Bart Finnegan stood at the window and looked down on the
lush foliage that bordered the west lawn of Fernhaven
Hotel. The evergreens were dusted with white as was the
grass. They'd had heavy snows up higher in the mountains,
but all they'd gotten at this altitude was a few flakes.
He'd have preferred a real snow. The dusting reminded him
of the powdered sugar his stepmother used to put on cakes
in lieu of icing. Cakes without icing were like peanut
butter sandwiches without jelly. She'd put those in his
lunch tin on several occasions as well.
Odd to be thinking about that now. He hadn't seen the
woman or his father in years. Once he'd joined the Marines
at eighteen, he'd pretty much put them and his past life
behind him. It had been easier than he'd expected. Enemy
bullets had been less scathing than his father's constant
criticism and his stepmother's nagging.
A young couple rode by on the bike path that bordered one
of the several creeks that ran through the property. They
were dressed for the activity, in matching red and navy
jogging suits and navy ski caps. Her long dark hair flowed
behind her, even though she didn't seem to be pedaling all
that fast. The man kept turning his head around as if to
make sure she was still behind him.
They were the first people Bart had seen since he'd taken
this room in the west wing. Actually, the wing wasn't even
open yet, which was why the room was available. The rest
of the hotel was sold out. If you build it, they will come.
The familiar phrase played in Bart's mind. He'd never have
believed that the statement would have been true of a
hotel built in a secluded part of the Cascade mountains.
But, apparently, the rich and famous could be drawn
anywhere that they believed was the in place of the winter
season, even if a female guest had been raped and murdered
only a month earlier.
But then thanks to the press, most people believed she'd
been killed by her husband. They were wrong.
Bart was not one of the rich and famous drawn to the hotel
to see and be seen. That's why the room in the unfinished
wing fit him to perfection. The price was right, and the
other hotel guests wouldn't even know he was around unless
he chose to mingle with them.
Neither would the sheriff's department. As far as they
were concerned, the gunshot wound had left him out of
commission and there was no way they would ever have
okayed his searching for the perp.
So he'd slip in and out of his isolated room and
investigate on his own, roam the halls, listen in on
conversations, nose around where he had no business. The
old rules didn't apply anymore. What the sheriff's
department didn't know couldn't hurt him.
CARRIE FRANSEN stared at Sheriff Huey Powell, trying
desperately to hold her temper, a skill she'd never been
good at. "Why Rich McFarland?"
"You can't work homicide without a partner. It's a
department rule."
"I've heard you say more than once that rules are made to
be broken."
"Not this one." He raked his fingers through his thin gray
hair. "I know how close you were to Bart. That's why I
left you alone for this long, but it's time to move on.
You have to take a partner on this case."
"Then give me Kirk."
The sheriff shook his head. "Can't do that, not after what
I received in the mail today." He took a clear plastic bag
from the top of his desk and handed it to her. "I'm
sending it out for a fingerprint check, but you can see it
for yourself."
Stop me before I kill again.
There was no signature, but the logo of Fern-haven Hotel
was taped to the bottom of the note. The logo looked as if
it had been torn from one of the cocktail napkins they
used in the lounge.
"It could be a hoax," she said.
"Could be, and I hope it is," Powell agreed. "But we can't
ignore it. That's why I need Rich on this case. Other than
me, Rich's got more years in law experience than anyone
else in the department. Not only that, but he worked
homicide in Seattle for ten years. We need that expertise
on this case."
"It's taken weeks to get the people in the area to open up
to me. If Rich goes in there with his tough guy, big-city
cop routine, they'll crawl back into their reclusive
hideaways and refuse to give us the time of day."
"You have more than the natives to deal with. You have the
hotel staff and the guests that were there that weekend.
As far as I know you haven't ruled out anyone yet."
"Not officially."
"Unofficially?"
"Not unofficially, either," she admitted.
"Then we're wasting our time here. You're working with
Rich on this case. I'll let him know this afternoon. Fill
him in on what you have and take him up to the hotel and
introduce him around."
So that was it. A new partner — whether she liked it or
not. And it would have to be the one guy in the department
she'd cross the street in the rain just to avoid having to
speak to him. The guy was just too arrogant for words.
Bart would laugh his head off if he were standing here
right now. Only if he were here, none of this would be
happening.
Sheriff Powell stood and stepped from behind his desk. He
put a hand on her back between her shoulder blades. Not a
hug. Not a clap like he would have given one of the other
deputies. She was his only female deputy, and she was
pretty sure the gender difference made him uncomfortable.
She didn't get it, but the sheriff was pushing seventy,
and he saw a lot of things differently than she did.
She could hold her own, and she'd put her shooting skills
against Rich McFarland's any day of the week. Bart had
made sure of that. He'd gone with her to the shooting
range several times a month, insisted that when it was
crunch time, it was cop instinct and shooting accuracy
that made the difference between life and death.
And sometimes even that wasn't enough.
THE NIGHT SPARKLED with tiny white lights that winked and
blinked from the tall, stately spruce trees that dotted
the grounds in front of the hotel, all part of the
Christmas decor.
"Pretty impressive," Rich said. He slowed before they
reached the circular drive where a crew of bellmen waited.
"Is this your first time to the hotel?" Carrie asked.
"I've been up here a couple of times since they finished
it, but always in the daytime. The place looks different
at night."
"Is that why you wanted to wait until dark to drive up
here?"
"Partly. I also had some other business to take care of
this afternoon."
He didn't explain what else he had to do, and she didn't
ask.
"Hard to believe that a year ago, there was nothing here
but woods and a few bricks from the fireplaces of a hotel
that burned to the ground over seventy years ago," she
said, once again marveling at the grandeur of the hotel.
Rich nodded. "Harder to believe someone built a hotel in
the exact same spot. Obviously they weren't superstitious,
which means they were probably not from around here."
"No, but the woman who rebuilt it was a descendant of the
original builder. She meant it as a monument to her
ancestor and the past. That's why she built almost an
exact replica."
"Kind of like the Titanic Two," Rich said.
"But from the looks of that parking lot it must not
matter."
He slowed as he reached the circular drive. "I guess we
should introduce you to the night security supervisor
before we do anything else," Carrie said.
"I'd like to see the spot where they found the woman's
body," Rich said, making a U-turn and heading back the way
they'd come.
"Tonight?"
"Seems as good a time as any."
She tried to count to ten silently, but only made it to
eight. "They found the body at the bottom of a ravine."
"So?"
"It's pitch-dark out there."
"You scared of the dark, Fransen?"
"Of course not. I just don't see the point in roaming the
woods at night when I've thoroughly examined the scene in
the daylight and documented all my findings. You have read
the reports, haven't you?"
"I read them, but I like to see things for myself."
"You can't see a lot in the dark."
"I'll see what the perp saw that night. And what the woman
saw before she was raped, branded and murdered."
"It's not safe to hike that area in the dark."
"Must be why they made flashlights." Smart-ass, she
mouthed, her gaze straight ahead.
"You know if I didn't know better, Fransen, I'd think
those ghost tales had gotten to you and that you're afraid
to go into the woods at night."
"Nice you know better." But the comment got her
attention. "I haven't heard any ghost tales."
"Then you must not be talking to the right people. The
locals up here claim this area of the Cascades is
inhabited by the undead."