by Shari Lapena
She remembers how he looked at her in her new negligee.
He’d known all along that he was in love with someone else.
Well, she won’t accept it. Infatuation isn’t love. He just needs time to come to his senses. This is—a kind of middle-aged madness. He will come back to her. It will be fine. She must be patient, that’s all.
“Think it through, Henry,” she says. She slowly rises and makes her way back to her room, leaving Henry alone by the fire.
Saturday, 3:30 p.m.
Candice’s laptop battery is dying. She curses out loud to the empty library. She saves her work again and then decides to shut down while she still can. She needs to save some battery—in case she needs to refer back to something in her draft. She should have printed it out and brought it with her. Fuck. She won’t ever make that mistake again. From now on, she promises herself, she will always print the manuscript and bring it with her whenever she goes anywhere. She gets so little undisturbed time to work.
She looks down at the closed laptop and thinks about what to do next. She will have to write longhand, she supposes. It’s too bad her handwriting is so illegible—even she has trouble reading it. And of course she didn’t bring any paper with her. The paperless society. Ha! She looks up and scans the room around her. She gets out of her comfortable chair by the fire and approaches the desk in the corner of the room next to the door. It must be original to the hotel—the age is about right. Its surface is almost pristine—just an old-fashioned leather blotter with an elegant letter opener on its surface. She tries the top drawer. It opens easily. There is nothing inside but a single, lonely paper clip. With her frustration rising and her hopes falling in equal measure, she tries the side drawers next. My kingdom for a pen and paper she mutters under her breath. Nothing. Shit.
Then she recalls the writing desk in her room. Surely there was a folder with full-sized notepaper printed with the hotel letterhead sitting on the side of the desk. Of course! Most hotels provide notepaper, and a pen. And if she runs out of paper, she can borrow more from the other guests. No one else will be using it. She hopes she doesn’t have to rely on quill and ink in this quaint hotel.
She hastens out of the library with her laptop hugged to her chest. It’s still warm, which she appreciates. She turns to her right and starts to walk back to the lobby and the main staircase, but then she remembers that there’s a servants’ staircase, near the kitchen. Curious, she turns back and finds the hall that runs along the back of the hotel. At the end of the hall, outside the closed kitchen door, is the door to the servants’ staircase. She pushes it open.
She’s shocked at how dark it is inside the stairwell. It’s like falling to the bottom of a well. She thinks about retreating, but then takes her cell phone out of her pocket and turns on the flashlight, noticing with resignation that her cell phone, too, is almost out of battery. She climbs up the narrow, plain wooden staircase, slowly making her way to the top, feeling tense. Perhaps she would have been better off going back to the lobby and taking the main staircase, after all, sheeted corpse or not. At last she makes it to the top and opens the door onto the third floor. With relief, she finds herself in the dim corridor, lit only by the narrow window at the end. Her room, number 306, is across the hall. She hurriedly inserts the key and enters the room, not bothering to close the door—she’s planning on getting what she needs and going right back down to the fire in the library. The chill up here makes her bones ache.
Her eyes fall on the writing desk across the room nestled under the windows. She spies the folder of notepaper. She crosses the thick rug—so thick it muffles all sound—and opens the folder eagerly. It contains several sheets of creamy, good quality 8 x 11 writing paper, and a pen. She smiles with relief.
SEVENTEEN
Saturday, 4:00 p.m.
The guests start to drift down to the lobby again around four o’clock, eager for their tea. They continue to do their best to ignore the corpse at the bottom of the stairs, filing past it quickly on their way to the dining room. Matthew still does not appear. James has made scones to go with the tea and coffee, and they all agree that they are delicious.
Gwen sips the scalding tea, grateful for the warmth of the cup in her hands, and wonders if she will ever speak with David.
Henry says, “I suggest we all go check out the ice bar. The path’s all clear, and I had a sneak peek. It’s really something.”
“Thanks to your hard work with the snow blower,” Bradley says.
Gwen goes with the rest of them to grab their jackets and boots at the front of the hotel and then they all follow Bradley down the back hall and into the woodshed—smelling wonderfully of freshly chopped wood—where they don their outdoor gear. Bradley opens the door and a bitter wind gusts into the woodshed. Bradley and Henry go out first, then Ian and Lauren. David goes next, and Beverly steps in front of Gwen and follows David.
Gwen goes last, behind Riley, and pulls the woodshed door shut behind her. The sky is sullen and the wind violent. Gwen can’t see much directly in front of her—just Riley’s back—as they trudge single file down the cleared path, banks of snow on either side. But she looks up to the forest beyond, where the wind is giving the trees a thrashing. Riley says something to her over her shoulder, but Gwen can’t catch the words before the wind tears them away and they are lost. The tip of her nose is already freezing. At least there are no large trees to come crashing down between the woodshed and the icehouse. Finally they stop and the path widens out into a cleared area in front of the icehouse and she can see.
It looks like an igloo, or a Quonset hut made of snow. The front, however, is made of large blocks of ice cut and fitted together. A pair of wooden doors is affixed to the ice somehow. Gwen studies it with interest.
