The garage sat at the end of a long driveway with two narrow paths shoveled clear of snow. Why bother to shovel the whole driveway when all you really need are two tracks to get the car in and out? Hands shoved in her pockets, she walked up a cleared path to see if a car was inside the garage. The overhead door was shut and locked, the only window too high to look through. She scribbled a note asking McClay to call as soon as possible and stuck it in the mailbox.
* * *
THE Drake was a small old hotel and as Susan tromped up to the entrance, an elderly man with a cane struggled with the door on his way out. She held it open for him. He smiled, wound a scarf around his throat and said, “Got to keep moving.”
Quite right, she thought, and smiled back.
The lobby had green couches and gold chairs with potted plants lurking in the corners. The young woman at the reception desk reluctantly placed her paperback romance face down on the counter and fixed her gaze on Susan. A mass of frizzed brown hair obscured a small face, giving the impression of a timid animal sheltering behind a thicket. A white pin with the name Patsy was attached to her red sweater. Susan asked for Lucille Guthman’s room number.
“She has three-ten, but she’s not in.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re the second person this afternoon who’s asked.”
“Who was the other?”
Patsy raked back her hair and as soon as she let go, it fell over her eyes again. “He didn’t leave his name.”
“What did he look like?”
Patsy gave her a suspicious look. “Why did you want to know?”
“Maybe I know him.”
“Oh. Well. Nice.” Patsy smiled a dreamy smile and seemed to drift off in a fugue.
Whoever he was, he’d certainly had an impact on her. “Was he tall?”
Patsy nodded. “Blond hair. And handsome, you know? He was real mad about something. I could tell. But nice anyway.”
“What was he wearing?”
“Black pants and a white sweater. One of those fisherman’s sweaters with all the cables? Oh, and he had black gloves.”
Susan thought of Brenner Niemen and his slick, blond handsomeness, then decided that was pretty farfetched. How would Brenner know Lucille was here, and why would he come to see her even if he did know? There must be more than one blond, handsome man in this part of the world.
“He said he’d try again later,” Patsy said. “Would you like me to tell him you were here?”
“When did you last see Lucille?”
“Oh, gee. That would have been yesterday.” Patsy thought a moment, then nodded.
“Did she say anything?”
“No. Well, hello or like that.”
“Was she going out?”
“I guess so.”
“Where was she going?”
Patsy shrugged.
“What time was that?”
“About three o’clock.”
“When did she check in?”
“Monday night,” Patsy said.
“What time?”
Patsy shrugged again and her fingers strayed toward the novel. “I don’t work the night shift.”
“I’ll just go up and see if she’s come back.”
“Okay, but I know she isn’t there.”
Patsy snatched up her book and Susan went to the elevator. On the third floor, she knocked on the door of room three-ten and got no response.
No sounds from inside and the door was locked; a DO NOT DISTURB sign hung from the knob. “Lucille? Open the door. I need to talk with you.” She waited. “Come on, Lucille. This is silly.”
A couple came out of a room further along the hallway and went past chatting about where they might go for supper. Susan dabbed at her drippy nose with a tissue, shoved it in her pocket and looked at her watch. Almost four-thirty. She got back in the elevator and it groaned and grumbled its way down to the first floor.
Putting down the novel, Patsy gave her a smug smile. “I told you she wasn’t in. She went out early this morning.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because she left a wake-up call for seven and she didn’t answer. So she must have gone before then.”
“Maybe she was in the shower.”
“Pretty long shower. She was called at seven and then at eight and then at eight-thirty. She just got up earlier than she planned.”
“Did you see her leave?”
Patsy shook her head. “She could have had breakfast in the coffee shop, I guess.”
In the coffee shop, Susan found the manager, a man in his forties, behind the cashier’s desk and asked if Lucille had been in for breakfast. “Twenty-five,” Susan said to jiggle his memory. “Pretty. Blond curly hair, blue eyes.”
