Page 48 of Colton's Last Resort

“Allison liked orchids,” he said again, his expression flat as he stared out the windshield. “Not that I know why. They’re fussy. She was the opposite of fussy. I got her these blue and purple ones once. She cried when she had to throw them out.”

Laura was happy she’d taken the flowers from Allison’s. She couldn’t think about them falling to the countertop one petal at a time. Methodically, she shifted the Mercedes into Reverse. “Let me know when you decide the funeral should be.”

“Why?” he asked.

She set her jaw, watching the backup camera and turning the wheel as the Mercedes reversed onto the street. She could be stubborn, too. “If you won’t accept my family’s help with the service, you can expect several dozen orchids to grace the proceedings.”

Noah thought about it. Then he bit off a laugh. “Before this is all over,” he contemplated as she pointed the vehicle toward Mariposa, “you’re going to drive me crazy.”

She mashed the accelerator to the floor and watched the needle on the speedometer climb. “The feeling’s mutual.”

Chapter 9

Bungalow Fifteen had every amenity Noah didn’t need. The decor was tasteful and minimal. He could have eaten off the bamboo floors. Fresh flowers populated surfaces and there were no paintings here either. Just lots and lots of windows framing more showstopping views of Arizona. The bathroom off the bedroom had given him a moment of pause with its plush, all-white linens, marble tub and glass walk-in shower. On the back deck, there was a hot tub.

What Bungalow Fifteen lacked was a murder board.

So the coffee table in the living room had become Noah’s work area. There, he’d arranged maps of the resort, lists of names, including staff and guests from the time of Allison’s murder, pictures of the discovery scene at the pool cabana, Allison’s notebook, and the schedule Laura had pulled from her fridge.

On the couch, folders were open to the Coltons’ history. The section on the patriarch, Clive Colton, was doubly thick.

One manila folder lay closed. Inside lurked pictures of Allison’s body at the pool cabana and others from the morgue, close-ups of the entry wound from a needle and abrasion marks on the backs of her legs.

She hadn’t died in the pool cabana. The killer had drugged her at an unknown location and then transported her to a public place that would appear less incriminating.

Was Allison aware when the needle had gone in? Was she afraid? Or had she simply floated away like the dandelion tufts she often picked from the cracks in the sidewalk and blew into the wind?

Noah locked down that train of thought as the ache inside him let out a train-whistle scream. He avoided looking at the photos unless absolutely necessary.

He picked up the list of names, culling members of staff, crossing off those he’d been able to pin down alibis for with a few well-placed phone calls. Most people had been at home in Sedona. The exceptions were, of course, those who lived on property—Tallulah Deschine and the Coltons.

The tip of Noah’s pen hovered over Laura’s name. He wanted to strike her from the list of possibles. He knew on a primal level she had been precisely where she had told Fulton she was during the interview process—alone at home in bed.

But the cop in him wouldn’t allow it. Not because he doubted her innocence. Because striking anyone from a list of suspects was impossible without corroboration. The only witness to Laura’s activities during the time frame of Allison’s murder was the tabby cat, Sebastian.

Noah would have sat the feline down and questioned him if he could have.

Tallulah, Adam and Joshua were still on the list, too. All claimed to have been in bed, sleeping, according to Fulton’s notes. Knox Burnett, the horseback adventure guide who had tried to revive Allison the morning her body was discovered in the pool cabana, hadn’t been able to confirm his whereabouts in the wee hours of the morning. He had also taken several days off from his work at Mariposa, claiming emotional distress.

Noah had cleared the concierge, Alexis Reed, whose neighbors had seen her arrive home around dinnertime that evening and whose car hadn’t left her driveway until sunrise. But he hadn’t crossed off Erica Pike, the executive assistant whose whereabouts hadn’t been as easy to establish.

Between security, housekeeping, maintenance, transportation, the spa, gym, restaurant, bar, stable and front desk, there were one hundred staff members at Mariposa. There could also be one hundred guests if the bungalows were booked solid.

They hadn’t been, he noted, the day the murder took place. February was supposedly the calm before the storm of the long hospitality season that stretched from March to October. Still, the chill and intermittent snow flurries hadn’t deterred everyone. Seventy-two guests had been booked at Mariposa for the week the crime had taken place. With some legwork, Noah had obtained some alibis there as well.

This left less than two dozen possibles on his short list.

Noah rubbed his chin, reading the four names he had circled. There were more questions around these names than others—like actor CJ Knight. Knight had checked out ahead of schedule the morning Allison was discovered in the pool cabana. Noah’s calls to his manager, Doug DeGraw, had been pointedly ignored.

He eyed his notes where he’d cross-checked possible suspects with those who had attended Allison’s meditation or yoga classes. There were fewer names on the list he’d cross-referenced with the late-night stargazing excursions she had tagged along on.

The bracelet she had given him lay among the maps, photos and notes. The evil eye stared at him baldly. He’d searched the pool cabana. It had been swept already by crime scene technicians, and the police tape had come down, clearing it for use. Noah had found nothing in or around the area they had missed.

He lamented the absence of security cameras. The pool area was along a major thoroughfare. CCTV could have easily picked something up if the Coltons weren’t so concerned with the discretion of their overclassed clientele.

A knock made him drop the sheet of paper in his hand. He felt the weight of his off-duty gun on his belt. Rising, he grabbed the leather jacket from the back of a chair and swung it on as he approached the door.

Peering through the peephole, he scanned the two people on his doormat. His teeth gritted. Trying to relax his shoulders, he did his best to cast off the pall of tension that shadowed him everywhere. He snatched open the door and fixed what he hoped was a devil-may-care grin on his face—something befitting a rock-and-roll guitarist.

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