As she went through every warning and talked Mark through the steps for keeping his injury clean and germ-free, I moved toward the window and stared out. The parking lot view was uninspiring, the asphalt so hot it shimmered.

How did I get in these situations? I wondered. I didn't mean being mistaken for Mark's wife, although that had been weird enough. I meant getting involved in murder investigations. The number of recent incidents at Marshfield had to be throwing off the law of averages like crazy. The chances of so much happening in such a short span of time could be no greater than infinitesimal.

Yet, here I was again. I sneaked a sideways glance as Mark listened attentively to the instructions the nurse recited while indicating important points on his discharge papers.

He was a good-looking man. Very good-looking, if I were to be honest with myself. Mid- to late thirties, he was a few years older than me. Age-wise, we could easily be mistaken for husband and wife. Still, I'd been trying to avoid thinking about him in any way other than professionally because . . .

I turned my attention back out the window. Because . . . why?

Jack came to mind, of course. I knew he'd been through a lot in his youth and again in recent months, but the fact that he backed away from me every time life got complicated made me wonder if he had what it took to maintain a long-term relationship. I had my doubts. Bruce and Scott had their doubts, too. We'd only touched on the topic yesterday, but over recent weeks my roommates and I had discussed the situation ad nauseam over countless bottles of wine, never coming up with a clear answer.

"Deep wounds take time to heal. They can't be rushed," the nurse said, breaking into my reverie. I turned, but she was still explaining to Mark.

For a moment I thought she'd been talking to me.

After final signatures and instructions we were out the door. Mark refused a wheelchair, and when we stepped out the hospital's front doors, he recoiled in the heat. "Whoa," he said, blinking in the brightness, "I've been outside for all of ten seconds and I'm already missing the hospital's air-conditioning."

"My car is right over here." I unlocked the pa.s.senger side and opened the door for him.

"Shouldn't I be holding doors open for you?" he asked with a smile.

"Not with a bad wing." I walked around to the other side, got in, and started the engine, making sure to set the air-conditioning to high. "Where are you staying?" I asked before putting the car into gear. "I should have asked John, but I forgot."

"Oak Tree Hotel," he said.

I set off without comment.

We traveled in silence for about half a mile. Although I was eager to resume our conversation about how questioning had gone the night before, I didn't want to appear nosy or intrusive.

Mark must have read my mind. "Aren't you going to ask me more about Flynn?"

"Actually . . ." I gave him a quick glance, both to make eye contact and to do a surrept.i.tious a.s.sessment of his general health. I was sure he'd be fine, but I remembered how weak I'd been after I'd suffered a gunshot wound, "I'm extremely curious about how the rest of the questioning went. I'm sorry to hear that Flynn made you feel uncomfortable."

"You never told me what his first name is."

I laughed. "That's because I don't know it."

From my peripheral vision I could see him react. "But I thought . . ."

I waited for it.

"My mistake," he said quietly. "I thought you and Flynn had a history."

"We do have a history. Though not a romantic one, thank goodness."

Now Mark laughed. "I have to admit I wondered how a lovely person like you could ever get involved with such a hothead."

He'd said, "lovely person," not "nice girl" or "gorgeous woman." Neither condescending nor obsequious. I liked that.

"Do they have any leads?" I asked, forcing my mind back to the investigation.

"If they do, they didn't mention them," he said. "I got the impression they don't have a lot to go on. Aside from what I was able to remember about the guy and whatever description they were able to get from John, they're flying blind. They did ask me if I noticed any tattoos or possible birthmarks on the man. Did you hear anything about that?"

"John mentioned it yesterday. He wasn't a hundred percent sure about it, but it's a start, I suppose. It bothers me that he was wearing one of our blazers." The road ahead was nearly empty, but frustration made me grip the steering wheel hard. "Of course Lenore had trusted him. Why shouldn't she?"

Mark didn't have an answer for that. He stared out the side window. "I wish I could have saved her."

We were silent again for several blocks, until I banged the steering wheel. "Darn! I forgot to notify the bell captain before we left. Do you mind if I pull over a moment and make a quick phone call?"

He a.s.sured me that would be fine. "It's nice to meet someone who abhors distracted driving as much as I do."

I pulled to the shoulder and dug out my phone. The bell captain said he'd arrange to have one of his staff meet us at the Oak Tree Hotel at once.

Though considered decent lodging in Emberstowne, the Oak Tree was midrange at best. That meant no bellboys, no concierge. Bare bones. Clean, convenient, but no frills.

When I hung up and started to put my phone away, Mark pointed to it. "I left mine in the room to charge yesterday. Haven't been able to make any calls since."

"Oh no," I said. "Were you able to get in touch with your family?"

He gave a sad smile. "No real family to speak of. But I was able to get in touch with my employees to let them know where I was in case there was an emergency."

"I'll bet they're worried about you."

"I held back the gory details. That can wait until I get home. No need to get people worked up."

We were back on the road a moment later and were soon pulling into the Oak Tree's parking lot. The six-story hotel was architecturally insignificant-in other words, blah. A multi-story hotel built in the 1970s before Emberstowne implemented architectural ordinances, it sat in a sea of asphalt two blocks off the town's main thoroughfare. A few small green plants dotted its perimeter, doing little to soften the structure's drab lines.

