Read Online Ride a Painted Pony (Superromance) by Carolyn McSparren - Free Book Online Page B

morning turned chill and threatening in an instant, as though a giant hand had grabbed the sun and shaken it by the scruff of the neck.
    Taylor stuffed the fedora in the pocket of her blazer, and shivered.
    She took the registration Nick handed her and slid it back into the glove compartment. Then she pulled a penlight from her handbag and searched under the car seats. “Clean as a whistle.” Next she shone the light into pockets on the sides of the car. Nothing.
    “Woman was a neat freak.” Taylor sat back on her heels. “We, the organizationally challenged, salute you.” She went to the back of the car and opened the trunk.
    “Bingo,” Nick said softly. A soft-sided Louis Vuitton overnight bag lay in the trunk. “If she planned to stay at The Peabody last night, why isn’t this in her room?”
    Taylor shook her head. “Maybe she never checked in. Just dropped the car and met somebody. Maybe she planned to drive back to Oxford last night.”
    “Then why pack at all?”
    “Good point.” Taylor smiled up at him. “If her reservation was guaranteed for late arrival, she could drive in, drop the car, meet whoever she was meeting, do her business, come back to the hotel and bring her bag in then.”
    “Only she never got back.”
    The wind had turned ugly, whipping Taylor’s short hair across her face, stinging her eyes. Instantly, Nick stepped up to her, blocking the wind, shielding her as effectively as a wall. “Better?” he asked.
    “Thanks.” Most men would not have noticed. His eyes were warm. She looked away quickly. “Here goes.” She opened the bag.
    Taylor saw that Clara Eberhardt had carefully wrapped her clothing in pink tissue. Taylor hated the idea of violating this woman’s privacy, but she steeled herself and unwrapped each neat package gently, grasping the paper that threatened to become airborne.
    Inside were a complete set of skimpy peach silk-and-lace underthings and a pair of thigh-high white lace stockings. Did these things actually belong to Clara Eberhardt—with her cashmere sweater and her neat black pumps? Maybe Clara indulged her fantasy life where it didn’t show.
    Another sweater: cashmere, powder blue. A pair of gray flannel slacks. Black suede flats. Very expensive. Knee-high panty hose. Dior.
    A quilted satin jewel case, containing a heavy antique gold chain and earrings—a matching makeup case. Only the best. No spilled powder, no messy lipstick. Deodorant. A small medicine bottle labeled Dilantin. Heart problems? No shampoo or conditioner, but then The Peabody furnished those. Either Clara didn’t wash her silver hair every morning or she knew that she’d find what she needed already in place.
    No robe, no nightgown, no pajamas. Clara slept naked? Alone? Did she plan to come back to The Peabody for a tumble with the person she met? Maybe someone waited for her all night, frantic when she didn’t show up. A wave of pity washed over Taylor. This woman did not deserve to die alone, mute, drowned in her own blood. At this point Clara deserved justice. Taylor prayed she’d have a hand in obtaining it for her.
    Taylor found a slightly raised area along the bottom of the case—rectangular, perhaps five inches by seven. Carefully, she drew out a cordovan leather notebook. Slim, detailed with cutwork. Very beautiful, probably very old.
    “Look what I found.” She held it up to Nick, who took it carefully between his index finger and thumb. “Why don’t you take it over to my truck? I’ll put everything back. Be there in a minute.” Taylor replaced everything precisely as they had found it, closed but did not zip the lid of the bag, and closed but did not latch the trunk.
    “It’s an appointment book,” Nick said, when she climbed into the truck. “Mostly initials. Here, look at yesterday.”
    “ Meet pb 7:30 .” Taylor looked up. “Pb must stand for Peabody. Unless you know someone connected with Rounders whose initials are P.B.”
    “Not offhand.”
    Taylor