Cozy (Stanley Hastings Mystery, #14)

by Parnell Hall

  Not that I cared, you understand. Still, as far as I knew, he wasn’t staying at the inn, so I had to wonder why he was always here. Of course, it could have just been the food.

  “You know who that is?” I said.

  “Who?” Florence said.

  “The man who just came in.”

  “What man?”

  “Bald. Overweight. He was here last night.”

  “Uh-huh. And where is he now?”

  “I assume he’s right behind me. I hate to turn and stare.”

  “There’s no one behind you,” Florence said.

  “I don’t mean right behind me. He came in, walked behind me, and I assume he sat down.”

  “Well, he’s not there now.”

  “Alice, help me out here. The hiker from Champney Falls—where is he?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Didn’t you see him come in?”

  “No, I was talking to Florence. I wasn’t watching who was going in and out.”

  “And he’s not here now?”

  “No, he’s not.”

  That did it. Rude or not, I turned my head to look.

  And he wasn’t there.

  To my right was the table with the two men from the bar. To my left was the table with the man and woman minus the little girl. Along the far wall, slightly at an angle, so, as Alice said, you couldn’t see in, was the booth with the Swedish hiking couple, Lars and Inga/Christine.

  At that moment, Lars came out of the booth. He did not look happy. He glanced back inside, as if to say something, but didn’t. Then he turned and walked purposefully out the door.

  I wondered if she would follow him. Somehow I hoped she wouldn’t. I think in the back of my mind I was recalling the sound of that slap at Champney Falls, and then seeing her crying behind the rock. At any rate, I hoped she’d stay put.

  She did. At least in the few seconds before I felt compelled to turn back to my table before I made a complete moron out of myself.

  Even so, Alice said, “Stanley, what are you staring at?”

  “I was looking to see where that man went.”

  “Well, he must have gone out, because he’s clearly not here.”

  “Uh-oh,” Florence said. “Look who’s coming.”

  I looked, and quite agreed. The Mclnnernys were bearing down on us. And while there wasn’t room for them at our table, they looked inclined to talk.

  “So,” Johnny said, “how did it go? You manage to get along without us?”

  “Of course they did,” Clara said. “My goodness, Johnny Mclnnerny, you think you’re the only one knows how to read a map?”

  “Nothing of the kind,” Johnny said. “It’s just we’ve done it before. So, what did you guys see?”

  Florence, whose tolerance of the Mclnnernys was even less than ours, said, “Excuse me, I have to check on Prince,” and got up.

  I had a moment of panic, realizing that left two chairs free, but the Mclnnernys made no move to sit down.

  “We did a few easy hikes,” Alice said. “Square Ledge Trail. Glen Ellis Falls.”

  “You should try Mount Willard,” Johnny said.

  “Not Mount Washington?”

  “Not for hiking. You do that in the van. Mount Willard you can climb.”

  “That’s a good tip,” I said, and let the conversation lie there, hoping they’d move on.

  Fortunately, Louise arrived just then, functioning as the mâitre d’, and ushered them to a table.

  “That was lucky,” I said.

  “Luck had nothing to do with it,” Alice said. “Louise is very sharp. I’ll bet she read the situation, and that was a rescue.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “You don’t think so? A very smart woman. It takes an awful lot to run a place like this.”

  “You give her all the credit?”

  “Huh?”

  “Isn’t her husband responsible for some of it?”

  “He’s the cook. It’s a full-time job.”

  Of course. Louise’s husband was the cook, which was a full-time job, and therefore he couldn’t have anything to do with running the inn. On the other hand, it occurred to me if Louise was the cook, Alice would be telling me how remarkable it was the woman was able to run the inn and do the cooking too.

  Florence came back to the table.

  “How’s Prince?” I said.

  “Just fine. How are the Mclnnernys?”

  “Same as ever,” I said. “Well, that’s too bad.”

  “What’s too bad?” Alice said.

  “We didn’t get our entrees. Florence is back, and we didn’t get served yet. Usually, if you leave the table, your food arrives.”

  Alice said to Florence, “He’s not always like this.”

  “But I know what he means,” Florence said. “It’s like hopping in the shower when you’re expecting a phone call.”

  “Yeah, but that works,” Alice said, and the two of them laughed.

  I picked up the last rib.

  “You’re not going to eat that,” Alice said.

  “I certainly am.”

  “You won’t have room for your steak.”

  “I’ll have room,” I said, taking a bite. “Aren’t these good, though?”

  “They’re all right,” Florence said.

  “Say,” I said, “why don’t we get the recipe for these?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Alice said.

  “Why is that silly?”

  “You want a recipe for ribs? Everyone knows how to cook ribs.”

  “Not like this.”

  “You think I can’t cook this?” Alice said.

  “I didn’t say that. I just said you didn’t have the recipe.”

  “Stanley, I don’t need a recipe for ribs.”

  “You’re telling me you’ll cook me these ribs when we get home?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You’ve never cooked barbecued ribs.”

  “No, but I can. It’s perfectly easy.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “You’re saying that barbecued ribs is something that you would make?”

