The Inn at Holiday Bay Books 7 - 9

by Kathi Daley

  “Did you tell that to Colt?”

  “No. He just assumed I hadn’t met Train before I did at the poker game and didn’t ask about any past acquaintance, so I didn’t bring it up.”

  “Didn’t it occur to you that he might want to know this information?”

  He shrugged. “It occurred to me, but it was my job to answer the questions and his job to ask them. This isn’t the first time I have been involved in a legal matter, and the one thing I’ve learned along the way is to answer what you can honestly, but not to volunteer anything else.”

  I supposed that I’d heard the same thing as well. “So, do you have a feeling for what might have happened the other night? You were there at the game; did you pick up any odd vibes?”

  “I did pick up some vibes, and I do have a hunch.”

  “Care to share?”

  Dax paused. “Did you ever read The Huntington House Murder?”

  “Sure. It was one of your early novels. A traditional whodunit about a group of people who went to a party on an island off the California coast. One of the guests turned up dead, and the others were all considered to be suspects.”

  “And do you remember the character named Milton Pendergrass?”

  I answered. “Milton was an accountant who considered himself to be an amateur PI. He had a hunch about who the killer was, but all it really was was a hunch, so for much of the book, he spent his time trying to find evidence to back it up. I seem to remember that when he couldn’t find the evidence he needed to solidify his theory, he basically made it up.”

  “He did, but he didn’t set out to lie. He had a belief, but there were all these gaps in it, so to preserve his belief, his subconscious filled in the blanks. As time went by and Pendergrass kept clinging to his belief, he began to remember events that never actually took place. When Silvester Stonewall, the man who investigated the murder, questioned Pendergrass about his recollection of that night, Pendergrass told the truth, but it was his truth. A truth based on faulty memories. If you remember, Irwin Desmond was arrested based on Pendergrass’s recollections.”

  “But he wasn’t guilty,” I added. “So, what is your point about all this?”

  “Like Milton Pendergrass, I have a hunch that is not based in fact. I have decided that I will keep that hunch to myself. Once a belief is voiced, the pressure to support it comes into play, and I fear that, like Pendergrass, I might very well be put in the position of having to defend my hunch, which could, in theory, cause me to create memories to support what I’m already certain I know.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  He winked at me. “Maybe.”

  “Okay, so if you had to take a wild guess based on nothing but a gut reaction, who would you choose as the killer?”

  He hesitated.

  “I promise I won’t make you defend your choice.”

  “Okay,” He said. “If I had to guess, I would say Tank arranged to have his brother killed.”

  I raised a brow. “Tank. Why would you suspect Tank?”

  “I thought you weren’t going to ask me to defend my guess.”

  “I changed my mind. Why Tank?”

  “He is the only one to have seen the motorist he told everyone came to the door and went into the office to make a call. He is also the one who put the idea of taking a break in the game out there, although it was Hank who suggested calling for pizza. He is also the only one who says he went out to the back of the house, where Train was smoking, so in my mind, Tank was the only one who could have killed him.”

  “Those are all good observations, but why would Tank kill Train?”

  “I couldn’t help but notice that there was tension between the brothers. I suspect that tension arose from Train’s reactive way of dealing with life. As you and Colt have probably figured out, Train has been responsible for destroying friendships Tank had spent a long time building. It seemed obvious to me that Tank was not at all happy when Train showed up at his house the night he was killed and, in fact, even tried to get him to leave at one point. I noticed something similar when I visited my brother at college. Tank was a popular guy until Train started going to the same school. I don’t know if you’d ever met Train, but he definitely had a way of pissing people off.”

  “So why did Tank give him a job at his store?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And even if Tank wanted his brother dead, why wait until he had a house full of people?”

  “I don’t know that either.”

  “Are you sure you think Tank is the killer?”

  “Not at all. Like I said a minute ago, it is just a guess. Who do you think did it?”

  “Honestly, I probably shouldn’t even be talking to you about this, given that you are a suspect in a yet-to-be solved case.”

  “No, you probably shouldn’t.” Dax looked out the window. “I think it might be time for me to make my escape. The wind seems to have died down at least temporarily.”

  I glanced out the window too. He was right. There did seem to be a lull in the storm. I said my goodbyes to Dax after promising to read Piper’s pages in the morning. I texted Georgia to let her know, just in case she hadn’t noticed herself, that it was a good time to make the trek back to the cottage, and then I let the dogs out one more time before I turned in for the night. My conversation with Dax had given me a lot to think about. I just hoped my racing thoughts wouldn’t keep me awake all night.

  Chapter 12

  I found myself totally engaged as I read the pages Dax sent me. Not only was the tale of the small-town killer and the child who’d witnessed the killing woven so expertly so as to appear seamless, but the idea that it might have been based on a true story—Piper’s story—had me clinging to the edge of my seat. The story was dark but heartfelt. It both terrorized and fascinated me. In a way, it was like watching a train barreling toward an immovable obstacle. I knew what was going to happen, I knew the moment of impact was going to be something horrific, and yet I found that I simply couldn’t look away.

