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Dust to Dust

Page 18

by Audrey Keown


  “No, I get it. Mr. Fig is what’s important here. And what seems unjust now will lead to justice for him.”

  “I hope you’re—”

  “Just what do we have here?” Mr. Wollstone interrupted from just outside his room next door. He looked as if he’d just woken up from a nap. “Two employees … out of uniform … trespassing in an occupied guest room?”

  I tried to think of some quick explanation. Mr. Wollstone would love to get us in trouble. “We—”

  “—just needed a moment alone.” George winked at the old man and began tucking in his shirt. “If you know what I mean.”

  My eyes threatened to bug out of my skull, but I recovered and painted on a coy smile.

  George grabbed me around the waist, and my pulse surged (from the stress of the situation).

  The old man yanked out his handkerchief and coughed into it.

  I leaned into George’s side, the flutter behind my ribs warning me that this romantic subterfuge might not soften the leathery skeleton in front of us.

  “Well,” said the old man, “Lord knows I’ve been there.” He chewed the inside of his mouth. “Although not often enough. Now that I think of it.”

  He glanced at us again, then disappeared into his room.

  George let go of me, and I released the tension I’d been holding.

  “I can’t believe you said that.” Warm and energized, I laughed softly. “I can’t believe it worked.”

  He grinned. “I had a feeling about the guy.”

  I could hear Doyle whistling inside the Homer Room now, and I hoped that whatever we had disturbed in there, Leonard would excuse under the umbrella of turndown service.

  “Anyone else’s room we should check?” George asked.

  “I don’t think there’s time. People are starting to come back from dinner, and anyway, the ones we searched already were at the top of my list.”

  “Should we be suspecting Wollstone?” George’s phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and silenced the call.

  “I don’t think so.” I shrugged. “You can answer that if you need to.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll call her back later.” He put the phone away.

  “How is your mom lately?”

  “Oh, it wasn’t Mom. It was just Bea.” He started down the stairs.

  Just Bea? I thought. “Just” as in “not important” or as in “we talk every day”?

  I followed him downstairs and turned my thoughts to who or what else might have left that plaid fabric behind. As far as I knew, the only people who ever used the dumbwaiter were George, Mr. Fig, and Mallory Peters, the farmer who supplied us with produce and served as the current delivery person. I couldn’t imagine Mr. Fig wearing plaid, and George never wore it at work. But I was sure I’d seen Mallory sporting a flannel shirt before, and if the fabric was hers, then the clue was no clue at all. She had a perfectly legitimate reason to have left it there.

  Then again, if the snagged swatch did belong to the killer, he or she might have simply thrown the torn garment away after all.

  I’d rejoiced when there’d been nothing so scientific about this case that I needed to ask for Bea’s help, but if a blue-and-green plaid something had ended up in the trash, she’d be one of the only people likely to have seen it.

  The last thing we had to do before leaving the hotel was return the master keys. I pushed through the swinging gate at the desk and hung them on the appropriate hook.

  “Well, well, well, well,” Doyle repeated, pushing back the silk curtain and leering at me from the office like a silent-movie villain.

  “I think it’s just three wells,” I said, unaffected.

  “Who’s Clarista’s favorite now?” he tried again.

  “I don’t think I was ever her favorite.” Mr. Fig’s, though. “I wonder if you suffer from some kind of inferiority complex.”

  He tugged at his shirt. “Stop trying to diagnose everybody!”

  “Doyle,” George interrupted helpfully, leaning an elbow on the desk. “Why are you working Sunday night? This isn’t your shift.”

  “Duh. Clarista asked me to pick up an extra one. She said we all have to pitch in, or I guess that’s what she was gonna say before she lost her train of thought.”

  He was wrong about a lot of things but not Clarista’s thoughts.

  “She left you a message, BTW.” Doyle handed me a folded note. “Spoiler alert. It says you have to work tomorrow.”

