by Liz Turner
Dana’s teacup rattled against the table as the old mansion shook in the howling blizzard wind. Out of habit, Dana looked out the big front windows into the mad, swirling snow. Silent, but senselessly violent….
***
“Oh, yes, I think another guest was telling me about that same restaurant yesterday. I really should go to it, then!” Dana was saying.
“Well, once this storm lets up that is,” said Shelton Murphy. He set his empty tumbler of whiskey on a little cart.
“Who was it who told me about it? What was his name….?” Dana snapped her fingers. “Oh, that’s right. It was Black. Wallace Black. Did you meet him yet?”
She watched Shelton’s slim face closely. But the man simply flicked a finger into the air to summon a passing server to request another glass. “Wallace?” He squinted. “Nope, don’t think I did. To be honest with you, I was planning on just spending whatever free time I had out exploring the slopes and the town on my own.” He let out a breath. “First time I’ve ever been sent on a business trip solo, and I was going to live it up, let me tell you. Don’t have to strategize and network and talk next steps with whatever guy they had sent me up with this time.” He smiled with his small mouth. “So yeah, I wasn’t about to ruin it with small talk with strangers.” He noticed Dana’s wry, apologetic smile, and interjected, “Oh, I mean, not now. Now I’m happy for the small talk. This storm means I can’t do a single thing—not even attend the conference I was supposed to be attending. So, what? Am I going to sit in my room doing nothing all day? Even small talk is better than that.” He shook his head. “Do you want a drink?”
Dana demurred politely. “No thank you, if I drink anything, I’d better be prepared to be asleep in the next hour! Hazard of old age.”
“Suit yourself. It is a vacation, though, after all.” He winked lazily. “Got to be five o’clock somewhere, why not right here, right now?”
Shortly, Dana excused herself. She was fairly certain that Shelton Murphy, a slight Italian-American man in his thirties—clearly with a drinking problem—was not the man who had killed Wallace Black.
Still believing that the murderer must be either a guest at the Wesley or a staff member, Dana had persuaded Melissa and Noah to share with her their records of all the guests. Then, she had looked for anything that seemed like a bit too flimsy of an excuse to be staying at the Wesley. She had come up with five possible suspects.
The first was a couple in their early twenties who had made the reservation at the Wesley relatively late, snagging the last open room in late October. But, when Dana had approached them in the spa downstairs, where they were snuggling in one of the hot tubs, they hadn’t seemed to react at all to the name Wallace Black. And in addition, Dana suspected that the couple was far too into themselves to be there to murder someone. They failed to disentangle themselves from their sensual embrace, even as Dana struck up a conversation.
The second had been a middle-aged woman who was apparently staying alone at the Wesley, a Willow Longley. She had left the “reason for your visit” section blank when she made the reservation. Dana had found her in the lobby, arguing with the concierge about why the moonlight carriage ride that night was already canceled. The woman, apparently, believed that hope should be held out that the streets might clear in time for the scheduled event. Dana had taken one look at her—dressed in a slinky black dress despite the cold and her age—and decided that she probably had not killed Wallace Black. Nonetheless, Dana had engaged her in conversation, which the woman unwillingly obliged. Willow Longley appeared frustrated at having to talk to an elderly woman about nonsense, but didn’t blink when Wallace’s name came up.
Shelton Murphy had been her third attempt that day. Dana was about to go look for the fourth on her list when she heard a commotion in the lobby. She excused herself from Shelton and went to see what the matter was. A gust of cold blew through the vast lobby. Two men, one Dana’s age and another thirty years younger, stood in the doorway struggling to close the massive old doors against the wind. Dana watched as they flashed their badges at the concierge, whose face went white.
Just then, as the older officer turned to face her, Dana realized she knew him. He was one of the local men she remembered from her winters spent here with Eileen. Dana swallowed subtly. They had not exactly gotten along back in the day. He—then a young police officer by the name of Bob Kelly—had disliked how Dana had always kept her pretty friend Eileen away from his advances. She had believed Bob to be a scoundrel, keen on toying with the prettiest girl in town’s heart.
“Bob Kelly, is that you?” Dana called out, pasting her cheerful Southern smile on.
Bob’s face stiffened as he recognized her. “Dana Potter.”
“I guess you finally did make detective?”
“Inspector, actually,” he said gruffly.
“Congratulations,” Dana said warmly.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“The new owners of the place invited me to stay.”
“Ah,” he grunted. “Well, I’d love to stay and chat but—”
“—But you’ve got to go see about a dead body in Suite 44.”
Bob stared at her. “You know about that?”
“Melissa and Noah Cantor are old friends of mine. They shared with me their concerns over what happened to poor Mr. Black. I had met him the night before, actually. And I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about the case—”
Bob scoffed. “Listen, I appreciate that you’re here to comfort the Cantor’s and all, but I think we’ve got it handled from here.”
Undeterred, Dana continued making small talk with Bob as she followed him up the stairs to the fourth floor. Outside the room, whose door handle had been hung with a “Do Not Disturb” sign, Bob turned to her and said she had better leave; it might be an ugly scene.
