by Dawn Eastman
“Maybe he really didn’t think the meeting mattered, or maybe he didn’t want René to hear him.”
Kirk rounded the corner carrying the ladder again. He nodded as he passed and went into the lounge.
“Did you get in touch with the police?” I asked.
“No, the road is blocked and the snowmobiles are low on gas, so we didn’t want to go looking for a phone. It’s almost a mile to the turnoff.” Mac leaned against the wall.
“It’s too bad Dad and Seth didn’t tell the police they were looking for us,” I said. “They didn’t realize there would be a murder to deal with.”
“It’s likely anywhere nearby is dealing with the same outages as we are,” Mac said. He pushed away from the wall and paced. “The police know the hotel is here. If the phones don’t come back on, they’ll eventually try to get up here. We’ll have to keep working the case in the meantime.”
“Vi will be so pleased,” I said. “She’s identifying herself as one of our deputies now.”
Mac rocked back on his heels and looked at the ceiling.
“While you were away she and I spoke with Holly.”
“Let me guess, she wasn’t much of a Clarissa fan, either.”
I nodded. “Holly doesn’t even think the cat liked her. She did say she saw Tina come out of the stairwell sometime after seven thirty.”
Mac pressed his lips together. “I thought Tina was in the dining room the whole time.”
I held my hands out. “I guess not. She also didn’t volunteer the information when we were talking to them in the workshop room.”
“We’ll need to confront her,” Mac said. “It also means her friends covered for her. They must have known she left the room.”
“I don’t like this, Mac,” I said. I wrapped my arms around myself to ward off a sudden chill that I suspected had nothing to do with the temperature. “Everyone is hiding something.”
The corner of Mac’s mouth twitched up in a rueful smile. “It does seem that way. Including the building itself. Which reminds me, I wanted to talk to the Garretts again after finding the secret stairway. With Emmett’s news, we have even more reason to question them,” Mac said.
“Let’s wait to confront them about the hidden stairway until they’re together—I want to see how they react,” I said. “I think the offices are back here by the kitchen.” I pointed down the hallway where Emmett had disappeared.
Mac and I followed the hall until we were almost to the kitchen door. We heard drawers slamming and papers rustling in one of the rooms.
We peered around the doorjamb and saw Jessica rummaging through a desk. She looked up, startled, when we walked in.
“Hello, can I help?” she said as she quietly slid one of the drawers closed.
“We were hoping to talk to you and your mom again,” I said.
“Oh, I see.” Jessica straightened the pens on the desktop. “She’s really not doing very well today. Clarissa’s death has hit her much harder than I would have expected.”
“Why do you say that?” Mac asked.
“It’s just . . . they never got along that well and they had been arguing over how best to run the hotel.” Jessica turned away from us and looked out the window. “Honestly, I thought on some level she might be relieved, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. If anything, she’s spending a lot of time talking about how wonderful Clarissa was.” She turned back toward us. “I finally had to walk away.”
Jessica sat in the desk chair and gestured for us to take seats.
“Can you tell us any more about your cousin? Did you grow up together?” I asked.
Jessica snorted. “We never got along, even when we were kids. She was one of those spoiled little kids that was used to having every whim indulged, and she didn’t mind stepping on people to get what she wanted.”
“How had you been doing since she moved back here and started working at the hotel?”
“Mostly I ran interference between her and the staff. I felt like I was back in high school again, where I had to convince people that, even though we were related, I was nothing like her. The staff started acting scared of all three of us. I suppose because they assumed we were complicit in Clarissa’s management style. Basically, I ran around cleaning up her messes.”
“What changes was she trying to make here?” Mac asked.
“She had this idea that the hotel could become a destination spa. She wanted to divert money from the restaurant—René had been working on expanding our offerings and trying to get the restaurant Michelin rated—and put it toward the spa,” she said. “René was initially outraged and then . . . I don’t know . . . he just backed off.” She stopped and stared into space for a moment.
“Anyway, I’m sure you don’t want to hear about our boring business plans.” She stood and gestured toward the door. “Let’s go up and see how she’s doing.”
I opened my mouth to ask more about the business plans, but Mac gave a quick shake of his head. He rested his hand on my lower back and I knew he had his reasons for allowing Jessica to deflect further questions.
Jessica didn’t notice as she was already shooing us out of the office and quizzing Mac on what he had discovered when he drove out to the road.
She didn’t seem surprised that the road was blocked and accepted it without comment.
We followed her through the back hallways and up the stairs. Jessica knocked on the door and signaled to us to wait a moment while she checked on her mom. I heard whispering inside and then Jessica returned to the door and ushered us inside.
Linda did look like she’d seen better days. The efficient, art-collecting proprietor had been replaced by an old woman with red-rimmed eyes and frizzy hair.
“Please excuse my appearance—I just . . .” Her eyes welled up and I stepped forward to touch her arm.
“It’s fine, Mrs. Garrett. Detective McKenzie and I just have a couple more questions for you and Jessica. Until the Kalamazoo Police can get here, we’re trying to find out who could have . . . harmed . . . your niece.”
