Secrets Of Bella Terra (16 page)

“She’s a mercenary.” His grandmother had used a harsher term about Jenna. “Now—what was she doing on the computer? I saw Facebook flash up on the monitor.”

“Um. Yeah. Uh . . .”

“You didn’t check her keystrokes?”

“I can go back and pick up her keystrokes.” Darren sounded less ardent and more intent. “Yeah. She was on Facebook. Yeah, she plays the games. Yeah, her profile picture is hawt.”

“But was that all she did on the computer?”

“There were a couple of extra keystrokes, but she types one hundred and thirty-five words a minute. When she’s that fast, she’s going to make some mistakes.”

“Follow the stray keystrokes and make sure she didn’t mess with anything.” Because the way Jenna fawned on him made Rafe suspect ulterior motives. Not that that was necessarily true—he’d had women fawning on him all his life. But she was so sleazy about it he wanted her to be guilty.

Darren was still as whirly eyed and infatuated as a cartoon character. “I videoed almost every bit of that luscious body from the time she walked in to the time she walked out.”

Forbiddingly, Rafe asked, “Did you place the Bella Terra security program on my computer?”

“Yes, sir!” Darren gave him a military salute.

“Good. I’ll let you know when I need you again. In the meantime, try not to get your ass arrested. I don’t want to go looking for a new hacker.”

“They’re not going to catch me. I do a good background check before I ever take a job, and I don’t take stupid chances.”

Rafe thought about Jenna and her advances, about his responsibilities to his grandmother, about Noah’s resentment and Eli’s aloof anxiety. About the story DuPey had told him about Brooke, his admission that he knew Brooke had lied about the murder she was supposed to have committed . . . about how Brooke had moved on with her life, and didn’t need Rafe to complete her. “You’re a smart guy,” he said to Darren. “Never, ever take stupid chances. Stupidity hardly ever pays off.”

I
t had been one of those days.

In the hotel business, they happened frequently. A guest’s kids had put the plug in the tub, plugged the overflow drain, turned on the water, and left it running. The parents had been apologetic, but that didn’t solve the problem of an overflow so huge it ran out of the bathroom, soaked the bedroom carpet, leaked through the light fixtures into the room below, soaked the bed and carpet, and finally brought down the ceiling to ruin that guest’s clothing and suitcases. With two suites out of commission, rooms had to be juggled, tempers soothed, insurance adjusters called.

Brooke had been up late the last couple of nights: posting bail for the Di Luca boys, then handling a crisis with a grown man who had picked up a garter snake out of the flower beds to show his kids and been bitten. He’d been surprised and indignant. She’d considered it proof that all men were stupid, although perhaps seeing the bruised, beaming Di Lucas around the resort had had something to do with her mind-set. She was tired, she was cross, she had about one nerve left, and everyone was standing on it. So when she took the elevator down to the lobby from the soppy mess that was the lower guest room, and her pager went off and the cell rang at the same time, she glanced at the cell—it was Rafe—and decided to deal with the pager instead.

The page was Madelyn’s; it said,
Lost diamond. Honeymoon Cottage, Millionaire’s Row.

Surely to God finding a lost diamond would be easier than talking to Rafe about . . . whatever it was he wanted to talk about. He was so . . . intense. When he looked at her, he stared as if all of her secrets had been stripped away, and next up—her clothes.

Worse, every time she saw him, she was glad. Pleased by the way he moved, by his dark hair and blue eyes. Pleased to hear his voice and know he was near. That pleasure was nothing but a hangover from her high school infatuation, and she scoffed at herself every time. Nevertheless, when he walked by, her heart trilled.

Sweden was looking better all the time.

Brooke started toward Millionaire’s Row.

But her rotten luck held—she met Rafe on his way in.

Heart trill.

“You didn’t answer your phone.” The muscles beneath the T-shirt were sculpted, as if he’d been to the gym this morning.

She brushed her bangs off her forehead. Summer’s heat had arrived early: good for business, tough when a woman wore a black suit as part of her professional image. “Dandy to see you, too.”

He didn’t get the hint. “Why didn’t you tell me there’s a motorcycle on the property?”

“A motorcycle?” She tried to think. Tried to think of something besides how good he looked in faded jeans and a clean T-shirt. No wonder Jenna Campbell had started following him around.

