Murder at the Lone Peak

by Kendall Scott

  “OK, hand me the phone,” Constance said matter-of-factly. “I know your home number by heart. I assume your mother is in —”

  “No!” he yelped, reaching for the phone that sat on his desk. Constance hadn’t so much as made a move for it, but the very idea of her calling his mother seemed to have struck fear into the poor lad. “OK, OK,” he relented. “You can duck on in – but only for a minute.”

  “Thank you, so much, Stanley,” Constance cooed, back to her former self. She blinked again, and smiled a radiant, heartwarming smile. She was the epitome of grateful.

  “But I gotta warn ya,” he continued. “Henry is on duty back there too. He’s above me and I can’t order him to stand aside. He might not let ya in.”

  “Let us worry about Henry Pike,” Constance said simply. And just like that, the two ladies stepped around the reception desk, took a hard right and made their way into the bowels of the police station.

  “Well that was rather brilliant,” Eleanor chuckled as she followed Constance toward the holding cells.

  “It was,” Constance agreed. “I’m hoping that you can demonstrate the same level of brilliance?”

  “Puh-lease,” Eleanor said with confidence. “What you just did won’t even hold a candle to the performance I’m about to put on.”

  Constance smirked, knowing it to be the truth.

  The second obstacle that the two ladies were forced to overcome if they wished to speak to Eustace came in the form of Henry Pike. He was on guard duty for the fourth night in a row, he hated it and he was certainly looking for a distraction.

  “Hey there,” Eleanor purred as the two ladies rounded the corner and spotted Henry leaning against the door that led back to the holding area. With a night-stick dangling in his hands and his eyes half closed, he could not have looked more bored.

  This all changed the moment he spotted Eleanor strolling toward him. In the space of half a second, he was standing erect, his night-stick held firm in his grip and his eyes wide open… and his expression hungry.

  “Hello,” he said stupidly. Although for that Constance was able to forgive him. Not only had he been caught off guard by the sudden appearance of Eleanor, but the way she was dressed would humble even the most confident of men.

  Her boots were black leather that stopped at the knees. Above this ran black fish-net stockings that stopped at the very short, leather skirt she was wearing. From there it was a corset – worn extra tight so as to put as much cleavage on display as possible – and then a bare neck and extra lipstick on her plump lips. Her hair was done in its usual, over-the-top bouncy manner. But men rarely had eyes for hair when so much skin was showing.

  “Don’t break my heart and tell me you don’t remember me,” Eleanor continued as she reached Henry. “Because I sure remember you. One doesn’t forget a specimen like you.”

  “Ahhhh,” he ogled.

  As this was happening, Constance took a step back, pressing herself against the wall as if she weren’t there at all. Not that it would have mattered. She was sure she could have walked up and slapped Henry in the face and he wouldn’t have noticed her.

  “The Lone Peak. We had a long conversation.” As instructed, when Eleanor reached Henry, she leaned against the wall to face him, making sure that the young police officer had to turn away from the door if he wished to engage with her. He did.

  “I remember,” he said quickly. “How could I forget?” A surge of confidence and Henry too leaned on the wall, positioning his hand above his head as if he were leaning over Eleanor.

  “Good boy,” she giggled. She reached up and stroked him under the chin. “Say, that’s quite the stick you have there.”

  “Uh….”

  “Is that not what it’s called? A stick?” The word dripped off her tongue like honey.

  Constance rolled her eyes as she sneaked toward the door. Although again, the act of sneaking was pointless. She could have ridden a tank toward it and Henry would not have noticed.

  “My night stick?” Henry asked stupidly. He gripped it firmly, holding it up for Eleanor to look at.

  “A night stick?” she said the words as if they were alien to her. “Oooooo,” she stroked the stick and Constance could literally see Henry shaking.

  When Constance reached the door that led into the holding cells, she very carefully turned the handle and inched it open so that Henry wouldn’t hear or notice. Although again, she could have used a battering ram to knock the thing from its hinges and Henry wouldn’t have so much as turned around, unless he was doing so to scold her for distracting him.

