Light in Shadow (22 page)

“Why?”

“One day during a session, I noticed some paperwork on her desk. It was from the police chief of a small town
not far from Candle Lake. The letter thanked her for her consulting services on a recent murder case and said that a check was enclosed.”

“What kind of consulting did she do for them?”

“McAlistair saw me looking at the letter and told me that she occasionally did psychological profiles for small police departments.”

“Well, hell. She figured that if you really did hear voices in the walls, you might be useful to her, is that it?”

“I think she understood that I didn't hear voices,” Zoe said, choosing her words carefully. “But she has a professional interest in the biological basis of human intuition. She's even written some papers on the subject. I think she wondered very seriously if perhaps I might have some sort of extremely sensitive intuition that might be useful at crime scenes. It was nonsense, naturally, but she's really into that kind of thing.”

“You think she figured maybe she could use you as an assistant?”

“Either that, or she was simply curious in the academic sense. All I know for sure is that she was constantly testing me. She was always asking me to write down my impressions of a room. She used to experiment with some of my meds, trying to see if certain drugs could boost my sensitivity.”

“Sounds like she should have been a patient at the Manor, not the doctor in charge.”

“I pretended to swallow the pills.”
Most of the time.

But there had been those two occasions when the meds had been ground up and slipped into her food. Old panic sleeted through her veins. She remembered how she had come to her senses both times in a screaming room with McAlistair standing nearby, urging her to report what she felt.

She pushed the memories aside and saw that Ethan was watching her with a disturbingly intent expression.

“What's the matter?” she asked, trying to lighten the
atmosphere. “Worried that you might actually be married to a crazy woman?”

“No,” he said. “But it does occur to me that Ian Harper and Forrest Cleland might not be the only ones who had a good reason to keep you locked up at Candle Lake Manor.”

A chill ran down her spine. “You may be right. But it doesn't matter now.”

“No.” He lowered his mouth to hers. “It doesn't matter now.”

They arrived back
in Whispering Springs shortly after three that afternoon. Ethan drove straight to the motel where Leon Grady had rented a room. The phone call he had made as soon as the plane touched down had set off alarm bells. According to Stagg, all was well on this end, but Grady was still registered under a phony name at the Sunrise Suites.

That didn't make sense. He knew Grady's kind. The blackmailer should have cut his losses and been long gone by now.

Zoe sat tensely in the seat beside him. “I can't believe he had the gall to stick around after you told him that there was no way I would pay blackmail. Do you think he came up with another plan? Something to do with Arcadia?”

“He hasn't made any move to contact her according to Stagg, so I think we can assume he isn't aware that she's here in Whispering Springs.” Ethan pulled into the motel parking lot.

“Maybe he decided to wait and see if we actually went through with the marriage.”

“I didn't think I'd left him in any doubt.” He switched off the engine. “But if that's the case, our shiny new license should convince him.”

Zoe unclasped her seatbelt. “You know something? I'm glad he stuck around. I'm looking forward to confronting that slimy little worm face-to-face. I've got a few things I want to say to him.”

“Might be better if you let me handle this—”

But it was too late. She was already out of the car.

Resigned, he climbed out from behind the wheel and caught up with her just as she started up the steps to the upper level. They reached the landing and walked toward 210. The drapes in 208 fluttered a little. Ethan heard the muffled chatter of a television commercial inside the room.

Zoe glanced back over her shoulder. “Room 210, you said?”

“Yeah.” He saw the privacy sign dangling from the doorknob. “Looks like he isn't in the mood to receive visitors.”

“Tough.” She came to a halt and rapped sharply on the door.

Her enthusiasm for taking on Grady would have been amusing if it weren't for the fact that this whole scene felt very wrong.

There was no response to Zoe's knock. Ethan watched the closed drapes. They did not shift.

“He's probably over at the restaurant, feeding his face,” Zoe said.

A bored-looking maid rumbled toward them with her cart.

“Excuse me,” Zoe said. “Have you cleaned this room yet?”

“Nope, he hasn't taken the sign down,” the woman grumbled. “Far as I'm concerned, I don't care if he never opens that door. Been here almost a week and he ain't
tipped yet, even though he paid the manager cash in advance. Doesn't look like the type who'll leave so much as a buck when he checks out.”

