by Bud Crawford
Geoff went down the stairs, and out onto the front porch. He called Ellen, asked if she knew where Stephanie was. They had finished lunch, downtown, yeah, they'd be back in ten minutes. Don't worry, he told her, but come quickly. He ended the call without saying more.
The fire-emergency truck arrived first, Geoff directed them upstairs. Four minutes later, the ambulance, then a police car. The medics from the fire department took over from Toni. Harold's body jumped from the jolts of the defibrillator, but he did not revive. The fire department handed him off to the ambulance EMTs who strapped him to a stretcher. They were carrying him downstairs as two uniformed city policemen came into the foyer. The tall slender dark-skinned cop began asking questions. His companion, a slight pink ash-blonde woman, wrote quickly in her notebook. She looked up and around briefly between questions.
The ambulance crew were loading Harold. The fire EMTs and Toni talked with the police. Geoff had returned inside behind the stretcher carriers. Honoria had come into the foyer from the parlor. "He's had it, I'm afraid." The senior EMT was a compact wiry man in his late fifties. "We'll let the ER doc call it, but there's no response."
"That's what I thought," Toni said. "He felt warm, but he was leaning against the radiator."
"Was he alone in the room?" the policeman asked. "Any indication anybody else had been in the room?"
"No, just him, and the door was locked. He had a weak heart, I believe. His wife will know the details, but I assume it was a heart attack." Toni looked from the cop to the EMT.
"I agree," the EMT said. "No sign of anything else. Of course I'm not forensic, and somebody should check out the room. They'll do an autopsy, pretty certain. It's standard with a sudden death, unless the family objects. Then they'd need a warrant."
"I'm going to seal the room, for now, and have a detective come check it out," the tall cop said. "Pretty much a formality, it looks like, but we don't want to miss anything. Who has been in the room besides you, ma'am?"
Toni said, "Marti Spence, who works here, came when I called her, she made the 911 call, but she was just in the doorway. Only me, then, until the ambulance came."
Geoff stepped forward. "I walked a couple steps in, while Toni was giving CPR. I looked around, but I didn't touch anything."
The cop nodded at Geoff. "Nobody else since? Who else was in there today, earlier?"
Toni said, "Well, his wife, Stephanie Alden. She went downtown after breakfast, to go shopping. Marti made up the bed, maybe 9:30."
"And, me, again," Geoff said. I visited him for a few minutes around ten o'clock. He was working. I left him to it and went back to my room."
Alistair came in from the parlor. "What's going on, Toni?"
"And who are you, sir?" the policeman asked.
"I am Alistair Vingood. I and my partner, her, Antonia Billings, run this inn."
"It's Harold Alden, Ali." Toni said. "Had a heart attack, we think. He's died, dear, all but certain. They've taken him to the Mission ER."
"Have you been out, sir?" Tall as the policeman was, he had to tilt his head back to look at Alistair.
"Out? No I've been in the inn all night, all day." Alistair looked around at the fire-men, the policemen, at Geoff and Toni and Honoria. "Oh, I see. Why wasn't I in here sooner, with all the ruckus?" The policemen nodded. "My mid-day nap," Alistair said. "I've learned to sleep through day-time noises. I'm generally up at five to begin breakfast and don't get to bed before midnight. So I catch up during the day, when I can."
"And where is Marti Spence?" the policeman asked.
"She was still upstairs, calling 911", Geoff said, "when I came down."
"She may be in her room," said Toni.
"Could you look, please? It would be helpful to speak with her."
Toni looked at Alistair, then turned and walked through the parlor towards Marti's room.
The radio on the policeman's shoulder crackled, and the policeman leaned towards it. "Sergeant Harkin, here."
"Harkin. Sprague. I'm on my way with a couple techs. They've called it, at the ER. Heart attack, cause of death. Cause of heart attack, the only question. Keep everyone together for a few more minutes, get names and contact for me, would you?"
"Yes, sir." The static stopped. "Jenny, would you make a list?"
