pushed the door open. Thin pink-tinged light formed a rectangle on the floor. The rest of the interior was pitch-black. And quiet.
Too quiet. Every nerve in her body went on alert. The atmosphere stifled her with its tomblike silence.
“Penny?” she called softly. “It’s me, Penny. Hello?”
“Step back,” McKennon whispered in her ear. He found a switch and flipped it. A wall-mounted lamp filled the cabin interior with a golden glow.
Frankie blinked, momentarily blinded. As soon as her eyes adjusted she saw the bed. The king-size four-poster bed practically filled the room. The posters looked like Roman columns carved with twining leaves. A canopy frame made of wrought iron echoed the leafy bower theme. Julius lay squarely in the center of the bed. A thick comforter was drawn to his chin. His mouth gaped and his eyes were open. Creepy claws skittered up and down her spine.
Not right, not right, this is bad, this is very bad, intuition screamed in her head. “Penny?” Moving only her eyes, she searched for her sister. “Penny!”
“Don’t move,” McKennon said. “Don’t touch anything.” He hurried to the bed and leaned over Julius.
This is not happening, Frankie thought, watching the big man press two fingers beneath the bridegroom’s jaw. A weary-sounding curse husked from McKennon’s mouth, and she knew. Julius Bannerman was dead.
Frankie clamped her arms over her chest. She planted her feet at a stubborn angle and glared at her brother-in-law. She willed him to rise, to speak, to breathe. The creepy claws ran races along her spine. “What is wrong with him, McKennon?”
He dragged a hand over the back of his neck, and his eyebrows nearly touched in the middle. “Dead.”
“He isn’t dead,” she insisted. “He’s faking it. Shake him. Give him CPR. Do something.”
McKennon tossed her a gee-you’re-dumb look. “Raising the dead isn’t in my job description.”
She strode to the opposite side of the bed. Julius’s face was a peculiar mottled gray color. Dried saliva crusted on the corners of his mouth. His eyes were as dull as dirty china. Stomach churning, she poked Julius’s cheek. His skin felt like wax and she jerked her hand back and scrubbed it on her parka.
“Leave him alone. I told you not to touch anything. Especially him.”
She held up her hands, showing empty palms. “Okay, okay. Where’s my sister?” She sidled away from the corpse. “Penny? Penny!” Ignoring McKennon’s orders to stop, she jerked open a closet door. Penny’s bridal gown hung from the rod with the skirt and train stuffed into the closet like a massive wad of cotton candy. But no Penny. Fighting down panic, Frankie rushed for the bathroom.
McKennon snagged her parka hood, jerking her backward. She gagged and stumbled. He wrapped his arms around her body and held her still. “Stop, or I will throw you out. This is possibly a crime scene. You cannot touch anything.”
Her heart tripped painfully, making breathing a chore. Blood rushing in her ears made thinking difficult.
“Take a deep breath,” he soothed. He rocked her gently, back and forth. “Calm down. We’ll find Penny. She’s okay. Settle down.”
“I am okay now,” she muttered.
He maneuvered her about to face him. Like a stiff doll, she allowed the manhandling. She knew him well enough to know that if he said he’d throw her out of the cabin, then he would do so.
“Stay right here. I will check the bathroom. Do not move.”
He entered the bathroom. His broad shoulders filled the doorway. Frankie could almost see the tension vibrating from his body. She finally found something that rattled him—and she didn’t like it one little bit.
“She isn’t here,” he announced. He unhooked a slim cellular telephone from the holster affixed to his belt.
Frankie’s gaze fell on an envelope propped against a lamp on the bedside table. “Julius Bannerman” was written on the front in bold, block lettering. She snatched up the envelope and tore off the end before he could stop her.
“I told you not to touch anything!”
She hunched protectively over the envelope. She shook out the paper inside. She fumbled the folded paper open. “It might tell me where Penny went.”
“That does it, you’re out.”
It said: “Dear Mr. Bannerman, we have your wife—”
Frankie gasped. McKennon grabbed the paper from her hand, but she had seen that first horrible sentence. “She’s been kidnapped!”
“Don’t jump to con—” His mouth clamped shut and his eyebrows rose. Eyes wide, he stared at the note. “Ah, hell.”
Strength drained from Frankie’s knees; her heart constricted in her chest. “You liar,” she growled. “You said she wasn’t in danger. Now she’s gone.”
“Be quiet.” Some of the color faded from his cheeks, leaving him gray. He rattled the sheet of paper.
Thin, college-ruled notebook paper, she noticed, the same kind she used at home because it was cheap and hole-punched. It heartened her. Surely real kidnappers would use twenty-pound bond or newsprint covered in letters clipped from magazines, not common, loose-leaf notebook paper. Her throat felt full of cement and she swallowed hard. “What does it say?”
He cleared his throat and read:
“Dear Mr. Bannerman,
We have your wife. This is nothing personal, we have no hard feelings toward you personally. This is strictly business. We know you are a good person and your wife is a good person. We will not hurt anybody as long as you do exactly what we say. All we want is money. You and your family are very rich and will not miss the paltry amount we demand. We demand three million dollars for the return of your beautiful wife. You and your family have forty-eight hours to raise the money. We are not unreasonable people. As long as you give us the money, we will not harm your wife. Do not call the police. We will know if you do. If you call the police, we will have no choice except to kill your wife. We do not want to do that. Do not leave Elk River Resort. We will know if you do. We will contact you in forty-eight hours to instruct you about where and how to give us the money. As soon as we have the money, we will give you your wife. Do not act stupid in any way. We mean everything we say.
McKennon exhaled heavily. “That’s it.”
She blinked stupidly at Julius’s body. He looked like a little kid tucked in snug and cozy for the night. “If they don’t want to hurt anybody why did they kill him?”
“An accident?” he offered. Head cocked, he studied Julius. “Stay,” he warned her and began to prowl the room. He searched, his eyes quick and alert as a cat’s, but touched nothing. He leaned over a small wastebasket next to the wet bar. “Here we go.”
Holding her elbows with her hands, in order to resist touching anything, Frankie peered inside the wastebasket. It contained several empty minibottles of scotch, foil candy wrappers and two syringes.
