Shadow of a Spout

by Amanda Cooper

  Bertie paused and looked down at the floor. Whether he was trying to remember or trying to figure out what story would be best for his alibi, it was hard to say.

  “I don’t remember. I think it was unlocked,” he said stiffly. “You heard that woman; the lock is faulty. Now, if you do not mind I am in the middle of a crisis and quite possibly a nervous breakdown.” He whirled on his feet and headed down the passageway toward the stairs, and they could hear him clomp up them with a heavy tread.

  Chapter 18

  “I know this isn’t your case.” Sophie paused, trying to figure out how to say that she’d rather talk to him than one of the others. She didn’t want to badmouth the other detectives, but perhaps because of his tie to her godmother she instantly trusted Eli and preferred to tell him over anyone else. “But I have some information that I may as well pass along to you while I have you.” In an undertone so the cooks couldn’t hear, she told Eli most of what she had thought and imagined and investigated. He listened, leaning back against the wall, looking down at the floor.

  She then told him that she was looking into Dahlia Pettigrew’s movements that night and he took in a deep breath, shaking his head. “Miss Taylor—”

  “Sophie.”

  “Sophie. I appreciate that you’re trying to help, but you just can’t interfere in an investigation.”

  “I’m not interfering.” Her phone buzzed just then and she checked it. Jason had just texted her that Dahlia Pettigrew’s car had not come back to the lot until three forty-seven in the morning. She showed the message to the detective. “Cruickshank College is about twenty-five or thirty minutes from here.”

  He nodded and narrowed his eyes, staring down at Sophie. “I know that. And you did this after I basically told you to butt out.”

  Sophie didn’t reply; she was too busy working out the timeline. Nana had said that the body was found at around three thirty. It seemed that Dahlia was out of contention as the murderer, then, but where was Emma? Josh had said that Emma came into the inn while they were all gathered in the convention room, and that was well after the murder. If she had been with her mother, where was she in the meantime? “Sorry . . . what did you say, Detective?”

  “Look, we appreciate the information. I’m not sure O’Hoolihan is aware of the Dahlia Pettigrew angle, so I’ll bring it to his attention.”

  “Josh Sinclair told me that Emma Pettigrew came into the inn early in the morning after the murder in the same clothes he’d seen her in the night before, so she could have been with her mother, I guess.” She’d let him figure out the timeline himself.

  He was silent for a long moment, but then said, “I’ve read through all the statements, but I can’t share that stuff with you. We’ll take it into consideration. Thank you for your information; now leave it alone.”

  “But can’t you—”

  “No, Sophie, leave it alone!” he said sternly. He paused, watching her, then said, “You seem like a reasonable sort, so I’ll tell you why you must let it be. You could seriously damage the case if you interfere. Don’t endanger yourself out of some mistaken sense that you can find the truth before we do.”

  “Okay,” she said, subdued by his demeanor. “I haven’t been asking around because I think I can solve the case.” For some reason his opinion mattered to her, and it concerned her that he thought she didn’t have confidence in the police’s ability to solve the murder. But she had a vague feeling that he had manipulated her to feel that way, and it irritated her. “I was just trying to help. I’m mainly concerned for my grandmother.”

  “I don’t mean to be harsh,” he said gently, his serious blue-gray eyes holding her gaze. “I’m concerned for your safety. In my experience murderers find it easier to kill a second time. And they get paranoid; they’ll kill just to cover their tracks.”

  Reality-check time, Sophie thought, with a shiver. She touched his arm. “Thank you, Eli. You’re absolutely right. I’ll take your advice and be careful. All I want is to get my grandmother home safe and sound.”

  “That’s my focus, too, getting my Auntie Lala back to GiGi.”

  Dana’s smitten expression and hyped-up awareness came back to her; her friend hadn’t had a lot of luck in the romance department. In fact, the girl hadn’t dated in over a year, she’d told Sophie. She complained of a list of losers in her dating past and stated her determination not to date again unless the guy was marriage worthy. “Detective, you seem like a really nice guy,” she said, on impulse.

