by Vicki Delany
“I bet that’s it,” Randy said. “Easier to bump someone off when they’re on vacation, not paying attention to their surroundings, and then slip back to the city, leaving the local cops with no suspects.”
“Ask Jim about that, Elizabeth,” Velvet said.
“Why me?”
“I’ll go with you if you want,” Randy said. “In case he tries something. He got here awfully fast, if you ask me.”
“You’ll protect Elizabeth, will you?” Velvet said. “I think she can take care of herself.”
“I’m not asking anyone anything,” I said. “I have a hotel to run. I’ll point out, if I have to, that you all have jobs around here, too. All except you, Olivia. Maybe you should be the one to ask the questions.”
I didn’t mean to put an edge into my question, but that’s how it came out. My mother raised one sculpted eyebrow. “I do believe I did my job rather well this morning. No one checked out, did they?”
“She’s got you there,” Velvet said.
I had to admit, she did. Whenever I felt myself getting resentful at the amount of work Olivia had put on my shoulders, I tried to remind myself that when she did step up to the plate, she did it in spectacular fashion.
Olivia continued, “This newspaper friend of yours—yes, Elizabeth, you keep saying he’s not your friend—told you these rumors originated with the local press. I have, I need not remind you, a good deal of experience with newspapermen. One cannot always believe what they say.”
“What do you mean?” Velvet asked.
“When I was in Hollywood, preparing for my role in that movie with Cary Grant—you all remember the one I’m sure—I comforted a dear friend when his wife—”
“Velvet means,” I said, “what are you implying about what’s happening here? Now. She’s not asking about you and your dear friend.”
“I’ll tell you the story later,” Olivia said to Velvet. Velvet hid a fond smile. She’d heard all of Olivia’s stories of when she was rich and famous, many times. “Newspapers have been known to embellish facts on occasion. All you know, Elizabeth, is what this man told you. Perhaps he’s the one asking these questions, spreading these rumors. And then coming back here and trying his charms on you.”
“He’s not trying to charm me or anyone else. He doesn’t want to see his uncle’s reputation besmirched.”
Olivia peered at me through wide eyes. “So he told you. That might not be true. I wonder if there’s any inheritance involved.”
“Good question,” Randy said.
“May I remind you all that I spoke to Jim last night less than an hour after his uncle died? He was in New York City.”
“Maybe he hired a contract killer,” Randy said.
“Don’t complicate things any more than they are,” I said. “I’ll admit that Olivia’s right—”
“As I always am,” my mother said.
“Don’t press your luck,” I replied. “I shouldn’t automatically believe what he’s telling me.”
Velvet stood up. “As much fun as this has been . . . It’s almost two thirty. Randy has a swimming lesson for preschool kids in the pool. Normally, I’d suggest finding someone else to teach the class, but we can’t disappoint the mothers, can we? And I have the tennis round robin to referee.”
“I left the chef threatening to chop off the saladman’s index finger,” Rosemary said, “and give it back to him to use as decoration on the Jell-O salads. Hopefully it’s safe to venture once again into the kitchen.”
“As Elizabeth has decided to open two unused rooms,” Aunt Tatiana said, “I should check if any more will be able to be made habitable, if needed.”
“They won’t be needed,” I said.
“You never know,” she said.
My mother yawned. “That champagne I had earlier is making me sleepy. I think a nap is called for. I’ll put in an appearance at dinner this evening and attend the entertainment later. Rosemary, tell the maître d’ to have a head table prepared and suitable guests invited to join me. My calming, comfortable presence might be needed once again. Elizabeth, find out what they are saying about us in town.”
The screen door slammed as Randy, Rosemary, Aunt Tatiana, Velvet, and Winston made their escape.
“What?” I said to the sound of rapidly departing footsteps—and paws. “I’m not going into town, and I’m not finding out anything about anything. I have a hotel to run. I’ve already lost almost the entire day with this foolishness.”
