The Next to Die

After a three-and-a-half-hour drive over snowy mountain roads, Sean arrived in Opal to find the post office closed. She’d been trying to reach Nick Brock since this morning. She’d phoned from LAX, Portland, and Spokane. No Nick. No one even picked up at Debbie’s Paradise View Motor Inn.

Last night, he’d been surprisingly agreeable to having her work with him in Opal: Might be a couple of days before I nab these creeps. In the meantime, this burg is dullsville, I could use some company, doll.

Sean didn’t need the company. She made reservations at another hotel, a mile away from Debbie’s. But she wanted to touch base with Nick Brock today. She knew his motel was on the same street as the post office, but almost drove past the place. The sun had set an hour ago, but no one had switched on the illuminated sign yet. Sean turned into the parking lot. The two-story modern stucco stretched a quarter of a block. It didn’t appear deserted. Lights were on in the lobby, and plenty of cars were parked in front. But yellow police tape sectioned off the back part of the lot. Sean drove up to the tape line, and stepped out of her rented Chevy. She didn’t see anything unusual. Still, she felt uneasy.

She spotted a 7-Eleven across the street. Ducking back into the warm car, Sean steered out of the lot and pulled up to the convenience store. From a pay phone outside, by the store entrance, she dialed Debbie’s Paradise View. After six rings, a woman picked up. She sounded young, and frazzled. “Uh, yeah, Debbie’s Motor Inn.”

“Yes, hello,” Sean said. “Nick—I mean, Tony Manero’s room, please.”

“Oh, um…,” the girl replied. Sean heard her talking to someone else, the words muffled.

“Hello?” Sean said. “Are you still there?”

“Can I help you?” a man piped up on the other end of the line.

“Yes, could you connect me with Tony Manero’s room, please?”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“Um, this is his employer,” Sean said. “Is he there or not?”

“I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”

“What kind of accident?” she asked. Across the street, through the naked trees, she could see the motel lot and the yellow police tape fluttering in the breeze.

“From what we can figure,” the man said. “Mr. Manero must have been smoking in bed. I don’t know why the smoke detector didn’t work. The only damage was to his room and a vacant room next door.”

“How badly is he hurt?”

“He was burned up pretty bad. He—he was dead before the firemen even got to him. Happened around seven this morning. Tony Manero doesn’t seem to be his real name. The police are trying to track down a next of kin. Perhaps you could help, ma’am—”

Sean hung up before he finished. She gazed at the motor inn across the street. The cold November wind kicked up, and she started to shiver.

The people in the room next door could probably hear her crying. So Sean switched on the TV and cranked up the volume to a Dukes of Hazard rerun. Then she went on sobbing.

The Opal Lakeside Lodge wasn’t so horrible—just cheesy enough to keep her wallowing in remorse, loneliness, and fear. Screwed to the paper-thin wall were two framed faded prints of rabbits in a grove. The carpeting was an ugly brown shag—with beige stains by the bathroom door. On the desk with all her paperwork was a plastic turquoise ashtray with burn marks.

She hated being alone in this place. Part of her wanted to jump in her rental, drive to Spokane, and fly home. But she’d be going back to Avery and Dayle with nothing.

Dayle had no idea she was even out here—and for that, Sean felt guilty. They were supposed to be friends, yet Sean still couldn’t confide in her about Avery. She couldn’t explain her urgent need to get away. Even now, with Nick dead, she didn’t want Dayle knowing she’d come here. Dayle would only send in the police—or insist that she fly back home immediately. And Sean felt duty-bound to stick it out here—at least through Monday, so she could see who was picking up mail for this group. Also she needed to track down that nurse, Lauren Schneider.

She missed Avery. She would have given anything to have him with her right now. Last night, she’d been in such a hurry to get away. She’d wanted time alone. Now Sean kept thinking about that tired, old saying, “Careful what you wish for….”

Even though they hadn’t carried it any further than some kissing and hugging, she and Avery were still guilty of betrayal. He’d just placed his wife in an institution days ago, and she was the voice, hands, and legs for her disease-paralyzed husband. Last night, the idea of working here in Opal with Dayle’s detective seemed like the perfect escape from guilt and temptation.

She couldn’t afford to let Dan know this junket was anything more than a boring weekend away—chasing down a lead. Last night, she’d made it back to Malibu just after dinnertime. She’d sat out on the deck with Dan, watching the kids play along the beach with her sister-in-law, Anne.

“What’s going on?” he’d asked silently, the constant whosh-whosh from his portable respirator competing with the sound of the ocean waves. “You’re acting funny. Did something happen while you were in the city?”

Her eyes watering up, Sean had shrugged and managed a smile. “Oh, you know me. I always get blue before a plane trip. That’s all, honey.”

She’d gazed out at her kids playing with their aunt on the beach. Sean had told herself that if anything ever happened to her, Danny and Phoebe would have a good surrogate mother.

She’d phoned Malibu an hour ago, and the nurse had conveyed Dan’s concerns: “He wants to know if you’re still feeling blue.”

“Tell him I miss him, but I’m doing okay,” Sean had replied. She’d talked with the kids, then hung up and burst into tears.

Lowering the volume on The Dukes of Hazard, she wandered into the bathroom, plucked a tissue from the dispenser, and blew her nose.

A car pulled up outside. She glanced at her door—all the locks securely in place. A moment later, another car pulled up. She heard the car doors opening and closing; a man and woman talking. The voices grew faint. Sean sighed. She wouldn’t let herself forget what had happened to Nick Brock.

She also had to keep in mind her mission here.

The Opal phone directory incorporated a score of surrounding towns and cities—along with their Yellow Pages, yet it was no thicker than the average issue of Time. The skimpy volume listed four Schneiders; two of them lived in Opal, none with the first name Lauren.

She tried Mr. and Mrs. James Schneider of Birch Lane, and an answering machine picked up. Their toddler read the cutesy announcement and kept screwing up and laughing while they corrected him in the background. Listening to it was sheer torture. Sean hung up before the beep. She dialed T. A. Schneider of Meadow Drive, and a woman answered. “Hello?”

On the desk in front of her, Sean had the list of employees from the lab and fertility clinic. “Yes, my name is Grace Casino,” she said. “I’m trying to locate a Lauren Schneider. I wonder if you could help me.”

“Well, I know a Laurie Anne Schneider,” the woman said. “That’s my daughter. But I don’t know any Lauren.”

“Was your daughter a nurse at the Adler Clinic in Beverly Hills?”

“That’s right. But her name is Laurie Anne, not Lauren.”

“Is Laurie Anne around thirty years old? And did she used to live on Linden Drive in Los Angeles?”

“Yes,” the woman replied. “Who did you say you were again?”

Sean quickly scanned the listing. “Um, I’m Grace Casino. I used to work in the clinic with Laurie Anne. I’m trying to reach her, and I don’t have a current address or phone number.”

“Why do you need to get in touch with my daughter?” The woman’s tone suddenly became edgy. “She doesn’t work at that clinic anymore.”

“Um, well, the clinic owes Laurie Anne some money.” Sean figured this kind of news would make Mrs. Schneider more cooperative. “There was a—a mix-up in accounting, and Laurie Anne has over eleven hundred