The Readaholics and the Gothic Gala

by Laura Disilverio

  Maud nodded. “The pinnacle of my acting career.”

  “You should’ve kept at it,” he said. “You had a future.”

  I drew up at the curb in front of the Columbine. “End of the line,” I said.

  Zeller jumped out of the van. “I appreciate the ride,” he said. “Keep an eye on the local rag. We’ll advertise when we start looking for extras. You two are in.” He thumped his hand against the van and walked up the sidewalk toward the inn.

  “So, you’re ready to relaunch your screen career?” I teased Maud. I knew she’d done some acting, but I hadn’t realized she was serious enough about it to have a Screen Actors Guild membership.

  She stretched her legs out and flexed her feet in their socks and Tevas. “It was a short-lived phase, but it was fun while it lasted. I didn’t have the patience for it. There’s a lot of standing around and waiting in the movie biz. If I’d kept acting, I’d have done more stage work.”

  I cranked the ignition. “How many movies were you in?”

  “Five,” she said, “but one never got released. This was back in the days before flicks that didn’t live up to their producers’ expectations got released straight to video.”

  “Did you ever work with anyone famous?”

  “Jack Nicholson,” she said with a reminiscent smile. “They used to talk about Warren Beatty being a playboy, but he had nothing on Jack.”

  I snuck a glance at her profile, and saw the smile widen, deepening the lines bracketing her mouth. Somehow, I had no trouble believing she’d attracted Jack Nicholson’s attention.

  I started to angle into the road, when I glanced in the side mirror and saw a police car pull up across the street. Officer Hardaway got out and marched into the Columbine with a purposeful stride. I stomped on the brakes, bringing us to a lurching halt, at the same time Maud said, “Stop. That’s an HPD vehicle. What’s it doing here?”

  I was already halfway out of the van. “I don’t know, but I think we should find out, don’t you?”

  Chapter 20

  Jogging back to the inn, Maud and I burst through the door to find a chaotic scene in progress. It seemed like every guest at the inn was gathered in the foyer. Francesca Bugle was on the stairs, dressed to go out with a rust-colored boiled-wool jacket and a black felt hat with an embroidered design. Cosmo Zeller looked over her shoulder, nostrils flaring like he smelled a bad odor. The Aldringhams were clustered near the dining room door, Allyson sandwiched between her parents. Her face was ghost white. Mary and Lucas Stewart were squeezed into the small hallway that led to the kitchen, and also looked nervous. Surely they didn’t think their charade was arrest-worthy? Or was there more to the story of the stolen manuscript than I suspected? Sandy Milliken stood in front of Officer Hardaway, a bucket with a mop standing in it at her feet. Everyone was talking and asking questions. Officer Hardaway seemed overwhelmed by the hubbub and was having trouble making herself heard.

  Maud put two fingers in her mouth and shrilled a whistle. Everyone shut up.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Officer Hardaway said. “Now, as I was saying, I need to escort Allyson Aldringham to the police station. Which of you is Allyson?”

  Allyson took a hesitant step forward. “I’m Allyson,” she said. She wore a short baby-doll-style dress of pale blue that made her look younger than her years.

  Constance shoved past her daughter. “What is this in reference to?” she asked haughtily. “I simply must know why you want to see my daughter. I’m sure there’s been a mistake.”

  Her contemptuous attitude straightened Officer Hardaway’s spine. “I’m not at liberty to give you details,” she said, sounding happy to be able to frustrate Constance’s quest for information. “We are hoping she can help us with our inquiries. Ms. Aldringham can fill you in when she gets back. If you please, ma’am?” She gestured for Allyson to precede her out the door.

  “I’m going to call a lawyer,” Merle said.

  Constance looked at her husband with rare approval. “Don’t say a word until the lawyer gets there, Allyson. Not a word.”

  As if taking her mother’s advice immediately to heart, Allyson nodded mutely and let Officer Hardaway escort her from the inn. At least she wasn’t in handcuffs. I couldn’t imagine what new evidence had appeared in between our leaving Hart and arriving here. I wasn’t too sure he would tell me.

  “I need to find a lawyer,” Merle said. “Someone local.”

