by Mira Gibson
Pine Road was marred with frost heaves where it hooked east around Dog Cove, the resort in the distance across the lake. His Ford Focus bounced over juts and dips, scraping the undercarriage. He squeezed the brakes, wincing that the muffler wouldn’t jostle loose.
When he reached the intersection of Pine and Keewaydin Roads, he hung a left, rounding the cove onto asphalt that was both smooth and thoroughly plowed. He supposed the Wythes had foot the bill to keep this stretch of Keewaydin pristine, perhaps unwilling to allow their guests to suffer the indignity of an unpleasant drive to and from the hotel. The town certainly hadn’t paid for it. The Department of Transportation tended to allocate the majority of its funds to fill in potholes along Main Street and other well-traveled roads at the expense of the rural ones or so he had gleaned in the four weeks he had lived here, not that their policies were unique.
Lucas downshifted, pulling into the parking lot in front of the resort where cars sat under a good foot of snow. With the recent snowstorms, two to be exact, which had granted only four days of clear skies in-between, he imagined the guests hadn’t had cause to venture out, all their needs having been promptly met by the hotel staff.
At the far end of the lot, a handful of construction workers were shouting at one another about how best to remove snow from their equipment, while the rest of them carried support beams in teams of two towards the west side of the resort.
Lucas couldn’t help but smirk. The Wythes must love the eyesore their west wing had been reduced to.
He had never met them, but their reputation was no secret. They owned this town. And they went to great lengths to make that fact known.
After squeezing his clunker between a silver Lexus and a late-model Cadillac, both under heaps of snow but only one at risk of being dented if he wasn’t careful opening his door, Lucas kept his car idling in Neutral and fished his cell out of his coat pocket.
He owed his partner a phone call, but wasn’t exactly eager for the reprimand that would surely come if and when Cody heard about the autopsy Lucas had ordered. His evidence logs blunder the other night shouldn’t have earned him such a severe reaction from Cody, but Lucas couldn’t deny it hadn’t been his first oversight.
Inside of four weeks with the Center Harbor PD, he had made several errors, mostly administrative, and Cody had caught every single one of them—not submitting receipts with his expense reports, forgetting to print his name after his signature on a Criminal History Request form, thinking he had emailed a victims advocate with an update when he hadn’t. What was eating Lucas was that harmless slip-ups, or slip-ups of any variety for that matter, weren’t characteristic of his track record with his previous precinct. Worse was the fact that when questioned about it, he had little recollection of having completed the order in the first place, the monotony of menial tasks far too mundane to hold his attention.
Aiming to spare his ego from blows, which would only shake his resolve, he determined he would call Cody after speaking with the Wythes and not before, and elbowed the door open.
It struck the Lexus and a miniature avalanche of snow plummeted into his car.
He grumbled, “Christ,” scanning the parking lot for witnesses as he climbed out.
The only other car not buried under snow was a rusted-out Audi idling near the entrance. He hadn’t noticed anyone driving in. A cloud of exhaust was streaming out of the tailpipe, obscuring his sightline of the passenger who sat in silhouette. Whoever they were, they didn’t appear to have seen him clip the Lexus.
He started for the entrance, walking through slush puddles, the ice water of which seeped through the seams in his boots, dampening his socks. The sunlight was blinding the way it reflected off the snow-cloaked vehicles, but as he neared the hotel he stepped into the shadows made by the portico blocking the sun.
When he lifted his gaze, a young woman threw open the entrance door on her way out, her angular eyes locking with his. She lingered for his benefit, leaning against the glass to hold the door for him, as she wrapped her long coat closed.
Quirking her straight mouth into a secretive smirk, the sharp lines of her cheekbones as well as her jaw softening in a way that unnerved him, she looked as if she might say something.
He grabbed the edge of the door and hesitated, not wanting to brush against her while passing through. She didn’t move despite his gentlemanly patience, but rather made slow work of freeing her sandy-blonde hair from beneath her coat-collar while gazing up at him.
