The Treacherous Teddy

by John J. Lamb

  Linny nodded glumly. “Or my uncle.”

  “Yeah, you’ve got a problem. Look, I’ll talk to Ms. Driggs if you think it’ll help, but right now I need to interview one of your hotel employees.”

  “Thanks, Brad. Who do you want to talk to?”

  “Marilyn Tice. My information is that she’s on the housekeeping staff.”

  “Yeah, the second-floor team. What’s this about?”

  “It’s still kind of confidential. But I can assure you that she isn’t a suspect in a crime,” I said, adding a silent For now.

  I’ll get her myself,” said Linny as he climbed back into the golf cart. “Go ahead and park in one of the handicapped spaces in front of the hotel and I’ll meet you in the security office.”

  “Thanks, but I forgot to bring my handicapped hanging placard.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll advise my people.”

  Linny drove off. I poured some bottled water into the metal bowl I’d brought along and let Kitch have a drink before I put him back into the car. Then I went around to the main entrance of the hotel, parked, and slowly made my way through the chaotic lobby to the elevators. The security department offices were located in the basement. With its stark cement walls and overhead fluorescent lighting, this part of the medieval-themed hotel was ruthlessly modern.

  The door to the security department opened into a small suite of offices. To the left and visible through a large plate-glass window was the security video monitoring room, where a woman sat in semidarkness apparently watching thirty or so color television monitors set in a bank of three even tiers. On the opposite side of the room was a closed door with a sign indicating that it was Linny’s personal office. I glanced a second time at the video control booth and had one of those annoying yet unidentifiable feelings that something didn’t look quite right.

  However, I couldn’t give the matter any further thought, because Linny came swaggering into the security office. A weary-looking middle-aged woman wearing a pale blue housekeeping uniform followed him, keeping her gaze aimed at the floor. It was obvious from Marilyn Tice’s demeanor that I’d arrived too late. She’d already spoken with her husband.

  “Marilyn,” Linny began gravely, “this is Brad Lyon from the sheriff’s office, and he wants to talk to you.”

  She barely nodded.

  Inclining my head in the direction of his office, I said, “Linny, do you mind if we use your personal office? It might be better if we had a little privacy.”

  “Be my guest. I’m going over to human resources to check out the employee list.” Then Linny pivoted to face Marilyn and pointed a pudgy finger at her. “I want to remind you again of our company policy of cooperating fully with local law enforcement. You do like working here, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Marilyn whispered.

  “Then answer this man’s questions. I’ll be back in a little while, Brad.”

  I winced inwardly. The twit thought he was helping me, but ham-handed tactics like that usually backfired. Even if Marilyn provided a statement, she could later recant it, claiming she’d been under duress. So the first order of business was to make sure she understood that the security director hadn’t threatened her on my behalf.

  Once Linny was gone, I gently said, “Look, Mrs. Tice, ignore what that blowhard just said. As far as I’m concerned, you’re here voluntarily. If you’ve got nothing to say, that’s fine. If you want to leave right now, that’s fine, too.”

  For the first time, Marilyn looked up and I saw the distant glitter of fire in her hazel eyes. She replied in a low voice, “And lose my job? I’ll bet you’d like that.”

  “No, I wouldn’t. Regardless of what you decide to do, I’ll tell Linny that you cooperated fully. But from your cheerful expression, I can tell you don’t believe that.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Fair enough. I don’t believe your husband, so I guess that makes us even. By the way, I know he called you.”

  “What if he did? Is that some sort of crime?”

  I raised my shoulders a fraction of an inch. “Nope, but your neighbor’s murder is. You want to go into Linny’s office and chat?”

  She leaned against the wall and folded her arms. “I can say what I want to say out here. This ain’t gonna take long. Wade was with me at home all last night.”

  “And did he—” I was about to ask if Wade had ridden the ATV the previous evening, but caught myself. If I started asking questions about the quad-runner, it—like the bow and arrows—would likely disappear and we’d never be able to match the plaster castings of the muddy tracks to the ATV’s tires. I began again, “And he never once went outside?”

