The Last Resort in Lost Haven

by Penny Plume

  That, Jenna thought, sounds like the Lost Haven Resort’s head baker talking.

  Belma was in the twelve-person Jacuzzi by herself, arms spread along the tiled edge and head tipped back onto a rolled-up towel. Her chocolate mint hair was still dry and perfectly whipped.

  Jenna took her sandals off and padded past the lap pool. The surface was as flat as glass and the sharp, but not unpleasant, tang of chlorine pricked at her nose. Windows along the far wall looked out over the steady whitecaps of Lake Michigan, and Jenna thought: Screw the resort, the Kavanaughs should open this place for business. The library alone…

  She sat next to the Jacuzzi and slipped her feet in, the initial sting fading to a lovely hot embrace that made her head roll around a little. Apparently her feet were sore and lonely. Jenna shook that off, refusing to think of Garrett’s foot massages, and waited for Belma’s eyes to open.

  They didn’t. Her mouth was slightly open and her body lolled with the rhythm of the churning water.

  Oh no, Jenna thought. Not again.

  She leaned closer, reaching for Belma’s wrist. If there were no pulse, someone in this house had—

  Belma snorted and opened her eyes. She saw Jenna reaching for her and panicked, splashing and screaming to get away. Jenna screamed with her and recoiled, then started laughing from the relief of not finding another corpse.

  Belma recovered and patted her hair, found it still dry. “It’s not funny. I thought you were here to drown me.”

  “Me?” Jenna wiped a tear from her eye. “Why would I do that?”

  “Well, I thought somebody would come to drown me, I just wasn’t sure who. I didn’t expect it to be you, but…”

  “Belma, what are you talking about?”

  She touched her hair again, examined Jenna for a bit, then bobbed across the Jacuzzi to sit next to Jenna’s feet and whispered, “The acoustics in here are crazy, so keep your voice down.”

  Jenna could barely hear her over the water jets. She leaned down, her ear a few inches from Belma, who said, “Somebody told me—and I won’t say who, so don’t ask—that you want to sell The Welcome Shoppe and open a bookstore, and if Ingrid stopped Kavanaugh’s resort you wouldn’t get to do that.”

  “What?” Jenna said. “That’s…that’s…”

  “Sorta true?” Belma said.

  “No. Well, I would absolutely love to open a bookstore, everybody knows that. But I don’t want to sell my shop, Belma. I mean, I wouldn’t get to see you, or Lawrence, or Wilford, or any of the others as often as I do. That would be terrible.”

  “Sweetie, once the Lost Haven Resort gets built, you won’t see much of us anyway. Might as well come out of it with a bookstore, right?”

  Or a juice and smoothie bar, Jenna thought.

  “Who told you about this?” she asked.

  “I said I won’t tell you.”

  “Lawrence?”

  “I’m not telling.”

  “Bart and Sherri?”

  “It was Garrett,” Belma said.

  “Garrett?” Jenna nearly flopped into the Jacuzzi. “Well that’s…I…Isn’t that illegal? For him to say something like that?”

  Belma looked skeptical. “If gossip was illegal, we’d all be doing hard time.”

  “But it’s part of a murder investigation. He shouldn’t be spreading false rumors like that.”

  Jenna’s mind was reeling. What else had Garrett spilled about her?

  “It’s not a false rumor if it’s true,” Belma said.

  Jenna gave her a straight-on, level look. “Belma. Do you seriously think I killed Ingrid?”

  Belma wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Well, you do love books…”

  “As much as you love the idea of opening a juice and smoothie bar?”

  Belma gasped, inhaling Jacuzzi froth. In between hacks and wheezes she said, “Who told you about that?”

  “Not so fun, huh? Don’t worry about who told me. Worry about being a murder suspect.”

  “Me? I was getting butter from the Nelson farm last night before the meeting. You can check with them.”

  “I’m sure Detective Olson will. I hope you’re telling the truth.”

  Belma choked out the last bit of hot tub residue. “So where were you last night when Ingrid was getting herself killed?”

  “In my shop, getting ready for our meeting.”

