by Zara Keane
I shrugged. “Ask your wife. She seems to think I’m the answer to your prayers.”
“I said we might be able to come to a mutually beneficial arrangement,” Melanie said in a frosty tone. “Take a seat, Maggie.”
I obeyed, amused by the loaded looks Paul exchanged with Melanie. “Okay, cut to the chase. Why are you so keen to hire me? Even with staff quitting in droves, I’d have thought I’d be the last person you’d want hanging around the hotel.”
Paul winced at my reference to his staffing crisis. “Where did you hear about that?”
“Word travels,” I said vaguely, not wanting to get Sven and Marcus in trouble for gossiping. “You know what it’s like on the island.”
“If you already know about it, I’ll come to the point,” Melanie said. “We want to hire you to investigate whatever’s going on at the hotel. I don’t believe in ghosts, but I do believe in bank statements. We can’t afford to let this continue.”
Her husband reddened and loosened his tie, revealing the sheen of sweat around his neck. “Crazy as it sounds, people are spooked. We’re losing staff and guests. We need you to debunk the ghost theory and solve the mystery before the holiday season starts, preferably by St. Patrick’s Day.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. Watching Paul squirm was fun. “Much as I loved Ghostbusters as a kid, hunting spooks isn’t exactly my forte.”
Melanie pressed her lips into a thin line. “I think we can all agree that whoever is behind the wailing and clanking chains is still very much in the land of the living.”
“Have you spoken to the police?” I asked. “Isn’t this a job for them?”
“We made a formal report to Sergeant Reynolds,” Paul said, “but he says there’s no evidence that a crime has been committed and his hands are tied. He’s agreed to send a squad car by the hotel a couple of times a day, but I don’t see what good that will do.”
Melanie snorted. “This new guy is no better than Sergeant O’Shea. The least he could have done is agree to have a permanent police presence at the hotel. That would scare whoever is behind the pranks into stopping.”
Just as I’d started to think Melanie had finally grown up and started to see the world beyond her own orbit, she came out with an idiotic statement. “You know that Reynolds is pretty much on his own, right? As you said, O’Shea is a waste of space, and the two reserve policemen only work a few hours a week. And at the moment, he’s running all over the island in pursuit of these animal activists who are causing mayhem.”
“Well, it’s not good enough.” Melanie glared at me as though I were personally responsible for her problems. “We were expecting an influx of guests for the St. Patrick’s Day three-day weekend, but word of our…issues…has spread. Four reservations were canceled today.”
Paul grimaced. “Make that five. I was responding to another cancellation email when you and Maggie arrived.”
Melanie paled and swore beneath her breath. “This has to stop, especially with…” She trailed off and locked eyes with her husband.
“Especially with what?” I demanded.
Paul sighed. “The silent investor who owns the majority share of the hotel is planning to visit in the summer.”
“Meaning you’re under pressure to keep the hotel running smoothly,” I added.
“And solvent.” Melanie bit her red-stained lips. “Will you take the job?”
“That depends on what sort of financial arrangement we can come to.” I looked at Melanie and then at Paul. “I might need a job, but you’re not cheaping out on me. And I’m still working part-time at the café, so my hours here will have to fit around my shifts.”
The Greers looked at one another for a long moment. “We’ll pay you five thousand euros,” Melanie said finally, “if you find out who’s behind the poltergeist before St. Patrick’s Day.”
Five thousand euros for a week’s work? Not bad. I performed a rapid calculation in my head. The money would pay for an extra two months’ rent on my cottage—longer if I could strike a bargain with the real estate agent. “Make it six, and I’ll start tomorrow.”
“Five thousand five hundred,” Melanie countered, “and that’s my final offer. And we’ll pay you if you get the job done.”
Paul gaped at his wife. “Melanie, we can’t—”
“I’ll take it,” I said, “but you pay two thousand in cash before I start, and the rest when I get the job done.”
“Fair enough.” Melanie tottered over to the painting behind Paul’s desk and shoved it aside to reveal a safe underneath.