  “Not once. We were together all night and went to bed at ten.”

  “What time did Mr. Tice come in the house yesterday afternoon?”

  “He was already inside when I came home from work and that was at five-fifteen.”

  “Did your husband kill Everett Rawlins?”

  I’d deliberately asked a provocative question, but Marilyn didn’t rise to the bait. She just lifted her chin a little and said, “How could he? He was in the house all night.”

  I nodded thoughtfully. “Now, we both know that a wife can’t be compelled to testify against her husband, but you need to recognize that she can’t lie on his behalf either. That’s a crime called Accessory after the Fact.”

  She gave me a contemptuous look. “Now who’s doing the threatening?”

  “That isn’t a threat. I just want you to completely understand the situation.”

  “I understand. Country don’t mean stupid.”

  “I know. And just because I worked in a big city doesn’t mean I’m looking down my nose at you.”

  “Whatever. Got any other questions?”

  “Yeah, could you describe your husband’s relationship with Mr. Rawlins?”

  “You mean Crawlin’ Rawlins, the Kobler Hollow Copperhead? My Wade had a right to be angry with that selfish bastard, but that doesn’t mean he killed him.”

  “Assuming that’s true, do you have any idea who did?”

  “Nope, and I really don’t care.” She swatted a strand of hair away from her eyes. “You bootlickers can build some sort of damn altar to Saint Everett, but you’d feel different if you had to live next to him.”

  “Maybe so. Here’s a question out of left field: Do you have any idea who stole a Saab from the hotel last night?”

  “No.” She sounded crabby at being asked a stupid question. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “To tell the truth, I don’t know. Will you humor me and answer another disconnected question? Do you know Chester Lincoln?”

  “Never heard of him.” Marilyn’s face was impassive, and I couldn’t get any sense as to whether she was actually telling the truth.

  “He drives an old black pickup truck. Maybe Mr. Tice knows him?” I suggested.

  “We don’t know anybody named Lincoln.”

  “Funny, he was here at the hotel when I arrived. He ran when he saw me.”

  She pointedly looked at my cane and smiled maliciously. “I’m guessing he got away.”

  I smiled back. “He did, so I didn’t have the chance to ask him why he’d come here. Was it to talk to you?”

  “Of course not. I told you I didn’t know him. Why is this important?”

  “Chet Lincoln is a hunter who also had a grudge against Mr. Rawlins.”

  Marilyn slapped the desktop. “It that’s so, then why are you trying to frame Wade? You should be talking to this Lincoln fella.”

  “We’re going to. Despite what you think, we aren’t trying to railroad your husband. In fact, we’re just now putting together a list of possible suspects.”

  “Uh-huh.” Her tone was sarcastically skeptical.

  “It’s true,” I said congenially. “It’s way too early in the investigation to accuse anyone. So early, in fact, I probably should have thought to ask Wade if you were home all last night.”

&nb
sp; The mocking smile vanished, and her cheeks began to go pale. “You think I . . . ?”

  “I think you’re a woman I wouldn’t want to cross, and by your own admission, you hated Mr. Rawlins. You’re also married to a bow hunter, so that could mean you’ve been hunting with him, and you look healthy enough to shoot an arrow. I’d be an idiot if I didn’t have you in the suspect mix.”

  She glared at me. “I didn’t kill Ev Rawlins, and I was inside the house from the moment I came home yesterday afternoon until this morning, when I left for work. And Wade can vouch for that.”

  “Mutually supporting alibis. How convenient for both of you.”

  “We’re done.” She stalked toward the door.

  “I hope for your sake that’s true. Thanks for your cooperation.”

  The seething woman didn’t bother to respond and shut the door behind her. While I waited for Linny to return, I sat down at one of the desks to assess the brief interview. The conversation hadn’t produced any hard information, but Marilyn had unwittingly provided two significant semantic clues.

