by Carolyn Hart
“Since it is likely that Mr. Knox knew his attacker, we are interested in information about Mr. Knox and anyone seen with him at any point yesterday. We look forward to your assistance. If you have information about Jay Knox or who might have committed the crime, please come to conference room A at the close of this announcement.
“As for the details as we now know them, housekeeping notified the manager at ten minutes after nine this morning that a man was dead in cabin five and his death appeared to be murder. Police were summoned. The victim was formally identified as Professor Jay Knox. The medical examiner estimates that death occurred last night between ten p.m. and midnight. The cause of death was blunt trauma. We are seeking information about a bottle of champagne—”
Deirdre’s slender shoulders hunched.
I must speak to her about body language. But I understood her reaction. Public mention of the champagne bottle would soon set the police on a trail that led directly to her. When unidentified prints were found on the bottle in addition to Jay’s, she’d pop up as suspect number one.
“—found at the crime scene. There is no evidence a break-in occurred at cabin five. This leads investigators to conclude that Professor Knox’s attacker was permitted to enter the cabin and that his guest was very likely attending the conference. No hotel staff was summoned to the cabin during that time period or had any reason to be in the cabin. Professor Knox’s personal belongings did not appear to have been searched. His billfold was lying on a chest in the bedroom. The billfold contained money, credit cards, and other personal identification. Anyone with information about . . .”
I dropped down beside Deirdre, whispered, “It will be better if you go to the police to mention the champagne bottle.”
Deirdre said hotly, “Don’t surprise me like this.”
A woman in the next row turned, a finger at her lips. Slowly her face changed from censure to bafflement as she saw the empty seats near Deirdre. “Who were you talking to?”
I think it gave Deirdre great pleasure to appear surprised. “Me? Talking? What on earth gave you that idea?”
I waited until the puzzled face turned away, and whispered lightly but firmly, “Go to conference room A. You have to explain the champagne bottle.”
She looked despairing. “What am I going to tell them?”
I thought fast. “Tell them he offered the champagne to celebrate your selection for the job. You write fiction. It’s time to produce.”
Conference room A was quite a bit more cheerful than the interrogation rooms at the police department. Instead of dingy beige walls and a scuffed linoleum floor, this room was mellow, with pale ivory walls and golden parquet flooring that had been buffed to a high shine. Windows overlooked the garden.
Chief Cobb sat behind a small table. Detective Judy Weitz was at his right with a recorder. Detective Weitz always looked professional, her broad face impassive. She still needed a makeover, with billowy brown hair just this side of frowsy and an unadorned, unflattering white blouse, but her blue eyes were perceptive. It would be a mistake to underestimate her.
Deirdre sat in a straight wooden chair pulled to face the table. A shaft of sunlight turned the reddish glints in her hair to streaks of flame. In our short acquaintance, I had never seen her look so appealing. Her face was too long, the line of her jaw too strong for conventional beauty. Instead of softness, there was intelligence, eagerness, and honesty. You could picture her climbing a narrow trail, hitting a tennis ball with a strong forehand, dancing the night away, turning with a beguiling smile to a man . . .
Oh.
At this moment there was no trace of the uncertainty and stress she’d exhibited this morning with me.
Deirdre’s gaze slid toward the windows, once, twice, three times, stayed there.
Hal Price stood with his back to a window, hands loose at his sides. His white-blond hair gleamed like a Viking helmet in the sunlight. His dark blue eyes never left Deirdre’s face, a man glimpsing a dream, a man responding to unheard music, a man whose heart and mind sensed a haven for now and tomorrow and always.
The cynics would laugh, the realists dismiss, the sophisticates ignore. Love at first sight? A romantic fantasy. But I was watching the immediate attraction between a man and a woman, two strangers looking at each other and somehow knowing this could be the beginning of magic.
“Ms. Davenport?” Sam Cobb’s voice was impatient.
Deirdre slowly turned, looked at Sam. “Oh yes.” Her tone was vague.