“Oh, don’t worry about me. I’ve already been in there.”
Bob’s face contorted in annoyance. “I can’t believe—I told them—Just wait out here this time, okay?”
As Dana waited outside dutifully, the younger officer came brushing by her, apologizing for jostling her with his big bag. “Oh, that’s quite alright.” She noted the younger man’s tall stature and boyish face. If she had been thirty years younger, he was exactly the type of man she used to go for. “What’s in the bag, Officer?” she couldn’t help but ask.
He smiled sheepishly. “I’m not an officer of the law. I’m the medical examiner. Christian Foley.” He stuck out his hand for her to shake. Cocking his head, he asked, “So, er, are you just curious?” He nodded in the direction of the room.
“You could say that. Wallace Black might have been a friend of mine. I would like to see him get some justice for whatever happened to him.”
Christian’s eyes flashed sadly. “I’m sorry for your loss. You are welcome to come in, as long as you keep quiet about, well, you know. The Cantor’s don’t want to start up a panic throughout the whole hotel, and neither do we.”
Dana entered the room gingerly, ignoring the irritation on Bob’s face. She watched as Bob carefully glanced about the room, noticing as he lingered over by the window, then fingered the curtains.
“The window was opened wasn’t it?” she asked.
“Looks that way. There are some wet droplets on the inside sill, like the snow got in.”
Dana nodded. She had noticed that, too. “I also wondered, well… do you see that there…?” She came up behind him and pointed at the stone outer wall just to the right of the window. “That little discoloration? At first, I thought it was just the age of the stone, but now I’m thinking it could be—”
“Blood,” Bob finished. “Christian, does the victim have any open wounds?”
Christian stood up from where he was examining the body. “No,” he shook his head. “Far as I can tell, he had a sudden heart attack. Though a further examination will be necessary to say anything one hundred percent.”
Dana’s mind whirred. Wallace
Black had died of a heart attack after all.
Bob whistled and looked around. “So, either Mr. Black here was in such pain from his heart that he found the strength to go around the room and vandalize it himself, or someone else was here when he had the heart attack and they caused the damage.” He sighed. “I’ll tell you, neither of those scenarios make a whole lot of sense. And I’m inclined to believe there was something else going on.” He nodded toward the window. “By the looks of that blood out there, I’d say there was some sort of foul play, and the other party injured themselves as they climbed out the window.”
Dana stared at him. She craned her neck down to look out the window to the steep drop below into the unbroken snow. “You mean, they jumped?”
Bob shrugged. “I don’t see how that blood could have gotten out there otherwise. It certainly didn’t come from Mr. Black.” He gestured to Christian. “Come on, I think we ought to have a look around outside this window. Might be another body out there, covered by the snow.” His mouth was set in a grim line.
Dana stayed for a moment after they left, slowly roving her eyes over every last inch of the place. She was struck, again, by the impression that whatever had happened in this room last night had not been ordinary. She looked at the water droplets by the window, the destruction in the room, the brush of blood that had stained the outer wall a dark brown. Chaos, she mused. Silent, senseless…and Walter Black dropped dead by its sheer force. But this time, the force she had in mind was beginning to take a clearer shape. It wasn’t anger or rage after all, but a very powerful fear.
Chapter 4
Twenty Love Poems
Dana opened the door to the library next door. She wanted a bit of peace and quiet to think over things. She had the sense that she was close to understanding something crucial about what happened last night if she could just piece it together.
However, she found that the library was not deserted as she expected. A woman, probably in her early thirties, was curled up in one of the armchairs, a fire roaring before her. As Dana was about to speak, she realized the woman was crying.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Dana said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
The woman scrambled to sit up straighter and blotted at her face with a tissue. She had porcelain skin and raven black hair that curled gently below her chin. Short, curly bangs framed her large, watery hazel eyes. “Oh, no, no, you’re fine.” She waved a hand rapidly for Dana to stay. “I was just—leaving.” But she made no move to rise from the chair.
“Are you alright? Don’t leave on my account.”
The woman threw up her hands and laughed, to Dana’s surprise. “Oh, I’m just being stupid! It’s just that this storm has really messed things up for me.”
“It has really put a damper on holiday plans, yes,” Dana said.
The woman rolled her eyes. “More like ruined my wedding.”
“Oh? I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I should be more relaxed about it. It’s just a silly ceremony! Who cares that none of my bridal party will be able to make it here through the snow? Love is all that matters, isn’t it? You do what you have to for love.” She fixed her eyes on Dana. Dana fancied that her mouth quivered with sorrow.
“It is unfortunate that your wedding has to be canceled. But you are absolutely right. Love has a way of making everything right.” Dana smiled gently.
“Cancelled? Oh no, it’s not cancelled. It’s simply that the only people who will be in attendance are those at this hotel. I put in far too much work to have it be cancelled! I’m getting married tomorrow. And that’s that.”
“I admire your passion,” Dana said. “I’m Dana Potter.”
“Danielle Howard. Soon to be Danielle Wood.” She held out her slim hand to reveal a large sapphire ring.
