A Wee Homicide in the Hotel

by Fran Stewart

  She wanted to hare off like Peggy Winn and go looking for the old man, but Mac had insisted on “plenty of police presence” in the meadow. Like he thought there would be a repeat of yesterday?

  She watched the first three competitors. Normally it was an event she enjoyed, but this time she just wasn’t interested. With Santa missing, and her with nothing she could do about it, she felt empty.

  * * *

  Silla did not like being this hungry, and she wondered why her person was not eating anything, either. She drank from the bowl her person had put beside the white sitting place, but that did not fill her insides. And it was almost empty now. She licked her paws again and thought about the squirrel she had seen when she and her person—and that awful female person—walked in the woods.

  Maybe if Silla could get back there, she could find another squirrel and bring one to her person. Maybe food would wake him up.

  She pawed at the door, but it was too hard. She eyed the wall beside the door and began to scratch at it. Bred to pull badgers from holes in the ground. Built with powerful front feet and exceptional strength in their jaws. All the instincts of her Scottie blood came rushing forward, and she began to dig in earnest.

  Something recent and civilized, something connected with her person, told her it was wrong to hurt a wall like this, but something deeper and darker, older and more persistent, based on her need to protect her person, told her she needed to get out.

  15

  These words like daggers enter in my ears.

  ACT 3, SCENE 4

  The young man at the front desk was helpful. He called the room. When there was no answer, he walked down the corridor with me and knocked on Big Willie’s door, where a Do Not Disturb sign hung from the knob. There still was no answer.

  “He might have overslept,” the clerk said.

  I thought about how Shorty always insisted on breakfast at a certain time. “No,” I said. “He would have had to get up to walk his dog.”

  “You can go outside and look in his window. I can’t leave the front desk unattended.”

  “Thanks for checking,” I said. There was a back door not far from where we stood. “We’ll go out that way.”

  “I can’t, ma’am. I just told you, I have to get back up front.” He strode away, barely missing Dirk, who had flattened himself against the wall.

  It took me a moment to register that when I’d said we, I’d meant Dirk and I. The clerk thought we meant . . . Forget it. Life with a ghost tended to get complicated at times.

  I—we—headed for the outside door. “Big Willie wouldn’t have missed the competition. But where would he have gone?”

  Outside, I just barely dodged a Frisbee thrown by a group of teenage boys goofing off. I recognized one of them as the tall, gangly guy I’d seen at the opening. He’d thrown himself across a smaller kid who looked like she might have been a little sister. Let them goof off, then. He deserved some fun. “Sorry,” they yelled, and I waved. They made as much noise as the crowds at the Games.

  With very little sense of shame, I peeked in the window of Big Willie’s room. He sure was messy, but maybe it was hard to be tidy when you’re traveling with a dog. Clothes were strewn across the bed. A suitcase gaped open on the floor. I half expected to see Big Willie sprawled on the floor, victim of a heart attack, but the room—other than all the mess strewn around—was bare.

  “He isna here,” Dirk said, rather unnecessarily. He inspected the wide screened push-out glass panel that stretched beneath the large plate glass window. “Nor could any the one squeeze through such a narrow window.”

  I glanced at the teenagers, but they were making a great deal of noise and paying no attention to me. I didn’t even lower my voice. “Were you thinking robbery?”

  “Aye. It looks like it, would ye no say?”

  “No. It just looks like he’s messy.” I felt faintly disappointed. Big Willie hadn’t struck me as the kind of person who’d be such a slob. Not when he’d shown so much pride in the way he packed whatever Silla needed, things like the folding water bowl. At least he hadn’t left town. That was pretty clear, with all his stuff still here. He wasn’t still in bed. He wasn’t on the floor. Where could he be?

  Reluctantly, I headed for the ScotShop. I had a store to run. I couldn’t run around looking for an elusive Santa. I had a ridiculous mental image of Silla with antlers pulling a sleigh. How silly could I get?

  Where the heck was Big Willie?

