Booked for Trouble (21 page)

His face darkened. “Is there a problem?”

“No problem.”

“Then why leave so suddenly?”

Mom had been here for over a week, not exactly a short stay. It was none of his business what she was doing. “Time to go home.”

“Is she coming back?”

“Next year, probably. I . . .”

George stormed past me and almost ran up the stairs.

Poor George, manager. If he'd thought he had a chance with my mom, he'd been seriously deluding himself. As the valet pulled up in a Lexus, an elderly couple came out of the lobby. The man patted his pockets, looking for a tip, while the valet waited patiently. Finally the woman had to dig in her cavernous purse. The valet threw me an apologetic smile. George had enjoyed a week of Mom's company; he should consider himself lucky. For George, the death of Karen Kivas had worked out rather well.

My heart stopped.
Cui bono?
Who benefits? That's what they ask in police procedural novels, isn't it? George, manager, had benefited. Mom had cut him dead when they first met, and pretty much ignored him at book club. Then, only a day later, she was being all charming and friendly and even inviting him for drinks or to join us at dinner. The murder of Karen, being suspected of killing Karen as well as having stolen a piece of jewelry, had put Mom in an even more fragile emotional state than when she'd arrived. I suspected that Mom had wanted to get back at my dad, even if Dad didn't know it. And the only available man was George, manager. Thus the abrupt change in her manner toward him.

Who would be in a better position to steal a valuable necklace from a guest's room than the manager of the hotel? I thought back to the night of the book club. Who'd sat beside Mom? Butch. No, wait—Butch had gotten up when George and Karen arrived and given the other man his seat. Easy enough for George to slip the necklace into Mom's bag when no one was watching.

Did Karen see what happened? Did she threaten to tell on George? He was her boss. All she'd have to do
would be to hint that she wanted plum assignments, an increase in pay, maybe extra vacation time. George had left the library before Karen, but did he leave the grounds? Mom would have said if she'd seen his car, but the lane makes a loop in a patch of dense trees where the lights from the parking lot don't reach. A convenient place to park and wait for someone to come out of the library.

“Miss? Miss?”

I blinked. The valet was standing in front of me. The SLK was parked at the curb, engine purring softly.

I ran into the hotel. Other than the clerk behind the registration counter, the lobby was completely empty. Mom's brown and gold suitcase was next to the desk, but no sign of my mother.

“Where's Mrs. Richardson?” I asked the clerk. “Did she check out? I'm waiting outside with the car.”

The clerk looked at me in surprise. “Are you her daughter?”

“Yes.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes. I mean, no, I'm not okay. I've lost my mother.”

“You look okay.”

“What the heck does it matter how I look?”

“Mr. Marwick told Mrs. Richardson there'd been an accident out front. Her daughter had been struck by a car.”

“What!”

The receptionist leaned over the desk to see out the front doors. “That's funny. I don't hear any commotion.”

“No one's been in an accident. Where'd they go?”

“Who?”

“Mr. Marwick and my mother!”

“I don't know.”

“He told her I'd been in an accident. Then what happened?”

“You don't have to yell.”

“I'll do a lot more than yell if you don't tell me what's going on.”

“Mr. Marwick told Mrs. Richardson you'd been taken away in an ambulance. He said he'd drive her to the hospital. I thought that was nice of him. He doesn't usually . . . I mean—”

“Where does he park his car? What kind of car is it?”

“Employee parking's at the back of the hotel. He drives a blue Ford Focus, I think.”

I headed for the door off the lobby marked
EMPLOYEES ONLY
.

“Hey!” the clerk yelled at me. “You can't go in there. That's private.”

As soon as I stepped out of the public area, I could see what a genuinely poor state the hotel was in. Everything was aging and dilapidated. The industrial beige paint was chipped and peeling, the linoleum floor so cracked you could trace a map of Europe in it. Holes were in the walls, and ominous water stains dotted the ceiling. I stared down the long, ill-lit corridor. Several doors led off, and I had absolutely no idea which led to the outside. But I did know where the employee parking lot was. I'd seen it when Louise Jane was giving us our tour of the “haunted” swimming pool. I ran back into the lobby, shouting, “Call nine-one-one. A woman's been kidnapped,” but I didn't know if the clerk would bother to make the call.

