Margaritas, Marzipan, and Murder

by Harper Lin

  “Sorry, we’re full,” he muttered, not even looking up at me.

  “I’m not looking for a room. I’m looking for a person.”

  He raised his eyebrows to look at me without having to change the angle of his head. I waited, but he didn’t say anything.

  “I think he’s a guest of yours?”

  He pointed with his cell phone-poking finger over at a phone in the corner. He managed to do it without changing his elbow’s position on the table. It was quite a feat of stillness. “You can call his room from there. Just dial the room number.” He went back to tapping at his phone.

  I took a slow, deep breath through my clenched teeth. I stepped closer to the counter. “I don’t know his room number. That’s why I came in here.”

  “Oh. Well, can’t you call his cell or something?” he asked without looking up.

  Most of the time, I didn’t feel much older than the teenagers I encountered, but this kid was making me feel every bit of our nearly twenty-year age difference.

  I suddenly understood what my grandfather had felt when he called the more disrespectful teenagers he encountered “little twerps.” This kid was a little twerp, and I was done with him. I placed my hands firmly on the counter and barely restrained myself from slamming them down as hard as I could. He finally looked fully up at me.

  “Excuse me, young man, but I am asking you to please stop messing around on your phone long enough to help me with one simple request. Since that seems to be beyond what you are willing to do today, could you please go get your supervisor for me. And don’t even try to tell me that you’re the manager, because if you are, I want to see the owner. I have lived in this town long enough to be quite certain you are not that.”

  Before the little twerp could say anything, a middle-aged man came through a door behind him. He was balding slightly with a sizable paunch. Warm brown eyes shone out from behind the wire-frame glasses perched on his nose.

  “Hi, I’m the owner. Can I help you?” he said kindly, stepping up to the counter. He completely ignored the little twerp, who leaned back in his chair and glared at me. I glared right back. He may not have known it yet, but I was winning this.

  “Hi,” I replied, just as nicely. The little twerp would see how customers and business representatives were supposed to interact. “I was wondering if you could help me with something. I’m looking for someone who I think might be a guest of yours.” I cast a glance twerp-ward. “Would you mind if we spoke in private?”

  “Of course. Come back around into my office here with me.”

  I stepped around the counter and went into his office. He gestured for me to take a chair and shut the door behind us. He sat down across the desk from me.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Mr.…”

  “Martin. Edward Martin. And you, I believe, are Francesca Amaro.”

  “Yes, I am,” I said, startled. “How—”

  “You’re Carmella’s daughter.”

  I nodded.

  “I’ve been too busy to make it over to Antonia’s much this summer, but I usually make it up there quite a lot during the off-season. Your mother was a lovely woman. Her passing was quite a loss to the Cape Bay community.”

  “Thank you.” His kind words made my throat tighten up.

  “Of course, from everything I’ve heard, you’re doing quite well yourself. A real honor to her memory. So, kudos.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Now, you said you’re looking for a guest of mine?”

  “Yes.” I took a deep breath. I needed to get my mind off my mother and back on the case. “A Mr. Abraham Casey.”

  “Abraham Casey,” he repeated. He turned in his chair toward his computer and punched a few buttons. After a moment, he nodded. “Yes, Room 205. But I don’t think you asked to speak privately just to find out his room number.”

  I took a deep breath. I was worried about convincing him to give me information. I wasn’t with the police, and I wasn’t a friend or family member of Abraham Casey. I was barely an acquaintance of Edward Martin. He had no reason at all to give me the information I was looking for. To complicate matters, I didn’t even know if the police had told him about the man’s death. I certainly didn’t want to be the one to break it to him.

  “Is anyone staying here with him?”

  “Just how do you know Mr. Casey, Francesca?”

  “Fran, please. Call me Fran.”

  “And you can call me Ed.” He paused, and I thought I was off the hook.

  “How do you know Mr. Casey, Fran?”

  I closed my eyes for a second and took a deep breath. I was at a crossroads. I could lie to this fellow local business owner, whom I would probably see around town on a regular basis, and risk any potential goodwill that might exist between us. Or I could tell the truth and risk not getting the information I was looking for. The little twerp out front certainly wasn’t going to help me out. I needed to preserve my reputation in Cape Bay, but I needed the information, too.

  I took a deep breath and opened my mouth, still not certain what was going to come out.

  “I don’t.” I waited for him to kick me out.

  “May I ask why you’re inquiring after him?” he asked kindly.

  There was something in the way he asked that made me willing to go out on a limb. “I think you may already know.”

  Ed leaned back in his chair and took off his glasses. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “I was afraid of that.”

  Afraid I was asking because I was nosing around a murder case? Or afraid Abraham Casey was the man in the alley everyone in Cape Bay had heard about?

  “You’re sure? That Casey is the dead man?”

  “Reasonably so, yes.”

  “And you’re asking about him because?”

  “Because apparently it’s what I do.” I immediately realized how strange it must sound.

  “Ah, yes, I’d heard about that.” He slid his glasses back onto his face and leaned his elbows back on his desk.

  Really? Everyone in town!