  “Ugh.” I read quickly, confirming what he’d said. A mandatory extra shift, bad news delivered badly. Normally I wouldn’t mind so much, but I was tired and wanted to dedicate every second right now to Mr. Fig’s freedom.

  “At least Monday nights are slow,” I growled.

  He shook his head and smiled. “Not Monday night. Day shift.”

  “But … I never work day shift.”

  He shrugged, with that same satisfied smirk on his face.

  When I got done with this investigation, I was going to have to find a way to tolerate Doyle better. He was like a beneficial mold—smelly and annoying but useful if carefully controlled.

  For now, I had a lying professor to deal with who was already well practiced in manipulation.

  XVII

  Deep Magic

  The sun had set by the time we got back into George’s car.

  I asked him to drop me off at home so I could get the Volvo and go see Clyde.

  “Nah.” He swatted the air. “I’ll go with you.”

  “Are you sure? It’s all the way up on Lookout.”

  “Yes, but so is the Volvo, isn’t it?”

  I held my mouth open. “Oh no! You’re right. It’s at Selena’s dorm. That’s even farther. I’m so sorry.”

  “Listen, I don’t want this to come as a shock, but I miss you, and I like spending time with you.”

  Despite his sarcasm, there was real feeling in his comment, and I held up a hand as if I could deflect it. “Okay, okay. Gosh.”

  “Well, you drove me to it,” he said.

  “You’re right. Now drive me to Clyde.”

  In a little while, we were taking the last zig and zag of the mountain road and pulling into a parking space by the flock of little cottages resting in the twilight. I asked George to wait in the car. Clyde would be less guarded if I came in alone.

  I knocked, and after a moment or two, the man appeared, leaning on the open door, like a toddler awoken from his nap. His clothes were wrinkled, his collar turned up on one side. A thin layer of grease made his nose and forehead shine. His hair stuck out at odd angles above his ears.

  A whiskey-scented cloud overtook me, and I stepped back. “I’ve come at a bad time. I’m sorry.”

  “No, no. Iss fine.” He opened the door wider to usher me in, revealing a half-empty bottle of Woodford Reserve and a single, empty glass on the coffee table behind him.

  I hesitated. Was this a very bad idea?

  What I saw in front of me was a man whose front had crumbled.

  I didn’t need to put a name on it. And I didn’t have the expertise to.

  Doyle was right. I hadn’t always taken my diagnoses of others seriously, and I probably should have.

  Labeling people was not only faulty but often unkind. Still, it was helpful to me to try to understand people’s motivations, the perspectives that shaped their actions.

  I would guess that since Renee’s death and Selena’s accident, grief and shame had batted Clyde around on the inside. He’d kept up a composed front, so I couldn’t know that for sure, but it seemed like he was finally submitting himself to the violence of his emotions.

  A man finally facing a truth long denied was a dangerous man.

  But I knew as well as anyone that alcohol loosened tongues. I wouldn’t get a better chance to catch him in his truth.

  I followed him into the stale living area.

  He had come up with another glass from somewhere before plopping his weight down on the couch. I took the armchair next to him.r />
  Jung had written that holding on to secrets was like dosing your psyche with poison. Like the whiskey Clyde had been applying so liberally, secrets could be fine in small amounts. But kept too long or too close, they alienated a person from their community, and isolation was as dangerous as arsenic.

  And that’s all that could explain Clyde sitting here drinking alone. Surely someone among the grave society could sit with him in his grief. Had he consciously or unconsciously driven them away?

  He picked up the bottle and filled both glasses halfway.

  “Oh, I probably—I’m—” I gestured toward the car. But I wasn’t driving, and I didn’t have any good reason not to partake. On the contrary, the camaraderie this drink would earn me could spark better conversation (read: interrogation).

  “Aw, hit’ll wearov before then.” He answered the statement I hadn’t finished. “Unforchnately.”

  He shoved the glass across the table at me in a manner that was meant to be hospitable but came off as forceful and more than a little clumsy when a dribble slipped over the rim.

