No signature, but that didn’t much matter to him. He’d thought about it all morning, and finally decided that it must have been written by one of the pageant contestants. His pulse accelerated as he remembered a few of the beautiful young women last year parading past the judges’ table in their evening gowns.
Or maybe it was one of the mothers of the younger contestants. Some of those women were among the most overbearing human beings on the planet. After last year’s pageant he’d gotten some pretty nasty e-mails from mothers of girls who didn’t win. On the other hand, a few of those women would go to amazing lengths to ensure their daughters took home the title of Little Princess. Including emptying their checking accounts for a little “title insurance.”
He bounded up the stairs to the fourth floor. At the top he opened the fire door slowly and peeked through. The hallway was deserted. He slipped across the thick carpet to the room with the numbers 4057 on the door.
Inside, he leaned against the closed door and looked around. Doubt tickled at his mind. Something wasn’t right.
“Hello?”
No answer. He stepped forward, glancing into the dark bathroom as he passed. Empty.
The room looked as though it had just been cleaned. Beds made. Carpet swept. Fresh notepad and pen beside the phone on the desk.
Only one thing looked out of place. A white grocery sack on the dresser. He moved closer. It was full, like somebody had been shopping. He peered inside.
Uh-oh. Maybe he was wrong. There were at least half a dozen bottles of—
A movement in the mirror above the dresser caught his eye. Every muscle in his body tensed as the door to the adjoining room swung open.
Tension fled, replaced by irritation as he recognized the person who stepped into view.
“What’s going on here?” He gestured toward the bag. “Is this your idea of a joke?”
His gaze dropped to watch in the mirror as the gloved hands, holding a thick rope, rose. Uncomprehending, he locked gazes with the reflection.
The rope was around his neck before he could move.
ONE
“What in the world have you gotten us into, Jasmine Delaney?”
Jazzy bit back a groan as she stared into the wide-eyed face of her friend. Liz clutched her cello case to her chest. A girl around ten years old—one of the horde that filled the hotel lobby—brushed past her in hot pursuit of a giggling friend.
Shaking her head, Jazzy followed the girls’ progress as they threaded through the line of hotel guests waiting to check in. A room-service waiter with a tray of covered dishes balanced over his head barely avoided disaster when they dashed by him. They narrowly missed a repairman before disappearing behind the elevators.
With an apologetic grimace, Jazzy faced her friend. “When the bride gave me the reservation number she did mention that I was getting one of the few remaining rooms.” A shriek of high-pitched laughter from a group of girls seated on nearby sofas pierced the din. Jazzy winced. “I assumed the rooms were taken by people attending the Bar-B-Q Festival. I had no idea there would be so many children.”
“Smile!” The third member of their trio pointed a digital camera in their faces for the fifth time in as many minutes. A confirmed scrapbooker, Caitlin was forever snapping pictures of their part-time ensemble during rehearsals and performances. It drove Jazzy crazy.
Nevertheless, she put her head close to Liz’s and pasted on a cheesy grin. The urge to hold bunny fingers above her grouchy friend’s head was strong, but she resisted.
Caitlin lowered the camera, frowning. “Darn. I think the batteries just died.”
“Here, let me.” Jazzy whipped out her cell phone, pointed and caught a shot of Caitlin scowling at her camera.
Liz glared as another group of giggling girls brushed by them a little too close. “What’s with all these kids?”
The line moved forward. A tall woman pushed by Jazzy and marched to the front of the line. Jazzy exchanged a glance with Caitlin, who shrugged and bent to drag her gigantic duffel bag into place behind her.
Straightening, Caitlin gestured with her flute case to a point behind Jazzy’s head. “That’s why. Look what’s going on in this hotel tomorrow.”
Jazzy turned her head in the direction Caitlin indicated. A poster on a marquee near the edge of the reception desk detailed Waynesboro Barbecue Festival Events. She scanned the entries until she spotted the one to which Caitlin referred. A baby pageant would be held in the International Ballroom tomorrow morning, followed by the Toddler Pageant, the Youth Pageant, the Little Princess Pageant and the Miss Bar-B-Q Teen Pageant. The biggest event, the crowning of Miss Bar-B-Q Festival, would be held at eight-thirty tomorrow night.
Jazzy groaned out loud this time. They’d reserved a room smack-dab in the middle of beauty pageant central.
Liz clutched the cello case tighter. “Do you suppose we could find another hotel?” Strands of her dark hair took on a life of their own as she whipped her head to watch a harried mother herd a brood of towheaded children toward the lobby restaurant.
Jazzy wished they could. So far the Executive Inn wasn’t living up to its name. She’d expected something far newer, but judging by the worn carpet and slightly shabby state of the wingback chairs grouped to form conversation nooks throughout the lobby, this hotel had been around for a while. She examined the gleaming glass front doors with a critical eye. At least they looked clean.
“I doubt it. The bride made this reservation months ago. Waynesboro isn’t a very big town to begin with, and the festival seems to have commandeered every available room.” Jazzy looked at her watch. “Besides, we don’t have time. We’ve got to be at the church for the rehearsal in ninety minutes.”
“Oh, c’mon.” Caitlin punched Liz on the arm, grinning. “Don’t be a Scrooge. You like kids, don’t you?”
“Singly,” Liz replied instantly. “And preferably sleeping.”
As another loud burst of laughter rose from the girls on the sofa, Jazzy had to agree. Raised as an only child, she’d never been comfortable with large groups of kids. Except, of course, when she was playing in the school orchestra or the junior symphony. But then everybody was governed by the rules of the music—every note, every beat carefully orchestrated by the conductor.
“I told you on the phone we needed a room on the second floor in this wing.” The voice cut through the general din of the lobby. “I ain’t gonna have my daughter traipsing from the backside of the hotel in her fancy clothes tomorrow afternoon.”
The broad-shouldered woman who had barged past them stood before the high counter, her anger evident in her white-fingered grip on the straps of a blue canvas handbag. A girl around ten or eleven years old stood quietly beside her, head bowed. Jazzy caught a quick glimpse of a blush-stained cheek before the girl sidled away from the woman, stopping nearby but facing in the opposite direction as though trying to disassociate herself from the argument that was beginning to attract attention. Jazzy exchanged a glance with Liz, eyebrows arched.
The