  “I hope I am,” he replied, taking her arm and leading her toward the stairs. “Some men think ‘nice’ is an old-fashioned concept, along with manners and honor. I don’t hold with fellows who think that to be cool they have to be bad boys.”

  “Are you single?”

  She felt a jolt of surprise go though his body and he looked down at her.

  “Uh, yes. Yes, I am.” His expression was uncertain.

  It took her a moment, but she got why he looked that way; she smiled. He thought she was coming on to him! Wow, that was so far from her modus operandi. He was giving her points for guts she didn’t have. She couldn’t even talk to Jason about their relationship, whatever it was. “Just curious. Thought I’d let you know, my friend Dana Saunders is not only gorgeous but one of the smartest woman I’ve met in a long time and nicer than she pretends to be.”

  “Why does everyone in my life think they have to fix me up?”

  She chuckled at his plaintive tone as they wound back through the hallways. “I have a feeling it’s because you’re a really nice guy. Take it as a compliment! I’m just saying . . . she is worth going out of your way for.” She stole a glance sideways, but his expression was impossible to read. “I won’t say another word, I promise.”

  Once upstairs the detective went to find his colleagues, so Sophie took a seat in the lobby alcove to text a thank-you for the information back to Jason. She finished that and got her notebook out as a shadow fell over her.

  It was Rhiannon with a box in her arms. “I have Rose’s Tea-riffic Tea Blend order,” she said.

  “Okay,” Sophie replied. She waited a moment, watching her friend’s face. “You look like you have something more to say,” she said.

  “I do.” Rhiannon set the box down and sat in one of the alcove chairs across from Sophie, the leather crackling and squeaking as she shifted. “Is Detective O’Hoolihan here?”

  Sophie nodded.

  “I need to talk to him.”

  Sophie remembered what Detective Hodge said about Rhiannon lying about being home all night. “What’s up?”

  Rhiannon paused, but then looked down and scuffed at the worn carpet with one toe of her sandals. “I wasn’t home that night like I told the cops.”

  “Where were you?”

  Rhiannon let the silence stretch for a while. When she spoke again, it was not in answer to Sophie’s question. “I work hard to make my business a success. It’s my mother’s, after all, and I don’t want to bring shame to it.” She paused and shook her head. “Geez, that sounds so lame.”

  “It’s not lame. I get it, Rhi, I really do,” Sophie said. “I feel the same about Nana’s tearoom.”

  “Friday was hard. I had a rotten day here, for reasons I won’t go into.”

  Sophie knew some of it and could imagine more. Rhiannon was being sidelined by the ITCS leadership and it was affecting not only her personal life, but also her business, if what Sophie had heard was correct. Nana said that Zunia was trying to get Rhiannon removed as official tea supplier to the ITCS New York division. But Rhi was also faced with her former lover Walter Sommer, his new lover Zunia, and everything else. It’s no wonder that she had that fight with Zunia at the inn that evening.

  “Instead of going home after that argument with Zunia, I headed out—I didn’t care where I was going. I ended up at a bar on the highway and met Mike, this guy I kn
ow. He’s the courier driver who brings my packages.” She shook her head and sighed. “I went home with him.”

  Gently, Sophie said, “Don’t beat yourself up. So you had a night with a guy you know; it’s not the end of the world and it’s not like you picked up some stranger.”

  Rhiannon sighed. “I don’t handle stress very well. I’ve done that before and it’s no way to behave. I need to get my act together.”

  Sophie reached out and took Rhi’s hand, ducking her head to meet her friend’s green eyes. “Stop being so mean to yourself. You’re a good person. Nobody’s perfect.”

  “I hate the regrets I have the next day, you know?”

  “The things we do that we regret don’t define who we are.”

