Goodbye Arizona Read online

  How was she supposed to react? People always wondered if fiction matched reality. Once he revealed himself as Flint, people would hypothesize, dissect every word, every sentence. They would uncover how much of his personal experiences he’d put into his books. She felt soiled at the thought. “I’m going to my room.”

  “I’m very sorry, Miss Stone, that’s not possible,” said the manager. “The police…”

  “The police? Why? What happened?”

  What kind of situation requires the police to search my room?

  Marcus stroked her back. She sidestepped to escape the touch. His hand fell to his side. “Someone broke into our rooms, Deb. Mine, and yours, too.”

  “Broke into—but, my clothes? My laptop?”

  “Trashed, Miss. I’m sorry.”

  Deb glared at the sling bag Marcus dragged everywhere. Of course his belongings were safe. Mister-Bestseller here wouldn’t risk losing his tools. Her knees shook. Her whole world was on that laptop. Her contact lists, her photos, her music.

  Marcus secured his arm around her waist and said, “We’ll ask an IT specialist to recover the data on your hard-drive. You have a back-up, don’t you?”

  When was the last time she had copied her files to an external drive? The quakes got to her upper body. The need to kick him in the shin grew bigger in tune to the craving to cuddle against him.

  “Who did this? You have cameras. I want to see the feed, I—”

  “My security staff is scanning the tapes as we speak, Miss Stone.”

  She held to her anger, using it as a shield against the growing despair which threatened to engulf her. “That’s the very least you can do. And I expect the hotel insurance to cover—”

  “Deb, that’s not all.”

  Marcus’s tone was too sharp. Her legs buckled. His hand found her hip again. She reached for it and squeezed, hard.

  “Is someone, is someone hurt?”

  “No! No, nothing like that.” Marcus pulled her to him and she held on tight. “But it seems Flint’s cover is blown.”

  ****

  He spoke literally. Deb contemplated the handle that rose from Marcus’s book on the manager’s desk. The blade of the steak knife pierced the paper brick from cover to cover. Black ink and ferocious cuts had erased the author’s name. Large capitals spelled the word liar across the front cover.

  Deb pointed at the title. “That’s—”

  “The Storm Watcher. My second RS novel.”

  Deb gazed at Marcus. He stared at the massacred volume with a pensive frown.

  Behind them, more and more people cast curious glances through the open door.

  “I’d like to access my room, and assess the damages for myself,” Deb said.

  The manager made a face. “I fear this is not possible, Miss Stone. The police declared the room off limits. They barely agreed that we relocate your belongings into one of the golf’s guesthouses. That was the least we could do under the circumstances…”

  The man trailed off, obviously pleased with Deb’s awed stare. Marcus put one hand on her shoulder. “That’s unacceptable. We’ll take the penthouse suite.”

  Deb glared at him then smiled at the manager. “Thank you, Mr. Baxter, you’re very kind. I’ll take it.” The guesthouses were luxurious chalets scattered like an oasis on the golf grounds. They offered all the hotel commodities, plus a private terrace and small pool. Marcus detached her fingers from his wrist. “There’s basically no security there, Deb.”

  “A guard makes regular rounds, sir. The padlock is linked to our main system, and—”

  “No offense, Mr. Baxter,” Marcus growled, “But Sybil Reiner was murdered last night right under your nose, and today, both our rooms were destroyed.” Deb held his glare without batting a lash. “We can’t go there. It’s not safe.”

  “I haven’t invited you to share, if I recall.”

  The dark-gray stare attached to her face turned to hematite. The manager chose to ignore the danger and interfered. The fool.

  “Arizona Paradise Hotel is a high-class resort, Mr. Turner. We have very strict policies regarding our guests’ well-being.”

  “So we all saw.”

  The tempest grew into a full gale. “Since the police are here, I’ll discuss the matter with Sheriff Pooley myself. Deborah, would you mind advising Rachel that we are leaving?” He punctuated the declaration with a light kiss on her hand. Deb pulled away abruptly.

  “Yes, I do mind. I told you, I’m taking the cottage.”

