by Vicki Delany
“A lady who was in the process of pouring a cup of tea kept right on pouring into her friend’s lap.”
I chuckled at the image. “I have a special request for you at dinner tonight.”
“What?” she asked suspiciously.
“Sit with Louis Frandenheim.”
“Absolutely not. He’s an irritating little man.”
“You don’t have to stay for the entire meal. Have the first course with them at least. He won’t be on his own. He’s here with his sister and her family.”
“Why?”
“Did you know they’ve been going to the Concord for twenty years and came to Haggerman’s this year only because you’re here?”
“I did not. But I am not surprised. Isn’t it part of your business plan to take advantage of my name and my fame?”
“Part of our business plan, Olivia.”
Silence.
“Very well,” she said at last. “If I must, I can do that for you. For us.”
Olivia arrived at quarter to eight, looking every inch the star in a lilac gown with a scalloped neckline, one shoulder strap, a tight bodice, a thin belt, and a draped floor-length skirt. Elbow-length white gloves, her good costume jewelry, and glittering silver dance shoes completed the outfit. Her dark hair was piled on top of her head, secured by a red clip the color of her lipstick. I was standing by the maître d’ station when she sailed into the dining room. A handful of guests were still arriving, but most had settled at their tables. People chatted, glassware and cutlery tinkled, smart young waiters in their neat black suits circulated taking orders. I studied them all, wondering which was the well-endowed and newly famous Luke. I settled on the one who’d cheekily eyed me yesterday when Rosemary and I had been admiring the cocktail party food, and had then laughed at Francis’s clumsiness. He wasn’t particularly good-looking, but he had a certain air of arrogance about him. He went about his duties efficiently, but I could tell he was aware of the glances thrown his way. Aware of, and very pleased about.
It was also obvious who were the Berkowitzes, because everyone was either watching them or pretending not to. They sat at a table in the center of the room. She was round-faced and chubby with hair dyed an unnatural jet-black and sprayed into stiff curls, her back ramrod straight in her expensive dress. Her face was bright red, her angry eyes a sharp contest to the toothy smile with which she greeted their table companions. He, equally round-faced and equally chubby, with a few strands of hair and a thin black-and-silver mustache, leapt up and down like a jack-in-the-box, shaking hands, slapping backs, giving everyone the benefit of an enormous smile. They so pointedly ignored each other, they might have erected a wall of ice between them. He’d ordered a scotch and she had a Singapore sling. Both glasses were already almost empty.
Whispers spread through the room, and one by one everyone’s attention turned from the Berkowitzes as they noticed Olivia. The maître d’ escorted her into the dining room. He was an older man, chosen for his important job precisely because he was tall and distinguished and handsome in his black suit. The rest of the time, he fixed the plumbing and attended to other maintenance problems.
They stopped at the Frandenheim family table. I could hear Louis’s gasp across the room. The maître d’ asked if Olivia could have the honor of joining them. The woman next to Louis, who I assumed was his sister, turned pale. The maître d’ snapped his fingers, and one waiter immediately appeared with an extra chair and another with a tray carrying a full place setting. I had, of course, told them ahead of time what we wanted.
The maître d’ held the chair for Olivia, and she sat down in a flurry of lilac fabric. The waiter fluffed the napkin and spread it over her lap.
I slipped away. Ten to eight.
Velvet was waiting by the reception desk. She’d changed out of her yellow dress into dark, slim-legged trousers, shoes without heels, and a navy-blue blouse with elbow-length sleeves.
“You’re early,” I said.
“Bad habit. I’m anxious to hear what this mysterious errand you have for me is.”
The guests had all gone in for dinner, the lobby was empty, except for the bellhop waiting by the door and the clerk behind the counter. Jim Westenham came in, dressed in a nice suit, rubbing his freshly shaven jaw. He gave Velvet and me a smile and came to join us. “I’m late for dinner. Will they still seat me?”
“Yes,” I said.
