Camera Never Lies (20 page)

“Or anyone else for that matter. That makes this sleuthing more difficult.” I yawned widely then slapped my hand over my mouth. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Spencer.”

“You should get some rest. Clearing that brilliant mind of yours will help to sort things out. Just…be careful.”

“Sure. You, too. You did a great job retrieving information from her. Mind if I ask how you did it?” I was scared to hear the answer but had to know.

“Funny thing, that.”

“Yes, well, I’m waiting.”

He grinned. “She was intrigued with my accent, as you thought. Is studying to become a translator. Wants to be an international traveler. I thought she’d hit things off great with my sister, so I invited her up to the castle.”

“You didn’t.” He’d invited me as well. Had he really invited her to his parents’ estate to meet his sister? “Well, I think you’re right. I need to get to bed.”

“Let me escort you.”

“No, it’s all right.”

“I insist.”

I was too tired to argue. We strolled through the lobby. Once inside an elevator, Spencer pushed the second-floor button. I leaned back against the wall, a myriad of thoughts scrambling through my mind. How did Spencer really feel about me? Had the housekeeper been set up for the murder of a man who had many enemies? Had Mom enjoyed her movie? Was she still awake? Where in the world did Rene and Conrad go?

The door opened, and I stepped out, wishing Spencer a good night. He followed me out into the corridor. I pretended that I didn’t care whether or not he was there—it seemed the only way to maintain control. After finding my card key, I readied to shove it into the slot.

Spencer stopped me. “Polly…”

As I looked into his face, I remembered my vow to guard myself. “Yes, well, it’s getting late. Thank you for escorting me to my room. I’m sure you don’t need to go in and check everything.” I giggled, nervous at Spencer’s nearness.

He rubbed my arms. “About the little show we put on. I know I said not to take it seriously. But…I meant the kiss.”

His soft words stole my breath. I shook my head to break the spell and squinted at him. “Um…it sounded like you just said you meant the kiss.” My emotions swung between anger and pure joy. The hall was so quiet that my swallow seemed to echo down the corridor.

“Yes. That’s what I said.” Spencer’s voice had gone husky again. He leaned in close and waited, as though he needed my permission this time. “I just wanted you to know that the kiss was real for me. That’s why it occurred to me that your slap might also have been real.”

“I—I thought you’d kissed me without being serious, that you were toying with me.” His face was so close I could feel his breath on my cheeks. I closed my eyes.

“So you won’t slap me if I kiss you again?”

Without waiting for my reply, his lips pressed against mine, wrapping me with his strong emotion, with tenderness, with everything I’d dreamed of and hoped for.

Except this time, I knew it was real.

I wanted to melt into him. But this wasn’t the kind of passion one unbridled without the proper vows in place. When finally I stood inside my room, my back against the door, I wondered how I got there. I happened to remember Spencer’s urgent reminder to bolt the door once inside. From there I flipped on the rest of the lights.

My computer lay on the floor, smashed to bits, along with another expensive camera I’d brought.

CHAPTER
SIXTEEN

A
t three in the morning, I was unable to sleep and stared at the darkness as I lay in bed, considering the events of the last few hours. To say that I’d had a bad night was an understatement. After getting over the initial shock that someone had destroyed my equipment, I debated whether to call security. Would calling mean I’d face Ranger Jennings in the middle of the night?

Ultimately I’d called the lodge operator, who directed me to security, which they’d increased since the murder. I figured I might need to have it on record that I’d returned to my room to find my equipment destroyed, in case Ranger Jennings decided to point the finger at me.

After the security guard had taken my statement, he assured me that bolting the door would be enough to keep me safe. I wondered about the rest of the time, when I wasn’t in my room. Apparently people were free to come and go in lodge rooms despite the locks.

I decided against calling Spencer. He would worry about me, and there was nothing he could do anyway. I touched my lips, remembering his kiss—the real deal this time. I was still scared to death that he was setting me up for a big fall. But I couldn’t blame him because—who was I kidding?—I was allowing it to happen.

The puzzle pieces of Alec’s murder awaited my attention, for which I was grateful. All the pieces seemed to turn colors that could belong to the same picture. But how did they fit together?

Someone knocked on my door, sending a shock of nervous fear through me. What now?

My heart pounded against my chest like it wanted out as I tiptoed to the door and looked through the peephole. “Mom!”

Deadbolts, I discovered, weren’t designed to be opened by the distressed. Once my fumbling brought success, Mom traipsed into my room, clothed only in her nightgown and robe. She was barefoot.

“What’s going on? Why are you up in the middle of the night?” I asked.

Without responding, she walked over to the closet and opened the door, looked inside, then shut it. Then she moved to the television and turned it on.

I went to where she sat on the bed and waved my hand in front of her face. Her eyes stared straight ahead. “I don’t believe this. You’re sleepwalking?”

I’d heard that sleepwalkers weren’t supposed to be awakened, but what did one do in this situation? What could possibly happen? As I considered my options, I continued to watch her.

The idea that she was sleepwalking and had gone to the closet and looked inside disturbed me. Utterly. I’d heard of sleep driving, sleep cooking…but what about sleep killing? What if she actually
had
killed Alec Gordon?

I hurried to the bathroom to grab a glass of water, uncertain whether I should have her drink it or just toss it in her face.