“Oh yeah. I think she was here.”
“This morning? What time?”
“No, yesterday.”
“You haven’t seen her today?”
“I don’t think so. We get kind of busy around here.” His voice trailed off and he thought a moment. “Guthman, yeah.” He shuffled through a pile of order cards. “Three-ten. She left a request with room service yesterday evening. Coffee at seven this morning.”
“And you took it up to her?”
“One of the girls did. Hey, Joan,” he called to a waitress who hustled over. “You take that coffee to three-ten this morning?”
Joan nodded. “I knocked, but nobody answered so I just left the tray by the door. Anything wrong?”
“You picked up the tray later?” Susan asked.
“I didn’t. One of the maids brought it down. I guess she didn’t want coffee after all, because the pot was still full. The cup hadn’t been used.”
“Guests.” The manager’s shrug said nothing a guest ever did would surprise him.
Susan took the groaning elevator back up to the third floor. She was getting a bad feeling about all this. A laundry cart stood outside the open door of three-twelve and sounds of a vacuum cleaner drifted out. At three-ten, the DO NOT DISTURB sign was still on the doorknob. Lucille still didn’t answer a knock. Susan wondered what she should do. A sneeze had her groping for Kleenex. Damn cold. She could just camp outside this door and wait. Another part of her mind said something was wrong.
Lucille hadn’t been seen since yesterday afternoon. She didn’t meet Doug McClay when she was supposed to. She didn’t answer her wake-up call, didn’t drink the coffee ordered yesterday evening, didn’t return any of Doug’s five calls, didn’t answer the phone.
Susan thought about taking all this to the Kansas City police. To get in the room, they’d need a search warrant; to get that, they’d need to show probable cause. Could she do that? Missing person. Who said she was missing? Her mother. Nothing illegal about not telling your mother what hotel you’re at. I’m worried. After they stopped laughing, they’d tell her to fuck off.
She tried to tell herself she could be wrong. All that did was make her worry more.
The hum of the vacuum cleaner stopped, and after a moment a maid came trundling it out of the next room. Her name tag read Delores; she was a middle-aged woman who walked as though her feet hurt.
“Have you cleaned this room today?” Susan asked her.
“Not yet. It’s been there all day.” Delores nodded at the sign hanging on the doorknob. “I can’t go home until I clean in there.”
“I’m a police officer.” Susan flipped open her ID case. She had no authority here, but most people don’t scrutinize police identification. “Would you unlock the door, please?”
Delores gave her a dubious look, then with a shrug pulled a key from her pocket and inserted it in the lock. She pushed the door in, stepped away and took her laundry cart and her vacuum and her tired feet off down the corridor.
The room was dark inside, the curtains closed. Running a hand along the wall, Susan located the light switch and turned it on. Brown carpeting, double bed made up but rumpled, long, low desk-chest combination across one wall with a
television set on one end. An easy chair and a small round table in the corner with a hanging lamp above; a spiral notebook on the table.
She turned on the bathroom light. Hum and rattle of the exhaust fan. Unused towels, paper-wrapped glasses, cosmetics on the countertop and a toothbrush, dry. Shower curtain pulled across the tub.
She jerked it aside, then let out a breath. The tub was empty, clean and dry. No dead body sprawled on the white porcelain.
The closet had one small suitcase and a few items of clothing on hangers. She started to worry about having gotten the maid to let her in here. She’d be in trouble if Lucille or the hotel filed a breaking-and-entering or illegal-search complaint. As nearly as she could tell, nothing seemed amiss. No sign of any struggle.
On her way out, she picked up the notebook from the table. Nothing but blank paper with thin strips twisted in the spiral where pages had been ripped out. She tossed down the notebook and noticed a small white triangle of paper stuck between the edge of the carpet and the wall behind the table. She bent to retrieve it; a corner of lined paper with two penciled words, “like sleet.”