  This time, Baxter took his cue. “If you’ll excuse me for a minute, I’ll check with my clerk to see if we can fulfill your request for the penthouse, Mr. Turner.”

  The middle-aged man exited his own office like an indignant peacock.

  Deb sighed. “He’s going to take it out on the staff.”

  “If he does, he’s an even bigger imbecile than he struck me to be.”

  “You can’t accuse the man of defending his hotel’s reputation.”

  The dim gray stare gleamed like steel. “I wasn’t… Look, there are things I need to do before we leave. I want you to stay in the lobby or the jazz bar, and wait for me.”

  He unshouldered his bag. “Here. Use my computer to write your article or something.”

  Deb snapped her mouth shut, for only a second. “You’re unbelievable. Read my lips: I’m coming with you.”

  “I’m not in the mood, Deb. Don’t argue, and do as I say, for once.” His thumb caressed her knuckles, though his grip nearly crushed her fingers.

  “The hell I will.” She yanked her hand free. “I’m not your puppet, or your toy. You go on as you please, screw the rest of the world, and me. Do I ask something not to your liking? You ignore the question. Do I suggest something you don’t deem interesting? You just dismiss it. You’re… I can’t even find the proper word to describe your attitude. It’s … it’s so wrong! You don’t always know best, Marcus.”

  He stayed obstinately mute. She wished he retorted something, fought back, instead of staring with that impossible steely gleam in his eyes, the only indication that her words were sinking in.

  In a single moment of clarity, Deb got it. He was waiting her out. Every single time they argued, she was the one to explode, the one to storm off, and the one to come back. And then they started again along the same lines, until the next gale. Her shoulders stiffened. “I think … I think we should go on with that break we agreed on in Frisco.”

  Even that didn’t bring anything more than a blink. Deb looked away and flipped her hand in the air to invite him to move. He stood his ground. “Oh no, not this time, sugar. That’s the easy way out. I have had enough.”

  She glowered. Marcus glared back, closing the distance between them as slowly as a cat moving in on its prey.

  “I’ve done your will for years, Deb. However reckless your request is, I go for it. You wanted a tattoo, so we both got one. You wanted to ‘get in shape’ so I went with you to that marathon boot camp. You wanted to elope to Vegas so we did, no matter the grief it caused to my family.”

  She refused to talk about Vegas. Vegas was a mistake. A stupid, cherished mistake. “You like running,” Deb countered.

  “No, I really don’t. But, as always, I indulged you. Every single thing I did in my life I did for you.”

  Deb crossed her arms over her chest. “Even San Francisco, I presume? You threw me out for my sake?”

  “No, that was the first selfish thing I did in a very long time.”

  She sniggered. Marcus added. “Now that I think about it, though, I wonder. Would you have stayed, and faced me in the morning?”

  Deb swallowed hard, as some truths dawned on her. In all those years, he had said yes more often than no. He argued, he grouched, he even called her names sometimes, but in the end, he went her way and he was there to cushion her falls. Anger frayed in guilty threads.

  Marcus took another step forward. “Do I avoid answering some questions when I feel the answer is going to hurt you
? Yes. Do I dismiss your reckless, childish schemes before they blow up in your face? Hell, yes. I’ll protect you against yourself if I have to. Deb, look at me…” He cupped her face with both hands, cooling her cheeks with a caress. “What’s happening here is far above our heads. It’s not a tug-of-war, bicker-and-make-up-later-no-harm-no-foul game this time. People are getting hurt. I feel—I think I’m partly responsible for it. Please. Listen to me, this one time. Then we’ll talk about the future, like adults. Please.”

  She sighed. “Fine. I’m going to the spa.”

  “The bar is safer.”

  “Don’t push your luck. I’m going to the spa, and I’ll have a massage while waiting for you like an obedient trophy wife.”

  Marcus gave in with a chuckle and kissed her forehead. “That, you’re definitely not.”

  ****

  Marcus climbed the stairs two steps at a time. The exertion did little to quiet the nasty replay in his head. The accusations she’d hurled at him still stung, mostly because he was forced to rub her nose in her own dirt.