  She slipped into the room with the holding cells and gently closed the door behind her. She was in.

  Alone, Constance breathed a sigh of relief as she took the room in. The room was a narrow hallway with four big green, metal doors – two on either side – and a very small window at the end. Th doors were solid and opaque, with a little slot in the middle just big enough to pass a tray of food through. It was a depressing a place as Constance had ever been and for a moment, she felt bad for Eustace.

  “Eustace,” she hissed as she stepped into the small hallway. “Eustace!”

  “Who’s that?” she heard the very familiar voice inquire from the back cell on the right.

  She hurried to the cell, crouching down and looking through the slot when she reached it. Sure enough, on the other side she could make out the short, fat figure that was Eustace Burrow. Even in the darkness he looked grotesque, like an overweight rat that was having a bad day… even for rat standards.

  “It’s me,” Constance whispered through the slot. “Constance.”

  “Aberfield?” He sounded confused, which only made sense as surely she was the last person he expected to pay him a visit.

  “The very one,” she confirmed.

  “What?” he was lying on what looked to be a hard bench, curled up with no blanket to speak of. “Come to gloat? Come to rub it in poor Eustace Burrow’s face? How very noble of you.”

  “Oh quit complaining,” she snapped before she could stop herself. She grabbed at her mouth and cursed silently. “Sorry.”

  “For what? Treating me with less respect than the dirt beneath your shoes? Like the rats you chase from your kitchens – and don’t deny you have them. I seen them with my own eyes I have… where was I?”

  Constance rolled her eyes. She knew this shtick all too well. “Like the rats —”

  “Like the rats you chase from your kitchens,” he picked up. “Like the slime in your sewage. That’s why you’re here. To pick on little old Eustace Burrow, as always. The great Constance Aberfield, owner of the successful -”

  “Oh will you shut your trap,” she snapped. Eustace loved to play the victim and where she was usually only too happy to be the ‘villain’ of his drama, tonight she didn’t have the time. “I came here to ask you something and it would really save us both a lot of trouble if you would just answer.”

  “Ask me?” he sounded confused. “Let me guess, you want the lease to The Loner once they tie the noose around my head. Well I didn’t do it, I tell you! I’m innocent!”

  “I know!” she hissed. She looked over her shoulder, sure that Henry was going to come charging in to see what the noise was. He didn’t. “I believe you. Now will you please keep it down.”

  “You do?” Even more confused now, as if he knew he was being led into a trap but couldn’t figure it out. He wasn't very bright, so no doubt he thought this to be the case.

  “I do,” Constance assured him. “That’s why I’m here. I want to help.”

  Still shrouded in darkness, Constance watched as Eustace pushed himself up off the bench and shuffled toward the slot in the door. Reaching it, he crouched down and shoved his oily face in front of the hole. “Why would you want to help me?”

  His breath stunk, and Constance had to work to keep herself from telling him so... and openly gagging. “I don’t like you, Eustace. And you don’t like me —”

  “You d
on’t like me?” he gasped.

  “Oh, will you knock it off,” she snapped. “I may not like you, but I know you’re not a murderer. And believe it or not, I don’t much like the idea of innocent men going to jail.”

  “Well tell it to Sheriff Nevil. He’s the one that locked me up.”

  “I did tell him. And I don’t think he thinks you did it either. What he wants is —”

  “Then why am I in here —”

  “Will you just listen?” She paused, waiting for him to respond. When he didn’t, she continued. “Look, I came here tonight because I want to help. The Lone Peak is in trouble too and until this murder is solved, both of our businesses are in danger of going under.”

  “Ok...”

  “Now, I know that Mr. Christie and Mr. Tibbs were in your bar that night. And I know that they were arguing about something. The only thing I don’t know is what it was about.”

  “Mr. Who and Mr. Who?” he pressed his face right up into the hole and Constance nearly gagged from the smell.

