by Lynn Bohart
“No. Why would I do that?” she mumbled. She climbed back onto the bed and pulled a blanket around her.
I felt an actual breeze and turned towards the window. “Is there a window open?” I stepped over to the window next to a small desk and pulled the curtains aside. It was wide open. “Dana, why did you open the window?”
“I didn’t,” she said stubbornly.
“Well, someone did,” I said, slamming it shut. I shivered again and allowed the drapes to drop back into place. As I turned to step away from the window, I happened to glance at the floor. What I saw brought the sour taste of bile to my mouth.
There was fresh mud on the carpet.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Dana freaked out.
Once we’d calmed her down, we convinced her to come downstairs for the night. I just couldn’t force myself to call the police out one more time, so I reported the incident to Officer Capshaw, who was stationed in front of the Inn in the unmarked car. He came in and searched the Inn, just to make sure no one had actually made it past Dana’s room. Since the guests had all reacted to the emergency with the children, we didn’t feel it necessary to disturb them again. But Officer Capshaw looked into every other room. Since Dana’s window was at the back of the Inn with a trellis nearby, we figured whomever it was had come down the side drive past my apartment to the rear of the building and climbed up the trellis. So, this time, I asked Officer Capshaw to camp out in Dana’s room until dawn, just in case.
As I returned to my apartment, I smiled despite the anxiety I felt at a second break-in, thinking how surprised Dana’s stalker would be if he came back and found a burly male officer in Dana’s bed instead of her. Oh, Grandma, what big teeth you have.
Angela had gone into the apartment first to make sure the dogs were safely tucked away in the bedrooms. Fifteen minutes later, Angela had retired again, and I was handing off a pillow to Dana for the couch.
“I know you don’t like me, Julia,” she said sleepily. “And I know this must be a great imposition, having me here at the Inn. So…thank you.”
I paused with a folded quilt in my arms. She was right. There was nothing I liked about her. But I had a natural compassion for the underdog and right now, she was the underdog.
I plopped down in a nearby chair. “I don’t like you, Dana. I think you take great pleasure in causing other people pain and distress. I don’t know if you do it in order to make yourself feel better, or…I don’t know, you’re bored. But just because you’re mean-spirited, I don’t think you deserve to be murdered. Maybe this will be a wakeup call and you’ll change.”
She dropped onto the sofa, a beaten woman. Everything about her had changed. All of her bravado was gone, along with any sense of confidence.
“I’m not sure I can change,” she said quietly. “It’s how I was raised. I told you about my mother. She spent her entire adult life finding ways to get back at people who had more than she did. She seemed to work hard at making their lives miserable, including mine. She once made a formal complaint against a kid in my sixth-grade class who had a glandular problem and weighed about 300 pounds. His parents were wealthy, which just naturally pissed her off. So she made a case to the school district that he should be home-schooled because of his unusual size, which, she argued, made the other kids uncomfortable. Somehow she got two other mothers to join her, and that poor kid finally dropped out of school. My mother gloated about that.” Dana took a deep breath and lowered her chin. “You may not like me, Julia, but it’s who I am. It’s who I was trained to be. I don’t know how to be different.”
“Did your husband really abuse you when you lived in Vancouver?”
Her face tensed, and tears appeared. “Yes. He beat me so badly once I had to go to the ER. I was actually in the process of making plans to leave him and go to a shelter when he disappeared.”
I handed her the quilt. “Well, I’m sorry about that. Really, I am. But at least now you’re being honest about things.”
She swiped a tear away. “It’s not easy being me.”
A laugh erupted from my throat. “Well, we finally agree on something.”
She glanced up at me, and then smiled. “Touché,” she said.
“Look, Dana, somehow we’ll get you through this. And then you can go back to being a pain in the neck again. Just hopefully not my neck.”
She slumped back on the sofa. “You know, I have to admit that I’ve sometimes been jealous of you.”
“Me? Why?”