She turned to a fresh page, and went quietly from person to person around the room, getting full names, addresses, phone numbers, occupations, reason for being in Asheville, at the Juniper House.
Honoria spoke softly to Alistair. "You should tell them, now, about the watch, I think."
Alistair looked down at her, his initial rush of anger dissolved in her clear gaze. "Yes, you're right." He turned to the policeman. "Officer, Sergeant Harkin? There was a brief incident, earlier this morning. I think it has no bearing, but it should be on the record." He told about the accusation, and about finding the watch. The EMT confirmed that he had noticed it on Harold's wrist.
Detective Lieutenant Richard Sprague parked at the curb in front of Juniper House, directly behind the fire-rescue vehicle, its flasher still cycling slowly. Two women turned the corner by the juniper hedge, saw the ambulance and police car, looked at each other, dropped their bags and sprinted for the porch. Sprague picked up the women's bags. His companions were unloading their cases from the trunk of the car. He followed the women up the walk. He smiled at a little girl straddling a tricycle at the other end of the hedge, about the age of his daughter, Sara. She looked at him directly, unblinking, but did not return his smile.
Nothing good here, he thought. Let's hope there's nothing evil. He pulled the door open, held it for his assistants. Maybe ten feet ahead, as he entered the foyer, were the two women he had followed. One was on her knees, her back to Sprague, sobbing. Her body shook, her hands pulled down the shoulders of the other woman. That woman was also kneeling, her arms cradling her companion. She looked straight at Sprague, saw he had their bags, and nodded, thanks. Very self-possessed lady, he thought. He set the bags down, just inside the door.
chapter twentieth
Sprague stepped forward into the foyer. Harkin looked relieved, he thought. Patrolman Jenny Apple smiled at him, ready for anything. One girl cop he'd never seen flustered, not at all the timid little thing she seemed.
"Hello, everybody. I'm Richard Sprague, a detective with the Asheville Police Department." He flipped open the badge he'd pulled from his jacket pocket. "I know Sergeant Harkin pretty well, so I'm sure he's already got hold of all the necessary information. This room's kind of packed, and I see a bigger space just through there. Could we possibly take a few steps, get everybody seated, and be a little less crowded?"
The very large man opened his arms, turned and gestured into the larger room. "Please, of course, forgive me, everyone, come into the parlor and sit. I'm Alistair Vingood, detective, this is my partner Antonia Billings, we're the proprietors."
No one moved until another man stepped between Sprague and the kneeling women. He wrapped his arms around both women and gently lifted them to their feet. Then everyone began shuffling into the parlor. As he stepped forward Sprague saw three additional people, sitting just inside the large room. Two alarmed-looking middle-aged women sat together, holding hands, both hands, their arms criss-crossed. Looked liked twins. Their eyes darted from face to face as the five guests and five cops from the foyer joined them. An older woman sat near them knitting a sweater. Thirteen bodies, five are mine. Plus me, fourteen. Count everything, Sprague thought, never miss a number. Count faces, count bullets, count seconds.
The sobbing woman was seated on a sofa, the man and woman who had helped her up were sitting on either side. Sprague walked to the sofa and squatted in front of the woman in the center. He put a hand on her knee, she looked up at him, her eyes wet, no makeup, no smudge. She was extraordinarily pretty, wide green eyes flecked with gold. He held her glance.
"You're Mrs. Alden?" She nodded. "I am so sorry about your husband's death. We have heard, officially, from Mission H
ospital that he was dead on his arrival there. They believe heart failure was the cause of death. They will be doing an autopsy to be completely certain."
He stayed down, looking directly at her. "Do you know anything about his medical history that could explain what happened?" She looked at him, but did not say anything.
"Detective Sprague?" It was the other woman, her friend. "May I speak for her? She's pretty wiped out by this. I'm Ellen Fletcher."
"Do you know Mr. Alden's medical condition, Ms Fletcher?"
