by Dana Dratch
Chapter 21
I vowed that I’d keep Rube’s secrets. And asked that he do the same about the possible identity of the saboteur. We sealed the deal with me promising more of Nick’s cookies. Or whatever freshly baked goodies my brother might have available.
I could see Paul as the prankster. I couldn’t see him as the killer. But Emily had been worried he might turn violent. So I was wondering if Georgie had shared something specific.
Which meant she was my next stop.
I didn’t have any cookies to break the ice this time. But with the meal she’d put away at afternoon tea, I didn’t see how she’d have room for any. I found her out on the patio, in sunglasses, stretched out in a chaise longue reading a book. Teatime was over, and the place was almost deserted.
How exactly did you accuse someone of sabotage with absolutely zero proof?
“Hey, Georgie,” I said finally. “You and I need to have a quick talk. I know what’s going on.”
Even behind the glasses I could see her face crumple. She nodded, mutely.
“Who are you working for?” I asked.
She pulled off the sunglasses. Her hazel eyes were red and puffy. She’d clearly been crying, and fresh tears rolled down her damp cheeks. I pulled a napkin off the table next to her drink and handed it to her.
“How did you know?” she said, blotting her eyes and dabbing her nose.
“Who’s behind it?”
“The Alexandria House Inn and Spa. The owner. His name is Hamilton Stephens.”
I knew Ham Stephens. Ironically, he was tight with Lydia. They ran with the same old-money crowd.
“But it wasn’t supposed to be like this,” she said, sobbing. “I swear.”
“Tell me. What were you supposed to do before it got out of hand?”
“Paul and I aren’t really married. We’re actors. When we can get work. The rest of the time, I wait tables. Mr. Stephens saw us in a play at the Fairfax Theatre. He hired us. We were supposed to pose as a honeymoon couple. He’d pay for ten days at the inn. Everything included. Meals. Room service. Taxis. Everything. And Paul said it would be like live theater. We’d create characters and get to live them twenty-four hours a day. That’s why Paul always wore that stupid baby’s breath in his lapel. He felt that’s what his groom character would do. To me it was just a chance to take a real vacation. I never could have afforded it otherwise.”
“What did Ham Stephens want you to do?”
“Just take some notes. On anything that wasn’t perfect. Like if the service was slow, or the guests were too loud, or a meal was cold. Like a Yelp review, only we were just looking for the bad stuff.”
“So what happened?”
“For the first few days, everything was great. I mean, really great. I was having a blast. But Paul was worried. He was the one who had to report in to Mr. Stephens every day. He said the guy was getting angry because we weren’t finding anything. Really angry.”
“Why not just go home?”
“That’s what I thought. Then Paul said, ‘Don’t worry, we just need more data.’ That’s what he called it. Data. He said Mr. Stephens believed that if we just hung around a few more days, we’d start to see flaws. ‘Cracks in the veneer,’ he called them. But that wasn’t true. Later, I found out that Paul was doing things. Making things happen.”
“Sabotage?”
“Yeah,” she said, inhaling deeply. “He’d stuff paper into people’s toilets when they were out, or turn off the water pipes. He even did something to the water heater one time. But they got it up and running just a couple of hours later. Paul was so pissed.”
“How did you find out what he was doing?”
“He told me. He said it was his idea, and it was the only reason Mr. Stephens was letting us stay.”
She started snuffling again. “I didn’t want that. I just wanted to go home. But Paul said if I did that, his cover would be blown. And he warned me that Mr. Stephens knows a lot of people in the local theater community.”
“Where’s Paul now?”
“I don’t know,” she bawled. “I haven’t seen him in hours. He never showed up for brunch. And when I went back to the room after tea, his stuff was gone. I don’t know what to do.”
“Is your bill paid up?” I asked.
“Yeah, Mr. Stephens paid it with a credit card that belongs to his driver. I was supposed to say it was my father’s card. We’re scheduled to check out Tuesday morning.”
