An Unwanted Guest

by Shari Lapena

  * * *

  • • •

  Next, Sergeant Sorensen invites Beverly Sullivan into the dining room. Officer Lachlan, who has an excellent bedside manner, sympathetically offers the bereaved woman a glass of water. She accepts it, takes a sip.

  “Mrs. Sullivan,” she begins, having advised her of her rights. “May I call you Beverly?” Beverly nods. “I’m so sorry about your husband.”

  “Thank you,” she says quietly, tears pooling in her eyes. Lachlan delicately pushes a box of tissues toward her. He’d found them in the kitchen.

  “We don’t know the cause of death yet. It looks like he died of natural causes, but there will have to be a postmortem.” Beverly nods, wiping fiercely at her eyes with a tissue. “I know this must be very difficult,” Sorensen says, “but I’m sure you understand that I must speak to everyone who was here this weekend, to try to determine exactly what happened—and why.”

  Beverly nods again, blows her nose. “Of course.”

  She asks Beverly to give her account of what happened over the course of the weekend. When she gets to the part about bringing Bradley’s body into the lobby, Beverly leans forward slightly and says, “Something odd happened then.”

  “What do you mean?” Sorensen asks. She knows what’s coming—she has already heard about this from David.

  Beverly looks at her for a moment, and then explains. “It was Ian. He was looking at Bradley—” She hesitates, as if unsure how to describe it.

  “How was he looking at him?”

  “He had this look on his face, but only for a moment. It was there, and then it was gone. But it gave me the creeps. I didn’t trust him after that. I whispered to my husband that I thought Ian was the killer. Right after I’d seen that look on his face.” She sits back again in her chair. “Henry hadn’t seen it. Then, when Lauren told the truth—that she’d been shielding him, that he hadn’t been with her all afternoon—”

  “Go on,” she says, when Beverly stops.

  “When Lauren said she’d been covering up for him, it all began to make sense. He denied it, of course. He was desperate that we believe him. The situation was—indescribable.”

  “And what did you think?”

  “I know what I saw. I think Ian is the killer, although he was doing a convincing job of denying it. But he’s probably a good actor.” She leans forward intently and says, “All those years he lied to his parents about his little brother. Who could do that? He must be a psychopath.” She stops, takes a deep breath. “I’ve never met a psychopath before. I was terrified of him then. We all were.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Sorensen interviews Gwen next. She is obviously deeply traumatized by what’s happened, and very distraught over the death of her friend.

  When Gwen has given her account of what happened, she asks, “So Riley wasn’t murdered? She died of exposure?”

  Sorensen says, “We won’t know for sure till the team gets here, but that’s what it looks like.”

  “So she didn’t have to die at all,” Gwen whispers.

  Sorensen comforts her as best she can.

  When she finally sends Gwen back out to the lobby, Sorensen feels slightly overwhelmed for a moment by the situation she finds herself in, but she thrusts the feeling aside and refocuses on the job in front of her.

  * * *

  • • •

  When Sorensen calls in Matthew Hutchinson for questioning, she watches him get up stiffly from his chair and make his way to the dining room.

  Normally they would separate witnesses into different rooms, but it’s easier to have them stick around the fire. She relies on the vigilance of her officers, Perez and Wilcox, to make sure they don’t talk among themselves.

  After advising him of his rights, Sorensen takes her time going through what happened over the weekend with Matthew. She can tell how upset he is. His fiancée is dead. But he answers all of her questions willingly. He has nothing to say that contradicts what the others have told her.

  She asks, “You had no reason to kill your fiancée?”

  “What?” He looks wary now. Afraid.

  “Beverly says she heard you arguing earlier that night. Tell me about that.”

  He drops his head, but he doesn’t deny it. She thought he might. It’s only Beverly’s word against his.

  “Yes, we did argue that night, but it was nothing serious. Just a bit of tension, wedding jitters, you know? She was finding it stressful.”

  “She was finding what stressful, exactly?”

  “The wedding preparations. Dealing with my family. They can be a bit . . . difficult. Intimidating.”

  “Your family wasn’t happy about the wedding?”

  “I wouldn’t say that, exactly.” He looks away. “My mother wasn’t one hundred percent on board, but I loved Dana. And she knew I was going to marry her.”

  “Okay.”

  “I didn’t kill her, or anybody else,” he says truculently.

  “But you could have.”

  “What?”

  “You could have committed all of the murders. There is no one who can swear to being with you when any of the victims were killed.”

  “Why the hell would I do that?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  He stares at her in dismay.

  “Why would your fiancée have left your room in the middle of the night?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “You admit you had an argument. You didn’t go after her, and perhaps—in a moment of anger—push her down the stairs? And then—in for a penny in for a pound—when you saw that she wasn’t dead, you didn’t grit your teeth and smash her head against the bottom step?” She knows she’s being rather harsh. She wants to see how he’ll react.

  “God—no!” He looks appalled. “I didn’t kill her!”

  “And then, perhaps someone here knew. Maybe someone found out. Maybe Candice knew what you’d done, or suspected it, at least. Or maybe Bradley saw something. Did one of them try to blackmail you? Were they both trying to blackmail you?”

