Sacrifice of Buntings (13 page)

Rachel held her hands out. “Obviously, I don’t have any. It’s inside the room.”

Lark let her breath out with a
pfft
.

“If I get caught, well then, oops, I had too much to drink. I’m on the wrong floor.”

“In your bathrobe. With wet hair. I mean, honestly, Rae—you don’t look old enough to have Alzheimer’s.”

Rachel gave her two thumbs up, opened the door, and peered down the corridor. “All clear.”

She stuck her head out and listened. There was no noise coming from the elevator and no one coming up the stairs. Slipping through the door, she zipped across the hall and took the steps to the third floor two at a time.

She made it without seeing anyone, but her heart pounded. It was amazing what the thought of mischief did to an ordinary trek up a flight of stairs.

Like on her floor, an antique table stood in the center of the hall. It bore a floral arrangement, several complimentary bottles of water, and a telephone. Rachel gazed down the hall and saw what she needed—dinner trays sitting on the floor.”

The elevator
dinged
, and Rachel ducked into the indentation behind the stairway. She barely picked up the sounds of conversation above the thudding of her heart. The voices receded, and she leaned out, watching with one eye as a woman unlocked her door while another one talked. They were discussing Saxby’s fiasco of a keynote speech.

As soon as the women had shut their door behind them, Rachel started back down the hall. Stopping in front of Saxby’s room, she double-checked the room number. For a second she was seized by panic. What if this room hadn’t suited him either, and he’d asked for a change?

Get a grip, Wilder
. He would have told Dorothy.

As quietly as possible, she picked up the discarded dinner tray closest to Saxby’s room, set it down just outside the door, and then slid it sideways. If she were really doing this, and had locked herself out, which way would she have slid it?

Then the worst happened. The next door down opened, and a man stuck his head out, looking almost as furtive as Rachel felt. She turned toward Saxby’s door and grabbed the handle, realizing at the same moment that the tray she had stolen was, in all likelihood, his.

Just great. She looked like she was stealing the remains of his dinner.

The man, losing his furtive air, walked toward the elevator, shooting a glance back at her.

Okay, she’d been made. This plan wasn’t working.

Resolving to slink back to her room and hope the guy didn’t think anything strange about it, she turned toward the stairs. She could explain her appearance by saying she’d been at the hotel’s spa, gone to the wrong floor… That was a good story. Now she only had to remember not to just spill it, but only to volunteer it if asked.

“Excuse me, do you need something?”

Rachel whipped around. Furtive Man was back, apparently having decided that a wild-looking woman in a bathrobe was more interesting than whatever he’d been heading for.

“Oh. I…” She stopped. He’d seen her adjusting the tray. She had to go back to her original story—that she’d put her tray out in the hall and that the door had closed behind her—except that would draw his attention to the fact that she’d stolen
his
tray.

“You need a maid,” he said brusquely. “Hang on, I’ll see if I can find one and send her your way.” Juggling two cans of soda, he inserted his card into the slot on his door.

Rachel shivered. “Thanks.”

Just what she didn’t need—a helpful sort. He’d probably stand with her until help arrived. Lark had been right. This
was
a stupid idea.

Once the man disappeared into his room, she headed for the stairs, speeding up when she heard the elevator
ding
again. There was no point in letting the entire hotel see her with her hair wet and going frizzy, not to mention in a state of dishabille.

“Oh, miss?”

She turned. A uniformed maid had spoken and was making her way toward Rachel. Either Furtive Man had located a maid very quickly, or this was some kind of sting operation.

Think fast, Wilder!
“I was looking for a phone.”

“No problem,” the maid said. “This one?” She indicated the room Furtive Man had come out of.

Rachel pointed at Saxby’s room.

The maid nodded and inserted her key.

Rachel couldn’t speak. Thoughts flitted through her mind. Maybe Saxby had a hidden secret roommate. Or maybe she did have it wrong and this wasn’t his room.

The maid flung the door open and Rachel stepped inside, trying to look relieved instead of anxious. “I feel so stupid,” she said.
True enough
.

“Oh, this happens all the time,” replied the maid. “At least you were wearing something. Don’t give it another thought.”

“Same to you,” Rachel said. “I mean—thanks.” Rachel realized the maid probably wanted a tip, but she’d forgotten to think of that.

Once the maid walked
away, Rachel shut the door, pressed her forehead to the wood, and stared for a moment at the directions for escape in case of a fire posted on the back of the door.

Get moving, Wilder
.

The first thing she did was head for the phone and call Lark. “I’m in.”