"He had a congenital heart valve deformation. He was scheduled for surgery in a couple months, in June. He'd known about it most of his life. Lately it had become more restricting, in terms of stamina. But his surgeon didn't think it was an emergency. He told Harold to limit his exertions, stop and rest as he needed to. That's all I know."
"Is that correct, Mrs. Alden?" She nodded, yes. "Thank you, Ms Fletcher. We'll need details, the surgeon's name and number. Could you help us with that?"
"I will, yes."
Sprague stood and stepped back and looked around the room. "It seems clear cut, nothing to involve the police at all. But we'd always rather err on the side of caution. If you-all don't mind, I like to have my assistant Cindy take a quick set of fingerprints from everyone here, and we'll do a quick check on the room upstairs, probably keep it sealed up until we have autopsy results. This is standard procedure whenever there's a sudden unexpected death. It's not because we think anything happened here, except a terrible personal tragedy, completely medical in nature." He looked slowly around the room. "As this is an inn, I assume everyone here, except the owners, will be leaving soon to go home. Is there anyone who must leave before Friday? You'll all be here until then? Good. You are free to go, of course, but let us know. I'll leave a stack of my cards on the table. Please everybody take one. And if you have any questions, or remember something that might change our thinking, give me a call." He took a step towards Ellen.
"Ms Fletcher, after we have looked over the room, would you be willing to help Mrs. Alden pick up any personal items she needs. We'll need to watch and make a list of those items. Then we'll seal the room, just for a couple days."
"Yes, of course." Ellen looked at Stephanie, who had stopped crying, sitting frozen in her seat.
"Mr. Vingood, is there any chance you have a spare room here that Mrs. Alden could stay in for a day or two?"
"Of course, Detective. We have two open, one shall be hers, for as long as she wishes."
Toni asked, "May I also look in the room before you seal it? The thermostat is set very high, and the toilet was not turning off. If the room is to be shut for several days, I'd like to take care of those things."
"Tell you what, Ms Billings, I'll take care of those things. You can come in when we're done to see if there's anything else that needs to be done. Now, if no one objects to a little ink on their fingers, I'll leave you to Cindy. Bob and I will go upstairs, if you'll show the way, Mr. Vingood or Ms Billings?"
Toni said, "I've got my key right here. When Sergeant Harkin closed the door, it self-locked. I'll take you up."
"Harkin," Sprague said, "stay here for the moment and help Cindy, but let me have Apple and her notebook. When I get down, we'll debrief each other. Alright?"
"Yessir." Harkin walked over to the table where Cindy had opened her kit. "What can I do?" Harkin asked her. That lad's turning out to be a keeper, Sprague thought, as he followed Toni up the left-hand staircase. There was a balcony all around the second floor that looked down into the parlor, room doors opening outwards. Just like the first floor, the walls were paneled waist-high with a dark slightly red wood. Mahogany? The upper walls were plaster painted a soft yellow. Yes, plaster, not sheetrock, Sprague decided as he knocked the wall with his knuckle. Pictures hung down every few feet from a molding strip that ran just below the pale gray plaster ceiling. Some were framed photos, some oils, some watercolors, A mix of regional, historical and decorative. There was a scattering of chairs and tables between the rooms. The door Toni brought them to was in the front corner, a few steps from the head of the stairs. Sprague took the key from Toni and pulled the door open, by the key, without touching the doorknob. There was a rush of hot air. Must be eighty in there, he thought.
Bob set his case flat on the hall floor, took out a large digital camera, and shot a picture of the open doorway. Patrolman Apple was continuing her notes.
"Is that the thermostat, right over the radiator?" Sprague asked Toni. "Can I push the needle with my knife, without touching the dial?" He stepped carefully into the room, staying in the center of the entry rug, leaning across towards the thermostat.
"Sure," she said, "be gentle."
"Sixty-five okay?" He moved the indicator a little to the left. A valve in the radiator closed and the room became quiet enough to hear a soft whistle of water running. It was still hot and there was palpably the smell of death, not a horrible smell, but distinctive and unmistakable.
