Seeing Red

by Dana Dratch

  “Some poisons stay in the system,” he said. “Wouldn’t be a bad idea for you medically, either. Your doc can do it and share the samples with us.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Marty said. “Whatever’s necessary.” He looked a little pale. And there was a slight tremor in the hand holding the binoculars.

  “Thanks, Mr. Crunk. That’ll be a big help. Well, we’re all done here,” he said, tapping the top of our car.

  We sat there, watching him walk away—both too stunned to say anything. It was one thing to speculate about insurance policies and money motives. It was another to realize just how close Marty had come.

  The cops pulled out of the driveway with a sulky Helen cuffed in the backseat.

  After we watched the car retreat, I turned to Marty. “You ready to go home now?”

  “Nah, I could eat,” he said. “How about a bacon cheeseburger? My treat.”

  Chapter 55

  Just after we’d finished our fast-food feast, I checked my cell.

  One message. Blocked number.

  My heart beat a little faster, as I dialed in to voice mail. Was something wrong with Alistair? Were they calling from the doctor’s office? Or the hospital?

  Gabby’s voice burbled in my ear. “Good news, sugar! It looks like things have solved themselves. We’re bugging out tonight after dark. If you get this before then, stop by and say ‘hey.’ Love you, sister-girl!”

  They must have made the switch. That meant Gabby was going back to Vegas. And Harkins and Daisy would be going into hiding. With Alistair.

  Damn.

  When we got to the house, I leashed up Lucy, grabbed the pooper-scooper, and set off for Magnolia Circle.

  From the outside, the place looked deserted. Just like last time. The grass was a little higher. And it had sprouted a few dandelions. I looked around quickly, unclipped Lucy from her leash, and gave her a gentle pat on her plump behind.

  “Go on, run up that hill,” I said in the high happy voice. “Charge up that hill, and I can follow my little runaway puppy.”

  I didn’t have to ask her twice. Lucy loved to run. Her legs were getting longer, and she was getting faster. By the time she reached the front step, the door was open.

  The pup raced inside, and I followed. Then the door shut quickly and quietly behind us. Gabby.

  “You guys are done already?” I asked, as she gave Lucy a well-deserved tummy scratch.

  “Not exactly done, sugar. The job was canceled.”

  “So you don’t have to switch the art?”

  “Well, yes and no.” She grinned. “Come on in. You can meet some of the team.”

  The last time I’d stopped by, the place had been empty, except for Gabby and Daisy. This afternoon, it was a hive.

  A steady stream of people moved in and out of the room. Pushing carts, hauling equipment, boxing up who-knows-what. They flowed around us in what was obviously a well-choreographed dance. I felt like a clump of dust in a high-performance engine.

  The air mattresses were gone. The mini fridges were still there. But empty and open. The cartons of snack food were depleted.

  Off to the side, three older guys were clustered around the folding table. Which was littered with cards, poker chips, potato chips, and soda cans.

  “I call,” one said.

  “Yeah, and you know what I call you,” another chimed in.

  “My last hand,” the third said. “I’m busted ’til payday.”

  “Today is payday, Leo.”

  “Well then, deal me in.”

  All three laughed, as one shuffled the deck and tossed out cards like a shark.

  “Guys, this is Alex. Alex, these are the guys.”

  “Well, hello there. Any friend of Gabby’s is a friend of ours.”

  “So what’s your skill set?” one asked. “Are you a pickpocket, too?”

  Gabby and I shook our heads.

  “No, I’m more of a communications specialist,” I said.

  “I’m Fred, this is Leo, and that’s Pete the Pick,” the dealer said.

  “Ben,” the man corrected, sticking out his hand. “Benny to my friends.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said, shaking his hand. “But why do you go by ‘Pete the Pick’?”

  “‘Benny the Pick’ doesn’t sound as good. Plus, it makes me that much harder to find.”

  “Got it,” I said.

  “Come on, we can talk over here,” Gabby said, gesturing at a couple more folding chairs set up by the big, expensive-looking leather sofa.

