Carolyn Keene - Hit and Run Holiday

No luck. The “maintenance” man had pulled out every jar, bottle, and lube, and left them piled in the sink. Even the toothbrushes were out of their holders, lying like two pickup sticks on the fake marble vanity top.

Nancy was halfway out the bathroom when it hit her— two toothbrushes. She walked back in and took another look. Right, two of them—one blue and obviously well used, the other red, without a single bent bristle.

Kim didn’t have a roommate, she reminded herself. Or did she? Nancy looked more carefully at the countertop. One bottle each of shampoo and conditioner. One tube of toothpaste, one can of deodorant. Two hairbrushes, one full of light brown strands, the other with several strands of long black hair caught in it.

Okay, Nancy thought. Kim might have bought a second toothbrush, but there was no way she could have used that other hairbrush. And if she hadn’t come to Florida with a roommate, then she’d invited some girl to stay with her once she got there.

Nancy walked back into the main room, looking for more evidence of that roommate, and she found it in the wastepaper basket. A skirt and blouse—cotton, homemade, no labels, muddy, and wrinkled. They must have been pretty once, but Nancy knew they didn’t belong to Kim. For one thing, they weren’t her style. Kim would never have worn them. For another, Kim hated sewing; she’d wait until every last button had fallen off a blouse before picking up a needle and thread.

Nancy was frowning at the skirt and blouse when she heard footsteps in the hall. When they stopped outside the door, she sank down behind the bed as quietly as possible, listening. Was it the maintenance man? Had he gotten suspicious of her and come back? The footsteps shuffled around, then faded away.

As Nancy let her breath out, her head dropped, and she found herself staring at a strip of photo-booth snapshots lying on the rug at her feet. Picking it up gingerly, as if it might suddenly disintegrate, Nancy studied the strip of photos. The first was of Kim alone, mugging for the camera; the second was of Kim and another girl. All the rest were of the second girl, who was very pretty, with long black hair, but who never smiled and who looked into the camera with frightened, suspicious dark eyes. “Rosita,” Nancy whispered to herself. “She has to be Rosita.”

Nancy examined the photograph intently, as if by staring hard enough she could bring Rosita to life and ask her all the questions that were spinning through her mind. How did you meet Kim? Why did Kim share her room with you? Who’s Ricardo? Who was that phony maintenance man? Just exactly what did Kim mean when she lay in the street and whispered, “It was Rosita“?

Frustrated, Nancy stood up and began pacing the hotel room, still holding the strip of photos. Where was she going to find the answers to those questions? Who was she going to ask? Kim was still unconscious, and the only other person she thought might be involved was Mr. Friendly. She could hardly ask him, if she ever saw him again.

Well, at least she had something to go on, she thought, looking at the photograph. If she had to, she’d wander up and down the beach, asking anybody and everybody if they’d seen that girl. I’ll find you, Rosita, Nancy thought. And when I do, you’d better have some good answers.

Dropping the strip of photos into her beach bag, Nancy took one last look around the torn-up room and then headed for the door. Her hand was on the knob when she heard footsteps in the hall again.

Nancy dropped her hand, figuring she’d rather not be seen, no matter who was out there. The footsteps came closer and then stopped right outside room 207. Nancy stepped backward, her eyes on the door. It could be somebody who really does work for the hotel, she told herself. A maid, maybe, coming to clean up the room. The doorknob jiggled. Then Nancy heard the sound of a key sliding slowly into the lock. No maid would unlock a door like that, Nancy thought. Besides, a maid would knock first. Whoever was unlocking that door was probably looking up and down the hall, making sure no one was watching. Whoever was out there didn’t want to be seen.

The doorknob turned. In three quick strides, Nancy was across the room and in the closet, hiding behind the few clothes that were left hanging there. Just as the outer door swung open, Nancy pulled the closet door closed, leaving a half-inch crack to see through.

Because the room was so dim, all Nancy could glimpse at first was a tall, shadowy figure silhouetted against the pale wall. It stood there for a few seconds, obviously sizing up the situation. Then, slowly, it moved away from the door and into the center of the room. Nancy held her breath as it passed the closet and walked cautiously toward the bathroom.

Whoever it was didn’t turn on any lights, and Nancy knew she’d been right—the person didn’t work for the hotel, even though he or she had a key, and definitely didn’t want to be discovered.

For an instant, the figure was framed in the bathroom light, and Nancy saw it from the back: It was the figure of a dark-haired boy, wearing a black bathing suit and a T-shirt, and carrying what looked like a small canvas bag. Nancy opened the closet door a little wider, hoping to get a better look, but by then, the boy was out of the light. In that instant, though, Nancy decided that he looked uncomfortably familiar. Something about his build and the way he held his head reminded her of the handsome boy at the scene of the hit and run, the one who’d smiled so mysteriously and then disappeared.

Was the intruder really the same boy? Nancy wondered. Then she realized that it didn’t matter, not at the moment. What mattered was that the boy, who had walked all around the room, and had been in and out of the bathroom, was headed for the closet in which Nancy was hiding. His hand was outstretched, reaching for the doorknob.

Chapter Four

Nancy stayed absolutely still, not even daring to breathe. At the last second, the boy shook his head, apparently changing his mind about the closet, and returned to the bathroom.

Nancy exhaled a long, shaky, silent breath. She had gathered one more important piece of information. The intruder was definitely the same handsome boy she had seen after Kim’s accident.

Nancy could hear him rummaging around in the bathroom, picking things up and putting them down again. Were he and the maintenance man working together? Had the maintenance man seen Nancy enter Kim’s room and told the boy to follow her?

Silently Nancy eased back into the darkness of the closet. She couldn’t let herself get caught, and she wished her heart would stop beating so hard.

The boy left the bathroom, dropping a few things into the canvas bag. They clattered against each other as they landed, and Nancy thought they must be jars. Makeup? Lotion? What would he want with Kim’s makeup and hand lotion?

Again the intruder stepped toward the closet. Nancy took her hand off the knob, afraid she might shake the door, and held her breath again. What would he do if he found her? What would she do?

The boy stopped in front of the closet, and Nancy gripped the strap of her beach bag, figuring she could swing it at his face and make a run for it if she had to. Her hand was sweaty and a muscle in her leg started jumping. She wished he’d do whatever he was going to do so she could move. Anything was better than waiting.

Finally he did move. But not to the closet. Nancy heard a strange shuffling sound, and she peered through the opening.

The boy was bending over, grabbing a few pieces of scattered clothing and stuffing them into his bag. As Nancy watched, he straightened up, his back still to her, and then swiftly walked to the door, opened it, and stepped outside.