  “Yes.”

  “On the other hand, shark is something you wouldn’t.”

  “Are you going to start that again?”

  “So, it makes sense to get a recipe for something you wouldn’t cook, but no sense to get a recipe for something you would?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Alice said. “You just don’t understand.”

  Previously that had been Florence’s cue, but fortunately she didn’t seem to be picking up on the banter this time around. I was glad. I didn’t want to have to excuse myself to go to the bathroom a second time.

  Yeah, I know. This time I’d started it, asked for it, and brought it on myself. But those ribs sure were good.

  Lucy came into view with a tray of serving dishes, and expectations were high, however, like everyone else, she veered off and passed behind me and out of view. That was depressing—our food couldn’t possibly arrive until Lucy had served whoever it was she was serving.

  A couple of minutes later she passed by, heading for the kitchen again. I kept an eye out hopefully, the last rib now but a fond memory. Unfortunately, the next person to emerge from the direction of the kitchen was the other waitress, so the tray of food she was holding couldn’t possibly be ours. Nevertheless, I watched her as she took the route behind me out of sight. I even turned slightly in my chair to watch the tray go.

  I saw her stop in front of the booth where Inga/Christine was waiting for boyfriend Lars. So, they were getting served, and he hadn’t come back yet. His food would be getting cold. Somehow, that pleased me.

  “What are you smiling at?” Alice said.

  I hadn’t realized I was smiling. “Oh, nothing,” I said. “It’s just sometimes things work out.”

  There came an ear-splitting scream. You read about them in books all the time, but it’s something else to encounter one in real life.

  For a second I had no id
ea what was going on.

  Then I realized.

  I jumped up, wheeled around.

  The waitress who had just brought the food to the booth was shaking and crying hysterically.

  It was easy to see why.

  Inga/Christine was slumped half in, half out of the booth, her head loose, her blond hair dangling, her eyes glassy.

  She was clearly dead.

  12.

  THE POLICEMAN DIDN’T seem in any hurry. He stood in the middle of the dining room, cocked his head, and said, “Tell me again.”

  “There’s nothing to tell,” Louise said. “The young lady and her boyfriend are guests at the inn.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “Yes. They’ve been staying with us for three days.”

  “No problems up till now?”

  “None whatever.”

  “No suspicion anything was wrong?”

  “I don’t think anything is wrong. The poor woman just had a heart attack.”

  “That’s not what the doctor says.”

  So I gathered. The doctor, a rather prissy-looking little man with gray hair and a tiny mustache, had arrived within minutes, which I guess is one of the advantages of living in a small town. He’d come bustling in and taken charge in a manner which I initially thought of as efficient, an assessment I had later changed to officious. Because the man, for no apparent reason, had deemed this a suspicious death and called in the police. Which would have been all right in itself, had he not gone further and closed the dining room. Or, rather, the kitchen. The dining room was still open, in fact we were still in the dining room. We just weren’t eating.

  I know that’s a cold and callous thing to say under the circumstances. But if we were going to be held captive by an overzealous cop, it would have been nice to have our food.

  The cop in question was a human traffic jam. The type of person who could walk up to a man on fire and say, “What seems to be the trouble?” It could be he only gave that impression because he was keeping me from my meal, but I don’t think so. I think it was just him.

  He had a way of moving that suggested that part of his body was probably asleep. Or perhaps underwater—maybe that was it—he moved as if underwater.

  The cop, whose name I didn’t know, and didn’t seem likely to find out, was probably my age, if not younger, a horrifying thought. He was a large man with a gleaming bald head, and ears that stuck out on each side of his head like the handles of a pitcher.

  A pitcher of molasses.

  “Just one more time,” he said.

  Louise frowned.

  The doctor came in, took the cop aside and whispered to him. The cop listened patiently, then asked the doctor something. Probably to repeat what he’d told him just one more time. The doctor frowned, whispered some more. When he was finished, he straightened up and stepped away. That left the cop with the choice of talking out loud, or conceding the conversation was over.

  He did neither. He raised his hand, and, slowly with one finger, gestured to the doctor to come closer again. The doctor did, though, it appeared to me, rather reluctantly. This time when he was finished, he straightened up and went out the door.

  The cop lumbered over to Louise. “So,” he said, “let’s go over this one more time.”

  Louise never got a chance because Lars came in. He wasn’t weeping, but he was certainly distraught. He came in the door, fighting off the young police officer who was attempting to restrain him, and barreled up to the cop.

  “Please, please,” he said. “Tell me what’s going on. They won’t let me see her. They won’t tell me anything. They keep holding me in that room and telling me to wait. I’m tired of waiting, and I want to know what’s going on.”

  “Well, now,” the cop said, “I can understand you’re upset. Anyone would be. Terrible thing.”

  “A terrible thing? That’s what you call it, a terrible thing? She’s dead. Christine is dead. Oh, my god, I can’t believe it.”

  “Try to get a hold of yourself.”

