by Nic Saint
“They can wait,” she said quite infuriatingly. “What do you have, Virgil?”
“For you? Nothing.”
“Come on. You know you can trust me. I’m an old hand at this.”
“Police work?” he scoffed. “Hardly.”
“I did go to the academy, same way you did.”
“And you managed to fail three times. Which, in my book, makes you a civilian and not a police officer.” He gestured with his hand. “Out, Alice. Please leave.”
“Or what? You’ll run to my dad and sob into his chest?”
The thought had crossed Virgil’s mind that Chief Whitehouse should be informed that his daughter was trying to insert herself into a police investigation again. “No, of course not,” he said instead. “I don’t need your father to tell you that what you’re doing is wrong.”
She shrugged and got up. “Suit yourself. If you don’t want my help, you won’t get it. But don’t come begging when you can’t catch a break in this case.”
“I don’t need a break in this case. Fine police work will get the job done.”
As she didn’t seem inclined to heed his warning and leave of her own accord, he rose as well. And since he was a full head taller than she was, he easily towered over her. “Bye bye, Alice. Time to go.”
Alice raised her eyes and made to leave. Then, as she was shoving the chair back in place, she accidentally hit the table which hit Virgil in the groin. “Oomph!” he exclaimed, and doubled over.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Alice cried as she saw what she’d done. She rounded the table and hovered over him as he tried to catch his breath.
“It’s all right,” he wheezed, the pain slowly subsiding. With tear-filled eyes, he glared at her. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”
Her sparkly green eyes were all innocence. “Me? How would you even think that, Virgil? We’ve been friends for such a long time.”
He pointed to the door. “Out!” he managed. “Out, now!”
She tripped away, a contrite smile on her face. “So sorry,” she murmured, and then, finally, she was gone.
Gingerly, he took a seat and squeaked, “Next!”
Then, as he looked down at his notebook, he saw to his surprise that it was no longer where he’d left it.
“Alice!” he thundered, but of course Alice had already left the building. And so had his notebook. He gritted his teeth. The damn cheek of that woman! And he couldn’t even go to Chief Whitehouse. The chief would only laugh that he, a grown man, had allowed himself to be outsmarted by a girl. He reached into the pocket of his vest and brought out another notebook and opened it. Pristine, it would have to do for now. At least until he got his hands on that wretched Alice and wrung her wretched neck until she drew her last wretched breath.
Chapter 43
“I don’t think the investigation is going well,” whispered Alice as she slipped Felicity a small oblong object. She slammed the door of the van closed and sat back like a woman whose mission has just been accomplished to her complete and utter satisfaction.
Felicity stared at the object for a moment. “Why do you say that?”
Alice gave a soft giggle. “Because Virgil looks like he swallowed an egg. You know the look.”
Felicity did know the look. Virgil often looked as if he swallowed an egg. In fact it was his default look, for the policeman rarely had a clue. “What is this?” she muttered, opening the notebook. She stared at the first page, where in a childish hand somebody had written ‘This notebook is the property of Officer Virgil Scattering.’ Her eyes widened. “No, you didn’t!”
“Yes, I did,” Alice caroled jubilantly. “And what’s more, the dopey idiot can’t do a thing about it. If he goes crying to Dad, he’ll blame him for being careless with police property and if he comes after me—”
“He’ll wring your neck.”
Alice held up a finger. “Ah. But he can’t now can he? I’m still his superior officer’s daughter, so he can’t go around wringing my neck if he wants to keep his job.” She tapped her nose smartly. “I’ve got it all figured out, honey. Soup to nuts.”
Felicity grinned. They hadn’t been at the inn five minutes and already Alice had pissed off the lead investigator. Nice. But then again, if Chief Whitehouse insisted on sabotaging their investigation he left them no choice but to fight dirty.
