Unraveled (10 page)

In the distance, off to the far west side of the park, the surface of Bullet Pointe Lake shimmered and rippled under the steady breeze. A large wooden dock stretched out like a finger into the lake, pointing to the dense woods on the opposite shore. Sleek, modern boats lined either side of the dock, along with a few canoes and kayaks. All the vessels bobbed up and down on the choppy waves, but no one was out on the lake, given how cold it was.

“And of course, our world-class spa is also located on this level,” Roxy chirped again, pointing to a hallway that branched off the left side of the lobby. She looked at Bria and me. “Ladies, feel free to take advantage of any services and packages you like. I made you both standing reservations, so all you have to do is call down and let the spa folks know that you're coming.”

“Oh, Gin definitely needs a seaweed wrap and some cucumber slices,” Finn said. “At the very least. Maybe that'll get her to loosen up and relax this weekend.”

Bria and Owen both snickered, while Roxy plastered a neutral smile on her face, not getting his joke. I glared at Finn, but he'd already stuck his hands in his pants pockets and was whistling as he strode away.

Roxy spouted off a few more facts about the hotel's amenities, and eventually we wound up in the center of the lobby, close to the wooden display case that talked about Sweet Sally Sue and her legendary jewels.

“The treasure hunt seems like a great promotional tool,” Finn said, eyeing the couple who were staring down into the case and using their phones to snap photos of the empty jewelry settings.

Roxy nodded. “Oh, yeah. Attendance at the park and hotel has gone up by ten percent since the treasure hunt started two months ago. It was a brilliant idea on Ms. Shaw's part.”

“Has anyone actually found the gems yet?” Bria asked.

“Actually, about the treasure hunt . . .” Roxy's face scrunched up, and she glanced around, as though she didn't want to be overheard, before focusing on Finn again. “The contest was Ms. Shaw's idea, and she took care of everything, including hiding the jewels. She didn't happen to tell you exactly
where
in the park she might have put them, did she?”

Finn frowned. “No. Why?”

Roxy cast another furtive glance around. “Well, no one else seems to know where they are. And believe me, we've looked for them. We've
all
looked for them.” Her voice dropped to a low mutter.

We? Who was
we
? And the way she said that made me think that Roxy had much more than just a casual interest in the hidden stones.

I studied her again, even more closely than I had up in her office, but I saw the same exact thing as before—someone who seemed to enthusiastically embrace the cowboy theme of Bullet Pointe and was desperately trying to please her new boss.

Still, something about her struck me as inherently fake, like all those shiny rhinestones on her belt buckle. Like my friends and I were just another group of tourists and she was wearing her cowgirl costume and persona and putting on a show just for our benefit. I'd been fooled by Hugh Tucker, thinking that he was nothing more than Deirdre's lowly personal assistant. I wasn't going to be fooled again. I'd definitely be keeping an eye on Roxy Wyatt.

“Well, I'm sorry, but Deirdre didn't tell me anything about the treasure hunt or where she might have hidden the jewels.” Finn winked at Roxy. “If she had, I would already be down in the park, getting them for myself.”

He let out a big belly laugh, which Roxy returned with a giggle of her own, one that was a little too high-pitched and went on far too long to be genuine. Oh, yeah. She was definitely someone to watch.

Roxy glanced at her watch. “Aw, shoot. I'd love to show you guys around some more, but I really do have to get down to the park for the high-noon show. Y'all should come down and check it out. It's the highlight of the day for the guests and everyone who works in the theme park.”

“Sure,” Finn said. “I was planning on it. We'll be there. Sounds like fun.”

She flashed him another smile. “Great. Is there anything else I can do for you in the meantime?”

“I still need the key to Deirdre's suite,” he reminded her.

“Of course. If y'all will go down that hallway all the way to the very end, you'll see Ira's office tucked away in the back corner.” Roxy pointed to a hallway that curved around the right side of the lobby. “I'll see you down at the show. Y'all take care now, ya hear?”

She tipped her white Stetson at us, hooked her thumbs into her jean pockets, and then turned and sauntered away. Seriously, she
sauntered
, walking with a slow, easy gait as though she were a real cowgirl out for a casual stroll.

