Before I could give it any more thought, my cell phone rang. I fished it out of my purse and stared at the unfamiliar number. Who would be calling me at one o’clock in the morning? Only one way to find out.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Keli. You’re still up. I thought you would be. You always were a night owl.”
“Mick? What’s up?” I brushed off his attempt to act like he still knew me. Sure, I stayed up late in college, but usually only when I was out partying with friends—or if I had a paper to finish or a test to study for. But that was a long time ago.
“I didn’t get a chance to tell you before. I have something of yours. If you come by the hotel, I’ll return it to you.”
My mind flashed to half a dozen things I had given Mick that I wouldn’t mind having back. I hadn’t thought of them in ages, but at the time of our breakup it had really bothered me that he still had them. Most of the items didn’t have any real value, but there was a nice print that had hung in my dorm. It was the first piece of original artwork I had ever bought for myself, and I really liked it. I had given it to Mick during a period when I was spending more time at his place than at mine. More importantly, I had also let him borrow a book that had belonged to my long-lost aunt Josephine.
Josephine O’Malley was my mother’s older sister who had run away from home when she was seventeen to join a commune right here in Edindale. As bad as that was, from her parents’ perspective, it got even worse when she left the commune, never to be seen again. She had sent an obscure letter saying she was leaving on a “secret mission” and not to worry about her. Yeah, right. After that, she sent postcards from various places around the country, but she never came home. This was way back in the 1970s, before I was born. Although I had never met her, I always felt a special connection with my free-spirited aunt. I had tried to find out what had happened to her by researching her old commune, the Happy Hills Homestead. I even tracked down a woman who had known my aunt back when they both lived there. The woman, Fern Lopez, still lived in the area and was nice enough to meet with me and share her memories of “Josie,” as my aunt was known back then. But Fern was also a little bit odd, and, much to my disappointment, she claimed not to know why Josie left or where she went.
Nevertheless, I still held out hope that I might find Aunt Josephine someday. She had to be somewhere—she was still sending postcards! I had even received one from her on my thirtieth birthday a couple summers ago.
It had always galled me that Mick never returned Aunt Josephine’s book.
“What is it?” I asked Mick now. “What do you have to return?”
“It’s a surprise. You haf to meet me in person.” Mick slurred his words, and I sighed.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll stop by tomorrow.”
“No, that’s too late,” said Mick. “I’m leaving early in the a.m. You need to come now.”
Irritation bubbled to the surface, but I gritted my teeth and tamped it down. “It’s late, Mick. How about if I meet you for an early breakfast?”
Wes, who had been watching me throughout the call, narrowed his eyes. I tried to give him a reassuring look.
“No can do,” said Mick. “I’ll be gone by then. Just come over now. I’m in room 418.” He hung up, and I made a face at the phone.
“Unbelievable,” I muttered. I checked the time and saw that it was 1:15 a.m. Well, I supposed it actually wasn’t that late for a Saturday night. I stood up and grabbed a pair of jeans from the backpack I’d tossed on the floor earlier.
“What are you doing?” asked Wes.
“Mick says he has something of mine. He wants to give it to me tonight, since he’s leaving early tomorrow. I really kind of want to know what it is, so I’m just gonna run over to the hotel. I’ll be back in—”
“I’m coming with you.”
I didn’t argue. A short time later, Wes drove into the porte cochere at the Harrison Hotel and pulled up in front of the main entrance. He hopped out of the driver’s side and met me as I stepped out of the car. “Oh,” I said. “I don’t think you should leave the car here. Why don’t you wait and I’ll be right back.”
“No way,” said Wes. He closed my door, then turned as a valet came outside and approached us.
“Really,” I insisted. “I won’t be more than five minutes. It’s not worth having the valet take the car.” Before Wes could protest, I dashed inside and scurried past the unoccupied front desk. Through an open door behind the desk, I saw a young guy playing a computer game. There was no one else in the lobby. As I waited for the elevator, I peered through the now-closed glass doors to the atrium. The party was long over, but twinkling lights still lit up the trees and the garland along the bannister leading up to the second-floor lounge.
