Unfashionably Dead

Chapter Twenty-eight

The hotel room heater hums a lullaby as Lanie tosses and turns, her toes peeking out of the white quilted cover. She is now in the same spot she was when I left the room, the bunched-up duvet at the foot of the bed the only difference.

On the pillow, her cell phone lights and swooshes with a text notification from Adam. Ned to tlk ASAP. Clearly, he could use some spelling lessons, but if he's wanting to talk, maybe I should be there to listen.

I am inside Adam's condo as he deposits his phone onto the island's marble countertop. He gulps whiskey out of the bottle then wipes away the dribbles on his chin. With a plunk, the bottle is on the counter and he is twisting the cap, its 45-degree tilt a spill in the making.

He removes his gray blazer and haphazardly throws it over the back of an ornate barstool, and the blazer drops onto the floor. Adam doesn't seem to notice. He staggers through the living room and onward to his bedroom, flicking the light once he is inside.

It isn't until his pants are around his ankles and he is fumbling with the last button of his shirt that he notices the knife sticking out of his pillow, the mess of feathers floating from the upstart of the ceiling fan.

He slurs an expletive. "Not my problem anymore." He lifts the knife from pillow, sets it atop the dresser, and drops the pillow and teddy bear onto the floor. Once the bed is cleared of feathers, he slides under the sheet and presses a remote to turn off the light and fan. Within seconds, sleep carries him away.

I return to Margaret's apartment as a forensic technician dusts for fingerprints on the end table that held the vase of poinsettias. Without a doubt, Lanie's prints will be found, and with the probable murder weapon nearby, it isn't looking good for her.

Grant stands near the door, his arms folded as he listens to Benitez directing the orders. Benitez tells him he is free to go and Grant's jaw clenches. He digs in, leaning against the island instead of retreating.

"No evidence the two are linked," Grant says.

"Both young women with ties to this floor. No evidence to say they're not linked." Benitez withdraws his blackberry from his pocket. "You're off the case. Do I need to have Chief remind you?"

Grant brushes against Benitez's arm as he passes by him. He does not apologize and the door slams behind him. I would love to know what Grant is thinking, what he knows, but the only way I'm going to get those answers is if he's taken to speaking to himself. I have to remain focused.

I find Margaret in her bedroom, standing in front of the full-length mirror, still trying to remove the dress. I hope I wasn't this clueless right after I woke from the dead.

"Can we go somewhere to talk?"

She jumps, nearly passing through the ceiling. "Would you stop sneaking up on me?"

Once she settles near the floor, her eyes grow wide as she looks at me. "What the hell happened to you? Do the horizontal hula with a smurf?"

I don't even know what that's supposed to mean. My palm has a trail of blue on it, but it looks like a chain tattoo. There's nothing sexy about it.

"Danced a tango with someone you don't want to meet." I smile. "Now, can we go somewhere I don't have to listen to all their clanging?" I gesture to the technicians. "I have a proposition for you."

She puckers in front of the mirror, as though she's trying to plump her lips. I'm sure she thinks she looks like Angelina Jolie, but it's more like a grouper. "We'll go to Channelside. It's late enough that Howl should be closed and the employees gone for the night."