When arriving at the inn Felicity had decided to wait until their back-up arrived before venturing into enemy territory. Either that, or they could simply wait until Chief Whitehouse had left. Only problem was that when the chief left all the guests would probably head straight to bed, the medical examiner’s people would cart off the body, and the receptionist would lock the place up. Not an appealing prospect.
“I think we should go in now,” Alice said, as if she’d magically read her friend’s mind. “No sense in just sitting here.” She waved her hands. “I mean, we got out of bed, didn’t we? We should at least make up for lost sleep by putting in some detective work.”
“Or we could wait for Mabel, Aunt Bettina, and Marjorie. Mabel could silence the chief, Marjorie could sit on Virgil’s head, and Bettina and we could interview the guests.”
“And then there’s our secret weapon,” Alice said with glittering eyes.
Felicity followed her gaze. A sleek silver Maserati GranTurismo had just swerved off the road and onto the small parking lot. “I didn’t think he’d show up,” said Felicity, amazed. She’d recognized Reece’s car.
“I think when Reece Hudson shows up, doors open, don’t you think?” And without waiting for a reply, she opened her own door and scooted from the van to welcome the new arrival.
* * *
Reece was curious. In fact he was more than curious. His next movie, Crunch Time 4, would see him team up with Jackie Chan. As always, Reece played Chuck MacLachlan, only this time things got personal for the tough cop. His partner, played by Kirt Stur in the previous installment of the hit franchise, was brutally murdered in the opening sequence, and it was up to Reece and Jackie to bring the killer to justice.
The casting director had told him to read up on police jargon, and even, if possible, talk to some real detectives. And now, as luck would have it, he would be doing some actual detecting. Reece Hudson was going to solve a real murder!
Then he remembered that a woman had been murdered here—a woman he’d known, and his jubilant mood dimmed. When he told his dad what had happened the old man had been shocked and dismayed.
He stepped from the car and was gratified to find Alice Whitehouse walking up to him with a spring in her step. Gone was the trepidation and the flustered look in that young woman’s eyes. She looked as fresh-faced as ever, only now her eyes were sparkling, and if possible she was even more gorgeous than before.
“Hey, there,” she said by way of greeting. “I didn’t think you’d show up.”
“I’m a man of my word, Alice. So what have we got here?”
Alice’s smile dimmed. “All we know is that Mary Long’s been murdered. But police won’t let us near the place, as usual.”
“Your dad, huh?”
“I love my dad, but sometimes he drives me crazy.”
“Well, it’s probably his job to protect the confidentiality of the police investigation,” he said, remembering something he read in a screenplay.
Alice pursed her lips in an expression of admiration. “Nice. Where did you pick that up?”
He grinned. “I’m prepping for a part. Crunch Time 4.”
Immediately that deference was back. Dang. He just had to go and remind her that he was a movie star, huh? He decided to gloss over it. “And my dad is a police nut, of course. But you knew that already.”
“Ex-cop. Must be in his blood.”
Felicity had joined them and they extended greetings. “Nice to have you on board, Reece.”
“Nice to be on board. And on my first case, no less.”
“Yeah, and it’s a big one.” Felicity turned as there was a com
motion near the entrance to the inn. Two EMTs carted out a stretcher carrying a body bag.
“Mary Long,” Alice murmured.
Only now did the horrible truth come home to Reece. A person had actually been murdered here and he was treating it with a levity that seemed ill-advised.
For a moment, no one spoke, then Reece cleared his throat. “So what’s our next move?”
“We need to talk to the witnesses,” said Felicity. “Collect as much information as possible.” She gave Reece the once-over. “Which is where you come in. Do you think you could be our point man? Chief Whitehouse knows our faces, and the minute he sees either me or Alice he will kick us out. He doesn’t know you, though.”
“Come on, Fe. Everybody knows Reece Hudson.”
Reece cocked an eyebrow. “Not when I put on my acting cap. A good actor can be anyone he likes. And tonight I’m not Reece Hudson, but…” He lowered his head and gave the two women the scowl that had graced movie posters all over the nation. “…Chuck MacLachlan.”