  “What are you reading?” Georgia asked when she popped by the cottage to pick up the dogs for a walk later that morning.

  “It’s a story about a young girl who witnesses the murder of her best friend.”

  Georgia wrinkled her nose. “It sounds terrible.”

  “The murder itself is worse than anything I can imagine, but the writing is genius. The story seems to simultaneously repel and entice me as a reader. It draws me in and pushes me away until I no longer have any sense of time and place. It is brilliant, yet I can’t help but feel terrified to find out what comes next.”

  “So, don’t finish it.”

  “Oh, I have to finish it. I can’t not know how it all ends up.” I looked up from my tablet. “Of course, I don’t actually have the ending yet.”

  “You don’t have the ending?” she asked as she pulled on her parka.

  “The book is not yet published, although logic would dictate that it must already be finished. I need to call Kate. I’m sure she must have the rest of it.”

  “It was written by one of the authors who are here for the retreat?”

  I nodded. “Piper.” I glanced toward my tablet and then back at Georgia. “Either the girl is a genius, or this story is more fact than fiction. I’m not sure which is true, but I find that I’m very motivated to find out.”

  “Isn’t Piper writing about a serial killer?”

  I nodded.

  Georgia looked shocked. “And you think it is real?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “I hope not, but maybe.” I set the tablet aside and crossed the room. “I probably shouldn’t have said as much as I have. I don’t know for a fact that the story isn’t pure fiction, and I don’t want to create a situation where you or I or anyone else will treat Piper any differently than we have been. While some people write from experience, many others simply have wonderful imaginations.”

  “I guess that’s true. Besides, Piper seems so normal
. Someone who had been through what the character in this story went through couldn’t come out of it normal, could they?”

  “Probably not. I’m going to call Kate to see if I can find out more about this story. In the meantime, we need to play it cool.”

  “Cool,” Georgia said. “Got it.”

  “So, how did breakfast go?” I asked, changing the subject.

  She fished around in the pocket of her parka for her knit cap. “It went great. Everyone is in a fantastic mood. Even the sisters seem to have made up. I know it has snowed the entire time they’ve been here, but they don’t seem to mind. Everyone is here to write and to hone their skills, so the snow only seems to add to the atmosphere.”

  “I’m glad it is going well. I’ve enjoyed having other writers around, talking about their craft. I’m hoping I can convince Kate to have the retreat here again next January. How is Jeremy doing with the snow?”

  “He plowed the drive before breakfast and will do the walkway during the morning seminar,” she said, pulling her cap over her long blond hair. “He wants to be there for Hazel during the team time. Those two have really hit it off. It has been adorable to watch them talking about whatever it is they are working on. Who knew that Jeremy liked to write?”

  “He never mentioned it to me. I’m excited that he is having this opportunity.”

  “Who knows, we might end up with two authors on the property. By the way, I heard that the road is open, but the next wave of the storm is supposed to blow through later this afternoon. It will probably close the road again, so if you need to go into town for any reason, you might want to go early.”

  “Do we need anything for the inn?”

  “No,” she said, pulling on her mittens. “I’m covered as far as food and fuel. The wine has been flowing liberally, but I mentioned as much to Tanner, and he promised he would bring me some of his stash, so I didn’t have to go out.”

  “That was nice of him.”

  “Tanner is a nice guy. I’ve missed him this week. When he told me he would bring me wine, I wanted to refuse, but I figured that by accepting, we could spend a little time together.”

  “How is he doing with all the snow?”

  “Fine,” Georgia answered as she looked for the leashes. She wouldn’t necessarily use them, but we’d learned that it was always a good idea to have them with us just in case. “He only has a handful of dogs in training right now, and he has been keeping them up at the house. He told me that he doesn’t have any training camps scheduled until April.”

  “He has been around here for a long time. I’m sure this storm is no big deal for him.” I glanced out the window at the overcast but snow-free sky. It did seem as if the storm had dissipated, at least for the time being. “I do think I’ll run into town for a couple of hours. The cottage is all yours if you and Tanner need some alone time.”

  Georgia blushed, but she didn’t turn me down. She opened the door and headed out with the dogs, and I grabbed my cat and my coat and went out to my SUV. If I couldn’t get Rufus to eat, I was pretty darn sure that Velma’s eggs would stimulate his suddenly finicky appetite. Of course, the trip into town was a lot hairier than I’d anticipated, though Rufus and I made it in one piece, and it felt good to get out for a few hours.

  “Oh good, you’re open,” I said to Velma as I entered the diner with Rufus on a leash. “I realized when I was halfway here that I should have called ahead just to make sure.”

  “I’m open. Not sure I will stay open because you are only my second customer of the day, but you know I’m always happy to see you and Rufus. How is the big guy feeling?”

  “He seems to be okay, and the vet did say that nothing was really wrong with him, but I can’t get him to eat. I figured that maybe he needed to get out of the house, and I knew that if your eggs couldn’t stimulate his appetite, nothing could.”

  Velma squatted down low. “You got the blues, big guy?”

  “Meow.”