Sam’s face was expressionless, neither welcoming nor hostile. “You’re Deirdre Davenport.” He’d planned to talk to Deirdre because of the message I’d left on Jay’s phone. “You have something to tell us?” He was intensely interested in the fact that she had approached the police before she was summoned. Perhaps he wondered if she expected to be interrogated, hoped to give an impression of innocence by contacting them.
Deirdre nodded. “Yes, sir. It’s about the champagne bottle. Or at least about a champagne bottle Jay was carrying when he came to my room last night.”
“He came to your room?” Sam’s gaze never left her face.
A faint flush touched Deirdre’s cheeks. She lifted her chin. “Yes.” Her tone was clipped. “It was about ten. I wasn’t expecting him. He said he thought we should celebrate and he put two glasses and the bottle on the coffee table. Before he could explain—I was sure he meant I’d been chosen for the new faculty spot—a conference attendee knocked and she wanted to talk about her book. Jay understood I needed to visit with her, so I handed the bottle and the glasses to him and he left.”
Judy Weitz’s level stare was skeptical.
Hal Price, his blue eyes dazed, his strong square face open and direct, said admiringly, “That was awfully good of you to see the attendee after hours.”
Deirdre gave him a grateful, enchanted glance. “Since I’m a presenter at the conference, it’s part of my job to encourage—”
Sam cleared his throat. “Name of the writer?” He wanted a witness to confirm her story. Unfortunately, that witness couldn’t come forward. Instead, the police would soon be hearing from people who saw Jay at her door, then saw him leave, his face tight with anger. And there would be the woman who stopped Deirdre in the hall. That witness would explain that Deirdre begged off talking to her because she was on her way to meet with Jay. The evidence linking Deirdre to Jay would continue to mount.
Deirdre jerked her gaze away from Hal. She hesitated, said slowly, tentatively, “She said her name was Judy Hope.”
Sam jerked his head toward Detective Weitz, who made a note. Sam would be doubly interested when a check revealed no one of that name registered for the conference or was staying in the hotel.
“Good job,” I whispered to Deirdre.
Her body tightened, then she forced herself to relax. She didn’t look around for me and continued in a fairly strong voice, “I didn’t remember meeting her during the day but I must have. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have said I’d promised to see her, would she?” Her tone was bright. “Anyway, there she was. This really attractive redhead—”
Deirdre had no choice but to describe me.
The chief’s eyes glinted. Hal’s eyebrows rose.
“—really cute and lively, green eyes, lots of curls, freckles, moves quickly—”
Sam looked at Hal, jerked a thumb toward the door. Sam didn’t have to say a word. Hal knew what he meant. Check the register for Judy Hope.
Deirdre took a deep breath. “But I saw Jay again. He called and asked me to come to the cabin to celebrate—”
This was the tricky part, Deirdre’s visit to cabin 5. I hoped she was convincing.
“—and I agreed. I suppose it took me five minutes or so to walk there. I knocked. Jay offered me some champagne but I refused. We spoke for a few minutes and I was really happy to know I was going to be named to the faculty
. I thanked him, said good night, and came back to my room.”
The chief slowly nodded.
My heart sank. I don’t think he believed her.
“Did you see anyone near cabin five?”
Deirdre was abruptly much more convincing. “Not a soul. It was really quiet. I didn’t see anyone. Or”—she gave a small shrug—“if I did, I didn’t notice. I was thinking about the good news.”
“Right.” Sam nodded. “Thank you for coming to see us, Ms. Davenport.”
When Deirdre reached the door, he spoke again, his voice heavy. “If you remember anything else, come and see us.”
In the hallway, Deirdre walked fast toward the lobby.
I didn’t need to look at her face to know she was scared. I was terribly afraid she had good reason to be scared.
I studied the day’s schedule on a placard placed on an easel in the lobby.
