Peggy Dulle - Liza Wilcox 03 - Secrets at Sea Read Online Free PDF Page A

bad.”
    He frowned at me. “I wouldn’t exactly call this a fast food restaurant, honey.”
    “Why not? The food was fast, wasn’t it?”
    “Yeah but,” he pointed outside. “No drive-through.”
    I shrugged and resumed eating my yummy lunch. I wasn’t much of a sandwich eater, unless it was hot. But this was quite good.
    Thirty minutes later we were back on the road and the scenery was as monotonous as the last several hours. “So tell me how things are in Gainesville,” I asked Tom after only a few miles down the road.
    “Things are the same since the last time you asked. That would be before lunch.”
    I sighed.
    “Are you bored already, Liza?”
    “God, yes.”
    He laughed, “You just can’t stand the silence, can you? Always need to fill it up.”
    I laughed with him, “That’s true.”
    He handed me a box. “I brought you a book on CD.”
    I smiled. “Great.” I flipped it over and started reading about the book, the story of an ex-FBI agent who worked as a sheriff in a small town. “Small town sheriff?”
    “It probably gets everything wrong about being a sheriff in a small town, but I thought you would enjoy it. She saves the town, I’m sure.”
    “Okay,” I opened the box, took out the first CD, and put it in the player. The story started immediately. It began with bones floating down the town’s main street. It should be good, I thought.
    Listening to the book made the time go quickly. Tom kept his scoffing at the sheriff comments and swearing at the LA traffic to the minimum. It was around four when we pulled off the freeway and headed toward the hotel.
    “So where are we staying?”
    “It’s called the Nordic Inn.”
    He frowned.
    “What?”
    “I try and stay in places with names I recognize, like Holiday Inn, Best Western, and the Marriott.”
    “Then this will be an adventure for you.”
    He glanced out the car window at three women walking down the street. “Oh yeah, it’s going to be an adventure, all right.”
    Their skirts were a little short and the tank tops out of style, but they looked nice enough. “They’re probably tourists, like us?”
    “You think?” Tom smirked and we continued down the road.
    A few miles later, I pointed to the left side of the street. “There it is.”
    Tom pulled into the parking lot. It was a quaint motel with a Scandinavian flair with peaked roofs and even a large white windmill at one end.
    “How did you find this place?” Tom asked, with just a hint of sarcasm to his voice.
    I could have said it was where my parents stayed, but revised my answer, “I found it on the Internet. They gave it four stars out of five.”
    He raised one eyebrow. I wish I could do that. The kids in my class would get a kick out of it.
    It was true about the Internet, but as we pulled closer I could see the place was in need of new paint and a landscaper.
    And bless Tom’s heart, he didn’t say a word when the door to the office squeaked and shook as if it would fall off its rusted hinges. He just pulled it open and stepped aside for me to enter. Behind a tall counter sat a young woman dressed in what looked like a Scandinavian barmaid costume, suspenders, white frilly shirt and all. Her nametag said, “Brenda” and she was totally engrossed in a paperback with a picture of a bare-chested man carrying a scantly dressed woman slung over his shoulders on the cover. I’m a big advocate of reading, but I’m not sure this girl was old enough to read an “erotica” novel.
    Tom cleared his throat, which startled Brenda. She jumped and gave a little gasp. But I have to give her credit; she composed herself quickly, set the book on the counter, tucked her long blonde hair behind her ears, and smiled. “May I help you?”
    I stepped forward. “I have a reservation.”
    “Name please,” she said.
    “Liza Wilcox.”
    She typed on her keyboard and then said, “Oh yes, here you are. King size bed, no smoking.” She frowned and bit her lower lip.
    “What’s