  For better or worse, he couldn’t dwell on it now. He gave it fifteen minutes—twenty tops—before Deb decided she wasn’t going to wait after all, and started piecing this particular puzzle together. She was too smart not to ask herself the right questions, and once she did… He wanted to ask his own questions before she stormed in.

  He reached the third floor and entered the corridor, slightly out of breath.

  Deb’s door was open. One glance sufficed to explain Baxter’s hesitation when the beautiful brunette had asked to see her room. The mattress, the sofas, every cushion had been ripped apart. Pieces of electronics and glass from the smashed flat screen covered the carpet. The lamps fared little better, their shades torn or broken. The rest of the furniture was either scarred by vengeful scratches or stained with some kind of ink or maybe it was dark polish. The same substance marred the wallpaper.

  Marcus saw red as he read the obscenities scribbled all around the room. “Son of a bitch!”

  The employee who was gathering the stained bed sheets on the floor glanced up. “Sir, you can’t be here. The police forbade it.”

  Marcus brushed the comment aside, his attention glued to the disfigured walls. The insults ranged from crude to cruel. Whore was among the softest. Others made him nauseous. He fought to keep a cool head, to decide if the loathsome display confirmed his suspicions.

  Besides himself, and now Deb and the sheriff, he counted the people knowing about Flint on the fingers of one hand: his lawyer, bound to discretion by his profession; his accountant, who happened to be his sister Theo; his other sibling, Ty, and his blushing bride, who both had had their share of public exposure and valued privacy even more than he did. The last one had a room just above his head.

  The idea someone he knew could do something like this disgusted him, but he had to face it. There was one more person. Eden had a good motive to scare him away, and she knew exactly how to achieve it. A nameless threat would not impress him, but if he believed Deb could be hurt… If you add the fact that Eden despised her…

  Marcus banged the door on his way out.

  He saw a pair of bags as soon as he reached the fourth floor.

  “Where do you think you’re going, Eden?”

  The beautiful blonde exhaled noisily. “Oh, Marcus, it’s you! Dieu! You scared me. I’m not staying in this cursed place one more minute. First Sybil, now Clare—”

  He paled. “You have news about Clare?”

  She snorted. “The hotel physician said it was allergies.” He wished Rachel Hunter would make a statement to clarify facts, instead of trying to shepherd attendees as if nothing had happened because she feared the sponsors and for her personal reputation.

  “She was poisoned!” Eden wrung her white hands. “Allergies, my butt… Lies. All lies. Je te le dis. This conference is doomed. Cursed. I’m leaving.”

  Marcus shoved the suitcases inside and kicked the door. “I don’t think so.”

  The blonde hopped gracefully with a shriek. “Those are Louis Vuitton! Be careful!”

  “I’m not in the mood for a fashion lecture, or your Belle dramatic act. What the fuck did you do?”

  Eden scowled. “There’s no need to be vulgaire.”

  “Oh yeah? You were not so clean yourself when you wrote those horrors on Deb’s walls.”

  “What horrors? Ah… It’s about your precious Deborah. Again.” The woman spat the name with enough venom to curdle cream. “It’s the same old song, time and again. She shows up, and you become complètement gaga. Irrational. She leads you by the—”

  “Who’s vulgar now? Answer my questions!”

  She flipped her wrist in dismissal, and started toward her handbag. Marcus yanked her around. “Why did you trash our rooms? Cajoling and gentle persuasion didn’t work, so you decided to add a warning of your own? Are you responsible for that idiotic poem, too? A cheap way to interest people in the conference?”

  Eden straightened up in anger, which nearly brought them eye to eye. He released her arm.

  Her red mouth twisted in distaste. “Just a minute ago, you reminded me of my insistence about canceling your big announcement. Anyone here will soon learn about your little tour de passe-passe, isn’t it? So why would I want anyone to look at this circus too closely?”

  She had him there. Marcus growled, “I’m still not hearing you deny you trashed our rooms.”

  “I have more interesting things to do than listen to your absurd accusations. Do you really think I bother about argent de poche?”