Mom might have believed what George had told her in a moment of shock, but she'd come to her senses
quickly. No ambulance would have arrived that soon, and everyone would have heard the siren if it had. No one yelled for help; the valet hadn't come running in shouting for a doctor; people didn't rush outside to catch the excitement.

Other than my yelling, peace and calm lay over the hotel.

If George was giving Mom a lift, by now she must have realized what was going on and was not going willingly.

“You're going to have to move your car,” the valet said as soon as he spotted me. I ignored him and sprinted down the driveway. I'd not gone more than a few yards when a blue car came charging around the corner. “Look out!” the valet yelled. I leapt out of the way, feeling the air around me move as the vehicle swept past. I fell hard onto my rear end, and pain shot through my right wrist. George was driving, and my mom sat in the passenger seat. I don't know if he even saw me, but Mom threw me a look. Her eyes were wide and her lips said, “Lucy.” An iPhone in a white case flew out the driver's window. The car careened off a giant terra-cotta urn full of red and white geraniums and trailing ivy, but it kept going. And then they were gone.

The keys were in the SLK and the car was still running. I jumped into it and tore down the long driveway. George Marwick must have killed Karen Kivas and now he had my mom. Did Mom know what danger she was in, or did she think George was playing some sort of practical joke? Suzanne Wyatt Richardson was not one for enjoying practical jokes. I couldn't bear to think what might happen if . . . when Mom demanded he bring her back to the hotel.

The Focus made a left turn onto Virginia Dare Trail. It was fully dark now, but traffic was heavy with tourists returning to their hotels and rentals after dinner. I had to wait for a break in the traffic, but I shot forward as soon as I had a chance. A minivan came to a screeching halt with a blare of its horn. I dodged in and out of traffic, trying to catch up to the Focus. Ahead, all I could see in front of me was red taillights. I dug in my pocket, searching for my iPhone.

Nothing.

I'd given my phone to Mom. That must have been what I'd seen being tossed out of the car. Too late to go back for it now. Even if it was still working.

I gripped the steering wheel and cut in front of a panel van. My thoughts tumbled all over themselves. I didn't know what to do. I could stop and try to flag someone down to call the police. But if I did that, I'd lose them. George could be taking her anywhere. Should I try to force George to pull over? Or follow them and wait until they got out of the car? He was driving a Focus and I was in a Mercedes SLK. I had an almost full tank of gas. If it came to a chase, I'd be able to outrun him, no problem. But I didn't think it likely that if I tried forcing the bigger vehicle off the road, the two-seater sports car would come out ahead. I was terrified that I'd lose his rear lights among all the other cars, and end up following the wrong one. At Whalebone Junction, the majority of the vehicles carried on through, heading for the bridge to Roanoke Island. The one I thought was George turned left, going up Highway 12.

I made my decision and took a left. Traffic was much thinner now and I pressed down on the gas. I'd try to pull up beside them when I could. Let George see me. Let
him know I was after him. I thought he might turn at the last road in Nags Head—perhaps he lived down that way—but he drove past without slowing. Now, nothing lay ahead of us other than the lighthouse and the beaches of the National Seashore for the twenty or so miles to Rodanthe. And nothing beyond that but the road to Hatteras and then a ferry to Ocracoke. I had no idea where George could be taking my mother.

Mom must have been thinking much the same thing, for the car ahead of me suddenly swerved, heading straight into the center of the highway. It careened back again, almost going off the shoulder. I leaned on the horn, and moved the SLK forward so I was almost on his bumper. I flashed my high beams, on and off, on and off.

The Focus ricocheted down the highway. More than once, I'd been sure it was about to go off the road, but then it was pulled back. Thank heavens no one was coming in the other direction. Several times when I'd been coming home after dark, my headlights had caught deer leaping across the road. I prayed the beautiful animals wouldn't be out tonight.