She glanced around at all of my antiques and Wizard of Oz memorabilia. “Partly the Inn. It’s really lovely, and you get to meet such interesting people. And partly your husband.”
“Ex-husband,” I said.
“Well, he is the governor of the state. But most of all, your friends. You seem to attract people like a magnet. I’m just the opposite.”
“Let’s face it. We approach life very differently. I smile. You frown.”
I smiled. And finally, she smiled too. “Okay,” she said reluctantly. “I get it.”
“Now, let’s get some sleep. We have a busy day tomorrow. Jason Spears will be here.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Another storm front moved in overnight, so that heavy rain and blustery winds greeted us the next morning. It was just after 8:00 a.m., and Officer Capshaw had just sat down in the breakfast room to eat April’s ham and bacon quiche, when David and Detective Abrams marched through the front door, shaking water off as they came. Guests looked up as they strode in, so I quickly guided them into the kitchen, where Dana and Angela were eating.
Dana looked up in surprise. “Did you find out who tried to kill me last night?” she blurted.
“I was about to call you,” I said. “I already reported the incident to officer Capshaw.”
David put up his hand to stop me. “We know. He called it in last night.”
“Whoever it was had disappeared by the time we got there,” I continued. “And we were all too tired to deal with it last night. But no one was hurt and nothing was stolen. And I put Officer Capshaw in Dana’s room in case whoever it was came back.”
“Good thinking,” Detective Abrams said. “But once again, someone knew that your upstairs windows weren’t alarmed. I think it’s time we talk to Roger Romero again, since he installed your system. But do you have any idea how they knew which room Dana was in?”
That stopped me. I glanced over at Dana. “Did you call anyone?”
“I talked to Clay,” she said. “But I never mentioned what room I was in.”
“That’s the only person?” David asked.
“Yes. I wanted him to know I was okay and was staying here at the Inn.”
David looked at me. “Anyone else you can think of?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. I mean all of the guests knew she was here, but that’s it.”
“Okay,” he said, opening a folder and dropping two 8 X 10 photos on the table. “Do either of you know this man?”
David turned the folder around to show us the grisly photograph of a man who had been shot in the head. The body was laying half in and half out of a bunch of bushes. I could feel the blood drain from my face, and I suddenly felt cold all over.
It was Big Al.
I looked up at David. He wasn’t enjoying this anymore than I was. “Do you know who he is, Julia?” he asked me quietly.
“Yes,” I said a little breathlessly. “It’s the man who stole Ahab.” I sat down next to Angela and suddenly felt very afraid. She put a hand on my knee. “But I didn’t kill him,” I said. “After all, Ahab came back. Everything’s fine.”
“We know that, Julia. We think he was killed either late last night or early this morning.” David turned his attention on Dana. “With a .9 mm hand gun.”
Dana just stared at him with a blank expression.
“We found a gun in the bushes close by,” David said. “It had your fingerprints on it, Mrs. Finkle.”
She sucked in a quick g
asp. “I didn’t kill him.”
“But you own a .9 mm,” he said.
“Well, yes. That and a rifle. At least we did.”
“What do you mean?” Detective Abrams said.
“They were stolen. We didn’t notice until a couple of nights ago. I heard a bunch of noise out by the street just after midnight and went to get the revolver, just in case. But both the revolver and the rifle were gone.”
“Noise out by the street?” Detective Abrams asked, stepping forward.
Inwardly, I cringed. That would have been the trash run. I drew my hands into my lap and chanced a cautious look at April, who was at the sink. She raised an eyebrow and went back to her dishes.
“Yes. There was a lot of banging out by the street. The next morning we found our trash cans all knocked over, and one was in the street. I suppose it was just kids, but, at the time, it frightened me. So I went for the gun.”
“Did you report it?”
“Clay was going to,” she replied.
“We’ll check on that. We were able to ID this guy through his fingerprints,” Detective Abrams said. He looked back at me. “He’s the same guy who worked at Emory Auto Shop and lived in that apartment where you and Blair found Ahab.”