"For an empty room that's fine. I almost reset it myself, but decided I shouldn't touch anything." Toni pointed to a canvas sack on the floor just inside the door. "Those are my tools, I was on my way to fix the toilet. We could just cut the inlet, to stop the noise and stop wasting water. I can fix the flap later."
"He was lying there, next to the radiator?" Sprague pointed directly down, in front of his feet.
"That's right, I rolled him flat, to try CPR. He was warm, almost hot. I thought at first he was alive, then I realized the heat came from the radiator."
"That's the desk chair tipped over, as if he collapsed sitting down, took the chair with him?"
"That's what ran through my head when I first came in. I pushed the chair out of the way, then all I remember is doing the compressions until the medics got here."
"Thanks for not touching, by the way. Have you got a channel-lock in that bag?" Sprague asked. Toni nodded. "No, let me get it." Sprague pulled on a pair of latex gloves and carefully pulled the edges of the little canvas tote open. He lifted the pliers out of the bag. "You brought this bag with you, it wasn't in the room before you got here?"
"Yup, that's what I said." Toni watched him hold her channel-locks by the pivot pin. "Not part of the room, ante-mortem."
"Ante-mortem?" Sprague smiled at her. She was one of his kind, he thought: no lack of sympathy, but she'll carry on no matter what. He grabbed the pliers by the very ends of the vinyl handle covers, shook them open to the widest setting, stepped through the open door into the bathroom and bent down and twisted the pointed oval handle of the supply valve round and round to close it, the pliers tight against the points on the handle.
Back in the hall, he dropped the pliers back in the bag. "Can you manage without these for a couple days?"
"I've got duplicates, it'll be fine. I could have brought you a different one to use, so the evidence didn't get compromised." Toni smiled at Sprague
"It's a weird line here, I think you understand. Hundred to one, there's nothing. But in case we are looking at a crime scene, despite every indications to the contrary, well, we'll try for a reasonable balance. Keep things as intact as possible, but not locked down like we would if we were sure."
"Yeah, I do get it, and I agree. I don't see a crime, and I don't want one in my house. But if there was something, I'd like it solved. I'll head downstairs, and let you guys work."
"Thanks, Ms Billings. We won't be long." She walked past the two policemen in the hall, and went down the steps. Sprague waved in his photographer. "Go first, Bob, just shoot everything, before we move stuff, especially the desk, chair, the floor where he fell. When Cindy gets here we'll start taking it apart. Patrolman, could I have a look at your notes?" Apple handed him her pad. She stood still, hands at her side, pen still in her right hand, while Sprague quickly scanned the pages of notes, and Bob took a couple dozen pictures inside the room.
chapter twenty-first
By two-thirty the police presence was gone from Juniper House, except for the tape s
ealing the door behind which Harold had died and the stack of Detective Sprague's cards on the table in the parlor. Ellen helped Stephanie gather her things, duly listed by Patrolman Apple, and put them into the center back room, next to her and Geoff. But Stephanie didn't want to be in that room, or to be alone. Alistair had set an early tea in the dining room, for Honoria, Geoff, Ellen and Stephanie. Toni stayed for a few minutes, then retired to her workshop. The whine of an electric sander was just audible through the soundproofing. Marti was gone off to her boyfriend, Alistair expected, or maybe to see James again. The twins had gone out for a premises inspection. Dwight and Jerry had not yet returned from their building site.
Andy Ross had been alone in his room, watching the medics carry Harold downstairs. He pulled the fiber optic cable from the transom, coiled it up in the pocket of his jacket and softly opened the door to the exterior balcony. The trellis was white oak, solid as any ladder. He was out through the back garden before the police cruiser had parked, through the hedgerow to the sidewalk behind the inn. He smiled and waved at the pesky little girl who was always riding her damn tricycle around the block. Well she was too little to put any of this together, no one would pay attention to her. Probably some kind of disability, retarded or autistic or something. She never responded, just stared.