  “No! That’s outrageous!” he manages to sputter.

  “Is it?”

  “Of course it is! I didn’t kill my fiancée! I loved her.”

  She gives him a long, thoughtful look.

  He looks back at her, uneasy.

  “Candice was writing a book. Was that book about you? Or about Dana, perhaps? Something that would be damaging?”

  “No. I’d never heard of her. We didn’t know anything about a book. And Dana and I have nothing to hide. Why would anyone write a book about us?”

  She waits, lets him squirm. “Okay. That’s all for now.” She gets up and opens the glass dining-room doors. “You may go back to the lobby.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Sunday, 12:45 p.m.

  Sergeant Sorensen returns Matthew to the lobby and asks for Lauren.

  She watches Lauren rise and walk past her into the dining room. Lauren takes her seat at the table. Sorensen sits down across from her, cautions her, and they begin.

  Sorensen gives her a small smile. “You okay?” she asks.

  Lauren nods. “I guess so, considering.” She accepts a glass of water from Officer Lachlan and takes a sip. She adds, “It will probably all hit me later.”

  Sorensen nods. “Shock.”

  Lauren nods back. She seems tense. They have all been tense.

  “You discovered Dana?”

  “Yes. I went down early to see if I could find some coffee. I didn’t even know if anyone would be up yet.”

  She says, “Go on.”

  “When I got to the landing, I saw Dana lying at the bottom.” She glances at Lachlan, as if embarrassed. “I’m afraid I screamed. I could tell she was dead. She was so—still. I ran down to her an
d—then the others came.”

  “Did you touch her at all?”

  “Yes, I did. I felt for a pulse.” She hesitates before going on. “Then the others arrived. We were all very upset. You don’t expect something like that to happen. We thought she’d fallen down the stairs. And then David—later, David said he thought it wasn’t an accident.”

  “When did he say that?”

  “It was after lunch. He said that she had to stay where she was until the police came. That it might be a crime scene.” Lauren looks up at her. “I don’t think anyone believed him at first—we thought it was an accident, that he was overreacting. Until Candice was killed.”

  Sorensen has her go through the rest of the day, the discovery of Candice’s body, what happened that night. When Lauren is finished, Sorensen says, “Some of the others think that it might have been your boyfriend, Ian, who was committing the murders.”

  “I don’t know,” Lauren says tightly, looking down at the table.

  “Do you think it’s possible?”

  She hesitates before she answers. “It’s possible.” Lauren looks up at her, clearly uncomfortable. “I spent some time in the afternoon in the sitting room on the third floor, reading. I wasn’t with him. I suppose—I suppose he could have done it.” She looks back down at the table.

  “What about you, yourself?” Sorensen asks.

  “Pardon?”

  “You could have killed Candice yourself. You don’t have an alibi either. You were alone in the sitting room. For that matter, you could have killed Dana, and later, you could have killed Bradley.”

  “Oh. Well. I can assure you that I didn’t. What possible reason could I have had?”

  “I don’t know. Had you ever met Dana Hart or Candice White before?”

  Lauren answers firmly, “No, of course not.” When Sorensen says nothing, Lauren leans forward earnestly. “You have no idea what it was like, being trapped here with all this going on. Last night, when everyone ran off into the dark—David running after Matthew, the rest of us running outside after Riley . . . ” She shakes her head, as if in disbelief that it ever happened. “It was so dark, you couldn’t tell where anybody was. But then I heard Gwen—she must have been nearby, I could hear her breathing, sliding on the ice. She sounded like she was panicking, as if she thought someone was after her.” Lauren pauses, as if reliving the memory of those awful moments when everything was falling apart. She whispers, “I heard her calling my name. But I didn’t answer. I thought maybe, if the killer was there, he would follow her, instead of me. So I kept very quiet.” A sob escapes from her throat. And then she is crying in earnest.

  Sorensen gives her time to recover. She’s patient. She offers the box of tissues. Officer Lachlan waits, his pen poised above his notebook.

  Finally, Lauren says, “I’m not proud of that.” She looks up at her. “But I certainly didn’t kill anybody.” She reaches for a drink of water.

  Sorensen notes that Lauren’s hand is shaking as she brings the glass to her lips. “Take your time,” she says.

  Lauren continues. “I’ve been trying to think of signs that I might have missed, signs that Ian might be insane, but honestly—there weren’t any.” She stares across the table at Sorensen with dark, disbelieving eyes. “He seemed completely normal to me. He charmed everyone. He was so—likeable. People warmed to him, just like I did. It’s so unnerving, to think that you might be so wrong about someone, so . . . taken in. I certainly never saw any cruelty in him. I thought—I thought that he was someone I could become serious about.”

  “True psychopaths can be very convincing,” Sorensen says.

  Lauren looks back at her, her face bleak. “I don’t think you have any idea how frightening it was, sitting in that room all night knowing there was a murderer somewhere nearby, waiting to see what was going to happen next.”