What’s taking the elevator so long? I tapped my fingertips together impatiently. I really wanted to get this over with and get back to Wes. Then I remembered that there was another set of elevators near the bar upstairs. I pushed open the doors to the atrium and ran across the darkened floor.
At the bottom of the stairs, I hesitated. Maybe it was the quiet stillness of the empty, cavernous room, but I suddenly recalled how strangely Mick had acted. It was almost creepy, now that I thought about it. What was he up to with those anonymous gifts sent to my office and home? Come to think of it, how did he get my personal cell phone number?
I shivered. I was pretty sure Mick was harmless. Wasn’t I? Still, why take any chances? I decided it would be wiser to have Wes accompany me after all.
I turned to head back to the lobby. That was when I noticed something amiss near the towering Christmas tree. One of the smaller trees next to it appeared to have been knocked over. Frowning, I walked toward them. I couldn’t believe the cleaning crew would have left it like this after the party. As I drew near, I could see bits of broken ornaments scattered like glitter all over the floor. It was an overcast night, so not much light shone through the glass roof of the atrium.
I decided I would tell the guy at the front desk about the tree. It could be a fire hazard, considering all the electric twinkle lights.
Just then, the clouds parted, letting in a small ray of moonlight. It fell upon something against the wall. Something I hadn’t noticed before. Something far worse than broken ornaments.
It was a body. Crumpled and contorted in a most unnatural way, as if it had tumbled off a balcony high above. I shrieked, horrified, as I recognized who it was.
Edgar Harrison. Dead.
Chapter 6
I couldn’t stop screaming. The sight of Edgar’s broken body was too horrible to comprehend. Then the lights in the atrium flashed on, and people came running from all directions. A woman in a housekeeping uniform was one of the first to arrive at my side. When she saw Edgar, she began screaming, too. That’s when I came to my senses and shut my mouth. I pulled her away and briefly squeezed both of her hands.
“Go call nine-one-one,” I said.
She nodded and ran away. Only then did it occur to me that I could have pulled out my own cell phone. On the other hand, my hands were trembling so hard, I probably wouldn’t have been able to push the numbers anyway.
“Jesus Christ!” It was the young guy from the front desk. He clapped his hand over his mouth and looked like he might vomit. A security guard yelled at him to come and help keep people away. Guests had begun streaming down the stairs to see what was going on. Worse, some of them were peering over the edge of the railings above.
I backed away from the scene in a daze, weaving my way through the chaos. I wanted to put as much distance between myself and Edgar’s body as I could—as if distance could somehow reverse the horrible thing that had happened. Was still happening.
Halfway to the exit, I bumped straight into the hard, muscular frame of a tall man. I whipped around, then threw myself into his arms.
“Oh, Wes,” I sobbed.
“Hey,” he said, his voice full of concern. “Are you okay? What happened?” He smoothed my hair and
held me tight.
I didn’t know how to answer him. I had no idea what had happened. Suddenly, though, I felt a lot less freaked out. As much as I hated to admit it, I felt stronger now that Wes was here. His presence soothed me.
We made our way to a bench in the lobby where we could observe the action from a safe distance and wait for the police to arrive. We watched people come and go and listened in on hushed, incredulous conversations. Between the twinkling Christmas lights draped throughout the lobby and the red and blue police lights flashing outside the sliding glass doors, I felt like I was at a weird laser light show. Or in a movie. A sad, surreal movie. Either way, it was all too hard to believe.
* * *
The next morning, I woke up in the cold, dark predawn hours and rolled out of bed. It had been a fitful night. No matter how many relaxation techniques I tried, how many breathing exercises, mantras, or transcendental tricks, I just couldn’t quiet the noise in my head. Images crowded my mind, too, but it was the sounds that kept me awake: the scream of the hotel maid, the blaring sirens, and the questions. So many questions. Everyone demanded answers: the police, the hotel staff and guests, Edgar’s family and friends who had descended upon the scene with surprising speed.