When I came out, she’d turned the television off and was standing at my desk, staring blankly at the remnants of my computer and camera.

“Mom, how about a drink of water?” I thrust it in her face, hoping for a response. When none came, I pressed it against her lips.

Ignoring me, she turned and headed for the door. Where would she go? Another unwelcome and horrible thought accosted me. Would she lead me to the murder weapon? As I watched her exit, I forced the morbid imaginings from my mind. She left the door open wide behind her. I stared after her, grabbing the hoodie off the end of my bed. I’d have to guide her back to her room. Before the door shut, I remembered the key and grabbed it.

Mom never understood why I didn’t wear a nightgown like her. Tonight proved there was one good thing about wearing sweats and a T-shirt to bed—I was always ready for encounters of the strange kind, especially those occurring in the middle of the night.

Once out the door, I saw Mom sauntering down the hall toward the elevators. “Mom!” I hissed in my loudest whisper, hoping I wouldn’t disturb other sleepers.

She moved like she would pass the elevators. I put my hands on her shoulders and gently guided her toward them. They opened as soon as I pushed the button, a first to be sure. Mom walked right in. She waited with me as the box moved to her floor. If I thought the elevators had moved slowly before, they seemed to take an eternity now. I used the time to talk to Mom. Maybe waking her would have been a better idea.

I wondered about my prayers for direction. “Lord, did I forget to pray for direction in the last thirty minutes? If so, I could use some help here.”

The elevator dinged—normally a pleasant sound in the middle of the day. In the dead of night, it was the town bell ringing to call everyone to the church for the impending town meeting or, instead, to warn of a coming disaster and take cover. The last thing I needed was to draw attention to this eccentric activity in the middle of the night during a murder investigation.

Without any nudging, Mom walked straight to her door.

The key!
Would she have her key with her? Did sleepwalkers have the frame of mind to think of such things?

Mom pulled something from her pocket. I sagged against the wall, relieved that I wouldn’t have to drag her back to my room. She stuck it into the thin slot, but it wouldn’t trip the lock. On closer examination I saw that it wasn’t the card key at all.

“Mom, what is that?” I took it from her hands. It was a small memory card—the sort of thing that would fit into a camera. My camera. Mom still used the old 35mm film. “Where did you get this?”

I heaved a sigh, hoping she’d come willingly with me back to my room, which on second thought was for the best. In fact, I sent up a “thank You” for the Lord’s guidance.

Praying the entire way, I hoped we wouldn’t run into anyone. I would have to do some explaining if we were questioned, and this seemed a bizarre story to add to an already long list of bizarre stories. We turned the corner into the corridor where my room was. I heard the door open at the end of the hall and caught a glimpse of someone as they exited the hallway. Whoever it was glanced back, but it was too quick and dark for me to see a face. I noticed a rag hanging from a back pocket.

We sauntered in slow sleepwalker fashion down the length of the hallway back to my room. Once inside, Mom lay down without a fuss on the double bed that I hadn’t used, snuggling up to an extra pillow. I shut off all the lights except for a small one next to the chair in the corner, where I curled my legs under me to watch Mom.

I grabbed my Nikon—thankfully it was still intact—and traded out the memory card with the one Mom had tried to open her door with. As I suspected, it was one of mine, containing some older photographs. When had she taken this card? I recalled she was standing next to the desk when I’d come out of the bathroom with the water.

I shook my head, feeling perplexed—just one more emotion to add to my overloaded circuits. If only I were a computer, I could expand my brainpower and memory.

But that probably wouldn’t be an option, even in the next century. So I processed one thought at a time. With Mom popping sleeping pills during the day and night, there was no way of knowing what she’d been up to. That is, if she made sleepwalking any sort of habit. Add to that, her peek in my closet. I rubbed my arms to coax away the goose bumps.

Mom was no murderer. Could someone commit that sort of crime without knowing it? Had she been the one to smash my computer and camera and take the memory card because her alter mind or personality or ego—I knew nothing of psychobabble—thought it held incriminating pictures of her committing the murder? I grabbed the hair on both sides of my head, wanting to pull hard and scream.

This time I allowed the tears to slide freely down my cheeks. “Oh, Mom.” The words came out in a choked whisper. After I’d spent the tears, one other question demanded attention.

What was George Hamilton doing in my hallway in the middle of the night?

“Polly!”

At hearing my name, my eyes popped open. Mom’s face was big in my field of vision. I cried out and jerked away from her. Pain shot through my legs and neck. I’d fallen asleep scrunched in the chair.

“Ow! Mom, what are you…” Then I remembered. One glance at the clock and I panicked. “Ten thirty! Mom, we’ve overslept.” I disentangled myself from the ill-suited bed.

“Why am I in your room?” Confusion and fear blazed across her face.

“You were sleepwalking last night. You came to my room.” I saved the part about her going to her room with my memory card as a key for another conversation.

Her mouth sagged open as though absorbing what I’d said took too much energy for her to operate both her mind and mouth. Eventually the power came back on. “I can’t believe that.”

“Well, it’s got to be those new sleeping pills. You said you feel tired all the time. Now we know why.”

“We do?”

“Yes, Mother.” I put strong emphasis on calling her “Mother”—something I rarely did—to get her attention, like when mothers call their children by their full name. She needed to know I meant business. “You haven’t been sleeping at all. You’ve been doing other things.” I cleared my throat. “Apparently.”