  “Mm,” Belma said. “Any witnesses?”

  Jenna stood up and scuffed her feet on Belma’s pillow towel to dry them off.

  “Good luck not drowning.”

  “Hey, if somebody tries, we’ll know who the killer is.”

  “Not if they try and succeed,” Jenna said.

  Jenna peeked around the hall corner into the receiving room, checking to see if Wilford had emerged from the den yet. No one was in there, not even McTavish behind the bar, and she was turning toward the stairway when the den door opened and Harrison Kavanaugh stepped out and saw her.

  She had a brief moment of panic, as if she’d been caught eavesdropping, and had to fight the urge to flee down the hall. Instead she froze and stared at Kavanaugh, who stopped and stared back. The bodyguard was behind him, rushing to catch up, and skidded to a halt to keep from knocking the smaller man across the room.

  Kavanaugh studied Jenna for a moment, then asked, “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing. What are you doing? Where is Wilford?”

  “None of your business,” Kavanaugh snapped.

  From inside the den, Wilford called, “I’m coming, Jenna, don’t fret.”

  Kavanaugh shook his head and crossed the room to the bar. He rapped his knuckles on the polished wood. “Bourbon.”

  He turned and stared out the window, apparently deep in thought about something.

  The bodyguard glanced at Jenna, then peered behind the bar.

  “Uh, Mr. Kavanaugh, McTavish isn’t here.”

  Kavanaugh scowled and looked for himself, confirming that McTavish was, in fact, not there.

  “You get it,” he told the bodyguard.

  The bodyguard took a few uncertain steps behind the bar, gazing at the bottles like they were alien artifacts. “You said...bourbon?”

  “Oh, for the love of…” Kavanaugh tried to brush past him but there wasn’t enough room. “Well? Get the hell out of the way.”

  The bodyguard took one massive step out from behind the bar. Kavanaugh used a metal scoop to dig a handful of chunky ice cubes out of a bin, dumped them into a tumbler and splashed golden liquid over them. He knocked the bourbon back in one gulp and refilled the glass.

  The bodyguard shuffled from foot to foot and seemed to have no idea what to say or do beyond that.

  Kavanaugh was obviously upset about something. Something Wilford said? Or didn’t say?

  Jenna was still fired up from what Belma had told her, and she saw an opportunity—not only was she going to record this historic event for Lost Haven, she was going to make a little of it herself.

  She said, “Shouldn’t the police be the only people in the interview room with Wilford?”

  There: She’d mildly harassed an upset Harrison Kavanaugh in his own home. History made.

  “Shouldn’t you mind your own business?” Kavanaugh said.

  “This is my business. This is my town too, you know.”

  He scoffed into his drink. “You’re a tenant here, not a resident. If I wanted you gone, you’d be packed tomorrow. And you may as well start now—it’s only a matter of time before that little shop of yours is a stack of kindling.”

  “Sir,” the bodyguard said.

  “What?”

  “Just...take it easy.”

  Kavanaugh gaped. He seemed unable to process what had happened. Had the hired help just told him what to do?

  “Take it easy?” he said. “Listen bucko, you—”

  Detective Olson laughed in the den doorway and stepped aside so Wilford could shuffle out. He patted Wilford on the shoulder and smiled about something the gallery owner ha
d said. Garrett stood inside the den, that sideways grin on his face.

  “What’s so funny?” Kavanaugh said.

  “Police business,” Wilford said. “It’s classified.”

  Olson laughed again, a booming Haw, and said, “That’s right, it’s classified. Oh, man. Too much.”

  Kavanaugh looked like he was going to chew through the bar. What had Wilford said in there?

  Jenna had an unsettling thought: Was it something Garrett had said? About her? About them?

  Olson shook her out of that nightmare. “Jenna Hooper, right?”

  Jenna blinked. “Yes?”

  The detective swept a hand into the den. “Please.”

  “Oh, I was, actually just looking for Wilford.”

  “He’ll be here when you get out,” Olson said. “This will only take a few minutes.” He put on a fake stern voice and pointed. “And Wilford, don’t you go anywhere, I might want to talk to you again.”

