“Okay, but take care, and text me when you get to the restaurant. You caught me just in time. I have to attend the collision where Samantha and Misty are. There were serious injuries. I need to work on the collision reconstruction to determine what happened and if anyone should be charged. Then I’ll come down there and find Kassandra Pyerson. I’ll have a talk with her about where she’s been and why she took off from her job at The Craft Croft and doesn’t answer her phone. I’ll have a talk with the man in the cabin next to Kassandra’s, too. I might see you in a while, but Misty will probably get there before I do.”
“If we’ve already left the restaurant, come to Birch cabin and give Dep a pat.”
“I don’t want to interrupt your bachelorette party.”
“Dep insists. And so do the rest of us.”
“Okay.” The smile was back in his voice. “See you later.”
In case the cabin was too warm for Dep, I raised one of the front windows a few inches and fastened it in place to prevent anyone from opening it farther. I tucked my phone into my cute little yellow purse, told Dep goodbye, went out to the porch, and locked her inside.
I stood still and listened. Dep was quiet. Teenagers swam and shouted in the lake that now resembled rippling liquid copper. Someone played a guitar. A man crooned the sort of ballad my parents liked singing at their campfires.
Although I would have enjoyed hearing more of the music, I walked cautiously down the steps, around to the back of the cottage, and to the end of the driveway. No one was on the road. It was only a few minutes past eight. I hoped the Cares Away restaurant would hold our table.
I was only a little out of breath when I arrived at the restaurant entrance of the lodge. The heavy oak door looked like it belonged to a castle, complete with a high rectangular window protected by wrought iron bars and curlicues. I tugged the door open. Candle-like sconces cast a warm glow on the room’s honey-gold oak walls, the spotless rock maple floors, the rustic chairs and love seats, and their dark red leather cushions. Made from peeled and twisty tree branches, no two pieces of furniture were quite the same. Side tables supported by gnarled legs displayed books and magazines. This woodsy resort was for all seasons and weathers. To make everything even more perfect, the food was supposed to be excellent. I couldn’t help smiling.
I stood in line behind a gray-haired couple at the hostess’s station. The hostess looked past them and told me, “I’ll be with you in a moment.”
I sent Brent a text that I had arrived at the restaurant.
Brent texted back, asking me to stay where I was and wait for Misty. Which was exactly what I planned to do.
Behind me, the door opened. A shoe squeaked against the polished maple floor.
“Emily?” The man sounded tentative and surprised.
I turned around. The tourist who had asked me out earlier that day was dressed almost like he’d been when I’d first seen him at the Faker’s Dozen Carnival, in black slacks and a white shirt. He wasn’t wearing a straw hat at this time of night, and his sleeves were rolled up. Alf, that was his name. Alphaeus Chator, Chief Financial Officer of Cornwall Amherst Investments. I immediately wondered if Alf was the man from the cabin where I’d seen a list of addresses connected to Nina.
Maybe I was obsessing too much about it.
First, I’d thought the man talking on the phone in the cabin was Marvin Oarhill, then I’d wondered if he was Rodeo Rod, and now I was trying to fit Alf to the syrupy voice. “Hi, Alf. You’ve found another of the great sites around Fallingbrook.”
He returned my smile. “This restaurant comes highly recommended. So, is this where you’re out with your girlfriends tonight?”
“You got it, only—”
The hostess interrupted me, “Do you have reservations?”
I faced her. “Yes, for three of us at eight o’clock, and I’m sorry I’m late. My friends should be along soon.”
“Name?” she asked me.
“Samantha Andersen made the reservation.”
The hostess gushed, “Samantha! Our soon-to-be-bride!”
The hostess looked past me at Alf. No longer gushing, she asked politely, “How many are in your party, sir?”
“Just me. For dinner.”
“We should have a table available in about fifteen minutes if you don’t mind waiting. The kitchen closes at nine.”
“I’ll wait,” he promised.
The hostess was a little too enthusiastic about trying to make everyone happy. “If you two are both here for the wedding, maybe you wouldn’t mind if your friend”—she nodded at Alf—“sat at the extra place at your table?”