  “First rule of camping in,” she said. “You never use their stuff. People notice if there’s a new dent in their sofa or if their bed smells like someone else. And if you wash their sheets, that’s a dead giveaway.”

  “What’s with the boxes of snacks,” I asked, wondering if we might be able to get some of those industrial-sized cartons for Baba’s next visit.

  “Can’t use their fridge, either. People may not remember exactly what they have or where it is. But they notice if it’s different. Especially if you clean it out. If they stash leftover takeout, it better be there when they get back. No matter how funky. So we pack everything in and back out again. We also stick to rooms with wood floors, tile, or flat carpet.”

  “No footprints on the shag?”

  She grinned. “See? You’d be good at this.”

  I’m pretty sure she meant that as a compliment. “So what happened?” I blurted, as she settled into the folding chair.

  “Absolutely no idea,” she said, spreading her hands. “Word came down yesterday. Blair called off the job. We can all go home. Even Harkins and Daisy.”

  I was dumbfounded. “Why?”

  “Nobody knows,” she said, shaking her head—and today’s wig—a sleek blond bob. “But your friend Harkins can’t wipe the smile off his face. And Daisy’s downright giddy. When this is over, they’re both going to the inn. And they wanna pick up their little tyke tonight.”

  “So you don’t have to switch the paintings?”

  She shook her head. “Nope. We don’t have to.” Something about the sparkle in her eyes made me push the issue.

  “But the three stolen ones? The paintings that Blair got illegally?”

  “Already done,” she said, her face lighting up. “Last night.”

  “So Blair calls off the job, the right families still get their art back, and no one is the wiser?”

  “Win-win, sugar. Or, in this case, win-win-win.”

  “Gabby, that’s wonderful! But how on earth did it happen?”

  “The switch was easy. We had that planned for a long time.”

  “Not that! The other part. Blair was rabid. That art collection is his baby. Why would he suddenly drop his demands and call off the job?”

  “No idea, sugar. But I think it’s like one of those laws of nature.”

  “What do you mean?” As far as I knew, the only nature Gabby had ever experienced were the wilds of the Las Vegas strip. But then there was plenty about her I didn’t know.

  “You know in those real-life TV jungle shows, how everything always eats something else? The big animals eat the little ones? And the way bigger ones eat those?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, it kinda sounds like Jameson Blair might have run into something that was way bigger than him.”

  Chapter 56

  I hated saying good-bye to Gabby.

  But, Gabby being Gabby, I had a sneaking suspicion I’d see her again soon. The sooner the better, as far as I was concerned.

  I felt like a louse for not telling Nick she’d been in town. But she and I both knew that would be a mistake. And we both loved him enough to keep that secret.

  So when I told him the story of Harkins’s den of thieves (or whatever they were), I’d just leave out the fact that one of them had been named Gabby.

  She was going to clue in Daisy and Harkins, too. Just in case.

  But I had one final errand I needed to run before I went home to share the happy new
s.

  I wanted to take one more look around the inn before Harkins headed home. Specifically, Paul and Georgie’s room.

  Ian had admitted he’d already known Paul was dead even before I found the baby’s breath in the freezer. And who had killed him.

  But Paul had disappeared long before we’d learned who he was or what he’d been doing there.

  So I was curious. Just how had Ian uncovered it? And had he really learned about Paul and Simmons at the same time?

  The freezer was long gone. But Paul and Georgie’s room was pretty much as they’d left it. Nick had confided that, because Paul had been using drugs and stealing things, Ian had wanted to give the room “a thorough clear-out,” before he let in any guests. Just to be certain there were no nasty surprises. With Harkins still missing, he hadn’t had the manpower to get it done. So, temporarily, Ian just closed the door and left it.

  Luckily, the inn was deserted when I breezed through the front door. I could smell chocolate chip cookies. So it was a pretty good bet Nick was in the kitchen.

  And I knew my mother and most of the guests were off on another of Ian’s excursions. This time to Baltimore’s Inner Harbor.