  “It’s nothing lurid, I promise. I’m not going to publish the information anywhere or anything. I just have questions. And if that gets people thinking and helps the police solve the case a little faster, then that’s a good thing.”

  “It was a suicide, though, wasn’t it?”

  “It may have been.” I stopped, wondering how much I should say. I didn’t really know Ed, so as genial as he seemed, I decided it might be best to play some of my cards close to the vest. “Someone,” I said, carefully omitting Mary Ellen’s name, “heard shouting from the alley just before the gunshot. Maybe it was a suicide. But if it wasn’t, it would be an injustice to let a murderer go free.”

  Ed nodded thoughtfully. He rubbed his hand over his balding head and sighed. “He was here alone,” he said finally then made a face. “He checked in alone. One adult on the reservation.”

  I noticed the careful way he phrased it. “But?”

  “The other night, uh, Thursday, I was here late taking care of a maintenance issue in 207—a clogged toilet—some college kid shoved a towel down in there and still thought it should flush. Dumb kids. Anyway, I was going out when Casey was coming in. I was the one who checked him in, so I knew he was alone. Except he wasn’t alone.” Ed paused and fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair. “He was with a young lady.” He held up his hands quickly. “Now I’m not one to judge. A man can do whatever he wants with his time. In my hotel, as long as you’re not breaking the law or disturbing the other guests, you’re free to do what you please. Heck, for all I know, she was Mrs. Casey. He wore a wedding ring, you know.”

  I did know. I’d seen it in some of his many pictures online. And I’d also seen Mrs. Casey in some of those pictures. “Can you describe the woman he was with?”

  “Are you sure you’re not working for the police?” He chuckled.

  “I’m sure.” I smiled. “Just want to figure out who else I should talk to.”

  �
�Sure. She was young. A little older than the college girls who stay here a lot. Maybe in her mid-twenties, maybe a little older. She was a pretty girl. Blond hair, very tan. She looked like she spends a fair bit of time on the beach. Her outfit didn’t leave much to the imagination. She was very…” He cleared his throat and looked away from me. He lowered his voice to barely more than a whisper. “She was very well…” He paused again. “Very well endowed.” He looked like he was beyond embarrassed. He paused, and I waited to give him time to get past his discomfort. “You know, come to think of it, I don’t think she was his wife.”

  I choked back a laugh. The buxom blonde ten years or more his junior wasn’t clean-cut, fastidious Abraham Casey’s wife? No kidding! I supposed there had been more ridiculous pairings. Part of my disbelief likely had something to do with having seen pictures of the actual Mrs. Casey, who was beautiful in her own right, but much more of what you might expect the wife of a pharmacist from Boston to look like. Leah Casey was also blond but looked more the type to slather on sunscreen each day and wear sweater sets.

  “What makes you think that?” I managed to ask and hoped I didn’t give away how preposterous I found the very thought.

  “Well, I just realized that I’ve seen her around town before. I think she’s a waitress over at the Sand Bar.”

  Dawn bartended at the Sand Bar. If Ed was right, and Abraham Casey’s mystery woman was a waitress there, Dawn might be able to tell me who she was. It was a lucky break.

  “Was there anything else you noticed about her? Or him?”

  Ed looked up toward the ceiling thoughtfully and drummed his fingers lightly on the desk. “No, no, not that I can think of. Is there anything you had in mind? Something in particular?”

  “Did either of them say anything to you?”

  “Not a word. Casey looked at me, but he didn’t say anything. They both seemed pretty tipsy. She was hanging all over him, saying something about how she had been so stressed out and low on money and just needed to relax and was so glad she’d run into him. That was all I heard.”

  The interesting information certainly painted a different picture of the man than his social network postings.

  “When he checked in, did he say why he was in Cape Bay?”

  “He didn’t. Most people come for vacation. I assumed he was here for that reason also.”

  “Did he have a reservation, or did he just show up?”

  “Reservation.” He punched a few buttons on his computer. “Made three months ago.”

  “For how long?”

  He peered at the computer again. “Wednesday through Saturday.”

  “So not the whole weekend?”

  “No.”

  “Is that normal?”

  “Not at all. Wednesday through Saturday is a very unusual reservation span. We’re not as structured as the houses, but for the most part, people stay a whole week, or Friday through Sunday, or sometimes just a night or two in the middle of the week. But Wednesday through Saturday, that’s unusual.”

  I had asked every question I had come in planning to ask, but I took a moment to think. I wanted to make a smoother exit from the Seaside Inn than I had at Mary Ellen’s the day before when I tried to leave three times before I finally ran out of questions. I didn’t want Ed Martin’s first impression of me to be that I was scatterbrained.

  “What did you think of him? Abraham Casey, I mean,” I asked finally. “What was he like?”

  “He seemed like a nice man. Kind, friendly. Tried to offer me a tip just for checking him in. He didn’t even need help with his bags. He kept his room very tidy but left generous tips for the maids each day. That’s actually when I first suspected that it was him in the alley—Amelia mentioned that his bed hadn’t been slept in and there was no tip. Now, don’t get me wrong, it’s not like they expect a tip each day. It’s just that Casey had left a ten, clearly labeled as being for the maid, both of the previous nights. When nothing was disturbed Saturday morning, and there was no tip, but his bag was still there—well, I was concerned.”

