by Bartlett, LL
"It was disbelief, more than anything else. The woman I married was not the same woman they found dead in a bathroom at Grand Central Station.”
"What did that sweet old woman do to make someone—" She stopped, no doubt remembering what I'd told her, her own anger toward Eileen, and how the woman had treated the other guests the night before. "Did you tell the police what you know?" Maggie asked.
"They'll do a background check. Maybe her friends can tell them who her lover was."
"So you won't?"
"I don't know who it is."
Maggie looked worried. "You knew this was going to happen, didn't you?"
"I felt something was going to happen—that someone was going to die. I didn't know it would be murder. Now I feel foolish asking Richard to come all the way up here."
"What will you tell him when he gets here tonight?"
"I don't know." The truth was, I didn't want to think about it. "Come on, let's go downstairs and finish the photography. Then we can relax. Besides, it'll keep our minds off of all this other stuff."
The setup went much slower, probably because it had become a chore instead of a lark. Eileen's death had cast a pall over the inn. Most of the guests had gotten in their cars and taken off; those who didn't went to hide in their rooms. Zack and Susan seemed to be in seclusion as well, and, after what transpired the night before, I didn't care if I saw any of them ever again.
The work dragged. Once, while Maggie rearranged the props, I looked out the window and saw a couple of cops walking the grounds, presumably looking for evidence. It made me uneasy.
I found it hard to concentrate, constantly rehashing the conflicting emotions and events I'd experienced since arriving at the inn. At least two—possibly three—people might've had reasons to murder the woman: Eileen's lover, the lover's wife, or maybe Eileen had been blackmailing Laura Ross and she had done the evil deed. Eileen seemed to have intimate knowledge of her past or present. And what did any of that have to do with that empty stretch of road and Colorado?
We took a mid-afternoon break. I was hungry and had the beginnings of one of my bad headaches. Despite the disruption in routine, the glass jar by the coffee maker had been refilled with fresh-baked cookies. Maggie and I were the only ones around to enjoy them. I took my medication and crossed my fingers, hoping to counteract the worst of the pain in my skull.
The empty dining room echoed like a cavern, reinforcing my feeling of isolation. Maggie stared morosely into her decaf. "I want to go home.”
I reached over and touched her hand. "It's not fun anymore, is it?" She shook her head. "What about the article?"
"I haven't even started it. Right now I just don't care."
"Maybe later you should sit down and write some really great fiction about this place. Pretend we were guests and had a wonderful time."
"It would take a Pulitzer prize winner for that," she scoffed.
"It'll get your mind off things. Think of it as a stepping-stone. This article could lead to something better. We can turn this negative experience into a positive one." God, I felt like a cheerleader, and a hypocritical one at that.
Maggie braved a smile. "Okay. I'll start after we finish in the living room."
We drank our coffee and swiped another couple of cookies for later, then went back to the room and trekked all the gear down the stairs for what I hoped would be the last time. My back, already sore from that uncomfortable bed, was starting to feel the strain.
I set up all my gear in the living room/lobby and, as I'd anticipated, Maggie got lost in the work. She suggested we start a fire in the fireplace to make the room seem cozier. Susan agreed and sent Adam to bring in wood.
About the same time, a battered Chevy van pulled up outside and a petite young woman got out. Dressed in jeans, sneakers and a baggy gray jacket, she had short-cropped hair, and silver-framed glasses.
"Ashley Samuels," she said, flashing her identification card. "I'm with the Burlington Free Press."
Susan looked wary. "Susan Dawson. I own the Sugar Maple."
"Can someone tell me about the murder last night—"
"Accident," Susan nearly shouted.
"Sorry. I got the impression she was—"
"You got the wrong impression," Susan corrected her.
The reporter consulted her notes. "A Jeffrey R. Resnick and an Adam T. Henderson found the body in the hot tub."
"I'm Jeff Resnick."