“I took a nap and overslept. I guess I didn’t realize how tired I was after the late-night drive up from the city. You two haven’t gone in yet, would you care to join me?”
“I’m staff.” Velvet pouted prettily. “I’d be thrown out of the dining room on my ear. The owners run a tight ship here. Real slave drivers.”
“Most amusing,” I said.
“Would the owner care to join me, then?” he asked.
Velvet gave me a not-very-subtle elbow in the ribs.
I ignored her. “My mother’s the owner here, not me. Aside from that, thank you but no. I have something I need to do.”
“Another time perhaps,” he said.
“Did you hear anything more from the police?” I asked.
“No. I called the police station before lying down, but neither the chief nor the deputy were in. They might have been in but not taking my calls. I didn’t hear from the FBI, either.”
“Do you know why your uncle came here? Specifically to Haggerman’s I mean, rather than one of the other places.”
Jim shook his head. “I’ve no idea. Probably no particular reason. You advertise in the city papers and on the radio, don’t you?”
“Yes, and we’re represented by the major booking agencies.”
“You were able to offer the seclusion he wanted, that was probably good enough.”
The reception clerk was edging ever closer to us, ears flapping. I gave him a stern look, and he ducked his head and pretended to be consulting the registration book.
I walked toward the stairs, and Velvet and Jim followed.
“I finally managed to get hold of my father,” Jim said. “He told me he hasn’t heard from Uncle Harold for several months. Like I said, he could be reclusive.”
“It’s none of my business,” I said. “But do you mind me asking if your uncle had any enemies who might have followed him here?”
“He was found on your property, and the police are disrupting your business. I’d say that makes it your business, so go ahead and ask all the questions you want. The answer is no. Absolutely not. He was a former college professor, and I’m sure he rubbed some of his students the wrong way—he didn’t suffer fools gladly—but that was a long time ago. College kids can be all sound and fury when they think they’ve been offended, but those grudges rarely last until the next morning, never mind more than a decade. These days, he was trying to write a book. The newspaper business can be highly competitive, if not out-and-out murderous, but such is not the case, as far as I know, in writing fiction.”
“Someone from the army maybe?” I said.
We stood at the bottom of the stairs. From the floor above came the sound of the ballroom being set up for the evening’s entertainment.
“The war ended eight years ago.” Jim gestured to his surroundings: the beautifully decorated lobby, the attentive staff, the faint sounds of dinner conversation and laughter leaking through the closed dining room doors. “Ancient history, it feels like now.”
“Were you in the army?” Velvet asked.
“Navy. I was stationed in San Diego for the entire duration. I had what they call an easy war, and I have no guilt about that. Uncle Harold had a hard war. Plenty had it a lot harder.”
Velvet’s eyes flicked toward me. I kept my face impassive, but a twitch in Jim’s eyebrow told me he’d noticed.
“Some say we’re in a new war now,” he said. “A cold war. If that’s the case, Uncle Harold
was well out of it. I’m sorry, Elizabeth, but if you’re asking me who killed my uncle, I simply can’t help you.”
I checked my watch. After eight. I had to be moving. “About that, I have an idea. You can come with us, if you promise you can be trusted.”
“That sounds mysterious. Trusted to do what?”
“What you’re told.” I started up the staircase. Behind me I heard Velvet say, “Don’t look at me. She doesn’t tell me anything, either.”
The wide sweeping staircase ends at the entrance to the ballroom, but rather than take the elevator to the next floor, I led the way up the smaller set of stairs mainly used by the hotel staff.
The dimly lit third-floor corridor stretched out ahead of us. All was quiet, no one around. The chambermaids were finished for the day, the guests at dinner. I took my key ring off my belt.
“We’re breaking into a guest’s room,” Velvet said. “Neat.”
“Shush,” I said. I stopped at room 319. “This man has been following my mother around. Hiding in the bushes, creeping through the woods, watching our house. He’s obsessed with her. An obsession, I have to admit, I’ve recently encouraged by asking her to join him for dinner.”
