Chapter 20
TWENTY
As I neared my room, I took out the large key Savilla had given me. I fingered the cold brass, imagining that I looked like the Rose Palace warden as I stumbled down the hall with it in hand.
I struggled to slip the enormous key into the lock, jostling and wriggling it at various angles as I turned the handle on the door with a plaque reading “The Original”.
I didn’t know exactly what an original room in this estate might mean.
Feather mattresses? Wash basins? Chamber pots?
Whatever. As long as there was somewhere semi-soft for me to lay my head, I’d happily take it.
I was still angling the key when I felt a movement behind me. In one move, I jumped, pulled out the key, swung around, and held it in front of me, my arm outstretched as if wielding the tiniest weapon known to man.
Charlie’s eyes were wide but his lips turned up as he threw both hands in the air. “I’m unarmed.” My eyes dropped to the gun holster at his side, so he clarified, “I won’t use any weapons on you.”
My head was starting to ache just behind my eyes, an effect of the combination of travel plus murder investigation. It was too much for one day. I put a hand to my head to ward off the lights that seemed to be coming at me rather than glowing warmly.
“I was planning to bunk with you,” Charlie said, before adding, “if that’s all right?”
I peered at him with one eye closed. “I thought you were all business this weekend.” I needed to find my footing here.
Was Charlie planning to stay in this room with me as a…
boyfriend? A partner? A bodyguard? Did he simply want to rehash the specifics of the case?
Maybe these weren’t the questions I should be asking at the end of this interminable night, but I wanted to know where I stood with him right then. “What exactly are you doing here?”
“Sleeping. Very soon, I hope.” Charlie’s voice was husky with fatigue. For the first time I noticed that he too looked as if he might collapse if he didn’t find a bed soon, and I had sympathy.
He motioned to the key. “May I?”
I held out the so-far useless object to him but I hated needing rescue, even for something as simple as an old lock.
Charlie slid in the key and smoothly turned the handle before holding out an arm to invite me to go first. Of course it had worked for him.
The room was dark, and I felt along the wall to find… nothing. No switches or flips or chains to yank. I stepped further inside, pressing the light on my phone just as I ran into a piece of furniture – I grabbed at my shin.
“You okay?” Charlie asked, hearing me curse under my breath.
He took out a flashlight and shone it waist high, and I spotted a lamp a few inches from me.
I found a switch under the shade, and as I turned it on, I could see the bronze base and green and blue stained-glass design reminiscent of peacock feathers.
According to Antiques Roadshow episodes I’d watched on repeat after Momma’s death, this was a Tiffany Studios lamp, and the light from it revealed an entire room that looked exactly how a room from the early twentieth century would appear.
The bedspread had a gold and ivory print with a matching canopy and curtains. The ornate mahogany bed frame appeared to have been carved into the wall, ceiling, and floorboards. A curtain could be drawn around the person tucked inside.
“It’s like a room fit for the king and queen of Versailles,” Charlie mused.
“Hopefully without the beheading,” I added.
He turned off his flashlight and scratched at his jaw. “That would be preferable.”
The rest of the furniture was simple—a writing desk, a wardrobe, two wooden chairs that were so large as to appear throne-like. Every item kept with the royal antiquity theme.
“Do you think the Finches understood that there was actually no such thing as American royalty?”
“Definitely not,” he answered, standing only inches inside the doorway, his face asking if he could step inside. He was a gentleman, if nothing else.
I took in the worry lines etched into his forehead and the wrinkled uniform. “It’s fine. You can bunk with me.”
Relief settled across Charlie’s brow as he closed the door behind him and plopped down on the edge of the bed to pull off his boots.
I took a couple of deep breaths and forced myself to release any expectations, conversationally or otherwise. We were both done with this day. Still, I thought I saw his eyes flash with emotion when he glanced back at me, though I couldn’t tell if it was suspicion or desire.
“Dakota,” he said, his gruff voice making the three syllables resonate.
Despite how conflicted I felt about our earlier interactions, a rush of warmth crept into my chest when he said my name, but I refused to feel lovey-dovey after this terrible night.
“Did you and your deputy finish interviewing everyone?” I asked, trying to sound professional and removed as I sat down on the bed too.
He nodded but didn’t answer, staring at a fixed point on the rug that stretched wall to wall. I had the sudden urge to shake him out of his intense focus. Surely he could do his job while also sounding human?
“And?” I asked, prompting him to continue.
“We made pretty fast work of narrowing down who we’ll be questioning more extensively tomorrow.”
I hated his use of the “we” pronoun to reference himself and his deputy, but even as the thought struck me, I knew it was ridiculous. This man couldn’t change the entire English language to navigate my ridiculous jealousy. God, I needed to sleep.
“Do you feel like you have a good lead on who might’ve been involved?” I tried again.