“I’ll keep a look out.”

Rachel hung up the phone and moved to the center of the room. One lamp was on, shedding totally inadequate light around the suite. Her first decision was not to flip on the overhead, just in case.

In case of what? In case someone is watching through the window?
Fortunately the curtains were already drawn.

The bedside table had a marked-up Hyde Island Birding and Nature Festival schedule on it, identifying the room’s occupant as someone attending the conference. That was a start. A stack of signed release forms for
Extreme Birding
on the TV console confirmed it was Saxby’s room.

The most efficient way to search would be to start around the room clockwise and then keep going until she either found something or got back to her starting point. She moved back to the door and started with the closet. She searched silently and quickly, resolving not to be distracted by any notable things she discovered that didn’t pertain directly to the missing film. She figured the film reel had to be at least four inches in diameter.

She checked inside his brown wing tips and hiking boots to see if anything was concealed in the heels, went through his pockets and thought she had something right off the bat—it turned out to be a Frank Sinatra CD. At least Saxby had good taste in music. A 35mm film canister turned out to hold safety pins.

Once through the closet she moved clockwise through the bathroom, finding only the usual stuff in rather a messy array. Shaving lotion, underwear on the floor that made her wish she were wearing gloves, Bay Rum aftershave, Clinique for Men—now that was interesting. Interesting, but not relevant.

On the table she found piles of papers—a manuscript, a contract for the TV series, some pages printed from the Internet. Things indicative of plagiarism, or not. Things that might interest Kirk, or not. The pile would no doubt make fascinating reading, but she was on a mission.

Never mind about the papers, Wilder
. Those papers didn’t contain a canister of Super 8 film.

It seemed odd that Chuck Knapp used such a low-tech medium when he taught such a high-tech class, but that’s what he was comfortable with. If she found any Super 8 film, it wouldn’t belong to Saxby. Based on the equipment in the room, he used only the latest in digital technology.

She was searching Saxby’s camera bag when the phone rang. The first ring made her nearly jump out of her skin. With the second ring she realized it had to be Lark warning her of Saxby’s return. She had her hand on the doorknob when the phone rang a third time.

She let out her breath in a rush. It was just a phone call. Instantly she made the decision to continue her search. After all, she’d gotten in here. There was no need to turn tail and run. No need to panic. If Dorothy got Saxby pontificating, Rachel might have hours. At any rate, she was almost done.

She searched the windowsills, discovered an address book behind the television—an odd place to keep an address book, but she replaced it—and a warm can of Dr Pepper. Stretching out on the floor, she checked under the beds, not expecting to find anything. She wished she had flipped up the dust ruffle so it wasn’t quite so dark, and prayed there were no spiders. She hated spiders.

Then the door opened.

Her first thought was it had to be another door. Maybe Furtive Man stepping out.

Her second thought was she was imagining things. Lark would have called to warn her.

By the time she had her next thought, she was completely under the bed and no longer dismayed by the fact that it was dark in the room. Now she really hoped there were no spiders, although insects were the least of her worries.

Saxby’s room, like hers, had two four-posters. Between them, she had somehow chosen to scoot under the bed closest to the door, which was also the one Guy Saxby—or somebody—sat on.

The springs creaked and sagged.

Rachel sucked in her stomach and breathed through her mouth.

A shoe hit the floor—another wing tip. This one appeared to be black. The other shoe dropped quickly, and the springs creaked again.

Good job, Wilder
. How could this be any worse?

Above her, Saxby blew his nose rather loudly, and for long enough that she might have made her escape if only nose-blowing made a person blind and deaf.

It could have been worse if he’d come in with Dorothy
. The fact she could think such a thing at a time like this made her feel like laughing.
Think, Wilder
.

Rachel sobered up and considered her options. She could come out and admit what she’d been up to. Saxby wouldn’t kill her, not with Lark aware she was there, but he might turn her in. He also might want to know how she’d managed to get in his room. She would have to tell him, and then the cheerful maid would be in trouble. That would be bad.

Or, she could stay where she was and hope for a good opportunity to sneak out of the room. When she played the second option out in her head, she had been able to look at the door and choose her moment. That wasn’t the reality of the situation. She could see the door, but Saxby had stretched out on the bed, turned on the TV, and was flipping through the channels—a practice that drove Rachel nuts even at the best of times. This was not the best of times.

Her mind conjured a third option. Saxby, with sharp instincts and keen senses, might have realized there was somebody in his room and was simply waiting for the right moment to pounce. Maybe he had even turned the TV on as cover.

