the hotel last night,” he said as he handed her the full cup. “Can you imagine that?”
She stared at him. Unfortunately, she could imagine that. What the caffeine hadn’t yet completely accomplished, the word murder did. “Who was murdered?”
“Her name hasn’t been released yet,” he continued, his interest appearing to wane as he obviously got to his real purpose for waking her this early on a Sunday morning. “I came by to see if this spot remover works. If you’ll get me your dress…”
She barely heard him. A woman had been murdered? Her heart picked up a staccato beat while her pulse buzzed in her ears. Just because a woman had been murdered at the hotel last night, didn’t mean it was Liz. After all, it was a huge place. What were the chances the victim was even someone she knew?
“Karen?” Howie waved the can of spot remover in front of her to get her attention. “The dress?”
She pointed absently in the direction of the couch, drained her coffee cup and looked around for her purse.
“You did soak the dress overnight in cold water, didn’t you?” he asked.
She hated to tell him.
“I don’t see the dress,” he called back to her from the other side of the breakfast bar.
She pointed again, this time more in the direction of the corner, as she dumped the contents of her purse on the kitchen counter and sorted through it feverishly for the number Liz had given her. She and Liz had exchanged phone numbers on coffee-shop napkins, but at the time she’d figured she’d probably never see Liz again—let alone call her. But her instincts told her that Liz wouldn’t have stayed at the hotel last night. Not after learning the truth about her lover.
With relief, she spied a latte-stained corner of napkin, pulled it free and reached for the phone.
“Oh!” she heard Howie exclaim. He must have found her dress where she’d thrown it last night.
The line began to ring. Pick up, Liz. Come on. Answer your phone.
When the answering machine came on, she hung up, not wanting to leave a message. What message would she leave, anyway? “Call me if you’re not dead? Otherwise—”
Okay. Liz wasn’t at home. Still no reason to panic. Maybe she had stayed over at the hotel last night. Karen tried the Carlton number only to get a busy signal.
“Howie, I have someplace I have to go,” Karen said, shoving everything but the keys back into her purse and quickly finishing off her fried pie before she looked around for shoes. She spied her Birkenstock sandals poking out from the end of the couch and slid into their familiar worn comfort.
Howie was holding the dress out and tsk-tsking.
“Look, Howie—” That dress had been nothing but bad luck. She’d bought it on impulse because it was on sale and for just a moment, she’d seen herself in the dress having a romantic candlelight dinner with a still faceless Man of Her Dreams. Obviously sale dresses came with dream glitches she should have been warned about. “Here, give me that.” She snatched the dress and the spot remover from him, stuffed the spray can in her purse and tucked the cursed dress under her arm. “I have it covered. Trust me. I know just what to do.”
“Well, I really think—”
“No time for that now,” she said, cutting him short as she ushered him out the door ahead of her.
She left him standing in the courtyard as she hurried to her Honda. As she threw her purse and the dress into the passenger seat, she couldn’t help but notice how much the stain still looked like blood. A bad omen.
Omens now, Karen? Bad-luck sales dresses. When did you become so superstitious, anyway?
As she drove across Missoula toward the Carlton, she berated herself for being such a fool. She was wasting a perfectly good Sunday morning. The sun shone as bright orange as one of Talley Iverson’s apricot fried pies, making the day almost as wonderful, although a little cool considering this was spring in Montana.
Who was she kidding? It was March and it was still too cold for the way she was dressed. She flipped on the heater the moment the engine warmed up and cruised toward the mountains debating her own stupidity.
Why did she even think the murdered woman might be Liz?
Well, gosh, could it be the whole secret-lover thing? Or maybe the way Liz had reacted to the man in the hotel hallway last night? Or the way he’d reacted to her? Not to mention that strange phone call and the message from Liz?
All circumstantial evidence. Not even evidence at all. Just one woman’s hysterical jump to dire conclusions. She should be concerning herself instead with how to let Howie down easily—yet firmly. And what was with him and those warm fried pies this morning? It was as if Talley Iverson were pulling out all the stops. Karen knew she really should be doing something about Howie and his matchmaking aunt rather than worrying about Liz, a woman she hardly knew.
You just have to know what happened, don’t you? You’re as bad as your mother!
Oh, that hurt.
Not that it deterred her.
She was going to the hotel. She’d find out who was murdered. If it wasn’t Liz, she’d feel relieved and foolish. But she was all right with that.
She caught her reflection in the rearview mirror. She looked like a wild woman, her shoulder-length brown hair standing out in every which direction! Glancing around in the car, she found an old navy blue scrunchie and battled her hair into semicompliance while she drove. No easy task. Now all she had to do was get control over her life again.
Ahead she could see the Hotel Carlton etched against the clear dark blue of Montana’s big sky. As warm as it was in the car, she felt a chill.
JACK ADAMS SAW HER the moment she walked in. Not that she stood out particularly—even the way she was dressed. The lobby was such a zoo because of the murder, he doubted anyone else noticed her. He wasn’t sure what had made him look down when he did from the mezzanine where he’d been hiding out. Or what it was about her that held his initial attention.
Her hair looked pulled up into a ponytail of sorts. Stray strands of golden brown curled around her face making her eyes seem large and wide. Brown eyes, he guessed, although he couldn’t tell from this distance. Some freckles probably. Late twenties, early thirties. Jogs or works out at the gym three times a week, he figured. Teaches school or day care. Born and raised in Montana. Probably here to meet her mother and grandmother for the hotel’s Sunday breakfast brunch. Your typical Girl Next Door. Case closed.
He wished Denny wasn’t busy interviewing witnesses. Detective Dennis Kirkpatrick had started the game one night at a bar, betting his talent for observation was keener than Jack’s. It had become a duel to the death ever since. But this time, Jack thought he could beat Denny at his own game. This one was almost too easy.
BY THE TIME she walked into the hotel, Karen rued her impetuous behavior. This wasn’t like her. Not at all. What really brought it home was just how foolishly she was dressed. No coat. No socks. No bra. Now, chilled, she felt nearly naked and knew everyone in the place was probably staring at her chest. She crossed her arms. What was she doing here?
“Excuse