  “Stop telling me to get a hold of myself. That’s all anyone’s told me since it happened. First the doctor and now you. Tells me she’s dead, and won’t let me near her. Do you understand? Stood in front of me and wouldn’t let me near her. Then they take her away and hold me here, and no one tells me what’s going on. Doesn’t anyone care about my feelings at all?”

  “We most certainly do. And I’d like to make this as painless as possible. Unfortunately, I have to do my job. You do understand what’s going on here?”

  “Understand? What’s to understand? Christine is dead.”

  “Yes, she is. And we have to find out why. I don’t mean to upset you further, but you have to understand there’s every indication her death was not from natural causes.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Simply that. I’m sorry, but the medical findings seem to indicate that she was killed.”

  “Killed!”

  “It’s preliminary and only a suspicion until proved by the autopsy. But for the moment, we have to go on the assumption that she was killed.”

  “Killed? How?”

  “That’s something I prefer to go into in private.”

  The cop turned and looked over to where two officers who apparently comprised the local crime scene unit had been processing the booth. “You guys about done?”

  “All yours if you want it. We’re just packing up.”

  “Fine,” the cop said. “If you don’t mind, we’ll talk in there.” He turned and addressed the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry to hold you here, but you understand what’s happened. You are all witnesses to an apparent crime. A young woman has been killed. Apparently. But it is unlikely that this was a natural death. It might be accidental, it might be self-inflicted, it might be murder. It’s up to us to sort it out, which is why you’re here. Do you understand?”

  We certainly did, since the cop had made the identical speech shortly after he’d arrived and ordered us all to resume our original seats. All except Lars, of course, whose seat was part of the crime scene, and who’d been held incommunicado in the TV room, once the cops had managed to pry him away from the body.

  The cop gestured to the booth. “Mr. Heinrick,” he said.

  Lars blinked at him. “You want me to sit in there?”

  “Yes, I do. I understand why that might make you uncomfortable. But the fact is, I would like you to sit exactly where you were sitting during dinner, and describe for me what happened.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t have to. That’s my job. Come along now. Let’s get it over with.”

  The cop put his arm gently but firmly around Lars’ shoulders and led him over to the booth. After a moment’s hesitation, while Lars looked at the cop, they sat down.

  Of course, as soon as they did, they disappeared from our line of sight.

  And, like unruly students when the teacher leaves the room, everyone began talking at once.

  “Damn,” Alice said.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “What’s the matter? We’re not going to be able to hear what he says.”

  We most certainly weren’t. And I couldn’t help wondering whether that was the whole idea, if that was why the cop had assembled us here, instead of holding us like Lars in some other room. That we were there merely to provide background noise, to make sure his interrogations were not overheard.

  “It’s all right,” I told Alice. “I happen to know what he’s saying.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He’s asking Lars to tell him what happened just one more time.”

  13.

  ALICE WENT FIRST.

  I don’t mean first after Lars. I mean first from our table. She was maybe the tenth, overall.

  The interrogation of Lars took no time at all, maybe ten minutes, though it seemed like an hour and a half. When he was done, he was consigned to the TV room again, in the company of a young cop. While t
hat certainly didn’t look good, it was a notch above being hauled off to jail in handcuffs.

  After Lars, a parade of witnesses was summoned to the booth. The cop who fetched them had a droopy mustache and a droopy face, giving him a sad-sack look. He also had an irritatingly polite manner, ending almost every sentence with, “If you wouldn’t mind.” Since we were in effect being held in police custody, minding was hardly an option.

  Anyway, the first witness summoned had been the busboy, Randy. This caused considerable comment in certain circles, notably our table and that of Jean and Joan. In short, all those who knew of his liaison with the deceased. The fact that he’d been summoned first led to speculation—had the police learned of the affair?

  Apparently not, since he was out in five minutes.

  Next up was Louise’s husband. I’d never seen Louise’s husband, but I recognized him instantly. I took no credit, however, as he was hard to miss in his chef’s apron and hat. Other clues were the fact that he came from the kitchen, and was protesting to the sad-sack cop that his food was going to burn. I was right with him there—if the man was still cooking, he should return to the kitchen and look out for my steak.

  He was in twice as long as the busboy. Which seemed to confirm the theory—Randy’s liaison was not yet known, they were merely concerned with who prepared the food.

  This concept was not lost on the guests. The word poison began to reverberate throughout the room.

  Next up was the waitress who found the body. Followed by our waitress, Lucy. Their interrogations were equally long, which made no sense. While the waitress who found the body might have something to say, Lucy knew nothing at all.

  Which confirmed my worst fears.

  The cop just loved to talk.

  Next up was Louise, who hadn’t even been in the dining room, and should have had nothing to say at all.

  She said it for six-and-a-half minutes. By then I had taken to timing them.

  After Louise, they started in on the guests. First up were the Mclnnernys, who objected to being taken one at a time. At least Mrs. Mclnnerny objected—I’m sure Johnny didn’t mind. In fact, going alone was probably a relief. At any rate, we had four minutes of him and eight minutes of her. More than ten minutes of the Mclnnernys, who in all likelihood knew absolutely nothing at all.