Cozy (Stanley Hastings Mystery, #14)

by Parnell Hall

  With yesterday’s clues.

  I’m sure Randy’d had many lectures about not being disrespectful to the guests, still, I wondered how long it would be before he slammed the door in her face.

  I didn’t stay to find out. I continued around the building.

  On the far side there were two lights on on the second floor. The one on the right would be Florence’s room. I’d left the bedside light on for Prince.

  The one on the left would be Lars. Who should be there now, since Alice told me he’d gone back to his room.

  What was he doing, I wondered? Was he lying in bed with his thoughts? Was he reading a book? I knew he didn’t have TV.

  TV.

  I wondered if anyone was in the TV room. What with Arsenic and Old Lace being so popular and all.

  I completed my circuit of the building, went inside. There was no sign of Louise or her husband. In fact, there was no one there.

  The bar was unattended. It was also open and unlocked. Anyone could walk right up and pour themselves a drink. In New York City that would happen. A bar like this wouldn’t last a day. But in New Hampshire, no one gave it a thought.

  I glanced into the dining room. The lights were out, and the moonlight coming in the window cast dark shadows on the walls.

  I looked over at the booth where it had happened. I couldn’t see it clearly. Because of the darkness and the angle.

  An impulse seized me. I walked over to the booth and sat in it. In her seat. Sat where she sat. Looked to see what she could see.

  Not much. Her back was to half the dining room. As to the other half, Lars’ side of the booth cut off her view of most of it.

  She could see the door. The angle was just right for that. She could see anyone who walked in. She would have seen the hiker. Lars’ connection. The man from Champney Falls. She would have seen him come in, and Lars wouldn’t have. Because his back was to the door. She would have had to tell him he was there. Otherwise, the man would have had to find them. Stop at their booth. Which I didn’t think he’d done. So she must have told him.

  Did that matter?

  I had no idea.

  I got up from the booth, looked around.

  There was light coming from under the bottom of the kitchen door. No surprise there. I’d seen the kitchen light was on from outside. Did that mean the chef was still there, or was the light left on all night? For Max, perhaps?

  I went to the swinging door. It wasn’t locked. I pushed it open, looked into the kitchen.

  There was no one there. Just the ovens and refrigerators and hanging pots and pans. There was the dishwasher Randy had filled, silent now, the trays having emerged from the other side. And there was the butcher block where Max had done his Stupid Pet Trick.

  And there was the phone in the alcove. With no lock on the dial, and no lock on the kitchen door. A phone any guest could use in the dead of night to call Australia, if they saw fit. Apparently, that was not a problem.

  I left the kitchen and the dining room, went by the front desk, which was unmanned. Anyone could use that phone, too, right after fixing themselves a free drink at the bar.

  Well, it wasn’t my concern. I went into the TV room. As expected, there was no one there. I sat down on the couch, picked up the remote control. Clicked the TV on. Flipped through the channels.

  And found the Red Sox game.

  All right, I admit, I’d had it in mind when I’d seen everyone watching the movie. And there didn’t seem to be much I could do in the way of detection. There really didn’t. And this vacation had just been one disappointment after another—I realize that’s an insensitive word to use under the circumstances. But still, could you blame me for taking time out to enjoy a baseball game?

  Go ahead and blame me, because that’s what I did.

  The Red Sox were playing the White Sox, and it was the top of the first inning, and there were runners on first and second, and Nomar Garciaparra was up, and on a three and one count he hit the ball up the gap in right center, driving them both home, and I for one could not have been happier at finally getting to watch my game.

  It got rained out in the top of the third. The Red Sox were leading seven to one. If play ever resumed, they had the game well in hand. But this wasn’t a shower, it was an absolute gale, and despite the announcers’ attempts to be upbeat, it was easy to tell that there wasn’t a prayer.

  I switched off the TV and went out.

  The place was still deserted. I saw no one inside, no one outside.

  I walked by the rec room. The movie was still going on. I considered going in, catching the end. Decided against it. There was no one I really wanted to talk to. Alice could give me a report. It had been a long day, and I was tired. I went back to my room. Kicked off my shoes, got in bed, and began reading 4:50 From Paddington. Or, What Mrs. McGillicuddy Saw!

  I had trouble finding my place. I hadn’t used a bookmark, and I wasn’t sure of the page. I kept reading stuff I’d read before. Which didn’t always register, because, of course, I’d read the book years ago, so all of it was vaguely familiar. It was a question of separating what was recently familiar.

  Which was difficult with what had happened lately. Too much input. I mean, which crime are we dealing with, the real one or the fictional one? What the woman saw on the train, that’s the train in the book, not the Cog Railway. What we saw on the Cog Railway was the drug dealer, who may have had nothing to do with the murder. So just what is it I’m reading here?

  I wasn’t sure. So I was glad ten minutes later to hear voices in the hallway and footsteps on the stairs.

  One voice was Alice’s. I wondered who she was talking to. I got up, opened the door.

  Just my luck. She was talking to Johnny Mclnnerny about Arsenic and Old Lace.