She reporter gave me a quick once over. "Do you mind answering some questions?"
Susan glared daggers at me, and Maggie's expression said don't rock the boat.
"I ... heard a noise. On my way to investigate, I ran into Adam. We went out back and found Ms. Marshall."
The reporter glanced at her notes. "Eileen Jane Marshall? Was she another guest?"
"That's right."
"The cops said she was probably drunk.”
I nodded.
Ashley took in the photographic equipment. "Doing a layout or something?"
"We hope to," Maggie answered.
Adam came in with an armload of wood, and I introduced him. Ashley asked him the same questions. He shot a look at Susan, as though looking for her permission before he, too, answered. She grudgingly nodded and he corroborated my story.
Ashley closed her notebook, stowing it in her large purse. "Do you mind if I have a look at the crime scene?"
"Accident," Susan reiterated. She forced a smile. "I'll show you."
While Susan tended to the public relations dilemma, Adam finished making the fire. "Let me know if you want more wood," he said, and took off.
The cheerful blaze quickly raised the temperature to an unbearable level, despite the fact we'd opened every window. I readjusted the lights, sweating freely by the time I started snapping photos.
I glanced out the window and saw Susan walk the reporter back to her van. Silently fuming, she watched until the van was well down the road before she returned to the inn and headed for her office without saying a word to us.
By then I wasn't feeling overly ambitious. I was almost finished snapping shots when we heard another car pull up the gravel drive outside. I motioned to Maggie and we glanced out the window.
A big, old, white Buick Roadmaster station wagon rolled to a stop. The driver's door opened and my half-brother Richard stepped out, making a visual recon of the inn. Dressed in light colored slacks and a white golf shirt with green piping, he looked like a typical, well-heeled vacationer. Older than me by twelve years, and taller by about six inches, his presence radiated trust—something even I'm not immune to.
Maggie's suggestion that I was too dependent on my brother was right on the money. But that's what families are for—at least Richard thought so. And he'd been right about one thing; a burden was a lot easier to shoulder when you had family to depend on. Since we hadn't been close for many years, it now felt good to count on him as my best friend.
Richard opened the screen door and entered the living room. "Good afternoon. I'm looking for a place to stay and hoped there might be a room available."
I struggled to keep a straight face. "If you ring the bell on the office door over there, I'm sure someone will be along in a moment to help you, sir."
"Thank you."
He passed by me, giving the photographic equipment a quick once over. Since he'd loaned me the money to rent it, I figured he was probably just checking up on his investment.
Richard rang the bell and in moments Susan opened the Dutch door. "Can I help you?"
"I'm looking for a place to stay. Do you have a room?"
"As a matter of fact, one of our guests checked out suddenly this morning," she said. That was putting it mildly. "It's our deluxe suite. There're two double beds. The cost is $425 a night. A full breakfast is included in the price. It's available for two nights."
"I'm not sure how long I'll be staying. At least until Monday morning."
"That will be fine," she said. "I'm afraid we're a little short-h
anded this afternoon. Can you wait half an hour?"
"That's fine," he said.
"Your name, sir?"
"Alpert. Dr. Richard Alpert.”
I had to jab Maggie in the ribs to stop her from giggling. Susan introduced herself as the owner, and Richard signed all the necessary paperwork, letting her swipe his American Express card through a scanner.
"Let me give you a tour of the premises," Susan said.
"I'd be glad to give the doctor the tour if you want to get his room ready," Maggie volunteered.
Susan smiled sweetly. I'm sure she would've preferred Maggie get the room ready. "Thank you. Dr. Alpert, this is Maggie Brennan. She's writing an article about the inn and is knowledgeable about all our amenities."
Richard turned to Maggie, smiling broadly. "I'm sure I'll be in good hands."
Susan nodded and disappeared around the corner before Maggie lost it entirely.
"Having fun?" Richard asked.
Maggie's smile quickly faded. "No." She looked to me to explain.