  Constance rolled her eyes. “The man who was murdered and… and the one in the shabby clothes. They had a drink together.”

  “Right,” Eustace nodded along. “Sherry, warm and whiskey neat.”

  Now it was Constance’s turn to be confused. “What?”

  “Their drinks. That’s how I remember people. Odd drink that, the sherry. Never met a man who drank it before. Was surprised I had a bottle, truth be —”

  “Eustace!” she snapped.

  “Right, sorry” he said quickly. “Look, I wish I could help ya. Obviously I do. But I can’t. Yes, the two men were arguing, but I don’t know what they were saying. I told all this to Nevil too. He can confirm it.”

  Constance cursed under her breath. “Nothing at all? You can’t… I don’t know, guess the tone of the argument? Was one angry and the other upset? Was only one yelling, or both? Anything —”

  “Oh!” he suddenly exclaimed. “Now that you mention it, Sherry was the one doin’ the yelling. He seemed angry at Whiskey neat and Whiskey neat was doin’ all he could to calm him down. But again, I don’t know what over.”

  “Which is which?”

  “Sherry was he that gone and died.”

  “Right...” Constance said absentmindedly as she tried to process this fresh slew of information and what it might mean.

  Unfortunately, it didn’t really bring much more to the table. Instead it only worked to confirm what Constance already knew. Mr. Christie and Mr. Tibbs knew one another, they got into an argument at the bar – one instigated by Mr. Christie – and shortly after, Mr. Christie wound up dead.

  It was a pretty thin piece of evidence, as far as evidence went. The only thing this tidbit of information did was confirm that Mr. Tibbs had something to do with the murder. He either committed it himself, or had a hand in its execution. But again, without a clear motive, all Constance had was theories with no link. She needed the link.

  Following her questioning of Eustace, Constance fled from the police office at pace. On the way out, she grabbed Eleanor by the back of her corset – she was engaged in a very vigorous tonsil hockey session with Henry Pike and needed to be surgically removed with force – and dragged her from the station. She gave Stanley Small a thank you wave on the way out too, sure that she would be needing his help again before this was through.

  With what she had learned tonight, or at least what had been confirmed, Constance knew that she had just the one option left to her. It was one that would almost guarantee an answer to the question of motive, but it was also highly dangerous.

  Unfortunately, she no longer had a choice.

  Chapter Twelve

  Constance hovered by the entrance to the restaurant of her hotel. She had no intention of going into the restaurant, she just wanted to stand near enough so that she could hear what was happening inside. And as she hovered, and as she listened, she couldn’t help but smile at what was taking place.

  It was 7:30 in the morning, breakfast. As the hotel was near empty, she didn’t bother asking Gustavo to create a buffet or variety as was usually the case at The Lone Peak. Instead breakfast was made to order, and at this particular time it was Mr. Tibbs doing the ordering.

  Mr. Tibbs was the only one in the restaurant too, which made the process of listening to the ordeal he was going through in trying to order that much easier. You see, where Gustavo usually acted as the waiter on these quieter mornings, today Sydney was put in charge.

  “And when you say you want your eggs sunny side up?” Sydney asked seriously, yet stupidly, for the third time. “That means you want the yolk gooey?”

  “That’s not what it means at all,” Mr. Tibbs responded, his anger more than apparent. “It means that I want the egg fried on the one side only. The gooeyness in the middle is merely a result of this process.”

  “What if the chef flips it, but still keeps it gooey? Is that fine?”

  Constance couldn’t help but chuckle to herself. Although she wasn’t watching what was happening – too afraid of being seen – she could imagine Mr. Tibbs shaking on the spot and face reddening as his rage reached a boiling point. She’d feel bad for him too if it weren’t for the fact that he was a murderer.

  Oh yes, he was almost certainly the murderer, or at the very least helped execute the murder. But she still needed proof. This proof lay in his motive and this motive, she was certain, would be found in his room. She just had to go looking.

  “Can I speak to the chef?” Mr. Tibbs asked. His voice was on edge.

