by Joy Avon
“But it’s very urgent,” Iphy said. “Can we talk to the receptionist?”
“She will tell you the same thing,” the man said with a suspicious frown, but he did allow them to walk on to the reception desk. A brisk young woman with blonde hair and impeccable makeup was clicking away at a keyboard and glanced up with a pearly smile when she spotted them. “Good night. How may I help you?”
“We’re looking for the assistant of Mr. King. He was unwell this afternoon and was brought back here by the doctor.”
Callie noticed that Iphy said “doctor,” and not “police,” although Ace had told them that one of his colleagues had driven the assistant to his hotel to rest up.
Iphy said, “We were just interested to hear how he’s doing now.”
“I assume he’s fine,” the young woman said. “I haven’t heard of a doctor coming over since my shift started at seven PM.”
So she wasn’t there when the deputy had brought in the assistant, and probably has no idea about events at Haywood Hall either, Callie mused.
Iphy said, “We do have to speak with him if that’s possible. Could you call up to his room and ask him if he can see us?”
The receptionist looked doubtful. “If he was unwell, he’s probably asleep now.”
“I understand, but someone died, and we really do have to talk to him.”
“Oh.” The receptionist looked startled. “That changes things of course. I’ll call up to his room right away.” She picked up the receiver of a sleek black telephone with one hand while clicking through screens with the other, apparently looking for the phone number of the room in question. She pressed some buttons and listened.
The phone seemed to ring endlessly. Just as Callie was certain no one was going to answer, the receptionist said, “Hello, front desk. There are some people here to see you concerning a death. I see. But they say it’s urgent.”
She listened a moment. “I’m sending them up.” She put down the receiver and smiled weakly. “The third floor. Room 332.”
Iphy thanked her and rushed off to the staircase. Callie followed, a bit perplexed.
“I don’t want to wait for the elevator, where that moustache man might come over to tell us we have no real business here,” Iphy hissed to Callie. “Quickly—up the stairs.”
Callie followed her energetic great-aunt, trying to keep her breathing steady as they pushed up two flights of stairs. Still, she was panting as they stopped in front of the door with the brass numbers 332. There was no one else in the corridor, which was carpeted in thick blue and had some nice oil paintings and watercolors on the walls.
Iphy raised a hand to knock, but the door was already open. A young man with tousled hair and a pale face peered at them. He wore checkered flannel pajamas and had his feet stuck into neat dark blue slippers. His expression turned from worried to puzzled. “I expected the police,” he said.
Iphy smiled. “We’re not the police, just some friendly locals who wanted to ask how you’re doing now. Do you mind if we come in? It’s so awkward standing in the corridor like this.”
“Not at all—come in,” the young man said. He stepped back and let them into the room. It was a large one with a double bed. On one side the duvet was folded back as if he had crawled out after he had gotten the phone call. Callie noticed, though, that the sheet covering the mattress was crisp, not crinkled.
There was an aroma in the air she couldn’t quite place. Something sweet. Glancing around her, she looked for flowers that might produce the scent, but didn’t see anything.
The young man gestured to a sitting area in the corner. “Please sit down. Do I know you? Yes, I remember seeing you at the event this afternoon, but I don’t think we were formally introduced.” He laughed suddenly, low and hoarse. “That’s what my boss would have said. Formally introduced. He liked to sound smart.”
“My condolences on your boss’s death,” Iphy said, seating herself in one of the leather chairs. “You must have been shocked.”
“Well, it’s not like I expected him to die so soon.” The young man sat down on the end of the bed and reached up to rake his hand through his hair, making it stand up even more. “But I did know lots of people didn’t like him. Someone had even warned him not to come here.”
“Not to come here?” Callie echoed.
“Yes, he got a threatening note. Saying Heart’s Harbor would bring him bad luck or something. He found it in the mail, laughed at it, and threw it to me. I read it as well and asked him if he shouldn’t take it seriously. ‘And do what?’ he replied. ‘Not go there? I accepted the invitation and I am going.’ That was it for him.”