“I’ve got the door,” he pointed out, feeling strangely invaded by her not-so-subtle interest.
She played with the trim of her coat, a faux-fur material that was a poor excuse for sable. It was also matted, and the skirt she wore—black and tight and dangerously high on the thigh—had a tattered quality, revealing she likely didn’t belong at the Wythe Resort, if not for her economic standing then her age. She was pretending to be much older.
Finally she sauntered out, but after a few steps twirled airily on her heel, following him with her eyes.
He let out a breathy laugh at her confidence, shaking off the idea of her and motioning inside.
But he didn’t get far.
When she asked, “What’s so funny, Killer?” it shocked him so badly he paused. “What’s so funny?” she repeated.
Slowly glancing over his shoulder, pivoting towards her, as she rocked back on her heels satisfied, he asked, “What did you call me?”
Through a coy grin, she whispered, “You heard me,” swaying like a little girl, and then strode off.
It was his childhood nickname, one he hated, but not more so than the people who had branded him with it. Killer. They had meant to mock him whenever they'd called him that, patronizing his desperate yet feeble attempts to fight them off, defend himself, escape, sprinting to the muddy alcove where a boulder met with the foot of the hill behind his house, his only hiding spot.
No one had called him Killer since he had run away from home when he was seventeen.
How did she know his nickname?
Following her, he stepped out onto the walkway, turned the corner, snowdrift spilling into his boots, and saw her rounding the Audi that had been idling. She yanked the driver’s side door open, unaware she was being watched, and slipped into the vehicle so he quickened his pace through the snow. But she had gotten too much of a head start. She reversed out of the parking spot and just as he was about to shout for her to wait a minute, he saw the passenger. No longer a silhouette, he recognized the girl.
It was Mary Cole.
He had only met the sixteen-year old once and the encounter had been uncomfortable. After transferring to the Center Harbor PD, his new partner had invited him to dinner. Cody had a house on the lake, which he shared with his girlfriend, Hannah and her much younger half-sister, Mary. Other than her choice of dress—short-shorts in the dead of winter with a crop-top that left little to the imagination—Mary had seemed innocent enough, taking charge of cooking dinner and fetching beers for Lucas and Cody while they got acquainted in the living room. It hadn’t been until Lucas had ventured down the hallway in search of the bathroom that Mary’s peculiarity blossomed. She had followed him, stepping soundlessly then slinking into the doorway so he couldn’t pass. She had said nothing. Her breath had reeked of Listerine as she suggestively parted her lips, grasping hold of his belt-buckle, an overture so jarring it had baffled him into momentary paralysis. When he’d reacted, he was slow and sloppy, urging her back; indecisive about whether he should proceed into the bathroom or run for cover. He went with the latter, rushing up the hallway and returning to the dinner table, his bladder aching for relief as he slid into his chair, his face plastered with a disturbed smile, trying to make sense of what the hell had just happened.
Mary was trouble and it seemed she had met her equal.
He watched the Audi putter off along Keewaydin and disappear behind the tree line, Hemlocks and Balsam Firs weighed down with snow.
When he started for the
entrance, his cell phone vibrated in his slacks. He groaned seeing Cody McAlister’s name and number flashing across the LCD screen, but he made himself answer.
“Yeah?” he said, passing into the warm lobby, the decorum of which—exposed wooden beams along the ceiling and rustic furnishings—reminded him of a high-class ski lodge. It was surprisingly dim, the light fixtures overhead giving off an amber glow that barely reached the carpet, or maybe his eyes hadn’t adjusted, having been shrunken by the blinding light outside.
“Our IT guy got into the server in the Wythe’s basement and pulled the footage from all four cameras,” he stated. “But there’s a problem.”
Lucas stepped aside so an elderly couple who looked like they belonged in an AARP commercial—dignified, thriving, refusing to be bogged down by arthritis or the fine-print in their insurance policies—could pass then continued on to the front desk where the lively young clerk behind the counter already seemed inconvenienced that she hadn’t helped him yet. “I’m listening.”