  We sat for a moment and reflected on the dead man. Ed had met him personally and seemed to like him. I was just putting together a picture of him through his social media and the reflections of others. But both of us felt saddened by his passing.

  “Well, I’ve certainly taken up enough of your time.” I scooted to the edge of my chair. “Thank you, and it was a pleasure to meet you.” I extended my hand across the desk, and he shook it.

  “Thank you for coming by. You certainly jogged my memory. Do you think I should call the police to let them know that Casey was staying here?”

  “They haven’t been by yet?”

  “No. I was holding out hope that it meant the man in the alley wasn’t our guest.”

  I wondered if that was the case. Everything I’d found pointed in Abraham Casey’s direction, and it would be an unbelievable coincidence if the dead man were someone else. “It can’t hurt to call.”

  “You’re right. I’ll do that.”

  We stood, and he walked me to the door.

  “Oh, one other thing.” I nearly kicked myself for doing the exact same thing I’d done at Mary Ellen’s. I stopped for a moment, trying to figure out how best to phrase what I wanted to say. “The young man at the desk—”

  “My sister’s kid.” Ed cut me off. “I’d fire him if I could, but I’d get such a guilt trip about it from my mother. I just haven’t worked up the nerve. I try to schedule him when there’s not too much foot traffic in the lobby so I don’t inflict him on too many people.”

  “I can’t say I blame you for that.” I bid Ed Martin farewell and went into the lobby. The little twerp didn’t even glance up at me as I walked by. He made me glad I was an only child.

  Chapter 12

  On the way to the café, the weight of my thick hair reminded me to ask Sammy for a stylist recommendation. “Ask Sammy about hair. Ask Sammy about hair. Ask Sammy about hair. Ask Sammy about hair.” I mentally repeated the phrase.

  When I walked through the back door, Sammy was pushing the boxes I’d moved back to where they belonged on the shelves.

  “Did you do this?” she asked immediately. She was very possessive of the storeroom organization. She considered it a personal point of pride that she knew where everything was and could produce it in seconds.

  “Ask Sammy about hair,” I said out loud.

  “What?”

  “Sorry, I’ve just been reminding myself. Yes, I did that. I’m sorry. I was trying to organize and—you know how when you try to clean up a room, sometimes it gets messier before it gets cleaner?” The look on Sammy’s face indicated she was not familiar with that phenomenon. “Well, that’s what happened. Also, can you recommend a good stylist? My hair is getting long, and I don’t know who to go to.”

  “Everything was organized just fine before you went on your little…” She looked around as though baffled by what I’d done. “Your little rampage here. Don’t do that again or at least tell me if you do. I can’t find the napkins for the life of me. And Chase Williams down at Beach Waves. I’ve been going to him for years.”

  “Chase does hair? I had no idea.” Why had no one ever mentioned my childhood neighbor had grown up to be a hair stylist? “And the napkins are over on the left side of the third shelf. P for paper.”

  Sammy looked at me blankly.

  “I alphabetized everything. A through G is on the top shelf, H through N on the second, O through U on the third, and V through Z on the bottom.”

  Sammy blinked. She opened her mouth and closed it. She held up one finger. “Why not N for napkins?”

  “I thought all the paper products should be together.”

  “And alphabetized under P.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Sammy looked at me, and from her expression, I couldn’t tell if she wanted to hug me, pat me on the head, or cry. “Please do not organize.”

  I laughed. “That bad, huh?”

  “Yes.
That bad.”

  “I thought it kind of worked.”

  “Oh, Fran.”

  “No?”

  “How many supplies do you think we have that can be categorized as V through Z?”

  “Water?”

  “We get that from a tap,” she whispered, sounding somewhat exasperated.

  “Good point.”

  “Please don’t organize again.” I was now certain she wanted to pat me on the head.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You better be glad I love you.” She gave me a hug then looked at my face and shook her head.

  “You better be glad you’re great at your job. You couldn’t get away with talking to your boss like that just everywhere, you know,” I teased.

  “Is that a threat?” she joked back.

  “No, the café would go under without you. It was just a statement of fact.”

  Sammy laughed. “Come over here and help me put everything back where it belongs.”

  I tilted my head to see how Becky was doing out in front. It wasn’t very busy, and she looked as though she had everything under control. “Do you think Becky’s doing okay? I could go out there and help her,” I said just to irk Sammy.

  “No!” She laughed. “You will stay here and fix what you messed up, young lady!” I hadn’t seen her in such a good mood in weeks, and I wondered if the time spent canning with her mother had done her good or if it was something else.

  “Yes, Sammy.” I gave in to my fate of straightening up. I let Sammy direct me for the most part, and as we worked, we actually came up with a better organizational system. I made a mental note to point out that my messing with things had turned out for the best after all. But at the moment, I had something else I wanted to bring up.

  “Hey, do you know if Dawn is working tonight?”

  “I think so. Labor Day weekend. People will want to go out and party more than usual for a Sunday because of the holiday tomorrow. Why?”

  “I just wanted to ask her about something. I figured I may as well try to catch her at work.”