by L C Hayden
Trent pivoted and headed toward Bronson. As he walked past the detective he said, “Need to talk to you. Meet me at the bar in ten minutes.”
Bronson barely nodded an acknowledgment and kept on walking.
Trent continued to head toward the bathroom. A few minutes later, he returned to the bar.
He found his drink waiting for him, but “Norman Childes” was gone. Trent scanned the room but didn’t see him. Might as well. He really didn’t want to talk to him.
Trent reached for his drink while he waited for Bronson to join him.
Chapter Twenty-three
Bronson joined the group of women who chatted with Carol. The only one Bronson recognized was the author, Gay Kinman. He nodded a “hi” and put his arm around Carol. “Ladies, would you mind if I claim my wife back?”
Murmurs of “no’s” and “of course not’s” rang out.
“Good. In that case, say good night to these ladies.”
Carol smiled and leaned her head on her husband’s shoulder. “Sounds like I have a heavy date.” She moved her eyebrows up-and-down.
The ladies laughed.
“Talk to you all later,” Carol said.
Not if I can help it. Bronson led her away from the group. “What are you thinkin’? Thought I told you these people were dangerous.”
“Oh silly. Look at that bunch. They’re not very threatening.”
Bronson turned to look at the group of women. He had to agree. The bunch of gray-haired women certainly didn’t look dangerous. But one thing he had learned in this business, you never know. “Still.” He flashed her a warning look.
“Let me tell you why I wanted to talk to them. I thought maybe I could find something that could help you.”
Pride flowed through Bronson’s veins, but he kept his facial features straight so as not to reveal his emotions. Last thing he needed to do was encourage her.
They reached the elevators and Bronson pressed the button. “So did you?”
“Not that I know of, but of course, I wouldn’t know if I did or not because you haven’t leveled with me, now, have you?”
Bronson closed his eyes and shook his head.
“Hey, at least I tried.” Carol waited until her husband stepped inside the elevator. She pushed the button for the third floor. “I’m new at this detective thing. You’re going to have to train me.”
Bronson felt the blood leave his face. He probably looked whiter than the doughboy being dipped in flour. “Wh—wha—what. . .” Had he forgotten how to speak? He cleared his throat. “What did you say?”
Carol kissed his cheek. “Oh, you know the old adage. If you can’t beat them, join them. I’m going to become your partner.”
Oh, heaven forbid. Over my dead body. No, never. “We’ll discuss it when I get back.”
Carol’s eyes popped open like two huge, brown buttons. “Where are you going?” She stepped out of the elevator and headed toward their room.
“I told Trent I’d meet him back at the bar. He apparently had something very important to tell me.”
“Then I’ll go with you.” She turned back, heading toward the elevators.
“No!” Bronson grabbed her arm and led her back to their motel room. He wasted no time opening the door. “I promise that as soon as I get back, I’ll level with you. In the meantime, I don’t want to be worried about you. Promise me you’ll stay here."
Carol pouted.
“You look so darn sexy when you do that. I have half-a-mind not to go back downstairs.”
Carol brightened.
“But I don’t have a choice.” He kissed her and walked away. “Stay here.” He closed the door behind him before Carol could protest. He prayed to God she would stay.
Chapter Twenty-four
As soon as the elevator doors opened, the shouts reached Bronson’s ears. He stepped out of the elevator and noticed that a group of people had gathered to watch a shouting match. As he headed toward the commotion, he heard two ladies talking. “That’s disgusting,” one said to the other. “Two teenagers fighting and everyone gathers around them to watch. People are so disgusting. All they’re doing is egging them on.”
“You’re so right. Downright disgusting.”
They headed toward the elevators.
Bronson considered approaching the youths when he spotted the four hotel employees rushing toward the disturbance. Good, he wouldn’t have to get involved unless it became absolutely necessary. Bronson heard the manager order the feuding teens to stop. “I’ve already called the police.” His voice rang every bit as loud as the angry youths’ voices had been.
“Shit,” said one of them, and ran out. The other teen hesitated for a second before dashing out. Bronson caught a fleeting glance of their backs.
The manager breathed heavily through his mouth. He formed a smile that looked more forced than friendly. “I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen, that you had to witness this unfortunate scene in my peaceful inn. Please rest assured that nothing like this has ever happened before, nor will it—”
A piercing wail interrupted him.
Everyone’s attention turned toward the source of the scream. One of the contestants, an elderly, white-haired lady, stood visibly shaking. Close to her, a body lay on the floor.
The manager and his employees froze. The crowd drew in their breaths, a mixture of fright, repulsion, and morbid fascination registered on their faces.
Bronson rushed to the victim’s side. He felt his stomach tighten into a gripping, groaning knot as he took in the scene before him. Trent Powers lay dead by the bar, his spilled drink a puddle at his side. Had Bronson gotten here a minute earlier, he might have been able to save Trent.
Bronson pulled out a chair and helped the badly shaking lady sit. He then squatted and recognized the distinct odor of almonds. The foam in the victim’s mouth confirmed Bronson’s suspicion. Trent had been poisoned. Someone had slipped potassium cyanide into his drink.