“We'd like to take a quick look inside that room,” Ethan said.

“Can't let you do that,” the woman said. “Room's rented and the privacy sign's out. Can't go in as long as the sign's out, y'know. Only the manager can open it when they put that sign on the doorknob.”

Ethan reached for his wallet and pulled out a few bills. He folded them in half. “We're a little concerned about our friend. We just want to make sure he didn't collapse or something.”

The woman eyed the bills. “I dunno. Not supposed to go in when the sign's up.”

Zoe deftly removed the privacy sign and held it behind her back. “There's no sign now.”

The maid examined the doorknob. “Damn, you're right.”

Ethan shoved the money into her hand. She pocketed the cash with a swift, efficient movement and hefted her key ring.

“Just a quick look,” she said.

“Of course,” Zoe agreed.

The maid knocked once and then opened the door and peered into the room.

“Housekeeping,” she called loudly.

Her wariness gave Ethan the impression that she'd had a few bad experiences opening doors in the course of her career in the lodging business.

For his part, he relaxed a little when he caught a whiff of the air inside the room. There was a stale, musty odor tinged with the underlying scent of the strong cleaning agent the maid used in the bathroom, but that was all. He realized he had been braced for something worse. He'd had some unpleasant experiences opening doors in his career, too.

The maid stepped back and did a quick survey of the
balcony, looking left and right. Satisfied that she was not being observed by the manager, she made a shooing motion.

“Hurry up, take your look. Be quick about it.”

Ethan was already inside the room, slipping on a pair of thin plastic gloves. Behind him, Zoe hesitated briefly and then followed.

“Don't touch anything,” he said over his shoulder.

She glanced at his gloved hands and raised her brows. “I won't.”

Not much had changed since the last time he'd been here, he thought. He rifled rapidly through the contents of Grady's brown duffel bag and found only dirty shirts and socks. The closet was empty. A couple of plastic containers bearing the logo of the fast-food restaurant next door were the only items in the trash.

“My file,” Zoe said, sounding outraged.

He looked at her. She stood near the table, examining some papers she had taken out of a manila folder. He could tell that she was furious.

“Thought I told you not to touch anything,” he reprimanded.

She ignored him. “That bastard must have copied it before he left the Manor.”

“Put it in your purse and don't touch anything else.” He went down on one knee to check under the bed. A herd of dust bunnies peeked back at him.

The maid glanced through the doorway. “You gotta leave now,” she hissed. “You said you just wanted to make sure your friend wasn't hurt.”

“We're on our way.” He did a quick survey of the grimy bathroom. Grady's kit bag contained nothing more interesting than a razor, a small can of shaving cream, a comb, and some aged condoms.

He turned away from the bath and followed Zoe out of the room. The maid closed the door very quickly, grabbed the handle of her cart, and trundled off without a word of farewell.

Ethan and Zoe went the opposite way, back toward the rear stairs.

Zoe watched him strip the gloves off his hands. “Where did you get those?”

“There was a time when a well-dressed gentleman would not have even considered going out into public without a pair of gloves.”

“You're just a throwback to an earlier, more genteel era, is that it?”

“Someone has to try to uphold standards.”

“A noble endeavor.” She looked at the restaurant. Her mouth tightened. “I'll bet he's over there.”

“Maybe.” Ethan looked at Grady's car, still parked below the balcony. “Can't see him walking very far. He didn't strike me as the type who worried about getting enough exercise.”

The curtain in the window of 208 fluttered when they went past. Ethan caught a glimpse of a face behind the glass.

“Hang on.” He stopped and knocked.

The door opened immediately. A cloud of cigarette smoke gushed from the room. A short, bald little man wearing a stained tee shirt and a pair of red-and-white spotted boxer shorts looked out. The front of the shorts gaped wide.

The man had a cigarette in one hand. It was obvious that he had not bothered to shave for the past couple of days.

“You're looking for the guy in 210, aren't you?” he asked cheerfully. “Heard you talk your way past the maid. Pretty slick.”

“Have you seen him?” Ethan asked. He was conscious of Zoe looking away from the open front of the boxers.