“The doors are the only part not made of ice or snow,” Bradley says, his breath puffing out clouds. “It has to be rebuilt every winter—and then it melts.”
“That’s a lot of work for something that just melts,” Beverly says, her face pinched with cold.
“But the beauty of it is, it looks different every year,” Bradley says. “They do different designs, different sculptures. Wait till you see inside.”
“So you don’t make this yourself,” Ian says.
“Hell, no.”
Bradley opens the door and they all step inside.
Gwen gasps. It’s like stepping into a sparkling, twinkling fairyland. Beneath a vaulted ceiling, the curved bar is sculpted out of translucent ice. In front of it are several barstools, also carved from ice. Behind the bar, bottles rest on ice shelves, shimmering in the unusual light.
Bradley steps behind the bar, a bright spot of color with his red wool hat, and says, “I highly recommend the vodka martinis.”
Gwen waits for her drink and looks around. Apart from the bar itself, there are small round tables with curved seats, also made of ice. But it’s the sculpture over the bar that really takes her breath away. It’s a bird of prey with its wings spread out and its feet extended—even the claws—as if it’s about to land on its quarry. It’s huge—the full length of the bar—and it seems to hover over Bradley as he mixes the martinis.
David appears beside her and hands her a large martini glass with gloved hands. Now that she’s facing him, she finds she’s nervous. “I wouldn’t want to be in here without my winter coat,” she says.
She can feel Riley’s eyes on her, watching her, but she doesn’t care.
“Quite beautiful,” David says.
“It is, isn’t it?” Gwen agrees.
“I wasn’t talking about the icehouse,” he whispers.
She feels herself melting, even in all this cold. Riley is wrong. David cannot be the man she’s thinking of. Riley is confused. Riley’s confused about a lot of things.
David takes a gulp of his martini, watching her. Gwen flushes and says, more loudly, “Candice really should see
this.”
“She’s in the library,” Bradley says, from behind the bar. “She asked not to be disturbed.”
“I think she’d be sorry to miss the ice bar,” Gwen says. “It’s pretty fabulous.”
Bradley smiles. “I think you’re right. I’ll run in and see if I can coax her to come out,” he says, stepping out from behind the bar.
“Relax,” David says, chiding her gently. She smiles nervously at him and sips her vodka. He lowers his voice and says, “I think we should find a time and a place to talk. Just the two of us.”
She nods. They obviously can’t talk now, in this confined space, with so many people around. With Riley looking on. But they must talk soon. She is both looking forward to it and dreading it.
* * *
• • •
Bradley steps back outside into the blustery wind and heads for the woodshed, his head down and collar up. The pleasant smile falls away. There’s always so much to do, owning a hotel, he thinks tiredly. It’s endless. Running around, being nice to people. This bunch is pleasant enough. But he doesn’t want to work in this hotel forever. Serving drinks and meals, picking up after people, being at their beck and call. His father wants him to take over the hotel someday, but Bradley doesn’t want to be stuck out here in the country, far from everything. As much as Bradley loves the place—and loves his dad—he’s itching to leave. He doesn’t want to be trapped here, catering to people with more money than him, with the freedom to go wherever they want. And unlike his father, he doesn’t love to cook.
But whenever he thinks about leaving, the guilt kicks in. He can’t leave his father here alone. He knows his father’s worried; he’s always worried. If his father would sell the hotel and retire, then Bradley would be free.
When he looks in the library, Candice isn’t there. He takes a quick look around the first floor, but doesn’t find her. She must be having a nap in her room, but he doesn’t feel like running up two flights of stairs to find out. For a moment he forgets about Candice. He has big plans. He’s going to get some money together and—
He hears his father call him from the kitchen. “Bradley, is that you?”
Bradley pops into the kitchen. “Yeah.”
“I need you to help me with the food prep. Can you start chopping?”
“No, I can’t,” Bradley snaps. His father looks up at him in surprise. “I’m supposed to be serving drinks in the icehouse.”
“What’s the matter with you?” his father asks, looking at him more closely. He says cautiously, “I hope I don’t have to remind you about not crossing the line with our guests.”
And that’s another thing Bradley can’t stand—being reminded of his place. He feels his temper flare. He doesn’t answer, just slams the door on his way out.
* * *
• • •
David is thinking how appealing Gwen looks in her bright-red ski jacket and pink-and-red-striped hat, when Bradley returns.
“She wasn’t in the library,” Bradley says. “I’m not sure where she is.”
By now everyone has finished their drinks and they’re getting cold. They decide to go back inside. When they leave the icehouse it’s starting to get dark. David sticks close to Gwen as they file back up the path to the woodshed in the deepening dusk, accompanied by the shrieking wind.
“This is what the wind is like on Mount Everest,” Riley says, once they’re inside the woodshed.
“Have you been?” Henry asks.
“No, but I saw the documentary.”
They return gratefully to the fire in the lobby. Some of them keep their hats and gloves on for warmth. Gwen stands in front of the flames, rubbing her hands together. David considers asking her to come with him somewhere else, where they can talk. Maybe they could go to the bar. He could make them a fire, and they could be alone. Bradley has gone to the library again to see if Candice is there. Lauren is in front of the reception desk, leaning over it, looking for a pen for a crossword.
