That didn’t surprise Rho, but she asked, “You’re not doing well?”
“Not at all. The place has great potential, and people stop here, but they don’t stay long, and they don’t come back. Tonight I told Brandon it’s this town. There’s not much to do here, and it’s kind of... demoralized. That was when he let me in on the secret.”
“What secret?” As if I don’t know.
“About those murders years ago in Cascada Canyon. Apparently he’s known about them for quite some time, but didn’t bother to enlighten me.”
“And his withholding knowledge was why you snapped?”
“Not exactly. I mean, I hated his keeping a secret from me, but I realized he did it so I wouldn’t worry about the inn any more than I usually do. No, what made me explode was that he didn’t find out about the murders before we sank our last dime into this place. You see, Brandon was responsible for the property search. He was supposed to check into anything that might have a negative impact on our investment. But he fell in love with the inn and went blindly ahead. Tonight he admitted it. And I just...” He motioned at the disorder around them.
Rho studied Kevin Jacoby. In the year and a half he’d lived in Signal Port she’d never seen him display anything but courteous and mild-mannered behavior. “Well, Mr. Jacoby,” she said, “you and your partner are going to have to do some serious talking. Maybe make some hard decisions.”
He nodded. “I feel awful about everything, including taking up your time when the sheriff’s department should be doing everything they can to find out who murdered that poor woman.”
If only we had adequate staff for an all-out effort, Rho thought. “We’re working on it. We’ve put out an appeal, both by word of mouth and on the public-access station, for anyone who saw her yesterday afternoon at Point Deception turnout to contact us.”
Jacoby’s face grew thoughtful. “Point Deception. This woman, what did she look like?”
Rho described Chrystal Ackerman, and the Mercedes.
“Oh my God! Brandon and I saw her twice. First at a little before three when we were going down to the lumber yard in Westhaven, and again on the way back at quarter to five.”
“You’re sure of those times?”
“Reasonably. We left here about two thirty, and I looked at my watch on the drive home.” A stricken expression spread over Jacoby’s face. “Oh God, what did I do? Brandon wanted to stop to help her, but I said we didn’t have time, we had to get back to pay Becca, the woman who cleans for us, before she left for her waitressing shift at the hotel. If I’d been less concerned with the damned inn and more concerned with helping somebody in trouble, that woman would be alive tonight!”
How many times, Rho wondered, would she hear the same regret from others?
As Guy shut the door of his motel room and started across the parking lot, a bottle smashed on the nearby pavement and a car loaded with teenagers sped south on the highway, burning rubber. A dozen beer-swilling young people sat on the tailgates of their pickups under the lighted sign of the supermarket. Rap and rock competed from two of the trucks’ radios. The kids yelled at friends in passing vehicles, made rude comments to shoppers pushing their carts. One old woman gave them a wide berth, the neon glare highlighting her apprehensive face.
Small-town kids, Guy thought. Keyed up by the edgy atmosphere but too young to fully understand what had triggered it. For them the mass murder in the canyon was simply part of the local folklore, and this new murder an excuse to engage in antisocial behavior. They were just getting off on the breakdown of order, like teenagers in any town where there were few amusements.
“Assholes,” a man’s voice said.
Guy turned to face Hugh Dawson, proprietor of the Sea Stacks. “Those kids?”
“Who the hell else. They’re laughing now, but they won’t be in a few minutes. I just called the sheriff.”
Dawson was a balding, pinch-faced man who wore a perpetually sour expression. Probably had never done anything wild in his life, or if he had, he was determined no one else should share the experience. Guy said, “I think the sheriff’s department has more important things on its hands than a bunch of rowdy kids.”
“Mister, they’re underage and drinking in public.”
“But not really harming anyone.”
Dawson’s narrowed eyes sized Guy up, and then he nodded wisely. “Of course, you’re from New York City. What goes on there, those kids must look like model citizens to you.”
“Hardly. But—” A cruiser was pulling into the parking lot. It stopped near the kids, and Deputy Wayne Gilardi got out.
Guy watched with interest as he motioned to one of the boys, clamped a hand on his shoulder as he spoke to him. The kid said something smart, judging from the look on his face, and Gilardi shook him, raising his voice. The other teens had tensed at the arrival of the law. Now they were scrambling for their vehicles and starting engines. As Gilardi slammed the boy against his cruiser and wrenched back his arms to cuff him, the others pulled onto the highway in a spray of gravel.
“Damn,” Dawson said, watching Gilardi force the boy into the backseat of his cruiser, “he only arrested one of them. Scared the shit outta the rest, though. Wayne’s tough, and they know it.”
“In what ways is he tough?”
Dawson frowned. “Mister, you sure do ask a lot of questions about things that don’t really concern you.”
And you, like your fellow townspeople, sure don’t answer them. “The reason I ask about Deputy Gilardi is that I had a run-in with him in the hotel bar last night.”
“Yeah, I heard about that. Over his slut sister and her slope boyfriend. And then you had drinks and dinner with the lovely Rhoda Swift. How’d you manage that?”
“I asked her.”
“And she accepted. Amazing. There’re any number of men in this town who’d like to get next to that nice ass of hers, but she keeps them at arm’s length. How’d you rate?”
“Maybe because I’m interested in more than her ass.”
“Guess so. She know what you want is the inside dope on the Cascada Canyon murders?”
Guy raised an eyebrow.
“Oh yeah,” the motel owner said. “I know why you’re here. Maid got curious about your files when she did up the room this afternoon, took a good look at them. Then I took a look. We don’t much care for nosy reporters here. You better have yourself packed by checkout time tomorrow.”
“I’ve reserved the room for two weeks—”
“Sorry about that. Plumbing’s about to go on the fritz. And we’re full up.”
Guy motioned at the lighted Vacancy sign.
“So I forgot to turn on the No.”
“Uh-huh.” He nodded, scanning the parking lot, empty except for two cars, including his own rental, and a press van from a Santa Carla TV station.
Dawson grinned, enjoying himself. “Checkout’s at eleven. I’ll have your bill ready.” He turned and walked back toward the office.
Guy watched the traffic move by, hands deep in his pockets. Being evicted from his motel room was an inconvenience, but there was always Pelican Cove Bed & Breakfast. And if its owner was equally inhospitable, he’d make do somehow. He’d worked before under far worse conditions and come out intact.
Yes, he thought bitterly, guilt and loss wrenching in his gut, he’d come out intact. And right there lay his problem.
He’d come out intact, but Diana hadn’t.
The haze of light from Deer Harbor vanished in the rearview mirror as Rho entered the hairpin turn by the campground north of the village. The inside of the cruiser was fogged, so she lowered her side window; the bark of seals on the offshore rocks mingled with the familiar mutter of the radio. Lots of calls during the past hour, and all time off for deputies had been canceled. Word of the rape-and-murder had spread up and down the Soledad Coast; a visible sheriff’s department presence was the first step in reassuring the uneasy populace.