Killjoy

  “Oh, your friend’s back.” Oliver didn’t sound very cheerful.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Your friend . . . he’s coming this way. Maybe he can clear up this misunderstanding.”

  She didn’t know what he was talking about. She didn’t have any friends meeting her here. She turned around to see whom Oliver was watching, but there was only a man striding toward the counter, a big man, she corrected. Odd, but he seemed to be staring at her. And he didn’t look happy.

  “Are you referring to the gentleman coming this way?”

  “Yes,” he answered. “He was the one I was telling you about. He was here yesterday, looking for your aunt.” In a low voice he added, “If anyone could benefit from our aroma stress-relief massage therapy, it’s definitely your friend. I suggested the treatment to him, but he was quite . . .”

  “Quite what?”

  “Resistant to the idea. Actually, he was quite difficult about everything. I know I shouldn’t say anything negative about a potential guest, but your boyfriend is wound tight inside. He should be practicing yoga on a daily basis. I mean, the man growled at me. He really did. Can you imagine? I told him you were scheduled to check in. It was noted in the computer under Mrs. Salvetti’s reservation, and that’s who he asked for when he came up to the counter. Your aunt called in and canceled. I had the unfortunate duty of telling him. Let me tell you, he wasn’t happy about that news. He told me he’d come back today to see you, and he’s been here since early morning. I noticed him when I came on duty. I hope he’s in a better mood today.”

  She wasn’t paying much attention to Oliver’s prattling. She was busy watching the man crossing the lobby. He was something else. She’d never seen anyone like him, except maybe in the movies. The closer he came, the bigger he got. Tall and muscular, with dark hair and a weathered complexion. She guessed that he spent a good deal of his time outdoors or in a gym somewhere working on his abs. He was ruggedly good-looking, but he was too into the physical to appeal to her. She much preferred brains over muscle.

  The man had great bone structure. That thought led to another, and she suddenly thought she knew who he was and what he wanted.

  “You do know the gentleman, don’t you?”

  “It’s okay. I’m sure he’s a friend of my aunt’s.”

  Carrie had probably used him in one of her commercials, and maybe, since he was in the area and had found out she was staying at the spa, he’d decided to stop by and say hello. It was either that, or muscle man was out of work and hoping that Carrie would take a liking to him and offer him a job.

  Avery had great sympathy for actors because it was such a competitive field and so much of the decision-making process was out of their control. The odds against making it in Hollywood were astronomical. She made up her mind to do what she could to help. She waited until he was about three feet away, then put her hand out and introduced herself. “My name’s Avery Delaney.” Oh, yes, he was definitely an actor. He had the dark, brooding look down cold.

  He grasped her hand in his. “My name’s John Paul Renard.” His voice was deep and wonderfully southern.

  Lordy, he had great eyes. The color of a gray dawn. She couldn’t imagine him holding up a roll of paper towels in a commercial. Explosives, maybe, but not paper towels.

  His body language intrigued her. He turned so that his back was to the counter; then his gaze slowly scanned the lobby. She got the odd feeling he was memorizing every face.

  “You’re a friend of my aunt Carrie’s?”

  “Yes.”

  No further explanation, no embellishment whatsoever.

  “You’re an actor, right?”

  The question so surprised him he smiled. “No.”

  “Oh . . . I thought . . . then what do you do for a living?” God, she hated it when people asked her that question, and it was really none of her business how the hunk, who couldn’t even bother to look at her when she spoke to him, paid his rent.

  “I’m a carpenter.”

  No way. “A carpenter?”

  “Uh-huh.” He drawled out the answer and stared into her eyes. She could feel the heat rush to her face and hoped to heaven she wasn’t blushing. The man did have the strangest way about him.

  Carrie was right. She really needed to start dating again. It had obviously been way too long. If a brute of a man like this one could affect her . . . way too long.

  “A carpenter,” she repeated. Then, “Okay.” She’d go along. “And you’ve done some work for my aunt?”