She nodded and sat on the couch. Jessica sat next to her and gestured for us to sit as well.
Mac cleared his throat. I knew he hated talking to people when they were crying. Unfortunately for him, it was part of his job description. Working in homicide meant he had to give bad news frequently and then make things worse by questioning the grieving family.
“Clyde and I examined Clarissa’s room today. We hoped to find some clues in the light of day. What we found was a secret staircase that led to the kitchen.” Mac gazed from one to the other. I knew he was looking for any signs of surprise or concern. “I assume you knew of the existence of the staircase?”
Both women nodded.
“Is it in regular use?” I asked.
Linda dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “No, it had been boarded up for a long time. When Clarissa moved into the turret room, she had Gus open it up again and sweep it out. I’m not sure that she even used it, but she had always been fascinated by it. I thought she just liked the idea of a secret passage.” She looked at Jessica. “When the girls were little, they were so disappointed that I wouldn’t let them play in there, but it hadn’t been opened in years and it’s so steep.”
Jessica nodded. “Clarissa and I went through the passageway just after she had it cleaned out. She was so intrigued by the story that Alastair had built the staircase for a wife who was essentially bedbound.”
“How many people know that it’s there?” Mac asked.
They looked at each other and then Jessica said, “Probably most of the staff. It wasn’t a secret. In fact, it never occurred to me to mention it to you since everyone who works here knows it exists.”
Mac nodded. “Well, it does change our questioning a bit. If there were two entrances to the room, it opens up more opportunities for the killer to g
et to her unseen.”
Linda’s mouth dropped open. “Of course. I didn’t think of that. I’m sorry we didn’t tell you. I haven’t been thinking straight since I found her . . . body.” She dabbed at her eyes again and sniffled.
I looked at Mac and he gave a slight nod.
“Jessica, Linda, we’ve heard during our interviews that you two had a meeting with Clarissa on Wednesday afternoon that became heated. Can you tell us what that meeting was about?”
Jessica glanced quickly at her mother. Linda narrowed her eyes and looked much less distraught at Clarissa’s passing.
Jessica took her mother’s hand and I sensed that she was sending her a signal to keep control of herself.
“We had our monthly meeting on Wednesday,” Jessica said. “It’s always the first Wednesday of the month. It was just the usual thing—staffing, repairs, and plans for the month. Clarissa wanted to talk about the spa. It’s all she could think about. She was so convinced that putting a spa here would somehow catapult Carlisle Castle into a destination-hotel category.”
Linda sniffled. “The truth is, the hotel has been struggling for a few years now. The winters are always lean. We haven’t been able to cover the slow times as well as we did in the past. We aren’t near a big city, there’s not a lot of shopping in Kalamazoo the way there is in Chicago, and with the economy the way it is, people just aren’t taking vacations like they used to.”
“Did you two and Clarissa ever argue about how to run the hotel?” I asked.
Jessica snorted. “When did we not argue about it?”
“Well, it wasn’t that bad . . . ,” Linda said. She cut her eyes to Jessica and then smiled weakly at us. Linda’s knuckles had turned white where she clasped Jessica’s hand.
And Jessica’s mutinous face had me thinking it was that bad and maybe worse.
“Thank you for talking to us again,” Mac said. “If you think of anything else, even if it seems small or obvious to you, please let us know. We don’t have the same sense of the history of the castle or the hotel that you do, so it will help us to get a better picture of what might have happened if you can give us as much background as possible.”
Both women nodded agreement.
Mac and I stood to leave and Jessica followed us out into the hallway.
Jessica leaned into the room. “I’ll be back in a little while with some tea, Mom.” Jessica quietly closed the door and turned to us.
She put her hands out, palms up. “I’m sorry we didn’t mention the meeting or the stairway. I guess we took for granted that those things would be unimportant. We want nothing more than to find out how this could have happened.”
“Jessica,” I said, “when was the last time you saw Clarissa?”
Jessica looked at the ceiling as if trying to find answers there. “I saw her just before dinner—after we left the lounge we talked in the hallway for a few minutes.”
I remembered them talking in urgent, angry whispers in the hall.
“Then during dinner, we passed in the hallway. She was leaving, I was going in.”
Mac leaned forward. “That was the last you saw of her?”
Jessica looked at us with a wide, innocent stare. She nodded.
Mac looked at the floor and gave a disappointed sigh. “You were seen coming out of the stairway door—much later.”
Jessica took a step back. She shook her head. “I didn’t see her. I was still angry with her about our earlier conversation and I was going to go talk to her about it.” Jessica stopped and took a breath. “I got partway up the staircase and thought better of it. I decided to talk to her in the morning after we had both cooled off.”
I crossed my arms.
Jessica looked from me to Mac. “I didn’t kill her—I get squeamish if we have to set traps for mice.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t kill someone and I can’t believe that anyone here in the castle would have killed her.” Jessica lowered her voice. “As I’ve said, plenty of the staff might have wished her dead in a passing sort of way, but I work with these people every day and none of them seems like the type who would actually kill another human being.” She hugged herself and shivered. “The truth is, it’s freaking me out to think I’ve been working with a murderer all this time.”