  He was talking to Sandy, but I answered. “Doug Elvaston. He’s the best in town.” I reeled off his cell phone number from memory. We’d dated off and on since we were high school juniors; that number was engraved on my brain forever. Merle thanked me and went outside to call Doug.

  Francesca Bugle descended the stairs, with sharp pocking sounds from her low-heeled pumps at every step. “Well, I would never have guessed that sweet girl was involved in a murder,” she said, shaking her head.

  “It’s like in a TV show,” Mary Stewart put in.

  Everyone turned to look at her, puzzled. She made quite a picture wearing skinny jeans and a white top printed with gray flowers. Her hair was a flame cascading over her shoulders. She widened her eyes and blinked once. “The culprit on TV detective shows is always the least likely seeming person, who doesn’t really have a reason for being in the show at all, and who doesn’t have an immediately obvious motive. I wonder what her motive was.”

  Lucas, looking concerned, nudged her before she could speculate further about Allyson’s possible motives.

  Constance drew herself up and spoke in tones that would freeze lava. “Allyson wasn’t involved in that murder in any way whatsoever. She simply isn’t capable of killing someone. She doesn’t have it in her.” She sounded confident, but her hand trembled as she adjusted the pashmina draped over her shoulders, pulling it closer.

  Merle came back inside. His hair was mussed and his beard had furrows, as if he’d raked his fingers through it. Worry tightened his sun-mottled brow. “The lawyer says he’ll meet us at the police department,” he said. “Come on, Connie.”

  Maud put a hand on his arm. “Is there anything we can do, Merle?”

  Giving her a grateful look, he said, “Not right now, but thanks. I’ll call you later.” Taking Constance’s elbow, he hustled her down the narrow hall leading to a back door and the inn’s small parking area. Even in the midst of the drama, it tickled me to see him take charge. I’d thought he was a total milquetoast, under his wife’s thumb, but clearly there was more to him.

  “That’s the old Merle,” Maud said in a low voice, a smile hovering around her lips.

  Now that the show was over, Francesca hooked a purse over her arm and went out the front door, saying something about wanting to do some souvenir shopping. Cosmo Zeller and the Stewarts disappeared upstairs.

  When it was only Sandy, Maud, and I left in the foyer, Sandy said, “This has been the longest week. I don’t know why, but I thought authors would be a nice, quiet bunch of guests, easy to get along with, tucked up in their rooms writing most of the time. Instead of which, I find them all over the house at the strangest hours—they argue, drink like sailors on liberty, and are finicky about their food. As if that weren’t enough, one of them pisses someone off bad enough that I get a brick through my window—thank God for insurance—there’s a murder, and now an arrest.”

  “She wasn’t arrested,” I said.

  “As good as.” Sandy shook her head. “On top of all that, my dishwasher broke and flooded the kitchen—we’ll have to replace it, so there goes our weekend in Denver next month—Dave’s cold has turned into walking pneumonia, and I can’t find the snow globe paperweight my parents brought back from their honeymoon in Japan.” She patted the registration counter. “You remember it—it always sat right here.”

  Maud spoke up. “Who was arguing, and what were they arguing about?”

  Good questi
on.

  Sandy rolled her eyes. “Who wasn’t? The diva—”

  I took that to mean Constance.

  “—harangues her husband nonstop. She was tearing a strip off him about losing money on the stock market when I walked in on them in the sunroom. And she cuts that daughter of hers no slack, either. Pearl, one of my maids, heard her through the bedroom door, telling Allyson that she was done, that she wasn’t bailing her out ever again, and that she was tired of being embarrassed in front of her friends. Whatever that means. Treats me like a scullery wench, too, when I made more money on Wall Street in one year than she makes in five years.” Dropping her voice and glancing up the stairs, she continued. “That Stewart gal’s brother has a temper on him, too, although I must say she gives as good as she gets. You can tell they’re brother and sister by the way they bicker. My brother, Mike, and I were just like that.”

  I kept a straight face at that and avoided looking at Maud.

