by Wendy Tyson
The innkeeper came down the long staircase, shaking her head slowly back and forth. “I have to admit, I was a little worried.” She strode back to her desk, the Schnauzer leaving her post by the door into the kitchen to join her. “She’s okay. A little out of it, but okay. I told her you were here, and she said to give her ten minutes. She’s going to get dressed and she’ll be down.”
The innkeeper placed the key back in the desk. She looked out the window before turning her attention to Megan once again. “One thing,” she said. “Martine asked that if the others return, you not mention Sunday. Whatever that means.” The look on her face said she’d love to know what that means.
Megan nodded, giving her nothing.
Clearly disappointed, the innkeeper cleared her throat. “Would you like some hot tea while you wait? Some nice orange pekoe? Or maybe English Breakfast?”
“That would be lovely.”
“Come with me to the kitchen. I’ll show you around.”
Megan followed her through a rear doorway and into a large dining room. One large farmhouse table filled the space with twelve matching chairs around it and a matching buffet behind it. A giant flower centerpiece scented the air with the perfume of lilies and hyacinths. The dining room looked out onto a large veranda set with four smaller sets of tables and chairs. From the dining room they opened a door into an annex—the kitchen.
“I don’t have guests back here. Or the dog. Code violation, you know.” The woman turned on a spigot over the large stainless farmhouse sink and filled a teapot with water. She motioned to the kitchen, which, unlike the rest of the house, was filled with stainless steel and white tile. Modern, clean, and efficient.
“It’s lovely.”
“Thank you, dear. I normally serve homemade granola, yogurt, fruit, and sweet breads for breakfast. Sometimes pancakes on the weekends. And once in a while I’ll make a dinner if someone asks. I love to cook.” She smiled shyly. “Can’t compete with your Alvaro, though. He’s gotten himself quite a reputation.”
“I lucked out when he came to the café.”
“You did, dear. Hold on to that one.”
Megan smiled. She was anxious to talk to Martine, but she appreciated the tour of the competition. Their inn, if it ever got off its feet, would have a large commercial kitchen with teaching space. Not as high-end as this, perhaps, but similar.
The innkeeper placed the teapot on the gas stovetop. She began rummaging through the Sub Zero refrigerator. “These guests—the people from BOLD—they like snacks in the afternoon. I’ve been making them cheese and crackers. Would you like some, dear?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“Mind if I put a plate together while we chat?”
“Not at all.” Although Megan wondered what they would chat about. She didn’t have to wonder long.
“This group—are they friends of yours?” The woman pulled three plastic-wrapped chunks of cheese from the refrigerator and placed them on the stainless-topped island. She added an unwrapped summer sausage and a bottle of mustard. “They seem very nice.”
“I don’t really know them. Some of them went to school with my boyfriend.”
“That nice Dr. Finn?” Then, after a glance at Megan, “Don’t look so surprised, dear. Those of us in the hospitality business keep tabs on the competition. Plus, there was that murder last year. You and Dr. Finn were in the news.”
“Yeah, it was a rough year.”
“I’ll say.” She unwrapped a hunk of cheddar and placed it on a serving plate. The teapot whistled, and she paused to fill two mugs with boiling water. “Here you go, dear. Honey or cream?”
When Megan declined both, the innkeeper returned to her cheese tray and the topic at hand. “They’re an interesting group of people. A few of them really keep to themselves. Martine. That Barbara.”
“Barbara, really? She seems pretty outgoing.”
“Has said maybe a dozen words since she arrived. Not like that Xavier. Orders the others around. Always has a complaint.” Her mouth tightened into a small knot in the bottom center of her face. “I don’t mind telling you this,” she whispered, “because you’re in the trade, but some guests make you happy to be in the hospitality field. Others wish you had gone into accounting like your mother suggested.”
Megan laughed. “And Xavier does the latter.”