Not that Brooke cared. “On the property? Where . . . ? Oh.”

“Oh?” Rafe gave that Gerard Butler mocking half sneer. Maybe because it hurt to give a whole smile.

Amazing how quickly Brooke’s pleasure turned to irritation. “It didn’t occur to me. Because the motorcycle—it’s Noah’s.”

“Noah’s?” Obviously, she’d startled him. “What does Noah have a motorcycle for?”

“To try to smash his brains all over the pavement. I don’t know!” She took a breath. “Because when he goes up to the vineyards, he likes to ride with Eli. But Noah is more than a little protective of his toy. The motorcycle’s in a locked garage with security sensors. That can’t be the motorcycle that went up to Nonna’s. . . . Wait.” She stared at him more closely. “How did you find out about it?”

“I was looking for a motorcycle and I broke into the garage.”

She looked at her pager. “The alarm didn’t go off.”

“The alarm wasn’t set.”

“If Noah hadn’t set the alarm, the backup would have notified us.”

“That alarm system is only going to keep out casual thieves. Apparently someone with the know-how tinkered with the alarm.”

She stopped and stared at him, at his fading bruises and his hard, cold eyes. “Or someone had the code.”

“Or someone had the code,” he agreed.

“That is the motorcycle Nonna’s attacker used to get to the home ranch?”

“That’s it.”

You’re sure?
But she didn’t ask. Because of course he was sure. “Have you told Noah?”

“No. No one saw me go in. No one saw me come out. We’re going to keep it that way.”

“Right. Because whoever it was might come back to use it again.” She felt foolish for admitting it, but she had to say, “I know how to ride a motorcycle.”

“I remember.”

She’d made him teach her in high school. “So I’m a suspect.”

“You never weren’t a suspect.” His hair looked damp, as if he’d recently showered. He smelled good, too, like the resort’s orange spice soap.

Sweden. Sweden. Sweden.

Maybe Norway.

Or maybe she should just concentrate on how much he annoyed her. “Why tell me about the motorcycle, then?”

“I wanted to know why you hadn’t told me about it when it strengthens the case against you.”

Her pager buzzed. She glanced down. Madelyn again, a little more frantic. “Look. I don’t have time for this now. I’ll talk to you later, but you know, if you’re determined to distrust me, there’s not a lot I can do about it.” Once again she headed toward the Honeymoon Cottage, leaving Rafe staring after her.

Madelyn stood on the threshold, looking concerned and frazzled.

Brooke caught her arm. “Have you been inside?”

“No.”

“Not at all?”

“No.”

“Exactly right.” Brooke stepped into the room. “Mrs. McClaron? What’s happened?”

“Brooke. Brooke! Thank heavens you came.” Linda McClaron crawled out from under the bed, stood, and rushed to Brooke’s side. “I lost my ring!”

Another hotel nightmare—a guest accusing the maid of stealing valuables. But Mrs. McClaron was one of their regulars, a beautiful woman, a trophy wife, not too bright and never organized, but always kind. Madelyn said she hadn’t gone in—and the security video would confirm that. Perhaps they’d make it out of this mess without a huge public relations fuss and a massive insurance investigation. “Did you have it in the room safe?” Brooke asked Mrs. McClaron.

“No, when I came in last night, I put it on the nightstand and now I can’t find it! I called the maid in to help me look, but she said that’s against hotel policy and called you.”

Brooke relaxed infinitesimally. “Good. That’s exactly what she should have done.”

“The thing is . . . I was a little sick last night, too much to drink, you know, and I’m afraid I might have knocked the ring into the trash can and then . . . Early this morning, there was a garbage cart outside the room. I took the liner out of the trash can and put it into the cart to get rid of it and I . . . That ring cost a lot of money! It’s a pink diamond, a whole carat! Did you know pink diamonds are the most precious diamonds in the world? Or the second-most precious.” She chewed her lip. “I can’t remember. But expensive! And pink is my favorite color. I really, really wanted that ring, and Mike bought it for me only last week. He says I’m too careless and a ditz. If he finds out—”

“Have you checked your purse?”

“Yes.”

“Did you have pockets in what you wore last night?”

“I checked them. And I’ve been under the bed three times, and moved the end table and looked under the lamp and pulled out the drawers and dumped them.”

