Seeing Red

by Dana Dratch

  “I’m sorry,” he said, smiling. “You’re going to tell me where it’s safe to work? At the last job you had, someone was stabbed right there in the office.”

  “Yes, and when I learned that, I left.”

  “You kept going back until they fired you. And every night after that.”

  Why did I think he was enjoying this?

  “And it damn near got me killed,” I admitted. “You’re smarter than I am.”

  He grinned. “Look, I appreciate that you’re worried. And I’ll keep my eyes open. Who knows, we might learn a little something just by my being there. But this is my business. My actual business. It has nothing to do with you or anyone else. It’s mine. And it’s going really well. In spite of Simmons. There’s no way I’m backing off now.”

  “You think this is funny?”

  “I think now you know how Baba and I felt every time you took off for your night job at that office.”

  “If we retrofit my kitchen, we could have your bakery back up and running in a couple of weeks,” I pleaded.

  “I’ve been interviewing contractors,” Nick countered. “More like one month, minimum. Realistically, at least two. And I don’t have the cash to pay for it yet. Soon, but not yet. Remember I told you I had some good news?”

  I nodded numbly. How much worse was this gonna get?

  “The client I saw this morning? The one I made the cookies for? She has a friend who runs a little café in Baltimore. Near the Inner Harbor. Turns out she sampled some of my stuff at Ian’s tearoom and loved it. She put in a standing order. Every week.”

  Crap. I was so happy for him. And scared. What could I say?

  “Nick, that’s wonderful. Really, really wonderful.”

  He beamed. “I’ve literally tripled my business. Angie’s even willing to pay extra for the delivery. And some weeks when she’s in the area, she’ll pick up the stuff herself. And she’s far enough away that I don’t have to feel guilty about fueling Ian’s competition.”

  “A toast,” I announced, raising my beer can. “To your continued success. It can only get better from here.”

  No lie.

  “Thank you!” he said as we clinked cans.

  That’s when it hit me. I should have thought of it sooner. But then, I should have slept last night, too.

  “Competition!” I shouted.

  “Huh?”

  “You blamed one of your competitors for siccing Simmons on you, right?”

  “Yeah,” Nick said. “But I still don’t know who it is.”

  “What if the pranks around Ian’s place are more of the same? Not your competitor, but one of his?”

  “Killing someone’s a little extreme,” he said.

  “Maybe that’s not part of it. Maybe we’re looking at two separate suspects. One who’s trying to eliminate a competing business. And the other who, for whatever reason, is eliminating people.”

  “That makes a lot more sense,” Nick said, cocking his head to one side. “I mean, if you really wanted to scare Ian’s customers, why hide the body? You’d want to leave it right out in the open for maximum impact. Like the patio rat. Soooo, does that make you feel any better about my working over there?”

  “Oh, much. Because instead of one maniac running around Ian’s inn, there might be two.”

  Chapter 19

  Nick was satisfied with the status quo at Ian’s. That made one of us.

  I decided that if he could stick his fingers in his ears and pretend everything at the B&B was fine, I could go over there and quietly nose around a little.

  Hey, we each have our strengths.

  So the next afternoon, while Nick grabbed a nap (and after Baba and I walked Lucy and J.B.), I traded my jeans for a summer skirt, put a dozen limbo cookies in a big mason jar, and headed over to the inn.

  If anyone asked, I was there to see Rube. And bring him some cookies.

  Ian wasn’t at the front desk when I walked in—so far, so good.

  Guests tended to congregate on the patio and in the library. I thought I’d hit the library first.

  “Well, hello there! You’re Alex from the neighborhood, right?”

  Emily Prestwick was knitting on the sofa.

  “Good memory! And nice to see you again. How’s the sightseeing?”

  “So good we decided to extend our stay another week. So far, we’ve hit the Botanic Garden, Kennedy Center, and the Corcoran Gallery—and spent several lovely afternoons at the Smithsonian. This evening we’re taking in Georgetown.”