Steel settled behind my mother’s eyes. She got to her feet swiftly and crossed the room to the telephone table. She opened the top drawer and took out the keys to my car. “If these rumors continue to spread, if the person who killed one of our guests in cold blood is not found, and quickly, we might not have a hotel for you to run much longer. I do not trust the Summervale police. I do not trust this newspaperman. I most certainly do not trust Jerome Kennelwood or his son, and I don’t trust many of our employees not to turn on us if it suits them to do so. I trust you, Elizabeth.” She handed me the keys.
I took a deep breath. My mother trusted me with the only thing she had left in the world: Haggerman’s Catskills Resort. She could have hired someone with hotel experience to run it for her, but she hadn’t hesitated to ask me. She could have left the police to fumble around with this investigation. But she was asking me.
I accepted the keys. “Okay.”
Chapter 11
I left my mother heading for her nap and skipped lightly down the stairs. As my foot hit the path, I heard a branch crack from inside the woods edging close to our house, and a grunt of pain coming from my left. I stopped dead. “Who’s there?”
I held my breath and listened. Twigs snapped and leaves rustled. A squirrel ran up the trunk of a scraggly white pine.
Someone was out there, watching me, but I wasn’t frightened. It was the middle of the afternoon on a bright sunny summer’s day. Hundreds of people were within the sound of my voice if I yelled for help.
“This section of the property is out-of-bounds to guests. If you’re not a guest, then you’re trespassing.”
Leaves rustled and a figure stepped out from behind the pine tree.
I muffled a groan and didn’t bother to be polite. “What are you doing here, sneaking around my house?”
“I’m not sneaking, Miss Peters,” Louis said. “I have to say, I don’t care for your tone. I’m enjoying a walk in the woods, and I got lost.” His eyes flicked toward the house. The house where my mother was having a nap. With all that had been going on, I’d forgotten to tell her we needed to start locking the door. Blood was leaking from a deep scratch on Louis’s right cheek, and dried needles were caught on the fabric of his jacket. He’d clearly been battling with the forest.
“I want you to stay away from my mother,” I said.
He attempted to look offended. “If your mother would enjoy my company, who are you to refuse it?” He waved his cane at me.
“Thing is, Louis, my mother doesn’t want your company.” I tried to soften my voice. “My mother’s a private person. She guards that privacy carefully. I’m sure you understand. I’m going up to the hotel now. Why don’t we walk together?”
He hesitated, giving the house one last longing glance, and then he followed me. He leaned heavily on his cane, and I didn’t think that was a pretext.
Despite her bad leg, or perhaps because of it, Olivia exercised regularly. She was still dancer-quick and agile. I didn’t worry that Louis would physically harm her, but he had no business being a pest. And he certainly had no business trying to peek into our windows.
We walked slowly along the lakefront, his cane tapping the path. “Are you visiting with your wife?” I asked him.
“Oh, no. I never had the good fortune to marry. I’m with my sister and her family. Twenty years, we’ve being going to the Concord, but I managed to
persuade her that a smaller, more intimate hotel would be nice for a change.”
A hotel that just happens to be owned by Olivia Peters.
“What’s your sister’s name?”
“Edith Lowman. We’re a big group. Edith and her husband, their son and daughter with their spouses, and six grandchildren.”
Thirteen guests. Maybe it wouldn’t be a good idea to kick Louis out, not if he left taking his entire family with him. We reached the steps to the hotel.
“Please don’t go near my mother’s house again,” I said to him. “If you promise not to, I might be able to persuade her to stop by your table at dinner one night and meet your family.”
The cloudy eyes shone in the wrinkled face. “That would be marvelous. I’m a great admirer of hers. I’ll never forget seeing her live on Broadway back in forty-six. Or was it forty-seven? Perhaps it was both. How time flies. Do you think she’d do that?”
“If I ask her to.”
He bustled off, happy.
