***

  Room Seven is at the end of the hall, near the stairs, tucked in a quiet nook with a potted fern outside the door that’s somehow both thriving and sickly. I knock. No answer.

  I knock again, louder. Still nothing.

  I glance down. There’s no light coming from under the door. No sounds inside either. No movement.

  “Miss Holt?” I call out.

  No response. Behind me, Cindy is making nervous sounds, breath shallow. She even cracks a knuckle or two.

  The door has a simple brass handle and, like my door, an old-fashioned keyhole for a real key. No key cards here, and also no sign of tampering, as in no obvious scuff marks outside of the years of use. I press my ear against the wood and listen.

  Nothing, no sound.

  I knock one last time, then look over my shoulder and call down the hall, to the sound of shuffling: it’s Harold moving as fast as he can for an older guy with swollen ankles.

  “You got a key, Harold?”

  He reaches us a few seconds later, keyring jangling. “No answer?”

  “Nope.”

  He reaches for the door handle and inserts what I assume to be a master key. The lock clicks. The door creaks inward.

  There she is, lying on the carpet. Flat on her back. Arms at her sides. Eyes open and glassy. Mouth slightly agape. Claire Holt, the nervous gal from last night, is now unmistakably dead.

  The curtains are drawn. The bed is neatly made, save for a couple of ruffles where she must have sat down. A single lamp glows on the nightstand, casting a weak circle of light.

  I step into the room, fully aware a murderer might still be in here. Or a ghost.

  Something’s in her mouth. Something bizarre. It’s one of those glazed sand dollars from the welcome basket. Her own basket sits on the nightstand, now sporting just one. Ours had come with two.

  Pretty sure this one had been plucked from her basket.

  Some welcome.

  “Jesus, Lord have mercy,” Harold whispers next to me.

  I crouch down and check for a pulse I know won’t be there. I’m not wrong, though I am thorough.

  Cindy appears behind me, in her slippers, eyes wide.

  “I told you,” I say to her softly. “The floorboards were talking last night.”

  Chapter Three

  It’s amazing how fast a good vacation can curdle.

  One minute you’re debating whether to go kayaking or nap in a hammock. The next, you’re kneeling beside a dead woman with a weird seashell shoved in her mouth.

  I’ve seen plenty of bodies (stabbed, shot, drowned, frozen, burned, even one guy who tripped into a woodchipper... allegedly) but this? This is just weird.

  Claire Holt lies there like someone had positioned her for display. Her hands are limp, not clenched. No signs of a struggle. No bruising that I can see. There’s foam around her lips, which could point to poisoning. Or seizures. Or heart failure. Or asphyxiation.

  Either way, I don’t like it.

  “Is she… dead?” Harold asks, hovering behind me.

  “As a doornail.”

  “Jim!” Cindy hisses, clearly not approving of my choice of idiom

  Harold nods absently, face ashen. “I... I should call someone.”

  “Start with the police.”

  “Of course. Right away.”

  As he stumbles off, muttering and skirting around Cindy, I stand and let my eyes sweep the room. No touching since I don’t have gloves on me, and I’d rather not smudge up the evidence if this is, in fact, a crime scene.

  So far, nothing screams murder… other than the obvious corpse on the carpet.

  I turn slowly, eyes scanning, mind ticking like an old clock. The room itself is fairly pristine, bed mostly untouched, no overturned lamps, no broken glass. The bathroom light isn’t even on. If not for the body, you’d think the place had just been cleaned.

  I snap photos with my phone, documenting the scene as best I can. Even the bathroom, because that’s what I do. No window in there. Nothing in the trash, nothing on the sink. One toothbrush. Shampoo and conditioner in the shower, both half-used, with a worn-down bar of inn-issued soap.

  Her clothes hang in the closet. She’d clearly settled in, been here a few days, according to Harold. Her cell phone’s missing, though it could be in a pocket, purse, or drawer.

  For now, I don’t touch a thing.

  The windows are locked from the inside, and the screen is in place. The door had been locked with no sign of forced entry. It’s your classic locked-room mystery, if this is a mystery.