“An hour of the feed is missing.”
“From every camera?”
“That’s right. The footage rolls through 1:18 am then jump-cuts to a time stamp of 2:24 am,” he explained.
Lucas turned his shoulder to the clerk, who had been staring expectantly at him, wandered towards the window where a pair of sofa chairs were angled around a marble table, and spoke quietly. “So the killer stopped the feed beforehand.”
“If they really knew the house and the equipment it could’ve been an afterthought,” he countered.
Lucas didn’t agree, but the implication remained. “Benjamin’s looking good for this.”
“Unless the guy who installed their security system doubled-back four years later to carry out a long standing grudge, yeah I think this case is as straightforward as they come. I don’t see anyone else with access. You at the resort?”
“Yeah, you’re coming over?”
“The roads are a mess. If Benjamin’s there, bring him to the station.”
“Hey,” he cut in before Cody could let him go. Thumbing the fronds of a Ficus he had assumed was real, he worked his jaw, debating whether or not to tell his partner what he’d just seen. “I should tell you...”
“Make it quick.”
Easing into the issue, he asked, “Mary should be in school, right? Two o’clock on a Tuesday?”
A groaning sigh came through the receiver as though Cody not only knew where this was going, but had seen the outcome so many times it had aged him. “Where did you see her?”
“Here at the resort. She drove off with some girl, who by the looks of it didn’t seem like the best influence.”
“Thanks for letting me know,” he said curtly then grumbled sarcastically about needing to deal with this right now. “Let me know if you locate Wythe.”
Lucas cut in with, “Who’s the girl, Mary’s friend?”
“Why? You think you know her?” he shot back.
“No.” Lucas stared out at the snowy field beyond the window, the girl’s melodic voice laced with cruelty echoing through his mind, Killer. “She acted kind of familiar.”
“Familiar?”
Beyond ready to abandon his inquiry in favor of ending this suddenly pointless phone call, he told him, “Never mind.”
But Cody offered the girl’s name, saying, “Roberta. Roberta King. Know her?”
Lucas paused, wracking his brain, but all he got was the faintest intuition. “Nope.”
“Then you’ve heard of her,” he concluded. “Big case last summer in Laconia, the King cult.” He reminded Lucas to let him know if he got a read on Benjamin then hung up.
As he approached the front desk, the clerk, whose nameplate read Ashley, perked up, ready to be of service.
“Is Benjamin Wythe staying here?”
She immediately said, “No,” and strained to keep her smile lifted.
He cocked his head at that, flicking his gaze to the monitor beside her. “Don’t you have to check?”
“I’ve been on doubles since a few employees got snowed in,” she complained, rolling her eyes as if she didn’t buy her coworkers excuses. “I would know if Mr. Wythe was here.”
“Humor me.”
She stiffened, broadening her shoulders and letting out a little snort as though insulted he didn’t believe her. Typing angrily, her fingertips scurrying over the keyboard, her eyes quickly scanned the monitor. She shook her head, glad to be correct. “No, he isn’t here.”
Lucas found the notepad he kept in his inner coat pocket and flipped a few pages deep to refresh his memory. “Are Warren and Sarah available?”
“I don’t know what to tell you. Benjamin isn’t here.”
“That’s okay,” he said easily, wrangling her back on track. “What about Warren and Sarah?”
“Those are the owners.”
“They’re also Benjamin Wythe’s parents,” he pointed out, amazed at how committed she was to her duty as gatekeeper.
“What is this about? I’m sure I can help you,” she offered, desperate not to involve the owners.
He was gentle with her when he countered with, “I’m sure you can’t.”
She shrunk in response then, putting on a brave face, she pressed the desk phone to her ear and dialed. “Who should I say is here to speak with them?”
“Detective Lucas York.”
Her brows snapped up to her hairline and her face flushed, but she was already turning her back and whispering into the receiver. When she faced him again, returning the phone to its cradle, she told Lucas to have a seat in the lounge. The Wythes would be with him momentarily.