  * * *

  Silla heard the noisy bell. She heard the knocking, too, but she kept scratching, digging, biting at the wall.

  She had a dog’s concept of time. Morning was food time, walk time, playtime. Afternoon was rest time, playtime, sit-by-her-person’s-leg time. Evening was eat time, walk time, playtime, lie-beside-her-person time. Night was sleep time.

  But now? Now had no time. Just the incessant awful-tasting wall. Just the hurt in her paws and her nose and her tongue that she ignored. Just the pulsing need to find a squirrel for her person.

  When she finally broke through, she found itchy stuff filling the space behind the wall. The only thing she stopped for was to drink water when she couldn’t keep going, but soon the bowl was dry. When she found more wall behind the itchies, she snarled and tore at the obstructions. There was no time. Except the time to dig some more.

  * * *

  A little before three Friday afternoon, Scamp barked from his seat in the front window. I looked up and saw Silla scampering along the sidewalk. She charged across the street, and brakes squealed as drivers tried to avoid her. I ran out and called, knowing full well that a Scottie on a mission, or in a panic, might very well ignore me. But she swerved away from the street, limped to meet me, and sat, shivering, in front of my feet. I grabbed hold of her red collar to keep her from running away.

  Where was Big Willie? He ought to have been running behind her—or hollering for her. No responsible dog owner would have deliberately let his dog loose in a town where cars—even though they were going slowly—could be a danger to the dog, and Silla wasn’t the type to run away.

  I looked down the street, the direction Silla had come from. My hand tingled, and I saw what looked like fiberglass insulation caught on her collar. I knelt and studied her more closely. “What’s happened to you, sweetie?” Her nose was badly scratched and her beard was flecked with small pieces of—I pulled one free of the long coarse hair—was it wood? No. Sheetrock. That’s what it was. She whimpered and stamped her wide feet in a frenetic Scottie dance. “Gilda! Bring me Scamp’s leash!”

  As soon as I snapped it onto Silla’s collar, she took off running downhill, toward the Hamelin Hotel, the retractable wire unwinding from the blue handle as fast as it could.

  16

  Thou hast cleft my heart in twain.

  ACT 3, SCENE 4

  I burst into the lobby and ran for the front desk, scattering a group of kilt-clad men. The clerk, the same redheaded young man I’d dealt with before, looked up in some alarm. “Mr. Bowman’s room,” I panted. “You have to let me in. I think he’s sick. He may have had a heart attack.”

  “All right, miss. Settle down.” He looked around, seeming to wish for a manager to materialize and take care of the crazy woman before him.

  His wishes must have worked, because a gray-suited woman with hair as slicked back as a seal’s was at my elbow. “May I be of service?” A tag with the hotel logo on it gave her name, but I hardly noticed it. All I saw was her title. Manager.

  “Yes,” I said with some exasperation. “I need to get into Big Willie Bowman’s room right away.” Before she could object and cite privacy laws at me, I headed down the hallway, pretty much forcing her to follow. Silla led the parade and clawed at the door.

  “Please,” I said. “This is very important.”

  She studied me only for a moment. Something in my face must have convinced
her, or maybe it was the sound of Silla whining as she sniffed and pawed at the doorjamb, but she raised her arm. The clerk—I didn’t realize he’d followed us so closely—placed a key card in her outstretched palm.

  I tightened my hold on the leash and held my breath.

  It was just as well, since an unpleasant smell greeted us. He was sick. I knew it. He’d probably been lying on the floor for two days. If he was close beside the bed, I wouldn’t have seen him from the window. Poor man. Silla tugged on the leash, and I followed her inside. “Willie,” I cried. “Willie? Are you here? Where are you?” Pieces of Sheetrock littered the floor once we got past the small entryway.