  “Fifteen percent of Flint’s income is hardly pocket-change.” He couldn’t believe his ears. Had she just called vandalism a bother? Marcus struggled to stay calm. She was selfish and greedy. She would use any situation to her own means. However, he didn’t see her shooting someone in the head.

  “Assez! That’s enough. You’re not the police, and I don’t have to hear any of this. I didn’t do anything. Contrary to your sweet little Deborah, I don’t disgrace myself by breaking into hotel rooms. Get out.”

  Her throaty drawl reached abnormal heights. Eden pulled the door open, and stopped dead in her tracks in front of the sheriff.

  Chapter Six

  Deb crossed the terrace through hysterical shouts and manic giggles. The pleasant alley leading from the main building to the small villa that housed the spa was so packed, she felt like a salmon swimming upriver.

  “Propose free alcohol and you’ll end up with a stampede,” she grumbled under her breath. The crowd around her rushed and yelped, impermeable to anything that was not liquid. A pointy elbow bit into her breast as one of the banshees tried to push her out of her way.

  “Hey!”

  The hand attached to the arm flipped up as if to say sorry. Deb suspected the gesture would have been slightly less polite if her assailant hadn’t almost been run over by another thirsty maenad.

  Someone stomped on her foot. A blow in her back sent her headfirst into the bay window. She avoided the crash by a hair, banging against a clay pot instead. Deb clasped Marcus’s laptop to her chest like a shield with one hand, the other rubbing her bruised hip. “Jesus…”

  She started to regret not taking Marcus’s advice to wait for him inside. The barman had pumped up the volume of the music to add cadence to the ruckus, then grinned from ear to ear, delighted with the ear-splitting squeal that followed. Deb glowered at him and tried to figure out a new path toward safety.

  Two vicious tackles and countless blows later, she reached the end of the pool. Her hip hurt. The nauseating noise that she just heard sounded suspiciously like her blouse ripping at the shoulder.

  Out of breath, and very irritated, Deb didn’t realize the prick on her shoulder wasn’t just the strap of the satchel pinching her skin.

  ****

  “I do hope you’re not interfering with my job, Mr. Turner.”

  Marcus glared at the petite woman in the ill-fitted beige suit, but wisely kept his mouth shut.
Pooley glanced around. She frowned when she saw Eden’s pricy bags. “I can’t authorize you to leave, Miss Guillot. My investigation isn’t over.”

  “But I’m innocent.”

  “So you say.”

  Pooley ignored Marcus’s snigger while Eden shot daggers at him with her glare. She must have figured sarcasm would lead her nowhere because she changed tactics. “Sheriff, I’m so scared… That poor Sybil … and Clare… I can’t stay here. I’m a bundle of nerves.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. You can consult with the department psychologist, if you wish.” Eden’s triumphant smirk died out. “In any case, someone within your happy little group is a murderer. Until I find out who, I want you all at my disposal. In fact, I’d like to clarify a few things.”

  Pooley shot a glare toward Marcus, who crossed his arms over his chest to make it clear that it would take a crane to move him. The sheriff pinched her lips, then returned her attention to Eden.

  ****

  “Hey, is she okay?”

  “Yes. I have it. Too much heat and alcohol.”

  “Oh, okay…” A grin flashed, an invitation. “I’ll see you tonight, then?”

  “You can count on it. I wouldn’t miss that gala for anything…”

  ****

  “Where were you last night between ten p.m. and three a.m.?”

  Marcus jumped. Eden scowled. “Me? You’re accusing me?”

  “Not accusing—yet. I’m asking.”

  “This is ludicrous.”

  Pooley raised an eyebrow. Her non-verbal posture reminded Marcus of a hound on a trail.

  “I was working! I’ve been working like a mule for weeks to counter the disaster this imbecile is about to unleash.” She pointed a manicured fingernail to the hotel pamphlet on a table. “I called room service for a salad and a bottle of Perrier. Check with the clerk.”

  Pooley’s grin climbed one shade above sardonic. “I did. Do you care to explain why the said clerk mentioned seeing you in front of Miss Stone’s suite this morning after he departed the hotel with Mr. Turner?”

  Eden turned a very deep pink. Marcus opened his mouth. “What?”

  “Mr. Turner!”