And Beverly.
Wes and I had run into her in the lobby talking with Allison. Or, more accurately, she was weeping with Allison. I had never seen my boss so distraught. She was the most unflappable person I knew, the epitome of calm, cool, and collected. But not last night. Last night she was a hot mess. She was coatless, and her ball gown was rumpled, as if she had fallen asleep in it. Her makeup was smeared, and, I swear, she shed more tears than Edgar’s wife. Gretta had appeared more shell-shocked than anything. I overheard her tell the police she hadn’t even heard Edgar leave again after they’d returned home from the party.
When Beverly finally brought her sobs under control, she joined Allison in plying me with questions. They all began with one word: Why. Why had Edgar come back to the hotel? Why was he upstairs by himself? Why had he fallen? Why hadn’t someone helped him? Why was he dead?
I didn’t have any of those answers. I comforted Beverly and Allison as best as I could, then, after giving my statement to the police, I fled the hotel with Wes.
Now I shivered in my chilly bedroom and wrapped myself in a fluffy robe. I stepped into my faux-fur slippers and padded downstairs to put on the tea kettle. I could always sleep later. In theory.
As I puttered about, switching on the twinkle lights that framed my front window and turning the thermostat up a notch, my foggy head started to clear. I realized there was another reason I had had trouble sleeping last night. Something else was bothering me besides the distressing sights and sounds in the aftermath of finding Edgar’s body. It was the conclusion everyone had jumped to. In subdued tones, so many people had said the same thing: “It was an accident. A tragic accident.”
Even the police sergeant had said it to Edgar’s family. “It appears to have been an accident,” he had said. “It looks like Mr. Harrison fell over the balcony.” To ease their worried minds at least a little bit, he had added, “There was no note on his person.” No suicide note was what everyone knew he had meant.
Allison apparently agreed with the police. “He’d had so much to drink,” she had said, wringing her hands. “He was stumbling when I last saw him toward the end of the night.” She had shaken her head and looked around helplessly. “I can’t believe this is how it ends. A stupid, senseless accident.”
An accident? I supposed that was the most logical explanation. The railing was low, the hallway dark. Edgar had clearly been inebriated last night.
So why did this conclusion make me so uneasy?
Maybe it was because of the secret that only Beverly, Crenshaw, and I knew: that Edgar was being blackmailed. It couldn’t be a coincidence, could it? Wasn’t it too strange that he died within days of being threatened by some creepy, anonymous crook?
My tea kettle whistled and I shook myself out of my brooding daydreams. I was tilting at windmills. Blackmailers weren’t killers, were they? Not that I knew any blackmailers, but it just didn’t make sense. The blackmailer wanted money from Edgar. You can’t extort money from a dead man.
I sipped my tea and checked the time. Five-thirty a.m. I wondered what Wes was doing. Probably sleeping. His editor had called in all the staff as soon as word of the incident came through on his police scanner. The Gazette wanted to break the story, and then run a full-page spread on Edgar in the morning edition. Wes had to search the newspaper archives for the best photos of Edgar over the years, as well as quickly sort through and process the ones he had just taken at the ball.
Of course, Wes had wanted to stay with me last night. But I had told him it was okay for him to leave. He needed to do his job, and I was perfectly fine on my own. Which was mostly true, even though I was secretly sorry to see him go.
Clutching my mug of tea, I stepped out on my deck to feel the bracing air on my skin and breathe in its cleansing coolness. In the pale morning light, I could still tell the backyard was a pristine blanket of snow capped by a layer of glistening ice. At least, it was pristine behind my house and in the parkland beyond. The St. Johns’ backyard looked as if it had been chewed up by a garden tiller. I smiled. I knew their rambunctious pug, Chompy, was responsible for the wreckage.
As the darkness faded, I looked to the east. Watching the sun rise, I felt moved to say a prayer for Edgar. I didn’t know him very well personally, but I knew he touched a lot of lives in Edindale. And I knew he was Beverly’s close friend. With my eyes to the sky and my thoughts on the goodness in the man, I murmured a few words from my heart:
May you find peace, rest, and understanding in the Summerland.