  Silla lunged to her right and tried to squeeze through a gaping hole in the wall, but I held her back and opened what had to be the bathroom door. I tried to close it again, as soon as I saw what was in there—I didn’t want to see it—but Silla had forced her way through and stopped with her two front feet on Big Willie’s back. His unmoving back. There was no question in my mind—other than the obvious one: Who would do something this awful to someone as sweet as Big Willie Bowman? Strangled with the cords of a bagpipe. Silla whined. When I didn’t move, she barked and lay down across his body, her pointy, carrot-shaped tail thumping against the chanter.

  Behind me I heard the manager gasp. “Is Mr. Bowman all right? Does he need an ambulance?”

  I couldn’t blame her for such stupidity. She’d probably never seen a dead body before. “No,” I said. “Call the police. Mr. Bowman is dead.”

  “Are you sure?”

  That was when I realized I’d been blocking the bathroom door. She wasn’t being stupid. She hadn’t a clue. She couldn’t see him. Just as well. “I’m sure,” I told her. “Just call the police.”

  Within seconds she was on her cell phone, reporting the death, asking them to send someone right away. And then she was in the hall, ordering the clerk to clear the hallway, telling him—unnecessarily, I thought—to send the police back to the room as soon as they arrived.

  I didn’t need to feel for a pulse. But I felt an unreasoning impulse to tidy up. Sheetrock and insulation lay scattered around the body. Silla must have worked for hours to escape. How had she known what to do, where to start, how long to dig? I stepped forward, knelt, and laid my hand on her head. She whimpered, but didn’t move other than to lick the back of Big Willie’s head.

  Outside the room I could hear the manager continuing to bark orders. Dirk hovered beside me. “The puir wee doggie maun ha’ seen it all,” he said. “D’ye think she’d recognize the killer?”

  I brushed tears from my face. “Considering the way she ripped apart that wall, I’d say she’d probably tear into him if she had a chance. I wonder how she got out of the room.”

  Dirk motioned back over his shoulder. “She pushed out the . . . the webbing below the window.”

  “You mean the screen? The mesh that keeps bugs out?”

  “Is that what ’tis called?”

  “Aye. I mean, yes.” No wonder her nose was bleeding. First the wall, then the screen. Poor brave little dog. What was she going to do now without Willie to care for her? Did he have any relatives who’d take her? He’d mentioned his wife’s awful, judgmental sister and brothers, but I had no idea who the next of kin would be.

  Thank goodness the police—Harper, I hoped—would be here soon.

  I reached for my cell phone. Whatever was—or wasn’t—going on between us, I wanted to hear his voice. “Harper,” I said without preamble, “can you come to the hotel? It’s Big Willie. He’s . . . he’s dead. It looks like somebody strangled him. Room 124.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I know. I’m on my way.”

  He knew about the death? Or he knew the room number? I wasn’t sure, and I supposed it didn’t matter. I reached out and laid my hand on Silla’s sturdy back.

  * * *

  Harper wasn’t surprised by the messiness of most crime scenes, but he was often taken aback by the difference between what a room had been and what it was after a murder had been committed. He didn’t usually see the before, except in photographs provided by a victim’s family. In this case, though, he’d seen Bowman’s room. It was so tidy yesterday when he’d looked in through the sun-drenched window. Now, as he walked into the chaos, careful not to step on anything that might constitute evidence, he wondered how the transformation had occurred. Before or after the death? During the event? The result of Bowman’s own actions or strictly the murderer’s? He didn’t like to form too much of an opinion ahead of time, but he couldn’t imagine Bowman having created any of this.

  He’d already learned from the hotel manager that Peggy was still in the bathroom with the body. He hoped she was coping with this. He knew from past experience that she’d probably hold all her emotion inside and let it out later, when she was alone, or maybe with Karaline, her friend. He didn’t want to leave her alone with the body too long, but he knew he couldn’t rush this first view of the crime scene. One step at a time. Murphy was one step ahead of him, taking photos.

  “Peggy,” he called out and heard a muffled reply. “Don’t move out of the room for another couple of minutes. We’re taking pictures.”