I glanced at the photo again and pushed it back. “God, who would do that?”
“Someone who is trying very hard to cover his tracks. My guess is that this guy was hired by someone to steal Ahab. He was also probably the one who shot at you yesterday. But since he failed twice, he was eliminated. At least that’s our working theory. We haven’t been able to find any shell casings or bullets out on the road. We have a team over at his apartment now, though, looking for clues. And they did find one of those same beer bottles there, which makes it look as if he might be the one who killed Trudy Bascom. But it also seems that Ahab is a major player in this case. Can you tell us again what happened that night?”
I let out an exasperated sigh. “We’ve been over this a million times. Dana and I were standing right in front of his cage during the party.” I glanced at Dana, whose face had gone very pale. “We were arguing, like we usually do. And suddenly, Ahab squawked, ‘I want to kill Dana Finkle.’”
“Do you have any idea where he learned to say that?” Detective Abrams asked me thoughtfully.
“No. But April remembered him picking up a phrase from a kid one day, and the next time that kid walked into the room, Ahab repeated the phrase. He picks things up very quickly. Last night I noticed that he kept asking for a cigarette. But no one at the Inn smokes.”
“Has he ever said that before?” David asked.
“No. Never. I just assumed he picked it up in Big Al’s apartment,” I said pointing to the picture.
“Okay, we’re going to need the names of every person you can remember that was here at the Inn during the two weeks before that Christmas Eve party.”
I looked at April and nodded toward the drawer. She walked over, opened it and took out the small note pad. “Done,” she said, handing it to Detective Abrams.
He glanced at the names on the paper. “So Tony Morales was here?”
“Yes. We had a library board meeting here,” I said.
He handed the list to David. “When is your husband back?” Detective Abrams asked Dana. “We’d like to talk to him as well.”
“Uh…tomorrow night,” she said.
“Okay, one more question.” He dropped another photo on the table. “Do you know this man?”
It was the picture of a man coming out of the Stay America Hotel in downtown Mercer Island. He was tall, about forty pounds overweight, with thinning gray hair and glasses. Dana grew very still and just stared at the photo.
“Mrs. Finkle? Do you recognize him?” David asked again.
“It’s Vince, my first husband,” she finally said quietly. She glanced up at the detectives, fear etched into her face.
“Okay,” Detective Abrams said with a nod. He glanced at me. “When you told us about the man looking for a place to stay, but asking if Mrs. Finkle lived on the island, we took the description and canvassed all the hotels and motels. We came up with this,” he said, gesturing to the photo. “He registered under the name Paul Conner.”
“Do you think he’s the one trying to kill me?” Dana asked.
“You had him declared legally dead and took all of his money,” Detective Abrams said. “He might want it back.”
“But how? I mean, how could he get it back?”
Angela spoke up. “He might figure that once you’re dead, he’ll resurface and go to court to reclaim it. You don’t have kids or other relatives, do you?”
Dana shook her head. “No. Clay has a sister and a niece, but I don’t have any other family.”
“So, maybe he thinks he could fight Clay in court for the portion of the money that came from his estate,” Angela offered. “After all, he was never convicted of the child abuse and the statute of limitations has run out. I’m not sure he’d win, but it could be worth a try.”
“Except I’d have to die first,” Dana spat.
Angela shrugged. “Well, there is that.”
“Where is he now?” I asked.
“We’re not sure,” Detective Abrams said. “We have the hotel staked out.”
“Do you think he hired Big Al?” I asked.
“We’re looking for a connection now,” David replied. “There are a lot of unanswered questions. We need you to stay here for the time being, Mrs. Finkle, until we sort this out.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Friday was the day Jason Spears was scheduled to arrive and hold a séance of sorts. He had not only published a couple of books profiling haunted locations around the country, he and his wife and two cohorts constituted the Salem Paranormal Investigative Team (SPIT), which was located in Salem, Oregon.