  Yet I found his sloppiness endearing. I took the glass from him, vowing not to finish it. “You’re probably right. Thanks.”

  “ ’Course I’m right, Ivy m’dear.”

  Dear? Well, the fire of conviviality was off to a roaring start. I took a sip and shivered. “Mm. Nice.”

  He grunted in response and leaned against the couch cushion, letting his head fall back.

  “So. Clyde.” Even in his present frame of mind, leading with a question about his time at the hotel could make him shut down. I needed to start a little closer to home. “When will you head back to Pennsylvania?”

  “Tomorrow, likely. Nobody wants me here. That’s for sure.”

  Eesh. “Selena’s still angry?”

  “Women ate a dead as minagif,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Womenn hhate a debtt as menn a gifttt,” he said.

  “Gotcha.” God save me from these men constantly quoting things at me. I washed his words down with a sip. “That’s not Browning too, is it?”

  He nodded emphatically.

  Before I had time to ask what debt Selena owed him, he said, “Now this one, ‘Take away luff an’ our earth is a tomb.’ ”

  “Also Browning?”

  He nodded again and took a drink. “Very good student.”

  Still nodding, his head fell forward, and for a moment I wondered if he was asleep.

  “How long had you and Renee been together?” I asked.

  He breathed in and out loudly through his mouth. “Two years.”

  “Wow.”

  He laughed, sadly. “I usually say one year. That’s how long my divorce has been final.”

  “Oh. I see.” Cheater. “Well, secret’s safe with me.” I sipped again. “And Selena’s mother—what was her name again?”

  “Linda,” he said, so hatefully that no name-calling was necessary.

  “Where did you meet?”

  “Phil-delphia.”

  “Nice city.”

  No reply.

  “Why’re you ’ere” —his eyes rolled up to examine my face, if drunk eyes could examine—“Ivy?”

  I took another long sip of my whiskey. Smooth. It was making this whole conversation smooth. “I’m really sorry to do this to you, but—that bag of Renee’s things I brought you yesterday? It turns out I shouldn’t have.”

  “Zat witch Autumn want ’em now? As if she ever cared for her sister. She owes me, ya know? She owes me anyway, so I might as well keep ’em.”

  Oh gosh. “The money you invested in her firm?”

  “Rright. And now she says she doesn’t haffit.”

  “Did Renee have a lot of money?” I said.

  He chuckled in a way that I assumed meant no.

  “Did she have life insurance?”

  “Not that I know of.” His answer seemed honest.

  “I’m just trying to figure out—if someone is framing you, then what do they want the police to think is your motive?” I asked.

  He drained his glass, picked up the bottle, and refilled it again. “Your guess-iz-az good as mine.”

  He leaned toward my glass, and I waved him off, but he focused on the singular goal of topping it off, which he did with surprising finesse.

  “I’d like to tell you something that not many other people know, Clyde.”

  When he returned the bottle to the coffee table, he looked me in the eyes expectantly but said nothing.

  “It was my family who owned the house.” I was surprised that the confession, though I was sprinkling it on him like tenderizer, brought me a bit of genuine relief. “I mean—the hotel before it became a hotel.”

  I pulled the newspaper clipping with the party photo from my bag and held it out to him.

  Clyde held the clipping in one hand and his glass in another, sloshing the whiskey in it as he gestured. “The Morrows?”

  I winced, worried for the delicate paper.

  “They’re your people?” he said.

  My people. I would like to claim them, but they still felt thin to me, like the Wonder Woman paper dolls I’d played with as a kid. “Hortensius and Mary were my grandparents.”

  He smiled softly and nodded. “Him, I liked.”

  “But not her?”

  “Only met her the one time, but no, not really.” He shrugged. “Sorry.”

  I would take that with several grains of salt. Clyde was the kind of man who only liked women he could manage. I hoped he would keep the info coming, though. This was pretty good stuff, and he’d already basically admitted to being at the house.