“Original,” I drawled. “Just where no criminal would think to look.”
Melanie gave me an ironic smile over her shoulder. “That’s what I’ve been saying for years, but my father-in-law won’t hear of replacing it. He even insists on paying the staff wages in cash.”
Paul shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Dad likes us to do things the way he did them. He doesn’t like change.”
I schooled my face into a serene smile. “I guess you cooking the books didn’t go down too well with your folks, huh?”
Paul’s face turned a fiery red and his lips parted as if to deliver an insult. Melanie cleared her throat and shot her husband a warning look. His jaw clenched, but he said nothing.
Melanie returned her attention to the safe and withdrew a wad of cash. She slipped it into an envelope and handed it to me. “Here’s the first installment. I’d like you to be here at six sharp tomorrow morning. And don’t tell the staff why you’re here. As far as they’re concerned, you’ll just be a new employee.”
I eyed her with suspicion. “What’s my cover story?”
She smirked. “You’ll be joining our cleaning crew. What better way for you to have access to every area of the hotel?”
I sucked air through my teeth. I loathed the idea of cleaning for Paul and Melanie. On the other hand, five and a half grand was a lot of money. I uncurled my fingers and extended my hand. “Deal.”
By the time I left the hotel, darkness had fallen. I drove home to my cottage with music blaring from the car stereo, and I was still singing along to an old Bon Jovi song when I pulled up outside my cottage and killed the engine.
“Don’t give up the day job,” said a voice out of the darkness the instant I stepped out of the car.
My heart leaped in my chest. “Reynolds? Why are you lurking on my doorstep?”
The policeman moved out of the shadows and into the patch of light cast by the outdoor security lighting. “I wasn’t lurking. I was ringing your doorbell.”
“Need to borrow a cup of sugar?” I crossed my arms over my chest, still irritated by his dismissive attitude last night, even though I knew I’d have reacted the same way had I been the police officer in charge.
Reynolds shook his head, and I noticed the grim set of his mouth and the folder tucked under his arm. “This isn’t a social call. I need to go over your statement from last night again.”
I sucked in a breath. “I was right, wasn’t I? The postman didn’t jump.”
“You were right.” Reynolds stepped closer, and his grave expression sent a chill of apprehension through me. “Eddie Ward was dead before he ever went over that cliff.”
7
My pulse kicked up a notch. “How was Eddie Ward killed?”
“Günter suspects he was poisoned. The pathologist backed up Günter’s suspicion.”
“Wait…Ward was poisoned and then thrown off the cliff?”
“Yes.”
“Ugh.” I shivered in the dark, and my grip tightened around my house key. “Did the pathologist come over to the island to examine the body?” The presence of a pathologist should have reached my ears at the café within minutes of the doctor setting foot on the island, yet I’d heard nothing.
“No. I escorted the body to the mainland this afternoon, on the down-low. With the chaos caused by the storm, Günter and I were busy all night. We didn’t get a proper look at the body until this morning.” The
policeman rubbed his jaw. “Let’s just say it quickly became clear we weren’t dealing with an accident or suicide.”
“I’m sorry, Liam. I’d hoped I was wrong.”
Reynolds closed the space between us, and I could smell the aroma of his spicy aftershave. “Can we talk inside, Maggie? I need to go over your statement again. And I’d like your opinion on something.”
My heart beat a little faster. “You want my help on the case?”
“Nice try, but no.” His half smile warmed me from the inside out. “I just want to ask you a few questions, some of which are off the record. Okay by you?”
“Sure. And you’re not fooling me, Sergeant Reynolds. Asking me off-the-record questions is totally getting me to help.” With his low chuckle warming my neck, I unlocked the door and let us into the cottage. Standing awkwardly in my hallway, I groped for a topic that didn’t involve murder and mayhem. “How’s the unpacking going?” Lame, Doyle. Why couldn’t I come up with something profound on the spot?