“How much did you give the maid?” the little man demanded.

Ethan reached for his wallet again and pulled out more cash. He put the money into the outstretched palm. “About half this much.”

“Yeah?” The little man stuck the cigarette into the side
of his mouth and counted the money. He seemed satisfied. “He went out last night around midnight. Never came back.”

“Out?” Zoe frowned. “In a car?”

“Nope. No car. Just went downstairs and went around behind the building. Never came back.”

“You're sure it was the man in 210?” Ethan asked.

“Hell, yes, I'm sure. Only the two of us on this floor most of the past week. I rent by the month and I keep an eye on things. Can't be too careful.”

The little man took a step back and closed the door abruptly.

Ethan and Zoe went down the rear stairs.

“Gee, you sure get to meet a lot of interesting people in your business, don't you?” Zoe said.

“You didn't think the boxers were a fashion statement?”

“I will never be able to look at a pair of boxer shorts the same way again.”

At the bottom of the steps, Ethan turned and went toward the rear of the motel.

Zoe hurried after him. “Where are you going?”

“According to the local block watch captain up there in 208, Grady walked off behind the motel around midnight and never returned. Thought it might be interesting to see if there's any indication that he met someone back here.”

She studied the rutted road that ran behind the motel. “You could meet someone secretly behind that boarded-up house or at those old warehouses.”

“Let's see if we can find anything.”

They walked toward the abandoned house. Ethan took a closer look at it. The windows were covered with sheets of plywood, but the door was partially open. It sagged on rusty hinges.

Should have been closed, he thought. Maybe kids used it as a club house.

He left the road and walked toward the front porch. Zoe followed, wrinkling her nose.

“What on earth is that odor?” she asked.

Ethan was already at the porch, looking at the body that lay just around the corner.

“That odor is the smell of things getting a lot more complicated,” Ethan said. “We can stop looking for Leon Grady. Someone else found him first.”

Early that evening
they sat together in Ethan's office.

“I don't get it,” Harry Stagg said. “You told the cops the guy had tried to blackmail Zoe, and they still went with the idea that he got shot because he was poaching on another dealer's turf?”

“That's their working theory at the moment,” Ethan said.

Zoe exchanged glances with Arcadia, who was sitting in one of the extra chairs Ethan had dragged into his office from the outer room. Arcadia looked as cool as ever, but there was something different about her today. Zoe couldn't put her finger on it, but she knew it had to do with the thin man with the ancient eyes who sat beside her.

They had gathered in Ethan's office following the long session with the police. Ethan had offered coffee. It was good coffee, Zoe thought, but she might have made a serious mistake in drinking some. Her level of tension was already several notches into the red zone.

“I think that, for a while there, Detective Ramirez was
looking at me with some serious interest,” she said. “He certainly wasn't quite as friendly as he was the last time. But as soon as Ethan informed him that we had a perfect alibi, he came up with his dope dealer scenario. Apparently those old warehouses have recently become a hangout for some of the local kids who experiment.”

“Getting married at the time of the murder is one of the better cover stories I've heard in a while,” Harry said. “You got witnesses and everything.”

“And the staff at the hotel will probably remember us well,” Ethan said. “We asked for a room change.”

Arcadia glanced at Zoe with a questioning expression.

“The first room had a round bed with a mirror in the ceiling,” Zoe said.

Arcadia nodded. “Of course you had to ask for a change.”

“Why's that?” Harry asked. “A mirror in the ceiling sounds real nice. You don't see that kind of thing a lot. Leastwise not in the type of places where I usually stay.”

“For a very good reason,” Zoe said. “It's tacky. Also, in an earthquake zone, it constitutes a serious hazard.”

“Las Vegas is in an earthquake zone?” Harry asked with great interest. “Never heard that.”

Ethan propped his feet on the corner of his desk. “I didn't have a problem with the decor, myself, but Zoe didn't care for it so we got moved. Bottom line is that our alibi is really rock solid. Which leaves the cops with the dope dealer scenario.”

“Is it plausible?” Arcadia asked.

