By Familiar Means

by Delia James

“I beg your pardon?”

  “Jimmy Upton was held down in a sink until he drowned. Why do you think your mother could do that?”

  “I don’t. But I think she could have gotten it done.”

  “But why?”

  “Because before Jimmy vanished, she was furious. Rich said she had a screaming fight with him. No, I don’t know about what,” she added before I had a chance to ask. “But when he didn’t come back, she was . . . entirely calm. My mother is never calm about a personal betrayal, unless she’s found a way to make the person pay for it.”

  She’s had to fight tooth and nail for everything she has, Grandma B.B.’s words came back to me. “I’m guessing she’d see you working out a separate deal with Shelly Kinsdale and Dreame Royale as a betrayal as well.”

  “And we’re back to that.”

  “You can’t be surprised.”

  “No. Of course not. It was all going to come out soon anyway.” There was a world of regret under those words. “All I ask is that you try to believe me when I say I am not doing this to break my family. I’m doing it to try to save them.”

  “Save them, how?” I felt my eyebrows inch up. All the Hildes kept claiming they were trying to save the hotel and the family. “By setting up some direct competition? Or are you just going to make sure that there’s a deal in place for Dreame Royale to pick up the property when things finally sink?”

  The words came out much harsher than I meant them to, but my jitters were getting worse, fueled by this glittering office and the feeling that I was finally getting close to the answer. The problem was, the answer might be that Christine was right. The person responsible for Jimmy Upton’s murder might just be my grandmother’s former classmate.

  “You have to understand, Miss Britton, all I’ve got in this world is my family, and all my family’s got is this great big godforsaken building.” Christine spread her hands. “It is going to close. You have no idea what the maintenance costs are or how empty we’ve been the past several seasons. I’m tired to death of the fights to try to stave off the inevitable. I’m sick of playing both ends against the middle to try to get the rest of them to do anything practical.” The word was steeped in bitterness. “But if I can get the new property up and running in time, maybe there’ll be a safety net for the family when this place finally has to close.”

  “And being able to show them all you were right isn’t so bad either.”

  Christine didn’t even flinch. “Maybe I could have saved Harbor’s Rest, if I was given a chance. But my brothers won’t let me try, and my mother”—she stabbed a finger toward the door—“stopped listening to me years ago. I’m not like Jimmy or Rich, Miss Britton. I’m not charming. I can’t smile and hold her hand and flatter her about all the sacrifices she made for the rest of us. Mother can try to arm wrestle an expansion out of the zoning board, Dale can go into denial, and Rich can run all the interference and charm offensive with the opposition he wants. It’s not going to do any good. I’ve seen the numbers. It. Is. Too. Late.”

  “Dale’s the financial manager; is that what he thinks?”

  Christine shook her head. “Dale can’t separate the family from the building. To him, if we lose one, we lose the other.”

  Just like his mother, then. I pictured Dale in his great-grandfather’s office. I heard the pride in his voice as he talked about inheriting that particular space.

  “Then Dale doesn’t know about you and Dreame Royale either?” I asked.

  She smiled bitterly. “Not yet. If he did, I’d be the one in the tunnel. Or the police station.”

  Those sad, soft, angry words sank deep into me. I suddenly felt very sorry for Christine, sitting alone in here, sealed off from the building she grew up in, talking to me instead of to her family.

  I think something of what I thought must have showed in my face, because Christine’s granite facade began to crumble. Her face fell into its natural lines, and they were deep, worried grooves around her eyes and her brow. She looked tired. She looked old. “Do you know what it’s like to think someone in your family is capable of such a thing?”

  “It must be terrible.”

  “I can’t sleep,” she whispered, and a tremor crept into her voice. “I can’t focus. I keep thinking, is there something I should have seen, or done? And then there are my children. She’s their grandmother. I think about them coming home for Christmas and being with her while this thing is hanging over our heads and I . . . I swear it’s like I’m about to pass out.”