10:00 a.m. Opening session—Director Jay Knox, main auditorium
11:00 a.m. “Knock ’em Dead with a Killer Beginning”—Featured speaker Deirdre Davenport, main auditorium
11:00 a.m. “Be Authentic”—Maureen Matthews, conference rooms B and C
Noon. Break for lunch
1:00 p.m. “An Editor’s Heads-up”—Featured speaker Jessica Forbes, main auditorium
1:00 p.m. “Truth, Not Spin”—Professor Ashton Lewis, conference rooms B and C
2:00 to 4:00 p.m. Prescheduled appointments:
Conference room A. “E-book Magic”—John Kelly
Conference room B. “Pitch Your Novel to an Agent”—Cliff Granger
Conference room C. “Marketing Your Book”—Pam Fisher
6:00 p.m. Cocktails on the terrace
7:00 p.m. Barbecue buffet on the terrace
The placard was low-tech. Modern hotels run more to electronic boards with a continuous feed of information on activities. Conference room A had been scratched out and D substituted.
Attendees once again streamed toward the terrace. The ten o’clock session would begin soon with, I assumed, Maureen Matthews taking over for Jay. Hal Price was on the auditorium steps, scanning those entering. If he was looking for a redhead, he was going to be disappointed.
I went inside, hovered above those settling into seats. I looked for Liz Baker and her companion and Harry Toomey. I spotted Liz talking to a genial-looking older woman. Liz was now unaccompanied but she still looked stressed. I was thorough in my search. Harry Toomey was not in the auditorium.
I waited long enough to hear Maureen Matthews announce Deirdre as the new faculty member. “We are excited to welcome Deirdre Davenport, a wonderful writer who will join our faculty this fall. She will be a great asset to the department. It would be my pleasure to introduce her to you now, but she is assisting the police in their investigation. She is speaking at eleven, and I know you will offer her your congratulations. . . .”
Now, Harry’s absence truly interested me. Last night he had set out to talk to Jay Knox, hoping that Jay hadn’t selected Deirdre. Had Harry spoken to Jay? Had Jay told him Deirdre would be the new faculty member? Had Harry stayed away from this morning’s session because he knew he had been passed over? That seemed very likely.
I found an empty conference room and appeared in a prim, high-necked, slightly shapeless gray knit dress. I tried a black wig. Ghastly. I considered various colors—brown, silver, gray—finally settled on a blonde pageboy. I added dark glasses with purple frames. As an added touch, I eschewed makeup. The purse was a boring shoulder bag in black leather. I squeezed my eyes in concentration, then opened the bag. I smiled when I drew out a black leather folder, opened it, and saw an ID card for Detective M. Loy. My smile wavered as I studied the image. I consoled myself that the harlequin frame sunglasses would draw a viewer’s eyes, not ghostly pale skin.
I doubted anyone who had glimpsed Judy Hope in the bar last night would recognize her in this guise. I was ready to work.
I waited patiently in a line at the front desk. Two clerks on duty were answering questions, checking people in, dealing with disputed charges, registering complaints.
When I faced a frazzled brunette, I flipped open the ID. “Detective Loy. Homicide. I need some room numbers.”
Excited by her proximity to a murder investigation, she quickly provided them: Harry Toomey in room 217, Liz Baker in 311, Ashton Lewis in 302, Maureen Matthews in 326. Cliff Granger was in cabin 6 and Jessica Forbes in cabin 7—finer quarters for the New York visitors.
I carefully wrote down the numbers in a small notebook from the purse—Heaven does provide—thanked her, moved away. I took the stairs to the second floor. At room 217, I knocked firmly.
The door jerked open. Harry Toomey had the air of a man freshly shaved and showered, a man looking forward to his day.
I felt momentarily at a loss. I’d hurried up here to see him because he skipped the session where the new faculty member was announced. I assumed he’d followed through on his plan to see Jay last night and had learned that Deirdre was the choice. I thought he would be skulking in despair. Obviously, he wasn’t. Yet I knew he’d left the bar to go see Jay. From his demeanor, I wondered if he had heard about Jay’s murder. Perhaps he’d ignored the summons to the auditorium. He looked at me politely.