  “Where am I gonna go?” Wilford said.

  Olson laughed again and raised his eyebrows at Jenna. “Ready?”

  Garrett waited inside the den, his smile gone now.

  She wasn’t ready for this—she didn’t have enough evidence to make sure the police were considering Harrison Kavanaugh as a true suspect. She needed to talk to Wilford, maybe even Bart and Sherri, to get a better idea of who was involved with Ingrid’s death.

  And she needed something to prove she wasn’t.

  But Detective Olson and Garrett were waiting, and she was nearly certain Kavanaugh and the bodyguard would be in there for some, if not all, of the interview. Jenna took a deep breath and walked down the steps, across the room, and into the den.

  Behind her, Wilford said, “No, seriously, where should I go? I’ll get lost and die in this place.”

  Kavanaugh’s den was classic tycoon chic. The exterior walls were mostly glass, overlooking the entire town of Lost Haven to the south and gradients of blue water to the horizon in the west. Jenna had the disturbing thought that if the man ever got his hands on a cannon, he could cause some serious trouble.

  A massive wooden desk that looked like a varnished sarcophagus hunkered along the wall on the left, which was made entirely of built-in shelves of various sizes. Framed photographs of Harrison Kavanaugh and other people showed thin smiles and the confident posture of money. Jenna recognized the Governor of Michigan, did not recognize a bunch of judges in robes, and—wait, was that the President of the United States?

  Detective Olson said, “Take a seat, Miss Hooper.”

  The area in front of the desk had a large, muted rug on the hardwood floor. Four leather and brass-tack chairs that looked like they usually faced the desk had been pulled into a rough circle, and ten feet behind them a long, narrow table held a partial scale model of Lost Haven. There was the marina, Lilac Park and the amphitheater in the grassy field at its southern end, and Main Street.

  But Main Street was different. Instead of The Welcome Shoppe and other small businesses, a model of Kavanaugh’s Lost Haven Resort loomed like some monstrosity plucked off the Las Vegas strip and dropped into the civilized world to wreak havoc.

  Because the block of Main Street was long and narrow, Kavanaugh had found the space he needed by going up. The main part of the resort was at least ten stories tall, maybe fifteen in other sections, all of it a confusing mess of pillars, balconies, and rooftop pools. Jenna approached it cautiously, afraid it might suddenly come to life and start playing carnival music.

  Or she might topple it onto the floor and hack it to pieces.

  She stood on the rug and faced the back of the structure from just about where her house would be on the scale model. Her sunsets would be gone, replaced by blank windows and industrial air conditioning units.

  Framed sketches showed some of the attractions within the resort, rendered in black ink and colored pencil. Grinning tourists with blank eyes strolled past unsettling notions like Kavanaugh’s Man Kave, Bikini Lines Swimwear, Barty’s Party Sports Bar, and the suspiciously named Bakery.

  “Pretty slick, huh?” Olson said. “Mr. Kavanaugh said he’s working on getting a casino into the place. If he pulls that off, you’re gonna need more parking. And better roads.”

  “And a head of security,” Garrett said. It had that tone of when he was trying to be coy but just sounded confused, and he was looking at Detective Olson with an eyebrow cocked.

  Olson seemed to be blushing. “Nah, he wasn’t serious about that.”

  “He’s serious about everything,” Garrett said.

  “Well, anyway…” Olson left it at that. “Miss Hooper, I know you all have to get back and open your shops, so I’ll try to make this as quick as possible. Let’s have a seat, here.”

  Jenna sat with her back to the resort model. She couldn’t stand to look at it for one more second. Detective Olson was on her left and Garrett sat on her right, his elbows on the chair arms and big hands laced together in front of his stomach. He did look good in his uniform, but Jenna couldn’t help wondering what else he’d told Belma about her. She didn’t have any secrets—well, nothing illegal, anyway—but certainly a few things she didn’t want her mother knowing.

  What else had he blabbed about?

  And who else had he blabbed to?

  Detective Olson said, “So you like books, huh?”

  Jenna gave Garrett a scowl so harsh it pushed him backward.

