by Emily Queen
Fickle Freddie couldn’t commit to a murder suspect any more than he could commit to one woman at a time. A flaw, to be sure, and one that Desmond seemed to share.
For now, the duo trailed behind the women while Frederick’s gaze surveyed the area in a protective gesture. As they approached the area near the staff quarters, the landscape changed from pristine white sand to that of a darker shade. More large rocks and boulders dotted the expanse of seaweed-strewn beach. This was part of the property no guest was supposed to lay eyes on, but the view of the mountains rising out of the sea was just as spectacular as it was from Rose’s balcony suite.
“Benny!” Rose called out as she approached the cluster of small cabins. Shrewdly, she cast an eye over each building and guessed which one was Benny’s based on the neat and methodical placement of stacked rocks along the walkway. They reminded her of the way Benny piled luggage on his cart.
“Go hide somewhere you can hear us, just in case,” Rosemary demanded of her brother and Des. “We’ll have better luck getting him to talk if we’re alone. Less intimidating.”
With the thought that he was to be considered intimidating, Frederick agreed, pulling Desmond into a thicket of bushes near an open window.
Someone was moving around behind the cabin door, and when she rapped on it, the noise abruptly turned to silence. Another rap elicited a brief flurry of movement, and the third an abbreviated oath.
“Who is it?” came Benny’s muffled, irritated voice.
“Benny, it’s Rosemary Lillywhite and Vera Blackburn. From the third floor. Can we speak to you a moment?”
“Off duty. Ask Gloria to hunt down the other porter,” he mumbled.
“We need to talk to you, Benny. It’s rather urgent,” Rose pressed. “Can we come inside?” She heard another thump and some shuffling before Benny finally opened the door.
“What do you want?” he asked unceremoniously but allowed them to step across the threshold. “Don’t have any tea or I’d offer you some.”
If Benny really was a murderous psychopath, he was certainly a polite one, though the way his eyes kept darting to the closed bedroom door made Rose somewhat uneasy.
“No, thank you,” she and Vera replied in unison.
Rosemary perched on the edge of a well-worn sofa while Vera chose a fluffy looking chair. When she sat, her rear end sunk so far into the cushion it was unlikely she’d be able to get out without help.
“Why aren’t you at work, Benny?” Starting off with simple questions seemed like the best plan.
“It’s Stan’s first day back after the accident. He works the mornings, and I work the afternoons. Didn’t Miss DeVant—” He trailed off as he remembered Cecily was no longer in charge of the schedule. “Gloria knows.”
“Gloria was attacked this morning, and something of yours was found nearby.” She let the bald statement sink in, watched the realization dawn on Benny’s face, and prepared for him to become angry. “Did you hurt Gloria? Or Miss DeVant?”
When he only frowned, she felt herself release a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding in. This was not a murderer, and not for the first time Rosemary vowed to listen to her intuition rather than the mutterings of gossip.
“Gloria was attacked?” Benny looked genuinely confused.
“I found this,” Rose said, holding out the bronze lighter, “on the floor near the supply closet after Gloria was attacked. Then, she said you were supposed to come in for the morning shift, and when you didn’t arrive…well, it looks suspicious,” Rosemary said.
Benny sat down and put his head in his hands. “She must have forgot Stan was supposed to work today. I always show up for my shifts.” There was a long pause while his eyes clouded over. “I lost my lighter two days ago, and I’d never hurt Miss DeVant; she’s the one who gave that to me,” he finally said, swallowing heavily. “I wasn’t even up at the hotel that night. I was here, in my cabin.” His eyes flicked to the closed bedroom door again, and Rosemary’s narrowed on him.
“Tell the truth, Benny,” she said gently.
Vera reached over, gave Benny one of her million-watt smiles, and patted his arm, “Whatever your secret is, you can tell us.”
Benny’s shoulders slumped, and he sighed as though he’d been carrying the weight of the world on them. He walked to the bedroom door, opened it, and bent down. A tiny ball of fur catapulted from inside and into Benny’s arms. The little dog licked his face, which turned up into a smile so heartbreakingly innocent that Rose felt her worries melt.