Bronson stood and looked at the manager. “Did you really call the police?”
The slightly plump man stood with wide-open eyes. His complexion matched the color of a milk shake.
“Have you called the police?” Bronson repeated.
“Uh. . .I. . .” He shook his head.
“Call them now.”
The manager nodded but continued to stare at the body. His hand flew up to cover his mouth.
Bronson turned to the hotel employee who stood next to the manager. Luckily, the assistant seemed to have better control of his emotions. “You.” Bronson pointed at him. “Call nine-one-one and tell them to contact E.M.S.”
“Right.” He looked pleased that Bronson had chosen him to help. He started to turn, but then stopped. “Nine-one-one and who else?”
“The Emergency Medical Service.”
“Got you.” He ran and the crowd made space for him.
Bronson raised his arms and gently waved them. The murmur died down. “Ladies and gentlemen, I realize this is a gruesome sight, and you’d rather go back to the safety of your rooms. I don’t blame you, but I am goin’ to ask you to do somethin’ you won’t like. I would like for each of you to stay here. The police will want to talk to you.”
A waiter approached, carrying an empty round tray. He reached for the discarded glasses on the bar.
Bronson abruptly turned toward him. “Stop! Don’t you dare touch anythin’.”
“But it’s just the empty glasses,” the waiter protested.
Bronson pointed his forefinger at the waiter and growled, “Don’t touch.”
The waiter walked away.
Bronson pointed to the hotel staff who had gathered in a cluster and had anxiety written all over their faces. “Make sure no one leaves and that includes the hotel staff.” He placed chairs in a wide arc around the body in order to protect the crime scene from possible contamination. “Did anyone see anyone leave?”
No one answered, not that Bronson had expected anyone to. They all had been too busy
watching the fight. Whoever had done this had created the ideal distraction. “Can anyone here identify the two young boys who were fightin’?”
People looked at one another. Most shook their heads.
Bronson wished he had been able to see them, but by the time he had reached a visible position, all he saw was the blur of the youths’ backs. He looked up to see if he could spot any security cameras. None existed.
Bummer.
Nothing left to do but wait.
The E.M.S. arrived within minutes.
Here we go, Bronson thought.
Chapter Twenty-five
Obviously, these conferences attendees took their game seriously. Sheriff Ray Quaid figured that they either had to be serious TV detective show enthusiasts who eagerly absorbed police procedure much like a sponge, or they had actually had police training. Neither option appealed to him.
The county sheriff removed his hat and ran his fingers through his thinning hair. Might as well get it over with. “Who blocked off the crime scene?” Quaid looked at the crowd in the motel. They stared back at him like a herd of moose in pain.
One hand went up. What? Had someone failed to tell him they were back in school? Quaid sized up the man who had his hand raised. He was a solidly built man, perhaps in his early fifties or late forties. He had thick hair. Man, everybody had thick hair except him. Quaid approached him. “I’m the county sheriff, Ray Quaid. Thank you for securing the crime scene.” He offered him his hand.
Bronson accepted it. “You’re welcome.”
The man has a firm shake, Quaid thought. This man is one tough cookie. “How did you know to do that, Mr. . . ?”
“Bronson. Harry Bronson.”
Bronson. Harry Bronson. Was that anything like Bond, James Bond? Quaid nodded and waited for Bronson to answer the other half of his question. When Bronson failed to say anything, Quaid prompted him, “I assume you’ve had police training.”
“You assume right.”
Great, his fear had been affirmed. “Where?”
“Dallas, detective, retired.” Bronson almost looked apologetic.
Which he should well be. Damn. Not only had he been a big city cop, he had been a really big city cop. Just his luck. Quaid hated big city cops, and now he’d probably have to rely on him. “What’s your connection to the victim, Mr. Bronson?” He felt sure Bronson carried a different title, but he’d be danged if he would use it.
Bronson’s gaze focused on him like a laser beam. “We need to talk, but not here.”
Great. Already telling me how to do my job. “If you have any useful information, you need to share it with me now.”
Bronson didn’t flinch. If nothing else, he straightened up. Stood taller. Fluffed himself up. “The victim’s name is Trent Powers from Dallas.”
Quaid’s attention focused on the word Dallas. “So there is a connection between you and the victim.”
“He was a witness in one of my previous cases.”
“Tell me about this case.”
“It’s somewhat complicated. I’d rather we talk where it’s a bit more private.”
That man just can’t help himself. There he goes, telling me how to do my job again. “Very well, as you wish.” He signaled for one of the deputies to join them.
The deputy, a tall, thin black man, quickly approached.
Quaid pointed at Bronson. “Take him to headquarters, and make sure he waits there until I can get free from here.”
Bronson said, “Carol—that’s my wife—she’s upstairs. I need to tell her what happened.”
The sheriff felt a twinge of satisfaction when he heard Bronson’s statement. “Sorry, Mr. Bronson, we need you at headquarters now. You’ve got a statement to give.” He signaled for the officer to take Bronson away.
“Sir, you’ll have to come with me,” the deputy said.
