Skip Case (David Dean Mysteries)

She took a deep breath. "I want to stay at The Ocean Shore Motel." She said it with a firmness that left little room for arguing.

"Do you think that's a good idea?"

She didn't answer. She didn't have to. It wasn't a good idea and they both knew it. They also knew she wasn't going to change her mind.

Dean glumly tried to get his bearings. If he guessed correctly, the Chesapeake Bay was on his right, so he turned in that direc­tion. Sure enough, after ten minutes of silent driving on nearly empty streets, he recognized Ocean View Avenue, and a few min­utes later, The Ocean Shore Motel. It was even less appealing in the dark of the storm. They parked close to the building and, leaving the engine running, Dean made a dash for the office. Cynthia followed.

"Which room was Jeffrey's?" asked Cynthia softly as they stepped inside the door.

"Twenty-two," Dean responded reluctantly.

Fortunately, room 22 was taken and they settled for adjoining rooms on the second floor near the end of the building. As soon as they entered their respective quarters, Cynthia knocked on the connecting door. When Dean opened his side, Cynthia took his hand and smiled. "I know I keep saying it but you're a saint for putting up with me. Staying here was something I had to do. Otherwise I'd always wonder what it looked like, what kind of place it was and I'd never know. I'm all right, really. But I could use that drink."

She asked for a few minutes to call Randy first and Dean took the time to telephone Fred, filling him in on the latest happen­ings. Fred's response was surprising, a few grunts and a brief com­ment that it figured. He didn't offer a single I-told-you-so.

A few minutes later Cynthia knocked on the door again. "Let's get those drinks," she said with a cheery voice and, taking his hand, descended the stairs to the dining room. In spite of her words, she still looked terrible but Dean was thankful for even forced improvement.

The dining room was nearly empty and they chose a seat in a quiet corner. As soon as they were seated, Cynthia perused the menu, bit her lip and ordered manhattans for both of them. She looked over at Dean and feigned a smile. "Do you mind? It's not the Top of the Mark, but I may not get another chance."

He wasn't sure how to answer. The drinks arrived in glasses better designed for raising fish than serving alcohol-a sure hit with the traveling salesmen. He raised his glass. "I'm sorry I have to be the substitute but I feel honored," he said. "To Jeffrey."