Sara nodded that she saw the prints, then said, “We need to mark these!”
“And fast,” Grissom said.
“What can we use?”
Cormier said, “I’ll be right back! You two wait here.”
When Cormier had disappeared inside the hotel, Grissom said, “Quick—snap photos.”
Sara understood immediately—Gil wanted the photos but didn’t want the hotel manager, who was still a suspect, to know that she had a camera. She was having trouble seeing the indentations but Grissom would guide her; and once he had, she’d see the print immediately. Her flash did well by her and, despite the darkness and snowfall, she got decent shots. Idly she wondered if digital photos were admissible as evidence in New York State.
For a guy in a coat too light for the heavy weather, Grissom hardly seemed to be feeling the effects of the cold. To Sara, the man seemed like he always did when he was working—content.
Finally, Grissom said softly, furtively, “Put it away.”
Cormier—who’d been gone less than five minutes—stood at the edge of the parking lot, brandishing a handful of metal rods.
“My tomato stakes!” the old boy called, clearly proud of himself. “Got them from the toolshed!”
Grissom directed Cormier on a route to join them without disturbing the footprints. He handed over the tomato stakes and helped them plant one near each footprint, though the tracks were barely visible now.
When that task was complete, Grissom pointed to a blue Pontiac Grand Prix, perhaps a decade old, in the far corner of the lot. “That vehicle’s got less snow on top, and more snow underneath, than the others.”
“Nice catch,” Sara said.
“That’s our last arrival. You know who owns that car, Mr. Cormier?”
“Amy Barlow’s ride—she’s a waitress, here.” He checked his watch. “She came in a little early—probably wanted to beat the weather. She’s never missed a day. Hard worker.”
Grissom led the way over to the car. The vehicles on either side were top-heavy with snow; the Grand Prix wore only a shallow hat of snow. A path of divots led from the driver’s door to…nowhere, really. Grissom couldn’t find any tracks—they’d all filled in.
“Maybe she’s the last to arrive,” Sara said, finding a few indentations near the rear entrance. “But she’s been here long enough for her footprints to fill almost completely in.”
“Could have seen something interesting,” Grissom said.
Sara tilted her head. “Like somebody leaving in a car, maybe?”
“Or a person or persons, trudging up that slope, perhaps.”
Picking up the thread, Sara said, “Or down it.”
Grissom beamed at Cormier. “Name was Amy Barlow, was it? Now Amy is someone we do need to talk to.”
“Not a problem,” the hotel manager said. “But, uh…we’re not going to just barge in and announce there’s been a murder, are we?”
Grissom and Sara exchanged glances—admissions on both their parts that neither had considered this, as yet. Again, that was Jim Brass’s bailiwick.
Grissom seemed gridlocked; Sara decided to carry the ball.
She said, “If we don’t inform the guests and staff, and someone else dies, aren’t we at least partially responsible?”
“Legally, you mean,” the hotel manager said, keenly interested, “or morally?”
Suddenly the old man didn’t sound like Pa Kettle; she was starting to think his cornpone patter was strictly color for the rubes.
“Possibly both,” Sara said.
Grissom was nodding. “On the other hand, the killer or killers don’t know that we know a murder’s been committed…and we might be able to do a little investigating on the QT without tipping our hand.”
“You mean, if the perps aren’t aware that someone’s investigating them, that puts the guests and staff in less jeopardy.”
“And us in a better position to uncover evidence. The only exception would be if we’re talking about a murderer poised to strike again…a serial killer or a multiple murderer with an agenda. Revenge murders against jury members, for instance.”
Grissom was sounding like he was the one who’d been reading Agatha Christie.
“That strikes me as statistically unlikely,” Sara said.
“I’d have to agree, Sara.”
“Excuse me,” the hotel manager said, “but don’t I get a vote?”
They both looked at him.
“I don’t think any good comes from scaring the bejesus out of the people in there.” He yanked a thumb toward the looming hotel. “I mean, they’re stuck here, no matter what. And we don’t even know for sure that the killer’s in there. Or killers.”
“Good point,” Grissom said.
“And as for any litigation that might arise,” Cormier said, a city savvy showing through the country-speak again, “I’d have more exposure if I panicked these folks, and if they went running off in the storm…”
Grissom flicked half a smirk. “A different kind of exposure would become an issue.”
“What are we going to do?” asked Sara.
Glancing down at his watch, Grissom said, “It’s almost dinnertime. Let’s go inside and get warmed up.”
“And we say nothing about the murder,” Sara said.
“Not just yet.” He turned to the hotel man. “Mr. Cormier, can you make sure that Amy Barlow is our waitress tonight?”
Cormier, whose relief at Grissom’s decision was obvious, said, “That shouldn’t be hard. None of the other waitresses probably made it in.”
Grissom shot hard looks at both Sara and the hotel owner. “Right now, we need to just keep our wits about us…and process the evidence as soon as we can.”
“That evidence is all ruined,” Sara said glumly. “That crime scene’s a joke…an unfunny one.”
Grissom bestowed her a quiet smile. “Don’t be so sure, Sara. Constable Maher’s been working winter crime scenes a long time. There’s tricks to this weather…just like we work our own magic in the desert.”