We had invited a select group of people to the reception – mostly the Library Board and a couple of bookstore owners, since Jason hoped to attract their attention. I had decided to change out the nautical theme I’d created by the front entrance to lend some ambieance to the reception. By 10:00 a.m., Jose´ and I were moving in an old prison electric chair I’d found at an estate sale. God knows why the family had had it in the first place. But it was so unusual, I felt sure I’d have an opportunity to use it. The ghost hunting event seemed like the right opportunity.
First we draped sheer white fabric down the wall. Then we placed the heavy chair up against it. On either side, we hung framed sepia daguerreotypes – photos from the early 1800s made on a silver or silver-covered copper plate. The images of civil war soldiers, stern Victorian grandmothers, and sunken-eyed children in sailor suits were seriously creepy, if not ghostly. Next to the chair, we placed a round end table graced with a vintage clock, an old, tattered copy of Murders of the Rue Morgue and one of The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, along with a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and an old pipe. We left the old steamer trunk where it was. A tall, working Tiffany lamp completed the tableau. It was probably as much a murder theme as a ghost theme, but it would have to do.
Mr. Kohl appeared just before noon to check out and stepped up to the desk to settle his bill. I was about to greet him, when the door to the office behind me shut with a bang. We both just stared at each other.
Count to three.
“May I have my receipt?” he finally said without acknowledging the door.
I turned and went into the office to print out a receipt. As I handed it to him, the door slammed behind me – again. He paused and glanced over at it this time. As he folded the receipt and put it into his wallet, his wife and children came down the stairs. The kids were quiet and stuck very close to their mother. Mrs. Kohl rolled their large suitcase toward the front door.
“Well, thank you for a nice stay,” Mr. Kohl said, putting his wallet back into his pants pocket.
The reception bell suddenly clanged, making us both jump. He stared at it for a moment without saying a word and then glanced at me. He could see I hadn’t
moved, leaving the two of us to stand silently staring at each other again.
“John?” his wife said behind him.
“Just a minute,” he said without looking away.
The standoff lasted another second or two, before his eyes sought out the bell once more, as if daring it to ring. When it didn’t, he turned away, and I retreated to the office.
The bell clanged twice more in quick succession.
He whipped around, but I was already inside the office door.
“Damn!” he said, breathing hard.
His expression made me think he was contemplating taking the bell and putting it through the window, so I held my breath. But he quickly turned on his heel and followed his family out the door.
The Kohls’ suite was booked, so we had to turn it quickly. A middle-aged couple arrived around one o’clock to check in. Mr. Campo also checked out. Since our housekeeper, Trish, lived in one of the guest rooms, with Dana’s room, that left two empty rooms for the paranormal group.
At one point, Dana’s husband called to check in on her and to tell her that he would need to stay in Bellingham at least until Saturday. Dana said he seemed glad to know she was staying at the Inn. She didn’t tell him about the intruder the night before, or I felt sure he would have come home. They had a strange relationship.
Since we only had about fifteen people coming that night in addition to the guests, April and I had decided to skip the caterer and do the food ourselves. I recruited Angela and Dana to help out in the kitchen, thinking it would take Dana’s mind off her situation.
Jason Spears and his team arrived at 3:00 p.m. to begin setting up their equipment. They pulled up in two black SUVs, just as they had when they’d come once before to spend the night and record the ghosts. They’d had limited success that time, catching mostly floating orbs and snatches of what I thought might be Chloe’s voice on a recorder. But it was enough to get us featured in his upcoming book.
They emerged into the heavy rain dressed in big waffle coats and mufflers. Jason was a bear of a man – over six feet tall, barrel-chested, with a shiny bald head and a trimmed goatee. His wife was diminutive in comparison, with a head of red curls that hung to her shoulders. His two tech guys, Frankie and Shorty, were polar opposites of each other – one tall and slender, the other short and stocky.