  Classical music was coming from the direction of Ian’s library. But the door was firmly shut. More “bookkeeping”?

  I didn’t wait for an invitation. I stepped lightly up the stairs. I knew where I was going, though not how I’d get in. Too bad I hadn’t asked for a few pointers from Pete the Pick.

  Luck was with me. The door to Georgie’s room was closed, but not locked.

  The linens on the two rumpled beds didn’t even look like they’d been changed. It was as if time had stopped. I walked over to the window. The curtains were open, but it was overcast. Cloudy.

  When I heard a snap behind me, I whipped around.

  Emily Prestwick.

  “Sorry, dear, didn’t mean to startle you. Bill and I were just getting on the road to Boston when I realized I’d mislaid one of my favorite knitting needles,” she said.

  She bent easily, reached around under the bed, and finally produced a long thin object.

  “Your room’s on three. How did that get here?”

  The minute the words were out of my mouth, the puzzle pieces clicked into place. The Prestwicks’ extended stay. Her antipathy for Paul. Paul, who had gone through the guests’ rooms looking for valuables. And instead found a gun. A “very special gun,” Ian had said.

  Emily had come to Paul’s room. Probably while the others were at brunch. He would have assumed she was there to ransom her gun. That she was unarmed. Just a retired college professor with her knitting. And her knitting needles. Like the one in her hand now. Had its mate killed Paul?

  A knitting needle. So much like a meat thermometer. Like the one found in Ralph Simmons.

  And that baseball-sized bloodstain on Raymond Bell’s chest? It might have been a gunshot. Or it could have been a stab wound. Especially if the weapon was something long and thin.

  “You killed all three of them,” I breathed, truly bewildered. “Why?”

  “Well, my dear, it’s what I do. Not for the money, like our late unlamented Mr. Bell. But for Queen and country. And a small government pension, of course.”

  “But why those three? Why here and now?”

  How could a cold-blooded killer also be the stylish raconteur who’d held court at Ian’s cocktail party? Or kept Georgie and me giggling at our “girls’ tea”?

  “I recognized Bell when he arrived. That man is vile. Truly vile. Trailed him and found him going through a room upstairs. Whatever he was here to do, he would cause a lot of pain. That was Bell’s specialty. Pain. Damnedest thing. When I came back for his body, it was gone. Someone had moved him into the freezer. I’ve stayed in some very fine hotels, but none ever offered that level of service.”

  “Let me guess, the room Bell was going through was on the fourth floor?”

  “Excellent. You know why he was here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well then, you’re a step ahead of me,” she said. “I just knew he didn’t belong here. Not in this house.”

  “What about Simmons?”

  She looked puzzled.

  “Pudgy guy, dark, slicked-back hair, meat thermometer?”

  “That loathsome creature. Always lurking about. I’m afraid he discovered Mr. Bell. And snapped some rather compromising photos. Do you know he was actually blackmailing Mr. Sterling for what I’d done? I couldn’t have that.”

  “And Paul?” Ian had told me one story. I just wondered if they’d synched their narratives.

  “Paul was a weasel. He and Georgie weren’t really married. But I’m guessing you know that?”

  I nodded.

  “Actors. Well, aren’t we all? Paul had a couple of nasty little habits. Sabotage, stealing things, and cocaine. Unfortunately, he lifted a little trinket of mine. And I needed it back. He offered to sell it to me. But let’s just say our negotiations hit a snag.”

  “Does Bill know?” They were so perfect together. Home and garden.

  “Oh, yes, that’s how we met. Years ago. At an academic conference. We were teaching at different colleges. But in the same business, really. He’s more in information procurement. I do a little of that, but mostly troubleshooting and cleanup.”

  “You’re spies. You’re all spies.” It just popped out of my mouth.

  “Well, of course. What else would we be?” She said it as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

  Emily Prestwick was standing between me and the door. I could scream. But other than my brother in the faraway kitchen and Ian in his library blasting Mozart, the house was empty. Even Rube, who hardly ever left his room, had finished his book and decamped. And everyone else was on the latest of Ian’s day trips.