He shook his head. “I’m not here for the wedding.”
He was honest about that. Maybe he wasn’t the man from the cabin with the briefcase on the porch step. But if he was, it was probably safest to let him sit with me where I could keep an eye on him. If I learned anything connecting him to Zippy’s murder, I could tell Misty and Brent when they arrived. I offered, “Why don’t you sit with me, anyway? We can continue our discussion about the things you haven’t yet seen around Fallingbrook.” Great. The next thing I knew, I’d have to rope my parents into helping me give him a tour of Fallingbrook Falls.
Alf was polite. “I don’t want to intrude. What about when your friends arrive?”
“They won’t mind.” I’d have to endure a lot of teasing from them afterward, though. “It would be a shame for you to miss dinner if another table isn’t ready in time.”
He threw me a smile. “Since you insist.”
The hostess led us to the only empty table in the room, one almost beside her station, and removed the RESERVED placard. In keeping with the resort’s rustic theme, the fumed oak table was not covered, but even without a tablecloth, it was elegant, set with white cloth napkins and sparkling china, cutlery, and glasses. Alf and I sat across from each other and picked up our menus. The candle on the table cast flickering shadows. I hoped the shadows didn’t make me look like a monster. Alf looked okay, though, except for one thing made more obvious from the table-height lighting.
When I’d first seen Alf on Friday the thirteenth at the Faker’s Dozen Carnival, his white shirt had been freshly and neatly pressed.
Now, it wasn’t, and the wrinkles were haphazard, not like the creases in a clean shirt that had been carefully folded and packed in a suitcase.
Chapter 29
Maybe I wasn’t obsessing too much. Maybe Alf really was the man I’d heard in the cabin next to Kassandra’s.
Even though he was still studying his menu, I didn’t want him to look up and recognize the apprehension that had to be dawning on my face. I bent my head toward my menu.
I thought back to my short discussions with Alf. Even when he’d been with Connie, I hadn’t heard him lower his voice in the phony sexy way that the man who needed clean shirts had used with his fiancée. But the voice of the man in the cabin had sounded familiar. That voice could have been Alf’s.
I didn’t think I’d ever seen Alf driving anything, and I didn’t know if he’d driven here from wherever he lived or if he’d flown to, say, Duluth and rented a vehicle.
I wanted to haul my phone out of my bag again and tell Brent that I might have identified the dirty-shirt man and that Marvin Oarhill and Rodeo Rod might not be at Cares Away, but I couldn’t call Brent if Alf was the dirty-shirt man, and I didn’t want Alf to see me texting, either.
“What are you having?” Alf’s question from across the table startled me.
I pointed blindly at the menu. “Um. Sherried mushroom soup to start.” I quickly skimmed the list of entrées. “And the spinach and ricotta ravioli looks good.”
He set his menu on the table. “Are you a vegetarian?”
“No. Are you?”
“No, but I’ll order the same thing. I figure that the people who live in an area know what’s best there.”
“Donuts,” I joked.
The waiter asked what we’d like to drink. Alf ordered a
scotch on the rocks. I ordered freshly squeezed lemonade.
“Not a drinker?” he asked.
“Maybe later.” Knowing the kitchen was closing at nine, I told the waiter we were ready to order our meals.
Alf chimed in and ordered for both of us. The waiter left. Alf folded his hands on the table in front of him. “I just noticed your wedding ring. Are you and your friends having a bachelorette party, and that’s why your husband let you out for the evening?”
Let me out? Alec would have been horrified at the thought of deciding when and where I was allowed to go. For one thing, we’d both worked shifts. “No, he’s . . .” I ran the thumb and forefinger of my right hand over the ring. “I’m a widow. This ring is like part of me.”
He lowered his head as if examining his clasped hands. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.” He raised his head, looked at me again, and asked, “Are you seeing anyone?”