Bradley returns to the lobby shaking his head. “She’s still not there. I’ve looked around down here. She must be in her room. I’ll check.”
David feels a twinge of unease. He wonders why Candice isn’t where she said she’d be. “I’ll come up with you,” he offers.
“I’ll come too,” Gwen says.
No one else shows any interest in going up those dark stairs. Bradley grabs one of the flickering oil lamps off the coffee table and uses it to light their way. It’s getting properly dark out now, hardly any light at all filtering in through the windows.
Bradley holds the lamp high, and David and Gwen follow. The oil lamp throws shadows on the dark-papered walls as they ascend. David has his cell phone’s flashlight on to provide more light for their footing. There’s not much charge left.
As they trudge up the stairs, Bradley says, “I saw her after lunch when I went to take the tray away. I told her we’d be having tea at four o’clock. She said she would come out if she wanted any tea, but otherwise she was not to be disturbed.” He adds, “It’s really a shame she missed the ice bar. But we can always go back out again.”
They reach the third floor, which if anything, David thinks, seems darker and gloomier than the floors below. It’s bloody cold. Candice’s room is to the left of the stairs, across from the housekeeping closet. Bradley knocks on the door. There is no response from within. He knocks again. David’s uneasiness has grown to a mild alarm, but he tries not to show it.
Bradley turns to him, looking worried. “Do you think we should open it?”
David hesitates. “Is there anywhere else she might be?”
“I’ve looked everywhere else.”
David nods. Bradley hands him the lamp and fishes the appropriate key out of the bunch. He feeds it into the lock and slowly opens the door. David holds the lamp high.
He sees Candice lying on the floor, her scarf pulled tightly around her neck.
Saturday, 5:35 p.m.
In the lurid light of the oil lamp, Gwen sees the body slumped on the floor, a flash of pale face, the pretty scarf around Candice’s throat, and screams. She feels David grab her with one strong arm and quickly pull her head into his chest so she can’t see Candice, but it’s too late. She feels the acid corroding her stomach, feels the bile slip up her throat.
Gwen trembles against David’s chest, trying not to be sick, her mind reeling. Dana had at least looked like an accident. Gwen hadn’t allowed herself to even think that it might be deliberate murder, despite what David said. She didn’t want to believe it. But there’s no mistaking this. Candice has been strangled with her own scarf.
Filled with dread, she hears the sound of running footsteps stumbling up the darkened stairs.
EIGHTEEN
Riley hears Gwen’s scream, and despite her own immediate fear, tears up the stairs. The others are close on her heels. She arrives at the open doorway to Candice’s room. The first thing she sees is Gwen with her face buried in David’s chest, to her right, and then, beyond them, the body on the floor. She gives a strangled cry, feels as if all the breath has left her body.
The others crowd around her, trying to see. Candice is clearly dead. They spill from the open doorway into the room. Riley steps to one side, allowing the others in. She feels her anxiety spiking, as her mind desperately tries to make sense of what this means. She sees Gwen pull away from David, and David places the oil lamp on the desk. It creates a pool of light around Candice, as if she’s an actress on the stage, under a spotlight. She doesn’t look real.
Riley can’t bear to look at the body anymore; she turns her attention to the others instead.
Bradley is staring at Candice as if he’s seen a ghost, grabbing the edge of the desk to steady himself.
David’s mouth is set in a grim line.
Gwen, beside him, has her hand pressed hard against her mouth, trying not to t
hrow up.
Ian mutters, “Dear God,” and stands flat-footed, as Lauren pushes past him to the body. She moves to pull the scarf loose, touching Candice’s neck.
“Get back, everyone,” David commands harshly. “There’s nothing we can do for her.”
Lauren sits back on her heels and looks up, pale and shaken.
Riley hears a sob and turns to see Henry and Beverly standing inside the open doorway, looking at Candice. Beverly is obviously trying to control herself. And now Matthew, tall and disheveled, appears in the darkness of the doorway, James, out of breath, behind him.
Riley turns her attention back to the body and forces herself to look. Candice is lying on her stomach, her head turned to the left. Her face is bloodless against the dark carpet. Her eyes are open wide in surprise. She is . . . ghastly. Terrifying.
There’s no coming back from death.
She begins to feel the familiar sensation of panic, and she closes her eyes briefly and breathes deeply, trying not to give in to it. She opens her eyes again. Everyone is in the room now, ignoring David’s command to stay back. She wonders, fleetingly, who is going to keep order now. She knows how quickly things can fall apart; she’s seen it.
Riley looks now at Gwen—Gwen is still standing close to David, and is looking at the dead woman too. Her face is crumpling like she’s about to cry. She’s too squeamish for this, Riley thinks.
“We must leave her as she is,” David says quietly. “The police will deal with it when they get here.”
“When is that going to be?” Lauren says, her voice tense.
“I don’t know,” David says.
“How can you be so calm?” Lauren asks, her voice shrill. “She’s been murdered! We need to get the police!”
“How the hell are we going to do that?” Henry shouts.
“I don’t know!” Lauren snaps. “But we’d better think of something.”
* * *
