The Art of Love and Murder (2 page)

When she reached the Grand View Hotel and climbed the steps, she took hold of the ornate, brass door handle and glanced back down the street. The man had vanished. Her shoulders sagged with a momentary wash of disappointment. Okay, so maybe he didn’t watch her safely to the hotel. The steps behind her in the alley had been real enough, not the echo of her own shoes hitting the bricks, whether he believed her or not. Then again, she shouldn’t have read the hotel brochure or listened to Phoebe’s excitement over the prospects of seeing ghosts.

The combination of a tiring drive and the margarita with dinner had made her a bit woozy. Alcohol, exhaustion and bodiless footsteps could make anyone jumpy.

****

Chance stepped away from the glow of the street lamp, his scrutiny never leaving the retreating lady in distress. She was damned near as pretty from the backside as from the front. Her eyes had caught the glow of the street lamp, heightened by her own inner fire and set him ablaze like he hadn’t felt in...years. Now, as she glided toward the Grand View, her hair flung ebony sparks each time she entered the halo of a street lamp. Even from this distance, as she mounted the steps, the roundness of her hips revived a near deadness to which he’d grown accustomed.

The flare from the tip of a lit cigarette jarred his musings. Across the street from the hotel, a dark figure hung in the shadow of a closed shop. When Lacy’s hand touched the door, the figure flipped the butt to the street, stuffed his hands in his pockets and ambled in the opposite direction from Chance. The tall, lanky figure swayed, stumbled and continued on.

Probably a drunk college student out killing time
.

When the woman opened the door, Chance slipped into the breezeway, satisfied with her safety. He might as well check out the possibility of her imagined stalker.

His silent steps, deliberately slow, carried him back down the breezeway as he glanced from side to side, patrolling. No one lurked in the doorways. He took his time, his trained eye searching for any evidence to confirm the lady’s fear. Nothing. His chest tightened as he remembered a moonless night in another alley eight years ago this month.

Ahead, on the corner of the breezeway and Santa Fe Street, the sounds of the Lumberjack Brewery invaded the night, louder as the door opened, and sucking back in as the door closed. He glanced at his wristwatch, the hands glowing green. Nine o’clock. The Lumberjack would be ramping up for a Friday night.

He passed the back entrance of the Kachina Café, the rich smells of Mexican food drifting into the air from the plates of the people sitting at the patio tables. Pausing a moment, he surveyed the remaining patrons, but no one caught his attention as anything other than late diners. He wondered if the Kachina’s enchiladas tasted as good as he remembered. They had been his wife’s favorite... The tightness wrenched another notch.

“You jerk,” a voice hissed, and a woman with a man stumbling behind her rounded the corner. “First you’re an hour late, and then I find you with that bitch.”

He recognized Laura, a friend of his daughter’s.

“Wait, honey, wait.” The man’s words slurred.

“Don’t honey me you jerk, jerk,
jerk
.” She stopped when she saw Chance. “Sheriff Meadowlark. I didn’t see you there.”

“Got a problem, Laura?”

She shrugged, her wide-set eyes looking older than her nineteen years. “I married a problem, Sheriff.” Her cheeks glowed pink in the light from the restaurant.

The problem came beside her, nearly falling into Chance. He recognized her useless husband, along with the reek of stale beer.

“Laura, honey, wait. I can explain. It was an accident.”

“Oh, yeah.” She shook off the hand he’d draped on her shoulder. “You just
accidentally
grabbed her ass while your head
accidentally
fell into her tits.”

The problem, Clark Katz, rubbed his face, making unintelligible sounds.

Chance shook his head. “Who’s driving, Laura?”

“No one, Sheriff. It’s only a couple of blocks home.”

“Anything I can do?”

She sighed deeply and tucked escaped blonde hair from her ponytail behind an ear. “Nah.”

“Okay, then. Be careful.”

The young woman nodded and strode passed him. “Come on, jerk, follow me home so I can lock you out.”

Clark complied, issuing apologies and excuses, swaying behind her and dragging his feet.

Chance walked on and stepped onto the sidewalk of Santa Fe, the main artery of Flagstaff. Once known as Route 66, businesses, bars and shops flanked one side; the railroad tracks skirted the other. The door of the Lumberjack opened, spilling a trio of young men out onto the sidewalk along with a rock song he didn’t recognize. Two women, probably college students, darted behind the trio and into the bar, prompting the three men to do an about face and follow them back inside. Mostly college kids out and about.