“Sort of.” I pictured Brent. Having a close male friend was often handy. As far as I knew, Brent and I would both be at the wedding and reception on Wednesday. If Alf was still at Cares Away, he might see Brent and me together. I felt warmly proud at the thought of being seen with a man as tall, handsome, and gentle as Brent. I liked being with him. I liked him. I . . . my face heated, and I decided I wasn’t going to finish that thought until I was alone and could ponder it. “How about you?” I asked. “Are you married, engaged, seeing anyone?”
“Free as a bird.”
Right, I thought, until you need clean laundry and freshly pressed shirts. Besides, I’d heard him say that after he returned to this phenomenal ironer, they would continue planning their wedding. Maybe Alf wasn’t the dirty-shirt man, but I strongly suspected that he was.
He must have noticed my skepticism and, fortunately, misinterpreted it. “And no, I’m not dating the woman I met at the carnival. She wanted to spend all of her free time showing me around, which was nice of her. I’m sure she’ll find a man who doesn’t mind being controlled.”
This was the man who seemed to think that husbands allowed their wives out. I put on an empathetic face. “I see where that could be a problem.”
Alf gave me an admiring look. “It was.”
The waiter brought our drinks. Alf and I clinked glasses. “To your friend the bride,” he said, “wherever she is.”
By the time our soup arrived, I had enjoyed a few sips of delicious lemonade and Alf was not only ready for another scotch, his nose had turned red and his voice had lowered to confiding tones similar to the ones I’d overheard when I was repacking the overflowing briefcase outside his cabin.
If Alf was the dirty-shirt man, he was the man who had been carrying around addresses for Nina’s apartment, for where she worked, for where she’d exhibited her paintings in Fallingbrook, for her new gallery, and for where she’d been staying temporarily, which also happened to be my home.
The first four addresses on his list had been typed. My address had been scrawled beneath the others, as if he’d found out where Nina was staying after Zippy’s murder, after he’d had the other addresses printed. A logical conclusion could be that Alf had come to Fallingbrook specifically to find Nina and harm her, and if he’d been unsuccessful, he had another plan involving possibly following her to the Arthur C. Arthurs Gallery in Madison.
But after Zippy’s name was announced, he’d come up with a third plan, hitting Nina with his car in my neighborhood. The gray car had been as close to Alf’s cabin as the van had been. What might he have done to Nina, either inside my home or at Deputy Donut, after he missed her with the car if she hadn’t been incarcerated? I felt like my curls were straightening themselves and sticking out all over my head.
The soup was delicious. I should have wanted to stay and enjoy it.
I really wanted to shove my chair back and flee. Wait for Misty.
Alf was what my parents would call a male chauvinist. That was annoying, but now I believed he was also a murderer. And a danger to Nina if she was freed.
While I spooned up more soup and tried to make comments that weren’t completely inane, I thought about the speckly video Brent had told me about. A man in dark pants and a pale shirt had left the pub and started across the street toward Nina’s apartment. Alf was dressed that way now, he had also been dressed that way when I’d seen him on Friday at the Faker’s Dozen Carnival, and Buddy and Kassandra had seen him take off the suit jacket he’d worn in Suds for Buds.
I began asking questions that would sound innocent but might cause him to describe the vehicle he’d been driving in and around Fallingbrook. “Do you work at Cornwall Amherst’s head office in New York City?”
Beaming, he signaled the waiter for another scotch. “I do.”
“How do you like living in New York?”
“It’s the only place to live, really, but coming here and meeting people like you is a breath of fresh air.”
“Why did you choose northern Wisconsin?”
“A complete change in scenery is invigorating. I heard that it’s beautiful.” He leaned toward me and brought out his phony sexy tones. “It is.”
“Did you drive here?”
He seemed to find my Northwoods naïveté charming, if a little laughable. “I don’t own a car. My job comes with a driver, and if I want to go outside the city, I fly.”
“Company jet?”
“Only when it’s company business.”
“Do you bring your driver with you on vacations?” I glanced around as if checking the restaurant for someone in a chauffeur’s uniform.