  “Maybe not, but if Nora Sommer ever gets wind she’ll make sure Zunia’s aim is finished. She and Zunia have a lot in common, like two peas in a pod.”

  “But that wouldn’t be any of her business, would it?” Sophie asked, wondering if Rhiannon was being just a little paranoid. Maybe her experience from the year before had made her hypersensitive.

  “She wouldn’t see it that way, I can tell you that.”

  “So Nora doesn’t like you, either?”

  “Let’s just say that both Zunia and Nora have a good reason not to be too fond of me.”

  Sophie tried to think of a way to ask about her and Walter’s relationship but was tongue-tied. There were just some things you couldn’t ask, but her self-confessed tendency to have flings explained a lot. “Rhi, did you notice anything else going on that evening when you were here arguing with Zunia?” Sophie asked, thinking of the confrontation between Orlando Pettigrew and Pastor Frank, and Bertie Handler’s “jailing” of Frank in the panic room.

  “What do you mean?” Rhiannon said, standing and tugging her shorts down.

  “Was there anyone else around?”

  “I came here to confront Zunia. I had phoned her, wanting to clear the air. She had some . . . uh . . . mistaken ideas about me and Walter.” She shifted from foot to foot and looked off into the distance. “I don’t want to go into that. Anyway, I met her here in the lobby and we argued, then I stormed off. I didn’t see anyone else, but there probably could have been a dozen costumed clowns here and I wouldn’t have noticed, I was so angry.”

  “What time was that, anyway?”

  “About ten thirty or eleven. It was late. I had been stewing about it, so I texted her and then called her, saying I wasn’t just going to slink off and let her ruin my standing with the ITCS, not when my mother worked hard to build that darned organization to what it is today.” She stared at Sophie. “Why are you asking all these questions?”

  “No reason. Just curious,” Sophie said.

  Rhi took a deep breath. “Well, that’s off my chest to you, and now I have to go talk to that detective. It was so stupid of me to lie to the cops about where I was, but I just . . . I felt like an idiot. Can I leave the box of tea with you?”

  “Sure. Nana will send you a check when we get back to GiGi.” She hesitated a moment, but then said, “If you don’t feel comfortable talking to O’Hoolihan, look for Detective Hodge. You might find him more simpatico.”

  “It doesn’t really matter who I talk to, but I don’t want to have to explain myself all over again to a new detective, so my fellow Irishman will do. Talk to you later, Soph.”

  “’kay. Keep your chin up. It’ll all be okay.”

  Rhiannon walked away, but just before she reached the check-in desk, presumably to ask Bertie where the detective was, Walter Sommer emerged from the dining room and saw her. He strode over to her. They chatted for a moment, and then he took her in his arms and hugged her. He glanced around with a guilty start and released her. She clung to his arm and they walked away together.

  It was odd that Rhiannon had referenced her relationship to Walter, said that Zunia didn’t need to worry about it, and yet there she was hugging him in an intimate manner. Maybe Nora and Zunia did have the same reason for not liking Rhiannon. Maybe Walter was still fond of Rhi in a way he shouldn’t be, as a married man.

  But it all came down to the facts: If Rhiannon was telling the truth then she could not have been Zunia Pettigrew’s killer. That was good—one person knocked off the list, but many more to go.

  She paused to marshal her thoughts and glanced down at her notebook. What had she established so far? The teapot was not the real weapon, so the teapot was stolen just to make Nana look guilty. That meant there was another weapon out there, and if they hadn’t found it readily, then it had been disposed of, either nearby or somewhere else. But it would pretty much have to be nearby, because the killer, if it was one of the inn guests, had to be close at hand.

  She remembered the Dumpster in back and the yellow police tape floating from it. That was the most likely location of the real murder weapon, and it meant that the killer did indeed nip through the downstairs, out the door and likely back in again. The killer had to have known their way around the inn, but she knew it pretty well already herself, and she had just arrived the day before. For all Bertie’s antsiness about her going down there, if even Thelma Earnshaw could slip down to the basement unnoticed, then anyone could.