Working a desert crime scene was, after all, one of the topics they would have been discussing at the conference. So Grissom made a valid point—as usual. For the first time since they’d stumbled onto that murder scene, Sara felt hopeful.
“Now,” Grissom said, turning his attention to the hotel man, “what can we do about getting the authorities here?”
Cormier shook his head. “Lived here all my life, and this is all too familiar…. By now the roads are closed, phones are probably dead, and we’ll be lucky if our power lasts through the night.”
Sara got out her cell phone. “What’s the state police number?”
Cormier told her, and she punched it in.
All she got was a robotic voice informing her that her call could not be completed; she reported as much to Grissom.
“When God decides to give technology the night off,” Cormier said, “ain’t a thing a man can do about it.”
Grissom frowned, curiously. “Who said that?”
“Well, hell, man,” Cormier said. “I did! Just now.”
Sara said, “I’ll keep trying.”
Grissom said, “Good—in the meantime, we’re agreed on how to proceed?”
Sara and Cormier both nodded. Sara didn’t like the hotel owner knowing what they were up to; he was, after all, still a suspect. But she felt sure Grissom was keeping that in mind, lulling the man into a false sense of security.
Sara said to Grissom, “Let’s get you inside, already. You look like the frostbite poster boy.”
Snow clung to his hair, his eyebrows, and both his cheeks and ears were tinged red. “All right,” he said, obviously oblivious to how he felt, much less looked.
Twenty-five minutes later, Sara—having treated herself to a quick hot shower and a mug of hot chocolate, courtesy of the coffee machine in her room—felt like a new woman (or anyway, a thawed one) and ready to begin their investigation anew. She pulled on a brown long-sleeved
crewneck T-shirt and tugged on tan chinos. Over the tee, she climbed into a tan-and-brown wool sweater. Then she bopped down to Grissom’s room and knocked on the door.
Again she waited, but nothing happened. She knocked harder, and this time Grissom opened the door and stepped into the hall, his gloves in one hand and a stocking cap in the other.
“Cormier donated this to me,” he said, by way of greeting, holding up the cap.
“You’ll need it,” she said. “You smell good—what cologne is that?”
His eyes tightened as he processed the question. Then he said, “Thanks…it’s aftershave,” and pulled the door shut.
In the elevator, Grissom said, “Cormier seems fine, but be discreet around him.”
“Sure. If the victim turns out to be local, that makes him a prime suspect.”
“Constable Maher’s on the suspect list, too.”
Sara studied Grissom’s profile, but nothing was to be learned there. She said, “But what motive would a CSI from Canada have to kill somebody in upper New York State?”
He turned and gave her that maddening smile. “We discover two sets of tracks, Sara, moving away from the murder victim…and we hear shots. Soon after, we find a burned body with a fatal bullet wound…and shortly after that, two men walk out of the woods…one with a firearm.”
“I still don’t see what possible motive a Canadian constable would—”
“Everything we know about Maher, either Cormier or Maher himself told us. That his name is Maher, that he’s a constable, that he’s from Canada and so on. They could be in this together.”
For a moment, it was as if Grissom had punched her in the stomach. Then she managed, “Where does that leave us?”
His smile turned angelic. “Well, for one thing, we’re left with photos of the crime scene that neither suspect knows about.”
A high-ceilinged chamber of dark carved wood in the Victorian manner, the lobby had an elegant old world feeling with the expected lodge ambience. The far wall was mostly a picture window that looked out at the snow falling on the frozen lake, beyond which rose rocky ledges and towering evergreens, surreally semivisible in the blend of blizzard and night; it was partly blocked by a tall, narrow, well-trimmed Christmas tree. Five people—Herb Cormier and four individuals Sara assumed to be among the guests—stood before the picture-postcard-like vista, watching the lovely, terrible storm.
To Sara’s left stretched the front desk, attended by Jenny, the busty, redheaded female clerk who’d assured her the snow would let up soon. The desk clerk smiled and waved. Clearly perplexed by this gesture, Grissom raised a hand waist-high in response, much the way a Roman emperor might reluctantly acknowledge a subject; Sara, who would like to have throttled the woman, forced a smile.
The wall at right was dominated by a massive wood-and-brick roaring fireplace; above a mantel decorated with pine tree boughs hung a large framed oil painting of Mumford Mountain House in the summer season. Spread out before the fire on an oriental carpet were various velvet-covered settees, overstuffed couches and leather chairs, crouching between tables covered with well-thumbed magazines and vintage books. Three more guests sat reading by the soft yellowish light of tabletop lamps.
Herm Cormier—in a rust-colored corduroy jacket over a buttoned-to-the-neck white shirt, blue jeans and boots—caught their reflection in the picture window, turned and came quickly over to them, meeting them at the edge of the chairs and sofas.
In a voice barely above a whisper, he said, “Lookin’ out that window, the world’s so peaceful, so pretty—can’t hardly believe what happened.”
Not interested in such ruminations, Grissom asked, “Who else is here from the forensics conference?”
“Just you two and the constable…. