Cozy (Stanley Hastings Mystery, #14)

by Parnell Hall

  “Yes, I’m sure. Why do you ask?”

  “I thought you were a private detective. Well, I guess it takes all kinds. Perhaps you haven’t had time to think this over. But try the concept on. As good a murder suspect as you happen to look right now, Lars Heinrick looks better. He’s the one with the best motive, and he’s the one with the best opportunity.

  “Now, assuming that he’s guilty—or assuming that he’s intelligent enough to realize that he looks guilty—his natural reaction would be to pin the crime on someone else.

  “So, if I put the idea in his mind—if I suggest to him that the police might suspect you of this crime by asking him whether you stopped by the booth and had an opportunity to tamper with the glass—well, wouldn’t that make it awfully tempting for the young man to say yes? Particularly, if he suspected you of being the one who had alienated the young lady’s affections?”

  I tried to keep my exasperation from showing. It was difficult, talking through clenched teeth. “Couldn’t you manage to ask him a question somehow without tipping your hand?”

  “Actually, not very well. If he’s guilty, he knows what’s up. Even if he’s innocent, he suspects what’s going on. He’d be apt to grasp at straws.”

  “Then don’t give him one. Ask him if anyone stopped by the booth. If he names me, I’ll buy you dinner.”

  “Sporting of you,” Pinehurst said. “I assure you I will try to eliminate that as a possibility. Not the dinner, the chance he saw you in the booth. But even if I can, that leaves the much more likely possibility that when you stopped by he wasn’t there.”

  “I don’t suppose you could manage to eliminate that possibility?”

  Pinehurst smiled. “In all good time, Mr. Hastings. In all good time.”

  That’s what I was afraid of.

  16.

  “THAT COP IS not too bright.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He thinks I did it.”

  Alice smiled. “That would certainly account for your opinion.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He sent me back here. To sit with you. If he really thinks I did it, he’s giving us a chance to compare notes and patch up our stories.”

  “Stories?”

  “In case we were in it together—one of his scenarios. The other is I did it alone. In that case, I would now have a chance to cloud your recollection.”

  “As if you could.”

  “Yeah, but he doesn’t know that. Leaving me alone with you is a bad move, if he seriously thinks I did it.”

  “Well, obviously he doesn’t.”

  “Don’t bet on it. And even so, it makes no sense leaving us alone.”

  Alice and I were alone at our table because Pinehurst was questioning Florence. If leaving us alone made no sense, questioning Florence made even less. I mean, fine, maybe the guy had to take everybody’s statements and eventually he’d get to Florence, but surely there are priorities. And from what I just told him, he had to want to talk to Lars or the busboy.

  But, no, that would be too easy, that might lead somewhere. That could get us out of the dining room before midnight, which wasn’t apt to happen. Dawn seemed much more likely.

  “So what is it we shouldn’t be comparing notes on?” Alice said.

  I sighed, shook my head. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

  I told Alice about meeting the girl at Glen Ellis Falls, seeing the tear running down her cheek in the booth, and Chief Pinehurst’s assessment of all that.

  Alice was understandably shocked. “Oh, dear,” she said when I was through.

  “Yeah,” I said. “What a horrible situation.”

  “I’ll say. And the worst part is, it sounds so logical.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well, you were alone with her at the swimming pool. And you were the only one who saw her kissing the busboy. And then you meet her at the waterfall and don’t even tell me about it.”

  “I explained why.”

  “Yes, but it’s an explanation that wouldn’t convince a cop. You promised not to tell, so you didn’t want to tell, although you’d already told. That’s too convoluted reasoning for most people. As for me, I know you, I know that’s exactly how you think. But a policeman?” Alice shook her head. “You’re lucky you’re not on your way to jail.”

  “I certainly am. I’m clearly his chief suspect. With the possible exception of Randy or Lars.”

  “Randy couldn’t have done it,” Alice said.

  “Why not?”

  “Are you kidding? Just look at him.”

  “He’s in the kitchen.”

  “You know what I mean. You’ve seen him. Can you imagine him killing that girl?”

  “Why not?”

  “Why not? Are you kidding me? He was absolutely infatuated with her. Killing her was the last thing on his mind.”

  “Yeah, but you don’t know his story.”

  “Story, schmory. He didn’t kill her.”

  “What about Lars?”

  “What about him?”

  “Could he have killed her?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why? Because his mother doesn’t run a bed-and-breakfast?”

  “It’s an inn.”

  “Don’t start that, Alice. Do you see the point I’m making? Here’s Randy and Lars. Two nice, clean cut-looking young men. Nothing much to choose between ’em. But you flat out tell me Randy couldn’t have done it and Lars could.”

  “That’s just my opinion.”

  “Yes, but you have it. And you also have a tendency to state your opinions as facts.

  “Well, that’s a nice thing to say.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I suppose I’m responsible for making you the number-one suspect?”