"You got the room because the woman who was in it was murdered sometime last night."
"Oh, great." He gazed at us, suddenly looking very tired. "Just what have you gotten me into?"
Chapter 8
We planned to meet later at a restaurant, where we could talk in relative privacy. Maggie and I finished taking the pictures, packed the equipment and changed before heading out. We left first, hoping none of the other guests would frequent the same eatery.
I still got that anxious feeling when we passed that bend in the road. I thought once Richard arrived it wouldn't bother me so much. Instead, the urgency seemed to have intensified. I tried to ignore it.
We arrived at The Ranch House, snagged a table and ordered drinks while we waited for Richard. Preoccupied with trying to puzzle out my emotional response to that empty stretch of highway, I was not good company. Maggie looked relieved when my brother strolled in ten minutes later, and we ordered a second round of drinks.
"How was the nap?" Maggie asked.
"That bed is almost as comfortable as my own at home."
"Lucky you," I said. "I swear we're sleeping on planks."
The drinks came in record time and we asked the waitress to give us a few more minutes before we ordered.
"Did you have a hard time getting here?" I asked Richard.
He took a sip of his Manhattan to fortify himself. "Last night, after we talked, I called the airline and booked myself on an eight o'clock flight to Albany. Then I tried to charter a flight to Stowe. But you can't fly directly to Stowe, you have to go to Morristown. Only I couldn't get a car there, so the rental people got on the computer and found one in Rutland, meaning I had to change the charter.
"Now I'm not usually a nervous flyer, but that Cessna vibrated like it was about to fall apart. After I got to Rutland, the rental car I was supposed to pick up had been given to someone else. I had to wait two hours for them to dig up the old station wagon. Then it took another two hours to drive here." He sighed. "It's been a very long day."
"A real comedy of errors, huh?" I said, trying not to smile while imagining all six two of Richard squashed into a miniature plane. His expression was grim, but telltale amusement lit his eyes.
The waitress returned and we had to figure out what we wanted. After she'd gone, Richard said, "So tell me everything that's happened and what I'm doing here."
I gave him my impressions of the people we'd met, even the things I'd kept from Maggie, figuring they both had a right to know just as much as I did.
While I spoke, Richard jotted the names of the players on his cocktail napkin. He underlined one of them. "Do you suspect Laura?"
"She qualifies. I can only guess the depth of her anger or embarrassment. I've got a feeling that whatever Eileen knew about her might have something to do with her little paramour. But Eileen also insulted Kay Andolina, although I missed whatever it was she said. Because of that, she argued with Susan Dawson. Susan was seething, but I got the feeling her anger was deeper than this one incident warranted. She ordered Eileen to leave in the morning, which didn't go down well."
"This is all very convoluted," Richard said, consulting his notes.
"Don't forget the bend in the road," Maggie said.
I told Richard about those disquieting feelings I got.
"You said someone hit Eileen. Could they have ditched the standard blunt object in the field by the road?" he asked.
I thought about it. "Maybe. It might not hurt to look."
Richard drained his glass. "Then what?"
"We wait to see what the police come up with."
"And what part am I supposed to play in all this?"
"I'm not sure," I admitted.
He shrugged. "Then I guess I'll just hang around and see what happens. Too bad I don't have any company."
"You ever shoot pool?" I asked.
"Not since college."
"Maybe we can play a few games when we get back. Maggie hasn't got a clue."
"Hey," she protested.
I winked at her, but spoke to Richard. "Or maybe you could mingle with the other guests. We seem to be at a disadvantage, being hired help and all."
"Some of the guests are a little ...." Maggie's words trailed off.
"Rude," I finished for her. "But you've got the right clothes and a lot more polish than me. They'll probably accept you right off."
"Snobs, eh?"
Maggie nodded ruefully.
The waitress arrived with a tray laden with food and that was the end of our murder discussion. We reverted to tourists, comfortable in each other's company and enjoyed the good meal.