  The basement made her think of Pastor Frank’s assertion that Bertie had let him out of the locked room, and Bertie’s adamant statement that he had not released him but had come to the room and found Frank gone. Was it possible that the killer, with the master key in hand, had turned the key in the lock to free the pastor and then escaped back upstairs before he emerged?

  It was possible. If it was dark down there, as it likely was in the dead of night, it would be easy to disappear before Frank got out into the hall. He would think Bertie had let him out when it was really the killer, who wanted yet another potential suspect free. But if that was so, then where did the pastor go? If he went up to his room and Zunia was already dead by the elevator . . . But who said she was already dead?

  Ah . . . that is true. The alarms had gone off in the wee hours of the morning, about three, according to Nana. The killer could have let him out, he would have gone up to his room, which he shared with no one, and then the murder was committed!

  However, it was also possible that either Frank or Bertie was lying and was actually the killer. Bertie would release Frank to add him into the mix of suspects, though there was no reason why he’d do it secretly, if that was the case. Frank could have let himself out of the room if he had the master key from stealing the teapot out of Nana’s room. She took out her notebook, jotting down a note to find out from the pastor what time he was released, if he knew, and where he went. In concert with that, she needed to know what time Bertie went into the panic room.

  It occurred to her that she was doing exactly what the detective had warned her not to do, but surely it wouldn’t hurt to just speculate. She wouldn’t actually do anything and would turn over any information to him. And she wouldn’t take any chances.

  But still, she had kind of promised. She considered that for a moment. It had seemed that in Eli Hodge’s presence the detective had some kind of hold over her; she understood perfectly what he was saying and felt deeply that she must not interfere. It was like hypnotism, those cool blue-gray eyes and their fixed magnetic gaze. Weird. Out of his sphere of influence, she knew that she would keep discreetly trying to figure out the mystery.

  If what she speculated was true, though, one or the other could be lying, but both Pastor Frank and Bertie could just as well be telling the truth. One thing still puzzled her; Pastor Frank legitimately thought Zunia was going to run away with him, that she was sure of. And if that was the case, Zunia likely led him to believe that. She pondered, and the answer came to her in a flash: It was a smoke screen. She was using the pastor to conceal her real plans, which involved Walter Sommer.

  But were she and Walter really planning to run away together? Would he leave N
ora? Sophie didn’t think so, but it was possible that with Zunia getting pushy, he told her whatever he thought she wanted to hear just to shut her up temporarily.

  Something Thelma had overheard came back to her: Orlando Pettigrew said that Zunia was afraid of her lover, and that she was trying to get rid of him. It might be a lie, or it could be true. Perhaps Walter Sommer was hiding a side to his character that fit with that fear. From all reports, Nora was asleep in her room that night. Walter said that she took sleeping pills, which would explain why she hadn’t emerged from their room until, according to Nana’s recitation of the events of that morning, the police woke her up. So Walter could have stolen the key to the basement room, stealthily let Pastor Frank out so he would provide another possible suspect, lured Zunia from her room with a promise to either talk or actually run away, killed her, then gone back to his room, showered and gone to bed like an innocent person.

  The storm was a complication no one could have foreseen, pinpointing the time of death to some extent. It apparently set off the alarm—if that was true and it wasn’t set off by someone else—bringing everyone out to find Zunia dead. But she hadn’t been dead long. Surely it would have been better for the killer if the body was cold and time of death less certain, as it would have been if the body had not been discovered until someone rose for breakfast at six or seven.

  She pocketed her phone and notebook and was standing to go into the dining room when the doors opened and some members flooded out. Josh was in deep conversation with Malcolm Hodge and Horace Brubaker, but when he saw Sophie he said a quick farewell to them and darted over to her.