  “No, I seem to have done that on my own. Anyway, since the cops made the mistake of letting us confer, you think you could help me with my alibi?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The theory is I put poison in her glass on my way back from the bathroom. My argument is how could I have done that while Lars was still there? Unfortunately, no one knows when Lars went out. Relative to when I returned from the bathroom.”

  “It was after.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I saw him go. And it was a long time after you came back to the table.”

  “That’s not good.”

  “Why not?”

  “If it was a long time, he could have gone out and come back in the meantime. You see what I mean. He could have been out when I went by his table. Come back shortly after that, and then left again when you saw him.”

  “What are you doing, trying to break your own alibi?”

  “Actually, yes. Because if I can do it, he can do it. I’m trying to find answers to all his objections.”

  Something hit me on the cheek. It bounced off, fell to the table.

  It was a green pea.

  I looked at it, then at Alice. Then in the direction from which it came.

  At the far table, either Jean or Joan was waving at us—at the moment I was blanking on which was which—but the thinner of the two was trying surreptitiously to attract our attention.

  I say surreptitiously because she was obviously trying to do so without also attracting the attention of the sad-sack cop with the droopy mustache, who seemed to have appointed himself in charge of maintaining discipline in the dining room. Talking was permitted, and all the people at the tables certainly were. But intercourse between tables was something Sad Sack simply wouldn’t allow. Whether those were Pinehurst’s orders, or whether this was something Sad Sack had decided for himself was not entirely clear, but at any rate talking between tables was strictly forbidden.

  Once again, I had the feeling of being in school—the teacher’s back was turned, and one of the students had just hit me with a spitball.

  Once she had our attention, Jean/Joan looked a question and pantomi
med a kiss. When I looked puzzled, she repeated the sequence.

  Alice got it. Nodded yes.

  Then Sad Sack turned around, and suddenly we were all on our best behavior again.

  “What was that?” I said.

  “She wanted to know if we told them about Randy kissing Christine.”

  “You mean if we hadn’t she wasn’t going to bring it up?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Otherwise, what’s the point in asking?”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “Why is that silly.”

  “You think a person wouldn’t just want to know?”

  “Sure. But communicating behind a policeman’s back is probably not the smartest move to make in a murder investigation.”

  “How could it hurt?”

  “What if he saw you and wanted to know why?”

  “I’d tell him. I mean, it’s not like there’s anything we’re withholding from the police. Is there?”

  “No, I guess not. Who is it who waved at us, by the way?”

  “Stanley. You don’t know who that is?”

  “I know who it is. But is that Jean or Joan?”

  “It’s Jean.”

  “Oh.”

  Alice shook her head. “You’re hopeless.”

  “I know. You think you could discourage Jean from further attempts at communication. She’s only going to get us in trouble.”

  “How much trouble can we be in? You’re already the prime suspect.”

  “That’s just my point. The police already suspect me of murder. Let’s not make them angry.”

  Alice shook her head, pityingly. Obviously I had once again proved myself to be an old fuddy-duddy.

  Fortunately, Jean gave up trying to communicate, so there was no harm done.

  Florence emerged from the booth. Instead of returning to our table, she looked around, caught Sad Sack’s eye, and went over to him.

  With the noise in the dining room I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but she was talking animatedly and gesturing and pointing, and once I thought I heard the word dog.

  I did.

  Florence returned to our table with a chip on her shoulder.

  “He won’t let me walk Prince,” she said in disgust. “If they’re going to keep us here all night, the dog has to go out.”

  “Did you ask Pinehurst?” I said.

  “Who?”

  “The cop who questioned you. His name’s Pinehurst. Didn’t he tell you that?”

  “I don’t believe he did.”

  “He only tells the chief suspects,” Alice said.

  “Huh?”

  “Stanley’s a suspect. Couldn’t you tell from the questions he was asking?”

  “He mentioned the two of you. But I didn’t get that impression.”

  “Oh? So who did it sound like he suspected?”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “What do you mean?” I said.

  “It wasn’t like he suspected anyone. It was like he just wanted to ask questions.”

  “Exactly my impression,” I said. “Except in my case, he acted as if he suspected me.”

  “Maybe that’s just his way,” Florence said.

  “Oh, yeah? Didn’t he ask you what I told you?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “About seeing her and Randy by the pond—did he ask you about that?”

  “No, he just asked me what I knew.”

  “Did you tell him that?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did he ask you any questions, try to break the story down?”

  “Break it down?”

  “Yes.”

  “No. Why would he do that?”

  “Under the theory I made it up.”

  Florence blinked. “What?”

  “That’s the theory,” Alice said. “Stanley made up the story about the busboy kissing her to cover up his own affair.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “That’s the theory,” I said.

  Florence exhaled, shook her head. “Poor Prince.”

  “Prince?” I said.

  Florence nodded. “Uh-huh.” She shrugged. “Looks like we’ll be here all night.”

  17.