  “Oh, and there’s my stick-in-the-mud husband,” she said, “who missed the whole show.”

  I groaned. I didn’t want to go through the seen-it-before routine again with Johnny Mclnnerny. I had also hoped Alice would have something interesting to report. Obviously not, if she’d wound up discussing the movie with Johnny Mclnnerny. I was certainly glad I’d been spared that, and—

  Good lord.

  Johnny Mclnnerny?

  I have to admit, what with everything that had happened, I was so stressed out that things were slow kicking in.

  Johnny Mclnnerny had come upstairs with Alice.

  Johnny Mclnnerny was standing in front of the room with Freddy Frog on the door.

  Johnny Mclnnerny and his wife were the couple whose amorous adventures I’d envied through the paper-thin wall.

  The Mclnnernys?

  The mind boggled.

  That revelation having hit me, I found myself incapable of speech. I stood there like a lump, grinning moronically.

  However, Johnny needed no prompting. “Well, you missed a good show. And it’s so much better with an audience. I must have seen that movie on TV a dozen times. But it’s not the same thing, watching it alone. It’s so much better with an audience laughing at it.”

  I quite agreed. I just had no wish to prolong the conversation. “Absolutely,” I said. “Wish I’d been there. Well, good night, now.”

  I took Alice by the hand and practically pulled her into the room.

  “Are you kidding me?” I whispered the minute the door closed. “The Mclnnernys live next door?”

  “So it seems.”

  “The Mclnnernys are the reason we’ve been keeping quiet?”

  “Stanley,” Alice said, reprovingly.

  From next door came a horrifying scream. We would have heard it even if the walls hadn’t been paper-thin. As it was, it might as well have been in the same room.

  Alice and I looked at each other, bolted for the door. Alice, who was closer, got there first, ripped it open, dashed out into the hall. I followed.

  The Mclnnernys’ door was open. Inside, Johnny Mclnnerny was kneeling next to his wife.

  Mrs. Mclnnerny lay sprawled out on the floor.<
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  A large carving knife protruded from her chest.

  30.

  PINEHURST SEEMED IRRITATED. Which didn’t seem quite right. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying he should have been pleased. Still, his reaction went beyond what one would expect. The man was definitely annoyed.

  Alice and I were outside, where access to East Pond was being denied by the cop with the droopy mustache. Aside from the police, the only one allowed inside was the medical examiner, who was currently plying his trade. I, for one, was not holding my breath waiting for his report. There was really nothing the man could tell me. Mrs. Mclnnerny had been stabbed in the heart with a knife somewhere between eight and ten o’clock. I doubt if the doctor could do better than that.

  Also outside on the lawn was practically everybody from Blue Frog Ponds. Pinehurst had come whipping in with his siren. By then everyone was already outside, but just in case anyone was inclined to sleep through the action, that sort of sealed the deal. They were all out here now, even the six-year-old girl, who wore a pink flowery nightgown, and was yawning and rubbing her eyes as she snuggled up in her father’s arms.

  I knew how she felt. With Pinehurst in charge of the operation, it was going to be a long night.

  He came out of East Pond, looked around, spotted me standing with Alice and Jean and Joan. He strode over to us and addressed Alice.

  “You were with Mr. Mclnnerny when he found the body?”

  “We both were,” I said.

  “Yes, yes,” Pinehurst said. “But you were with him before, at the movie. You came back from the movie together and were there when he found his wife.”

  “That’s right,” Alice said.

  “Mr. Mclnnerny was at the movie the whole time?”

  “Yes, he was,” Alice said. “I can vouch for his whereabouts from eight o’clock on.”

  “So can we,” Jean said.

  “Oh?”

  “Joan and I were at the movie too. And she’s absolutely right. The man never left.”

  “And you didn’t either?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “None of you?”

  Jean frowned. “What do you mean, none of us?”

  “Mrs. Hastings too?”

  “We were all there the whole time,” Jean said.

  “Uh-huh,” Pinehurst said. He turned to me. “But you were not?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’d seen the movie before.”

  “Who hasn’t?” Pinehurst said. “Everyone’s seen that movie before. Most people decided to see it again. Why not you?”

  “You want me to discuss this in front of everyone?”

  Pinehurst frowned.

  So did Alice.

  So did Jean and Joan.

  I realized I had suddenly made myself unpopular with everyone.

  “If you’ll excuse us,” Pinehurst said.

  He led me off in the direction of the road.

  “Now then,” he said, when we were presumably out of earshot, “what was so all-fired important that you decided to miss the movie?”

  “It wasn’t like that. I wanted to look around, and I wanted to watch the game.”

  “The game?”

  “There was a Red Sox game on television. With everyone in the rec room, I figured the TV room might be free.”

  “Was it?”

  “It was. I saw three innings of the Red Sox-White Sox.”

  “Three innings?”

  “It rained in Chicago.”

  “Oh.” Pinehurst cocked his head. “You didn’t feel you could tell me this in front of the others?”

  I almost said, “Don’t be dumb.” I took a breath, exhaled. “Before I watched TV, I went for a walk. I happened to see the victim.”

  “Mrs. Mclnnerny? Where?”