“Police.” I spoke in a crisp, commanding tone, though I kept my voice in a slightly higher register than normal. I held out my black leather folder.
He scarcely glanced at it, but I definitely had his attention. The watery brown eyes looked at me warily. “You want to talk to me?”
“Yes, sir. About Jay Knox.”
His face creased. “Man, that’s a shocker.” His tone was perfunctory. No sad songs for Jay here.
“From information received, we know that you talked to Jay Knox last night.” I estimated the time of his departure from the bar. “Between ten thirty and ten forty-five.”
His light brown eyes narrowed in thought. “That sounds about right. I’d been in the bar, talked to this lady about publishing. She’d heard that Jay was going to announce Deirdre Davenport as the new faculty member. I guess I was surprised. I thought he’d picked me. I decided to go see him, but I only stayed a few minutes.”
I was firm. “We know quite a bit about your contacts with Jay Knox. If you are cooperative, we can talk here and it won’t be necessary to go downstairs.” My tone suggested it would be much easier for all concerned if we spoke here. I smiled and stepped forward.
He backed away from me. “Sure. We can talk here.” He was eager to be agreeable.
I closed the door behind me. “You can sit in the chair.”
He sank onto the oversize office chair, designed for a man six foot four inches tall and weighing two hundred and fifty pounds. Harry’s worn running shoes didn’t quite touch the floor.
I slid the leather folder into a pocket, pulled the notebook out of my purse. I stopped a foot or so away, remained standing, looked down over the rim of the sunglasses. “We’ll be taking your fingerprints this afternoon to confirm the fact that you visited cabin five. Please describe your actions.”
He talked fast. “I don’t know anything that will help the police. I talked to Jay for a few minutes—”
“The subject?”
“Well, I’d been in the bar and there was a woman who’d heard that Deirdre Davenport was going to get the new faculty job. I thought I’d go ask Jay. See”—and suddenly there was pathos in his eyes—“I’m self-published.” He looked at me doubtfully, wondering if I understood.
I nodded. “The new big wave in publishing.”
He was suddenly animated. “Exactly. Any writer can have a book now.” He looked down at the top of his scuffed Adidases. “But only a few self-published books ever really succeed.” He sounded discouraged. “Writers need a real publisher, somebody pushing the book, getting orders from wholesalers and stores and librar
ies. I thought if I got the faculty job, I’d have a chance to talk to editors and agents. I know my book can sell, get the backing it needs, if I have the right contacts.” His eyes were bright. “That’s all I need, somebody to place my book.”
I wasn’t interested in Harry’s analysis of publishing. “You went to see Jay.” I held the pencil above the pad. “You took the path from the terrace. Did you see anyone on your way to the cabin?”
“I wasn’t paying much attention.” He was vague. “Some people were sitting by the pool. The path twists and turns. I didn’t run into anybody. There are some side paths with benches. I heard somebody laughing. It’s around the third turn that you can see cabin five. The lights were on so I went up and knocked. Jay came to the door. I don’t think he was pleased to see me. I told him I had to talk to him and he said okay, he had five minutes. He let me in. He sat on the sofa and I sat in a brown leather chair. I told him I’d heard he’d picked Deirdre. He looked kind of surprised—”
I had a feeling that Harry Toomey was accurately describing his exchange with Jay. Now it was my turn to be surprised. I’d arrived prepared for denials, lies, evasions. Was I naïve? Certainly a murderer would be well prepared to spin a clever tale.
“—and I thought maybe what I’d heard was wrong, but he turned his hands over, said he’d had a visit with Randall, and Randall made it clear that he wanted Deirdre.”
So Jay had planned all along to announce Deirdre’s selection. If she’d succumbed to his wishes, she would always have thought she’d been chosen because of a tawdry quid pro quo. I wondered if Jay had any inkling how degrading that would have been for her. Had he been oblivious to how his acts affected others or had he simply not cared? How much emotional damage had he willfully or carelessly inflicted on those around him?