  IT WAS NEARLY one o’clock before Chief Pinehurst was done. By then he had questioned everybody in the room, and had a second helping of Randy and Lars. What he had learned from all that was not entirely clear, but the bottom line was when he was finished no one was in custody, but all residents of the Blue Frog Ponds had been instructed not to check out.

  My heart sank when I heard it. I felt like a man in a shaggy dog story, trapped forever in a cheerless, sexless, TV-less room in an inhospitable bed-and-breakfast, while a painstakingly pedantic policeman slowly and methodically sifted an endless spiral of clues, never drawing one whit closer to any solution.

  That seemed to be Alice’s assessment of the situation also. “You have to solve this,” she said, when we finally got back to the room.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Come on, Stanley. You can see how it is. That cop hasn’t got a clue.”

  “I admit his style is not reassuring.”

  “Reassuring? It’s positively frightening. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. If he were to arrest Randy, it would break Louise’s heart.”

  “I don’t think he’s about to do that.”

  “Oh, yeah? The guy questions everyone in the room. Then he asks for Randy and Lars. Well, Lars is the grieving boyfriend, but who is Randy? Who is he possibly except suspect number one.”

  “I thought I was suspect number one.”

  “Don’t be dumb. Anyway, the whole thing’s ridiculous. The only real suspect is Lars.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s the only one with a motive. He’s the only one involved with her who could possibly want her dead.”

  “What about Randy?”

  “Why would he want her dead?”

  “I don’t know. To shut her up?”

  “Shut her up about what? The affair? Why would he care about that? What’s the worst that could happen? Mommy gets miffed and gives him a lecture about keeping his hands off the guests? Would he kill to protect against that?”

  “Of course not,” I said. “But what about Lars?”

  “What about him?”

  “I would think his motive’s pretty thin. He found out the girl was seeing someone else, so he killed her? I don’t think so. Packed up, drove off, and left her stranded here I could buy. But took her out to dinner and slipped poison in her drink? It simply doesn’t make it. If this is a crime of passion, poison just isn’t that passionate. Shoot her, stab her, strangle her, that fills the bill. But poison doesn’t. You don’t poison someone in the heat of passion. It is a cold-blooded, premeditated crime.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What do you mean, exactly? That destroys your argument.”

  “No, it doesn’t. It casts some doubt on the fact he killed her because she was having an affair with Randy, but that doesn’t have to be his motive.”

  “So what does?”

  “I have no idea. All I said was they’re the ones with the relationship, so he’s the one most likely to have a motive. But that’s not important right now. What’s important is keeping the cops from arresting Randy.”

  “You want to keep your voice down a little? The walls are thin, and this is not the type of thing I want to spread around.”

  Alice waved it off. “Oh, they’re not back yet.”

  My eyes widened slightly. “Hey, you’re right. They aren’t.”

  Alice looked at me reprovingly. “Stanley. How could you even think that at a time like this?”

  “A time like what? You just pointed out our neighbors aren’t home.”

  “I don’t believe you. A woman has been killed.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And it’s one in the morning, and we have to get to bed.”

  “Exactly.”

>   “Stanley. Don’t joke. A woman has been killed, and someone close to us did it. That’s pretty scary.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  A floorboard creaked.

  Just outside the door.

  I immediately turned to look, then looked back at Alice.

  Her eyes were wide.

  I put my finger to my lips.

  She nodded. Gestured toward the door.

  I was closer. I took two steps on tiptoe, trying not to make a sound. I stretched my arm out, reached the doorknob.

  Looked to Alice.

  She nodded.

  I twisted the doorknob, stepped back, swung the door wide.

  And—

  Nothing.

  There was no one there.

  Then Max the cat came walking in, his tail swishing proudly back and forth like a windshield wiper. He padded right by me, dropped his hindquarters, and sprang lazily onto the bed. He stretched, inspected the bedspread, then gave Alice and me a critical stare, as if reprimanding us for not warming the bed for him.

  I closed the door, went over, and scratched Max under the chin. After a few moments he lay down and began purring, though, it seemed to me, rather reluctantly, as if not willing to seem readily appeased. I sat on the bed next to Max, scratched him behind the ears.

  “Now then,” I said. “Before we were so rudely interrupted.”

  Alice put up her hand. “Don’t start. I’m not in the mood.”

  “I can see that.”

  “I mean for joking. This is serious. A woman has been killed. A young man is under suspicion. And the cop in charge doesn’t seem to know what to do.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  Alice looked at me. “Why not? What are you saying? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “I just don’t think you have to worry about the cop.”

  “Why not?”

  I smiled. “Think about it. Here we are in a New England bed-and-breakfast—fine, call it an inn if you want to, that’s not the point. Anyway, here we are in this bed-and-breakfast inn sort of place. Someone’s been poisoned, the local cop’s been brought in, and he’s a bumbling sort of fellow. And he’s ordered us not to leave, so we’re all stuck here together, all the suspects under one roof—yes, I know, they’re separate buildings here, I was speaking metaphorically. But you see what I’m getting at?”

  “No, I don’t,” Alice said. “What are you talking about?”