“Do you still have that note?” Iphy asked, glancing at Callie. Callie was thinking the same thing: such a note could prove that the victim had been targeted before he arrived. It didn’t clear Mrs. Forrester per se, as one could even argue that she might have been the one to send the note, but it could broaden the circle of suspicion.
The young man had gotten up and rummaged through a briefcase. He opened a beige file folder and pulled out a note. “I keep all of them.”
“All of them?” Iphy asked, looking up at him as he moved closer.
“Yes. Since his debut on TV last Christmas, he gets lots of letters, threatening him or inviting him for the weirdest things. Even offers of marriage.”
Iphy grimaced and shook her head as the young man wanted to hand the note to her. “We shouldn’t get fingerprints all over it. Maybe the police can still lift some?”
The young man looked down at the note in his hand. “Of course. I’ll put it back at once. I can give the entire file folder to the police. If you think it will help.”
“I think it certainly might,” Iphy said. “And so could your statement of what happened this afternoon. As soon as you’re up to it, you must speak with the police.”
“I was just so very groggy from this sedative the doctor gave me,” the young man said. “By the way, how impolite of me. I still haven’t told you my name.” He reached out to Callie. “Seth Delacorte.”
“Callie Aspen, and this is my great-aunt Iphy. We run a tearoom in town and help preserve Haywood Hall.”
“Such a great house.” Genuine appreciation lit Delacorte’s eyes. “I could have wandered around all afternoon. Not that I …” He lowered his head, flushing. “I did peek into a few rooms, just to see what was in there.”
“But of course.” Iphy smiled at him. “We open up the house for events so people can enjoy the rooms and decorations. I’m glad you had a look around. In fact, should you have to stay here for a few more days as the police investigate the murder, I would love to show you around.”
Delacorte smiled and relaxed a bit. “That would be nice. Thanks.” He looked from Iphy to Callie and back. “Why exactly are you here?”
Iphy sighed. “The death of your boss caused a stir. One of our local people was … well, not arrested, but it came close to that. She’s suspected of being involved with the murder, but we seriously doubt that she could be.”
“People aren’t always what you believe them to be,” Delacorte said. He had seated himself on the bed again, kicked off his slippers, and shuffled his bare feet. He looked eighteen, and Callie wondered how the puffed-up expert had chosen this shy college student to become his aide.
Iphy said, “We just want to help find out what happened.”
Callie threw her great-aunt a warning look. Now that they knew there had been a threat against King before he even came to Heart’s Harbor, and Delacorte possessed a file full of such threats that he would hand over to the police as soon as he got the opportunity, their job was done. Iphy had said in the car that she wouldn’t ask about the murder and risk influencing his statement before Ace had gotten a chance to talk to him.
Delacorte leaned back, putting his hands on the bed. He seemed to weigh his words. “My boss was a very unpleasant man who managed to get into fights with people wherever he went. He made demands, and he went back on his wo
rd.”
Iphy glanced at Callie as if to say that this conformed what Mrs. Forrester had told them. Callie wanted to signal her not to push it any further, but didn’t know quite how, and Delacorte was already continuing to speak.
“Whenever we went somewhere and the atmosphere was pleasant and relaxed, I knew it wouldn’t stay that way. I tried to avoid being nearby when the bad weather broke, but since I was his assistant, that wasn’t easy.”
He laughed softly. “It didn’t matter to him whether I was there or not. You’d think he would behave better when other people were present, but maybe he didn’t even see me as a person with an opinion. In any case, my opinion of him didn’t matter.” He scoffed.
Callie felt sorry for him as he sat there, pale and undone, feeling his way around a situation that was too big to grasp. She herself couldn’t really believe there had been a violent death again and that she was a part of it.