  “I know. I can hear the clicking.” She sounded calm, but he was sure her calm was superimposed over a deep anguish. He’d heard her concern for Bowman in just those few words she’d spoken to him when she called a few minutes before.

  She was talking, but not loud enough for him to hear any words. It sounded like a conversation. Was she talking to the dead body? He strained to listen, all the while taking careful note of the position of the suitcase, the parallel drag marks on the carpet, the scattered clothing, the open dresser drawers, the busted-out screen. If it had been burglary, the screen would have been pushed in from the outside, although he doubted any person could fit through that narrow a space.

  He rounded the corner and looked in the bathroom. The dog. She was talking to the dog. He felt a draft of cold air. Or he thought he did. Maybe it was his imagination.

  He laid a hand on her shoulder. She nodded, but kept stroking the little dog.

  “Can you tell me why you’re here? How you got in?” He indicated the Sheetrock mess. “And how this happened?”

  “I looked for Big Willie this morning when he didn’t show up for the caber toss. In fact, I was so worried, I came here to the hotel. The guy at the front desk wouldn’t let me in the room, but I went out the back way and peeked in the window, but he wasn’t here. Or”—her voice caught—“if he was, I couldn’t see him.”

  “And what do you know about this mess?”

  “It must have been Silla. Her nose is bleeding and I think she’s hurt one of her paws, and her fur—see?—is covered with dust and debris. She must have dug her way out of the bathroom. She came to me for help, and I thought Big Willie might have had a heart attack or something, so I came here and talked the manager into letting me in. And then I found . . .” Her voice ran down and she gestured around her. The cords that held the drones of the bagpipe had fallen away from Bowman’s throat, but the mark in the flesh on the side of the victim’s neck made it fairly clear what must have happened.

  One corner of Bowman’s plaid was crumpled around one of the drones. It seemed fairly clear to Harper that someone had wiped the drones free of fingerprints using Bowman’s own tartan. It seemed particularly heartless.

  He studied the hole in the painted Sheetrock. All the way through that, plus a hefty layer of insulation, judging by the amount of it that covered the floor, and then the Sheetrock and wallpaper in the bedroom itself. And the screened window. No wonder the dog looked exhausted, stretched out like that with her hairy chin pressed into her master’s back. “We’re going to have to move the dog so Dr. Olafson can examine the body.”

  “Dr. Olafson?”

  “He’s the new regional medical examiner.”

  “Is he h
ere yet?”

  “No,” he told her. “But he’s on his way.”

  “Please leave her alone a little while longer. She’ll never get to lay her head against him again.”

  Peggy broke down then and cried. Sobbed. And, other than pressing his hand more firmly into her shoulder, there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. He wanted to scoop her up off that filthy floor and hold her, take her out of this place, give her comfort.

  Instead, he crouched there like an automaton, like a robot, like a cop, and let her cry.

  After a few minutes that felt like months, the crying eased. “His ring is gone,” she said.

  “Ring?”

  “He had a big dark red ring. I think it was a ruby.” She pointed at the arm splayed out on the tile floor. “It’s gone.”

  His other arm, the left one, appeared to be trapped beneath the body—he hated to think of Bowman like that, but after all, that was what the man now was, only a body. “Are you sure? Could it be on his other hand?”

  She cocked her head to one side, and Harper could practically see her whole thought process. She was imagining Bowman standing in front of her, maybe lifting his hand to scratch his cheek. While she went through this process, Harper noted the faint light-colored line around Bowman’s ring finger.

  “No,” she said. “He . . .” She shifted the upper part of her body slightly, almost as if she were putting herself in Bowman’s standing position, and raised her own hand to her left shoulder. “He wore it on his right hand.”

  “We have to wait for the medical examiner to inspect the body before we can move it.”

  She nodded.

  “For now, though, we need to move out of here so Murphy can get some photos. He’ll take some of the empty hand, too.” He saw Murphy nod. “Let me help you up.”

  She shook her head. “I can make it, but I have to lift Silla. I don’t think she’ll move on her own.”