  “I can’t imagine,” Sorensen says.

  As Lauren is leaving, Officer Perez taps at the dining-room door. Sorensen turns and asks, “What is it?”

  Perez enters the room and speaks to her in a low voice. “I’ve just remembered something. It might be important.” She nods. “You wanted to know if I or Wilcox had ever heard of the author Candice White. I thought the name sounded familiar but I couldn’t place it. I thought maybe it was someone my wife read. She reads a lot of books.”

  Sorensen nods her head again impatiently. “Yes?”

  “But actually I’ve read one of her books. She wrote a true crime book a few years ago that I quite enjoyed. That’s pretty much all I read.”

  “Is that so?” Sorensen says. “What was it called?”

  “I don’t remember exactly, but it was about that school principal who murdered one of his students.”

  Perez leaves the dining room and Sorensen glances at Lachlan, who is pursing his lips at this new information.

  She rubs her hands together and walks to the dining-room windows to look out at the forest. She thinks about what might be hiding in that dark wood—bears, wolves—things that kill. She thinks about the human killer she has in this very hotel.

  She hears someone enter the dining room. She turns away from the window and sees James carrying a tray with coffee and sandwiches. The sight of James doing what Bradley would normally do almost breaks her heart. It must be lunchtime already. She wants to say thank you, but doesn’t trust her voice. He places the tray on the side buffet table, nods, and leaves the room.

  She walks over and pours a cup of steaming coffee. Then she takes a sandwich and her cup, goes back to the window, and looks out thoughtfully at the forest.

  * * *

  • • •

  David has returned to the dining room, summoned again by Sergeant Sorensen. He wonders wearily what she wants with him. He’s told her everything he knows. What he wants right now is sleep.

  “Mr. Paley,” Sorensen says after a long pause.

  Her voice has changed. It’s not quite as friendly as before and his body tightens automatically, as if expecting a blow.

  “I know who you are.”

  The blow is delivered, exactly the one he was expecting. “I’ve told you who I am,” he answers coldly.

  She nods. “You gave me your name, yes. You didn’t tell me everything, did you?”

  “Why would I, when it’s not relevant?”

  “Perhaps it is relevant,” she says.

  “I don’t see how.”

  “Candice White was writing a book.”

  “Yes,” David admits. “That’s what she said.”

  “Do you know what it was about?”

  “I have no idea,” he says, feeling uneasy. “She didn’t say.” He adds, “None of us had ever heard of her.” He feels his heart sink. Here it comes, he thinks.

  “You are still under suspicion for the murder of your wife, are you not?”

  “No.”

  “That’s not exactly true, is it?” she prods.

  He looks at her angrily. “I don’t know what you expect me to say. I was arrested and the charges were dropped, as I’m sure you know. There was insufficient evidence to proceed. As far as I’m concerned, that’s the end of it. I don’t consider myself under investigation any longer.”

  “Oh, but you are, of course. These investigations don’t just stop, do they? Just because they don’t have enough to nail you now, doesn’t mean they won’t have enough to nail you down the road.” She pauses. “A good police officer never gives up. You must know that. They just go about it more quietly.”

  “What’s your point?” he asks angrily.

  “I’m just wondering if you might have been in mortal fear of someone writing a book about you—and what Candice might have had to say about the murder of your wife.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I told you—I’d never heard of her. She wasn’t writing a book about me.” His head feels li
ght, and his heart is beating far too quickly. He knows he didn’t murder Candice. Or anyone else. She’s barking up the wrong tree.

  “I hope not.” She adds, “But it’s been brought to my attention that Candice White is known for writing true crime books.”

  David feels himself go pale.

  “In any case, it’s just a matter of time until we get into her laptop, and then we will see,” she says. “That’s all for now. You may go.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Sunday, 1:45 p.m.

  Sergeant Sorensen sits back heavily. She doesn’t know how much longer it will be until the crime team gets here. She looks impatiently at her watch. After spending hours in chilly rooms, drinking endless hot coffee, she’s starting to appreciate what it must have been like to be trapped in this godforsaken hotel for the weekend with no power. She can’t even imagine the rest of it.

  But the evidence is there. At least three people have been murdered. Another has probably died from exposure, having fled the hotel in terror. And a fifth has died under suspicious circumstances. The survivors are clearly traumatized.

  She calls in Ian Beeton, the one they’re afraid of, the one some of them seem to think might be the killer. Ian appears pale and apprehensive as he enters the dining room. He regards her warily. She wonders what he thinks is worse—being accused by the others in the middle of the night when their fear and paranoia were at their greatest, or being questioned by the police in the cold light of day.

  He must be under the most terrific strain, she thinks. She says, “Please have a seat.”

  He sits down and looks at her as if he’s expecting to be arrested. She wonders if he will be the first one to refuse to talk to her after she cautions him.

  But he nods assent and glances nervously toward the lobby where the others are gathered; the glass doors are closed. Haltingly, guided by her questions, he gives his own account of the weekend. He denies ever having met or heard of Dana Hart or Candice White. He tells her he’s as shocked by the murders as everyone else.