I left out the part about me writing Westerns and that the things I got wrong were usually historical details. Like the time I had the Pony Express operating in 1862 when it went bust in ’61. You should have seen the outrage I got over that one. It wasn’t even my fault. It was a typo, for goodness sake.
“You’re a writer? That’s so exciting! I always thought it would be fun to write novels. Maybe crime fiction or something like that.” She grinned widely, revealing perfectly straight teeth which had obviously had some seriously expensive orthodontia.
“Oh, yes, so fun.” It was. But it was also hard work. I didn’t bother going into that. I needed information. “Is this your first homicide?”
She nodded. “I didn’t even throw up.”
My eyes widened of their own accord. I didn’t have to feign surprise. “You saw the body?”
“First on the scene,” she said proudly. She lowered her voice, “My cousin works here, so he called me. He knows I patrol the area.”
“Gosh, that must have been shocking. Was it your first dead body? I would think I would pass right out cold.” I gave a delicate shudder.
“I’m a police officer, ma’am,” she said, puffing out her chest. “We don’t pass out.” She gave me a conspiratorial look. “Although my partner, Raston...he lost his lunch. And he’s been on the job ten years!”
“Well,” I said with approval, “we all know that women are the stronger sex.”
She nodded in agreement. “You aren’t lying.”
“What was it like?” I asked. “I’m writing a crime scene next, you see.” Liar, liar. “I’ve got to get all the details right. Was there blood?” By then we were at the curb waiting for the Uber. According to my app, I had three minutes to get all the information I could out of Crowley.
“There was blood,” she confirmed. “A lot of it. Head wound. The medical examiner says she was hit on the head with something before she took a tumble down the stairs. Poor thing.”
My ears perked up. Now that sounded familiar. At least the stairs part. We were passing a large grouping of police, behind them the yellow crime scene tape roping off the grand staircase. I managed a peek between all the muscled legs and torsos, but the body was already gone. I could still see the pool of blood where the victim fell, bright red against the white marble.
“She? The victim was a woman? Was she a guest?”
Crowley shrugged as she ushered me outside. “Not a guest here anyway. No one is sure who she was. Guess that’s one for Costa to figure out.” A silver car slid to the curb. “Here’s your ride, ma’am. It was nice talking to you. Get home safe.” The minute I was in, she shut the door firmly behind me. And that, as they say, was that.
Chapter 13
Into the Great Beyond
WE ENTERED THE FAIRWINDS Resort lobby to find complete and utter chaos. Huddled groups of employees gathered around crying. Guests milled about, looking confused and anxious. The night manager was trying to calm everyone with limited success, and in the middle of it all, Kyle— the bartender and Natasha’s lover—was arguing loudly with a female bartender.
“Oh, please,” the woman shouted over a sobbing waitress, eyes snapping angrily. “You never loved her, Kyle. You ditched her as soon as that nasty woman showed up.”
“You don’t know anything, Becky.” Kyle slammed a glass down on the bar so hard it cracked. “I loved her more than you could ever understand.” And with that, he stormed out of the bar and across the lobby to disappear down one of the corridors. It was all very dramatic. A little too dramatic. I could only surmise that the “nasty woman” Becky referred to was Natasha. So, Kyle had a girlfriend before Natasha. Someone he’d dumped to be with the diva. Could it be the sobbing waitress?
I edged closer to the bar, dragging Cheryl with me. I eyed Becky, the female bartender. “Men, eh?”
She snorted. “You have no idea. He’s a womanizing jerk, that one.”
I nodded to the still sobbing waitress. “That his ex-girlfriend?”
“No, that’s Tiffany, Andrea’s best friend. Andrea was Kyle’s ex-girlfriend.”
I frowned. “Was?”
Becky leaned over the bar, voice low. “We just got word. Andrea was killed tonight. Isn’t that sad?” She glanced over at Tiffany. “Sorry, better go calm her down before my boss freaks out.”
As she walked away, I grabbed Cheryl’s arm. “I think the dead woman at Don CeSar was Kyle’s girlfriend.”
She frowned. “Did you hit your head? Natasha’s been dead for days.”
“No, no,” I said impatiently. “His girlfriend before Natasha. From the sounds of the argument he just had, I’m guessing he dumped whomever it was for Natasha. Now not only is Natasha dead, but so is the old girlfriend, Andrea.” Which begged the question: why would someone murder both of Kyle’s girlfriends? It was an odd coincidence, if you asked me. Vendetta maybe?
Cheryl frowned. “Are you sure?”
‘Not one hundred percent, but pretty sure. Let’s talk to Becky some more.”
“Becky?”
“Bartender.” I nodded to the woman who’d been arguing with Kyle. She was patting the tearful waitress, Tiffany, on the back and shoving tissues at her.
Cheryl perked up. “I could use a drink.”
We sauntered over and took seats on two of the empty barstools just as Tiffany managed to get herself more or less under control. She hurried off with a sad wave to Becky. We ordered our drinks, the usual blackberry bourbon for me and wine for Cheryl. I glanced around casually.
“Can you tell us what happened?” I asked Becky. She looked to be about thirty and was on the slender side with a colorful full-sleeve tattoo of a dragon on her left arm. “It’s just so...awful. I can’t imagine how you all are coping.”
“Some of us