  “No.” He was back to watching the people strolling into the lobby as he answered. “I need to talk to her,” he said impatiently. “It’s important. Where is she?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “But I’m about to find out.” She turned around to search through her backpack again when a sudden, horrid thought occurred to her. She almost groaned out loud. “Did my aunt want you to meet me here?”

  Carrie was up to her old tricks again, Avery decided, trying to play matchmaker. She was a little surprised at her aunt’s nerve. She thought that her last talk with Carrie had done the trick. Her aunt had promised—vowed, actually—never to try to fix her up again.

  Avery’s voice was curt when she said, “Carrie isn’t here today. If you’re in the area, you could try back tomorrow.”

  He didn’t take the hint and go away. Deciding to ignore him—no small feat considering his size—she continued to hunt for her phone. She finally found it on the very bottom and pulled it out. Oliver began to shake his head. “Is there a problem?” she asked.

  “There are no problems at Utopia, but the use of cell phones on the premises is frowned upon.” Having said that, he pointed to a black-and-gold sign propped on the counter near the corner.

  She flipped open the phone’s cover, pushed the speed dial to Carrie’s cell phone, and said, “Then I guess you better start frowning.”

  John Paul liked her response. Spunk, he thought. What a surprise. The plastic California girl with the too-blue-to-be-true eyes had a backbone.

  Carrie’s voice mail came on after the first ring, which meant the phone was either still being recharged or she was out of signal range. She called Uncle Tony next. He answered, and the second he heard her voice, he proceeded to give her hell because she hadn’t called before her aunt left for the spa.

  “You know how she worries when she doesn’t hear from you.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Have you talked to Carrie since she left L.A.? Has she called you?”

  “No, but I don’t expect to hear from her. We said good-bye in L.A. She wouldn’t let me ride to the airport with her,” he said. “And I promised her I wouldn’t bug her at the spa. She’s there to relax and think about her . . . priorities. I’m sure she’ll want to talk to you, though. Give her a call and be sure to tell her I send my love.”

  Her uncle didn’t know she was at Utopia. Avery was about to explain her last-minute decision to join her aunt but then changed her mind. She didn’t want to get Tony upset over what she still hoped was just a colossal screwup.

  “If she doesn’t answer her phone, don’t fret. She’s probably just getting a massage or something.”

  The lobby was becoming crowded. A raucous and loud group of twelve came into the hotel. Avery put her hand over her ear as she asked, “Tony, were there any problems at work? Has the office called you?”

  “No,” he said. “Are you expecting trouble? I talked to Jeanie this morning. Everything’s good,” he said. “Star Catcher isn’t going to fall apart in two weeks. When you talk to Carrie, tell her to stop worrying.”

  “Yes, I’ll tell her,” she said. “I’ll call you later, Tony. Love you.”

  She ended the call and looked at Oliver. “I’d like to speak to your manager.”

  Oliver looked offended by the request. He stiffened and his voice turned snippy. “I assure you Mr. Cannon will tell you the same thing I just did. We’re booked to capacity. It’s a misconception to think that
we hold back rooms. I’ll be happy to assist you in finding suitable lodging in Aspen. Nothing will compare to Utopia, of course, but you could take advantage of our day spa treatments. I’m sure you’d enjoy our stress-relief hot-stone massage. It’s quite invigorating.”

  His tone was grossly condescending. She wasn’t interested in his damn massage. She wanted to find her aunt. Keeping her irritation in check was difficult, but she managed it. She had never used her job to get around obstacles before, and she wasn’t about to start now, but the urge was nearly irresistible. Oh, how she would have loved to pull out her ID and flash it in front of Oliver’s face. He’d sure as certain stop being so snippy then, wouldn’t he? She couldn’t do it, though, because it wouldn’t be honest, acting like a full-fledged agent when she actually worked in the basement keyboarding all day. Besides, it wasn’t a real FBI badge, and anyone with half a brain would know it.

  She suddenly realized she was projecting her frustration and anger on the innocent clerk. Oliver was simply doing his job. Maybe Carrie had lost track of the time. She might have met a famous movie star at the mountain retreat and didn’t want to leave.