“That woman is definitely up to something,” I said.

My friends stared at me.

“Why would you say that?” Owen asked.

“Because no one is that naturally cheerful.”

“She probably just wants to keep her job,” Bria said. “I'd be nice to the new boss too, if I were in her shoes, er, boots.”

I looked at Finn, expecting him to agree with the others, but his lips were puckered in thought.

“I'm going to have to go with Gin on this one,” he said. “Roxy was nice, but she wasn't tripping all over herself, and she didn't do
nearly
enough ass-kissing if she was truly concerned about keeping her job. Foxy Roxy is not all that she seems.”

Bria crossed her arms over her chest. “Foxy Roxy? ­Really?”

“Well, yeah. Did you not see that cowgirl getup she was wearing? And she was wearing it
really
well.”

Bria glowered at him, but Finn plowed on ahead the way he always did.

“You know, while we're here, we should get you an outfit like that,” he said in a suave tone.

She smiled sweetly at him. “I am not a cowgirl—I'm the sheriff in this here town. And why don't we get
you
an outfit instead? Why, you could dress up like a saloon girl. I think that would be the
perfect
look for you.”

Finn grinned. “Only if you agree to slap me around with the long arm of the law, Sheriff.”

“You wish.”

“You bet I do.” His grin widened, and he batted his eyes at her. “And I would totally dress up like a saloon girl. Anything for you, Sheriff.”

Bria huffed and jabbed her elbow into his side, but Finn slung his arm around her shoulder, bent down, and whispered something in her ear that made her blush. Owen blanched and shook his head, as if trying to banish the thought of the two of them playing dress-up. Yeah, me too.

Finn and Bria headed toward the hallway to find Ira Morris, with Owen following them. I started in that direction as well, but a group of people chose that exact moment to cross the lobby, separating me from my friends.

Hugh Tucker was one of them.

 8 

I did a double take.

Black hair, black eyes, black goatee, tall, lean frame, expensive suit. It was the vampire all right, looking exactly the same as the last time I'd seen him at the shipping yard the night he'd kidnapped me. Tucker moved past me in an instant, in the middle of the crowd, but I was sure that it was him.

So sure that I palmed a knife, whipped around, charged forward . . . and ran straight into a luggage cart.

Clang
.

I hit the brass rails hard and bounced off, landing on my ass. Suitcases tumbled off the cart and went flying in several directions, sliding across the stone floor like oversize shuffleboard disks. I started to scramble to my feet, but the giant bellman who'd been pushing the cart tripped over one of the larger suitcases and fell right on top of me, driving me back down to the floor.

“Oof!”

All the air rushed out of my lungs at the hard, bruising impact, and the bellman accidentally shoved his big, bony elbow right into my ribs, adding injury to injury. But I ignored the aches and pains, shoved the bellman off me, and staggered to my feet, my knife still in my hand. My head whipped left and right, scanning the lobby. Where was Tucker? All I needed was a dark, quiet spot and five minutes alone with him. . . .

I'd taken only three steps forward when I realized that everyone in the lobby was staring at me. The guests relaxing by the fireplace, the folks examining the Christmas trees, the people looking at the treasure-hunt display case, all the costumed clerks, bellmen, and waitstaff. All conversation had abruptly ceased, and the only sound was the Christmas carols playing in the background.
Fa-la-la-la-la . . .

I stopped short and quickly slid my knife back up my sleeve before anyone noticed it. Then I forced myself to smile and sheepishly shrug my shoulders, silently apologizing for interrupting everyone's holiday fun. Slowly, all the folks in the lobby returned to their drinks, conversations, and chores.

I turned around, leaned down, and helped the fallen bellman to his feet. “Sorry about that. I just didn't, ah, see you standing there.”

The bellman looked at me like I was crazy, since it was really, really hard to miss a seven-foot giant dressed like a cowboy and pushing a luggage cart. He sidestepped me and started picking up the suitcases I'd scattered across the lobby.

Owen rushed over to me, along with Finn and Bria.

