A Deadly Row

by Casey Mayes

  “True.”

  As we walked through the lobby, I noticed several of the staff watching us surreptitiously. When I caught a glance or two, there was always a smile backing it. I wasn’t sure what I’d done to merit their goodwill, but I wasn’t about to rebuff it.

  I walked toward the main elevator, but Garrett touched my arm to stop me.

  “It’s this way,” he directed. He showed me to a nondescript nook in the lobby that I hadn’t noticed before. Garrett opened a door to reveal a private elevator. He held the door open, swiped his card, and then started to get out.

  “Aren’t you going with me?”

  “It’s Mr. Lane’s orders. No one is allowed upstairs without his direct consent. If there’s anything you need, at any time, it is yours to ask.”

  “Thanks,” I said, but the doors were already sliding closed. I didn’t know why I was so nervous about seeing Barton Lane again, but I was. Perhaps it was because I was seeing him on his home turf. Maybe it was due to the light bag of memories I was taking him. Whatever the reason, I was as nervous as a teenage girl on her first date.

  I wasn’t sure what I was expecting when the elevator doors opened. Our suite was elegant, so I couldn’t imagine how nice the penthouse must be. It didn’t let me down, either. The floors were tiled with marble, and the furniture looked to be all antiques. The ceiling in the entryway was at least twenty feet high, and there was a crystal chandelier hanging that looked like it would fit in a presidential palace. I took all of that in in a moment, because the second I saw Barton Lane’s face, I knew that the man was in some serious pain, and I didn’t have time to look around at my surroundings anymore.

  “Did you find her necklace?” he choked out.

  “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t, and I checked with my husband on the way over here. The police have no idea where it is, either.”

  He physically sagged at the news, and I had to step in to hold him up. What significance could that little cow pendant have for him?

  “Was it important?”

  “She loved cows, so I bought it for her on her twenty-third birthday. Cindy never went anywhere without it.”

  No wonder it had so much sentimental value to him. I had to do something.

  “I did find a few things that looked like they might hold memories for you,” I said.

  Barton nodded absently. “Let’s go into the study.”

  Wow, his suite had its own study. I had no idea this was how the wealthy lived. I couldn’t imagine the square footage Barton had in his home. As we walked through the foyer and past the formal dining room, it was like moving through a movie set. The only difference here was that everything was real.

  We entered a comfortable room the size of our living room at home, and I was suddenly surrounded by a timber-frame structure, a distressed old-growth pine floor, and a stone fireplace tucked neatly into one corner. There was oversized furniture in the room that made it look like a cozy retreat from the world. “I love this. It’s Timberlake, isn’t it?” Zach and I had been to the Bob Timberlake furniture gallery in Lexington, NC, an hour’s drive from Charlotte. We’d even met Bob there once, an artist of world renown who’d turned his talents to furniture as well.

  “Yes, he designed this set for me.” It was clear that Barton didn’t want to discuss furniture.

  I opened the bag in my lap so I could start pulling out its contents, but my host stopped me. “One item at a time, if you don’t mind.”

  I agreed, and reached in to withdraw the copy of Fahrenheit 451. “I wasn’t sure if this was significant or not.”

  He took it from me. “She told me a month ago that she’d never read it when she spied a signed hardcover in my library. I tried to give it to her, but she just laughed and insisted a used paperback copy would be fine. I kept her busy here, so she was reading it in bits and pieces, and we discussed it whenever she finished a new chapter.” He rubbed the cover of that book as if it were gilded in gold.

  After a moment, Barton set it aside and looked expectantly at me. My hand touched the wrapped photograph, and I paused to explain its presence before I brought it out.

  “My husband believes this might be significant,” I said, “so it’s important that no more fingerprints get on it. I have to hold it. I’m sorry, but he was most insistent.”

  “I understand,” Barton said.

  I took it out, carefully unwrapped the picture, and then held it so he could see it. I saw Barton frown, so I asked, “Do you know the man she’s with?”

  “It’s difficult to say, isn’t it? It surprises me, though.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “If Cindy had wanted to remove his image, she would have cut him out with scissors. I can’t imagine the circumstances where she would just tear it like that.”

  “Maybe she was angry about the breakup. Do you happen to know who she was dating at the time she died?”

  Barton sighed. “She was adamant about keeping her personal life and her work with me separate, so I never pried. Honestly, though I always thought of her more as a daughter than an employee, I wanted to respect her privacy.” He smiled softly as he added, “At least I decided to after the first time I asked her something personal. She may have looked serene on the outside, but the young lady had a spirit of fire.”

  I set the photograph aside, and retrieved the next picture. It was one of Barton and Cindy together, and as I handed it to him, I saw tears start to form in his eyes.

  “I’d forgotten she had a copy of this.”

  “When was it taken?”

  “Two years ago. We were in Chicago on business at one of my other hotels, and as we were walking through the lobby during the St. Patrick’s Day celebration, my manager took the photograph. I wasn’t pleased at the time—I dislike having my picture taken—but Cindy decided she wanted one of us together, and I had to be smiling. I did as she asked, and had a copy made for her. Excuse me a moment.”

