Love at First Sight (2 page)

Sunday morning

It wasn’t until very early the next morning that Karen, half-asleep, got the news.

Howie brought it, along with some of his aunt’s still-warm homemade fried pies and a spray can of spot remover.

Karen opened the door barefoot, in the old T-shirt she’d slept in and a pair of thrown-on worn jeans.
“Howie?”

He stuck the fried pies under her nose like smelling salts.

She took a whiff and a pie and stumbled groggily into the kitchen, following the smell emanating from her automatic coffeemaker. What time was it, anyway?

Howie trailed after her into the tiny kitchen. “Like I was saying, I have this friend at the Hotel Carlton flower
shop. She says the police have been swarming all over the place since she got there this morning.”

Sleepily, Karen took a bite of the palm-size, lightly frosted, still-warm apricot fried pie and chewed, moaning in pleasure. Better than chocolate. Better than sleep. Better than even— She stopped chewing. “What?”

Howie handed her a napkin and pointed to a crumb on her chin. She wiped at it robotically as she watched him pull down a cup and fill it with coffee. He handed it to her.

Police?
She took a gulp of the hot strong coffee, desperately needing to get up to speed. Her head cleared a little as the caffeine started to kick in. She took another drink. Her eyes began to focus. They focused on Howie.

He smiled in acknowledgment and refilled her cup. Somehow she hadn’t expected to see him again after last night. How long did his aunt say he’d be in town?

“It turns out someone was murdered at 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.

J
ACK
A
DAMS 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.

B
Y 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 me,” she said as a bellhop cruised by. “Can you tell me who was murdered?” she blurted out, wanting to get it over with as quickly as possible and go home.

The kid stopped, leaned over and said conspiratorially, “I heard her name was Jones. Liz Jones.”

Karen felt the blood drain from her face. Her heart jackhammered and the room seemed to spin crazily.

“One of the maids found her this morning,” the bellhop continued in a hushed whisper. “Strangled with her own panty hose, I heard. The cops are still here asking questions down in the ballroom but so far I don’t think they’ve found the killer.”

Hadn’t she known it would be Liz? Oh, yeah? And how exactly
had
she known that? First superstitious and now psychic? She didn’t like this.

Get a grip. You suspected it was Liz or you wouldn’t be here. So, tell someone what little you know and let’s get out of here.

She glanced down the hallway toward the door marked Ballroom. All her fears rushed to her head like
too much champagne. What did she really have to tell the police? That Liz had been involved with a man in some secret relationship.
And the name of the man?
She didn’t know.
What did he look like?
Well, she only saw him for an instant. Did she think she would recognize him again if she saw him? Maybe.

He’d looked surprised when he saw her, probably because her dress had appeared to be covered in blood. It was actually red wine that her blind date had spilled on her. No, he wasn’t blind, just nervous.

Karen took a breath. All right, she didn’t have much to give the police. For all she knew he could have been Liz’s ex, the one she said she’d left because of his jealousy. But if any information Karen had could help find the killer—

B
ELATEDLY
, Jack noticed two things about the young woman that made him glad he
hadn’t
made that bet after all.

One was the look on her face as she stopped a bellhop near the entrance. She wasn’t asking directions to the dining room. She looked too apprehensive. Too…suspicious.

But that wasn’t all. He hadn’t noticed before just how quickly she must have dressed. It was a little too cold out for sandals, especially without socks, and she wore no coat over her faded T-shirt and worn blue jeans.

But what really convinced him she’d been in a hurry was what he glimpsed beneath that washed-thin T-shirt. Nipples. No bra. She had definitely looked like the
prim-and-proper, wouldn’t-be-caught-dead-in-public-without-a-bra type.

Whatever the bellhop had said to her had left her shaken. Maybe she’d just heard about the murder. Then what had gotten her out of bed so abruptly this morning? It wasn’t meeting Mom and Grandma at the buffet. Not that half of Missoula hadn’t come up for breakfast this morning after the news of the murder. He really doubted it was the link sausages and powdered scrambled eggs that had brought them.

Curiosity. The same stuff that killed cats. So was that what she was doing here, too? Idle curiosity? No, not as anxious as she appeared nor dressed like that, he told himself. Not this woman.

He looked closer. She was nervously kneading something balled up in her right hand.

Damn,
he thought, craning over the mezzanine railing to see her through the crowd. She reminded him a little too much of himself—someone who’d been dragged out of bed too early in the morning. Only he had a good reason. He wondered what hers was. And if they had anything to do with the other?

K
AREN FELT SOMETHING
in her hand just as she reached the ballroom doorway. She uncurled her fingers, surprised to find the latte-stained napkin with Liz’s number on it. She started to put the napkin and number in her purse, but as she took a step into the ballroom, she looked up and saw that the room was empty, the police gone.

No, not entirely empty.

Her feet halted so abruptly she almost toppled for
ward onto her face. Through the bank of windows facing the parking lot she could see the cop cars pulling away. What had literally stopped her in her tracks was the lone man she saw silhouetted against the window, watching the police leave.

Her heart dropped to her stomach. Could it be? She stared, her eyes widening as she realized he was dressed just as he’d been last night. And there was something about him—

Seemingly unaware of her presence, he pushed open the door and started toward the parking lot.

Karen stumbled back from the doorway, bumping into the wall as she looked around for a policeman. But she saw no one in uniform—and the man was getting away!

J
ACK WATCHED HER
, now definitely intrigued. One minute she was peeking into the ballroom, the next she was reeling back out, looking as if she’d seen a ghost.

What the hell? He moved down the mezzanine to get a look into the ballroom, wondering what she could have seen. Empty. How had he missed Detective Denny Kirkpatrick, the man he’d been waiting to literally grab when the cop came out of his last interview? Because Jack had been watching the Girl Next Door instead of tending to business. And it looked as if the cops had left by a rear exit. Just his luck.