He found the lounge across from the front desk. Guests of the hotel occupied the majority of sofa-chairs, which were arranged identical to those in the lobby, replete with artificial Ficus’ and tables that probably weren’t marble. The far wall as well as the one perpendicular had floor-to-ceiling windows where sunlight shafted through, bathing the spacious lounge, though the amber fixtures overhead were strong contenders.
The nook where the two walls met, hugging a lone sofa-chair as stiff as it was red, was vacant so he took up there, sitting on the edge of the chair and checking his wristwatch for no other reason than he didn’t want to stare at the lobby like an obedient dog.
More time passed than he would’ve liked before a regal looking woman in her early sixties breezed in through a door marked Private, which was situated in the opposite direction of where he had told himself not to look.
She took a moment to smooth her hands over her ash-brown hair, giving the bottom curls a little lift with her palm, as she scanned the guests scattered throughout the lounge. There was something off about her expression—bewildered eyes, a sense of not quite grasping her surroundings. When she spotted Lucas, she feigned a smile, but it seemed loose and lost, and made her way towards him.
He stood, and meeting her half way, extended his hand, which she shook limply, nervously blotting her lips together.
“Detective York,” she said in a deeper tone than he would’ve expected given her dainty facial features and the tailored, lavender dress-suit she wore—the voice of a washed-up drama coach trapped inside Anna Wintour.
“Sarah,” he said. “Thanks for taking the time.”
Retracting her hand as if he was tainted, she said, “Please, call me Mrs. Wythe.”
He was tempted to ask her if she was feeling alright but went with, “I apologize to have dropped in unannounced” instead.
The light behind her eyes shifted, an indication she was straining to focus or concerned, he couldn’t decide.
“Is there somewhere private we can speak?” he asked, glancing quickly at the door she had emerged from and mentally formulating how he might tell her that her daughter-in-law had been killed.
“Certainly.”
Sarah led him through the lounge the way he had come and after they rounded the front desk, they started down a hallway that he gleaned was the east wing. The rooms were nu
mbered, but they didn’t stop at any of them. Instead, they came into a library where Sarah began reciting the history of the Wythe Resort, noting its architect whom Lucas had never heard of and the story behind a few pieces of art, as if giving a tour. Had she forgotten about taking him to a private room to talk? Or confused him for a guest in the two minutes it had taken to traverse the hallway?
As she elaborated in extreme detail the particular sculpting tools required to carve the curled lips of the marble angel she was fondling, he got the distinct impression that she wasn’t all there mentally and blurted out, “Is your son around?”
“Benjamin?”
He smiled, relieved she was still on planet Earth.
But her gaze slipped past him and she waved. “Warren, this is...?”
She looked confused so Lucas supplied, “Detective York.”
The older man approaching didn’t seem pleased his wife was on the loose or maybe his surly expression was meant for Lucas. After weathering formal introductions and shaking hands—steel grip, affirmative frown, eyes that penetrated Lucas as badly as every judge who had ever been annoyed with his sarcasm when cross-examined—Warren barked, “What’s this about, Detective?”
“He’s here to see Benjamin,” Sarah offered excitedly as if suddenly remembering. She took Lucas by the arm and, smiling vacantly, laughed, “I should probably lie down.”
Addressing Lucas, Warren said, “May I ask why?”
“Is there somewhere private we can talk?” he asked, coming round the same bend.
Releasing Lucas, Sarah neared her husband and tucked a tuft of white hair behind his ear, and in response he affectionately captured her hand and kissed it.
“This way,” he told Lucas, inviting him to follow as he guided Sarah towards the back of the library where a door stood ajar.
“A lot of rooms in this place,” Lucas commented, stepping into what appeared to be a private study. The older man smirked in acknowledgement. When the Wythes invited him to sit on a leather couch, he obliged and waited for Warren to settle his wife in a sofa-chair. “About Benjamin...” He paused while Warren sat in the chair beside his wife. “If he’s here, I’ll need to talk to him.”