  First, she hadn’t actually denied that her husband had murdered Rawlins. She’d merely asked me how Tice could have committed the crime while inside his house. It was a technically truthful yet nonresponsive answer that gave her ample opportunity for verbal maneuvering if there was a follow-up interrogation. I had to grudgingly respect her. Country definitely didn’t mean stupid.

  The second important thing that had emerged from the interview was Marilyn’s explicit disavowal of killing Rawlins herself, and I was inclined to believe she was telling the truth. That was one of the two times during the interview when I was certain I was receiving an unfiltered and honest answer.

  The only other instance of complete candor was when Marilyn expressed her hatred of Everett Rawlins. She had to have known how that sort of naked loathing would look to someone investigating Rawlins’s murder, yet she’d been unable to restrain herself. Just like a cancer, hatred that intense took time to grow, and I wondered if the origins of the feud were far deeper than just a water well that had gone dry. But until I had more information, that was useless speculation.

  Linny came back into the office. He seemed surprised to find me alone.

  I asked, “So, did you come up with anyone connected with Chet Lincoln?”

  “No. Not a single Lincoln on the employee roster.”

  “Well, thanks for trying.”

  “Are you done with Mrs. Tice already? How did it go?”

  “Fine. She told me everything she could,” I said, providing an answer that was both strictly accurate and deceptive. “Can I get a little bit more information about her? Is she a good employee?”

  “Her supervisor in housekeeping says she’s great. Apparently she works hard and doesn’t take smoke breaks in the fire stairwells.”

  “And you said she works on the second floor?”

  Linny nodded. “Yeah, but it isn’t as if that’s the only place she could work. If a maid from one of the other floors calls in sick or—more likely—quits without giving notice, then somebody else has to pick up the slack. Do we need to keep an eye on her?”

  “Not at all. Her name just came up as a witness and she isn’t suspected of any wrongdoing.” Again, I was being a bit economical with the truth, but I’d assured Marilyn that there would be no repercussions to her employment, regardless of the outcome of the interview. Some cops would have viewed that guarantee as nothing more than a piecrust promise—easily made and easily broken, especially after Marilyn’s attitude. But I’m old-fashioned and still believe that my word has to mean something.

  I glanced over at the security control room and once more tried to identify what wasn’t quite right about the scene. The answer finally occurred to me. “Before I go up and talk to Ms. Driggs, can you answer one more question for me, Linny?”

  “Sure.”

  I pointed toward the security control room. “You said that you lost sixteen cameras, but I don’t see any blank screens. How can that be?”

  Linny went white and began fiddling with one of the gold buttons on his blue blazer.

  “Brad, I’m begging you, please don’t tell anyone.”

  “Tell anyone what?”

  “Um . . . that we’re showing digital recordings on the affected monitors.”

  “Let me get this straight. That’s video footage that was taken before the system was fried?” I started to laugh.

  “I couldn’t let the manager come in and see a bunch of blank monitors.”

  “It’s ingenious, but once the snow comes, somebody is going to notice.”

  “No, they won’t.” Linny sounded both miserable and a little proud. “I’ve got recordings from last winter.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. “How long are you planning to keep this up?”

  “Until spring. Then I can ask for funds to upgrade the surveillance system.”

  “And your staff has kept this a secret? That’s amazing.”

  “Not really. They know that if I have to come up with that twelve grand, someone is going to lose their job. So, are you going to tell?” He reminded me of a ten-year-old boy who’d just been caught watching the Playboy Channel.

  “No, your secret is safe with me. It’s none of my business how you run your security department.”

  Linny heaved a huge sigh of relief. “Thanks, Brad!”

  “Just to satisfy my curiosity, which cameras actually do work in this hotel?”

  “The lobby, the gift shops, the main entrance, and the restaurants.” Linny ticked them off on his fingers.

  “How about the rear loading dock?”

  “Only if you want to see what was there back in April,” he said slyly.

  I thought for a second and then said, “You know, that gives me an idea. It would be interesting to know how long Chet Lincoln has been coming here. Can you review all the old digital video records from the loading dock camera?”