I was surprised John's tour company would have chosen a nondescript hotel like this one when there were so many more upscale venues available in town.

Again, as though Mark could read my mind, he said, "You heard how we got stuck in this hotel, didn't you?"

I shook my head.

"We were originally booked at the Waltham Arms," he began.

"Ah, the union strike." I remembered what Corbin had told me. This was high season and rooms were in demand. "You were lucky to get a hotel this nice on such short notice."

"So we were told." He didn't sound convinced.

I spotted Arthur, one of our bellboys, waiting outside the Oak Tree's front door. Sweat poured from his thick, dark hair into the collar of his white long-sleeve shirt. "Have you been here long?" I asked as we started in. The cool air felt like heaven after the short walk from the car.

"No, ma'am. Just got here." He glanced expectantly at Mark. "Lead the way, sir."

I let them walk ahead of me. "I'll wait for you down here," I said. The last thing Mark needed was for me to encroach on his personal s.p.a.ce by accompanying him to his room. Besides, I had work to do.

I caught the eye of a twenty-something kid behind the reception desk. No doubt a recent graduate with a major in hotel management, he was fresh-faced and eager to help. "I'm here to settle the bill for Mr. Mark Ellroy. He's checking out right now." I handed over one of Marshfield Manor's credit cards.

"Yes, ma'am," he said. "Would you like a receipt?"

"Please," I said, then amended, "Make that two."

Moments later, I'd pocketed one receipt to give to accounting and folded the other to give to Mark. I had no idea how long they would take upstairs, so I made my way across the linoleum floor, past the reception desk to the lobby beyond. With wicker furniture, fake palm trees in all four of the room's corners, and sliding gla.s.s doors that faced the back of the property, the lobby overlooked a tiny courtyard and a small outdoor pool. I settled myself in one of the chairs with a view of reception to wait. Across the room, attached to the ceiling in much the same way as one had been at the hospital, a television blared the morning news.

There was one other person in the cool room with me. I wouldn't have given him a second glance if the network anchor on the booming TV hadn't announced breaking news in the Marshfield Manor murder investigation. My lobby companion had been hidden behind a newspaper, but the moment the Marshfield segment was announced, he crumpled it to his lap and spun in his seat, turning to stare over his shoulder at the broadcast above him.

Breaking news? And I hadn't heard anything about this? Before I could think twice about it, Flynn's face filled the overhead screen. The unflattering close-up distorted the young detective's nose, making it look extra wide. The old TV gave his face a sickly, yellow sheen. Three microphones had been thrust into Flynn's personal s.p.a.ce, but the shot was so tight I couldn't see who held any of them. "We are pursuing a very strong lead in yesterday's murder at Marshfield Manor. We can now confirm that Lenore Honore was killed at the scene," Flynn said, mangling the dead woman's last name.

"It's p.r.o.nounced On-or-ay," I corrected under my breath.

The man with the newspaper twisted back in a flash. His glare hit me with a force so hard I nearly felt the impact. He didn't speak, but I could see calculation behind his dark eyes. His expression shifted a heartbeat later. I couldn't place it except to say that it seemed like he recognized me. I didn't recognize him.

Then I remembered that Corbin's group was staying here at the Oak Tree for the duration. We'd halted production until our homicide detectives gave us the all clear. That might account for crew members sitting around at the hotel, waiting to be called back to work. This man could be part of Corbin's team, but that didn't explain the malevolent stare. He turned back to watch the TV in time to hear Flynn saying to expect an arrest soon.

"Within the next twenty-four hours?" A reporter persisted.

Flynn's mouth twisted into a smirk. "Within the next twelve, if it's up to me."

"We understand there was a second victim."

Flynn shook his head. "No further commentary."

Thank goodness for that.

When the scene shifted back to the anchor for summary, the man across from me faced forward again, snapping his paper up as he did so, effectively rendering himself invisible. I thought hard, trying to place him. I'd interacted with many of Corbin's team, but I couldn't pinpoint where I might have seen him before. For the half minute or so that I'd gotten a look at him, I'd noted that he was shiny-head bald, about forty years old. His clothing suggested an early morning workout: navy blue swishy pants, black flip-flops, and a white long sleeve T-shirt with a terrycloth towel draped around his neck.

That irksome feeling of not knowing who he was made me want to initiate conversation, if only for the chance to see his face again. My plan was foiled, however, when the man jumped to his feet. He jammed the newspaper under his arm and stormed out the back doors toward the pool.

I waited a couple of beats, then gave in to my curiosity and followed to the doors in time to watch him disappear around a tall group of shrubs. That was odd. No, it was more than odd. I stood staring long after he was gone, attempting to sort out my disquiet. What was it exactly that bothered me? I'd encountered rudeness before in my life, but a peculiar sense of dread stole over me when I thought about the man's glare. Could he have had anything to do with Lenore's killing? Or the missing items from Marshfield?

Chapter 11.