“This time it was even worse.” Delacorte fidgeted with a loose thread on the duvet. “He didn’t just argue with the person who had invited him here, and say he was no longer working for free, but he also—”
Iphy raised a hand and interrupted him. “You overheard the argument with Mrs. Forrester?” The excitement in her expression betrayed that her thoughts were racing. She was assuming Delacorte could confirm to the police that his employer had told Mrs. Forrester he wanted to be recompensed for his efforts and that he’d even asked for a vase from the house, claiming Mrs. Forrester had previously promised it to him.
Delacorte shook his head. “The argument started in my presence, but then he drew her aside, and I couldn’t overhear any details. I just know he was at it again, breaking his word. I wanted to leave the house and not come back. But I work for him, so I couldn’t really leave.”
Callie said, “You were just saying Mrs. Forrester wasn’t the only one he argued with.”
“That’s right.” Delacorte tore the thread off the duvet and held it in his hand, glancing sheepishly at it. Then he dropped it to the floor and sat up. “He also fought with that singer. They almost came to blows.”
“Singer?” Callie echoed, glancing at Iphy.
Her great-aunt sat in her chair, clutching the armrests as if to gain a firmer grasp.
“You mean the baritone invited to join the orchestra?” Callie asked.
“Yes. I saw them. That singer was holding my boss by the shoulders, shaking him.”
Callie cringed at the mental picture conjured up. Once Ace heard about this, he would see another suspect all right, but not one that would be more agreeable to Iphy than Mrs. Forrester had been.
“But that’s not logical at all,” Iphy protested. “Sean didn’t know he was coming here. He took the place of someone else at the last minute.”
Callie nodded. “That’s true. Our engaged singer, Simon Teak, got a throat infection, and Mr. Strong agreed on short notice to cover for him. He flew in especially from Vienna.”
Delacorte shrugged. “I don’t know about that. But I did see them struggle. I will have to tell the police.”
“Of course, but … uh …” Iphy clapped her hands together and nervously knotted her fingers. “Could you overhear what it was about?”
“No. Like I said, I liked to stay far away from his fights with people. I didn’t want anything to do with it.” Delacorte pulled up his legs and hugged his knees. He looked even more pale now.
“Perhaps you should get back into bed,” Callie suggested. “You don’t look well. You should tell all of this to the police. I’m sure it will really help Mrs. Forrester’s case.”
And, she added to herself, get Sean Strong into trouble. Something that seems to upset Iphy quite a bit.
Delacorte nodded at her. “I’ll talk to them when they contact me.” He leaned his chin on his knees. “Anything else?” He sounded quite weary.
“No, we’re leaving.” Callie rose to her feet. “Thanks so much for seeing us at this inconvenient moment. Could you give me your phone number in case I have another question?”
“Of course.” Delacorte got up, walked to the closet, and extracted something from the pocket of the suit that was hanging there. He handed her a card. “Call me any time.”
Callie nodded. “Thanks.” She gestured to Iphy. “Good night, and thanks once more for seeing us.” As she stood beside the low table, waiting for Iphy to rise, her gaze brushed across the table’s surface and noticed a bit of wetness there, a half circle like that formed by a glass that has a drop of something along the bottom. There was no glass in sight, though.
“Good night then.” Delacorte let them out the door. They heard him lock it as they walked away across the thick carpet, which muffled their footfalls.
Iphy stared ahead with wide eyes.
Callie put a hand on her arm. “Sean Strong,” she said. “What can it mean?”
Iphy looked at her. “I don’t know. But I have a bad feeling about it. Sean is an impulsive man.”
Callie’s heart sank. “You mentioned that last time he was here, things went wrong. Did he fight with someone? Is he violent?”
Iphy didn’t say anything.
Callie pressed, “If you know something, you have to tell Falk. He’ll find out about it eventually, I suppose, and he’ll be mad when he discovers that you knew about this prior incident and kept it from him.”
“It was such a long time ago, does it really matter? Can it be related?” Iphy seemed to talk more to herself than to Callie. “I wonder. I don’t want to think that of him, but … Oh!” She wrung her hands. “Why does this have to be so hard?”