“To be fair, it does make some sense,” Ethan allowed. “The cops rounded up a couple of the kids who have a rep for being into the local drug scene, and they admitted that a guy matching Grady's description had approached them around midnight and offered to sell them some of what he said were real prescription drugs.”

“They turned him down, naturally,” Zoe said dryly.

Harry snorted. “Of course. Just said no, huh?”

Ethan shrugged. “Sure. But under a little questioning,
they admitted that they heard sounds that might have been gunshots right after the stranger left them. Said shots came from the vicinity of the old house. They didn't report the gunfire because they weren't sure that's what it was.”

“Also, the police found several bottles of various kinds of psychoactive meds in a sack that was found next to Grady's body and more bottles in the trunk of his car,” Zoe concluded. “I'll bet he stole them from Candle Lake.”

“There was a lot of that kind of theft there,” Arcadia said thoughtfully. “So the drug dealer theory is at least somewhat viable.”

Ethan looked at Harry. “Not to be indelicate, but just out of curiosity, how good is your story?”

It took Zoe a second or two to absorb the implications of that question. When they hit her, she choked on a swallow of coffee.

“Ethan,” she sputtered. “You're not suggesting that Harry . . . that he . . .”

“Just asking,” Ethan assured her.

“Don't worry.” Arcadia reached over and slapped her lightly on the back. “Our alibi is every bit as solid as yours. The kids heard shots around midnight? Harry and I went to The Last Exit last night. We didn't leave until two, and we've got the bar tab to prove it.”

“Oh,” Zoe said. “Oh, good.”

“The jazz was very fine,” Harry added.

“Did the police want to know why you were being blackmailed?” Arcadia asked Zoe.

“Sure,” Zoe said. “And we gave them a streamlined version of the truth. I told them that I had spent some time in a private hospital where Grady had worked and that I was anxious not to have that very personal medical information made public to potential clients. The detective was very understanding. We did not mention you, of course.”

Ethan examined the tips of his shoes. “There was no reason not to give the cops some of the facts about Zoe. Hell, the more people that know she's married, the better. There was also no reason to drag your name into this mess,
Arcadia. But I think it might be a good idea for you and Harry to leave town for a few days.”

Arcadia frowned. “Why?”

“As far as we know, Leon Grady was not aware of your new identity. With luck that means that no one else knows you're here in Whispering Springs, either. But at this point we can't be certain of that conclusion.”

“He's right,” Harry said to Arcadia. “It makes sense to get out of town for a while, at least until Truax figures out what's going on here. He needs to find out for sure who killed Grady.”

Arcadia raised her brows. “Is that what you're going to do, Truax? Investigate Grady's murder?”

“Yeah,” Ethan said. “I think so. I want to be certain that the cops are right about him getting whacked by a dealer.”

“But who else would have a motive?” Arcadia asked.

“Hell, the guy was a blackmailer,” Harry pointed out. “Blackmailers always have lots of enemies.”

“What about Zoe?” Arcadia asked Ethan. “Will she be safe?”

“My cover is already blown, as they say,” Zoe pointed out. “But it doesn't matter anymore. Now that I'm a respectably married woman, hauling me off to Xanadu wouldn't do anyone any good.”

“Don't worry,” Ethan said. “Zoe will be staying with me out at Nightwinds at night until this is finished.”

Zoe lowered her mug. “I will?”

“Yes,” Ethan said deliberately. “You will. I'll take you to work and stay with you as much as possible. I can do some of my research from your office. When I can't be there, I'll make sure you have company. I don't want you to be alone until I've tied up some of the loose ends.”

“But according to your theory, I should be okay now that we're married.”

“Something is screwy with this situation and I'm not going to take chances,” Ethan said.

Zoe opened her mouth to protest.

“Good,” Arcadia said before Zoe could manage a single word. “I like that approach.”

“I'm glad somebody does,” Ethan said. “These are just extra precautions. I do think Zoe is reasonably safe now, but I'd rather she didn't go running around on her own until I get some answers.”

“But I've got a couple of appointments with clients at their residences,” Zoe said quickly.

“Can you ask them to meet you in your office?”

“Well, maybe.”

“Try. If that's impossible, let me know your schedule. I'll escort you to and from the appointments.”

She made a face. “I'm not sure this is necessary.”