“What’s your real name?”
“Georgette Lange. I live in Herndon. Paul’s last name is Hartnett. But I think that’s just his stage name. I know he lives in Arlington.”
“Pack up your stuff and go home this afternoon,” I said. “Don’t worry about Paul. You’ve got to think of yourself. And you want to get out.”
“Are they going to arrest me?” she asked. When she wiped her nose, I could see her hand was trembling.
“You made a couple of bad choices, but I don’t think you did anything illegal,” I said. “I’ll talk to Ian. Even if this was criminal, I don’t think he’ll press charges. But he might want to talk with you about Ham Stephens. That part’s up to him.”
“Mr. Stephens’ll kill me.”
“I don’t think Ian will blow your cover. As far as Ham Stephens is concerned, you held up your part of the bargain. There just wasn’t anything to report. Go pack. Go home. Get on with your life.”
She wiped her reddened nose with the linen napkin. “This place is beautiful. But after those first couple of days? All I wanted to do was go home. I just wanna chill out in front of the TV on my smelly old sofa with my roommate and our cat.”
“Before you take off, one more question. That insurance salesman who checked in Thursday afternoon—what did he look like?”
Georgie took a deep breath, steadying her voice. “The insurance guy? Sandy-blond hair and freckles. I remember thinking he had even more freckles than me.”
“Do you remember what he was wearing?”
She cocked her head to one side. “Some kind of a jacket. Not a suit jacket, but casual. For the weather. Tan, I think.”
“Was his hair short or long?”
“Super short. I kinda thought it looked like what’s left after you harvest a wheat field.”
“A crew cut?”
“Yeah.”
“You knew he sold insurance because of what he said to Harkins when he checked in. Do you remember what he said? His exact words?”
“I don’t remember exactly,” she said, blotting her eyes. “Something about ‘You’re a smart man. You know you need insurance.’ Then he said something like ‘But you’re lucky—that happens to be my business.’”
Knowing what I now knew about Harkins, I’m betting this guy was into a whole different kind of “insurance.” What Georgie had overheard was a threat. Or a shakedown. Shortly after this guy arrived, he was dead in the freezer. And Harkins had vanished.
Chapter 22
Now I had to talk to Ian.
The real question: Just how much was I going to tell him? Did he know about the mini museum with millions of dollars’ worth of fine art in his father’s “study”? Given the presence of someone in Harkins’s closet, were the paintings even still there? Or had they disappeared—like the body in the basement?
And who was that man who had been threatening Harkins? Did Ian know him? Did Ian kill him? Did Harkins kill him? If so, was that why he ran? Or had Insurance Guy killed Harkins? Could Ian have killed Insurance Guy in revenge—and stashed his body in the basement?
I had a good idea what Insurance Guy really was, but I still didn’t know his name. Why did I think Ian might? Was that why he wanted to see the body? Or did he know that, by the time we returned to the basement, it wouldn’t be there?
Too many questions, too few answers.
When I walked into the lobby, Ian was at the desk, fielding a phone call. He typed something into a small computer console.
“We’re looking forward t
o seeing you then, Mrs. Martinez. And let me know if you change your mind about having someone pick you up at Reagan National. Of course! Have a lovely day!”
He tapped a couple of keys, then looked up at me. “Well, hullo! Nice to see you again. I trust you enjoyed mid-morning tea?”
“It was very nice,” I said. “But that’s not why I’m here. We need to talk.”
“Is it about my father? Have you learned where he is?”
“No, nothing yet. It’s about the inn. Is there a place where we could speak privately? This isn’t a conversation you want to have in public—or in front of the guests.”
Ian was clearly perplexed. “My private study’s just over here,” he said, stepping quickly to a door off to the left of the lobby. “Let’s talk in here.”
He unlocked the door with an old-fashioned brass key, stepped inside, and held the door open for me.
The study was actually a small library, complete with antique, built-in oak bookshelves and a fireplace. It reminded me of the B&B’s main library.