  “What’d I do?” he said.

  “Nothing.”

  Olson said, “Hey, look, Officer Bower here told me you two had a thing going for a while, and—”

  “Did he give you all the good details?” Jenna asked.

  Olson blinked. “Just that he’d be happy to step out of the room if you’re uncomfortable talking about anything with him present.”

  “Like what?”

  Olson said, “Oh, I don’t know, like if you were with a male friend last night at the time Ms. Gallagher was murdered.”

  Jenna whirled to her right. “Garrett!”

  “What? How should I know?”

  “We haven’t been broken up very long.”

  “Do you want me to leave or not?”

  “Are you going to tell Belma everything I say?”

  Garrett frowned. “Belma? Huh?”

  “Never mind. Everyone can stay. Let’s just get started.” She crossed her arms and stared at the shelves behind Kavanaugh’s desk.

  Olson and Garrett shared a look: They were both wearing guns but did not feel safe.

  Detective Olson cleared his throat. “So, Ms. Hooper, did you like Ingrid Gallagher?”

  “Yes,” Jenna said. “Do I need a lawyer here?”

  Garrett said, “You can have a lawyer any time you want, Jenna. I’ll run and get Mr. Montross right away, just say the word. But you don’t need him, because you didn’t do anything. Right?”

  “Of course,” Jenna said. “But…”

  “Go ahead,” Olson said.

  Jenna considered backing off, but the two men were already on their heels from her little blow-up. Might as well keep them dancing.

  “But I’m afraid the person who actually killed her is trying to frame the Main Street shop owners. This person doesn’t care who takes the fall, as long as it’s someone else.”

  “Jenna,” Garrett said. It was a patient tone: Come on now. We’ve talked about this.

  Olson said, “Who do you think killed her?”

  Jenna glanced at Garrett.

  “Everything you say here is confidential,” Olson said. “Isn’t that right, Officer Bower?”

  “Right, yeah.”

  Olson came back to Jenna. “Who killed Ingrid?”

  “Harrison Kavanaugh,” Jenna said.

  She expected the detective to laugh in her face. Instead he nodded, sat back, and flipped through his small notebook and checked what he’d written.

  “Mr. Kavanaugh was at his residence between the hours of 5 PM and 12 AM. The medical examiner puts Ingrid’s death at right
around 9:30, so Mr. Kavanaugh was here for several hours on either side of the murder. Eight people can corroborate that fact. I’ve talked to all of them, and six of them didn’t know Ms. Gallagher had been killed before I told them. So they had no reason to lie.”

  Jenna said, “Is one of those eight people his bodyguard?”

  Olson turned a page. “Yes. Mr. Jay Cabo was within arm’s reach of Mr. Kavanaugh the entire night.”

  Jenna frowned. “Jay Cabo?”

  “Something wrong?”

  “No, I guess I just thought his name was Bodyguard. Jay Cabo makes him seem almost…normal.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” Olson tapped his notebook. “But I do know he didn’t kill Ingrid Gallagher. Neither did Mr. Kavanaugh. He’s a little rough around the edges, but he isn’t a murderer. And where you see him trying to frame someone, maybe all he’s doing is exposing the killer. Okay?”

  Jenna chewed her lip and tried to look uncertain. “I suppose.”

  “Good,” Olson said. “So, where were you during that time?”

  “In my shop, closing up and getting ready for the meeting.”

  “Did anybody see you?”

  “Some other business owners came and went,” Jenna said. “They were checking their inventories, picking up leftover free samples and restocking the non-perishables for the next day—today. Which reminds me, we all have to get back to our shops soon. How long is this supposed to take?”

  “As long as necessary,” Olson said. “But you can leave any time you like. I mean, nobody is under arrest. Yet.”

  “And Mr. Kavanaugh will open the gate for me, right?”

  Olson winced. “That’s another matter, but he can’t legally keep you here. Now, do you remember who came and went at your shop last night?”

  Jenna ticked them off on her fingers. “Sally from the Pretzel Twist, Johnny from Smokestack’s, Harvey from Time to Chime, Rachel from Sidesaddle, um…”