Page 7 of Tightrope

“Hazel, wait...” Amalie said.

But she was too late. Hazel was already opening the big front door.

“Welcome to the Hidden Beach Inn,” she sang out. “You’re in luck. I believe we might have one room left... Oh.”

From where she stood at the top of the staircase, Amalie could see the man who stood on the front steps. The shock of recognition made her go cold. Luther Pell’s mysterious associate, the stranger who wore a gun under his evening jacket, loomed in the doorway.

“Thank you,” he said. “Sorry for disturbing you at this hour. My name is Matthias Jones. May I come in?”

His voice, dark and intriguing, sent little frissons of electricity across the back of Amalie’s neck. She had never responded to a man’s voice in quite that way. It probably ought to worry her.

“Well, you’re here,” Hazel said, no longer the gracious innkeeper. “You might as well come in.”

“Thank you,” Matthias said.

He moved into the front hall and inclined his head toward Hazel, gravely polite. The niceties out of the way, he immediately switched his attention to Amalie. He watched her descend the staircase with an expression that somehow combined cool interest with even colder determination. Her intuition warned her that he was trying to decide if she was going to be a problem for him.

She could have told him that the answer was yes.

Fair enough,she thought. She had already concluded that he was going to be trouble for her.

Matthias Jones was lean and broad-shouldered with the sort of strong, fierce features that would never qualify as handsome. The bold nose, grim jaw, and smoldering amber eyes could more accurately be described as predatory. He was not unusually tall yet he somehow dominated the room.

He wore the same evening clothes he’d had on earlier that evening—the same crisply pleated trousers, the same white shirt, the same black bow tie. He was also wearing the same evening jacket that had beenexpertly tailored to conceal a shoulder holster. That meant he probably still wore the gun.

She was very sure that he was not going to leave until he was ready to do so. Matthias Jones was both an immovable object and an irresistible force.

“What can we do for you, Mr. Jones?” she asked, going for the cool, calm, always-in-command attitude of a professional innkeeper.

“I understand that Dr. Norman Pickwell was a guest here,” Matthias said. “I want to take a look around his room.”

Hazel’s brief moment of hope had given way to deep suspicion. “Are you a cop?”

Circus people and law enforcement had a long history of a fraught relationship, to say the least. When the circus was in town, it was all too easy for the police to blame the highly transient crews of roustabouts and performers for any crimes that occurred while they were around. Got your pocket picked while you were watching the high wire act? Did a few tools go missing off your back porch? Blame the circus people.

“No,” Matthias said. “I’m not a cop. I’m doing a favor for a friend.”

That information should have come as a relief, Amalie thought. Instead it just confirmed her earlier suspicion. Matthias Jones was most likely connected to the mob.

“If you’re not a detective,” she said, “why should we let you look at Dr. Pickwell’s room?”

Matthias regarded her with eyes that revealed nothing except glacial-cold control.

“Pickwell didn’t make it,” he said. “He died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.”

Hazel sighed. “Oh, dear.”

Amalie did not take her attention off Matthias.

“I see,” she said. “I’m very sorry to hear that. But I still don’t understand why we should allow you to examine his belongings.”

“It’s a long story and one I’m not at liberty to discuss. All I can tellyou is that I’m tracking a killer. I have reason to believe that he murdered Pickwell tonight.”

Hazel’s brows snapped together. “So, you are a detective?”

“I thought I made it clear,” Matthias said. “I’m not a cop. I’m conducting an investigation for a friend.”

Amalie eyed him. “You’re a private investigator?”