“I’m not supposed to have him here. It’s against the rules.”
Rose exchanged a look with Vera, a sudden and disturbing thought occurring to her. “Did Miss DeVant find out about him?” Her voice was filled with trepidation now, and though he lacked certain mental capacities, Benny’s eyebrows quirked at her tone.
“Miss DeVant was also the one who found Alfie and gave him to me. You think I would have killed her over a dog?” It seemed to make him sad again, which in turn made Rosemary feel worse than if she’d kicked the puppy.
“Of course not, Benny,” she said, apologetic now.
Benny picked up the puppy and sat down with the wriggling little bundle in his lap. Alfie turned around twice and laid down, looking up at his companion with love in his canine eyes. It wasn’t hard to see why Cecily might have broken a hotel rule; she’d never seen Benny happier, and she guessed he didn’t have much happiness in his life.
“She was walking one of the trails one day and found him. He was so small he could fit right in my hand. Must have been the runt and got left behind.” It was something Benny seemed to identify with, though how such a hulking man could have started out life as a runt was difficult to imagine. “She brought him to me, and said as long as Alfie was quiet, I could keep him.”
“That sounds like something Cecily would do,” Rosemary agreed. She hadn’t known the woman long, but she had no doubt she was correct.
Benny looked straight into Rosemary’s eyes. “I was out walking Alfie when Miss DeVant was killed, but I wish I had been there. Maybe I could have helped her.”
“You were not to blame for what happened,” Vera said, continuing her role as the good cop in the scenario, but Benny didn’t seem content.
“Can you tell us where you went and who you saw?” Rosemary asked, grasping at straws for some tidbit of information that might help them move forward and figure out who really did kill Cecily.
His eyes on the dog, Benny took a moment to think. “I went where I always go. To a little spot along the beach where the boulders make a circle.” Rosemary knew exactly the spot he was referring to because it was the same one she and her friends had discovered their first afternoon at the hotel. The dog mess she’d noticed must have been Alfie’s. “We like to go late at night because then Alfie can run around and make noise without bothering anyone. I saw Charlotte pop out of her cabin when I was on my way back, but she went back inside and didn’t wave hello like she usually does.” Benny’s focus returned to Alfie, and it appeared the conversation was over.
“All right then. Thank you, Benny,” Rosemary said and turned to leave.
“I hope you figure out who killed Miss DeVant. If I can help in any way…” were Benny’s final words on the subject.
When Rosemary and Vera finally exited the cabin, Desmond and Frederick were waiting for them. They’d been listening through the window and already knew what had transpired, but that didn’t stop Rosemary from bragging. “See, I told you it wasn’t him.”
“You don’t know that for sure,” Frederick sulked. “He could have been lying.”
Rosemary rolled her eyes, “He’s not, and furthermore, it puts a kink in your theory that Charlotte is the murderer. She was in her cabin, just like she said she was.” With that, she turned her attention to what she considered a bigger issue. “What I can’t understand is what sort of violence Gloria was referring to.” Rose paused and thought back. “She said, ‘that Ben fellow was in a
right state last night.’ And then Walter said something along the lines of ‘Could be he had another violent episode.’ I assumed the Ben fellow was Benny, but maybe I was wrong.”
“She could have meant Benjamin Marlowe!” Vera exclaimed, finishing Rosemary’s sentence.
“She certainly could have.”
Ignoring the idea of Benjamin Marlowe completely, Frederick muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath, and pulled Desmond ahead, leaving the women trailing behind. “We have some finer points to discuss,” he said as he sailed by, his nose stuck in the air. “See you later.”
Chapter 18
When Rosemary and Vera returned to the hotel, Benjamin Marlowe was nowhere to be found, and neither was Max. “He must still be in with the inspector,” Rosemary commented.
Richard Wright, still appearing quite pleased with the fact that at least a few guests had checked out of the hotel, finished his breakfast and approached the reception desk. Rosemary checked her watch and realized the ordeal with Benny had taken less than an hour.