  I couldn’t get over it. She appeared so . . . normal. She looked like the teacher next door. Or your favorite aunt. Hell, she could have played Aunt Margie.

  Physically, she didn’t look like much of a threat. But I was guessing Paul probably thought the same thing. And Simmons. And Bell.

  Mano a mano with a professional assassin? I’d likely lose that one, even if I was armed. Which I wasn’t.

  But we were only two flights up. If I could manage to throw myself out the window, I’d probably survive the fall.

  “Well, Bill is double-parked, so I don’t want to keep him waiting. Take care of yourself, dear.”

  And with that she stepped toward the door. When she turned, I tensed. Ready to hurl myself through Ian’s double-paned, energy-efficient windows.

  “You remind me very much of your father,” she said with a slight smile. “There might be hope for you yet.”

  And with that, Emily Prestwick was gone.

  Chapter 57

  “You’re kidding?” Trip said as I finished the story.

  He’d been so rapt that his Dutch apple pie sat untouched. And by now, his coffee was probably cold.

  “Nope. That’s it. That’s everything.” I slurped my coffee. I was so stressed, I couldn’t eat. And so wired I’d actually ordered decaf.

  “So what now?” he asked.

  “Good question,” I said, eyeing his pie and reconsidering the whole no-food thing.

  “Don’t even think about it,” he said, signaling Mrs. Simon across the café. “This is the last piece. But she’s got a chocolate shoofly that’ll bring tears to your eyes.”

  “You had me at chocolate.”

  “So, was your dad a spy?”

  “No idea. And Dad is one topic that’s pretty much off-limits with Mom.”

  “Because he was a spy?” Trip prodded gleefully.

  “Because it hurts too much. Besides, what do I say? ‘Hey, I ran into an assassin Dad used to know. She said to say ‘hi’?”

  “Shhh!” Trip said. “Top secret. Classified. Eyes only.”

  Mrs. Simon walked over from behind me, topped off our cups, and took my dessert order. When she left, Trip attacked the pie
as if he was making up for lost time.

  “Someone work through lunch again?” I asked.

  “In a newsroom, lunch is often a theoretical concept.”

  He stopped eating and looked at me.

  “What?” I said finally.

  “I know you. You won’t be able to resist asking your mother for an explanation.”

  He was right. “I know. But what the heck do I say? I don’t want to hurt her.”

  “Whatever you do say, you’ll be gentle about it. She’s tough. She’ll be OK. Besides, if it’s true, she had to know this discussion was coming.”

  “She knew puberty was coming, too. Trust me, that didn’t help.”

  He started laughing and had to grab a napkin. “What I really want to know is who put the brakes on Blair?” I said.

  “I know a couple of business reporters who wouldn’t mind knowing, either,” Trip said. “Assuming I can get you to go on the record.”

  I glared at him.

  “Oh, come on,” he coaxed. “You’ve got to admit, it’s at least a little funny.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “If your father was a spy, his job was keeping secrets. Yours is digging them up and sharing them with the world.”

  Chapter 58

  The next Saturday, the B&B was officially closed for the day. To host the wedding of one Mr. Cecil Harkins to the lovely Miss Daisy Campbell. And the christening of Alistair Campbell Harkins.

  Reception to follow.

  Daisy actually enlisted me as a bridesmaid. “We’re gettin’ married in the garden, under the trees,” she told me. “Just wear something that makes ya feel pretty.”

  How cool was that?

  Annie loaned me a short, raw-silk number in coral. I didn’t even want to ask what it cost. But it made me feel like a million. “It’ll look smashing with your hair,” my sister promised.

  I still didn’t completely trust Ian. But I’d put my suspicions on hold, at least temporarily, for the nuptials. Call it an early wedding present for the happy couple.

  I’d shared everything I’d learned about Harkins, Ian, and the inn with Nick. Even what Emily Prestwick had said about our dad.

  I figured we’d pick a date and ambush Mom sometime in the near future. And definitely call in reinforcements in the form of Peter and Annie.