Unraveled (8 page)

I arched my eyebrows at him.

“Well,
probably
not,” he said. “Although I do know for a fact that you won't be tromping through any swamps.”

“And why is that?”

“Because they aren't any down there.”

He smiled, pleased with his logic, but I kept glowering at him. The smile slipped from his face, and his shoulders sagged again.

“Please, Gin,” he said in a much quieter voice. “It would mean a lot to me.”

“Why?”

His lips pressed together in a tight line, and it took him a moment to answer. “Deirdre said that she spent a lot of time at the hotel. I'd like to see her room and her things, whatever she might have left behind.”

Just like that, everything made sense. Even now, after how horribly she'd betrayed and tortured him, Finn still wanted to know more about Deirdre, the same way that I wanted to know more about my own mother, and if she'd really been a terrible person like Tucker had claimed. Finn needed to know if there had been anything more to Deirdre than her insatiable greed and cold, cold heart. I couldn't blame my brother for his curiosity, since the same questions burned in my own heart about Eira.

“Besides,” Finn continued, sensing that I was wavering, “maybe there's some clue in her things about the Circle. She was their money manager, after all. At least, one of them. Surely, she kept records somewhere on their business interests and finances.”

He had a point. We hadn't found anything in Deirdre's personal possessions in her rented penthouse suite here in Ashland, but perhaps she had left something behind at the hotel. Something that the Circle hadn't gotten to yet. Something that might help me identify the other members—or at least figure out how my mother had been involved with them.

Maybe Finn was right. Maybe a change of scenery would do us all some good. Clear our heads and hearts, and let us come back to Ashland with fresh eyes and renewed determination. Right now, I was just spinning my wheels when it came to the Circle, and I'd run out of people to question and places to look.

I sighed, and Finn grinned, realizing that he'd won this third and final round and thus the whole shooting match.

“Well, Gin?” Excitement was creeping into his voice again. “What do you say?”

I shook my head and tossed the brochure down onto the table. “The only thing I can say. Cowboy up, y'all. We're going on a road trip.”

 6 

“Shoot me,” Owen Grayson muttered in a low voice that only I could hear. “Just go ahead and shoot me now. Please. Someone, anyone, put me out of my misery.”

I looked over at my significant other, who was sprawled across the backseat of the Range Rover. We'd left Ashland early this Friday morning, and now, three hours later, we were finally approaching the Bullet Pointe theme park, which was located on the outskirts of Chattanooga, although it was actually in Georgia instead of Tennessee.

Finn was driving and singing yet another cowboy-themed song, just as he had been ever since we'd left home. His warbling was enthusiastic but gratingly off-key. I didn't know that so many Western songs existed, much less that Finn knew the words to so many of them, but he'd made a special playlist just for our trip. Yee-haw.

Owen sighed and ran his fingers through his black hair as if he were thinking about pulling it out, just as he'd done a dozen times already in the last hour alone. The sunlight streaming in through the windows highlighted the rugged, handsome planes of his face, including his slightly crooked nose and the scar that slashed along his chin. Owen swiveled his neck from side to side, trying to release some of the tension that had gathered there and in his broad, muscled shoulders.

I reached over and grabbed his hand, threading my fingers through his. “Relax,” I whispered. “We're almost there.”

“You so owe me for this,” he murmured back.

“And how would you like to collect?”

His violet eyes flashed with a sudden, intense heat, and a slow, sexy smile pulled up his lips. “Oh, I can think of a few ways.”

“Well, then.” I grinned back at him. “I'll be more than happy to pay up.”

Detective Bria Coolidge was sitting in the front passenger's seat, and she must have heard our whispers because she turned around and looked at me, her blond hair flying out around her shoulders.

“I just saw another sign!” she chirped, her voice more manic than genuinely enthusiastic. “We should be pulling into the hotel any minute now!”

Both of her blue eyes twitched. So did her fingers, and she glanced at Finn, then the volume control on the radio, as if debating which one she wanted to shut up more. Owen wasn't the only one who was tired of my foster brother's three-hour karaoke act.

But Finn kept right on bellowing along to the music, singing about horses and beer and other cowboy things. I was the only one who seemed to notice how strained his smiles were and how forced and fake his over-the-top, giddyap cheer really was. Finn seemed determined to have a good time and forget all about his problems back in Ashland, at least for the weekend.