“Congratulations,” Dana said.
They continued their conversation, with Dana taking a liking to the fiery young woman. She found that Danielle was an assistant biology professor at the university an hour away, and that she and her fiancé had known each other only a year, but they had experienced the whirlwind romance of Danielle’s dreams.
***
Shortly, Dana left and went to find out if any new clues had been unearthed about Wallace Black’s murder. She found Bob and Christian sitting with the Cantors in the café. Melissa was looking nervously at her nails, her left hand clutching the strand of pearls around her neck. The men, Dana was surprised to find, were looking no more assured.
“I suppose there was no body beneath the snow, was there?” Dana asked.
Bob shook his head. “You said you had spoken to Wallace Black last night? Did he mention what he was doing up here?”
“Our current thought is that this was a deliberate attack. Perhaps Black came here to do harm to someone, lured them to his room last night, where a violent fight broke out. But, lucky for his opponent, Black’s weak heart gave out during the scuffle,” Christian interrupted.
“He had a weak heart?” Dana asked.
“It was hanging on by a thread. I’m guessing if he hadn’t had the heart attack last night, it would have been just around the corner for him.” He shook his head.
Bob grunted. “If it weren’t for the state of the room and that blood, we’d have been done with this case already. Which brings me back to my question. Do you have any idea what brought Black here?”
Dana shook her head. “Unfortunately, he was pretty vague on the subject. I got the impression that whatever it was, it was a source of great pain for him. I actually suspected that he had just lost a spouse.”
Bob shook his head. “No. Black hadn’t been married for ten years. Divorced. And his ex is still very much alive. We checked on her though—she lives in Australia now, and as far as we know, is still there.”
“I see,” Dana said.
He sighed. “We’re going to be phoning his closest relatives. Doesn’t have many, just a son and a brother. But maybe one of them can shed some light on what Wallace Black was doing up here all alone.”
“But what do we do?” Melissa spoke up. Her gaze jerked around the room unevenly as she, apparently, watched for eavesdroppers. In a lower voice, she added, “I just want everything go off smoothly, and nobody to even find out about poor Mr. Black until this is all over! Or, at least until they’re not stuck here like in an awful horror film.”
“Mrs. Cantor, you have our word that we won’t leak the news to anyone. Trust us, we don’t want to incite panic in a closed space any more than you do,” Bob said. Dana noted that his tone was gentler when he spoke to Melissa.
***
After a quiet dinner reading a novel by the fire, Dana retired to her room, intending to sleep. However, she found she couldn’t. The storm had quieted down—the weather forecasters predicted that roads could start being cleared in a few days—but for reason, the sudden absence of the whooshing of the wind outside her window disquieted her. She tossed and turned and eventually decided to get another book from the library to replace the one she had finished.
As quietly as she could, she opened the heavy wood door to the hallway and slipped out in her thick robe and slippers. She paused for a moment outside Suite 44 before heading into the library. There, she found herself alone, as expected. She slid the book she had taken back into the shelves and began running her finger over the other titles, hoping that one would strike her fancy.
A few minutes later, one did. Though not for the reason she had hoped. Her finger stopped on an old book, cream colored with age. On its spine read, PABLO NERUDA. Her heart pounded, for, in her agitated late-night state, the nearly hundred-year-old book had sparked a memory. The memory of a beautiful old Spanish love poem.
The book was wide and square, on the cover two green faces stared at each other, cartoonish and abstract like a Picasso painting. She flipped open to the table of contents and skimmed until she found what she had been looking for: poema xx.
She began to read it. Though she didn’t speak the lang
uage, she recalled the first time she’d heard it, sitting in a lounge in Chile, back when she was a very young woman on a study abroad excursion. A young man with dark locks of hair flipped over his eyes had been reading it on the stage, a single spotlight illuminating him against the black backdrop.
Yes, that’s right, it had been a poetry reading…
Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Escribir, por ejemplo: «La noche está estrellada,
y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos.»
El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta.
She read the line over and over again, certain that she’d heard it once more since that night in Chile. In fact, she’d heard it very recently. El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta.
Wallace Black had quietly said those words the night before he died. But why? What did they mean? She studied the title of the book: Veinte Poemas de Amor y una Cancion Desesperada.
Twenty Poems of Love… that was easy enough to translate. Love, she thought. So, her hunch had been right. Wallace Black was in love with someone, and that love was causing him a great deal of pain. Perhaps it had even been the reason for his death.
Chapter 5
Blood on the Window
The next morning, Dana woke to the sun streaming brightly through the space between the drapes. Her slippers were still on, and the Pablo Neruda book was laid open across her chest. She rubbed her eyes, remembering her revelation of last night. She had something to do at once.
At breakfast, she made a beeline to Noah Cantor, who was doing a remarkable job putting on the show of a happy host.
“Ms. Potter! Bright and early today, I see,” he greeted her.
“You’re certainly in good spirits,” Dana quipped back.
He smiled. “The storm has broken, this sun will make the roads easier to clear, and we’ll be finished with this mess.”
“I have a favor to ask you,” Dana said.
“Oh?”
