By Familiar Means

by Delia James

  Grandma smiled sadly. “Does it matter?”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “Gretchen,” said Julia. “Even you have to admit that so far all that not talking to your children has gotten you is drinking tea with two old prunes and being afraid for your family’s future.”

  “I couldn’t have said it better myself,” said Grandma B.B. “Except for maybe the part about prunes. I’ve never felt less prune like in my life.”

  “No, being an antique suits you.”

  Gretchen was staring at them both. “You know, you two haven’t changed a bit.”

  “Neither have you, Gretchen,” said Julia. “You’re still a terrible liar.”

  Gretchen laughed, a tiny little hiccup of a sound, and she covered her mouth. “Oh, goodness. It feels . . . wrong to laugh. But I’m not sorry. I just . . .” She folded her hands together. “I’ve made so many mistakes. You have no idea.”

  “Then begin again,” said Julia.

  “It’s too late.”

  Julia raised one eyebrow. “Are you still breathing?”

  Gretchen glared at her, but the expression slowly melted into a tired smile. “Yes, I see, then it’s not too late. Perhaps. I don’t know.” She adjusted the cuffs of her blouse and the delicate gold watch on her wrist. “What I do know is I need to get back to the hotel. I . . . I think I need to talk to my children.”

  39

  In the end, Gretchen agreed to drive back with Julia. “We’ll stop at my place first,” Julia told her. “You need dinner and a good stiff drink.”

  Gretchen did not argue with either statement. As soon as we closed the door behind them, however, I turned to Grandma.

  “Well?” I said.

  “Well what, dear?” asked Grandma B.B.

  I rolled my eyes. “Seriously, Grandma? We’re still doing this? You were trying to do a reading on Gretchen. Did she have anything to do with Jimmy’s death?”

  I watched Grandma B.B. get ready to be righteous at me. I just folded my arms and raised my eyebrows.

  “Marow,” added Alistair, which apparently was a stronger argument than any I could muster.

  “I couldn’t tell,” Grandma admitted. “There was so much guilt and anger, I couldn’t sort any of it out. She certainly feels responsible, but did she actually do anything? I don’t know.”

  I’m sure I meant to make a coherent answer to this, but much to my embarrassment, my stomach spoke first, and it growled like Alistair in a bad mood.

  “Right. That’s enough of that, young lady,” announced Grandma. “Clearly it is time for the Blessingsound Britton gourmet specialty.”

  All at once, everything that had happened and was happening fell away. I was six years old again and sitting at the kitchen table, banging my heels against the chair rail.

  “Grandma eggs?” I asked hopefully. “With bacon chunks right in the eggs?”

  “Of course.” Grandma smiled. “I even think I saw some cheese in that fridge of yours. Really, Anna . . .”

  Still chattering, she headed for the kitchen, and I followed, perfectly ready to let all discussion of murder, bribery and the rest of it drop, for now.

  But, of course, for now was not forever, or even for longer than it took to fry up the bacon bits, stir in the eggs, toast the bread, get down the plates and decide we’d both really had enough peppermint tea for one day and break out the good coffee. We cleared a couple of spots in the middle of all the books and papers and plans piled on the dining room table and set our plates down. I even decided to bow to the inevitable and put a plate of eggs and bacon on the floor for Alistair.

  My cat purred and circled around my ankles, letting me know I was an acceptable human.

  While we all ate, I told Grandma about everything that had happened in the hotel.

  “So.” Grandma picked up the coffeepot and poured me a fresh cup. “Assuming everyone is telling the truth—”

  “Big assumption,” I muttered around a mouthful of eggs and bacon.

  “Oh, yes, I know, dear.” She poured herself some coffee as well. “But at least this time it’s lining up properly, which is a sign.”

  I agreed. “So, Jimmy goes to see Shelly to try to get her to go away, so she won’t mess up Harbor Rest’s plans for a comeback . . . Does he have the money with him? Was it a bribe for Shelly or was it a bribe from Shelly?” Shelly had flatly denied knowing about the five thousand, but that could have been a lie. Admitting to wanting to ruin her brother was one thing; admitting to bribery might have professional implications.