“Gin!” Owen said. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine,” I muttered, rubbing my sore ribs and looking around the lobby again.

That group of businessmen and women were over by the elevators now, but Tucker wasn't with them. I scanned the rocking chairs in front of the fireplace, the ones around the Christmas trees, and even the stools at the bar, but I didn't spot the vampire anywhere. It was like Tucker had walked past me and then just vanished into thin air. The bastard was quick, but was he really
that
quick?

“What was that about?” Finn asked.

“I thought . . .” I started to tell him that I'd seen Tucker but changed my mind.

No one had spotted the vamp besides me, and he wasn't in the lobby now. Oh, my friends would believe me if I told them about Tucker, but now, I was starting to doubt myself. Given my admittedly suspicious and paranoid nature, not to mention my obsession with the Circle, it wasn't out of the realm of possibility to think that I'd just seen someone who looked like Tucker, instead of the man himself.

“Gin?” Owen asked again, his face creasing with concern.

“Sorry. Clumsy me, not watching where I was going.”

I let out a brittle laugh, and Finn's eyes narrowed. He realized that I wasn't telling the truth. So did Owen and Bria. The three of them stared at me, waiting for me to fess up, but I remained silent.

“Well, let's go find this Ira person,” Finn finally said.

“Sure,” I said. “Lead the way.”

He gave me one more suspicious look, then put his arm around Bria's shoulders again and headed back toward the hallway. Owen raised his eyebrows at me, but I shook my head, telling him that I didn't want to talk about it.

He held out his arm. I put mine through his, and together we walked out of the lobby. Still, right before we stepped into the hallway, I couldn't help but look back over my shoulder, wondering where Hugh Tucker was.

Or if he'd even been here to start with.

*   *   *

The hallway wrapped all the way around the perimeter of the hotel, with shops full of designer goods and gourmet restaurants branching off both sides of the wide stone corridor. Though it wasn't even noon yet, dozens of people moved in and out of the shops and restaurants, so it took us the better part of fifteen minutes to navigate the crowds and reach the office in the far back corner.

No one was in this remote part of the hotel, not so much as a janitor going about his daily duties, and everything was still and quiet. Way back here you couldn't even hear the Christmas carols from the lobby sound system. A piece of paper with
Ira Morris, Bullet Pointe resort manager
scrawled across it in thick black ink was taped up to the door, along with a single string of white holiday lights that continuously flickered as though they were going to burn out at any second. A sad testament to just how far Ira Morris had fallen.

“Wow, Deirdre really banished this guy, didn't she?” Bria said. “I don't think you could get any farther from the lobby and still be in the same building.”

“Oh, I'm sure if there was a basement, Deirdre would have kicked him all the way down there,” I said.

Finn gave us a warning look and knocked on the door.

“Come in,” a low, gravelly voice called out.

Finn opened the door, and the four of us stepped inside. Unlike Roxy's lavish office, this was a small, cramped space, barely big enough for the rickety metal desk and two mismatched chairs squatting in front of it. Gray metal filing cabinets lined two of the walls, the drawers on each one partially open, since they couldn't possibly contain all the reams of paper that had been haphazardly stuffed inside them. Still more sheets were stacked on top of all the filing cabinets, curving upward like flimsy spiral staircases. The air even smelled like paper, old, dry, and slightly musty, but it wasn't an unpleasant aroma. It reminded me of Fletcher's office back before I'd started cleaning it out.

Where the furniture and paper mess stopped, the photos began. Color shots, black-and-white portraits, even some old tintypes, covered all the available space on the walls, the frames crammed in next to each other like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. All the photos showed some aspect of Bullet Pointe. The sun setting behind the hotel roof. The lights of the carousels and other theme-park rides flashing at night. People eating funnel cakes and playing carnival games.

The photos were far more candid and interesting than the celebrity glamour shots that had been tacked up to the walls outside Roxy's office. I was betting that they'd all been taken by Ira Morris himself, given the old cameras, lenses, and other photography equipment that perched here and there, like metal birds roosting in a paper tree.

“Just a second,” a man said.