As she straightened, her eye caught a quick glint of something small and shiny beneath the bed. She went to the bed, leaned down to lift back the spread and stared into a blue, mottled face.
Blood roared in her ears, air got trapped in her lungs, an acid taste filled her mouth.
Lucille lay on her back, head twisted to the right. A blue scarf cut into her neck; her eyes bulged; her tongue protruded. The light sparkled on one silver earring.
Susan dropped to her knees and braced herself on both hands. Oh Jesus.
Blowing out air with a long breath, she stood up.
There was a loud pounding on the door.
“Police! Open up!”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
SHE froze.
More pounding. “Police! Open up.”
When she opened the door, the two uniformed policemen eyed her with carefully bland faces. One was tall, with sandy hair, the other slightly shorter and stocky, with short black hair.
“Would you mind telling us what you’re doing here?” The taller man spoke to her.
“Don’t get excited. I’m a cop.”
He raised skeptical eyebrows. She started to get identification from her shoulder bag and the stocky man took a step closer. “Don’t move.”
“What’s your name?” the taller man asked.
“Susan Wren. Yours?”
“Riley.” He inclined his head at the other officer. “Brandelli.”
“Well, Officer Riley, the young woman who rented this room has been strangled.” She paused. “Her body’s under the bed.”
Riley tensed, looked at Brandelli and gave a short nod. Brandelli squatted by the bed, lifted the bedspread, looked up at Riley and nodded in return.
“Have you any identification, Miss Wren?”
She patted her bag. Brandelli held out a hand. “If you don’t mind.”
He took the bag and dumped the contents on the table, then grinned at her, a flash of white teeth in a dark face. “Got a permit for this?” Taking a pen from his shirt pocket, he isolated Daniel’s .38.
Funny man. She glared at him and pointed out her identification.
“Hampstead,” he said with not quite a sneer, and handed it to Riley. “What we have here is a chief of police.”
Riley glanced at her identification, then said to Brandelli, “Call it in.”
* * *
AN hour later, she was perched on a hard wooden chair in Captain Dayton’s office. She was alone. He’d left her to stew, a trick she’d used many times herself, and now she was realizing just how effective it was. The professional part of her mind pointed out she’d been very stupid and just might see her career as a cop swirl and disappear down the drain with a glug.
The door opened behind her and she jumped. Captain Dayton strode to the desk, stood there and regarded her with cynic’s eyes. She sat up straighter; she was in the presence of authentic authority. He was a large, square man in a rumpled brown sport coat, with a heavy jaw and a dark stubble of beard, thick dark eyebrows and a receding hairline. He tossed her ID on the desk. It landed with a slap. They both stared at it.
“Says here”—he leaned forward and obliterated her picture with a blunt thumb—“you’re Susan Wren.” He had a deep gravelly voice.
She nodded.
“Says you’re chief of police of Hampstead, Kansas.”
She looked up at him.
“That right, young lady? You really Hampstead’s police chief?”
“Yes, sir.”
He grunted and threw down her driver’s license, tapped her picture with his thumb. “Says here you’re Susan Donovan.”
“Maiden name. I … uh, I’ve not been married long.”
“Says here San Francisco. San Francisco, California. That right?” He glared at her, then hooked an ankle around the chair leg, pulled it out and dropped into it. “So, Susan Wren or Susan Donovan or whatever your name is, what were you doing in that hotel room?”
She took a breath and let it out slowly. “Lucille Guthman’s been missing for three days. I’ve been looking for her, to question in connection with a murder.” She gave him a succinct and coherent report of the investigation into Daniel’s death.
Dayton listened without comment except for an occasional grunt or lift of his dark eyebrows. It might have been her former boss she was facing with queasy apprehension. Chase Reardon was smoother and slicker, soft-voiced, and communicated with words rather than grunts, but the atmosphere and its effect on her were the same. She’d been called in to get her ass chewed, and the awful part was she knew she deserved it.