  “But, as Gretchen pointed out, none of the Hildes would offer Shelly such a small bribe.” Grandma pushed the corner of her toast through her eggs.

  “I’ve been thinking about that.” I pointed my fork at her. Grandma frowned, and I immediately lowered the offending utensil. “What if the bribe wasn’t from one of the Hildes to get Shelly to leave? What if it was from one of the Hildes to try to get Jimmy to leave?”

  “Now, that is an idea,” murmured Grandma. She bit into her toast and chewed thoughtfully. “Christine, then? To keep the plans for a comeback from going forward?”

  I set my fork down slowly. “Oh, good grief!”

  “What is it, dear?”

  “The sketch! Grandma, it showed Jimmy in the middle of two women. I thought the money was passing through him, but what if he was taking bribes from both sides? Gretchen was sure dangling a whole lot in front of Jimmy to get him to stay at Harbor’s Rest. Maybe Christine offered him something to go away. Then, he goes to talk to Shelly. Maybe he’s going to try to hustle her as well. Why leave an income stream untouched, right? But instead, He hears at least some of what she’s up to and decides that Gretchen’s plan isn’t going to work, so he decides to skip town.” I speared my last bit of bacon. “He wasn’t carrying that cash because he was planning on bribing somebody. He was carrying it because he had made up his mind to skip town.”

  “So he goes back to the hotel to clear out his locker,” said Grandma. “And he has his argument with Gretchen, and she leaves, very upset. Jimmy finishes getting his stuff together and . . .”

  “Gets killed by . . .”

  “Person or persons unknown.” Grandma speared a bit of egg.

  “Or whoever Gretchen told when she left him.” Whom had she told? I furrowed my brow at my plate. Someone had said something. I knew it. I could feel it, but I couldn’t remember who, or when.

  It could have been any of her children. They all lived in. Maybe we could eliminate Christine, but maybe not. She might have been afraid that Jimmy spilled the beans to her mother. Christine was no lightweight. If Jimmy was drunk maybe, or she’d knocked him out first, she might have been able to do it. Kenisha had said Jimmy was bruised like he’d been in a fight. Or it could have been Kelly Pierce, for similar motives and with similar opportunities. She might have been pulling a late shift or had to come back in to address some problem.

  Or it could have been Rich, with his bandaged hand. Or it could have been Dale, with his absolute loyalty to the hotel.

  I pushed my plate away. It could have been way the heck too many people. How was I going to figure out exactly which one had actually committed the crime?

  “You’ll do it, dear,” Grandma patted my shoulder. “I have every confidence.”

  “You reading me now, Grandma?” I muttered.

  “Only because you have a dreadful poker face, dear. You always have.”

  I was saved from having to answer this by the doorbell ringing. I got up to answer it while Grandma started clearing the dishes away.

  A pair of McNallys stood on my front porch.

  “Sorry about the delay,” said Old Sean as he slid out of his raincoat and hung his shovel cap on the hook by the door. “I was out on a bit of a job.”

  “It’s okay, thanks for coming. And thanks for bringing
him,” I added to Young Sean.

  “All part of the service,” he said as he hung up his hat and coat beside his father’s. He also winked. I felt my cheeks heating up. I told them to stop that.

  “My boy says you’ve got some prints that need reading,” said Old Sean. “I’ve a shift to do at the hotel, so there’s not a lot of time, but I’m glad to take a look.” He clapped his hands together. “What have we got?”

  “Right.” I grabbed up the tube and pulled out the roll of prints. Everyone helped clear space on the dining room table. It took both me and Grandma to carefully unroll the fragile plans and weight them down with extra books.

  “All right, let’s see what we have here.” Old Sean fished his glasses out of his shirt pocket and settled them into place on his nose. “Should I ask where you got these, young woman?”

  “Probably not,” said his son.

  “And it’s all probably nothing,” I said, as I watched him carefully lift away one page after another. “A smugglers’ tunnel is not exactly going to be marked in red on the plans.”