Maggie and I arrived back at the inn about nine. We agreed Richard should show up later, and since he'd forgotten his shaving cream, he asked directions to a store.
A patrol car and the two plainclothes detectives were waiting for us when we pulled up at the inn. My stomach tightened as I parked, then got out of the car. Sgt. Beach approached.
"Mr. Resnick, Mrs. Dawson says you have pictures taken in the victim's room yesterday."
"That's right."
"We'd like a look at them."
"How can that possibly help? All Eileen’s stuff was jammed in the closet. There was nothing that belonged to her in any of the shots, and we rearranged the furniture and the objects in the room and brought in more from the common areas."
"May we please have the pictures?"
"They’re on a memory card. Will I get it back?"
"The pictures, please."
He wasn't about to negotiate. He didn't have a warrant, or he'd have already confiscated the camera. It would probably be better to give it up voluntarily than draw unwanted attention. "It's in the camera bag, up in my room."
"We'd be happy to accompany you to get it."
They weren't going to take any chances that I'd destroy it. But why? What did they think it contained?
I shrugged. "Suit yourself."
"Should I come?" Maggie asked.
"The room isn't big enough to hold four people. I'll meet you in the barroom in a few minutes. Come on," I told the cops, who dutifully followed me inside the inn and up the stairs.
My camera bag was exactly where I'd left it on top of one of the equipment trunks. I fumbled with the side of the camera and extracted the memory card. "Can you at least let me know how they come out?"
Beach took the card without a word and turned to leave.
"Uh, a receipt please."
Beach came up with a notebook and glowered as he scribbled a receipt, thrust it at me, and left the room.
I watched from the window as the two detectives got into their car and drove off. Something didn't feel right about them taking the memory card, but then nothing felt right since the moment we'd arrived.
Maggie's writing tablet sat on her suitcase and I decided to take it to her. Working on her article might distract her. I found her in the barroom, sitting on the loveseat, flipping through an old d
ecorating magazine.
"Doing research?"
"Why not? I'm in desperate need of inspiration."
"Here." I handed her the tablet. "Mind if I shoot some balls?"
She wrinkled her nose. "That sounds so risqué.”
"Only if you have a dirty mind." I bent down, kissed her, and then headed for the game room.
The Canadian couple was already there, occupying another loveseat. A bottle of wine and a couple of half-full glasses sat on the coffee table in front of them. I nodded a hello and the man gave a brief wave while the woman smiled shyly, her eyes shadowed with worry.
I racked up the balls and started sinking shots.
I missed playing pool. When I'd been unemployed the year before, I found it a good way to pick up a few extra bucks. I racked up for another game, and it wasn't long before I was engrossed. Then I practiced trick shots. If only my high school geometry teacher had used a pool table as a visual aide, he might've had a class of Einsteins instead of bored-to-death teenagers.
While I amused myself, Richard ambled into the room, walking straight past me and heading for the bookshelves on the far side. He scanned the titles for a moment. The Canadian couple looked up and he smiled at the woman, who was paging through a magazine, its cover printed in French.
"Québécois?" Richard asked.
She looked at him over the top of her magazine. "Oui.”
Then Richard launched into a flood of French and the woman visibly brightened. Moments later, the couple invited him to join them and they sat together in animated conversation.
I didn't even know my brother spoke French. But the fact that he did might be to my advantage; maybe he could worm some information out of the couple. Not that I thought they knew anything about Eileen's death, but they'd been here at least a day before us and might've seen something that could prove useful.
There I was, making this situation into a case. Why is it so hard for me to keep my nose out of things that really don't concern me? As soon as the police cleared me, we could leave. But even though we'd finished the photography, some part of me didn't want to go, not without knowing the truth about what happened to dear old Eileen. And I knew my funny feelings about her death would continue whether I stayed in Vermont or went home.