Bronson quickly scanned the room and spotted his trusted friend, Gerri Balter. As he walked past her, he said, “Think you can notify Carol for me?”
“Of course.” She smiled and gave him an encouraging nod.
Quaid waited until Bronson and the deputy had closed the door behind them before he resumed speaking. He turned to face the crowd. “Who’s next?”
The crowd shrank back.
“Come on, folks, the sooner you talk to me, the sooner you can get on with your life. Who in here saw what happened?”
People looked away. Or down. Even at each other. Anywhere, but at him.
“Unbelievable. You expect me to believe that not a single one of you saw anything?”
“We were all focusing on the fight.”
Quaid approached the young woman who had spoken. “You are?”
“Katherine Shepard, from the great state of Texas, but no relation what-so-ever to Bronson. I’m just here attending the conference.”
“Tell me about the fight.”
“These two teens apparently are dating the same girl. They got into a shouting match. They almost started punching each other, but then the hotel manager and his buddies came in, threatening to call the police. The teens took off. Next thing we know, we hear this scream. We turn and. . .” She pointed to the crime scene.
“What did the teens look like?”
“One had dirty blond hair and—”
“No. They were both brunettes,” someone in the crowd chirped in.
Someone else said, “I could have sworn it was red hair. I remember admiring the fire-red hair.”
“No, no, Louise. That was a red cap he was wearing.”
“They weren’t wearing caps.”
“Weren’t they bald?”
Quaid sucked in his breath. If he did that until he turned blue, maybe they’d all shut up. He inserted his thumb and middle finger in his mouth and let out a loud whistle.
Instantly, the din died. Some even stood at attention. “Does anybody feel he has something important to say?”
“I do.”
Heads pivoted toward the source of the voice. Gay Toltl Kinman looked like a mouse in a cage filled with snakes.
Quaid approached her, and she took a step back. He opened his mouth to tell her that he didn’t bite, but then he thought it might be better if everyone thought he did. “Speak.”
“I’m not here to attend the—”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Gay Toltl Kinman and I write children’s and young adult mystery novels. I’m here to mingle with my friends and this year I’m not participating in the conference. Bronson knew—”
The mention of Bronson’s name triggered a set of warning bells in Quaid’s system. “Bronson? The same Bronson who just left?”
“Yes, Detective Bronson.”
So he was a detective. Great, great, great. Just peachy cream great. “What about Mr. Bronson?” He emphasized the word mister.
“He wanted me to find out who wrote the script for the conference. He said there was a problem with the copyright issue, and he had to talk to the author before he or she revealed him or herself.”
Reveal himself? What kind of a conference was this? “Back up. Give me details.”
Gay explained how the conference ran and how everyone had to solve the crime that someone had scripted. “Normally, we don’t find out who wrote the script until awards night which is the last night, but like I told you, because of this copyright technicality, Detective Bronson wanted me to find out who authored the script.”
“Why are you telling me this? What’s your point?” Quaid asked.
“Because I talked to every single person who enjoys writing and none of them claim to have written it. They all did tell me of a newcomer who likes to write.”
“And that is?”
“The deceased. The victim. I strongly believe that he was the one who wrote the script.”
Quaid raised his voice loud enough to carry throughout the room. “Did anyone in here write the script?”
Several shook their heads. Most remained quiet.
Quaid turned back
to Gay. “Someone in authority has to know the answer.”
Gay shook her head. “The manuscripts are sent via mail. The author doesn’t put his or her name on the manuscript nor anywhere else. They are not even allowed to put a return address on the envelope.”
Quaid slowly nodded. “So you think that the victim is the one who wrote the script and for that he was killed?”
“I didn’t say that,” Gay defended herself. “All I said was that he probably wrote it, and that Detective Bronson might know why someone would want to keep that a secret.”
“Secret enough to be killed for?”
Gay nodded triumphantly.
Great. Everything led back to Mr. Bronson. Quaid wished he could interrogate Mr. Bronson immediately. He obviously could shed a lot of light on this case. Unfortunately, Mr. Bronson would have to wait until he finished talking to the folks at the motel.
Quaid wondered what kind of story Mr. Bronson would tell him.
Chapter Twenty-six
Quaid saw four deputies arrive. He signaled for them to join him. “I’m going to divide this crowd into groups. You’re to get individual statements from each one of them. Do not interview any in front of the others. Take each of them aside and talk to him or her. I want to know if they saw anything. If they tell you something different from the rest, write that down. Get their name, address, phone number, e-mail if they have one. At the end, ask them if they feel there’s anything we need to know.” Basic Crime Scene 101. The deputies should be acquainted with that kind of information. Unfortunately three out of those four had only been on the force since yesterday. Quaid had no idea how much they knew or how they would react. Better baby them than be sorry later on. “Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you. There’s some kind of a mystery they’re supposed to be sorting out. Get details on that too. Might as well cover all angles. Any questions?”
No one had any. Quaid divided the crowd into groups and assigned a deputy to each group. He was about to start interviewing some when he saw Louise Ligon walk through the door. She had remembered to bring the department’s digital camera. Will miracles never cease?