  Only problem? Locked rooms don’t kill people.

  Unless she’d keeled over with a heart problem or something.

  Cindy and I step out and wait in the hallway. A few minutes later, I hear sirens, muted by distance, but growing louder. The cavalry’s coming.

  Guests begin shuffling down the hallway from the dining room. I hear them whisper, see their nervous faces. Marjorie, the actress, asks loudly if someone will catch her if she faints. Word of the body must have made its rounds. Harold was talking already, or maybe someone had overheard him on the phone.

  I head downstairs and find the innkeeper wringing his hands, staring out the front window like he expects the cops to arrive with pitchforks and torches.

  “They’ll want to talk to us,” I tell him.

  He nods quickly. “I understand. This has never happened before. Well… not a murder. We did have a disappearance years ago.”

  I nod. People disappear from hotels, motels, inns. Usually due to bad decisions. Some even check in just to end things, preferring a rented room over their own homes. Harold runs a hand through his thinning white hair and gives me a look of desperation.

  “I didn’t want to say this in front of your lady friend, but... you’re a detective, right?”

  “I’m a private eye, yes.”

  “You solve crimes?”

  “Sometimes.”

  He leans in. “Would you look into this? Just quietly? Until the police make some headway?”

  I blink at him. “You’re asking me to investigate a murder while I’m supposed to be canoodling with my girlfriend?”

  “Call it multitasking.”

  I chuckle.

  “I’ll knock a hundred bucks off your room,” he adds.

  “You’re lucky I’m a cheapskate. But the police haven’t even started. For all we know, she died of natural causes.”

  “You saw the foam on her lip.”

  “I did.”

  “And you saw how nervous she was yesterday.”

  Nervous? I didn’t think so. Agitated, maybe.

  I squint at Harold, wondering what he’s getting at. “Do you know something I don’t? Did someone threaten her?”

  He shakes his head quickly, perhaps too quickly. “Not that I know of. Just telling you what I saw.”

  “Well, let’s let the police do their thing. I’ll observe. If I see something worth passing along, I will.”

  He nods, then stiffens as two black-and-whites roll up out front. Two officers climb out. Local cops with a little too much swagger.

  “Just be straight with them,” I say. “And don’t mention you asked me to poke around. That’ll only make them wary of me... and the last thing I need is a cop already looking sideways at me before I even get near their investigation.”

  He nods again as the officers head through the main entrance; meanwhile, I step out onto the property’s back deck. The sea wind hits me full in the face. Sharp, cold and oddly comforting. The waves pound the rocks below in slow, rhythmic slaps. Behind me, a woman’s dead body lays on a hotel room floor. And in her mouth, someone left a sand dollar like a signature.

  Or a calling card.

  Chapter Four

  I find Cindy on our bed with her paperback novel splayed across her chest and her eyes aimed somewhere near the ceiling. That’s not a good sign.

  I sit beside her on the edge of the mattress. “I know this trip was supposed to be about us. I didn’t plan for someone to die.”

  “I feel so bad for her,” she says softly. “You do what you’re good at, Jim. Find the piece of shit who did that to her.”

  “I’ll do my best, but I’m just here to notice things passively.”

  “Just promise me you won’t go sneaking off in the middle of the night.”

  “I sleep like a rock. You know this.”

  “Well, a rock that snores.”

  I wince. “Low blow.”

  She pats my leg.

  ***

  Back downstairs, the mood has shifted.

  Guests are told to stay in their rooms while two uniforms stand guard in the hall like watchdogs. A third corners Harold at the front desk, firing off the basics. I don’t interrupt. I’ve seen this play before. Patrol cops lock down the scene, make sure no one’s about to bolt or shoot, and double-check the body. Their job is to decide if this is natural causes or something darker. My money’s on darker. That sand dollar shoved in her mouth is all the confirmation anyone needs.

  So, I step outside to lean on the back porch railing. The sea’s louder now. Angry, even. Or maybe I’m projecting.