  “No, you’re right about that,” agreed Old Sean. “But from what you’ve said, that door you found was no tiny thing. Somebody meant for it to be there and stay there. Somebody might have made notes.”

  The outlines of the hotel were obvious. Old Sean peeled back a page that showed vertical cross sections for what must have been a new wing, and a page that detailed the foundations and the basement.

  “I’ve seen the original plans,” I told him. “And the ones from the fifties, but these are from the twenties. There weren’t any of that vintage on file with the city.”

  “Ah, well, the city’s a bureaucracy and bureaucracies tend to lose things. Especially old plans once the fresh ones go on file.” He leaned so close to the prints his nose nearly touched the page. “Now, Anna, my dear, you wouldn’t happen to have a copy of those plans so we can do a little compare and contrast?”

  “Um . . . yes.” I even knew where they were, because Alistair was sitting on one particular stack of paper on the corner of the table. I picked up the cat and passed the pages to Old Sean. “These are from the 1950s, and these are from the eighties.”

  “Thank you.” Mr. McNally leafed through the fresh (and much smaller) pages. Sean put out a hand to stop the shuffling, and his father, Sean, nodded. “And right you are, my boy. That could be the jackpot.”

  “What? Where?” Grandma B.B. and I, and of course Alistair, all crowded closer.

  “Now, this here”—Mr. McNally gestured at the large rectangle on the twenties blueprints—“is the ballroom.”

  “Says so, right there.” Sean pointed at the neat lettering in the middle. “That’s some great detecting, Dad.”

  “Is this detecting or sleuthing?” I murmured.

  “Sleuthing’s for girls,” Sean murmured back.

  “We’ll be talking about that remark later, McNally.”

  “Be quiet, you whippersnappers,” said Old Sean. “Now, here, you see this?” He pointed to the plans I’d so recently acquired. “That’s a staircase there. But it’s not here.” He touched the page from the 1950s. “Or here.” He touched the page from the eighties. “Now, call me old-fashioned, but that seems a wee bit careless, losing a whole stairway out the back of the ballroom like that.”

  “The ballroom?” I straightened up. “The ballroom! Oh, good grief!”

  That would explain why no one could find any opening into the basement. There wasn’t one. I lunged for the end of the table. Alistair jumped down to the floor so I could grab Evolution of a Riverside Town and flip it open to the big photograph of the Prohibition tea.

  I squinted at the picture, trying to see between the elegantly dressed people and their teacups. There was something at the back. Maybe. Possibly. There, right at the split between the pages.

  “Grandma. Can you hand me that magnifying glass?”

  She did and I grabbed it and held it over the photo. But I wasn’t looking at the people. I was looking at the far wall. There, right next to a truly horrible cherub fountain in an alcove, was a narrow black rectangle. I held the glass over the grainy photo.

  “Sean?” I handed him the magnifying glass. He rubbed his bearded chin and leaned forward over the book.

  “Yeah,” he said. “That’s a door.”

  Grandma took the glass from his hand, lifted up her spectacles and peered at the page. “Yes. Well, a big room like that should have more than one . . .”

  “There’s only one problem,” said Old Sean. “I’ve spent plenty of time in that ballroom. All the doors are up front, or to the east side, out onto the balcony.”

  “Maybe its not where anybody can see it.” I took the glass back and stared at the photo again, like I thought that door might vanish if I let it out of my sight. “Maybe it was specifically built to give people a back way out of the ballroom if there was a police raid on the place during Prohibition.”

  My phone rang, startling me so badly, I dropped the magnifying glass, which earned a scolding from Alistair, who flowed under the table. The younger Sean reached my phone before I could and tossed it to me. I caught it and checked the number.

  “Frank?” I said as I answered. “I’m so glad you called! Listen, did you know that the Harbor’s Rest has its own archive? I found—”

  “We found,” Grandma reminded me.

  “Merow,” agreed Alistair from under the table.