She answered with a deeper frown. Megan watched as the woman sliced a large slab of Gouda from a wheel and placed it on the tray. The innkeeper studied the tray, returned to the refrigerator, and came back with a roll of goat cheese and some fig jam. “Xavier likes variety.” Her tone told Megan just what she thought about that.
Megan laughed. She looked into the hallway to see if Martine was nearby. With no sign of her, Megan stood as close as she could to the innkeeper without seeming odd. “Did you notice any tension between members of the group on Friday night?” she asked.
Only the woman didn’t look surprised by the question. She put the knife down on the counter and placed her hands on her hips, her expression thoughtful. “Now that you mention it, I had a guest complain about noise.”
“Noise?”
“Bickering. Loud bickering. When I asked for the room from which it was coming, they told me room four.”
“Whose room is that?” Megan asked, suspecting she already knew.
“That’s Barbara’s room, which is why I was surprised. She’s so quiet. I asked several times to be sure the guest had heard right, but he and his wife were adamant.”
“A male voice along with Barbara’s?”
“I didn’t ask, and he didn’t offer.”
Megan considered that. “It was definitely Friday night?”
“Yes.” She gave a firm nod. “The couple was celebrating their tenth anniversary. They stopped on their way to New York City. Coming up from Delaware.”
“Is it possible Barbara had her speaker phone on? That the voice they heard was a caller—not someone in the room with her?”
The innkeeper tilted her head. “You know, I didn’t ask that, but they seemed quite adamant that there were people in the room.” She paused. “And the woman said someone slammed the door. Hard. It dislodged a vase in their room and it crashed to the floor.”
“Did you ask Barbara or Martine the next day?”
The innkeeper nodded. “I brought it up with Barbara because the noise was coming from her room. She flat out denied it. Said someone must have heard wrong. That she went right to bed and slept soundly until morning.”
Megan was processing this when a small voice said, “Megan?”
Megan looked over in time to see Martine slipping around the corner. She wore her blonde hair loose around her shoulders. Straight and fine, it lay flat against her face. Dark denim jeans were pressed to a fine crease, and a frilly rose-colored blouse fell at her hips. A floral belt around her narrow waist pulled it all together.
“How are you, Martine?”
Martine didn’t answer, but she didn’t need to. Her ivory skin was alpine white. Eyes were red-rimmed, with bruised hollows underneath. She looked as though she’d lost ten pounds off her tiny frame in days. Megan felt a wave of sympathy course through her. Martine looked like she’d been through hell.
Megan had to wonder whether there had been more between Martine Pringle and Charles Mars than either had let on.
“Can we talk for a few minutes?” Megan asked.
“Sure.” To the innkeeper, Martine asked, “May I take an apple?”
“Of course, dear.” With a knowing glance at Megan, she handed Martine an apple from a basket on the counter. “Your fellow colleagues are expected soon, Martine. You may use the veranda if you’d like. It’s quiet. Or if you want more privacy, there is a guest study on the second floor, past the library table.”
“That would be wonderful. Thank you.”
Martine dug into the apple as she led Megan back into the public area of the house and up the grand staircase. Megan admired the chestnut railings, the sheer width of the steps. She looked up. The staircase continued to a third floor, but Martine stopped on the second.
“This way,” she said. She continued down a wide hallway adorned with eighteenth century artwork and paused at room two. “Hold on for a second, okay? I need to grab my phone.”
Martine opened the door, and leaving it wide open, ran inside. Megan could make out a neatly made bed covered with a navy blue-patterned quilt, a stately oak dresser, an upholstered chair, also navy, a window seat, and a closet door. The rest of the room was blocked by a wall, behind which Martine disappeared. Megan presumed it was the en suite bath.
Seconds later, Martine returned with her cell phone and a sweater. “Chilly in here.” She locked the door and continued down the hall, past a narrow secretary that housed stacks of paperbacks and hardcovers—the library table—and rooms three and four.
“Which was Chase’s room?”
“Room one,” Martine said. She pointed down the hall. “The police have been through it. Room’s empty now.”