And with these words, spoken in a gravelly voice, he started for the inn, leaving the two women swooning. As he walked, his gait changed into the easy swagger associated with Detective MacLachlan, and his lips twitched into Chuck’s lopsided irreverent grin.
Hot potato! Chuck was here, and he was ready to kick some butt.
Chapter 44
“I don’t think you should go in there, Basil.”
His wife looked scared and Basil’s chest started to swell. This was where he could make his mark. This was where he could come across as a real man and make a big impression. Until now she’d looked at him as if he were her lapdog and she the big kahuna. But no longer! Intrepid and undaunted, he would get some of his own back.
“Nothing to be afraid of, darling,” he reassured her. “You better get behind me, though. Just in case there is someone in there.”
Lara did get behind him and it boosted his ego even more. They’d come to this inn to celebrate the fifth anniversary of their honeymoon. Little had they known the trip would turn into some sort of visit to Madame Tussaud’s chamber of horrors. First the proprietor of the inn, that nice old man with the long white beard, had been shot. And now that sweet wife of his, Mrs. Mary Long, had suffered the same fate, only even more gruesome. Someone had actually bashed the poor woman’s brains in. How much more medieval could you get?
It was safe to say they weren’t staying in this place one more minute, but then that tall policeman had come and told them they couldn’t leave yet. If he hadn’t stopped them they would have packed up and been halfway home to Cleveland by now.
As it was, they were obliged to stay in this hellhole. Though if you asked him, whoever murdered this couple had no intention of slaying any of the guests. While they were all waiting to be interviewed, Mrs. Thomson had told them that the whole thing revolved around money, as usual.
Some big developer types operating out of New York City had their eye on the inn and the piece of land it sat on. They wanted to buy, but the Longs refused to sell. Probably, Mrs. Thomson said, these big developer types had hired a bunch of killers to take care of the Longs. Whack the old couple, snap up the inn, build a five-star resort and voila.
It sounded plausible, thought Basil Potter. Quite plausible indeed. He’d seen plenty of movies where big developer types resorted to murder to get their hands on a piece of prime property.
And then there were the children. Still according to Mrs. Thomson Rob and Ruth Long had wanted to get their hands on the property for years, and had been pestering Mom and Dad to sell. Only Mom and Dad hadn’t wanted to sell, so there you had your motive, big as an inn.
And as it so happened, the children were here right now. At the inn, staying only a couple of doors down the hall from their parents. One of them must have snuck into Mrs. Long’s bedroom, bashed her brains in, and quickly returned.
Pity Mrs. Thomson hadn’t seen the killer. She’d proudly told Basil and Lara that it was she who’d sounded the alarm. She’d actually heard the murder taking place. Right above her head! Can you imagine?
The Potters had imagined and had shivered freely. They’d been sound asleep at the time, snugly in their beds. And then all hell had broken loose. Police cars arriving, ambulances, and then that pounding on the door, the tall policeman demanding they step out and subject themselves to an interrogation.
The moment they returned to their room, Lara had said there was someone there. A presence. Basil had credited this to nervousness, but then he heard a creaking sound coming from the bathroom.
“Just…let me have a look,” he whispered, taking a firm grip on the bedside lamp. It didn’t have much heft but it would have to do. In his everyday life he was a used car salesman and didn’t have a lot of experience attacking midnight marauders. Still, for the sake of Lara, he would do whatever it took. He loved his wife, and this was his chance to prove to her once and for all who was wearing the pants in the Potter household.
He snuck to the bathroom door. It was ajar, which was suspicious in and of itself, as he didn’t remember having left it open. Step by step, he approached the door, Lara right behind him, lending moral support.
He teased the door open with one hand, the lamp held high over his head. Whoever was in there would feel his wrath soon enough now.
He stepped in, then quickly flipped on the light, hoping to surprise their unwanted guest.
He blinked against the harsh light. Nothing. Then his eyes traveled to the shower curtain, which was closed. Had it been closed before? He couldn’t remember.