When she was finished, Dayton crossed his arms over his broad chest and glowered from under his dark eyebrows. “Why did you go in that room?”
“I don’t—”
“You ever hear of a goddamn search warrant? You ever hear of probable cause? I don’t know how you do things in your area, but around here we don’t illegally enter hotel rooms. Citizens have rights.” His voice held no sarcasm; captains didn’t need to be sarcastic.
“She was dead.”
“So she was. You claim you didn’t know that when you went in.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You left Hampstead at what time?”
“Twelve-thirty.”
“Uh-huh.”
There was an uncomfortable silence.
“Coffee?” he asked.
She took a breath, then nodded.
He leaned forward with a jerk of the chair, picked up the phone and growled at somebody. Replacing the receiver, he leaned back again.
An officer brought in two Styrofoam cups and put them on the desk. Dayton leaned forward, removed a plastic lid, sailed it toward the wastebasket and offered her the cup.
She took a sip. “I’m out of cigarettes.”
He fished a crumpled pack from his shirt pocket and tossed it on the desk. She shook one out and lit it. It wasn’t her brand, and the smoke was harsh against her dry throat. She coughed. Well, Daniel, what do you think? Presumptuous of me to assume I could handle your job, and serves me right?
Dayton raised his cup and eyed her over the rim. “How did you know Miss Guthman had been strangled?”
“What?”
“You told Riley she was strangled. How’d you know?”
“I saw her. I lifted the bedspread and there she was with the scarf around her throat and her face blue. Strangled is strangled, Captain, whether it’s my area or around here.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm and she regretted it immediately. His expression told her if she worked for him she’d be back on patrol in a minute. Reardon would have reacted the same, if she were lucky.
“You entered the room shortly after five. Riley got there at five-ten. You were in there with the body for about ten minutes. What did you do?”
“I didn’t know the body was there. I went in and I looked around. I only found her just when Riley
got there.”
“You searched the room.”
She hesitated, nodded.
“Find anything?”
“No, sir.”
“Destroy anything?”
“No, sir. How long has she been dead?”
Silence. Then he said, “A while. We won’t know until after the autopsy. Probably dead somewhere around twelve to sixteen hours.”
Lucille had been killed then, Susan thought, Wednesday night or early this morning.
“You ought to be charged,” he said.
“With what?”
Shark’s smile. “How about impersonating a police officer?”
Ha ha. “How did you know I was in there?”
“The maid. Who got to worrying about her job. Who told the receptionist, who told the manager, who called us.”
He stared at her, black eyes pinning her stiffly to the chair. “There are a number of legal possibilities here,” he said. “Like accessory after the fact. Obstructing—”
“I’m not an accessory to anything. I’ve obstructed nothing. Are you going to charge me?”
He grunted and shoved the phone toward her. She raised an eyebrow.
“Get somebody down here with proper credentials to vouch for you.”
She picked up the receiver and punched a number. Parkhurst answered. Damn, damn. She’d hoped for George.
“This is Susan,” she said crisply and explained where she was. “I’d appreciate it if you’d come here.”
When she hung up she said to Dayton, “A man named Parkhurst will be here as soon as he can. He will tell you I am who I am.”
“Ben Parkhurst?”
“You know him?”
Dayton gave a bark of laughter. “I’ve worked with him.”
Bloody hell, of course he had. She might have known.
Again, Dayton left her alone in his office. The same officer brought her more coffee and her own brand of cigarettes. She asked him if he could find her some Kleenex and he brought those too. It was almost nine when Dayton returned; Parkhurst, darkly angry, was with him. She stood up. Parkhurst, dressed in black pants, gray sweater and a black jacket with the collar turned up, looked at her with a hard, flat expression. Dayton’s fleshy face held an expression of amused malice; he had, no doubt, been enjoying jokes at Parkhurst’s expense.
The Winter Widow Page 12