“Why’d you do that?” Velvet asked.
“So I’d be sure he stayed in his seat while I search his room.”
“What does this have to do with my uncle?” Jim asked.
“Your uncle had little or no contact with anyone in the hotel, not even the staff, as far as we can tell. Since arriving here, he didn’t have the time or opportunity to make an enemy out of anyone, but it’s possible he did something completely innocent, which someone misinterpreted. My mother talked to him on one occasion. They had a pleasant chat on the porch of his cabin. She didn’t go inside, and she didn’t stay long. Did Louis see them together and get jealous? Did he decide he had to get rid of his rival?”
“You’re taking this too far,” Velvet said.
“Murder’s too far. Louis is a frail older man. He walks with a cane, and I don’t think that’s a pretext. I’m sorry, Jim, but whoever killed your uncle didn’t need a lot of strength or agility. Stop for a friendly chat, bash him over the head, and watch him roll down the slope into the lake.”
I put my master key into the lock, and it turned. I edged the door open. “Velvet, you wait here. I’ll keep the door partially open, and if you see an old man with a cane getting out of the elevator, warn me and then intercept him so we can slip away unseen.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“Use your feminine wiles.”
“I have feminine wiles?”
“Jim, you help me.” I slipped into the room.
“What am I looking for?” he said. “He’s not going to have— Oh.”
“Oh, indeed.”
We were looking at my mother. A wall of my mother. Photos clipped from newspapers and magazines covered one wall. Some were old—her in her dazzling youth—some more recent—taken at the grand reopening of the hotel last year.
“You’re right,” Jim said. “The man’s obsessed.”
The photos were attached to the wall with thumbtacks. For a moment all I could think was that I’d make sure the cost of replastering and repapering the room went on Louis’s bill.
Jim opened drawers and began flicking through the contents. “Nothing in here but what you’d expect a man to bring on vacation.” He moved to the wardrobe. “Same here.” He crouched down. “Some dried mud on these shoes, but you said he’d been in the woods watching your mother’s house.”
All I could do was stare at the wall. “These publicity pictures are bad enough, although I know a star, which my mother was, should have little expectation of privacy. But, Jim, some of these are not publicity shots.” Several of the pictures had been taken recently, and not by a professional photographer. They were grainy, shot from a distance, most of them badly focused. Olivia coming out of the door of our house, calling over her shoulder to whoever was inside. Olivia down by the lake, catching a (so she thought) private moment. Olivia near the tennis courts, talking to me. I could tell by her clothes the pictures had been taken this summer.
“There’s a camera here, on the dresser,” Jim said. “A Brownie Hawkeye. Not one of the best, but a good model. Is there a place to get photographs developed in town?”
“Yes,” I said. “They promise fast turnaround so people don’t have to wait until they get home to see their holiday pictures.”
I felt Jim stand beside me. He pointed to one picture. Cabin nineteen, surrounded by woods. Olivia stood on the step, her sunglasses propped on the top of her head, nestled in her dark hair. Harold Westenham, slightly out of focus, caught in the act of standing up to greet his visitor.
“I think we have enough to take to the police,” Jim said.
“I cannot imagine why the chambermaid in charge of this floor didn’t tell me about this,” I said.
“What’s happening in there?” Velvet called.
“We’re almost finished,” I called back.
Jim reached out and plucked the picture of his uncle off the wall.
“Shouldn’t you leave it in place?” I said. “To show the police?”
“Can’t take the chance of him finding out we’ve been here and destroying it. There are plenty enough pictures to show the cops.”
“Let’s go. I can make the call from the reception desk.”
We slipped out, and I locked the door behind me.
I phoned the police while a wide-eyed clerk watched, and told them I needed an officer at Haggerman’s immediately. Someone, the bored voice on the other end told me, would soon be there.
Velvet, Jim, and I took seats in the lobby and waited.
We waited some more.
