Once sitting inside the taxi, Casey grew more apprehensive about meeting people from Dad’s other life. Her anxiety grew as they approached an H-shaped hotel in a shallow valley. The building was protected on two sides by enormous oak and beech trees. The walls were streaked with soot. Blinds covered most of the windows as if to indicate that neither light or visitors were welcome.
“This is a rather isolated site for a hotel, isn’t it?”
“It’s full up in summer with ramblers,” the driver answered. “There are also the permanent lodgers.”
He parked in front of double wooden doors at the center of the building, then retrieved Casey’s luggage. A bald, pale man looked at her through a window pane near the door. A moment later he was gone.
The hotel lobby displayed a scruffy collection of wing chairs, gouged tabletops, and faded paintings of fox hunts. Casey told the young desk clerk she was here to meet Daphne Reid and asked for directions to the gift shop he managed.
“Go out the main doors and down the side of the building,” she said.
“Thanks.”
Ten minutes later, Casey had dumped her things in her drab and chilly, second-floor room and was heading outside. She strolled around the side of the building and walked past a giant checkerboard embedded in the spacious lawn. Wet leaves were scattered over the squares, a soggy paper bag marooned in a puddle. It must have rained heavily last night.
The gift shop was locked, a Closed sign propped between a collection of dolls and music boxes in the form of tiny, thatched-roof cottages. Peeking through the window, she saw a room that looked more like an art gallery than a gift shop. Unframed canvases filled the walls. More were stacked against shelves.
Casey turned and spotted a man kneeling in front of a flower bed. The gardener pulled out a weed, wiped his hands, and then repeated the process. Stepping closer, she recognized the same bald head she’d seen in the window.
“Excuse me,” Casey said. “Sorry to bother you, but could you tell me where Daphne Reid is? The gift shop’s closed.”
He looked around and then pointed at a man and woman approaching a tall thick hedge on the far side of the lawn. “That’s him, heading into the maze.”
Casey jogged across the yard and caught up to Reid as he was kissing the woman. “Sorry to interrupt,” she said as the couple turned to her, “but I’m Casey Holland and we spoke on the phone about my dad, Marcus.”
“Right.” He gave the woman a tap on her rear. “Off you go.”
The woman, who looked about seventeen, glared at Casey as she marched back toward the hotel.
“So, where’s my drawing, luv?”
“In my hotel room.”
He smirked. “Let’s have a look then, shall we?”
“Can’t we talk first?”
“Not until I make sure you brought the right drawing. Let’s go to your room.”
Casey sighed. The jerk was already trying her patience. “You’ll get your picture, Mr. Reid, provided I get the information I need.”
His smirk turned to a sneer as he removed a pen knife from pants pocket. “You think you can order me about?”
Casey backed up. “Hey, I’m not looking for trouble.”
As Reid looked past her shoulder his sneer vanished. A moment later he was running into the maze, chased by a man with a black ponytail who ran past Casey. Holy crap, what in hell was Theo Ziegler doing here? She’d come too far to let Reid disappear, and since she wanted answers from Ziegler too, Casey started after both them. She hadn’t gone far before she saw Reid slip on the mud and fall. The knife disappeared in the hedge.
It took only three seconds before Ziegler had him pinned to the ground. Reid grunted and tried to scramble away, but the mud was too slippery. Twisting his upper body, Reid took a swipe at his opponent and missed. Ziegler forced Reid face down in the mud, but let him turn his head as Ziegler sat on Reid’s back, holding his wrists together.
“What do you want to do with him?” Ziegler asked.
His long, black eyes under neatly shaped brows reminded Casey of characters from ancient Egyptian art.
“Get some answers.” Casey came closer. “Why did you take off when you saw this man, Mr. Reid?”
Reid gasped for air. “He’s a mate of yours, isn’t he? That’s why he came after me.”
“Then you’ve never seen him before?” She glanced at Ziegler who returned an amused expression.
“No.”
Strange. Dad and Ziegler had either kept their client lists quite separate or Reid was lying.
Reid squirmed under Ziegler’s weight. “Tell your mate to bugger off.”
Ziegler yanked his arms upward. “You’re not the one in charge, so why don’t you tell the lady if you killed her father.” He looked at Casey. “It’s what she came to find out, isn’t—?”
“What? No! I didn’t kill Marcus. W-who said I did?” Reid stammered. When he tried to throw Ziegler off, Ziegler pushed his face into the mud once again and yanked Reid’s head back by his hair.
“Can you prove you weren’t in Vancouver on Sunday, April twenty-fifth?” Casey asked.
“I was in London that night, at a gallery opening in Chelsea.” He gave her the name.
“You said you have an idea about who killed my father,” she said. “Let’s hear it.”
“Marcus’s partner, Theodore Ziegler.”
Casey watched Ziegler’s amusement fade. “Why do you think that?”
“There have been rumors about big money problems between them for years. Latest one is that Marcus stashed three million American dollars that was supposed to go to TZ Inc. It wouldn’t surprise me if Ziegler ended things for good.”
“Are there any facts to back up these stories?”
“If you don’t believe me, talk to his fiancée. She’ll know.”
“Fiancée?” What did Rhonda have to do with this?
“Lives in Amsterdam; name’s Gislinde.”
Oh, no. “You’ve met her?”
“No, but Marcus and I had a few drinks last time he was here, and he told me what a fancy bit she is. There were problems between them, mind you; something about his past with other women. Maybe she killed him.”
Casey looked at Ziegler. “Let him up.”
Ziegler took his time doing so.
“I still want my drawing,” he said, as he tried to wipe the mud from his face.
“I’ll get it after you open the gift shop. I want to buy a souvenir.”
“Bloody tourist.” He stomped off, cursing and muttering to himself.
Not wanting to be left alone with a possible killer, Casey followed close behind. She walked fast, her muscles tense and her body ready to bolt. Ziegler stayed close behind, but said nothing. As they crossed the lawn, Casey noticed that the gardener was still working and other people were wandering around in the afternoon sunshine. At least there was safety in numbers.
At the gift shop, Daphne unlocked the door and went inside, but Casey stayed near the cluster of people window shopping. She studied Ziegler, who, apparently oblivious to the mud on his clothes, looked at her chest, then up at her face. The black jumpsuit with gold zippers across his chest, thighs, and arms was a bit flashy and kind of weird for a businessman.
“You took a big risk confronting Reid,” he said.
“I didn’t see the knife until he flashed it at me, and I’ve had run-ins with bigger guys. Bigger knives, too.” Casey crossed her arms. “Why have you been following me?”
“I needed to know if you were being watched by some nasty clients of Marcus’s, which you were. I’m here now, as I was in Vancouver, to protect you.”
Not the answer she’d expected. “If the clients are that bad, why didn’t you tell the police? They’ve been trying to talk to you about Dad’s murder from day one.”