  A moment later, the door creaks open behind me.

  It’s Fran, Harold’s wife.

  She’s small and strikes me as tightly wound, like someone who alphabetizes her canned goods and then re-checks them just to be sure. Her expression is pinched.

  “I hear Harold talked to you,” she says.

  “He did.”

  She nods once, curtly. “Then let me say it out loud. We need your help, Mr. Knighthorse.”

  I turn toward her. “You’ve got the cops here.”

  “They’re just local boys. This is way over their heads.”

  I pause. Hell, might as well start the investigation. “How well did you know Claire?”

  “Met her a few days ago.”

  “Was it her first time here?”

  A small pause, then, “Yes. She was quiet, kept to herself. Paid in cash.”

  “Cash?”

  Fran nods. “Rare these days, I know. Told me she preferred not to leave a paper trail.”

  “You don’t require a credit card?”

  Fran lifts one shoulder. “House policy says we do, but Harold bends the rules if someone waves green. Especially if they look like they’re running from something.”

  I study her face. No blush, no twitch, no guilt. Just matter-of-fact. “And you didn’t think that was odd?”

  Her lips press thin. “Odd? Sure. But odd keeps the lights on. We don’t ask questions we don’t want the answers to.”

  “Funny,” I say. “I make a living doing the opposite.”

  My PI radar pings. “Did she say why about the no-paper-trail thing?”

  “No. But it made me nervous, truth be known.”

  “Did Harold know about this?”

  “Of course. We talked about it. We almost turned her away. But she looked so... helpless.”

  “Helpless?”

  Fran looks down. “Depressed, too. Like someone who had given up and had decided to stop running. She mentioned she was in hiding from someone. I pressed her one evening by the fireplace. She said she had been in the witness protection program and that someone important had it out for her.”

  “Witness protection,” I repeat, like tasting something bitter. “That’s not the kind of thing you brag about over cocoa.”

  Fran’s shoulders hunch. “She didn’t brag. She literally whispered it in my ear. Like a confession.”

  “Or a lie,” I say. “The thing about people in hiding... they’re either hiding from the truth or hiding from the law. Sometimes both.”

  Fran’s eyes flash. “She was afraid, Mr. Knighthorse. Terrified. I’ve seen liars. This wasn’t that.”

  Maybe. Or maybe Fran’s just not good at spotting wolves in sheep’s clothing. Either way, the trail just got a whole lot darker.

  We’re both quiet for a moment.

  Then she looks up. “I know this will sound selfish, Mr. Knighthorse, but... we can’t afford a scandal at the Gull’s Nest. Not with summer bookings just starting. If word gets out that someone was murdered here...” She shudders.

  “But they were,” I say. “I think.”

  “I know it looks that way.” She buries her face in her hands. “Please, if you can figure this out quickly... before it becomes a media circus... we’d be so grateful.”

  I nod and keep nodding. Priorities clear: justice, truth... and the summer rates.

  As for Fran? Could be a suspect. Could just be a bitch. For now, everyone’s a suspect. The game’s only just begun...

  “So, you’ll help?”

  “I already told Harold I would.”

  “We’ll comp your stay here.”

  “That’s generous. I’ll keep my eyes open, but no promises. Truth is, it’s too early for a private eye to stick his nose in, especially one from out of town. The cops get first crack. If they stall out, or if you don’t like what they turn up, that’s when I earn my keep. Until then, I observe.” I pause, tilt my head. “Speaking of observing… any idea which car was hers?”

  Fran exhales. “That’s all we’re asking. And it’s the pale blue Mustang out front.”

  She pulls a worn notebook from under the counter and presses it into my hand. “I took the liberty of copying our guest book. Names, phone numbers, room numbers. In case it helps. I gave a copy to the police, too.”

  I flip through it, slow. “Efficient.”

  Her mouth twitches, not quite a smile.

  I tuck the notebook under my arm. Helpful innkeepers are either saints or suspects. I’ll figure out which soon enough.

  I flip through the first few pages. Nothing jumps out at me.