“I’m surprised you all stayed here.”
Martine opened the door to a small room. Inside sat a cheery Queen Ann style desk, matching wooden chair, and two plaid upholstered wing chairs that shared a coffee table. More eighteenth century artwork on the walls. A navy-blue area rug. The faint scent of musky male aftershave lingered in the air, mixing with cigar smoke and the faintest hint of lemon cleaner. These were old smells, as worn into the woodwork as the oils used to dust and polish.
“I don’t think this room gets much use,” Martine said. She sat on one of the upholstered chairs. Megan chose the wooden desk chair, but she turned it around, so it was facing Martine.
“I wanted to check on you. See how things went with King.”
“They went as well as could be expected. I talked, he listened. I asked him if his people already knew about the argument, he was noncommittal.” She shrugged. “Traitor to friendship, but civil duty done.”
Megan smiled. “I’m sure Chief King followed up with Jatin.”
“I have no idea. Jatin doesn’t seem to be speaking to me. Or any of us, for that matter.”
“Did he go with the others to get Barbara’s boss, Harriet?”
“I have no idea. Barbara texted me and said they were heading out, did I want to come. I stayed behind. Worked for a while on some damage control. Contacted the social worker in charge of Dillon’s case to see how he’s doing, handled some media requests. Took some happy pills and went to sleep.”
“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about: Dillon.”
“What about him?”
“The news crews are in town. Many are hanging out at my café, so I know they’re all over this story. It feels like maybe something broke, but nothing’s been said. I saw the chopper headed toward the hospital where Dillon’s been admitted. I thought, maybe—”
“If you’re wondering if I spilled his name to the media, the answer is no. He’s a minor.”
“That’s not what I was going to ask.”
“What then?” Martine crossed her arms over her chest, looking suddenly defensive.
“I thought maybe the police found some new clue, something to point to a killer.”
“Oh.” Martine took an audible breath. “What I know about Dillon, I’m afraid it’s not much. The social worker was not very forthcoming. Said Dillon is under a doctor’s care, and that all inquiries should be directed to the police or the hospital staff.” She sighed. “That’s about when I took my happy pill.”
Megan could understand the social worker’s position. The agency that placed him wouldn’t disclose information, and neither would the police or the hospital. Not to Martine, at least. Megan had been hoping there’d been a break in the case. One that didn’t involve Dillon.
Didn’t sound like it, though.
“Tell me, what does ‘damage control’ look like in a situation like this?”
Martine let out a strained laugh. “I can honestly tell you I’ve never been through this before, so it’s hard for me to know. Rather than publishing photographs of the happy campers and doing all of the media and social media outreach I would normally do, I’m left on the defensive. Fending off inquiries, making brief statements. Talking with our lawyers.”
“Your lawyers?”
“The company organized this event. Those kids suffered trauma. Not our fault, certainly, but the second guessers are already out there. Were our employees vetted? Did we have adequate staff on site? Did we knowingly allow kids with mental health problems to participate, putting themselves and others in danger?” She frowned. “We’re preparing for the worst.”
Megan’s mind was stuck on the words “with mental health problems.” Didn’t all of these kids have problems of some sort? Wasn’t that why they were in the school in the first place?
“I sound cold,” Martine said. “I’ve been stuck here for days with nothing but this situation to dwell on. I don’t know who to trust, and no one is telling us anything. I can’t get away from them.” She motioned toward the hall and, presumably, her coworkers. “It’s enough to drive anyone crazy.”
Megan heard a car pull into the driveway outside. She walked to the window and peeked outside. A black Tahoe was parking next to her truck. After a few moments, Barbara climbed out of the driver’s side. Xavier and a tall woman Megan didn’t recognize joined her.
“I think your friends are back,” Megan said.
“They’re not my friends.” Martine threw her head back, exposing a slender neck and a lacy rash above her collarbone. “And nothing will get better with Harriet here.”