  It would be a time-consuming and eye-wearying task, but Linny knew he owed me big-time. He said, “I’ll get right on it.”

  “Thanks. In the meantime I’ll go up to Ms. Driggs’s room and listen to her Saab story.”

  Eleven

  I hadn’t originally planned to interview Sherri Driggs, but I’d told Linny I would. Besides, too many leads seemed to be intersecting at the Massanutten Crest Lodge. I’d initially dismissed the theft of the Saab from Marilyn Tice’s place of employment and its subsequent appearance at the murder scene as a twist of fate. But Chet Lincoln’s presence at the lodge had strained the whole notion of coincidence. I was convinced there was some sort of connection, and I hoped Ms. Driggs had some information that would help me figure out what it was.

  I went to the elevator and pressed the button for the third floor. On the first floor, a room-service deliveryman pushing a food-laden metal trolley joined me in the elevator. We rode upward in silence. I guess my old jeans, boots, and parka told him that I wasn’t a guest and that he didn’t have to waste any courtesies on me. When the doors slid open, he quickly wheeled the cart out of the elevator and guided it down a hallway that led to the right.

  Meanwhile, I stopped to consult a sign on the wall and noted that Room 331 was in the same direction the waiter had gone. I began limping down the corridor, which with its gloomy lighting, stonework, and wrought-iron lanterns looked like a set from a Harry Potter movie.

  After a moment, the delivery guy approached from the opposite direction, pushing the now empty trolley back to the elevator. Room 331 was almost at the end of the hallway. I removed my badge case from my jacket and tapped on the door.

  It was opened a second later by a handsome and muscular young man wearing a thigh-length white terrycloth robe. He was looking back into the room as he said, “It’s a good thing you came back. You forgot our—Uh, you aren’t room service.”

  “Nope. I’m Brad Lyon and I’m an investigator from the sheriff’s office.” I held up my ID card for his inspection. “Is Ms. Driggs he
re? I’d like to talk to her about her stolen car.”

  “Did that idiot come back with the San Pellegrino?” a woman’s voice called from a doorway that I assumed led into the bathroom.

  “No, Ms. Driggs.” The young man was suddenly very formal. “It’s a detective. He’d like to speak to you about the Saab.”

  “Tell him I’ll be out in a minute!” she replied. A second later, a hair dryer turned on.

  “I heard,” I said helpfully. “May I come in?”

  “Sure. Of course. No problem with that.” He pulled the door open for me.

  The doorway opened into a comfortable-looking combination living room and dining nook. There were two extravagant fruit platters on the table. Ahead, the bedroom was visible through another doorway, and I noticed that the bedding was in disarray. Atop the wooden worktable were a laptop computer, a closed briefcase, and a thin stack of paperwork. The suite was as warm as a greenhouse, and the air smelled of fresh citrus, blueberries, and the faint musk of spent passion.

  After a couple of moments of uncomfortable silence, the young man said crossly, “Well, it’s about time you got here. And what’s this we heard about some moron deputy letting the car get away?”

  “That deputy is no moron, and she made a gutsy decision not to put innocent people at risk.” I kept my tone serene. “You must be Jesse Hauck.”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “It was in Deputy Bressler’s report. You’re Ms. Driggs’s executive assistant, right?” I asked, while silently adding, and boy toy. Nice work, if you can get it. At the same time, I was annoyed that this glorified gigolo had presumed to sit in judgment of my wife.

  “That’s right.” Jesse slipped his hands into the robe’s pockets. I think he was hoping to appear cool, but the pose only made him look ill at ease.

  “Do you enjoy working under her?” My gaze flicked toward the bedroom, and I gave him an innocent smile.

  Before he could answer, the hair dryer turned off and Sherri Driggs marched out of the bathroom, wearing a rose-colored silk kimono. Unlike her subordinate, she wasn’t the least bit embarrassed by the awkward circumstances of our meeting or her relative state of undress. She asked, “Have you found my car yet?”