I was not so happy. I tossed the car keys from one hand to the other. I had a full hotel. It was the start of the season. And now I had to go into Summervale and attempt to salvage Haggerman’s reputation, which shouldn’t need salvaging. I told the reception clerks I was going out and went into the office to tell the women there the same.
“That big group of wedding guests booked to stay here for the last week in July just canceled,” one of the clerks called to me. “The wedding’s off.”
The woman at the desk next to her laughed through a cloud of smoke. “Do tell. Who got cold feet? Him or her?”
“How many people?” I asked.
“Twenty-five guests. Ten rooms. Four of the families are coming anyway. Probably glad to have the vacation and not have to bother about having to dress up and go to a family wedding.” She chuckled.
“We’ll keep their deposit, and shouldn’t have trouble renting out the rooms. Let the booking agencies know we have rooms available for that time.”
“Chef Leonardo wants to speak to you,” another clerk called. “He came in here demanding to talk to you as soon as you got in. He says he can’t take any more of the unprofessionalism of your saladman and he’s quitting.”
“Ignore him. As usual,” I said. I went into my office for my purse. I grabbed it, trying not to look at the stack of pink message slips piled beside my phone. I’d been out of the office for less than an hour and I’d swear that pile had doubled, if not tripled, since I’d seen it last. I unsnapped my bunch of keys off my belt and threw them into my purse. I locked the door to my office and snuck out the back way, heading for the delivery and staff parking areas at the top of the hill. I hadn’t taken the car out for a couple of weeks, and my 1946 Chevrolet, a two-door coupe with a baby-blue body, white roof, and silver trim, was covered in a light layer of dust. Weeds were peeking through the cracks in the pavement underneath the car. I’d never owned a car before, but I decided I’d need one living in the Catskills. Delivery trucks arrive and depart our property throughout the day, and the bus into town runs regularly in the summer season but less often in the winter. Olivia balked at the expense of the car, but I didn’t like the idea of being trapped up here on our mountain.
I opened the door, slipped behind the wheel, and turned the key. The car struggled mightily to start, and just as I was afraid I’d have to call a mechanic for help, it roared to life.
I threw it into gear and started down the hill toward Route 17. About halfway down, I spotted a lone figure climbing up, fanning himself with his hat, hair oil glistening in the sun, and I pulled to a halt. Charlie Simmonds waved his hat at me and crossed the road. The bus from town stops at the bottom of our road, and I assumed he’d gotten off there.
“Did you get to the hospital?” I asked. “Was it the man you expected?”
He leaned against the car and spoke to me through the window. He’d dressed in his worn brown suit and a tie for his trip to the hospital, and he was red-faced and dripping with sweat. “Harold Westenham, my old army buddy. Yeah, it was him. I’d say he hadn’t changed a bit, but hard to tell considering the circumstances.”
“I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
“See him, you mean. Don’t worry. I’ve seen worse. Rarely been accused of worse, though.”
“What does that mean?” Once the car stopped moving, and air was no longer flowing through the windows, the heat began building in the car. I wiped away beads of sweat dripping down my forehead.
“Your police chief was there. Once I’d confirmed it was Harold Westenham, the man I knew, he asked if we’d arranged to meet at Haggerman’s in general, and after my show in particular. I said I had no idea Harold was even here, but I don’t think he heard me, he was too busy talking. Started asking me about my communist connections and what Harold and I had been planning and who else was in on it. He thought he was being clever, I think, by hinting that I might be able to get out of trouble by fingering our coconspirators for the murder. But, as we were not conspiring with anyone to do anything, I couldn’t exactly throw suspicion on anyone else.” He wiped sweat off his forehead, leaving a streak of road dust behind. “Man’s a single-minded fool, and his deputy’s no better. He just stands there nodding.”
“Were the FBI there?”
He put his hat on his head. “Didn’t see them. If you’ll pardon me, it’s too darn hot to stand here on the road.”
“I’m going into town, but I can turn around and give you a lift to the top of the hill.”
