?

"I don't mean to sound like a crackpot. But there are just some things

about Lucy's death that have bothered me from the first. Now this

happens."

"It was an open and shut case, Miz Jennings," Quinn said tightly. "We

got the man responsible."

"Sheffield claimed he never saw Lucy."

"I imagine he was lying about that. He shot a woman by mistake. When he

realized what he'd done, he panicked."

"Or someone else might have shot her."

The sheriff blew out a gust of air. His brows plowed a deep V above the

bridge of his crooked nose. The scar on his cheek was a vivid slash of

red. "I suppose you have some idea who?
 
I suppose you figure it was

this mystery man who wants this mystery book you don't really know

anything about."

"I'm only saying there are other possibilities. What about this hired

hand of Lucy's who disappeared after she was killed?
 
Kendall Morton. By

all accounts, he was a shady character."

"That isn't against the law in Montana, miss."

"But did you check him out?" Marilee badgered. "Did you at least check

his criminal record?"

"I can't divulge that kind of information," Quinn said, color creeping

up his thick neck into his face. "We did all that was necessary-"

"Necessary?" Marilee scoffed, her hold on her temper slipping. "You hung

a misdemeanor on a socialite and sent him back to Beverly Hills to

liposuction the fat out of rich women's butts. Did you even consider any

other suspects?
 
What about Del Rafferty?
 
He took a shot at me

yesterday!"

Quinn didn't bat an eye. He went on as if people getting shot at was as

ordinary as grass growing. "But he didn't kill you, did he?
 
If Del

wanted you dead, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"Maybe he wanted Lucy dead."

"Because he wanted this directory of attorneys so he could hunt them all

down and kill them too?"

"Don't patronize me, Sheriff," Marilee snapped, leaning ahead in her

chair. "Del Rafferty's elevator stops well short of the top floor. He

shot at me for coming into his territory. He might have thought he had

reason to get rid of Lucy altogether."

She felt like a traitor for saying it. Automatically she thought of

J.D., of the way he protected and defended his uncle. She thought of

Del. He had scared the hell out of her, but the look in his eyes kept

coming back to her, tearing at her heart. Hell was his state of mind.

Quinn fixed her with a look of cold anger. "Listen, Miz Jennings: Del

isn't quite right in the head. Everybody knows that. But he don't go

around killing people. And if he somehow accidentally shot that

woman - which is next to impossible - he would have 'fessed up. No Rafferty

I ever knew would let an innocent man take the blame for something he

did."

Defeated, Marilee held up a hand in surrender. Quinn would settle for

nothing less than a smoking gun. He wasn't about to make his life any

harder by opening a case for which he already had a conviction. You

should have known better, Marilee. Must have been that knock in the

head. "Okay, I give up. I can see this is pointless."

"Yes, ma'am," Quinn said, rising to his full height, jaw set in affront.

"I believe it is. I'm sorry your friend was killed. I'm sorry you were

attacked. Believe me when I say I wish to God it hadn't happened. I

especially wish it hadn't happened here."

Which was his not-so-subtle way of saying he wished she and Lucy and all

of their kind had never come to New Eden.

Marilee stood slowly and looked Quinn square in the eye.

"I wish that too, Sheriff. With all my heart."

"What are you doing with that colt?" J.D. demanded.

Will, who was turning twelve that very day, was already in the saddle.

The Appaloosa gelding was just two and wild as a cob. He'd run loose his

whole life, had never felt the hand of man until Chaske ran him down

from the hills three weeks before. J.D. had taken a shine to him

instantly. The young horse had a fine way of carrying himself and a

smart look in his eyes. He was a copper chestnut with white legs and a

blanket of snow white over his hindquarters. J.D. had been working him

in the round pen with Chaske's help, trying to get the colt used to

people, then to a saddle. He hadn't been ridden more than twice.

As Will took a short hold on the reins, the colt danced his head sky

high. He rolled his white-ringed eyes back, trying to see the unfamiliar

person on his back.

Will shot J.D. a smug grin. "I'm gonna ride him."

The feeling that burst through J.D. was jealousy, pure and simple. The

colt was his. He had a natural talent with horses, and that was one

thing his snot-nosed little brother couldn't horn in on. Except now he

was. Nothing was sacred.

"You're gonna get dumped on your bony little butt, shithead. Get off

him."

Will took a tighter hold on the reins. The colt danced around in a

circle, blowing through flared nostrils. The color was gone from Will's

face, but he showed no other sign of losing his nerve. "I can ride him

if I want, John Dopeface. You don't own him."

"I own him more than you do," J.D. shot back. He jumped up on a rail on

the corral fence and reached for the colt's bridle. The horse shied

sideways, beyond trusting anyone. "Get off before you ruin him!"

Will ignored him, his attention snagged by the sound of Sondra's voice

as she and some of her town friends came down across the yard toward the

corral. She was laughing and talking, her voice like the sound of water

tumbling down a mountain stream. She dressed like a town lady, which

J.D. hated, but then, he hated most everything about Sondra and Sondra's

snotty friends. He was too busy glaring at them to notice that Will was

taking the colt out through the gate.

Everything seemed to happen at once then. Will said something to catch

his mother's attention. She turned toward him, smiling brightly, and

raised a hand to wave.

The colt went off like a rocket. He shot straight up in the air, all

four legs coming off the ground. Will's eyes went as round as silver

dollars, then squeezed shut as the horse came down, driving his head

down between his knees and jerking him halfway over the animal's neck in

the process.

There was nothing to do but watch the wreck happen.

J.D. stayed on the rail, his fingers digging into the rough wood.

Sondra was screaming. Her lover went running to find help, but there was