“Go, Mom, go,”
I yelled, pounding the steering wheel. She was fighting him now.

We reached the road to the lighthouse. The Focus turned into the lane so suddenly, without even slowing down, that I didn't have time to react and the SLK shot past. I barely slowed down before executing a U-turn. Small cars do have their advantages. Then I was tearing down the lighthouse road. I felt every bump jolting into my seat. The great first-order Fresnel lens flashed, and I could see that the Focus had come to a stop at the edge of the parking lot, one of the front wheels deep in mud. My car lights swept across the disabled vehicle. George
had pulled Mom out of the car, and he was attempting to drag her across the sodden grass toward the marsh.

“Mom!” I cried, jumping out of the SLK. I didn't bother to switch off the engine and my headlights illuminated the ghastly scene. I ran after them, slipping and sliding in the mud. “George, what are you doing? Stop. I've called the police. They're on their way.”

George whirled around. He gripped Mom tightly with one arm. She looked at me, and I was happy to see, not fear or despair in her eyes, but pure rage. She had lost one of her shoes, and the bottoms of her pants were thick with mud. She was wearing ballet flats. Too bad she didn't have on a good pair of stilettos. Those can make a formidable weapon when used properly.

George put his free hand around her throat.

“What seems to be the problem here, George?” I asked. I tried to keep my voice calm, to sound like someone in full control of the situation. I fear it came out like a frightened squeak.

He stepped backward, pulling Mom with him, taking them out of the reach of the headlights and into the deep darkness. It had stopped raining some time ago, but thick clouds covered the moon and stars. Mom kept an emergency flashlight in the SLK, and I cursed myself for not thinking to bring it.

“Go away, Lucy,” George said. “Your mother and I are going to have a long talk.”

“That sounds good,” I said. “But it's awfully wet out here. Wouldn't you be better talking inside the lighthouse?” I was hoping to get us inside so I could use the phone.

George didn't have a weapon, not that I could see, and for that I was grateful. Then I remembered Karen. She hadn't been shot or stabbed, either.

“The police are on their way. If they think you're smothering my mom, they might accidentally shoot you.”

“The police are not on their way, Lucy. You don't have a phone.”

Mom was struggling to free herself and to speak, but the grip on her throat was too strong. I didn't want him applying any more pressure. “Calm down, Mom. George and I are good here.”

I won't say she exactly calmed down, but she stopped struggling.

George and Mom were standing under the stone walls of the lighthouse. When the thousand-watt bulb flashed, it didn't cast enough light on them to be useful. But over George's shoulder I saw the darkness stir. A shadow moved away from the thick walls, separating from the deep black of the old building. It moved in total silence, hovering inches above the ground. The body of the shadow was the size and shape of a person, but the head had no definition. Veils of mist drifted around its legs.

The Lady.

If I hadn't been so frightened for my mom, I would have run, screaming in terror.

A cry of warning died on my lips. Maybe, just maybe, the Lady had come to save us. Louise Jane's stories said that she was not evil, or even malicious. She wanted to help those she thought were trapped in the lighthouse. Trapped as she had been. But she didn't realize that exiting by a window a hundred feet above the ground wasn't good for living things.

If she was here to help, I wished she'd move a bit faster.

“What do you want, George?” I asked. I tore my eyes away from the Lady
.
George had seen me looking over his shoulder, seen the shock written on my face. But he
didn't turn around. He probably thought he was too clever to fall for that old trick.

The light died and all was dark again.

“What do I want?” George said. “What I've always wanted. My Sue.”

“My mom's married, George. My dad won't give her a divorce. He's very religious.”

“Then we'll run away, won't we, Sue?”

For a moment all was quiet; then he screamed, “I said, won't we, Sue?”

Mom managed a slight nod.

“We'll start a new life together. I have nothing to stay here for. That cursed hotel's a wreck. They gave me a year to turn it around, to start making a profit. But how can I do that when the luxury guests stop coming, and there's no money for a decent chef or to hire enough staff to clean properly?”