“Hello?” She could hear breathing. “Hello?”
The line clicked.
Karen stared at the receiver.
Had it been Liz? Maybe.
Or a crazed serial killer checking to see if she was home alone? Probably.
Or a wrong number, she thought, trying to corral her imagination and shake off the ominous feeling she’d had since opening the door to find Howie peeking through a bouquet of the strangest-looking flowers she’d ever seen.
But as she started to hang up the phone, she knew it wasn’t the date—as awkward as it’d been—that had her so jumpy.
On impulse she hit star 69. The phone number the automated voice repeated didn’t sound familiar. A wrong number, just like she’d thought. The line began to ring. Hang up! You’re going to look like a fool!
“Good evening, Hotel Carlton.”
Her pulse pounded at her temples. Had Liz called her? “Yes. Could you please ring Liz Jones’s room?”
“One moment, please.”
It suddenly struck Karen that Liz wouldn’t have registered in her own name. Actually, she probably wouldn’t have registered at all. While Karen didn’t know much about clandestine affairs, she thought the male lover acquired the room, and probably under some assumed name like Smith.
So why was she still waiting on the line when she knew the clerk would come back any minute to say there was no Liz Jones registered?
The extension began to ring. Liz had registered—and under her own name? Well, it was a new decade for women.
Someone picked up after the first ring but said nothing.
Karen swallowed. “Liz?”
No answer. Just soft breathing.
What was she doing? Karen quickly hung up and stood staring at the phone. Who’d answered? More important, who’d called her from the hotel in the first place? She blinked. The answering-machine light blinked back at her, bright red.
Quickly she rewound the tape, surprised to find herself trembling. Jeez, she felt like a kid who’d been caught playing phone games. “I saw what you did. I know who you are.” I’m an idiot. Come and get me.
Except she hadn’t seen anything and knew even less. Not true. She’d seen Liz with a man. The lover who’d insisted his identity be kept secret? And now Karen had not only seen him—he’d seen her!
She jumped as the answering machine clicked on and Liz’s distraught voice filled the room. “Karen? Please pick up. I really need to talk to you. I found out who he is. You know, the man I told you about. I found out everything. This is so freaky.” Pause. “All right, I guess you’re not home. I need to talk to him first, anyway. You know, give the bastard a chance to…explain, huh?” She sounded close to tears and getting more angry by the moment. “I can tell you one thing. I’m not going to let him get away with this. He’s going to pay.” A knock sounded in the background. “That’s him now.”
The line disconnected, the silence too loud, too final in the suddenly morguelike room.
Liz had called. Karen checked the time on the answering machine: 7:48. That would have been just after Howie spilled her wine all over her dress while explaining greenhouse flower pollination. And just before—
Her pulse roared in her ears. My God, Liz had been on the phone calling her at the same time Karen had rounded the corner in the hotel and seen the man knocking at Liz’s door!
Karen felt a shiver. Had that been Liz who’d called a few minutes ago? Then why hadn’t she said something? And who’d answered the phone in Liz’s room when Karen had called? The secret lover?
This is none of your business. Except that Liz had involved her in it by confessing it all to her. Now Karen felt as if she’d just sat through an unsettling movie, only to have the projector break down before the end. She needed an ending. Preferably a happy one.
“Maybe I should call Liz’s hotel room again,” she said to the silence, worried that neither of them was going to get a happy ending.
Get a life, Sutton. And get out of this dress!
CHAPTER TWO
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