“The less said about my unpacking, the better.” Reynolds followed me into my small living room. “My plans to unpack the last few boxes keep getting derailed by animal activists and murderers.”
Over by the fireplace, Bran lolled in front of the kittens’ basket, snoring. Some guard dog he’d make. Poly, the kittens’ mother and my roommate when I lived at Noreen’s, treated me to a disdainful stare before returning her attention to her offspring.
“Wow.” Reynolds slow-blinked. “You’ve acquired some livestock.”
“Blame Noreen.” I gave him a rueful smile. “And I’m only keeping two of the kittens. They’re all here at the moment because they’re too young to be separated from their mom. By rights, you should have the tortoiseshell kitten. You saved her, after all.”
The policeman kneeled before the basket and stroked the kitten. “Is that who this is? She’s getting big.”
“She sure is. Her name is Rosie.”
The kitten investigated his large hand, sniffing his wrist. “The name suits her,” he said. “Pretty but cheeky at the same time. She reminds me of my cat.”
“You have a cat? No offense, but you don’t strike me as the house pet kind of dude.”
“Poppy is my daughter’s cat.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to say he didn’t strike me as the sort of dude to have a kid, especially not one he casually dropped into the conversation six weeks after our first meeting. But then, what did I know about Liam Reynolds? “Do you want a drink?” I asked. “Frankly, I could use one after your news.”
He inclined his neck. “Yes, please.”
I went over to my drinks cabinet, recalling belatedly that I’d forgotten to stop off at the liquor store. I took stock of its meager contents. “On the alcohol front, all I have is rotgut whiskey that I bought for cooking, and an unchilled bottle of white so sweet it’ll make your teeth hurt. Do either of those appeal to you?”
“You really know how to sell a man a drink,” Reynolds said dryly. “A glass of water will be fine.”
“On the snacks front, the situation is dire. I can offer you a dog treat.”
Reynolds’s mouth twitched, and his eyes twinkled with amusement. “I’ll pass.”
I poured sparkling water into two glasses and handed one to him. For an instant, my fingers brushed against his, and the now-familiar shock of awareness shot through me. I took a gulp of water and threw myself into the armchair next to Bran and the cats.
Reynolds placed his water glass on the coffee table and took the seat opposite. He drew a notepad and pen out of his shirt pocket and put the folder he’d been carrying on his lap. “I’d like to go over your statement again. You say you saw no one when you and Lenny stopped behind the post van.”
“That’s right, but as I said at the station, it was dark.”
He raised an eyebrow. “It wasn’t that dark. The headlights were on, and the moon was full.”
“True, but there are plenty of places for a person to hide along that road. A stone wall runs along one side farther down, and the ditch is deep in parts. Once I looked over the edge of the cliff and saw the body, I was preoccupied with getting down to the beach.”
“What made you look over the cliff? Why didn’t you assume the driver had run out of petrol, or broken down, and then walked on in search of help?”
“The van was abandoned in the middle of the road with the driver’s door open and the lights on. If my car broke down, I’d at least try to shove it to the side of the road, and I wouldn’t leave the door wide open. The scene felt…wrong.”
“And the cliff?” he prompted. “Why did you look over the edge instead of looking for the driver?”
“Because those cliffs give me the creeps every time I drive by. It’s a steep drop, and there are no crash barriers. I wondered if he’d slipped and fallen.”
Frowning, Reynolds skimmed my signed statement. “You insist that you didn’t see a suicide note in the vehicle when you looked inside.”
“Correct. I’m sure I’d have noticed one if it had been there.”
“In light of the revelation that Eddie Ward was murdered, your suggestion that the note was planted in the lorry after you and Lenny had gone down to the beach seems more likely.”
“You keep saying that he was murdered. Is there no chance he could have taken poison accidentally?”
Reynolds’s mouth pulled into a frown. “Possible but unlikely. I’ll get to the reason why in a sec. First, I want to finish going over your statement.”
“Fine,” I said, “but do it fast. I want to get to the good stuff.”