  “That movie guy doesn’t fight with anyone, but he’s an odd duck. Hasn’t unpacked a single thing. Keeps all his duds in his suitcases and keeps them locked.” She sniffed. “My gals are all bonded—we’ve never had trouble with theft at the Columbine.” She let out a long breath. “I will be glad to see the back of them come Monday morning. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be talking to you like this. I needed to let off some steam, and with Dave under the weather, well—I’m sorry I unloaded on you.”

  “No problem,” I said. “I get that way myself. I know you’re busy, so we’ll get out of your hair.” Impulsively, I hugged her. She disengaged almost immediately, but gave me a crooked smile.

  “I’m not usually much of one for hug therapy, but that helped. Now, shoo, you two, so I can get the floors mopped and pop some cinnamon scones in the oven.”

  Maud and I shooed.

  * * *

  After dropping Maud off at her house, and extracting her promise to call me the minute she heard from Merle, I drove home and pondered my options. It was just noon, and I didn’t have to be at the Club to set up until five o’clock. I drifted into my bedroom and dumped the contents of my laundry hamper onto the floor. I sat cross-legged on the floor, and began to sort the clothes, placing a yoga top in the cold pile and a pair of jeans in the warm pile. My hand sorted automatically while I thought. I could stay home and do some cleaning and laundry, but that had little appeal. I wanted to make progress on this case, find out who killed Van Allen and why, set Lola’s mind at ease, and make sure a murderer didn’t leave Heaven on Monday morning. I knew there was no point to calling Hart and asking why Officer Hardaway had picked up Allyson for questioning, and even less point in calling Doug, who would never breach client confidentiality. I chewed on my lower lip. Socks in warm, bra in cold, yellow blouse in cold.

  A thought came to me. What if . . . what if Maud was right about Van Allen taking the mysterious package with him to the Club, but wrong about the killer stealing it? Van Allen was a career criminal, nobody’s stooge. Would he walk into a meeting with a blackmail victim without taking some precautions? I didn’t think so. At least, I amended, I hoped not. Maybe he was stabbed because he refused to give up the package, or maybe Van Allen tried to steal the money from his mark without giving up his package, planning to continue to bleed him or her for years to come. He miscalculated by not realizing the mark had a weapon and was prepared to use it in such a public place. I wished I had a way to get in touch with Sharla and ask her more about Van Allen. Wait a minute. . . . I did have a way to get in touch, albeit a roundabout one. I pulled out my cell phone, located Flavia Dunbarton’s number, and punched it in.

  When she answered with, “Grand Junction Gabbler, Dunbarton speaking,” I said, “It’s Amy-Faye Johnson. If you’re interested in some breaking news on the Van Allen murder, you might want to check with the HPD.”

  She tried to get me to give more details, but I figured I was skating close enough to the line by giving her a heads-up; I wasn’t going to risk Hart’s wrath by telling her about the car or about Allyson “helping the police with their inquiries.” I promised her a quote if my name happened to come up during her conversation with the police.

  She thanked me for the tip and hung up. I returned my cell phone to my pocket, hoping that she would get a story out of Hart or Chief Uggams, and hoping that Sharla would get back in touch when she read it. Throwing the load of whites into the washing machine, I climbed back into the van and headed for the Club. If Van Allen had hidden the package, it would be at the Club somewhere. Anticipation tingled through me. The treasure hunt was back on.

  * * *

  I decided to start my search in the pro shop. It was open until seven o’clock on Saturday nights at this time of year and it made sense that Van Allen would have come in this way. I had stopped for a sub sandwich on my way over, so it was coming up on one o’clock when I parked on the golf-course side of the building. Even with a wind stiff enough to knock balls well off course, the fairways and greens were crowded with golfers trying to get in an extra round or two before a big snowfall ended their season. I thought I saw Troy Widefield Jr., Brooke’s husband, piloting a cart, and waved, but he didn’t see me. I pushed through the glass door to the pro shop. Betty Bullock, the Club’s pro, was ringing up a Windbreaker for a customer, but looked up when the bell over the door pealed. A short, no-nonsense woman in her sixties who had competed on the LPGA tour for six or seven years, she had skin the texture of an old leather golf bag, baked by too many rounds in the sun, and white crow’s-feet where the skin hadn’t tanned because she was smiling or squinting. She wore a polo shirt with “Rocky Peaks Golf and Country Club” embroidered over her left breast, and a matching skort. Her straw-blond hair, liberally laced with gray, was shorter than I remembered, and waxed into soft spikes.