  He left me alone in the study, and I wondered if he was stepping away to collect himself. It was clear he was being tortured by my little show-and-tell, but it was at his request, so I wasn’t going to stop unless he asked me to.

  When he came back, he was holding an oil painting, and its subject matter startled me. It was the same image as the photograph I’d found, carefully reproduced by someone very good with a paintbrush. “This hangs in my bedroom hallway,” he said. “I never showed it to Cindy.”

  “I’m sure she would have liked it,” I said.

  “I doubt it,” he said with a smile. “She would have thought I was indulging a whim. That’s why I kept it to myself.”

  He leaned the painting against the wall, and then took his seat. I pulled out the jewelry box, and Barton reached for it.

  “She made this herself,” he said as he stroked the wood. He opened it, looked through the jewelry, and then set it aside. “I’ll go through it later. Is there anything else?”

  I pulled out the last photograph, one clearly taken several years ago. Barton studied it a moment, and then he explained, “This was taken before she came to work for me.” He pointed to the two other girls in the photograph. “This is Samantha, and her name is Kayla.”

  “Have you met them?”

  “Absolutely. They came to my Christmas party every year. Two delightful young women, I must say.”

  “So, the three of them stayed in touch?”

  “Yes. In particular, Cindy and Samantha spoke every week, and they often took their vacations together.”

  “Where can my husband find Samantha?”

  “Do you think she might know something?” he asked, intent on my reply.

  “I can’t say, but Zach always says that police work is asking a lot of questions, and then boiling down the answers until something significant occurs to him. It might be nothing, but I’m sure my husband would like to speak with her.”

  “I’ll get you her address,” he said.

  He picked up the telephone, whispered into it, and after a
brief pause, he handed it to me.

  “Samantha Riggins can be reached at the following number and address.” It was a local area code, and I knew the address as being in the South End, one of Charlotte’s neighborhoods. At least Zach wouldn’t have to fly across the country to interview her.

  I handed the telephone back to Barton, and then looked back into the bag. “Sorry, that’s all that I could find. The police have a few items they’re holding for the investigation, but as I said, the necklace didn’t turn up.”

  “Perhaps the cleaning crew will find it.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ll send my best maids to work on her apartment right now. When they’re finished, I’ll go through anything else they might find.”

  I frowned at that, and Barton quickly added, “Don’t think what you did tonight didn’t matter. You walked in with me, and when I couldn’t take it, you carried out my wishes. These things you found,” he said as he swept a hand toward the coffee table, “mean more to me than this hotel, or any of my other holdings. You’ve done me a great service tonight. Is there any way I can repay you?”

  “You’re already putting us up in your nicest suite,” I said. “That’s thanks enough.”

  “Nonsense. That was to aid your husband in helping me, more than anything else. The debt I owe you is personal, Savannah, and I always pay my debts.”

  “Then you can be my friend,” I said.

  “That’s all you ask?”

  “It’s all I want.”

  “Then that’s what you shall have, my friend.”

  He stood, and I followed suit.

  As we walked out of the study, Barton asked, “Have you eaten yet?”

  “No, I haven’t had time,” I admitted.

  “I expect your husband will be eagerly waiting for you downstairs.”

  “The last time we spoke, he told me he’d probably be working half the night.”

  “Then may I be so bold to ask you to join me for dinner? I can’t promise much, but I make the best pancakes in the world, and I’d be pleased if you’d join me.”

  I laughed. “Pancakes? Really?” I hadn’t meant to sound so incredulous, but I couldn’t help myself. Being in the nicest luxury suite in one of the best hotels in Charlotte with the owner, and having him offer to make me a dinner-breakfast, was just a little too surreal for me.

  “My mother couldn’t cook much, but she was an excellent pancake maker, and she passed on her knowledge to me before I left home.”

  “That’s funny.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “We have a pancake dinner tradition in our family, too.”

  “It must be a southern thing,” he said lightly. “Would you care to join me?”

  “That sounds great.”

  We moved into his kitchen, with its cherrywood cabinets and industrial oven. There was a griddle imbedded in the marble-topped island, and stainless steel appliances were everywhere.

  As he mixed the batter and began pouring rounds onto the griddle top, I said, “I’ll set the table.”

  “Don’t bother. Why don’t we eat here at the island?”

  “Sounds good to me,” I said.

  “The plates are over there, and the silver is in that drawer.”

  I retrieved fine bone china from the cabinet, and sterling silver knives and forks. With the linen napkins he retrieved, I set our places, and added crystal goblets.

  “There’s milk and orange juice in the refrigerator,” he said.

  “Which would you prefer?”

  “I’d like milk myself.”

  I poured two glasses, found the butter as well, and turned to see that Barton had the syrup out, in crystal as well.

  When the first pancake was finished, he flipped it onto my plate. I waited for him, but he waved his spatula in the air. “Go on, they’re too good to eat when they’re right off the griddle to wait.”

  I added a little butter and a tad too much syrup, and then tasted it. He was looking expectantly, so I smiled as I said, “Delicious. These may be the best pancakes I’ve ever had, and that’s saying something.”