Alf laughed as if I were the cutest little backwoods girl he’d ever met. “I rent a car. I like driving, but at home, I need to spend commuting time working.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as high in the corporate world as you.” It was true, and I had no trouble looking impressed.
He seemed to like it.
The waiter brought Alf’s second scotch and took away our empty soup plates. “Your dinners will be out shortly,” he told us.
After he left, I gave Alf another admiring look. “You’re young to have the position you have. How did you rise so fast in the corporate world?”
A flicker of something like anger crossed his face.
Chapter 30
Why had my question about Alf’s rapid rise in his career caused that spark of anger in his eyes?
Maybe I’d only imagined it. When he answered, he sounded proud. “I excelled in school and worked hard all my life.” Despite the pride, I heard a note of bitterness in his reply that was as odd as the anger I’d glimpsed.
The waiter set a plate of steaming ravioli in front of me. I thanked him, and he served Alf.
Alf’s second scotch was already half gone. He asked for another one and then gestured at his plate and continued his answer to my question. “Most people expect to have everything handed to them on a silver platter, and I was no different from everyone else. Fresh out of college, I applied to Seaster Enterprises.”
I’d seen the name Seaster at the top of the family tree that I hadn’t been able to rescue from the outsized, fluffy puppy. And had Brent recognized the name when I told him about the family tree I’d glimpsed? Brent had become very serious, but that could have been because of the addresses I’d listed.
Alf leaned forward. “I’m sure you’ve heard of Seaster Enterprises.”
“Hasn’t everyone?”
He aimed another approving smile at me. “Yes. Thinking I’d have a better chance of getting the job, I brashly let the interviewer know that I was a direct descendent of the original founder of the entire conglomerate, which is true.”
I tried to look suitably impressed. “What happened?” At the rate he was drinking, Alf might tell me his entire life history before the meal ended. Maybe he’d even confess to murder. Sure, I thought.
Alf took another sip. “What I didn’t know was that the man interviewing me was also a descendent of Zebadiah Seaster.”
Zebadiah Seaster. I couldn’t rem
ember hearing much about Seaster Enterprises except that it was huge, but the founder’s name sounded familiar, as if I’d heard it recently. I didn’t think I had, and the puppy had whisked the family tree away too quickly for me to register more than the surname, Seaster. Maybe some part of my brain had caught the full name of Zebadiah Seaster and the rest of my brain hadn’t noticed.
Alf looked at me over the rim of his glass. “If the receptionist had told me what my interviewer’s last name was, I might have been cautious. I had no idea that his last name, unlike mine, was Seaster. I’m descended from one of old Zebadiah’s daughters, but Nick Seaster was descended from the male line, all the way down. So, you know how they ask where you see yourself twenty years from now?”
I shook my head. Except for summer and part-time jobs when I was a kid, my only job interview had been with 911, and I didn’t remember being asked anything like that.
Alf set down his empty glass and picked up his third scotch. “No, I suppose that’s the advantage of being a waitress. Good for you.”
I tried to appreciate the delicious ravioli. “What did you say when this Seaster guy asked where you saw yourself in twenty years?” The feeling of almost recognizing something about the name Zebadiah Seaster needled at my subconscious. I didn’t remember reading it. I felt like I’d heard it, but not on the news. It was more like someone had said it to me personally. Who?
Alf swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “Remember, I was young. I said I planned to be head of Seaster Enterprises.”
Some people telling a story like that on themselves would see the humor and smile. Alf didn’t, so I kept a straight face, too. “Did you get the job?”
“No. Nick Seaster obviously felt threatened by the possibility of another direct descendent of old Zebadiah Seaster joining the firm. Soon afterward, I was offered a job at Cornwall Amherst, and there’s no looking back, only forward.” He set his glass down with a thump, nearly spilling some of the scotch. “And I’m still looking forward. I still intend to head Seaster Enterprises. I have five years to meet that twenty-year goal. Nick Seaster, who is now CEO of Seaster Enterprises, will have to retire one of these days.”
Beyond a Reasonable Donut Page 23
