His crooked grin came back. “I’ll bunk in her spare room, find a nice job filling ice cream cones or something, and lead a good, gray life.”
Liza looked at him for a long moment. “And the fact that Ritz Tarleton’s father just happens to be here this evening is a complete coincidence?”
Dalen’s face barely changed. “Oh, you heard Daddy was in the building? Well, maybe the kid mentioned something about that . . .”
“You’re trying to sell off that painting to him.”
Chris Dalen dropped the ironic pose like a mask. “I know you’ve gotten involved in a couple of police cases. But you’re still pretty much a civilian, so I’ll be straight with you. I haven’t got much time left. Everybody who knows about the Mondrian sees me as one big dollar sign, and after those butcher-doctors in the joint were done with me, I was left in no shape to defend myself. As our pal Mr. Lezat might say, best to relieve myself of a major liability.”
Liza blinked. “You make it sound like you’re in danger.”
“Hey, Mr. Tarleton Tours is probably the gentleman of the bunch,” Dalen said. “Think of Fat Frankie Basso. There’s a guy who indulges his appetites for more than just food. He’s probably more used to moving the contents of knocked-over warehouses, but if he could make a connection to sell the Mondrian for half or even a third of its real value, that would still be more than a million bucks in his pocket, just for getting his hands on the painting.”
Dalen gave a bitter laugh. “And what is it? The damned thing looks like a schematic for a tile bathroom floor. A buck two-eighty’s worth of paint on canvas, but people who know squat about art will pay three mill for it on some expert’s say-so. Now, if I had boosted the
Mona Lisa
. . .”
His humor suddenly vanished. “But this is just business— maybe dangerous enough that it’s not a good idea to be seen talking with me.” With that, Dalen got up and left the table.
Liza sat where she was, and a moment later a waiter came by to take her order. “Er, the gentleman said you were picking up his tab.”
“Then I guess I am.” Liza ordered a glass of red wine. It arrived in a tall stemmed glass, and Liza swirled the red liquid around, wondering how much of what Dalen had said was for real, and how much was the newly freed man’s sense of humor.
Liza tried to nurse her drinks, but she’d gotten through three large glasses of wine by the time Kevin finally rejoined her. She squinted at her watch. “I think we’re just about where we’d be if we hadn’t tried starting off early.”
Kevin raised his hands as if he were surrendering. “I’m really sorry. But this is a big deal, Liza. Tarleton had all sorts of questions about the inn. He covered everything—”
“Including, maybe, his ass,” Liza put in. While Kevin stared at her, she told him about her conversation with Chris Dalen.
“I hate to burst your bubble, but I think you’re being used as a cover for Fritz Tarleton making a deal with Dalen over that missing picture.”
Seeing the look on his face, she stretched out a hand, contrite. “Damn, I’m sorry. That didn’t sound quite as nasty when it was in my head.”
Kevin’s expression smoothed away into a stern mask— his “I’m thinking” face.
“What they’re doing—that’s criminal conspiracy, isn’t it?” Liza noticed she had a little trouble getting “criminal conspiracy” out clearly.
“Either way, I wouldn’t want to kill any chance of the inn becoming a Tarleton destination.” Kevin spoke sourly. “It’s nothing to do with us. Let’s just forget it.”
They headed back to the dining room, which had filled a bit more. The big log in the fireplace was now crackling with flames that danced wildly in time to the wind howling over and sometimes through the chimney.
“Sounds great out there,” Liza said.
Kevin nodded. “We’ve got a coating already, and the reports just seem to be getting worse.”
Even so, she couldn’t bring herself to wolf her way through the meal that Rocco the chef sent out to their quiet table in the corner. The lamb wasn’t just fork-tender, it seemed to part when Liza breathed on it. It was the real thing, young and succulent, in a sauce that mixed some sort of potent potable—cognac, maybe—with a variety of herbs. Liza could recognize rosemary, but there were a lot of other condiments. The whole thing came on a bed of incredibly thin, small
pommes frites
, crunchier than french fries but not as crispy as potato sticks. With glazed fresh vegetables, and a dessert of sinful chocolate cake with hot brandied chocolate sauce—not to mention another bottle of good red wine—conversation tended to be on the sparse side.