The fireplace was set off with a marble hearth, intricately carved woodwork, a heavy vintage oak mantel, and a Renoir.
I was drawn to it, as if pulled. It looked identical to the one upstairs.
The paintings upstairs were minus their frames. And the canvasses sported a light sprinkling of dust. This one had a frame. And it was dust-free.
So either Ian had done a bit of framing and light housekeeping sometime in the past few hours, or this was a different painting.
Bizarre.
I turned to catch Ian studying me. I couldn’t read his expression.
“You were right,” I said. “Someone has been sabotaging the inn.”
“Who?”
“Paul the happy honeymooner. But he was sent here by one of your competitors, Ham Stephens.”
“From the Alexandria House? Good Lord, why?”
“I’m guessing he didn’t exactly welcome the competition.” But was it strictly a tug-of-war over guests? Or did the rivalry have anything to do with the affections of one Lydia Stewart?
“Where is Paul?” Ian asked.
“No idea. Georgie hasn’t seen him in a while. It sounds like he cleared out today. Left her high and dry, by the way. And I really don’t think she was part of it.”
“I can’t believe Ham Stephens is such a total snake. Are you certain?”
I nodded. “I just spoke with Georgie. She could be spinning a story, but I don’t think so. And there are a few things you can check. Including the credit card used to pay for their stay. According to Georgie, it really belongs to Ham’s driver.”
“The unremitting gall of the man! He actually hosted a drinks party to welcome me to the so-called local fraternity of innkeepers. He’s a gold-plated phony.”
“That’s a pretty good description of Ham Stephens,” I said, grimacing. “He hired a couple of out-of-work actors to pose as newlyweds. Supposedly just to make notes on your weaknesses. Anything that was going wrong, anything that could be used against you. The problem was, there was nothing to report. So Paul kicked it up a notch and turned himself into a one-man wrecking crew. Electric, plumbing, lighting, you name it—he broke it.”
“Is it possible Ham didn’t know about the sabotage?”
“According to Georgie, Paul reported in to him by phone every day. Paul told Georgie that the sabotage was his idea, and that Ham just green-lighted it. But from what I know about Ham, I think it was more likely the other way around. They could have even planned the sabotage angle from the beginning and just kept Georgie in the dark. She’s young, and broke and scared you’re going to have her arrested. Or rat her out to Ham.”
“I would never. On my honor. I would like to speak with her, though.”
“I think she’s expecting that. I told her you might. I also told her the best move was for her to pack up and leave this afternoon. For what it’s worth, that’s all she’s wanted to do since Paul started in on the sabotage. She was just looking for a free vacation—a couple of days with all expenses paid at a nice inn. Then it spun out of control, and she didn’t know what to do. Apparently, Ham is plugged into the local theater scene. And Paul used that to threaten her career if she left.”
“Poor kid. I’ll talk to her before she leaves and tell her ‘no worries.’ No idea where Paul is, then?”
“Both he and his bags are gone. Georgie says he lives in Arlington and goes by the last name of Hartnett. But she thinks that’s just his stage name.”
“I don’t know whether to be appalled or relieved,” Ian said. “I can’t let Ham get away with this unchallenged, of course. But I am very glad to know that this place isn’t truly crumbling around us. I don’t know how you did this—how you put it all together—but thank you. This is quite amazing.”
He was standing across the room, staring at me with those blue eyes. I should have been happy. And I did feel that stupid flutter.
But, at the same time, I couldn’t help but wonder just how much Ian really knew about his father.
Chapter 23
I might not have told Ian what I’d found in Harkins’s room. But I did tell Nick and Trip. As soon as I got home.
Nick deserved to know what was going on over there. Or at least what little I knew about what was going on over there.
His take: It was good news. Since he wasn’t an art thief—or shaking down an art thief—he was bulletproof.
I just hoped he didn’t mean that literally.
Trip agreed with him. To a point.
