Part 6 (2/2)
”You're overheated!” she had cried. ”Wait right here.”
Sam knew from dance rehearsals that heat exhaustion could make you feel faint, dizzy, and nauseated. She also recalled hearing that it wasn't a good idea to sit in a hot tub after drinking alcohol; you might doze off and not realize you were getting dangerously overheated.
Sam had flown to the kitchenette and filled a large gla.s.s with water, then raced back to find that Emma had pulled herself to a sitting posi- tion. Sam had grabbed a towel from the nearby stack and placed it lightly over Emma's shoul- ders.
”You need to cool off, but not too fast,” Sam had counseled. ”And you need water. Here, drink this.”
Emma had done as she was told, then let Sam lead her to her bed.
”I'm fine now, Sam, really. Just a little woozy,”
she had said, propping herself against the quilted headboard. She'd attempted a smile, but wasn't very successful. Her cheeks still burned too brightly. ”I was just trying to relax and forget about my family for a while.”
Sam had sat down at the foot of Emma's bed.
”Look, Emma, I don't want to get on your case about this, but, well, you're letting your parents drive you crazy!”
”Yeah, you're right,” Emma had agreed. ”I've just got to forget all about them.”
”That's the spirit!” Sam had said.
”I can't let them ruin my vacation,” Emma had said vehemently.
And mine, Sam had added in her mind.
So, Sam thought as she stretched in the enor- mous hotel bed, everything would be okay. But something was nagging at Sam. It felt like Emma was saying the right things, but she didn't really mean them. Also, Sam had never seen Emma drink like she'd been doing over the last couple of days. It all seemed really weird.
Sam closed her book and set it aside. The romance novel couldn't help with this dilemma.
But the plantation-style furnis.h.i.+ngs of the room brought to mind one of her favorite literary quotes of all time, a well-known Scarlett O'Hara line from Gone With The Wind. I can't think about this right now, she reasoned. I'll think about this . . . tomorrow.
With that, she fluffed the pillows, turned out the light, and settled in to rest up for a new day.
”Open up! Police!”
In this dream, Sam was in a queen-size four- poster bed with a canopy. She couldn't figure out where the police came into the story.
An insistent pounding brought her fully to her senses, and she realized this wasn't a dream at all. She was in her room in the suite they'd rented at the D'Urbanville, and as near as she could figure, the police were just outside the door.
The pounding came again. ”Open up in there!”
Sam felt a twinge of panic. Surely the police wouldn't be at her door unless she'd done some- thing wrong, but what could it be? It had to be the wrong room, that was all. She was trying to find her voice and remember where she'd tossed her robe, when she heard the loud jangle of keys on the other side of the suite's door.
”We're coming in!” said the same authoritative voice. A moment later the door opened, and footsteps crossed the suite's living room. Sud- denly Sam's bedroom door was flung open.
As Sam clutched the bedclothes to her chest a flashlight beam slid across the room and centered on her face. Blinded by the intense light, she managed to sputter, ”It's just me!”
”Emma Cresswell?” inquired the voice behind the light.
”Samantha Bridges,” squeaked Sam, amazed at how pitiful her own name could sound. ”Emma's in the other bedroom. I can get her for you,” she added lamely.
”We'll wait out here,” said the voice.
The flashlight flicked off, the door swung closed, and Sam stumbled from the bed to grope for her robe on the nearby chair. Finding the robe and belting it snugly around her waist, she turned on the bedside lamp with a shaking hand. The .
antique-looking clock on the dresser said two- thirty. The police coming for Emma in the middle of the night could mean only one thing: somebody had died.
Gulping hard, Sam opened the door to find two men standing outside in the living room.
”I'm terribly sorry to disturb you, Miss Bridges.
I'm Arthur Conland, the night manager, and this is Officer Peterson.”
”Jimmy Peterson,” said the policeman, giving Sam an apologetic smile. Jimmy Peterson was young, with a square, clean-shaven face, short blond hair, and sincere blue eyes.
”As I said, we're sorry,” repeated Conland, ”but evidently the police received a message of great urgency from the governor's office in At- lanta. I'm afraid we'll need to see Miss Cress- well.”
”I'll have to wake her up,” said Sam, her teeth practically chattering with fear. ”S-sit down.”
Oh my G.o.d, poor Emma, Sam thought as the men settled onto a sofa in the suite's s.p.a.cious living area. Her knees felt weak. This was really happening! The police showing up in the middle of the night! She nearly stumbled climbing the three short steps to Emma's room.
Sam pushed open the door. The room was awash with the blue-white glow of the television and the sound of an old shoot-'em-up western.
Emma slept soundly, looking like a child in her sleep.
After muting the sound on the TV, Sam gave Emma's shoulder a gentle shake.
”Emma.”
Emma c.o.c.ked open one eye.
”Emma, the police are here.”
The eye closed. Emma turned on her side, mumbling sleepily, ”Sam, that isn't funny.”
”They really are. I mean it.”
It took Sam a couple more tries to convince Emma she had to get out of bed. Finally, with a ragged sigh of exasperation, Emma pulled on her robe and marched into the living room.
”What's the problem, officer?” she asked re- gally.
”Miss Emma Cresswell?”
”I'm Emma Cresswell.”
”Could I see some identification, please, Miss Cresswell?”
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