  That had to be it. Her aunt was busy networking and had forgotten to call. Avery clung to the possibility because it was all she had. Her anxiety didn’t go away, though. Why had Carrie canceled her reservation at the spa?

  “I really need to talk to your manager.”

  Oliver didn’t move.

  John Paul said quietly, “Do as the lady asks.”

  “Mr. Cannon went downstairs to the mailroom to see about a package.”

  “Go get him and tell him that John Paul Renard is back and wants to talk to him again. We’ll wait in his office.”

  It wasn’t what John Paul said but how he said it that got Oliver moving. He stepped back from the computer, turned, and jogged down the corridor.

  John Paul didn’t give Avery time to ask questions or argue. He started shoving her things back in her backpack, then grabbed her hand and pulled her along. “Come on. I know the way.”

  “I can handle this, Mr. Renard. You don’t need to—”

  “Call me John Paul.” He led her behind the counter, then down a long, red-carpeted hall.

  She jerked away from him and dug in her heels at the door to the manager’s office.

  “All right. I want some answers,” she demanded. “First of all, exactly how do you know my aunt?”

  He had his own question. “Why didn’t you tell your uncle that your aunt is missing?”

  “I don’t want him to worry. I’m not certain she is missing.”

  “Then where is she?”

  Good point. Carrie was probably drinking mimosas on top of a mountain somewhere having a fine old time. And making Avery nuts worrying about her. No, Carrie would never be so thoughtless. Something was wrong.

  “I don’t know where she is, but I’m going to make some calls and find her.”

  “Why would she cancel?” he asked. “The clerk said a woman called—”

  “The hotel must have screwed up our reservations. You don’t need to hang around. If you’d like to leave your phone number, I’ll make sure Carrie gets it. She’ll probably come strolling into the lobby any second now with some outrageous excuse.”

  She didn’t believe a word of what she’d just told him, but she hoped he would buy it and go away.

  “Then I’ll wait with you until she gets here.”

  She gave up. The man was more tenacious than she was. She would find out what his agenda was after she located her aunt.

  Ten minutes later, she was sitting behind Mr. Cannon’s art deco desk in his spacious wind tunnel of an office overlooking the serenity pool. The overhead ceiling fan was on low and making a clicking sound with each rotation. The noise reminded her of Mrs. Speigel. The sweet old woman made the same sound when she spoke because of her ill-fitting false teeth.

  Cannon also had another fan perched on top of his black lacquered filing cabinet, but that one was going full speed. All the papers on his desk were weighted down with gold sphere-shaped paperweights.

  “Cannon’s taking too damned long. While you make your phone calls, I’ll go find him,” John Paul said. “You stay put.”

  Avery waited until he’d left the office and closed the door before she dialed her home answering machine. She hoped Carrie had left her a message explaining her absence, but that wasn’t the case. Then Avery tried her office voice mail, and there wasn’t a message from her aunt there either.

  Now what? In desperation she called the pen. Maybe, just maybe, Carrie had talked to Margo or Lou or Mel.

  Margo answered the main line. “I’m so glad you called, Avery. You’re not going to believe this. I called your neighbor’s caretaker like I told you I would—”

  “Margo,” Avery interrupted. “You can tell me later. I’ve got a problem here, and I need your help.”

  “You need to hear what I found out,” her friend insisted. “Mrs. Speigel broke her hip.”

  Avery’s nerves were nearing the breaking point, but she knew that she was going to have to wait until Margo finished talking about Mrs. Speigel before she’d let her get a word in.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “She broke her hip two weeks ago, and then she got pneumonia. She almost died,” she added. “But Marilyn, the lady who takes care of her, told me the antibiotics are finally working, and it looks like she’s going to recover. That’s pretty amazing considering the fact that Mrs. Speigel is in her nineties.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” She rubbed her brow as she asked the question.