IT WAS PREPOSTEROUS FOR ME TO MAKE SUCH a leap, but events over recent months had served to make me ever suspicious, ever aware of oddities. I ran my hand through my hair, trying to sort out facts from feelings. It would do little good for me to call Rodriguez to report a non-encounter with a curious stranger in a second-rate hotel.

Instead, I turned and made my way to the front desk. "h.e.l.lo," I said to the twenty-something young man again. "I thought I spotted a friend of mine in the room over there. But he disappeared before I could say h.e.l.lo." I gestured backwards. "Did you happen to see him?"

I had to give the boy credit. He valiantly tried to tamp down his "Are you kidding me?" expression. "I'm sorry ma'am. I've been very busy here. What is it you need?"

I tried a different approach. "I thought I saw someone I knew. He's . . . ah . . . forty-four," I guessed, "not terribly tall. Bald. That is, his head is completely shaved. I saw him for a moment, but I don't know where he went."

The kid worked hard at being polite. He picked up paper and pen. "If you give me his name, I can give him your message."

"Oh, no," I said flipping my hands forward in a dramatic gesture. "It's not that important. I wasn't even sure it was who I thought it was. It might not be. I mean, I didn't even know that he was in town. Maybe it isn't even him. That's why I was asking. Just to see if it was who I thought it was."

Stop talking, I told myself. I backed away as I babbled, thoroughly embarra.s.sed, wishing I could duck out the front door.

One of the reception desk phones rang right then, sparing us both further discomfort. "Thanks, anyway," I said with forced cheer, and returned to the lobby, taking a seat out of the young man's line of sight.

I thought about what Flynn had proclaimed on the news broadcast. I should have been excited to learn that the police were close to an arrest, but the truth was that I didn't buy it.

I considered sneaking out the front door to wait, in the hopes that the bald guy might come around the far side, but at that moment Mark and Arthur returned. Arthur gripped the handle of a black suitcase, which he rolled while carrying a laptop case slung over the opposite shoulder. "Ready to go, Ms. Wheaton?" he called. I nodded and he headed out at a quick clip.

As I pa.s.sed the front desk, the young kid said, "I hope you find your friend."

"What was that all about?" Mark asked.

"A man in the hotel," I said, waving my hand in dismissal, wishing I'd minded my own business. "I . . ." How to explain my sense of unease without sounding like a total idiot? "I thought I recognized him, but I was mistaken. By the way, here's a copy of your bill."

He took the receipt, folded it one-handed and tucked it into his pants pocket. "Thank you again. That was unnecessary, but I truly appreciate it."

Arthur had taken off ahead of us, probably intending to crank up the Marshfield car's air-conditioning as soon as he could.

Mark and I followed, returning to the blast-furnace outdoors. I squinted in the blinding sunlight, stopping in my tracks because I couldn't see. "Yikes," I said, my eyes instinctively clenching shut. The sun was so intense that it actually hurt. I put a hand up to shield my face, blinking to try to accustom myself to the brightness.

"You have light eyes," Mark said. "That means you're more susceptible to the sun. And today's a scorcher." He reached into the pocket of his shirt. "Here," he said, proffering a pair of sungla.s.ses. "You can use mine."

"Thanks, but I've got a pair in the car. I'll be fine in a minute."

The words died on my lips because just as my vision acclimated, I spotted Jack walking toward us. Beneath his khaki shorts, his knees were crusted with dirt, his tan T-shirt dark with sweat, his shoes filthy. As he crossed the street, he tugged off muddy gloves and stuffed them into a back pocket. He'd apparently been landscaping at the church across the street.

"Grace," he said, smiling, "I've been meaning to call you."

He had? Warmed by the thought, I was cautious all the same. "Anything wrong?"

"No," he said drawing the word out. "I wanted to see what you were up to." His attention was not on me, but on Mark.

I could read Jack's mind from the expression on his face. With Arthur out in the parking lot, Jack couldn't know I was here on official business. What he saw was me exiting a second-rate hotel in the morning accompanied by a strange man.

"How's your dad?" I asked changing the subject before Mark picked up on the vibe.

Jack shrugged. "It's been rough. But we're getting through it. My sister's there at least once a week."

Mark extended his hand and introduced himself. "Sorry to hear your father is ill."

Jack and I exchanged a glance as the two men shook hands. Gordon Embers wasn't ill, but that was too much information to share.

"Jack Embers. I'm . . ." He looked about to say that he was a friend of mine. "I'm the landscape architect at Marshfield Manor. Grace and I . . . ah . . . work together sometimes." There was a look in his eyes that I read as disappointment. To me: "How have you been?"

I was still off-kilter from my clumsy attempt to identify the bald guy with the clerk at the front desk. "Good," I said, for lack of anything better. I was unsettled. Truth be told, I was a little angry, too. If Jack had bothered to keep in touch, if he'd taken time to talk with me instead of buzzing in only when Marshfield garden business required he do so, he would have known exactly why I was here this morning escorting Mark Ellroy out of the Oak Tree Hotel.

If he couldn't be bothered to keep in touch, why should he care that I might have spent the night with another man? I hadn't, of course, but my face flamed nonetheless.