  “There’s a new Cajun place I’ve heard about in Georgetown,” I said, sitting in a side chair. “File Gumbo. It already has a Michelin star. And I have a foodie friend who really loved it. Especially the bananas Foster beignets.”

  “That sounds perfect,” she said, clicking those needles lickety-split. “Frankly, I’m happily eating my way around the District. And the food is so good at this place. I’m afraid we’re getting spoiled. This morning, eggs Benedict. And it was absolutely delicious. Bill is off giving a talk to one of the local garden clubs. Of course, I had to catch afternoon tea. Some lovely Ceylon with the most marvelous homemade scones, clotted cream, and strawberry jam. Served on the patio. And, of course, the garden is just beautiful. You should join us. Georgie will be there, too. We can make it a girls’ tea.”

  I remembered the newlyweds and nodded. “I’d love to. My brother bakes the scones. And they are really good.”

  “Lovely! And it ought to cheer Georgie a bit. Between you and me,” she said, lowering her voice, “I think she and Paul are already having problems. I’ve seen them apart more than I’ve seen them together.”

  “Yeah, he seemed like kind of a jerk,” I said. “So how have things been around the inn? I hear they’re still working out some of the bugs?”

  “Oh, the usual thing. A few snafus with the electricity. And someone overflowed a tub. Or was it a toilet? I don’t remember,” she said, as the needles flew.

  Same stuff Nick had mentioned. Minus the midnight shadows.

  “No more ghost baby?” I said.

  Emily shook her head, smiling. “Heavens, no. But at least my Bill has a whimsical side, bless him. I feel for poor Georgie. That dolt of hers has no imagination at all. And no sense of humor. I just hope he’s not violent.”

  “Any interesting new guests?”

  “A congressman. If you call that interesting. Frankly, I don’t. From out west. Idaho, I believe. Word is he’s waiting for his local housing to be readied.”

  Man, this place hadn’t been open long. And it had its share of problems, if that freezer body was any indication. But for some reason, it was already pulling in movers and shakers. Hand it to Ian—he was good at what he did. Whatever that was.

  “I’ve got to stop by and see another friend,” I said, getting up. “But save me a seat for tea.”

  * * *

  I did want to talk with Rube before I left. The guy could read people like no one else I’d ever met. And he didn’t miss much. Maybe that’s what made him such a good writer. If there was a saboteur creeping around this place, Rube might have a few ideas.

  But my first goal was to get into Harkins’s room and look around.

  I knew Ian had said he’d looked for clues. But it was possible he didn’t know what he was looking for. It was also possible he was lying.

  There’s an old saying in the newsroom: if your mother says she loves you, ask for proof.

  I headed up the stairs. While the staircase into the lobby was stately and wide, it narrowed as it gained altitude. By the time I hit the third-floor landing, the air was getting thin.

  I honestly had no idea how I was going to get through Harkins’s locked door. I’d noticed that even the guest doors had more than your typical bedroom door push-lock.

  Too bad. With two older siblings, I could beat those things by the time I was five. Nick could do it by three and a half. Although Mom left that milestone out of our family Christmas letter.

  The p
hone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out. Trip.

  I’d meant to call him before I left. Rule No. 1 in the newsroom: always let someone know where you are and when you expect to return. It won’t necessarily keep you safe, but it will give the cadaver dogs a place to start.

  “Hey,” I whispered as I ascended the summit, “any idea how to beat a locked door?”

  “Where are you?”

  “The B&B. Heading for Harkins’s room.”

  “One dead body this week not enough for you?”

  “Apparently, if it falls into a freezer in a basement and nobody hears it, it doesn’t make a sound. So it doesn’t count.”

  “Seriously, what are you doing there? Besides the obvious.”

  “Nick’s bound and determined to keep coming over here. So I need to find out what the heck is going on. And if I get a lead on Harkins in the interim . . . What’s that noise? Are you watching a movie?”