  I took him off the leash and let him wander over to the woman he’d known since before I’d met him.

  “I don’t blame you, buddy. We have had more than our share of snow as of late. How about some eggs?”

  He began to purr. Loudly.

  Velma turned toward the kitchen, and Rufus followed. I brought up the rear.

  “Do you want something to eat as well?” she asked me.

  “I wouldn’t mind some eggs. And maybe some toast. And coffee.”

  “Coffee is made; help yourself. I’ll start the eggs.”

  The day after Rufus found me, I brought him to the diner, and Velma gave him some scrambled eggs. I don’t know what there was about her eggs, but Rufus seemed to love them more than anything I had ever made for him. I supposed it could be the combination of the eggs, the woman he loved, and the comfort of the diner, where he’d had eggs many times before with his previous owner, who had passed away not long before Rufus came to live with me.

  Once the eggs were ready, Velma served Rufus in the mudroom, and I slid onto a stool at the counter.

  “I’m happy to see you, but I am surprised to see you in town. I thought Colt told you not to drive around while the roads are so icy.”

  “He did. And I haven’t up until now, but the road is open, and the snow has stopped. When Rufus wouldn’t eat this morning, I had the idea of bringing him here, so here I am.”

  Velma turned her head slightly. “It looks like he just needed some of my eggs. I made him two, and he had half of them eaten before I joined you out here. How is your writers’ shindig going?”

  I wrapped my hands around my mug. “It’s going well. Everyone seems to be having a wonderful time despite the weather. I remember my first retreat. It really was something special.”

  “I bet it was. It’s nice your agent decided to have it at the inn.”

  “It was nice. I hope she will book the inn again next year.” I looked around. “I’m sorry it has been so slow for you today. The entire town is dead. In fact, I only saw one other car on the road on my way over.”

  “I’m not sure folks even know the road is open. And then, of course, there is the news of the pileup making the rounds. I think that has a lot of folks nervous about being on the road.”

  “I don’t blame people for being concerned about the roads. I was with Colt when he got the call to respond to the accident, so I rode along with him. It was really bad.”

  “My only other customer today was Billy Martin, and he told me he was involved in the crash.”

  I took a sip of my coffee. “Billy Martin? I don’t think I know the name.”

  “He works for Bayside Pizza. In fact, he was the one who delivered the pizza to Tank’s house on the night his brother was killed.”

  I raised a brow. “You don’t say. Was he hurt in the crash?”

  “No. He said his car was banged up, which will affect his job, but he seemed fine. He lives in town in one of the second-floor apartments over the shops along Second Street. He was on foot this morning but hoping to borrow a car from his cousin, so he doesn’t miss any work.”

  I buttered one of the two pieces of toast Velma had made for me. “I don’t suppose Billy knew anything about what happened at the poker game?”

  “Actually, he did know something. As it turns out, when he arrived at Tank’s house, he saw a man walking from the back to the front. He came through the gate from the back, walked around the front of the house, and went inside.”

  Okay, that sounded important. “Did he say what the man looked like?”

  “Tall. Muscular. Longish blond hair. He had on denim jeans and a dark green parka. Billy said he didn’t really see his face.”

  It sounded like Dax. Why would Dax lie about being in the backyard? “So, he didn’t know who it was?”

  Velma shook her head of gray hair. “He said he didn’t. He said the man came out from the backyard through the gate at the side of the house just as he pulled up. Billy sat in the car and watched as the man went inside. He got
out of his own car, grabbed the stack of pizzas, and went to the front door. A man answered. He told him the total amount due, the man paid him, and he returned to his car. He sat there for a minute afterward so he could look up the directions for his next stop on his GPS. While he was sitting there, he noticed a light go on upstairs. The curtains were drawn, so he couldn’t make out what was happening, but he did see the shadow of a tall man speaking to the shadow of an even taller one.”

  “And this was shortly after he dropped off the pizzas?” I verified.

  Velma nodded her head. “That’s what he said. He delivered the pizza to Tank’s house and then sat in his car while he looked up the directions to the next drop-off.”

  “Did he say which room the two men were talking in?”

  “The room at the front of the house on the far right.”

  I seemed to remember that was a guest room.

  “And he saw more than just the men talking,” Velma continued. “He saw one of them hold out his hand as if he had something in it. The other one took whatever he had, looked at it, and put it in his pocket. Then both men walked away from the window, turning off the light as they left the room. Of course, at that time, Billy didn’t know anyone was dead, so he didn’t think anything about it. He pulled away and went on with his deliveries.”

  “And now?”

  “As soon as he shared what he did with me this morning, I had him call Colt. He was heading over to his office when he left here.”

  “Did he say if the man he saw walk around from the back was one of the two he saw through the window?”

  “He didn’t know for certain, but he did say the taller of the two men could have been the one he saw walk around from the back and enter the house through the front.”

  Wow. Based on what Velma had just told me Billy had seen, it really did sound like Dax might have been the one who killed Train. But why? He’d admitted to me that he knew him from before that night, but that in and of itself didn’t constitute a reason for murder.