“What’s happened,” Aaron answered, clenching and unclenching his fists, “is that she’s missing and needs to be found.”
“What are you driving these days, Mr. Ackerman?”
“A Mercedes wagon. Why is that of the slightest significance?”
“Silver, with Washington plates?”
“It is. I repeat, why?”
“Because it’s still parked out there in the lot-meaning she hasn’t left the premises. Les, do you keep the unoccupied guest rooms locked?”
“Yes, we do,” he replied, nodding.
“Meaning she’s either in one of the common rooms or she’s outside. Mr. Ackerman, did you notice if her coat was missing from your room?”
“I-I don’t remember.”
“Then let’s go have a look, shall we?” Des started for the stairs.
A lushly built redhead appeared in the dining room doorway, clad in a staff outfit of black vest and slacks. “Les, I can have Jase look around outside, if you’d like,” she said.
“That might be a good idea,” he said to her.
“Trooper, shouldn’t you be calling someone else?” Aaron asked Des rather pointedly as he led her up the grand curving staircase.
“Such as who?”
“Such as someone who deals with this sort of thing on a regular basis.”
“Mr. Ackerman, let’s assume I know how to do my job and we’ll get along just fine, okay?” she said politely. “Only, I can’t help you unless you help me.”
“Absolutely. Tell me how.”
“By explaining to me why you are so freaked out.”
They’d reached the second-floor landing. Aaron hesitated there. “Well, okay,” he allowed, lowering his voice. “But this has to be in the strictest confidence. I can’t allow some media outlet to get a hold of it.”
“They won’t.”
“I have your word on that?”
“Spit it out, Mr. Ackerman.”
“Carly overdosed on Prozac a few weeks ago when we were at our farm in Virginia. I had to rush her to the emergency room. She almost died. Now do you see?”
“Yes, I see.”
“I thought you might,” he blustered, starting down the second-floor hall.
The corridor was softly lit and quaintly old-fashioned. The doors were of polished oak. The carpet had a floral pattern, the wallpaper a water-fowl motif. Vintage photographs of yesteryear’s celebrities lined the walls. At the end of the hallway there was an outside door, the top half of it glass.
“Where does that go?” she asked Aaron, motioning to it.
“Up to the tower.”
“Did you look for her there?”
“Well, no,” he had to admit.
Too busy huffing and puffing, Des thought as she made straight for it, digging her gloves out of her coat pocket. There were twenty-four rooms on the second floor, twelve on each side of the hall. Halfway down the hall there was a housekeeper’s closet. Also a fireproof steel door that led to the staff stairway. Next to that was an elevator for transporting wheelchair-bound guests and freight. When Des reached the end of the hall, she pushed open the outer door, or tried. She could feel the wind fighting her. She fought back and ventured out onto a snow-packed, floodlit observation deck. Wind gusts buffeted her and ice pellets smacked her in the face. The deck was surrounded by a three-foot-high stone parapet topped by an iron safety railing. A narrow iron staircase led up to the third floor, and from there on up to the castle’s trademark tower, which was lit up bright enough for the drivers way down on 1-95 to see. Des felt certain that on a balmy summer evening this would be a breezy, terrific place to be. Right now it was intensely uninviting.
The great Aaron Ackerman remained behind in the warm, dry hallway.
Des could make out several sets of footprints in the deep snow just outside the door. Someone had been out here since early that afternoon, when the snow had tapered off.
“CARLY?” she Called out. “ARE YOU OUT HERE, CARLY?”
She heard nothing in response, just the howling wind.
There were more shoe prints on the iron stairs up to the tower. It was hard to tell how many sets since these prints had turned to partial slush in the weak afternoon sun and then iced back over. The handrail was coated with a shimmering layer of ice. She clutched it tightly as she started climbing, her boots slipping and sliding under her.
“CARLY?”
There was no outside door leading into the dimly lit third-floor corridor. Just a window, which was locked. She continued on, making her way up the final exposed flight of stairs to the tower, her shoulders hunched against the wind gusts.
“CARLY?”
The cement floor of the enclosed tower was damp but free of ice and snow. There were narrow vertical slits in the tower walls for people to peek through. Hundreds of these people had carved their initials in the mortar between the stones. Quite a few had left cigarette butts behind.
But there was no sign of Carly.
Aaron was waiting down there in the doorway for her with an anxious expression on his face. She gave him a thumbs-down sign as she shook the ice pellets from her coat. Then she followed him to room five, the third door from the center staircase. That door was not locked. It was a lovely room with a fireplace, ornate wooden molding, a big oak bedstead. It was also a mess. Dirty clothing was strewn all over the floor, up to and including underwear and stockings. Newspapers, books and magazines were heaped on the nightstands and dresser and desk. The bathroom was no tidier.
Carly’s black leather II Bisonte handbag lay on the bed. So did her full-length mink.
“Did Carly bring another coat with her besides this one?”
“No, she did not,” Aaron replied.
Meaning that she wasn’t out taking a stroll. Not that any sane person would in this weather. “Which of you is the smoker?” she asked, noticing the butts in the fireplace.
“Carly is,” he sniffed. “Dreadful habit. It reeks of human weakness.”
“Okay, it’s time for the real deal, Mr. Ackerman,” Des told him, standing there in the middle of the room with her arms crossed. “Did you two have a fight tonight?”
“Perhaps a small misunderstanding,” he admitted, clearing his throat. “She seems to have gotten it into her head that I’m being unfaithful to her.”
“And are you?”
“What business is that of yours?”
“Mr. Ackerman, you’ve made it my business. I came here this evening to enjoy a pleasant meal. Instead, you’ve got me traipsing all over the place. Now you can tell me what’s going on or you can go look for Carly yourself. The choice is yours.”
“Point taken,” he acknowledged, running a hand over his neatly trimmed black hair. “I love my wife. I would never do anything to hurt her. And that’s the absolute truth.”
The classic non-denial denial. Des had heard it from every cheating husband she’d ever met, including her own. “I see,” she responded. “Let’s head back down with the others, shall we?”
They were gathered in the taproom. All of them looked up at Des with tense anticipation when she and Aaron strode in.
“Any luck?” asked Les.
“Not one bit,” Aaron replied, his voice cracking with strain.
“Let’s try to relax, okay?” Des suggested, shrugging out of her coat. “There’s no cause for alarm at this point.”
“Jase is still looking around outside for her,” the curvy redhead told Des as she took her coat from her.
“And Jase is…?”
“My brother. Oh, I’m so sorry, we haven’t met. I’m Jory,” she said, smiling at Des just a bit too brightly. Jory had an artificially ingratiating manner, the kind that men never saw through and women always did.
“Glad to know you, Jory.”
There were two others in there whom Des didn’t know yet. He was a squeaky-clean young corporate type. She was a lanky, jittery thing all tricked out in a beret and retro tweeds.
Mitch introduced them to her as Spence Sibley and Hannah Lane. “Spence is with the studio,” he explained. “And Hannah’s with Ada.”
“She is?” Ada frowned at this, confused. “Since when?”