  She grinned at me when the customer left. “You’re not here for a lesson, I hope?”

  I smiled in return. Ever since I’d taken a few lessons from her, discovering that I had no aptitude whatsoever for hitting a little white ball with a long metal stick, she had teased me that if I ever came back for more, it was going to be her cue to retire. “No, you don’t get to ride off into the sunset today,” I told her. “Actually, I’m hoping you’ll let me search the place.”

  “Did you lose something?”

  When I explained what I was after, she looked intrigued. “I wasn’t working Saturday night—Louis was on—so I didn’t see the guy you’re talking about. Heard about it all the next day, of course. There hasn’t been so much gossip floating around this place since that busboy started a fire in the kitchen because he was mad at the pastry chef for cheating on him.” She came around the counter. “I’ll help you look. I know every inch of this store, and every item in inventory, so I can’t imagine that I wouldn’t have tripped over this mysterious ‘package’ before now, but let’s have a go at it.”

  We searched for half an hour with Betty occasionally attending to customers. I unstacked the golf ball twelve-packs, looked inside the spinning garment racks, pulled golf clubs out of bins to look down inside them, and rearranged all the shoe boxes. Betty even checked the stockroom, although she said it was unlikely that a customer would have gained access to it. At the end of the half hour, we had nothing to show for our labors. “It’s not here,” Betty announced.

  “No, I guess not,” I said. Damn. I had so hoped Van Allen’s package would be in the pro shop. Searching the entire club was a much larger task, and I wasn’t sure Wallace Pinnecoose would be thrilled about my poking around. For Wallace, the Club’s reputation took precedence over any other consideration. I was sure he’d be happy to let a murderer escape justice if that would keep the Club from being dragged through the mud. I was disappointed, but nowhere near giving up. The package was here somewhere. It had to be.

  Before I could decide whether to tackle Wallace for permission to search now, or to search surreptitiously tonight when I was back here for the fiftieth birthd
ay party, my phone rang. It was Maud.

  “Merle called,” she said. “He needs a sounding board and I’m elected. I’m meeting him at Elysium, if you want to join us.”

  Boy, did I ever want to join them. I said a hasty thanks and good-bye to Betty and hit the road.

  Chapter 21

  The Elysium Maud spoke of was Elysium Brewing, the first brewpub in Heaven, on the easternmost outskirts of the town. It happened to belong to my younger brother, Derek. I had invested in it, though, as had my folks, so I was happy to see quite a few cars in the lot at the tail end of the lunch hour. The building, a former factory, was three narrow stories. Inside, sunlight streamed through the small windows and lit up the booths with their orange leatherette upholstery. When I’d heard the pub’s decorator was going with orange, I’d been skeptical, but against the dark wood and the bar’s brass fittings, it looked really good, especially in the evening under the soft glow from the antiquey-looking pendant lights. A wide staircase on my left led to an open area with eight pool tables and an auxiliary bar on the second-floor, offices on the third floor, and a rooftop space that would eventually be a venue for private functions. Derek hadn’t moved ahead with gussying up the roof yet because only a month ago his partner had been murdered there. A humongous stainless steel vat with tubing spiraling around it took up a large chunk of space. It sat in a glass enclosure so Colorado’s craft-beer enthusiasts could watch the brewing process in action. Derek was inside the enclosure, so intent on checking gauges that he didn’t notice me.

  I spotted Maud and Merle in a booth and went to join them, waving to my mom behind the bar as I did. She was busy with two men eating at the bar, but she waved back. When Derek’s business partner died, she and Dad took on some responsibilities at the pub. She’d been enjoying her retirement from the library, and I thought she’d get tired of helping to manage the bar and its employees, but she seemed to thrive on it. Maud scooted over to make room for me on the bench seat, and I sat. Merle, across from us, wore a lugubrious expression as he buried his face in a foamy mug of beer. He lowered the glass to show bits of foam speckling his mustache and beard. The foam flecks weren’t much paler than his face.