The phone rang.

Once again Rachel jumped.

The bed creaked as, presumably, Saxby rolled over to answer. He picked the phone up midway through the second ring.

“Hello?
Hello?
” he said, and then he slammed down the receiver.

It was definitely Saxby’s voice Rachel heard, and it must have been Lark’s warning call.
Nice timing, Drummond
.

Of course, she couldn’t really blame Lark for her predicament. It had been her own brilliant idea, and now she was stuck under a bed in a man’s room, and she might have to stay here all night. She would have to stay awake. Not that there was the remotest chance she would ever sleep, but if she did, she might snore or talk in her sleep or do something that would give her away.

Maybe
he
would snore. Then she would know it was time to bolt.

Stay calm, Wilder
. By now Lark had to know Rachel was in trouble, and she would do something. Maybe set off the fire alarm? Or maybe something more subtle, like coming up and knocking on the door. Lark could say Dorothy needed him, and lure him down to the second floor.

Rachel lay under the bed for what seemed like hours. Finally, she forced herself to relax. She was glad when Saxby found a movie he wanted to watch—a remake of
Sabrina
, starring Harrison Ford. Rachel followed the script with the dialogue, pleased at least that the housekeeping staff had been diligent about sweeping under the bed. There was no dust, no cobwebs, nothing to make her feel like sneezing. Or coughing. A giggle bubbled up in her throat.
Or crying
. All of which seemed like distinct possibilities. In fact, Rachel began to feel like she might fall asleep under there, given a long enough stay.

Guy Saxby’s feet hit the floor with a soft
thump
, and he padded into the bathroom.

A shower! That’s what you need
. Instead she heard what sounded like a gallon of water being poured from a great height. At least he’d be facing away from the door.

She started to slide out from under the bed when she heard the shower start up. He must have picked up her urging. Drawing a deep breath, she prepared herself to make a run for it, when she heard him come out and slide open the closet door. Flattening herself out, she waited for him to return to the bathroom.

Why didn’t he close the door? She would have shut the door if she were taking a shower, even in a room where nobody else was supposed to be. Then she heard his voice again.

Was he talking to himself? No, he was singing!

Rachel inched out from under the bed. She could only hope he had his face turned away from the door. He belted out a Billy Joel song, “The Longest Time,” alternating between the lead singer’s line and the backup, making it impossible to judge in which direction he stood.

Just go for it, Wilder
.

She rolled over the wing tips by the bed, resisted the temptation to peer into the bathroom, and felt grateful this time that the light in the room was dim. Making it past the open bathroom, she yanked on the door. Saxby had been cautious and had fastened the night latch. The door opened a half inch and then stopped with a
clank
.

Rachel bit her lip as the singing stopped.

“Hey!” came from inside the shower. “Who’s there?”

Rachel shut the door and backed into the closet, her hand touching his jacket. A small, round object the size of a can of chewing tobacco dented the inner pocket. The film!

She heard him climb out of the shower. Lifting the small tin from his pocket, she bolted for the door. Sliding the chain out of its track, she swung open the door, bolted out into the hall, and slammed the door shut behind her.

Talk about not choosing your moment!

Fortunately the hallway was empty. Racing down the stairs, she skidded around corners and didn’t stop until she was in front of her own room. Banging noisily, she ran through a quick scenario of how she would be caught. Saxby would catch up to her, the maid who had let her in upstairs would choose just this moment to come down the hall, and security would storm the stairways. And then Lark yanked open the door.

Behind her, Cecilia and Dorothy sat, open-mouthed, on the beds. “Oh my,”

Rachel burst inside and slammed the door behind her. “Bad news,” she gasped. “Guy Saxby’s a thief!”

It took her a few moments to catch her breath, and to listen to Lark’s apology.

Dorothy and Cecilia had appeared at the door with Saxby shortly after Rachel had gone upstairs. Lark had done her best to keep him occupied and had called as soon as he left. Unfortunately, Dorothy had wanted to know who she was calling, and Lark had let the phone ring too long.

Up until then, Dorothy had sat stoically at the end of Rachel’s bed. Now she wanted answers. “What were you thinking, going up to Guy’s room?”

“I was thinking Knapp might have been right with his accusations.” Rachel pulled the small tin from her pocket.

The others gasped. Dorothy’s eyes looked shiny and wet.

“Oh my,” Cecilia whispered.

Dorothy’s expression hardened. “We don’t know what’s in there.”

“We can guess,” Lark said. “Open it.”

Inside was a small reel with inch-wide film.