  “I’m YouTubing a video on how to pick a lock. But if you get caught, we were sharing fashion tips. I know a place where you can get some silver earrings that will look great with your new handcuffs.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “I don’t suppose Nick’s there, in case you need a hand?”

  “Nope. And I planned it that way. He needs the rest, and I need to keep him out of this. Well, this is my floor. Two doors.”

  “The lady or the tiger?”

  “Hey, as long as it isn’t the murderer or the dead body, I almost don’t care.”

  “So how many bodies is it that you’ve found now?”

  “How many have I found, or how many do the police know I’ve found?”

  “Should it bother me that there’s a difference?”

  “Talk about sharing your number. OK, here goes nothing.”

  I turned the knob. Didn’t budge. Definitely locked.

  I reached for the other door. The knob turned in my hand. “I’m in—I’ll call you back.”

  “You’ve got fifteen minutes,” Trip said. “Then I’m calling the cops myself.”

  “Deal.”

  I didn’t know it from the hallway, but this room occupied one of the turrets on the back of the house. The outer wall was rounded and made up of a half-dozen long windows. It smelled of oil paint and turpentine. There were a half-dozen easels all over the room. Different paintings. Different styles. Different artists.

  The room was like an art museum. I walked softly from one canvas to the next, studying them. If I hadn’t been carrying ajar of cookies, I would have instinctively clasped my hands behind my back.

  They were amazing. I’m no art connoisseur. But growing up, my parents dragged all four of us kids to every art museum, gallery opening, and exhibition in town. To me, these looked like the real thing.

  One was a Van Gogh. Another was a Monet. Waterlilies. And a sturdy Degas dancer warmed up on a third easel. There were also a couple more modern ones in styles I didn’t recognize. But the star of the show was in the center of the room. Renoir. And it looked familiar.

  Mom and I had seen it a couple of years ago when some big-business muckety-muck lent it—and a few other prized works—to a local museum for the summer. I remember standing in front of it, just staring. Entranced. Kind of like I was now.

  Ian’s father wasn’t some reformed youthful hooligan. Harkins was an art thief.

  I heard a soft thump.

  And it definitely didn’t sound like the house settling. It sounded like someone hiding in the closet. That explained the unlocked door.

  I was trespassing. And whoever it was didn’t want to be discovered. Even by me. So I didn’t wait around to find out who they were. Or what they were doing.

  I flew to the hallway, closed the door softly behind me, and jogged lightly down the stairs. When I hit the second-story landing, I stopped to breathe.

  I pulled out my phone and hit #1 for Trip. My heart was pounding.

  “Should I call a lawyer, or will you be sleeping in your own bed tonight?”

  “I’m out, I’m fine. And have I got a story to tell you.”

  Chapter 20

  After my foray upstairs, tea was relatively uneventful.

  Emily regaled Georgie and me with stories of the things she and Bill were seeing and doing in DC and environs. I filled them in about some of the local haunts and low-key daily life here in Fordham, Virginia. (Despite the fact that low-key daily life was currently eluding me at the moment.)

  Georgie scarfed down sandwiches, scones, tea cakes, and cookies, but said relatively little. Any time either of us mentioned Paul or the honeymoon, she changed the subject.

  I did manage to find out that Rube was staying on the third floor. And except for the cocktail party and the occasional meal, he’d been locked in his room most of the time. I concluded that he probably hadn’t seen squat and was just hoping he was OK.

  But after we polished off another round of tea and a platter of delicious little sandwiches—trimmed with cookie cutters to resemble flowers and birds—I planned to ask him myself.

  * * *

  And that’s where I was fifteen minutes later. On the third floor, I leaned in and put my ear against a door.

  My mother would have been mortified. I consoled myself with the reminder that it was for a good cause: the health and safety of my younger brother.

  I heard a regular rhythmic clicking sound. And this one I recognized: a keyboard.

  Bingo!

  I knocked on the door.

  The clicking stopped. Dead silence. Then the door opened a crack. One brown eye stared out at me. I held up the jar of cookies. Rube stepped back and opened the door.

