By Starlight by Dorothy Garlock Page A

days.
    Standing two stories tall, with a long porch lined with thick columns befitting a wealthy businessman’s home, how majestic it had once looked. With ornate carvings framing the beveled glass of the upper windows and crisp grey and maroon paint on the building that made the unmarred white of the columns stand out, the Belvedere had been the talk of the town, a jewel to be marveled at. But now, its paint chipped bald in places, with rotted wood on the steps and a few windowsills, and even a cracked piece of glass just below where the sign hung, that former glory had long since faded.
    Jack parked the car and stepped out into the early morning sun, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm. A burr of shame nagged at him that he felt relieved no one was watching his arrival.
    Get over it; “Lucky Jack”…you’re going to have to talk to someone if you expect to get to the bottom of this booze-running business.
    When Jack pulled the two suitcases from the Plymouth’s trunk, he found Ross leaning back against the closed passenger’s door, his hands pressed against his belly and his face contorted in agony. Sweat soaked the open collar of his shirt and his skin had gone as pale as the moon.
    “Listen, Ross,” Jack said. “This is more than a bellyache. It’d be best if we went to—”
    “Don’t you know by now I don’t give a damn what you think!” the older man snapped, snatching his suitcase from Jack’s hand and wobbling toward the hotel’s steps. “All I need is to lie down for a bit! You’re carryin’ on like you was my mother!”
    Watching Ross make his way unsteadily up the Belvedere’s steps, Jack considered saying more but knew that anything he suggested would be turned down. Shaking his head, he followed along behind.
    The inside of the hotel had the same run-down opulence as the outside; the crystal chandelier was coated in a thick layer of dust, the carved wooden ball that was supposed to be on top of the newel post at the bottom of the long staircase banister had been broken off, and the ornate carpet that led to the hotel desk was spotted with stains and laced with runs in the stitching. Once again, Jack’s memories were of something far grander.
    But there was one thing about the Belvedere that hadn’t changed in the years he’d been away; Virginia Benoit still stood behind the front desk. She and her husband, a former fur trapper in Canada, had opened the Belvedere, but an unfortunate heart attack made Virginia a widow before the first guest had checked in. Though her features were a bit grayer, her face lined with a few more wrinkles, she looked up at them with a smile he found warmly familiar.
    “Good morning, gentlemen,” she said. “Will you be checking…,” but her voice faltered as she looked at Jack.
    “Hello, Mrs. Benoit.”
    “Jack…? Jack Rucker…? Land sakes alive…is that you…?” she stammered, eyes wide with surprise.
    “It’s been a long time,” he answered.
    “I…but…I never expected to see you in Colton again.”
    Mustering up a warm, friendly smile, Jack took a deep breath as he prepared himself for the first telling of his Bureau-supplied story. It was important for him to get it right, to start laying the groundwork that explained his return to Colton and would eventually lead to whoever was circumventing Prohibition.
    But before Jack could say a word, a bloodcurdling scream filled the Belvedere as Ross Hooper fell onto the stained floor, his hands desperately clutching his belly, his teeth bared in a grimace of pain.

Chapter Seven
    JACK STOOD FROZEN in place, unable to believe what he was seeing. He’d been in dangerous, difficult situations more times than he cared to remember, moments that required quick thinking and a cool, collected head, but this was too much. Sure, Ross had complained during the long drive about his stomach bothering him, but whatever this was, it was much more than whining. Tentatively, unsure of what, if