20
That evening, Seth and Dad returned from the cottage for dinner. Mom and Vi had spent most of the afternoon in the workshop and everyone was tired. The news that the police would not arrive was met with dismay, but spirits seemed a bit better this evening with electric lights and heat to accompany dinner.
Our family took the largest table in the room and the dinner conversation centered on the murder and who might have done it. I wish I could say this was unusual for us, but it wasn’t. Only Mac and Lucille seemed surprised at how easily we discussed motives and methods of murder over our beef bourguignon.
“I don’t like the idea that I might be knitting next to a murderer.” Lucille shuddered. “I don’t think any of them could have done it. They’re all so nice.”
“That’s how they trick you, Lucille,” Vi said. “They lure you in with charm while they’re out attacking innocent people.”
“It doesn’t sound like Clarissa was very innocent,” Mom said. “You heard what Isabel and Mavis said about her.”
“Mavis,” Vi said, her voice a low growl. She glanced around the table and lowered her voice. “She probably did it. I hate to accuse another knitter, but I don’t trust her.”
I covered a smile with my water glass, knowing that Vi’s accusation came from a competitive place. The afternoon with the knitters had not been conflict free.
“Why would Mrs. Poulson want to kill Ms. Carlisle?” Seth asked while slathering butter on a slice of bread.
Mom glanced at the other tables and leaned toward Seth.
“Apparently, Clarissa bullied Mavis’s daughter in high school. The girl got very depressed and eventually committed suicide. Mavis and Isabel have always blamed Clarissa for Teresa’s death.”
“Oh. That’s rough.” Seth shook his head. “Girls can be really brutal.”
“Shhh!” Mac said to the table. “We cannot discuss this. It’s an active investigation.” He lowered his voice. “The suspects are all in the vicinity, this isn’t a game of Clue.”
The table fell silent for a few moments, then Seth asked for the bread basket again and people gratefully began discussing the meal.
Dad leaned toward Mac and said in a low voice, “If incompetence is an indicator of guilt, then you should consider Kirk as your number-one suspect. I don’t think he’s ever worked as any type of maintenance person before, unless it was just on the landscaping side of things. He certainly knows how to work a snowblower. He has no idea how to fix anything.”
“We haven’t taken anyone off the list,” Mac said quietly. “If they weren’t in the dining room for the whole time that night, then I consider them a suspect.”
“I suppose anyone is capable if given the right circumstances,” Dad said.
“I still think there’s something sketchy about the chef,” Seth said.
“What?” Mac said.
“I told Clyde earlier today,” Seth said. “The chef claims he’s French, but I think he must be Canadian.”
“What does it matter?” Vi said.
“That’s what Clyde said. But why would he lie about it?” Seth said.
“Jessica did seem impressed that he was from France,” Mom said. “It’s part of all their literature about the restaurant—that they have a ‘real’ French chef who trained at Cordon Bleu.”
“It can’t be hard to check,” Mac said.
“It is when the cell service is down and there’s no Wi-Fi,” Seth said. “I tried to connect this afternoon—it’s like the dark ages out here.”
“At this point, I’ll look into anything—once the ph
ones are back on I’ll call Pete Harris and see if he can run a check on René Sartin,” Mac said.
Vi leaned forward. “The chef did it,” she whispered. “I don’t trust the French. I don’t care if he’s Paris French or Canadian French, he’s sketchy.”
I wondered if Vi had given up on Kirk as a suspect because Dad thought he was guilty.
Seth’s eyebrows came together. “What’s wrong with the French?”
“They’re snooty and they eat weird food,” Vi said as she took another bite of her beef bourguignon.
Mom glanced nervously around the table and decided to step in. “I’m sure you don’t mean that, Vi.” She clamped her hand onto Vi’s wrist. She looked at the rest of us, particularly Mac and Lucille. “She’s joking.”
Vi harrumphed and kept eating, but didn’t pursue her character assassination of the entire French culture.
There was an uncomfortable silence as we applied ourselves to our dinners and waited for someone to change the subject.
I decided to throw myself under the bus. “I think that new style of knitting that Isabel taught me is easier.”
Mom gasped. Vi narrowed her eyes.
“You didn’t tell me you learned to knit today,” Mac said. He turned in his seat and his eyes sparkled with amusement. Sort of the way I smiled at him wearing the snowman sweater. I would never hear the end of this.
“Didn’t you hear we’re living in the dark ages?” I gestured toward Seth. “I had no choice but to knit.” I sipped my water.
“But I thought you hated knitting,” Mac said.
“You do?” Lucille asked.
“‘Hate’ is a strong word.” I glared at Mac. “I figured I’d give it a try again. Isabel showed me the ‘continental’ method.”
“That sounds fancy,” Dad said.
I ignored the stony faces of my mother and aunt. “It is fancy,” I said. “And way easier.” I glanced at Vi. “It’s probably the way they knit in France.”
Violet dropped her fork. “I can’t listen to this anymore.”
Dad snickered. Mom looked at me sadly and shook her head.