He turned on his heel, retracing his path back up the breezeway. He’d left his Cherokee parked not far from the Grand View. He’d eaten dinner at Jane’s Whole Earth and had a beer with a friend at the Broken Arrow. He’d topped off his evening helping a lady in distress, a lady whose eyes flashed green, and whose sultry voice still rang in his ears.

His phone rang as he reached the sidewalk at the other end. He pulled it from his pocket and read the display: Kitty. He put his thumb on the mute button but didn’t depress it. Hell, he might as well answer. She’d only call again. “Hello.”

“Hi, Chance. You still having your Friday night beer with Chief?”

“Just heading out.”

“How about a second one with me?”

An old Garth Brooks song,
Mr. Right
, played in the background, her choice not lost on him.

“I’ve got Negra Modelo in the fridge...”

Maybe if he told her he’d seen her son, drunk and in trouble with his wife, her mood would be ruined.

“It’s ice cold, honey, but I’m feeling hot.”

He passed under the street lamp that had lit up the green eyes of the lady in distress. “Not tonight, Kitty.” He ignored the huff of disappointment. “I’ve had a rough day, and I’m looking forward to climbing into bed.” He mentally kicked himself for that opening.

“Well...”

“Hey, Kitty, I’m really beat. I wouldn’t be much fun.” He opened the door to his Cherokee. “Another time, okay?”

“Sure, Chance. You call me, you hear. I’ll keep the Modelo cold...and my hands warm.”

He depressed the end call button, tossed his phone on the seat and glanced out his window at the Grand View Hotel. What the hell struck him about the tourist lady that he couldn’t get out of his mind? Kitty had never lingered on his mind—even after a toss in her bed—the way a few innocuous moments with the green-eyed stranger had. Had it merely been the memories she raked up that stirred the embers? He couldn’t be sure, but he sure as hell wanted to know.

****

“Hello, Ms. Dahl. Were the tacos at the Kachina as good as I promised?”

The young hotel clerk greeted Lacy as she strolled through the nearly century old lobby on her way to the stairs and her room. The young woman’s petite stature and perky, twenty-something personality seemed in direct contrast to the black spiked hair, piercings and black rimmed eyes. Lacy had dubbed her the Black Fairy when she’d checked in two hours ago.

“Every bit, Penny. And the margarita was strong.” She wondered if the young woman always dressed Goth or if she embraced the spirit of the Grand View Hotel’s reputation. The night shift and the Agatha Christie setting suited her look. “I think I’m tired. I better get to bed.”

Penny smiled an impish, close-mouthed grin. “Got big plans for tomorrow?” She crossed her arms on the white marble counter. Black, elbow-length gloves with the fingers missing displayed delicate fingers ending in black nail polish.

“I’m getting out tomorrow for some research I’m doing, art gallery and maybe a museum.” Lacy breathed in the musky scent of the ages-old lobby. Or maybe the Black Fairy’s perfume?

“Are you writing a book or something on Flagstaff?”

“No, I’m trying to find the artist of some sketches left to me.” She yawned. “And I better get to bed so I’ve got the energy for the long day tomorrow.” She hiked her purse strap higher on her shoulder. “Is there a park nearby or somewhere I could do a little running in the morning?”

“A small park. One block north and a couple of blocks west. But it’s pretty small.”

“I’ll have to make do. Goodnight, Penny.”

“Goodnight, Ms. Dahl.”

The short flight of stairs challenged her as she trudged, tiredly pulling each foot up to the next step. The floral carpeting, narrow hallway and gold patterned wallpaper transported her back in time. The renowned hotel, beautifully restored, reflected the era of the 1920’s. The antiquated wall lamps dimly lit the hall, casting warm shadows of the past. She walked where many famous people had traipsed in the last century.

Halfway down the hall, she stopped at her door and fished out her old-fashioned brass key from the pocket of her jeans. Had her mother and father walked this hall, slept in one of these rooms, maybe made love? Drowsily, she mused as the heavy key clicked in the lock. Had she been conceived here, only to be left orphaned months after her birth, before Kaya Mockta and Hartmut Luschin could be married?

The door swung open, and she bumped it closed with a hip, at the same time digging through her purse to grab her ringing cell.

