The Corpse Wore Tartan by Kaitlyn Dunnett Page A

remaining stairs. Two steps beyond the door at the bottom, a running figure barreled into him. It nearly knocked him off his feet and his flashlight did go flying.
    Dan grabbed on to the other person for support. His hands clenched hard on bony arms. In the glow of the exit signs and of the nearest of the small emergency lights spaced at intervals along the corridor, he belatedly recognized Sadie LeBlanc.
    Tears streamed down her gaunt, deeply lined face. Deep, hacking coughs racked her body, alternating with that odd, high-pitched wailing. Beneath his hands, Dan could feel the shudders running through the housekeeper’s skinny frame. She’d been traumatized by something. Or someone.
    Shifting Sadie so that he could retrieve the flashlight, which had gone out but had not been broken, Dan switched it back on. Then, keeping an eye peeled for potential assailants, he half dragged, half carried the distraught woman to the room the hotel staff used for their breaks. He eased her into one of two overstuffed armchairs and snagged a bottle of water from the refrigerator. Kneeling in front of Sadie, he unscrewed the top and extended the bottle. Her hand shook so badly that the water slopped as she lifted the bottle to her mouth.
    â€œWhat’s wrong, Sadie? What happened to you?” He saw no blood, no tears in her clothing, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t been attacked.
    She swallowed several big gulps of the water, then choked. Dan pounded her on the back, growing more worried by the minute. Clearly something had terrified the woman, but what?
    â€œSadie! You’re safe now. Everything’s okay. But you have to tell me what it is that upset you.”
    The horrible hacking cough had stopped, but she was weeping even harder than before. She fumbled in the pocket of her plain black slacks for a tissue and noisily blew her nose. Her face scrunched up, as if she might go on crying forever, but after another minute or two of gulping and sniffling, she managed a few words.
    â€œHe’s dead,” she croaked. “There’s a dead guy in the number two storage room.”

Chapter Seven
    R eluctantly, Dan left Sadie alone in the break room. He had no choice. He had to verify her story.
    Storage room #2 was the one where the lanterns and flashlights had been stockpiled. Whoever had been the last one out hadn’t locked the door behind himself. The knob turned easily. Right inside, lying facedown in the narrow aisle between two rows of shelving, as if he’d come through the door only to fall flat on his face, was a man in a kilt. Blood had pooled beneath him. A lot of blood.
    Careful where he put his feet, Dan stepped close enough to squat down, lift the man’s wrist, and feel for a pulse. No spark of life remained. Dan hadn’t expected to find any. Not with that much blood.
    Cautiously, he backed out of the storage room. As he closed and locked the door behind him, he felt a curious sense of detachment. The reality of the death—and a violent death, at that—had not yet sunk in.
    Without saying a word, Dan collected Sadie from the break room and escorted her upstairs. She’d stopped crying but now wore a dazed look on her face. She went with him without protest, allowing him to steer her as far as the arched entrance to the lobby. There he stopped and scanned what remained of the crowd for Sherri Willett. It didn’t take long to spot her. She was sitting on a couch with Pete, laughing at something her fiancé had just said. Dan tried to catch her eye, but she wasn’t looking his way. No one was except the hotel’s intern, Tricia. Something in his expression must have given away his state of mind. Tricia reached his side a moment later.
    â€œBoss? Something wrong?”
    It took more effort than he’d expected to give her a coherent answer. Snap out of it, he ordered himself. There were things he needed to do. At the moment, he couldn’t think exactly