  “Probably?” Sydney mused. “I mean, he isn’t deaf. I’m sure if you spoke to him, he’d hear you.”

  “That’s not what I….”

  Constance needed to be certain that Mr. Tibbs wasn’t going to go walking into his room when she was on her knees with her head under his bed. When she saw him making his way to the restaurant for breakfast, she figured that to be the perfect opportunity. But at the same time… it might not be enough. With the restaurant as empty as it was, Mr. Tibbs would probably get his food within minutes of ordering. If he was a fast eater, she might only have minutes to search. She needed more time.

  And then in came Sydney. Constance didn’t even ask Sydney to waitress. The dimwitted receptionist had asked her, citing a need to spread her wings and try out her skills in different areas of the hotel. Although Constance knew for a fact that Sydney would make an awful waitress, she couldn’t think of a better time to give the young woman a chance.

  “OK,” she heard Sydney agree. “I’ll go and fetch the chef. But he’ll tell you the same thing. A sunny side egg can be flipped and still gooey.”

  “That’s why I said sunny side up!”

  Constance shook her head and chuckled. She could have remained there all day and listened, but as she heard Sydney disappear out the back to get Gustavo, she knew that it was now or never. As such, she hurried from the kitchen, up the stairs and ducked into Mr. Tibbs’ room without delay.

  As it was morning, and the room’s only window was wide open, the room was well lit. Constance smiled to herself at this fact, glad that she wasn’t going to be snooping around with a flashlight like before. For some reason it just seemed less wholesome that way.

  The first place that Constance checked were the cupboards. She threw them open, her excitement fading the moment that she saw them to be empty. There wasn’t so much as a single item of clothing hanging inside. There were the coat-hangers that came with the room, and that was it.

  No matter, she next made her way into the bathroom, for no reason other than to get it out of the way. The bathroom was equally as empty, looking as if it hadn’t been used since Mr. Tibbs moved in. As gross as that was, it also made the bathroom a dead end.

  In fact, as Constance exited the bathroom and looked around, she had to double take to make sure that she was in the correct room. Although there was no doubt that she was, the room was so bare that one would guess it to have not been used in days. From the perfectly ma
de bed to the lack of… well anything, lying around. The place was empty.

  Thinking on this, she realized that Mr. Tibbs had worn the same suit every day that she had seen him. She hadn’t exactly taken note earlier, but now that she was presented with the possibility, it seemed only too obvious. But Mr. Tibbs definitely had a briefcase with him when he checked in, of that Constance had no doubt. All she need do was find it.

  She dropped to her knees and looked under the bed and near giggled with delight at the sight of the suitcase pushed against the back wall. No doubt Mr. Tibbs was trying to hide it, but given the few options the room presented, he went with that rather poor hiding space.

  She fell to her stomach and reached out for the case, gripping it by the handle and sliding it toward her. Like everything else that Mr. Tibbs seemed to own, the case was shabby and broken; scuffed on every corner, peeling in every way and looking like it was a day or two short of retirement.

  Rather pleased with herself, Constance didn’t even notice the lock on the front of the case until she went to open it. When the case didn’t open, and she saw said lock, she cursed under her breath. She then looked to the closed door, and then back to the case. This was her only chance… and her last chance. As such she chose to do something rather unethical – even more unethical than breaking into Mr. Tibbs room. She picked the suitcase up, carried it to the bedside table and smashed the lock open on the corner of said table.

  “Woops,” she said softly as the case popped open.

  Her ‘distress’ was gone as quick as it had come. With the case open, and her heart racing, she fell back to her knees and placed the case in front of her, wondering what she was going to find.

  Papers. Stacks and stacks of legal papers. Constance knew next to nothing about legal papers, and although they all looked like business documents of some kind, what they had to do with anything she didn't know. So, she set about wading through them, skimming them the best she could. There were hundreds of them, neatly piled and in some sort of order. But again, she was at a loss to figure out what it meant.