I admired his determination, if not his singing.

Thankfully, Bria was right, and Finn turned off the main road and into a long, paved driveway that arched up a tree-covered hill. According to the brochure I'd read, the Bullet Pointe hotel was located at the top of the hill, with the Western theme park spread out down in the shallow valley below it.

“And here we are,” Finn said, steering out of the trees and into a wide, circular area in front of the hotel.

He pulled up close to the entrance and stopped, and the four of us got out of the car.

The Bullet Pointe resort hotel loomed up before us. The seven-story structure was made out of enormous gray rocks fitted together, along with thick, sturdy beams of old, gray weathered wood. Wide, short windows gleamed like rectangular diamonds in the sunlight, while the black slate roof rose to a sharp point. The front of the hotel was flanked by a stone porch that featured rows of rocking chairs and old-fashioned barrels with checkerboards and other games perched on top.

Christmas had definitely come early here. Large clusters of potted poinsettias were spaced every few feet along the porch, while mistletoe and other greenery wrapped around the stone columns, along with white twinkle lights. Still more white icicle lights dripped down from all the windows and eaves, while ten-foot-wide evergreen wreaths topped with red velvet bows dangled from the sides of the structure. The hotel reminded me of some rustic Western hunting lodge that had been decked out for the holidays and dropped into the middle of the Appalachian Mountains.

“Isn't it cool?” Finn said, his face lighting up with excitement. “This is going to be such a great weekend. Let's get our luggage and go inside.”

Although it was just after ten o'clock in the morning, a steady stream of people moved in and out of the hotel, checking in, checking out, hauling suitcases, coolers, and more here and there. A valet dressed like a cowboy took Finn's car keys, while a couple of bellmen, also dressed like cowboys, hustled up and loaded our luggage onto a brass cart. The four of us headed for the main entrance, a stone archway that was lined with deer and elk antlers with white lights wrapped around them.

Finn was busy talking and pointing out things to Bria and Owen, but I looked around, examining everything and everyone around me. The valets and bellmen were hurrying to do their jobs, while the other guests were busy wrangling their kids and their luggage. I also reached out with my Stone magic, but the rocks that made up the hotel only murmured with all the fast-paced hustle and bustle of the thousands of people who stayed here every year, and I didn't detect any loud, obvious notes of malice, mayhem, or murder.

Still, I couldn't help but feel like someone was watching me.

A familiar ominous dread filled the pit of my stomach, and the spider rune scars embedded in my palms started itching and burning, almost in warning. I could have sworn that someone was staring at me. I looked around again, but the busy scene was the same as before, with guests, valets, and bellmen all caught up in their own luggage, tips, and chores. So my gaze wandered higher toward the upper levels of the hotel—

A white curtain twitched in a window on the third floor.

My head snapped up, and my eyes narrowed as I peered at that window, but the curtain had already dropped back into place, and I couldn't see who—if anyone—was standing behind it. Still, I stayed where I was, hoping that the curtain would move again, revealing exactly who was on the other side—

“Come on, Gin!” Finn called out. “Time's a'wasting!”

He waved at me before stepping through the arched entrance. Bria and Owen followed him, but I stayed where I was and looked up at the window again.

The white curtain remained perfectly still, although my uneasy sensation of being watched didn't vanish. If anything, it intensified the longer I looked up at the curtain, as though I were locked in a staring contest with someone I couldn't even see—

“Gin!” Finn called out again, hanging on to the side of the archway. “Come on, already!”

At his second, louder shout, guests and workers alike turned to stare at me, increasing my discomfort, and I had no choice but to duck my head and hurry forward. Still, as I stepped into the hotel, one thought kept running through my mind.

We'd just gotten here, and I already felt like we'd made a dangerous mistake.

*   *   *

I stepped through the archway and caught up with Bria and Owen, who were looking around the lobby while Finn talked to one of the cowboy clerks at the checkout counter.