  “We found a set of blueprints from 1920 and we think—”

  “Anna, stop,” said Frank. “Listen to me. I’m at the hospital. They just brought in Kelly Pierce. Somebody tried to kill her.”

  40

  “What happened?” I demanded as I barreled into the hospital waiting area. “Is she okay?”

  I hate hospitals. Nobody likes them, but I really hate them. I don’t care how modern and clean and comfortable they’ve been made, with carpet in the lounges and inoffensive artwork on the walls and fountains and meditation rooms. They’re still hospitals and they’re still full of the sad and the frightened and the grieving. There aren’t strong enough shields anywhere to keep that kind of Vibe out.

  Frank got to his feet. Except for him, the lounge was empty, which was probably a good thing, because I was out of breath and out of nerve, even with Grandma B.B. coming up behind me for support, and, well, for being my grandmother. The McNallys had wanted to come, too, of course, but Old Sean was supposed to be at work at the hotel, and given all the very bad possibilities swirling around regarding Jimmy’s death, it would not be good for any of them to know anything was wrong. It did, however, take both me and Grandma talking at full speed to convince the McNallys of this.

  “They won’t tell me; I’m not a relative,” Frank said, but then he glanced over his shoulder at the nurses’ station. “At least they’re not supposed to,” he added more softly. “But one of the nurses is a friend. She said Kelly was found unconscious in her apartment. Somebody’d hit her over the head. They got her on the right temple and . . .” Frank looked down at his notebook. He was holding it in both hands like a talisman.

  “And they’re sure it wasn’t an accident?” I asked, even though I knew I was clutching at straws.

  “It wasn’t,” Frank said grimly. “They found a wine bottle next to her, and it had blood on it.”

  “Oh, no,” breathed Grandma. “Oh, how wicked!”

  “She’s in a coma,” he said hoarsely. “And they’re not sure . . .” He didn’t finish, but that was okay. He didn’t have to. I gripped Grandma’s hand. Somebody had tried to kill Kelly Pierce. Kelly had been the lynchpin of Christine’s plan for a new hotel. Until the tension inside the Hilde family had gotten to be too much. Until Dale had fired her and maybe threatened her to try to keep her away from Christine.

  Just like his mother told him to. I clapped my hand over my mouth. He’d followed his orders, but i
t hadn’t been enough. But now? Christine had said the project needed Kelly, her experience and her connections. Harbor’s Rest would be safe from the competition, for now. But not safe from its own bills and the very real danger of bankruptcy. With all the bad publicity of one murder and one attempted murder, no developer would touch the idea of a Hilde-run resort with a ten-foot pole.

  In my mind, I could picture them all lined up—Christine and Kelly on one side, and both brothers and Gretchen on the other.

  Which of them did this? Dale, who couldn’t separate his love for his family from his love for their hotel, or Rich, who wanted everything nice and everybody happy, and who used his charm to hide and distract anybody and everybody from what was really going on? And who no one in his family trusted to be able to do anything else right. Not even his mother, who adored him. I had been ready to cross Christine off the list. Kelly was the last person she’d kill. Unless . . . unless Kelly had changed her mind. Unless she’d decided to pull out of the deal after all. There could have been an argument. There could have been an accident.

  There was one problem. Christine had been willing to let me into the archives to look for the tunnel. Either she was ready to gamble with her future and her freedom, or she really didn’t know where the tunnel door was.

  But did the person who killed Jimmy have to be the same person who tried to kill Kelly?

  I clamped my teeth shut around the scream. I had no answer. It didn’t matter. There are times when all the reluctance and all the worry fall away, and you move because standing still has become impossible. Kelly Pierce was hurt, maybe dying. But maybe not. Maybe she’d wake up and be able to identify the person who’d done this. Whoever that was would hear pretty soon, and he or she might just be ready to come back to the hospital to try again.

  Then there was Lieutenant Blanchard, who had probably already heard about this. He might even be on his way.

  “Grandma B.B.,” I said. “I need you to put on your sweetest little old lady act and get into Kelly’s room somehow. You sit right there. Don’t move; don’t let anybody else be alone with her, especially any Hildes.”