The doors to the dining room opened, chatter filled the room, and guests began filing out. Some headed for the elevator, ready to retire, while others climbed the stairs to the ballroom, eager for the evening’s entertainment to begin. The Berkowitzes were at the front of the throng, and I guessed they hadn’t kissed and made up during dinner. He marched in front, his eyes fixed straight ahead, while she scurried behind, a storm cloud hanging over her head.
My mother was escorted out by an elderly couple. She looked relaxed and, dare I say it, happy. She bid them a good night and headed our way. Jim leapt to his feet, and I made the introductions.
“Did you have a nice dinner?” I asked her.
“I did. Once I was able to make my excuses and depart the table you insisted I join, Elizabeth. I won’t say I don’t like to hear praise of my performances on occasion, but even I get tired of it eventually. Particularly when it would seem as though my best days are long behind me.”
I noticed Louis peeking out from behind a potted palm, his watery eyes wide with adoration as he stared at my mother. I gave him a stern look, but I don’t think he even noticed. I handed my mother the picture. “What do you make of this?”
She studied it and gave it back. “I make nothing of it. I told you I had a brief chat with the late Mr. Westenham.” She smiled at Jim. “He was a lovely man, charming and witty, but as protective of his privacy as I am. That’s cabin nineteen, where he was staying, and I’m wearing the slacks I often wear in the early afternoon if I go out for a walk. Why do you have this?”
“A guest took it,” I said.
Olivia shrugged.
I was about to explain when in marched Chief Monahan and his deputy. Their timing was not good, as just about every guest we had was at that moment crossing the lobby after dinner. I’d made a big mistake by waiting for them in such a public place. I ran across the lobby. “Thank you for coming, Chief. I’ve discovered something you need to know about the Westenham case.”
“This better be important, Mrs. Grady,” Monahan said. “I’ve had a long day.”
“It might be vitally
important.” Conscious of all the curious eyes watching us, I added, “This is maybe not the best place to talk. We can use the clerical office.” I led the way across the lobby, followed by Velvet, Jim, Olivia, and the two police officers. A wave of whispers followed us. I unlocked the door beneath the stairs and stood back to allow the others to enter.
Monahan took off his hat and eyed me suspiciously. “I don’t care for civilians involving themselves in police business.” He shifted his bulk and pulled up his belt.
I switched the hallway light on and handed him the photograph. The deputy peered over his shoulder. “You asked me to keep an eye out. I have been keeping an eye out. I found this in a guest’s room.”
Monahan examined the photo and then he lifted his head to study my mother’s face. She stared at him. He looked at the photo again. Monahan nodded with satisfaction, and then he said, “How long have you been a communist, Miss Peters?”
Chapter 13
That hadn’t gone as well as I’d expected.
Monahan accused my mother of being a communist and having killed Harold Westenham because of it. Jim Westenham insisted, one more time, that his uncle had not been a communist. Velvet told the chief he was being stubbornly single-minded. The chief threatened to arrest Olivia, whereupon Olivia treated the unpleasant situation in her usual fashion by simply turning around and marching out of the hallway. When the door had slammed shut behind her and Monahan had recovered his wits, he asked me if I’d known about my mother’s political leanings and had I been aware she’d invited fellow communists to gather at Haggerman’s. When Velvet objected to his tone, he accused her of being in on it with us and threatened to arrest her on the spot.
The deputy twisted his hat in his hands and said nothing.
Jim put his fingers in his mouth and blew a whistle. “That’s enough. You’re jumping to conclusions, Chief. If you can produce solid evidence my uncle was a communist, please do so. In the meantime, you have to agree there’s nothing in the least bit suspicious about a hotel owner spending a few minutes chatting to a guest. I’d say that’s part of the job. They’re sitting on a porch on a pleasant day, for heaven’s sake. Not huddling over maps or passing stolen secret government documents. What is unusual, and what Mrs. Grady is trying to tell you, is a guest following Miss Peters, spying on her, and papering his room with her photograph. Obsession can lead to jealousy, and jealousy to . . . who knows what.”