  “I add a touch of cinnamon to the batter,” he said. “It makes all the difference in the world, in my opinion.”

  We alternated eating pancakes after that, and after we were finished, I said, “I’d be glad to do the dishes.”

  “Thank you, but I have someone who does that for me.” He stared at me a second, and then asked, “Would you like to see my secret vice?”

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to. I was just warming up to the man. “Okay,” I said hesitantly.

  He laughed at my reluctance. “It’s nothing like that. We have to go on the roof, though.”

  I decided if I told him about my fear of heights, it would ruin the nice evening we’d shared. But there was no way I was going close to the edge. “Lead on.”

  To my surprise, we walked out to our common stairwell. “I keep this unlocked,” he explained as we walked up the short flight to the door. “No one has access to it but the top two floors, so you have my blessing to come and go as you please.”

  I couldn’t imagine the circumstances that I’d take him up on it, but I kept that to myself.

  Once we were on the roof, I changed my mind. The space, lit with gentle illumination, sported some chairs and a table, but what really caught my eye was a raised-bed garden, filled with tomatoes, beans, onions, and potatoes. “It’s great,” I said. “In fact, my uncle has something a lot like this.”

  “It’s the only way I can indulge my green thumb without leaving the hotel,” he explained. “There’s something about getting my hands dirty that I’ve never forgotten. It was one of my favorite childhood memories.”

  “I can tell that you really love it.”

  He smiled. “It’s the most calming thing I have in my life. Coming up here renews me somehow.”

  “How nice that must be,” I said as I stifled a yawn.

  “You must be exhausted after the day you’ve had.”

  During our meal, I’d regaled him with tales of my day in Hickory with Uncle Thomas, and he’d hung on every word. “I am beat,” I said. “Sorry I’m not better company.”

  “Savannah, you’ve been delightful. Let me walk you back downstairs.”

  We moved to the stairwell, and returned to Barton’s floor. He explained, “I’d let you back in through the stairwell on your floor, but the doors lock automatically. I’ll have that taken care of tomorrow, so you can come and go as you please.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate that.”

  Barton summoned the elevator. “I’m afraid this is an express elevator, so you’ll have to ride downstairs to the lobby before you can go to your suite.”

  “I don’t mind,” I said.

  He hesitated at the door, and then said, “Thank you for making something so painful bearable for me.”

  “I just hope I helped.”

  “More than I can tell you.”

  “Good night, then,” I said as I walked into the elevator.

  “Good night.”

  As I rode downstairs, I wondered how a man as wealthy as Barton Lane could be so lonely. It must be hard to have everything in the world at your disposal, and not have anyone to share any of it with. Had Cindy been that person for him? It would explain why he was taking her death so hard, and why he was so insistent that my husband find her killer. I wondered if Zach had made any progress, and as I rode down the elevator, I thought about calling him. If nothing else, he would be fascinated to hear that a multi-millionaire had made me dinner. There wouldn’t be the slightest twinge of jealousy there, something I was thankful for. My husband was secure in the knowledge that I loved him with all my heart, and that there wasn’t a man on the planet I’d prefer over him, regardless of how much money he had. I put my phone away instead of calling him, though. I knew when he was digging into the case, a distraction could cost him a train of thought, and it was more important now than ever that Zach focus on catching Cindy Glass’s killer.

&
nbsp; BACK IN MY SUITE, IT WAS HARD TO BELIEVE THE EXPERIences I’d had that day. I wanted, more than anything else, to share them all with Zach.

  A flashing light on the telephone caught my eye, and I picked up and replayed my messages.

  The first was from Uncle Thomas, wanting to make sure that I’d arrived back to Charlotte safely. It was amazing. I was a grown woman, and yet my uncle still worried about me. In a way, it felt good knowing that there was someone out there thinking of me beyond my husband. I didn’t have a fraction of the money Barton Lane had, but I had something he coveted nonetheless. There were people in my life who loved me, and that was something I couldn’t put a price tag on. I hit the pause button on the telephone, and then called Uncle Thomas.

  He picked up on the first ring. Instead of a normal greeting, he asked, “Savannah?”

  “It’s me,” I said. “I’m sorry. I should have called you when I got back. I just got wrapped up in a few things here.”

  “Nonsense, I know you’re too old to check in. I just had a bad feeling about you, so I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re having premonitions,” I said.

  “No, it’s nothing like that, but I dumped that box on you, and then I felt guilty about it. I’m not sure what your mother was thinking. I’m not a big fan of messages from beyond the grave.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing like that.”

  “You haven’t opened it yet?”

  “No,” I said as I looked at it, still sitting in its place on the coffee table. “I was planning to wait for Zach, and he’s going to be tied up most of the night.”

  “We should have opened it together. Knowing Astrid, it’s hard to tell what she put in there.”

  “Are there any family skeletons she could be telling me about?” I was honestly intrigued by the idea, but that didn’t mean I wanted to find out anything bad about my kinfolk. The South was long known for burying its secrets instead of exposing them to the light of day, but sooner or later, they almost always came out.

  “Not that I know of. The oddest thing that ever happened to us was Jeffrey taking off like he did.”