“Hello.” She locked the door and flipped the deadbolt.

“So, how’s the haunted hotel?” Her friend Phoebe’s animated voice made Lacy smile.

She tossed her purse on the bed and flopped beside it, kicking off her sandals in the process. “Haven’t seen a ghost yet, but it’s a lovely old hotel.” Her back relaxed into the mattress, and her eyelids drooped with the notion of sleep to come.

“Rats. What have you been doing?”

“Nothing really, yet. I’m back in my room from dinner. I was starving when I got in, so the cute Goth hotel clerk directed me to a Mexican food restaurant.” She stared at the glass chandelier on the ceiling.

“Did you get hold of your long lost relatives before you left Scottsdale today?”

“That whole thing is a bit weird.”

“I like weird.”

“I called the number we found for Kaya’s stepmom, but she’s no longer at that number. Her daughter Carol lives there and wouldn’t offer any info on the mother, but did agree to see me.” Something in her tone had rubbed Lacy’s nerves, set her on edge so much she didn’t know if she wanted to meet the stepsister of her mother. “She’s a work of art.”

“How’s that?”

“It’s like I was the plague here to infect her...until I mentioned the sketches. And then she got interested in where I would be staying, how many sketches there are and when she could see me.” Her questions, delivered with a greedy edge, had irritated Lacy. She still rankled at the thought. The woman hadn’t made one inquiry touching on the human factor of a long lost relative.

“Sweet.”

“Yeah, my thought. Then when I checked in, I already had a message from her. So I called, but she wasn’t there. A young man answered. He knew me and said his grandma just wanted to know when I’d made it to town.”

“Because?”

“No idea. She hasn’t called again.” No pleasantries were issued when she told him she’d see her tomorrow. Oddly enough, the old woman’s interest in the sketches, although rudely curious, gave Lacy cause to keep the meeting. She didn’t need the family ties, just information.

“How are you holding up? Have any second thoughts about tracking down information on your birth parents?”

“No. I’m on a mission for my daughter. If August hadn’t decided to grill me after Mom’s funeral, I might not have remembered the chest in the attic. My main focus is finding who made the sketches in order to satisfy my daughter’s curiosity, and maybe add to the inventory at her art gallery.”

“But it’s more than that, isn’t it?”

She glanced at the photographs and sketches on the desk in the corner of the room. “Not really.” A half-carved wolf stood sentinel over the paper treasures, both of which had roused her daughter’s excitement about the possibility of art treasure. “I suppose some of the mystery surrounding my birth parents could be uncovered in my search. August had some questions about her lineage. But that’s not my primary mission.” Lacy guessed her friend expected digging up the past would bother her, but without the history, she could’ve been researching for someone else, totally unrelated. “I’m doing fine, Phoebe.”

“Good. I’m going to plant the perennials everyone brought to the funeral for Sarah in your yard tomorrow. I found a cute sign at the nursery today that says Sarah’s Garden. Your mom would’ve gotten a kick out of it.”

“Oh, Phoebe, how sweet.” A weepy sensation welled up at the mention of her mom.

“What do you suppose she’d think about you researching your birth parents?” Phoebe’s typical bluntness came with a soft edge to her voice.

“She’d be here with me. And if Dad was alive, he’d have cheered us on.” She rubbed her eyes and smiled. “Mom showed me the chest when I was in my early teens, but I had no interest. I don’t even remember looking at the contents. Kaya and Hartmut were dead, Sarah and Arlo were the only family I’d ever known or loved, and I was much too busy being boy crazy.”

“Hey, the old Lacy could learn something from the young Lacy.”

“Who you calling old?”

Phoebe chuckled. “Not exactly what I meant. Your forty-two-year-old butt probably looks better than your teenage one did. You certainly don’t have the muffin top like I do. Shouldn’t our yoga classes do something for that?”

Misty sadness dissolved with her friend’s chatter.

“I think the latte and blueberry scone you have every morning at my café have something to do with it.” She pictured her artsy friend, long blonde-gray braids lying on her ample chest. Earlier, when they’d met at the café before Lacy headed out, Phoebe had worn a bright yellow T-shirt beneath a sheer lavender embroidered tunic, huge gold earrings dangling from her ears.

Her friend sighed. “I’ll never publish another book again if I can’t sit in the Lacy Latte with a coffee and scone while I write. My career took off when you opened your coffee café.”