After all, it’s bad manners to talk with your mouth full.
“It’s a funny thing,” Kevin said, wiping his lips with his napkin. “I always thought Chris Dalen was the only honest one in your class.”
That almost sent a sip of wine the wrong way—out Liza’s nose. “How do you figure that?”
“Conn Lezat still won’t admit to any wrongdoing. He calls the nonsense he pulled while wrecking his company ‘nonviable business strategies.’” Kevin shook his head. “I’m not sure whether it’s the strategy or the business that was nonviable.”
Liza nodded. “And I suppose Frankie Basso uses ‘unorthodox business methods.’”
“Fat Frankie would never say that—but he does believe he’s a businessman,” Kevin said. “As for Ritz Tarleton, I’m not sure if she rates as a socialite or a sociopath. She really seems to have a hard time understanding why those nobody little police people insist on trying to keep her from doing whatever the hell she wants.”
“And Chris?” Liza asked.
“He was up front from the first day of class. He stole something and got put away for it.”
Liza laughed. “Here’s to Chris Dalen—the honest crook.” She raised her glass as Kevin’s assistant manager came up to the table, a worried expression on his face.
“All the rest of tonight’s dinner reservations have been canceled. Rocco’s suggesting that we close the kitchen and let his staff make it home while they still can.”
“Do it,” Kevin said, his expression losing several shades of cheerfulness.
“Well, at least it wasn’t Mr. Tarleton with a demand for an elephant-ear sandwich.” Liza put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, that was miserable. I don’t even know why I said that.”
“I think you were trying to be funny,” Kevin said.
“I don’t like the way that Tarleton guy made you jump through hoops.”
“Not much choice involved for me,” Kevin said. “I knew coming in that this was a responsible job.”
“Yeah, I used to have a job like that,” Liza joked feebly. “Whenever anything went wrong, I was responsible.”
“That’s kind of the way I feel about this place,” Kevin told her, “except I call it ‘the buck stops here.’”
He leaned forward, spreading his hands. “When I did the hunting and fishing guide thing, I was pretty much a lone wolf. Even when I got married and Josette came in with me, it was a family business at best.”
“Until your wife got tired of living out of sleeping bags,” Liza said.
Kevin nodded. “After I went back to school and took the job here, I realized that it was more than being responsible for running a good operation. I had a responsibility to the team I created. I recruited Rocco from culinary school to come up with a new menu and ramrod the kitchens. This place was a glorified fishing camp when I came here. I saw that we needed more than good guides. So I hired and trained people, arranged deep-sea charters with some of the fishermen at Maiden’s Bay, added a business conference center for the off-season, a spa that I hope to enlarge—”
“You’ve got ambitions,” Liza said.
“And I’ve got responsibilities—to the people who own the inn and to the people who work here. The right word from Tarleton and his company could put us on the map, nationally, even internationally.” Kevin’s expression darkened. “Or he could hurt us. He’s the guy who rates resorts. I’m just the guy doing the best he can here. If Tarleton talked to the owners about going in a new direction—”
That would probably translate into new management,
Liza silently finished for him.
The silence they sat in had nothing to do with good food. Then, with an obvious intention of changing the subject, Kevin said, “You know, the weather is getting even worse than the forecasters expected. Maybe you should stay tonight. The next thing you know, we’re going to have trees down and the power out—”
As if on cue, the whole room went dark. The only illumination came from the leaping flames in the fireplace and the small candles on each table.
Kevin jumped to his feet. “Nothing to worry about, folks. We have our own generator.” A moment later, the subdued dining room lighting came back. Liza squinted. Was it her imagination, or did it seem more subdued than usual?
Intentional or not, that blink of the lights seemed to signal “last call” to the diners. They had all reached the dessert and after-dinner drinks stage anyway. And except for Liza, they were all guests at the inn. The bartender and maitre d’, it turned out, had already arranged to bunk at the inn.
Liza smiled ruefully.
I guess everybody else got out while the going was still good.
Kevin sat back at the table. “We can put you up in cabin one,” he said. “It’s nearby . . . and discreet.”