  As Fran steps back inside, I look out at the ocean. Waves crash. The fog holds steady. And somewhere in one of these neatly numbered rooms, someone’s hiding a very big secret. I get up and stroll through the parking lot and find the Mustang. Police will probably impound it soon and go through it for evidence. Which is why I casually check the doors: all locked.

  I photograph the license plate and head back in.

  Chapter Five

  I take the guest registry back upstairs and stretch out on the bed beside Cindy, who doesn’t look up from her supernatural mystery novel but does shift, look back, and give me a smile.

  “Any news?” she asks dryly.

  “None yet, other than the innkeepers seem pretty determined for me to solve this case.”

  “Any theories why?”

  “Could be they want answers faster than the cops will deliver. Could be they’re terrified of bad press. Or...” I flip the notebook open and thumb through the pages... “they’re trying a little too hard to steer me where they want me looking.”

  Cindy arches a brow, but says nothing. She doesn’t need to. She knows me well enough to recognize when I catch the scent of a rat.

  I flip open the guest log. Old-school, hand-written, slanted cursive that makes me feel like I’m investigating a murder in 1973. Trouble is, something doesn’t add up. Claire’s name isn’t where it should be. She supposedly checked in three days ago, but her entry is crammed in between two guests who arrived last week. The dates skip around, like someone went back and slid her into the book after the fact.

  And then there’s the ink: same shade, same pen stroke, running through half the page. Either every traveler in this place uses the same ballpoint, or Fran’s been filling in the blanks herself.

  The question is, why would she hand me a registry this obviously doctored? Anyone could see it’s been tampered with. Almost feels like she wants me to notice. A test, maybe. Or a warning. Either way, I wonder if the cops got the same version… or if this one’s custom-tailored for me.

  Cindy peers over the top of her book. “You’re scowling. That never ends well.”

  I snap the log shut. “Neither does murder in a seaside inn.”

  She shrugs, dives back into her novel. I keep staring at the notebook, the weight of it heavier than it ought to be.

  Meanwhile, under Claire Holt’s name, I see Room 7, paid in full. Four nights. A phone number jotted in the margin; I copy it down. Under payment method, one word: cash. The letters are small and shaky, written with a kind of nervous energy. And considering the rooms here run nearly $300 a night, Claire must have shown up with a wad of bills thick enough to make a blackjack dealer blush.

  “Guess who paid in cash?” I say aloud.

  “Claire?”

  “Bingo. Enough green to buy herself a small Buick.”

  Cindy shrugs. “Some people don’t trust credit cards.”

  “Or they’re on the run.” I fill her in on the witness protection angle.

  She exhales. “Did she say who she was hiding from?”

  “Nope. But I know someone who might.”

  I pull out my phone and text Sanchez. My homicide investigator buddy’s technically off this weekend, but nothing gets his blood moving like a fresh corpse and some mystery.

  Me: Name: Claire Holt. Mid-30s. May be a fake name. Need a background check.

  Sanchez: That all you got? I’m not a magician.

  I attach the photo I took of her vehicle still parked in the parking lot, a late model Ford Mustang, and provide the phone number noted in the registry. That’s her car, plate, and phone number. Paid cash at my seaside inn and ended up dead with a sand dollar in her mouth.

  Sanchez: Sand dollar?

  Me: They’re like a weird, flat crab.

  Sanchez: Sounds like a killer’s calling card.

  Me: Let’s hope he doesn’t come calling on anyone else. Is this worth looking into?

  Sanchez: Yeah, I’m on it. Let’s see what comes up. You wouldn’t happen to have her date of birth, would you?

  Me: C’mon, man. I can’t give you everything.

  I set the phone aside and stare at the ceiling.

  “Waiting on a callback?”

  I nod. Cindy closes her book, sighs, and curls beside me. “Just don’t forget why we came here.”

  “I won’t.” A lie. I already have.

  Twenty minutes later, my phone buzzes. Cindy’s asleep, one hand tucked under her chin, breathing slow and even. I slip into the hallway and answer.