  I could believe that. Just talking about it, Christine had gone very pale under her suntan.

  “I want to find out who killed Jimmy Upton, whether or not the evidence will hold up in court. As long as I know”—she tapped her chest with one neatly manicured finger—“then I don’t have to go on suspecting my mother. And if”—she took a deep breath—“if I’ve got to get ready for the worst, then I want some warning. I just want to be able to talk to her. Try to reason with her.” Christine bit her lip.

  “You know I’m a friend of Jake and Miranda’s?” I reminded her. “Aren’t you afraid I might lie to protect them?”

  To my surprise, she gave me a small, tight smile. “I’m in marketing, Miss Britton. You get very good at reading other people in this business. What I’ve seen so far tells me you’re just not that good a liar.”

  Well, she had me there.

  “So how does Kelly Pierce fit into all this?”

  If Christine was surprised, she didn’t show it. “Kelly’s got years of experience at hotel management, plus about a thousand connections for suppliers and staffing. She’s the backbone of the entire plan and she’s going to be a full partner.” Christine leaned forward. “Well, Miss Britton? Will you help me?”

  I swallowed. “I’ve got a question first.”

  She waved, indicating I should go ahead.

  “Do you know anything about the tunnel?”

  Christine rolled her eyes. “Good lord. That tunnel again. All right. No. I don’t know anything about it. Have I heard it existed? Yes. When I was a little girl. Did I look for it? Yes. Again, when I was a little girl. I never found it.”

  And that made it unanimous. Not a single Hilde would admit to knowing about an entrance to the tunnel. They’d all grown up right here. They’d been rambunctious, curious kids, running around on these lawns, exploring these hallways, playing hide-and-seek in the basements and storerooms, and none of them had found something as cool as a secret door.

  Maybe everybody else was right. Maybe it really had been bricked, or cemented, over during one of the renovations.

  I did not like that idea. Because if it was true, then the only way for Jimmy Upton’s body to have gotten into the tunnel was through the old drugstore, right under Jake’s and Miranda’s noses. Which brought us back to Chuck and to the Luces.

  “Did you ever look in the hotel archive for hints?” I tried.

  Christine gave me a blank look. “Archive? What archive?” She paused. “You don’t mean the file closet?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I found a photo in a book with a caption that said it came from the Harbor’s Rest private archives.”

  Christine laughed. “Wow. Someone was being kind. We’ve got a collection of old records and clippings, photos, all that, that goes back for, well, forever, but we’ve never had the resources to catalogue them properly.”

  “So you haven’t looked at them? Or told the police the records exist?”

  “The police didn’t ask. They were all about the security camera footage and the information from the time clocks. And, no, I haven’t looked myself, because frankly, between dealing with the police and the press and Shelly Kinsdale, I haven’t had time or reason. You’re welcome to go digging yourself if you want.” She paused. If there was a clearer indication that Christine really wanted to find out what had happened to Jimmy
Upton, I don’t know what it would be. But she wasn’t done. “This will be on the condition you promise to tell me what you find before you go to the police or Frank.”

  “If I can,” I said.

  Her perfectly made-up face twisted tight, and for a moment I saw the very strong resemblance between her and her mother. “I’ll have to settle for that, then.” She opened the center drawer of the desk and pulled out a set of keys. “I’ll take you down there, but I really don’t think you’re going to find anything.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’ll understand when you see it. Come on.”

  I grabbed my purse and portfolio and followed her out into the hall. Instead of turning toward the lobby, she took us in the other direction. I assumed we were headed for a flight of service stairs, but before we got there, the fire door flew open in front of us and Rich Hilde, flushed and out of breath, shot out.

  “Christine!” He pulled himself up short.

  “Rich,” replied his sister. “What’s the matter this time?”

  He didn’t seem to notice the strained patience in her voice. “Have you seen Mother this morning?”

  “Not yet, why?”