Callie stopped her at the elevators. “What’s hard?”
Iphy eyed her, shadows under her normally laughing eyes. “Seeing him again. Meeting up again and realizing what you dreamt of, hoped for.” She smiled ruefully. “I would have sworn before today that it was all over and done with. Too long ago to matter. Too long ago to bring any more hurt. But now …” She fell silent and stared into the distance, her posture tight and still.
Callie said, “You have to tell Falk what you know. He’ll decide what to do about it.”
Iphy came to life and looked at her. “No,” she said, determinedly. “I’m not going to Falk just yet. I want to talk to Sean first. If I read him right, he’ll be staying here, at this hotel. This is just the place for him. Let’s go find out.”
Chapter Nine
The woman at the reception desk eyed them with suspicion when they came up again. “Didn’t you manage to speak with the gentleman in 332?” she asked, her neatly plucked brows drawing together.
Iphy nodded. “We did speak with him, but we also have to talk to someone else who’s staying here. Mr. Sean Strong.”
“About this same death?” the receptionist asked in a doubtful tone.
Suspecting trouble—and possible eviction from the hotel—Callie hurried to say, “The death happened at an event, and several people are involved. That is, they knew the victim and have to be informed of what happened.”
“Don’t the police usually do that?”
Callie smiled. “Mr. Strong is aware of the death. He just needs to know about some related issues. He performed at our event, so we do want to speak with him.”
“And you do not have his cell phone number?”
Iphy put her hand on Callie’s arm. “Let’s just leave,” she said in a weary tone. “I’ll have to go look up his cell phone number. Although I don’t see what harm there is in simply calling the gentleman’s room to inform him that we’re here.”
The receptionist sighed. “Oh, well, I suppose I can do that. Your name was Callie Aspen?”
“And Iphigeneia Aspen,” Iphy added with emphasis, as if that name would make all the difference.
Callie wondered if it would.
“One moment, please.” The receptionist checked her records on-screen and picked up the receiver. “Two ladies are at the desk for you. Callie and Iphigeneia Aspen. They say it’s about the event you performed at this after
noon. Yes? Very well.” She lowered the receiver. “He’s coming down in a moment.”
Callie noticed that Sean Strong didn’t ask them to come up to his hotel room, but perhaps if he knew Iphy from some prior occasion that hadn’t ended well, this made sense.
Maybe they should be glad he wanted to talk to them at all?
It took a few minutes before the elevator bell dinged and Sean Strong appeared. He was dressed more casually than he had been that afternoon, in a purple cashmere sweater and gray pants. He walked over slowly, his eyes on Iphy. “So we meet again,” he said and then leaned over to peck her on the cheek. Callie could smell a fresh, invigorating, piney aftershave. As if he had put it on moments ago.
She studied her great-aunt’s reaction with interest.
Iphy looked up at Sean Strong, her expression undone and vulnerable. “Have you spoken to the police about the murder?” she asked softly.
Strong nodded. “Of course. They wanted statements from everyone. Not that there was much of a point to mine. I was with the orchestra the entire time.”
“Not quite,” Callie said. “I ran into you outside, remember? Shortly before it began. You asked me for coffee, and I brought you into the drawing room.”
Strong looked her over as if he wondering why she had brought that up. “Does it matter?”
Callie took a deep breath before adding. “People also saw you arguing with the victim.”
Strong hitched a brow at her. “And how would you know that? Are you with the police?”
Before Callie could respond, he said to Iphy, “A grandniece with the police now?”
Callie wondered if Sean Strong had committed a crime in Heart’s Harbor and had left in disgrace. She could easily picture him as a charming cat burglar.
Or a swindler taking single ladies’ money with fancy promises he never made good on?
She shivered a moment at the idea that Iphy had fallen in with a crook who had left her heartbroken.
“Callie is not with the police, Sean; she’s helping me at Book Tea these days.”