He swallowed with some difficulty, nerves now raging through his stocky frame. Stealthily, he approached the shower, once again holding the lamp aloft. Then, with a sweep of the hand, he parted the curtain, prepared to rain down hellfire on the culprit foolish enough to attack an innocent couple.
He was surprised to find a small pool of blood in the bathtub, but no one present. He frowned. Why would there be blood in their bath? It sure as hell hadn’t been him bleeding all over it.
He looked back at Lara. “Is this yours?”
She shook her head, as perplexed as he was. “We have to tell the police,” she said, her voice tremulous.
Basil nodded. She was right. A murderer on the premises, blood in the tub, there had to be some sort of connection.
He ran out into the hall, hoping that gangly policeman would still be there. And as he took a left turn to head on down the stairs, he almost ran into a handsome fellow who looked oddly familiar. He wasn’t dressed like a policeman, but he sorta looked like one.
“Hello, there, sir,” the man growled, then took out a small notebook and pencil. “Detective MacLachlan. Have you noticed anything suspicious here tonight?”
Basil was relieved. He’d been trying to find a cop and he had. “Yes, detective, yes. There’s blood in my bathtub.”
If the policeman was surprised, he didn’t show it. “Blood in the bathtub,” he said in a gravelly voice, as he jotted down a note. “And what bathtub would that be, sir?”
“Room two. We’re the Potters. Your colleague questioned us just now and when we got back to the room we noticed the blood.”
The policeman gave him a lopsided grin, and for a moment Basil thought he looked just like that Chuck MacLachlan, one of his movie heroes. “I better have a look, sir. Please lead the way.”
It was with great relief that Basil led the way to the second floor and to his room. The policeman, who looked a lot more like a policeman than the other guy, asked him a few routine questions along the way, which he dutifully answered.
Arriving at room number two, the cop nodded a kindly greeting to Lara and proceeded into the bathroom to have a look at the suspicious puddle of blood.
He stared at the blood, frowned at the blood, took a seat on the edge of the bathtub to sniff at the blood, and finally dipped his finger in for a taste of the blood. His face looked grave when he finally snarled, “This is blood, sir.”
“Right,”
said Basil, happy to find his suspicions confirmed by a specialist.
“We need to take a sample to determine…” The cop directed his gaze upward and started violently. Basil, whose eyes had also traveled to the ceiling, gurgled in shock and horror. A wide spot of crimson had appeared there, directly over the puddle, and as he watched, a drop fell down with a resounding plop.
“Hot potato!” the policeman cried.
Behind him, Lara’s scream rent the air.
Chapter 45
“Impersonating a police officer is a federal offense,” Chief Whitehouse was saying. His face was a thundercloud, and Alice thought he’d never looked more officious in his life.
They were standing in front of the inn, where Reece Hudson had just been arrested.
“Come on, Dad,” she groaned. “You can’t be serious. You’re arresting Chuck MacLachlan? You might as well throw Clint Eastwood in jail, or Bruce Willis. The man’s a bona fide movie star!”
“I don’t care,” her father said through gritted teeth. “He talked to a witness, which I distinctly remember having forbidden, impersonated a police officer, and tampered with evidence.”
“He didn’t tamper. He just wanted to make sure the blood was really blood. You would have done the same.” At the expression of incredulity on her father’s face, she amended, “Well, perhaps you wouldn’t, but under the circumstances it was the right thing to do.”
“It was absolutely the worst thing he could have done, and I’m blaming you as much as I’m blaming him.” He was stabbing his finger in her direction, something she didn’t appreciate. “You put him up to this, didn’t you?”
“I did not,” she said with as much hauteur as she could muster. “He volunteered.”
“For that watch committee of yours.” The veins in his temples were throbbing dangerously. “Leave the police work to trained police officers. This is dangerous territory, honey. We’re dealing with a murderer here, not some graffiti artist defiling church walls. This is serious!”