  “I can’t find her, and Dale . . .” His eyes skittered back to me. “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t realize you were still—”

  Christine cut him off with a curt gesture. “Never mind that. What’s Dale done?”

  “He’s fired Kelly Pierce.”

  37

  “You did not just say that.” Christine grabbed her brother’s shoulders, and I swear, she actually shook him. “Dale did not just fire Kelly!”

  But Rich was looking over my shoulder, and whatever he saw made his eyes pop open. Of course I looked, too, and so did Christine. We both saw Dale striding down the corridor, slicking back his hair with one hand.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did fire her,” he said as he stopped in front of us. “And I’d fire you both if I could. But as it is, we’ll have to wait until Mother gets back to tell her the whole sorry story.” He glowered at me. “And you, Miss Britton, can leave, right now.”

  “Dale, Chrissy.” Rich held up both hands. “We don’t have to do this.”

  “No, we really do,” said Dale coldly. “Chrissy hasn’t left us any choice.”

  “Not here,” announced Christine. “My office, both of you. Now.”

  That was the last I heard before I stepped through the doorway and into the lobby.

  I slid sideways until I was out of the line of sight for the hallway. The lobby was empty, except for Miss Boots lounging on one of the benches. I couldn’t see either of the McNallys behind the bar.

  What should I do now? Head for home? Dale would never let me back in. Try to find Kelly Pierce? Who did I know who would know where she lived? I dug my hand into my purse, reflexively reaching for my wand to try to help focus my thoughts. But my wand wasn’t there. I was alone.

  On her bench, Miss Boots rolled over onto her back and gave me a long, unblinking look.

  “Right,” I whispered. Of course I wasn’t alone. I was on my own for the moment, but there was a difference.

  I knew what I had to do, and thanks to my previous visit, I knew how to do it.

  * * *

  The staff locker room, with its time clock, was right at the bottom of the service stairs. When I got down there, the place was deserted. All the staff was already at work, and it was hours until shift change. I walked in and looked around quickly. It took only a minute to see what I was looking for. There was a new, computerized time card on the far wall, and hanging on a hook next to it was a clipboard.

  Bingo.

  I slipped my portfolio into the narrow space between the bank of lockers and the wall and helped myself to the board. I fished a pen out of my purse.

  I might not have worked in a hotel, but I’d done my share of service-industry jobs, and there was one thing I’d learned. No one ever asks questions of the person with the clipboard. That person is always making notes about something, and you probably do not want it to be you.

  With pen in hand and my best determined look on my face, I strode out into the streaming, bustling basement of the Harbor’s Rest.

  Val had it one hundred percent right. The place was huge. I’d gotten only a hint of that when I’d been down here before. It was also full to the brim with staff. The kitchen was a madhouse of shouts and activity and smells and steam. It was nearly as hot as the laundry with its racks of clothes and the monster machines you could have washed my entire wardrobe in and had room left over for all the bedsheets and towels I’d ever owned.

  I didn’t find any sign of the tunnel door. I didn’t really expect to. I might not trust Blanchard to know his posterior from his highly muscled elbow, but Pete definitely did. If he hadn’t been able to find it, I wasn’t going to—at least, not this easily.

  But I also didn’t find that extra-special Vibe that indicates that a murder had happened here. Not that I was actively breaking my magical apprenticeship oath. I kept my mental shields in place the entire time. Pinkie-promise. But I knew from painful experience that the feeling left behind from someone being killed is especially strong, because not only is there the echo of the dying person; there’s the rage and remorse and fear of the person who committed the act.

  I did not have a lot of faith in my own ability to block all that out, at least not entirely. I should have felt something, somewhere. But I didn’t, and that really did worry me. Because if Jimmy Upton wasn’t killed down here, where there were more different sinks and washtubs than you could shake a stick at, and he wasn’t killed in the old drugstore, where had he been killed?