“OK, it won’t go on LinkedIn’s list of best places to work. But as long as Nick sticks to the kitchen and doesn’t go poking around, he’ll probably be fine,” Trip said, as the two of us sipped coffee on my front porch. “If Harkins did kill the guy you found, it sounds like he did it in self-defense. So who do you think was in the closet? Do you think Harkins came back for his stuff?”
“In broad daylight? I doubt it. If he’s on the run, it makes more sense to come back at night. But I want to know more about those paintings. I’ve been doing a little research.”
“Do tell,” Trip said, steepling his fingers.
“That Renoir? I saw it a couple of years ago when Mom and I went to an exhibition at the Corcoran. Business tycoons had loaned pieces from their private collections for a special show. The stuff was spectacular. And Jameson Blair owned that Renoir.”
“Oh, jeez, not him,” Trip said.
“Why? What have you heard?”
“Made his money in acquisitions. Buys companies, builds them up, takes them public, cashes out. Or buys them up and guts them. Either way, has his fat little fingers in a lot of pies. A couple of guys on the business desk have been looking at him pretty closely. They’ve been hearing rumors that his dealings are a little less than ethical. Or legal. Self-described big shot. Lavish lifestyle. Throws around cash. Planes, yachts, parties. The ladies love him. A little too much. Wife number two found out, and from what I hear, she’s hired a really good divorce lawyer.”
“He also owns at least three of the other paintings I saw in Harkins’s room. And there were two more paintings that I didn’t recognize, but . . .”
“But it definitely sounds like Harkins—or whoever—was targeting his collection. The question is why?”
“The question is why was there an exact replica of that Renoir in Ian’s private library?” I told him.
“Holy impressionists, Batgirl, are you sure?”
“Exactly the same, save a frame on one and a little dust on the other. Ian’s short-handed. If he was going to tidy up and frame some art, he’d focus on the public areas, not his own library. And believe me, there were bookshelves in that room with dust to spare.”
“So the innkeeper isn’t a great housekeeper. At least that’s something you have in common,” he said, pulling a big red rubber bone from the back of his chair and tossing it onto the porch. “Maybe Blair is the key.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Har
kins could have targeted him for a reason,” Trip said. “If we knew more about him, we might be able to fill in some of the blanks about Harkins. Maybe they have a past. Or something in the present that connects them.”
“It smelled like turpentine. And oil paint.”
“Ian’s library?”
“Harkins’s study. Those paintings looked like the real thing. But that room? That was an artist’s studio.”
“So Harkins is an art forger, as well as an art thief. Maybe he did the one in the library.”
“Ian said that Harkins selected his rooms because there’s a view and they’re private. He also said that his father usually keeps the study door unlocked, but lately he’s been locking it.”
“So whatever this is started recently.”
Four bicyclers coasted down the street. The neighborhood racing squad again. The leader waved, and I waved back.
“Ian admitted that Harkins has a criminal past,” I said. “But he wouldn’t share any of the details. He doesn’t have a record over here. Not that I’ve been able to find. But I wonder about back in Great Britain. What if he was a reformed art forger?”
“If so, sounds like Daddy’s fallen off the wagon.”
“So how does Blair’s getting divorced make him a target for art theft?” I asked.
“No idea,” Trip said. “And maybe it doesn’t.”
“Have you noticed that every time I think I’m closing in on an answer, it just opens up more questions?”
Chapter 24
It’s odd how quickly even the weirdest things can start to seem routine.
Over the next couple of days, with Baba in residence and J.B. content and happy, life seemed almost normal.
The Mega Baby guys assembled the crib in fifteen minutes flat. We set it up in my room, and Baba and I took turns getting up with J.B. at night. But Nick usually pitched in with at least one night feeding, when he got back from Ian’s in the wee hours of the morning.
Every night, when I heard him come through the front door, I was relieved. Apparently, holding my tongue also meant holding my breath. It was torture. The only thing Nick and I agreed on: not to tell Baba.