“I see that.” Mentally, Brooke made a note to tell Ebrillwen to schedule extra time to clean the room.

“Please, Brooke, please, won’t you send someone after that cart?” The poor woman was trembling and tearful.

“What time was it when you put the bag into the cart?”

“About seven this morning.” Linda McClaron sat down heavily on the bed. “I can’t tell Mike. I just can’t. He never relaxes, he always works, and on this trip, we’ve been having such a good time. If I’ve lost that ring, he’ll be so angry.”

It was almost noon. “The bag’s in the Dumpster now. I’ll go after it myself.”

“You can’t do that—go through all the garbage. That’s horrible!” To Mrs. McClaron’s credit, she realized the sacrifice involved.

“It’s not quite as bad as you might think. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened, so we require our waste handlers to mark the bags according to where they picked up the trash.” Although they weren’t always conscientious about that. “So I only have to find the one bag for this section and search it. Don’t worry; if the ring is there, I’ll find it. Besides—the Dumpster is emptied every other day. And today’s the day. It has to be done, and it has to be done now.”

“Oh, my God.” Mrs. McClaron put her fists to her mouth. Then she grabbed Brooke and shook her. “Hurry. Go!”

“Don’t panic. The garbage truck comes about four.” Brooke took her by the shoulders and turned her to face the room. “In the meantime, you keep looking.”

“I’ve already looked everywhere I can think of!”

“Then look where you haven’t thought of.”

“Right.” Mrs. McClaron nodded and knit her brow. “Where I haven’t thought of . . .”

“Come on,” Brooke said to Madelyn. “Let’s go see what we can do.”

A
rmed with her oldest tennis shoes, latex gloves and a step stool, Brooke and Madelyn walked down the path to the enclosed garbage area, alone on a service road away from the public areas.

As Madelyn unlocked the tall wooden gate, she said, “I’ll climb into the Dumpster.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Please, Ms. Petersson, you’ve done so much for me—”

“No. I don’t ask my staff to do things I won’t do. And it’s not the first time I’ve had to go Dumpster diving.” Not that Brooke liked Dumpster diving, but Madelyn had towering self-esteem issues, and anyway, after the week Brooke had had dealing with Sarah’s mugging, the time at the hospital, the investigation, and Rafe, a little ripping and tearing through bags of garbage had a disgusting appeal. For sure it sounded better than going another round with Rafe the cold-eyed investigator–slash–former passionate lover.

They stepped inside the enclosure. The every-otherday pickup kept the stench from overwhelming any guests who got lost back on the resort acreage. But in here, Brooke was aware that all morning, the sun had beaten on the pavement and the tall wooden walls, warming the Dumpster and curing the garbage to a smell between overripe pineapple and rotting flesh. Knowing the amount of fruit discarded from the continental breakfast, and the fight the gardeners waged against the gophers, she supposed there was plenty of both.

The two women looked at each other in unspoken dread; then together they lifted the metal lid and rested it against the wall.

A swarm of flies wafted up, buoyed on the stench of human refuse.

Brooke set the step stool and climbed up.

The Dumpster was full of large white garbage bags, filled from the guest rooms and tossed in by the waste handlers. From experience, Brooke knew the contents were personal and frequently revolting. Pulling on her latex gloves, she reached in and tugged at the first bag. “I’ll lower the bags down to you. Holler when you see the right one come through.”

“Yes, Miss Petersson.”

She lifted the first one.

Flies buzzed with glee. The odor of rotting everything grew stronger. And within five minutes, Brooke was glad she worked out at the resort gym. The bags were heavy; lifting them up and over the edge used her biceps, her pecs, her abs. Her weight-class instructor would be proud.

On the other hand, doing this work while holding her breath . . . well, that wasn’t actually a good idea, since she might pass out into the Dumpster—horrifying thought.

When she got to the point that she couldn’t reach any more bags, she paused, wiped her forehead on her sleeve, and looked inquiringly down at Madelyn.

The maid was flushed red with exertion and she’d set her mouth against the revulsion.

Brooke could only imagine she looked the same. “Nothing from Millionaire’s Row?”

“Nothing. Why don’t we trade places?”

“Don’t tempt me,” Brooke muttered, then, louder, “Why is it never the first bag?”

“Murphy’s Law.”

“Why does Murphy’s Law always apply to the hotel business?”