  I kept walking and I kept making fake notes and I kept looking. Nobody stopped me. Nobody asked if they could help me. I was somebody else’s problem and they all had work to do. Time stretched out. I wondered where the Hildes were and if any of them was about to come down here. I wondered what they were saying to one another upstairs. Probably it was loud. I remembered the sketch of Christine shouting at both her brothers. Maybe that hadn’t been the past I was drawing. Maybe that scene was happening right overhead.

  I found the room full of wires and circuit breakers that must have been the power plant. I found the furnaces. I found storerooms for dirty laundry (you do not want to know about the smell), another for Dumpsters (ditto), and another full of workbenches where two guys in jeans and leather aprons were busy repairing chairs and lamps. I found the break room with the vending machines and the room for the carpet-cleaning equipment and the clean linens.

  And, finally, just as I was beginning to lose hope and nerve, and, worse, realizing I’d made a full circuit and was heading back toward the locker room, I found a scuffed white door with some badly chipped black lettering:

  F I E S

  “Fos and fums.” I breathed. I also tried the knob. Of course it was locked.

  I gripped my pen. A woman with deep brown skin wearing a gray housekeeper’s dress was pushing a laundry cart down the hall toward the elevators. “Excuse me,” I said. “Can you open this for me?”

  She gave me the once-over with her tired eyes. She saw my professional outfit and my clipboard. “Sure thing,” she said in a lilting Jamaican accent.

  I smiled and she pulled the key ring on its stretchy cord off her belt and unlocked the door. “There you go.”

  “Thank you.” I made a note on my clipboard and walked inside without looking back.

  The smell of dust and damp paper engulfed me. I found the switch on the wall and flipped it. The fluorescent lights buzzed as they came on and I saw Christine had not been exaggerating.

  The room really was little more than a closet. It was also stuffed to the brim. There were eight full-sized filing cabinets. All of them had cardboard boxes piled on top. Above those was a battered shelf filled with yet more boxes. Not one of them was labeled that I coul
d see.

  I turned in place. The portion of me that got an A in art history cried out at the horrible state of all these precious documents. The part of me that wanted to find out who killed Jimmy just growled in the extremes of frustration. How was I supposed to go through more than a hundred years’ worth of accumulated paper by myself?

  Fortunately, I knew just whom to call for help.

  I shut the door and twisted the knob lock. I faced the room again. I took a deep breath and tried to focus my mind. Julia was probably not going to be happy when she found out about this, but at this point I was willing to take a chance.

  “Alistair,” I said to the empty, dusty air. “Here, kitty, kitty.”

  Nothing happened.

  “Come on, Alistair,” I said. “Please?”

  Still nothing. I sighed. We really were going to do this, weren’t we?

  “I’ll buy more tuna,” I said. “I promise.”

  “Merow.”

  I blinked. Alistair, who was now sitting on the edge of the high shelf, blinked back.

  “Yes, well, thank you,” I told him. But then I hesitated. I’d successfully summoned my familiar (go, Team Anna!), but now what? I wasn’t even sure what I was looking for. Blueprints? Photos? News clippings? The clues I needed could be in any of those, or all of them.

  “Mer-oow,” grumbled Alistair. He jumped off the shelf onto one of the stacks of boxes, and from there all the long way down to the floor.

  Behind him, the top box slipped and teetered. Without thinking, I dropped pen and clipboard and lunged forward. Of course I missed. Of course the box hit the floor and burst, sending a cascade of papers sliding across the floor.

  I stood there, hand pressed across my mouth, waiting for the sound of shouts and running feet. But no one called out or rattled the knob, and slowly I was able to start breathing again.

  “Meow?” Alistair picked his way delicately across the grimy floor. There was a distinct what is your problem, human? tone to his complaint.

  “I wonder where Julia adopted Max and Leo from,” I muttered as I crouched down to start scooping papers up. “They don’t seem to have to make a mess to find something.”