  “Don’t you get it? Mrs. Speigel couldn’t have snuck her car out. She was in the hospital. Someone stole her car, and whoever it was was in such a hurry to get out of the parking garage, he or she almost hit you.” Before Avery could comment, Margo enthusiastically continued. “The car was abandoned on M Street. It was illegally parked, so they towed it. Marilyn told me that it would break Mrs. Speigel’s heart if the family sold her car. Even though she never drives it, she feels independent having it in the garage. Marilyn uses it to take the old lady on errands. Aren’t you happy to know Mrs. Speigel wasn’t trying to kill you?” she added with a laugh.

  “Margo, I need help. Stop talking for a minute and listen. My aunt’s missing.”

  She filled her in on the information she had, then said, “There’s a man here waiting to talk to Carrie. He won’t tell me how he knows her or what he wants. He’s the strong, silent type. Run his name through the computer, will you? There’s something about him. His name is John Paul Renard.”

  “What do you mean, ‘There’s something about him’?”

  “He says he’s a carpenter, but he doesn’t look like one.”

  “What’s a carpenter supposed to look like?”

  “Come on, Margo. See if there’s anything in the system.”

  “I’m typing in the name right now. Are you looking for parking tickets or something?”

  “I don’t know what I’m looking for,” she admitted. “He’s got this air about him. When I first saw him across the lobby, I was sure he must be an actor, but later, I noticed the way he was watching the people coming and going. He might be . . . dangerous. I think he could be.” She sighed dismissively. “I’m probably overreacting because I’m so worried about Carrie. It isn’t like her to take off like this. Just look up the name, okay?”

  “Jeez, Avery. You think he’s a criminal?”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Whoa.”

  “What? You found something?”

  “Oh, boy, did I. Your John Paul isn’t a criminal.”

  “He’s not my John Paul.”

  “He used to work for the government. Wait, I’m scrolling down. Whoa. Get this. His file is classified.”

  “Classified?” She wasn’t prepared to hear that.

  “I’m trying to access . . . ah, here we go. I could lose my job for this, and so could you.”

&n
bsp; “I know. Just tell me what you see, okay?”

  “Renard was in the Marines. Honorable discharge,” she added. “He was recruited while he was still a Marine according to the file.”

  “Recruited for what?”

  “I don’t know. It just says ‘special branch operations.’ There’s a bunch of numbers and initials, but I don’t know what any of it stands for.” She read the information to Avery as she scrolled down. She stopped suddenly, then said, “He’s taken a leave of absence.” Then, a few seconds later, she sighed loudly into the phone. “It won’t give me any more information. That’s all I can get because I don’t have the necessary clearance. Hold on. I’m pulling up an old photo ID. Ah, here we go.” She whistled.

  “What?”

  “I think I’m in love.”

  “Get serious,” Avery said. She described John Paul to verify.

  “I think it’s the same guy. He’s from Louisiana. He has family there. His brother-in-law is an attorney for the Justice Department.” She read a few more personal facts and then said, “It looks like he went on quite a few missions when he was a Marine. Wait a minute, here’s something interesting. It says one of the missions involved rescuing some hostages in the Middle East, but get this, Renard carried out the assignment despite the fact that he’d suffered a compound fracture of his left arm.” Margo was silent as she scrolled through the rest of his record; then she said, “Beyond the Marine duty, it won’t tell me anything. Do you want me to go to Carter? The man intimidates me, but I’ll do it if you want me to. I’m sure he could get into Renard’s file.”

  “No, don’t ask him. At least, not until I think about it.”

  “What’s going on?” Margo asked. “What does this Renard want with your aunt Carrie?”

  “I don’t know. Listen, Margo, when Carrie called me from the Aspen airport, she said there was a driver there from the spa waiting to take her and two other women to a mountain retreat for the night. Carrie said the spa had trouble with a broken water pipe or something. The driver’s name was Monk Edwards . . . or Edward Monk. I’m not sure which. I know it’s not much, but it’s all I’ve got. I remember Carrie also said the driver had a British accent. Run the name through, and if you find anything, call me on my cell phone.”