I guess he wouldn’t want to advertise that he’s putting his girlfriend up in a room,
Liza thought. “Thanks,” she said.
Further conversation was interrupted by the approach of Kevin’s assistant. He’d already ditched his blazer in favor of a waxed weatherproof coat.
“We’ll have to make a quick check of the property.” Kevin looked down at his suit. “I’d better change into something a little less formal. I’ll leave you with John. He’ll make all the arrangements.”
Those arrangements took a bit longer than Liza might have expected. The cabin was all ready for occupation. The problem was getting Liza out to it. John finally dug up a hooded rubber slicker and boots used by the maids in inclement weather. The pull-on boots weren’t made to accommodate heels, and Liza’s stocking-clad feet swam around in them.
That wasn’t so bad indoors, but it made the footing considerably worse when she and John stepped outside into what had become a howling blizzard. She had to watch where she put her feet in the deepening snow while making sure the wind didn’t snatch away her suddenly billowing raingear or yank away the hood to dump a quart or two of snow down her neck. The snow and wind combination felt more like a sandblasting abrasive than weather.
John took one arm, and Liza used the other to hold the raincoat to her as they made it to the barely seen bulk of the cabin in a sort of hunchbacked stagger. Handing Liza the LED lantern he’d been carrying, John unlocked the door and unceremoniously got them inside. Liza raised the lantern while using her other hand to try and rub some life back into her stinging face.
She’d been in the cabins at the Killamook Inn before. They offered a strange blend of rustic and ritzy. Darkpaneled walls and beams were decorated with tasteful examples of native and local art. A deep-pile rug soothed once you got past the mudroom in the entranceway. Besides pegs for hanging clothes—which Liza used immediately for her now-streaming slicker—the entrance also offered racks for guns or fishing rods.
John had already scraped his feet and headed straight for the big fireplace. The makings of a small inferno were in it, only waiting for a match. By the time Liza got free of her flapping galoshes, a cheerful blaze was adding light and warmth to the room.
The assistant manager met her, rubbing his hands together as she came into the room. “I’ll leave the lantern with you, the batteries have been fully charged. And there are candles and oil lamps here as well.”
“That’s about as good as I could expect things to be if the power went out at home,” Liza told him. “Thanks.”
He nodded. “I’d just be—um, sparing—with electric lights right now. We’ve got the generator—”
“But that’s for essential services. I understand.” Liza stifled a yawn. “Besides, I’ll probably be turning in.”
John nodded again. “Anything you need, just pick up the phone. You’ve got a secure connection to the reception desk—we ran the phone lines from the cabins underground. As for outside calls, that will be up to what the storm brings down. I’m sure Kevin will stop by to see you after we’ve made the rounds.”
Liza thanked John and saw him to the door. They both nearly got flattened opening the damned thing, and Liza had to shove it closed against that insistent wind. Then she went back to the fire to warm up.
That bed was looking better by the moment. In keeping with the setting, it was a faux antique solid mahogany sled style. But the square yardage on the thing was probably half the size of the studio apartment Liza had rented on first coming to L.A.
They must have laid two super-kingsize mattresses together, she thought, hauling back the thick but feather-weight comforters. Beneath were an enormous striped Hudson Bay-style wool blanket and crisp cotton sheets.
For a moment, Liza thought longingly of the bag of overnight necessities she always kept packed . . . in the trunk of her car back at home. “I guess no jammies tonight,” she murmured.
She was halfway out of her Armani jacket when she remembered John’s words. “I’m sure Kevin will stop by to see you . . .”
A jumble of thoughts ran through her head. A delicious dinner, lots of wine, a romantic snowbound cabin—was tonight going to be The Night? Back in high school, he’d made his big move after taking Liza to dinner at the fanciest place in Maiden’s Bay, Fruit of the Sea. Was history about to repeat itself?
Maybe it was wishful thinking or a tipsy whim. But when Liza plunged under the covers, everything she’d been wearing sat neatly folded on the top of the long dresser beside the bed.
Liza moved quickly—even with the fire going, it was
chilly
in the cabin! She crawled toward the middle of the bed and huddled in on herself, trying to get warm.