“Trust me, it's necessary, if only for my peace of mind.” Ethan turned back to Arcadia. “But it would simplify things if you and Harry disappeared for a while.”

“I suppose my assistant could handle the gallery,” Arcadia said reluctantly. “Where do you think we should go?”

“Already got a destination in mind.” Harry pushed himself out of the chair. “How does New Orleans sound?”

Arcadia looked at him for a long moment. “It sounds . . . interesting.”

“Guess we'd better pack,” Harry said.

Arcadia rose and walked out of the office with him.

Zoe listened to the sound of their footsteps disappearing down the stairs. She looked at Ethan.

“What is going on with those two?” she asked.

“Don't ask me. The relationship between a bodyguard and his client is confidential.”

“Is that a rule from your private detective manual?”

“How'd you guess?”

 

At nine-thirty that
night, he stood in the doorway of his study and watched Zoe examine the titles of some of the books on the shelves.

“Journals, diaries, and records of old murder cases.” She
pulled a plastic envelope off a shelf, opened it, and removed a slender pamphlet.
“A True Account of the Murder of Harriet Plummer Including a Narrative of the Trial of Her Killer, John Strand.”
She looked up. “The date is 1870.”

“Harriet was a San Francisco prostitute who was killed by one of her clients. Notice the elegant bed in the illustration? Complete with rumpled quilt and lots of fancy pillows? That was the artist's not-so-subtle way of stressing the lady's profession and the sexual undercurrents.”

“People bought these pamphlets?”

“Accounts of murders and the trials that followed were very popular throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The more lurid, the better, as far as the public was concerned.”

“The ones involving sex sold best?”

“Sure.” He folded his arms and leaned against the door frame. “Some things never change.”

She put the pamphlet back into the plastic container and replaced it on the shelf. “Did they hang John Strand?”

“Yes. Which was, according to my research, a serious miscarriage of justice.”

“You don't think he was guilty?”

“Strand was a violent man, prone to fits of rage. He was probably guilty of someone's death, but not Harriet's.”

“Who killed her?”

“I think the most likely suspect was a man named George Edward Kingston. He was one of Harriet's regulars, a wealthy, self-made man who planned to marry into a socially prominent family.”

“Why do you think he murdered her?”

“She became inconvenient, as they say. I got hold of some letters that Harriet wrote to a friend. She was pregnant and she was sure Kingston was the father. She was furious with him because he was going to end their affair. She threatened to expose the relationship.”

“So he killed her.”

“I think so, yes. Kingston was worried that his wealthy fiancée might drop him if she and her family learned that
he had had a long-standing connection with a known prostitute. There's no way to be absolutely certain at this late date.” He paused, searching for the words to explain the silent click of certainty and the rush of satisfaction he felt when he saw the pattern and discovered the answers. “But it feels right.”

She watched him closely. “It
feels
right?”

“Kingston as the killer ties up all the loose ends, at least as far as I'm concerned.” He came away from the door frame and walked to the desk. “But it doesn't matter anymore. Everyone involved has been dead and gone for a long time.”

“Do you do this a lot?”

He lounged against the desk. “Investigate old murders? Yeah. Something to do in the evenings besides watch TV.”

“Talk about cold cases.” She surveyed the contents of the room. “All of these books and journals and pamphlets and newspapers, they're part of your research library?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you do it?”

“Probably because I'm good at it.” He paused. “And there's no harm done if I'm wrong.”

“Because there's no one left to care about getting the answers?”

“Right. Just an academic exercise.” He angled his chin toward the computer. “I'm not the only one who does this. There are others. We write up our investigation reports and post them for people to read and examine.”

“Who looks up the results online?”

“We attract a lot of genealogists and people who are interested in their family histories. The site also pulls in a fair number of historians and academics who study the psychological and social issues involved in murder.”

“And probably a few weirdos, too.”

“Sure. The world is full of weirdos.”

She glanced over her shoulder, down the hall toward the theater, and then she looked at him. “I assume you're investigating the death of Camelia Foote?”

“Be hard to ignore it, given that I'm living here at Nightwinds.”

“The official story is that she fell to her death in the canyon, right?”