  “Thought you might need a break,” I said.

  “Yeah, I thought that was you at the party. What are you doing here? You on another news story?”

  “I live across the street. My brother makes the pastries and cookies they serve here. This is some of his work,” I said, handing the jar to Rube.

  “You’re not on a story?” he asked, accepting the jar while eyeing me skeptically.

  “Not exactly.”

  “Uh-huh. That’s what I thought. What’s the story?”

  Was I right about this guy or what?

  “It’s not a story. It’s not for print. It’s more of a puzzle. My brother, Nick, works out of the kitchen downstairs. Some weird things have been going on here. Plumbing stuff. Electrical stuff. The outage the night of the party? That wasn’t the storm. Somebody messed with the fuse box in the basement. I think one of the inn’s competitors might be trying to sabotage the place. I was wondering if you might have noticed something.”

  Rube took a long hard look at me. Then he popped open the mason jar and offered me a cookie. I took one, and he did the same.

  “Damn, these are really good. Your brother made these?”

  “He’s runs his own bakery,” I said, nodding. “Right now, he’s operating out of Ian’s kitchen downstairs. Until we can get my place retrofitted.”

  “Boy’s got a gift,” he said, wolfing down the cookie and reaching for a second.

  “So how’s your mom?” I asked.

  “She’s doing great. Right now, she’s planning my niece’s wedding. In two weeks. I’m walking the bride down the aisle.”

  “Congratulations!”

  “Can’t take credit for it. She’s a great girl. And that’s all my moms. But they have totally taken over the house. I’ve got a book due the day before the big event. I was losing my mind.”

  “So you came here?”

  “All the peace and quiet money can buy. I want food, I just roll downstairs. Or have it sent up. Nonstop writing. It’s great. There’s even a patio if I want to work outside with a cold drink. I’m happy, my moms is happy, and my niece is happy. Best of all, I can keep my editor happy by making my deadline.”

  “I know what that’s like.”

  “Yeah, I heard about your little situation a couple of weeks ago. You come out of that mess OK?”

>   “Absolutely. And the guy who owns this place, Ian Sterling—he helped a lot. I don’t suppose you’ve noticed anything going on around here?”

  Rube reached for two more cookies. I knew he’d missed afternoon tea, and the way those cookies were disappearing, I was beginning to wonder if he’d missed brunch, too.

  “Man, it feels like I haven’t been out of this room in forever,” he said finally.

  “What’s this book about? I mean, if I can ask?”

  “Off the record? You don’t share this with anybody.”

  I nodded, putting my right hand up like the Girl Scout I never was. “I swear.”

  “A seventeenth-century scullery maid discovers a plot to kill the king. She tries to foil the assassination with the help of a roguish duke, who’s actually the king’s love child.”

  “And they fall in love?”

  “Hell, yes, they fall in love! This is a romance novel. Turns out, the duke wasn’t really born out of wedlock, but his mother died in childbirth. And he’s secretly the prince of Wales. They save the king—and Rosie marries the duke and becomes a princess. Or she will if I can ever finish the damned book.”

  “So I guess you wouldn’t have noticed if anyone was skulking around the inn?”

  Rube went quiet and still.

  “The night of the party. Before the lights went out? I was dog tired. I decided to turn in early. I said g’night to your friend Ian. Then I headed upstairs.”

  He paused, and I could tell he was replaying whatever it was in his mind.

  “I was on the stairs when the lights went out,” he said. “I was so beat, I couldn’t decide whether to keep going up or turn around and come back down. When I turned, I saw someone coming out of that little side door in the entry hall. Learned later it goes down to the basement. Didn’t know that at the time. Thought it was a bathroom.”

  The basement? Rube might have actually seen the saboteur. Or possibly the murderer.

  “Who was it?” I asked.

  “It was pitch black. The lights had just gone out. And my eyes hadn’t adjusted to the dark.”

  “But?”

  “I couldn’t swear to it. But I think it was that kid on his honeymoon. Paul Something-or-other.”