May the Goddess comfort your loved ones, and the God give them strength.
You lived well in this life. May the lessons you learned serve you well in the next.
Blessed be.
I spent the rest of my Sunday morning on ordinary household chores and mundane errands. There was nothing like the repetitive routine of laundry to make a person feel normal again. At some point in the middle of folding my underwear, I suddenly remembered Mick. I hadn’t seen him in the crowd of people milling about behind the police tape last night, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t there someplace. I was disappointed I didn’t get to find out what it was he was going to return. On the other hand, I didn’t regret not seeing him again. By now, he was probably already back in DC, and that was just fine with me.
After a fortifying lunch of beans and rice, I gathered up some holiday CDs and headed over to Farrah’s place. She had asked me to come over and help decorate her Christmas tree—and to fill her in on the excitement she had missed last night. I would have much preferred to hear about her post-ball evening than relive mine, but she insisted I go first. True to our friendship, I spared no detail.
“Oh, honey!” she exclaimed. “You poor thing. I can’t believe you’re the one who found him. What are the odds?”
“I know.” I shuddered. “Right place, right time? Or wrong time, if you think about it.”
“Well, at least you didn’t see it happen. That would’ve been way worse.”
“You’re telling me. Ugh.” I reached over for my glass of warm spiced wine and took a sip. Then I returned to the task at hand—stringing popcorn and cranberries. Farrah had gotten a notion to go all old-fashioned this year, which I found amusingly ironic. Farrah was anything but old-fashioned.
“Ouch! Dang it.” Farrah sucked on her finger where she had pricked it with her needle for at least the fifth time. “I wish I had one of those whatchamacallits for your finger.”
“A thimble?”
“Yeah. A thimble. I wonder where you can buy one of those?”
“Lots of places, silly. I could’ve brought one over if I would’ve thought of it.”
Farrah waved away the idea. “You’ve been preoccupied. I wouldn’t expect you to think of such things.”
/>
“I suppose.” I stared at the flickering candles Farrah had arranged in her fireplace, and my mind flashed back to the hotel atrium again. After a moment, I looked up. “What were we talking about before? The time of the fall? You know, it probably happened just minutes before I got there. I overheard the hotel manager tell the police that the last party guest left at midnight, which is when the hotel bar closed. Then a cleaning crew came in, did their job, and clocked out at twelve-fifty.”
Farrah shook her head. “It just goes to show you, having a bar with a balcony is a really bad idea. In a way, I’m surprised someone hasn’t tumbled over the railing before this.”
I looked over at her. “Oh, I don’t think he fell from the second-floor bar. I think he fell from one of the upper levels where the rooms are.” I grimaced at the thought. “I wonder why he was up there in the first place.”
“He probably got confused,” said Farrah. “I heard he got smashed at the party.” She saw me cringe and slapped her forehead. “Poor word choice. Sorry. He got really drunk,” she amended.
“Who did you hear that from?” I asked. I remembered how Edgar had appeared when I last saw him in the hotel bar. There was no doubt he’d been drinking, but I wouldn’t have called him falling-down drunk. Plus, he seemed like the sort of man who ought to be able to hold his liquor.
“From Tucker,” said Farrah. “Before we left, he went and found Edgar to say good-bye.”
Another thought occurred to me. “Jeez, if he was that drunk, it’s a wonder he didn’t kill himself on the drive back to the hotel from his ranch. Or worse, kill someone else.”
“Maybe he didn’t drive,” said Farrah. “He probably had his driver bring him.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Well, that’s how he left the hotel after the ball. Tucker and I walked back to the hotel parking lot where he had left his truck, and we saw Edgar come out of the hotel with the last of the guests. A uniformed chauffeur held open the car door for him.” She grinned. “The chauffeur was kinda cute, too, that’s why I noticed. What is it about men in uniforms?”
Yuletide Homicide Page 5