He seemed to be sitting behind the desk, although I couldn't actually see him, given the massive stacks of papers there, each towering pile wobbling in the faint breeze we'd created just by opening the door and stepping inside the office.

Owen noticed the leaning towers of papers and gently closed the door behind us, cutting off the treacherous breeze.

A pair of rough, weathered hands emerged, grabbing one stack of sheets, then another, and moving them to opposite sides of the desk, revealing the man in the middle of the mess. No wonder I hadn't been able to see him before. He was a dwarf, a little more than five feet tall, with a thick, strong body. His black hair had been cropped close to his skull and was shot through with a generous amount of silver, making the short, stubby strands look like needles poking up out of his scalp. His ebony skin was a shade lighter than his hair, while his eyes were a dark hazel. Given the deep lines that grooved around his eyes and mouth, he was probably more than one hundred years old, although it was always hard to tell a dwarf's true age.

Just like Roxy, he didn't look like your typical resort manager, especially since he was wearing a holiday sweater, bright green with a giant red poinsettia in the center. As I watched, small red lights winked on one by one, ringing his chest and illuminating the tips of the poinsettia before flashing in unison. I didn't think it was possible, but the dwarf's sweater was even more garish than Jonah McAllister's had been. At least the sleazy lawyer's garment hadn't had blinking lights on it.

“Just a sec,” he repeated, his voice more sharp, twangy Western than soft, drawling Southern.

The dwarf shuffled some more stacks from one side of his desk to the other, frowning in concentration as he looked at all of them, as though they were of the utmost importance. I didn't see how they were any different from any of the other papers crammed into the office, but this wasn't my work space to judge. Finally, he set the last of the sheets aside, adding them to the teetering stack on his left and looked up at us.

“What do you want?” he growled.

Not exactly a warm welcome, but Finn was undeterred. He plastered a smile on his face, stepped forward, and held out his hand. “I'm Finnegan Lane, the new owner of the resort.”

“Ira Morris,” the other man snapped. “So you're Deirdre's spawn.”

Finn winced a little, but he kept his smile fixed on his face. “Yeah.”

“Hmm.”

The simple sound had a whole lot of judgment in it. I got the impression that Ira hadn't thought too highly of Deirdre.

Ira ignored Finn's outstretched hand, crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned back in his chair, which let out an ominous creak, as if it were about to collapse. “And who are your friends?”

Finn introduced us. Ira glanced at Owen and me, ­dismissing us outright, but he stopped and did a double take when he finally looked at Bria.

The dwarf studied her for several seconds. “Your last name is Coolidge?”

“Yeah,” Bria replied warily. “Why?”

Ira stared at her for several more seconds, then his gaze darted around the office, as though he were looking for something. His gaze moved along the wall to his right, although I couldn't tell what stack of papers or photo he might be searching for.

He finally shrugged. “No reason.” He leaned forward in his chair, making it creak again. “I'll ask again. What do you want?”

His twangy tone was as brusque as ever. Finn frowned and slowly lowered his hand to his side, looking a bit crestfallen. No ass-kissing here. I hid a smile.

Finn cleared his throat. “Roxy said that you had the key to my mother's suite and could show me where it is. I'd like to go up there after the high-noon show and look through her things, if I could.”

Ira snorted. “I reckon you can do anything you want to, since it's your resort now.”

The dwarf shoved away from his desk, and his chair slapped back against yet more stacks of paper, rattling them and the photos on the wall above. Ira yanked open a drawer in the middle of his desk and pawed through the junk inside. After the better part of a minute, he came up with an old-fashioned iron skeleton key, which he tossed on top of his desk.

“That's the key to Deirdre's fancy suite. Top floor. You look like a smart enough guy. I'm sure you can find it all by yourself.”

Finn blinked. He'd expected the dwarf to ooze cowboy charisma, charm, and cheer, just like Roxy had. But I kind of liked Ira's surliness. At least he was honest about hating us. After all of Tucker and the Circle's machinations, I appreciated honesty more than ever before.

“But Roxy said—” Finn started.

Ira glared at him. “I don't give a damn about what Roxy said. I have a show to narrate. I don't have time to take his royal highness around.”