  George was more expressive when he drank too. That was a good thing in his case. Usually his inhibitions prevented him saying anything that he thought might be wrong or might paint him in a bad light. Alcohol peeled back the film, and a truer—if less refined—version of him shone through. Sometimes he’d even curse.

  “What did you like about my grandfather?” I asked.

  “Great question.” He raised his glass in a brief toast to me. “See, Horten, he was a man’s man. I mean, look at his estate, for starters … king of his castle, kept a couple dozen Scotches on hand ’n’ a lotta fine hunting rifles.”

  He raised his glass again as if to the memory of my grandfather. “Wouldn’t let us touch ’em, though.”

  “Yeah, too bad.” What he liked about my grandfather told me a lot more about Clyde’s own values than anything else. I had noticed the use of a shortened form of my grandfather’s name, though.

  For half a second, I considered asking him if he’d met my mother at the house and decided against it. His guard was good and low now, and it was time to take my shot before he was too far gone to make sense. “You’re in that photo too, I noticed.”

  “Ha. You got me.” He stared at the picture. “Been a long time since I had a woman carrying around photos of me.” He winked at the younger version of himself. “Handsome devil.”

  “Why did you lie about being there?”

  He looked up at me again, and some other version of himself, nearly as boyish as the face in the photo, possessed him. “I … I sstole something.”

  “From the house?” My mind went straight to the paintings.

  Then he frowned. “No, from a … a clazzmate, a frien’, really.”

  “Why?”

  “I … I needed it.” He stared at the photograph with a deep sadness. “We had just met when this was taken.”

  “Well, if it’s bothering you, after all these years, why don’t you make it right?”

  He doubled over, hiding his face from me. “Nooo.”

  “You could just give the thing back, right? Whatever you stole? Plus interest of some kind and a hefty apology.”

  “No. No. It’s much too late. My whole life would disappear, Ivy. You don’t understand.”

  “Well, good grief. What could be that important?” I said.

  He shook his head but kept his
face hidden from the light.

  Why had he changed his story? Why had he told me the truth at check-in and lied after Renee’s death? “Clyde, when’s the last time you saw the friend you stole from? Do you have some reason to believe he would take revenge on you?”

  “Ssso you do believe I was fframed.”

  “I think so.” I sipped my whiskey again. The motion had become habitual, comforting. “So who is your old friend? Anyone in the grave society? Anyone you’ve seen recently around the hotel?”

  Clyde cleared his throat and handed the photo back to me. “No. No one like that.”

  And if that friend was seeking revenge, why now, after all this time?

  “There must have been some kind of trigger,” I said aloud, accidentally.

  “Trigger. Everybody getting triggered these days. Bunch of lousy snowflakes. M’llennials.” He laid down on the couch now and threw one hand over his eyes.

  I looked past that critique of my generation and went on. “Listen, I think I know how Renee’s killer got to her, but whoever it was would’ve had to know the hotel—intimately.”

  He didn’t look up.

  “They would’ve had a plan in place long before you checked in. Clyde?”

  “But”—he licked his lips—“how’d they plan when they di’n’ know which room Renee and I would be staying in?”

  He had a good point there, especially for a drunk guy.

  “Only the club treasurer would know that,” he slurred.

  “Treasurer?”

  “The treasurer made … the reservations.”

  Shoot. Leonard had said Clyde put forward the money for the rooms. I would’ve thought that meant Clyde made the reservations too. Had he handed off his credit card to the treasurer? “Clyde.”

  No movement. No answer.

  I got up and patted his face. “Clyde, who’s the treasurer? Who booked the rooms for your group?”

  He mumbled something that might have been jobs.

  Or else Chaves.

  If Clyde were an emoji at that moment, he’d have been the one with the little z’s coming out its face. I couldn’t revive him.

  I stood up to hunt for the bag of Renee’s things and found I was doing only marginally better. I realized I hadn’t eaten lunch and my dinner had been that bag of chocolate-covered bacon.

 

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