“But she’s the big boss.”
Martine nodded, stood. “Dr. Harriet Mantra. One of BOLD’s founding members.”
“This charity event was her brainchild, right?”
Martine sighed. “Yep. And now that brainchild is dead. And Harriet is livid.”
Eleven
Martine slipped back in her room, leaving Megan to negotiate her way back down to the center hall. The innkeeper was there, checking in Harriet. Xavier and Barbara were huddled by the desk, waiting. The friendly Schnauzer seemed wary of the stranger. She was leaning away from her and against Barbara’s leg. Barbara rewarded her with a quick pat.
“Megan,” Xavier said, managing to sound surprised and sarcastic at the same time. “What brings you to the beautiful Bucks County Inn? Did our dear friend Daniel send you?”
“I thought I would check on you, see if you were okay.”
“No Denver?” Barbara’s smile had all the energy of a dead battery. “We haven’t seen him since Saturday.”
“He’s been caught up with his practice and his aunt.”
“Oh, I’d forgotten that the boy was her foster child. She must be terrified, having lived with a killer under her roof.” Before Megan could respond, Xavier nodded toward the new woman. “This is Dr. Harriet Mantra, CEO and Chief Strategist at BOLD.”
As though on cue, the woman finished with the innkeeper and turned. Up close, she seemed even taller—close to six foot. She had long, thick, straight black hair, slightly frizzy on the ends. Expertly applied makeup tried to shave ten years off her fifty-five or so, and the monotone pantsuit succeeded in trimming ten pounds. More striking than beautiful, Harriet Mantra had a strong jaw, handsome features, and a pair of piercing eyes. These eyes bore into Megan’s with an intelligent ferocity that was almost intimidating.
Almost. Megan had spent too much time in a courtroom back in her law firm days to be easily cowed. But she recognized someone used to moving mountains—on their own terms.
“Megan Sawyer.” Megan held out her hand. The return grip was firm, Harriet’s skin smooth and dry.
“Me
gan Sawyer? Are you with the law firm we hired?” The glance Harriet threw at Barbara asked the same question: Why is this woman here?
“No, I’m not.”
“Megan is a friend of a friend,” Barbara said. “A local businessowner and the girlfriend of a college friend.”
Harriet’s expression said if Megan wasn’t with the police or a lawyer, she’d already dismissed her as irrelevant.
“Nice to meet you, Megan. You’ve heard all about what happened to Charles. We have some business to attend to. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course.”
Barbara and Xavier exchanged a look. “Good to see you, Megan,” Barbara said. “Please tell Denver not to be a stranger.”
Harriet was already walking toward the veranda, which would lead out to the barn apartment. Her bags stood next to the desk, probably for the innkeeper to handle. Harriet had her hand on the knob leading outside, and without turning around, she said, “Please make sure Ms. Sawyer doesn’t tell anyone where we’re staying. The press are here—I saw the vans on our way in. It would be unfortunate if they discovered our whereabouts. This lovely inn would become a zoo.”
Megan said, “I’m still here, Dr. Mantra. I can hear you. And I won’t be the one who tells reporters where you are.”
“Good.” Harriet pushed open the door. “Xavier, my bag,” she called over her shoulder.
When Harriet was out of earshot, Xavier looked at Barbara and laughed. Barbara didn’t look so amused.
“She’s an acquired taste,” Xavier said. “Absolutely brilliant. She took the company from a few scientists to a real competitor. Unfortunately, with that amount of brilliance comes a degree of narcissism.”
“A degree?” Barbara shook her head. “You’d better get the bags to her. Otherwise, we’ll both be getting irate text messages.”
“That bad?” Megan said once Xavier had gone.
“Worse. That was her good behavior. Only certain people can work with her because BOLD considers her a lawsuit risk.” Barbara shook her head. “I can see why her daughter avoids her at all costs.” She closed her eyes. “And why there was so much tension between them growing up. So much so that Harriet sent her across the country.”