The Bullet Pointe hotel might have seemed rustic from the outside, but Deirdre Shaw had certainly spared no expense remodeling the inside, which was all rich, luxe comfort. An enormous gray stone fireplace at least fifty feet wide took up one entire wall of the lobby, with padded rocking chairs and overstuffed sofas scattered in front of it. Given the cold outside, several folks were relaxing in front of the crackling flames and sipping tall mugs of hot chocolate and spiced apple cider, while other guests were perched on stools at a bar close to the fireplace, sipping harder brews.

Waiters dressed like cowboys and waitresses in saloon-girl costumes moved from the bar, through the crowd in front of the fireplace, and back again, serving and refilling drinks. Still more costumed waitstaff circulated through the lobby, dropping off plates of appetizers and small snacks, before heading back down a hallway to a nearby kitchen.

More chairs and sofas were clustered in groups throughout the lobby, for those who preferred to relax away from the heat of the fireplace, along with tables that featured tall lamps made out of deer, elk, and moose antlers. Those same sorts of antlers also wrapped around the wide wagon-wheel chandeliers that dropped down from the ceiling.

But the rustic decor couldn't compete with all the Christmas trees. More than a dozen of them were spread throughout the lobby, ranging in size from cute three-foot tabletoppers to the showstopping thirty-foot spruce in the center of the lobby. No fakes here. These trees were definitely genuine, given the strong tangy evergreen scent that perfumed the air.

Each tree had a different theme and decorations to match. One tree was its own toy box, with rag dolls, miniature trains, and tin soldiers dangling from its branches, along with popcorn and cranberry strings. Another had a cowboy theme, naturally, with miniature boots, lassos, and silver spurs covering it from top to bottom. One was its own winter wonderland, decked out in crystal snowflakes, glass snowmen, and silver tinsel. On and on they went, each tree boasting more lights and ornaments than the last.

I enjoyed holiday decorations, and trimming the tree was one of my favorite things about Christmas, but it always made me a little melancholy too, and I always missed Fletcher a little more during this time of year. The old man had always embraced the holiday spirit, decorating the Pork Pit with lights, tinsel, and mistletoe, conducting toy and food drives, and buying me, Finn, and the Deveraux sisters silly little gifts. This year, I felt even bluer than usual, Fletcher's loss compounded by all these unanswered questions about my mother.

“Hey, guys,” Owen called out. “Come check this out.”

I moved away from the Christmas trees and went over to Owen, who was peering at a large wooden display case. Bria walked over to us as well.

To my surprise, several pieces of old-fashioned jewelry lay inside the case, perched on black velvet stands. A square pendant, a wide choker, several rings, earrings, and bracelets, even a couple of antique hair combs. All the pieces were done in silverstone, and all were missing the most important things—the gemstones that went in the settings.

“The Hidden Treasure of Bullet Pointe,” Owen rumbled, reading the information placard inside the glass. “This jewelry belonged to Sweet Sally Sue, a wealthy coal baroness who built the Bullet Pointe hotel and theme park back during the Great Depression.”

Several photos were also propped up in the case, showing Sweet Sally Sue, a tall, slender woman with blue eyes and long auburn hair curled into fat ringlets. She must have loved her theme park and jewelry because in every single picture she was dressed like an old-fashioned saloon girl and decked out in all her gems.

I leaned closer, peering at the photos. A large, square sapphire went in the empty pendant, while the choker had featured three rows of diamonds. More sapphires and diamonds adorned the rest of the jewelry, along with generous helpings of rubies, emeralds, and other precious stones. Sweet Sally Sue hadn't skimped on her baubles. Even back then, the gemstones would have been worth a fortune.

“Sweet Sally Sue loved puzzles,” Owen continued reading. “To celebrate what would have been Sweet Sally Sue's one hundred twenty-fifth birthday this year, her jewels were removed from their settings, placed into a black velvet bag, and hidden in the Bullet Pointe theme park, where they remain to this day. Whoever finds the bag of gemstones will be allowed to keep them, as well as their original settings. They will also receive a free lifetime pass to the theme park and hotel.”

Owen stopped and blinked, as if the final sentence on the placard surprised him. He cleared his throat and finished reading. “The contest was the brainchild of the current resort owner, Deirdre Shaw.”

I eyed the empty jewelry settings. They reminded me of an engagement ring that Fletcher had once given to Deirdre—one that she'd pried the diamond out of and sold on the sly.