“Don’t bother. Despite the heat, I like being in these woods. Makes a real change for a boy from the Bronx.”
“I thought you were from Monticello?”
He grinned at me. “You caught me. That’s the act. Apart from when I was in the army, I’d never been outside of the five boroughs until the first time I stepped onstage in the Catskills. I had an army pal from Monticello. He talked nonstop about the hotels, the bungalow colonies, the people—staff and guests. Mountain rats, he called people like him. I took his stories and turned them into my act.” He shrugged. “What can I say? People love it.”
I smiled. “You’re not afraid your friend from Monticello will sue you?”
Charlie shrugged. “He died. Catch you later, Elizabeth.” He turned to go and then swung back around. “Oh, the chief repeated that I was not to leave Summervale until he gives me permission. I guess you’re stuck with me.”
“In exchange for which we’d like you to appear each night. Two shows. Our scheduled act over the weekend is a magician, so your act shouldn’t clash with his.”
“You drive a hard bargain, Mrs. Grady. Asking a comedian to perform.” He walked away, and I watched him go in the rearview mirror.
Chief Monahan was, as Charlie had said, single-minded. But that didn’t mean he was wrong. Jim was adamant his uncle was not a communist, and I had to agree with him that one copy of The Communist Manifesto doesn’t mean anything. Was it possible someone else thought Harold Westenham was a communist and killed him because of it?
No, I couldn’t see that. All this person would have had to do would be to report Westenham to the authorities, and they would’ve taken it from there. No need to kill him.
If I didn’t get moving, and get some air into this car, I was going to roast. I threw the Chevrolet into gear and continued down the mountain.
Summervale is indistinguishable from many Catskill towns. A small, bustling community in the summertime, largely deserted the rest of the year. Olivia had remained in her castle over the winter, as aloof as ever, but I’d wanted to get to know our neighbors and ventured into the community and had made some friends. I’d enjoyed being part of the small year-round Summervale community, but as soon as the snow melted and buds began appearing on the trees, we all swung into action at our own properties, promising to meet again after Labor Day.
I drove slowly down Main Street
, not sure of what I was doing here or what I hoped to accomplish. I couldn’t go up and down the street telling people Haggerman’s was a safe place to work and stay, as though I were some sort of carnival barker. The best I could do would be to try to find out if it was true people were gossiping about what had happened at Haggerman’s. I believed Jim, but I had to admit to myself that I had no reason to. He was a newspaperman, and regardless of the death of his uncle, he’d have his own agenda.
I had absolutely no idea how to go about asking if we were the subject of town gossip. If I said, “Are you talking about us?” people would then start talking about us.
I drove past the newspaper office, a large impressive redbrick building in the center of Main Street. I might pop in there later, maybe under pretext of inquiring about taking out some advertising. The Red Spot Diner, owned by the McGreevy family, was next door to the paper. The diner was a popular spot with tourists and area residents alike. I’d met Lucinda McGreevy over the winter, and we’d become friends. Lucinda told me staff from Haggerman’s and other area hotels hung out at the Red Spot on their days and evenings off.
The town’s small police station was situated on the other side of the diner. I briefly considered going in and asking if they’d come across anything I should know, but I dismissed the idea almost immediately. It was unlikely they’d tell me if they had, and Chief Monahan, if he was in, would just start barking out questions and making accusations.
Main Street was lined with vehicles, but I found a place outside the hardware store. I parked the car and trotted down the sidewalk to the diner. The sidewalks were busy with casually dressed, sun-soaked families in town to enjoy an ice cream treat or to shop for groceries. At Haggerman’s and the other hotels, we supply everything our guests could possibly need for their vacation (apart from their clothes and other personal items), but this area is full of bungalow colonies. Basically a cluster of cabins for rent, around a lake or swimming pool, at which guests fend for themselves. As well as families, several groups of young people crowded the sidewalk: staff from the hotels on a rare day off or waiters sneaking into town between serving meals and clearing up after.