“You’re ghoulish, Ms. Doyle,” Reynolds said, an amused twinkle in his eyes.
“Am I allowed to ask if you found any fingerprints on the alleged suicide note?”
Reynolds nodded. “We found Ward’s. Given that the note was written on a sheet of official An Post paper, we can assume Ward handled it at some point.”
I raised an eyebrow. “So we’re dealing with a killer smart enough to hide his tracks.”
Reynolds chuckled. “We are dealing with nothing. Leave the killer to me. As to his or her intelligence, the off-the-record part I’m about to share with you makes the whole situation confusing.”
My ears pricked up. “Go on.”
“I need your word that this information will go no further.”
“My lips are sealed.” I bounced in my seat. “Hurry up and tell me already. I’m intrigued.”
He blew out his cheeks. “The pathologist found a stab wound through the left ventricle.”
“Eddie Ward was stabbed in the heart?” I stared at him, slack-jawed. “But there was no blood on his clothes. We’d have noticed that, even in the dark. We all looked him over with flashlights—you, me, Lenny, and the paramedics.”
“I know.” Reynolds’s mouth set in a grim line. “Ward was stabbed after he’d died.”
My head jerked up. “What the heck? Who poisons, stabs, and then throws a man off a cliff? Talk about overkill—pun intended.”
“The pathologist has yet to confirm the poison, but he suspects the cause of death was some sort of cyanide compound.”
“Could it have started to take effect while he was driving, hence the haphazard way the van was left in the middle of the road?”
“That’s the assumption I’m working on.”
“So, Ward stops and staggers out of the van,” I said, visualizing the scene in my head as if it were a movie reel. “At some point soon after, he succumbs to the poison. When does the stabbing occur? Before or after he goes over the cliff?”
“The pathologist couldn’t say with certainty, but his educated guess was before.”
“So our killer administers poison, waits for it to kill Ward, and then stabs him and throws the body over a cliff. He or she really wanted to make sure the guy was dead.”
“Yeah,” Reynolds said. “What I don’t get is why the killer stabbed Ward if he wanted to stage a suicide. Why make the effort to write a su
icide note and plant it in the van?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. I’m stumped.”
“That makes two of us.” Reynolds rubbed his jaw and sighed. “I took the position on Whisper Island on the assumption that murder and mayhem were unlikely to form a regular part of my working day. Maybe I let the easy pace of life make me lax last night. I should have noticed something was wrong before Günter and I examined the body.”
“You had a lot to deal with between the storm and the shot bull. Whatever happened to your animal activist pal, anyway?”
Reynolds rolled his eyes. “His wealthy father caught the first ferry over from the mainland, with a fancy solicitor in tow. The guy appeared in court this afternoon and got bail. I expect he’ll get off with a slap on the wrist.”
I sifted through what Reynolds had told me about the murder victim. “Where was Ward’s killer? Lying in wait for him along the road? But how could he have known when and where Ward would start feeling sick?”
“That’s a good question,” Reynolds said. “And not one I have an answer for, unfortunately. I had a team out searching earlier, and we’ll go out again at first light.”
“What about the van? Did it reveal any useful info?”
He shook his head. “I got forensics to look over the inside of the van. The problem with postal vans is they belong to a fleet. Ward didn’t always drive the same one. The van Ward drove back to the island on Friday should have been cleaned before he collected it, but for some reason, it hadn’t been, and it was covered in prints.” Reynolds sighed. “We’ve taken control prints from the regular postal team, and the guys who occasionally help out with deliveries. We’ve identified Ward’s prints, and those of his part-time helper’s, and we’re still wading through the rest.”
“Do you need me to drop by the station tomorrow to be fingerprinted?”
“I’d appreciate it. We could get your prints from the San Francisco PD, but I’d rather not have to waste time putting in a formal request.”
“No problem. I’ll swing by after work tomorrow. Is there anything else I should know?” I asked. “Something else off the record?”