  “In back of the main house. In the door to Randy’s room.”

  “Randy?”

  “Randy the busboy. Louise’s son. The one who was having an affair with Christine Cobb.” I looked at Pinehurst. “Is this an interrogation technique? Or have you really forgotten who these people are?”

  “It was conversational, merely,” Pinehurst said. “So, you saw Mrs. Mclnnerny in the busboy Randy’s room?”

  “Not in his room. In the doorway.”

  “In the doorway?”

  “Yes. Like she’d knocked on the door and he’d opened it.”

  “But had not invited her in?”

  “Well, would you?”

  “And he didn’t?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “You didn’t stay to see?”

  “No. It was old news. Mrs. Mclnnerny had just found out about the affair. Between Randy and Christine Cobb. She told me so this afternoon. I knew that’s why she was talking to him.”

  “You didn’t think it was important?”

  “It was yesterday’s news. My only interest in Mrs. Mclnnerny was she was out of the room when I got the call.”

  “The call?”

  “From you. Telling me about the cocaine. She was out of the dining room at the time.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  I told him about the click on the line.

  “Interesting,” Pinehurst said. “So you think someone may have overheard the call?”

  “It’s the obvious explanation.”

  “And you thought it was her?”

  “She was one possibility. Another was Lars Heinrick. Then there’s the cook, the waitresses, and the busboy.”

  “Why them?”

  “Because there’s an extension in the kitchen. As well as one in the reading room.”

  “Uh-huh,” Pinehurst said. “Well, that’s certainly something to take into consideration. For the time being, I’d like to concentrate on this murder. What time was it you saw Mrs. Mclnnerny talking to the busboy?”

  “Around eight-fifteen, eight-twenty.”

  “How do you fix the time?”

  “The movie started around eight. Alice and I got there late, after it had started. Say between five and ten after. She decided to stay, I decided not to. I left there, walked around the grounds. By the time I got to the back of the main house it was probably eight-fifteen to eight-twenty. Somewhere along in there. I saw Mrs. Mclnnerny, but did not stay to watch. I finished checking out the building and went inside.”

  “To watch TV?”

  “That’s right. I watched three innings of the ball game.”

  “When you turned on the TV, was the game already on?”

  “Yes. It was in the first inning, with two on and nobody out.”

  “The first inning?”

  “Yes.”

  “The game was only in the first inning?”

  “They’re playing in Chicago. The game had an eight-thirty start.”

  “Eight-thirty?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the game was already in the first inning and there were two runners on?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  Pinehurst shrugged. “Well, I’m not a huge baseball fan, but I do watch the game. And you know, they start five minutes late. An eight-thirty game starts at eight-thirty-five. Some papers even list them that way. A seven-thirty-five start. A seven-o-five start. That’s when the first pitch is thrown, as opposed to when the broadcast starts.”

  “So?”

  “So, if you turn on the game and there’s two men on base, it’s gotta be around eight-forty. And you just saw Mrs. Mclnnerny around eight-fifteen.”

  “I said eight-fifteen to eight-twenty.”

  “It’s still a good twenty minutes. If you went inside to watch TV, there’s no way you’d miss the beginning of the game.”

  “I didn’t go straight to the TV room.”

  “No? What did you do?”

  “I circled the house. I remember seeing the lights on in Lars’ and Florence’s room. I knew he’d gone back to his room, and I wondered what he was doing. And I remembered I’d left the light on in her room for the dog
.

  “Anyway, I did that. Then when I went inside, I didn’t go to the TV room, I went to check out the dining room first.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. It was there. It was dark. Everyone had left. It was quiet. I went and sat in the booth, where Christine Cobb had sat, and tried to put it all together in my mind.”

  “Any luck?”

  “The only thing I came up with was from where she was sitting she would have seen the drug connection come in the door. And Lars wouldn’t. So she would have had to tell him he was there.”

  “Uh-huh,” Pinehurst said, without enthusiasm. “And that took twenty minutes?”

  “I also checked out the kitchen.”

  “The kitchen?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Like I said. One of the extension phones was there.”

  “And what did you hope to learn from the kitchen?”

  “I don’t know. But there was a light on. I could see it under the door. I wondered if anyone was there. I also wondered if I could get in.”

  “Could you?”

  “Sure. The door was unlocked. I pushed it open, went right in.”

  “The door was unlocked at that time?”

  “Yes. Why?” My eyes widened. “The knife?”

  “It appears to have been from the kitchen, yes.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Oh, no, what?”

  “I think I saw it.”

  “The knife?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then?”

  “No. Earlier this evening.”

  “How is that?”

  I told him about talking to the chef and seeing Max’s Stupid Pet Trick.

  “The knife was on the butcher block then?”

  “Yes. I remember seeing it.”

  “And when you checked out the kitchen later, somewhere around eight-thirty?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t remember seeing it?”

  “No.”

  “But you don’t remember not seeing it?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “It’s somewhat important.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “Are you? Good. Then should anything jog your memory, please be so kind as to let me know. Anyway, you went in and watched the ball game. Or at least three innings of it.”