“I’ve got a few names.” He wasn’t giving anything away. “What about you? Who’s on your list?”
He knew I had one, even if I didn’t like to talk about it. I wanted to tell him that he had to go first, but he was the sheriff—and by default, the lead investigator—so he didn’t actually have to give me anything.
“Joe’s still at the top of my list,” I admitted. “And I’m keeping a close eye on Presley and Lee Frank.”
“That’s it?” he asked. “Three suspects?”
He could read me, and he knew that there were others that I didn’t want to name.
“I think I have an idea of which guests had opportunity, and I have a few theories on possible motives.”
“Right.” He sucked his teeth and let out a heavy breath. “Regardless, until we know the actual cause of death, the method can’t exactly be proven. And until we have the method confirmed, we can’t get much further in terms of identifying the perpetrator.”
We weren’t getting anywhere fast, personally or professionally, with this line of conversation. I moved my hands behind my back, placing my palms against the soft comforter. “I found something downstairs in the kitchen.”
“Really? My guys didn’t see anything there.”
“It was actually in one of the lockers for the staff,” I told him. “In a backpack belonging to Joe Larson.”
“I can’t exactly condone searching property without a warrant.” Charlie lifted an eyebrow. I’d seen that look a lot four months ago during the last investigation here.
“That’s fine, I will condone it,” I told him, rubbing my fingers on my left temple.
It was wonderful to be dating a man so honest and aboveboard, except when it came to following stupid rules that actually prevented progress.
“Inside, I found an old yearbook with some notes from when we graduated, a stack of Joe’s headshots, and a CD.
” I reached into the waist of my jeans and took out the CD, still wrapped in the case with the handwritten message.
“I haven’t seen one of these in years,” Charlie said, taking it from me. “Probably not since I downloaded songs from Napster and burned them in 2009.”
“Illegally?” I teased him.
“I was in college,” he said, reminding me that he was a few years older than me.
“Right.” I smirked at him. “Even though this CD is illegal contraband, I watched it in my aunt’s old office, but don’t worry: I won’t show any information to you unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
“Anything helpful?” Charlie asked, ignoring my holier-than-thou tone.
“Honestly, I have no idea.” I put both elbows on my knees and dropped my head in my hands. “It’s like I drank from a firehose of information tonight, and I can’t quite organize the details into a clear through-line.”
“That’s a good way to put it.” Charlie leaned back onto the bed. “This isn’t the weekend I expected,” he finally said, in a near whisper.
I looked into those eyes that I loved… er, um, liked. Heat rose to my cheeks, and I hoped that in the low lighting, he wouldn’t be able to tell.
“What did you expect?” I asked, genuinely curious, as I dared to lie back on the bed next to him. From my lower angle, I turned my head toward him, noticing the stubble lining his jaw.
We didn’t have luggage or a change of clothes, and despite the fact that Charlie and I had spent as many nights together as we could, this strange place and our lack of normalcy made us awkward.
Still, there was something between us, some fine thread that tugged at the core of me, nudging me toward him. If he would only let down his guard.
Charlie sat up for a moment, took off his shirt and his belt, and placed his holster on top of the end table. When he lay back down, he was on his side and turned toward me. He put out a hand and as he tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, my body shivered at his touch.
“I was hoping for something more like you and me, and a pint of Phish Food,” he said, his voice low. “A show at my place.”
“What show?” I asked, drawn to his alternative universe. I wanted to hear what could’ve been.
“Maybe the BBC Pride and Prejudice? It would have to be one of those British romances where I can only understand every other word.”
“That’s what subtitles are for,” I reminded him.
“Right.” His hand trailed across my cheek and down my neck to the bare skin on my arm. “But it wouldn’t really matter since we wouldn’t make it past the opening scene.”
“The inciting incident,” I said softly.
“As one of them insults the other very politely, we’d be… otherwise engaged.” Charlie said the last two words with an accent that came out more Cockney than posh.
I laughed despite this weekend and the bizarre way it was unfolding. Charlie’s warmth, that’s what I’d been missing. This closeness, this way of understanding one another, this laughter. All of the missteps and my encroaching jealousy fell away as soon as we were alone together.
Charlie studied my lips as he continued his aristocratic charade. “Since your lady’s maid hasn’t made an appearance this evening, I’d be delighted to help you off with your outer garments.”
I chuckled despite it all and moved closer to him, almost collapsing into him as I inhaled his cedar scent.
If only it could be like this, if only he could avoid becoming so absorbed in his work that he almost switched personalities; if only I could squash my instinct to always question his motives, then this could work. But that was a big ask on both of our parts.
Regardless, I had him—what I’d come to think of as “the real Charlie”—until dawn. I didn’t want to waste the few hours, so I kissed him long and hard, waiting for his hands to slip the fabric from my skin.