Page 31 of Murder in the Lighthouse

“Tell her I’m on my way. And make sure she answers the bloody phone when I call her!”

They spent thenext five hours in the car on the phone with Graeme, reassuring him how the crazy stalker had turned out to be a lonely recent widow who had traveled halfway around the world to see him personally and may have suffered a mental breakdown.

Graeme wasn’t that easily satisfied. “I don’t care about the circumstances as long as you get her to back off and stop with the emails and flowers.”

“What if she wants to meet you?” Brogan asked.

“Have you lost your mind? I’m not going to meet up with a crazy fan. Is this the kind of thing you’d tell your clients to do? I’m surprised they have any faith in your abilities,” Graeme charged.

“Okay, okay, it was just a suggestion,” Brogan said, changing strategy. “You don’t have to meet her. Lucien and I will handle the situation.”

“Good. See how that works. Keeping me safe should be your top priority.”

When Graeme clicked off the call, she angled toward Lucien. “Nothing better than spending our day pumping up egos. Isn’t the Laguna Marq one of those exclusive resorts where they don’t tell you how much the room is until check-in?”

“Yeah. It’s that city-block Spanish Colonial sitting on a cliff overlooking the ocean. It doubles as one of the most luxurious hideaways on the West Coast, catering to celebrities. It changed owners a couple of decades back. They added eight acres, filled them with botanical gardens, and built plush bungalows hidden behind walls of wisteria and Bougainvillea. For privacy.”

Realization dawned on Brogan. She snapped her fingers at the memory. “Wait a sec. You’re talking about that mansion where Graeme had one of his weddings near the lily pond.”

“That’s the one. Wedding Number Three. He married a model with a weird, eclectic taste in fashion. I remember she wore a pink dress instead of white and insisted on a pink wedding cake. She insisted that turtle doves be flown all the way from England. All the guests had to pretend they saw turtle doves overhead because the UK refused to send them.”

Brogan snickered with laughter. “I’d forgotten that part. What they saw was plain ol’ wood pigeons that ended up crapping all over the sidewalk. Her name was Ingrid, something or other. She was kooky.”

“That’s an understatement,” Lucien remarked as he exited the freeway. “The few times I saw her, she always had her face covered in bird poop. No lie. She had this weird fascination with birds.”

“You’re making that up.”

“No, I’m not. She used to believe that the kabuki facials made from nightingale poop kept her face looking young. Again, I’m not making that up. Plus, she used to make these origami Japanese cranes and set them around the house. They were everywhere.”

“Hmm. I don’t remember the bird obsession. But I do know Dad was Graeme’s best man. I remember watching the couple walk down the aisle to Nigel playing the wedding march on a classical guitar borrowed from the conservatory at the back of the grounds. I remember thinking in my teenage head that it was all very romantic.”

“Birds crapping on people was romantic?”

“Like I said, I forgot that part.”

As the sun descended over the Pacific Ocean, Lucien pulled the Range Rover into a swanky valet parking area and stopped beside a bubbling stone fountain.

Brogan looked up at the three-story villa, its stucco walls, the massive portico adorned with hand-painted ornate tiles, stunning stained-glass windows on every level, and a sprawling terracotta roof shaped like an exotic wing. “I haven’t been here since Graeme’s wedding. But I remember it now vividly. Let’s hope Florence didn’t get kicked out after her daughter disputed the charges. Otherwise, this is a wild goose chase. These people are very persnickety about not paying for your hotel room.”

“We’re about to find out if we’re spending the night or making a quick turnaround back home.”

She looped her arm through his. “Oh, come on. We could splurge on an impromptu overnight stay, couldn’t we?”

He cracked a grin. “Sure. But what makes you think Graeme would give us a moment’s peace if we haven’t cornered his stalker by midnight tonight?”

9

Arm in arm, Lucien and Brogan made their way to the front desk, hoping for some information about Florence Brown. The concierge, a young strawberry blonde with a warm smile, listened attentively to their story before excusing herself to get the manager.

After what felt like an eternity, another woman in her early forties returned with a concerned expression. “I’m sorry, but Laguna Marq doesn’t give out information about our guests. We have a strict policy about privacy here. Our clientele trusts us to guard it no matter the circumstances.”

“Fine. Let me tell you something about your guest, Florence Brown.” Lucien held up a photo for the manager to see. “She’s fifty-four, from New Zealand, specifically a town called Queenstown. Her daughter’s name is Indigo Brown, and she recently disputed charges on her mother’s credit card—that wasSunday—because she thought it was a mistake. She had no idea her mother had left New Zealand and flown to California. To continue her stay here, Ms. Brown would have needed to provide the hotel with another form of payment. She must have given you another bank card if she’s still on site.”

“The thing is,” Brogan interjected, “Florence is a recent widow who just lost her husband three months ago and may possibly be suffering from a mental breakdown. Her daughter wants us to locate her until she gets here. It’s a long flight until she comes to collect her mother. That’s twenty more hours plus travel time from the airport that the hotel staff has to deal with Florence’s erratic behavior.”

Lucien shifted his feet. “Without the resort’s cooperation, we’ll need to report Ms. Brown to the police as an endangered adult per her daughter’s concerns. The Santa Barbara PD will show up in uniform, walk into the lobby, knock on your door, and you’ll need to provide the information anyway to the patrol officer about what’s going on with your guest. I can give you the daughter’s contact information right now, and you can call her to verify everything I’ve told you.”

The manager, studying the photo, handed it back to Lucien. “Give me the daughter’s number.”

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