“Make sure you take down all my messages, girl,” Mr. Wright said in his usual brusque manner. “I’ve got some business in town, and I’ll be gone all afternoon.”
“Leaving us the perfect opening to snoop around his room,” Vera said under her breath. “Luck is on our side today.” They made for the lift and asked the operator to return them to their floor. After he’d gone back inside and closed the door, they made a beeline for suite 305.
With no shame whatsoever, Vera did the honors of opening Mr. Wright’s door using the stolen key from the front office. That poor Margaret had lost wages over the theft weighed heavily on Rosemary’s conscience. The only reason Gloria hadn’t let the woman go altogether was to save herself having to work round the clock. Once Cecily’s murder was solved, Rose vowed to tell Gloria the truth, providing Gloria wasn’t the culprit, of course.
The pair tiptoed inside and placed the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the outside of the door. “There, we ought not to be interrupted,” Vera said with satisfaction. The suite was a duplicate of their room, complete with a coat cupboard near the entrance door. “I’ll check the bedroom. You look around in here,” Vera suggested.
Rosemary nodded in agreement and went to work searching the myriad cupboards and drawers large enough to hold a typewriter. The room appeared to be in perfect order, though it seemed more likely due to Mr. Wright’s own efforts as opposed to Charlotte’s, given the limits of her expertise. Not one cushion was out of place; no speck of dust dared mar the surface of any desk, table, or bureau.
When Vera opened the clothes cupboard, she found more of the same: perfectly ironed garments organized first by occasion and then by color, and three cases piled neatly next to a row of meticulously shined shoes. In the bathroom, soaps and shaving things lined up like soldiers next to a stack of uniformly folded towels.
“There’s something wrong with this man.” Vera’s voice floated out to the other room, where Rosemary smirked at the observation.
“He’s certainly particular, but we already knew that.”
Vera lifted the covers to check under the bed and found the sheets tucked ruthlessly tight.
“What we need to find out is whether he’s also a violent psychopath with homicidal tendencies,” Rosemary mused.
“You sound like a psychology textbook, Rosie,” Vera laughed. “Unfortunately, I don’t see a typewriter.”
“Neither do I,” she replied absently. He traveled lightly, with only a few personal possessions dispersed throughout the room. On an end table lay a stack of old but gently worn books, each with its own bookmark. Rosemary stopped to examine two framed portraits that sat in a place of reverence on the desk. One, a family of three featuring a younger Mr. Wright and a woman holding a baby, was faded with time. The other, crisper and more recent, was of a little girl in a frilly dress with an angelic smile on her round face. Whoever else he might be, Richard Wright someone this was a husband, a father, and perhaps even a grandfather, if Rosemary’s assumptions were correct.
“There’s nothing suspicious here at all,” she finally had to admit. As soon as she spoke the words, she noticed a leather folio tucked beneath the desk. She hesitated, her fingers itching to take a peek inside, but her reluctance to further invade another’s privacy warred with the compulsion. They’d only wanted to know whether Mr. Wright kept a typewriter, and since the folio wasn’t big enough to hold one, their mission had ended.
A sound outside the door startled Rosemary out of her contemplation. “Vera,” she hissed, “Someone’s coming.”
Vera poked her head out of the bedroom, and the pair exchanged looks of panic.
“Come here,” Vera hissed and pulled Rosemary into the coat cupboard. They shut themselves inside in the nick of time and heard the snicking sound of the suite door closing.
“Maybe it’s just the maid,” Vera whispered hopefully.
“Shh,” Rose replied, though she wished the same thing. If Charlotte had come to take care of Mr. Wright’s room, she’d find little to do and would, perhaps, simply leave and allow them to escape this futile endeavor. She scooted slowly towards the back of the cupboard, her arms stretched out behind her for support. Something hard and sharp, most likely a nail, poked out of the pile carpet and took a swath of skin from Rosemary’s hand. She stifled the urge to cry out and wrapped her skirt around her hand to keep the blood trickling from the scratch from staining the floor.
Barely daring to breathe, they waited, listening as whoever was in the room walked to and fro as if searching for something. When he cleared his throat, they knew it was Mr. Wright himself, and Rosemary’s heart sank. There came a clicking noise, and the shrill ring of the phone followed by Mr. Wright’s impatient tones. “What are you doing calling me here? Leaving messages with hotel staff?”
He paused, waited for an answer while Vera grabbed Rosemary’s arm and squeezed. Though Rosemary assumed the gesture had something to do with the dire situation they had got themselves into, in actuality Vera felt a sneeze coming on and was trying desperately to remain quiet.
“No, I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to--” Mr. Wright paused. “Yes, I know the situation isn’t ideal, but you have to be patient,” he sighed.
“Yes, yes, I’m doing my best. What more do you want from me?” Apparently, dear had a long list because Mr. Wright was quiet for a few moments.
“How could I have predicted the family would request the body be sent back for burial and not send someone to attend the memorial?” Pause. “Yes, I know it has been weeks, but I thought I had a clear shot, and now I need to reassess. I assure you; I will find a way to close this deal so we can go home. Now, I was on my way to you when I got your message. Yes, yes, very good.” Mr. Wright set the receiver back with less delicacy than a man as particular as he might normally have done and muttered under his breath.
He paced a few moments more and then opened the door to leave. Vera, unable to hold in the sneeze any longer, expelled one of her dainty squeaks and then clapped her hand over her mouth. Rosemary held her breath, but Mr. Wright stopped short and spun around to look for the source of the noise.
With trepidation because, after all, one person had been murdered and another one attacked within the week, he picked up a weapon and walked slowly back towards the cupboard. When he flung open the door brandishing a bright yellow brolly like a sword, his face screwed up into a scowl that was meant to appear formidable but was more akin to mortal fear, it was almost enough to make Rosemary laugh out loud.
“What on earth are you doing in my room?” he exclaimed once he realized he was in no immediate danger. “You two meddling women are trespassing. I’m calling the police!” He turned towards the telephone while Rosemary and Vera scrambled up from their spots on the floor.
“No, wait,” Rosemary pleaded, attempting to reach out and stop him. When Mr. Wright turned around and caught sight of the blood on her dress, his face went as white as the sheets on his
immaculately made bed.
He backed away from her, and asked, somewhat more gently, “Are you hurt? Is that why you were hiding in here?”
She could have lied, got away with the whole debacle, but instead took a more direct approach. “I’m hurt, yes, but it’s just a scratch. We…well, we thought you might be the murderer. Or, at the very least, the person who had been trying to blackmail Cecily DeVant.”
“Why that’s preposterous,” he retorted. His eyes rolled back when he caught sight of the blood for the second time.
This was not a man who was capable of murder, or at least not via the way Cecily had died. If he’d wanted her dead, he was far more likely to have slipped a bit of poison into one of her cocktails. Richard Wright simply didn’t have the stomach for the kind of brutality that Cecily had endured.
“I didn’t want the woman dead, and I certainly didn’t blackmail her. I don’t know what you’re talking about. In fact, the whole idea is preposterous,” he seemed completely taken aback as he repeated the assertion. “Believe you me, Miss DeVant had no skeletons in any of her cupboards. So far as I’m concerned, the only secret the woman had was who actually owns this hotel, and that information she took to her grave. The public records list a business name that, for all intents and purposes, is a front.”
“Why are you so intent on buying a hotel that isn’t for sale?” she demanded. Her hand had started to throb now that the adrenaline rush of being caught snooping had drained, and she was both irritable and past ready to return to her suite, clean herself up, and take a rest. “The letters we found in Cecily’s handbag certainly sounded like they could have come from you.”
He had the decency to look somewhat contrite, and Rosemary guessed he’d done enough research on her to know that for a fact. While he might not have actually resorted to blackmail in this case, he’d certainly considered it and only kept his conscience clean because he hadn’t found anything incriminating enough to carry out his plan. Which begged the question of who, if not a conniving businessman, would have known where exactly to press Cecily.
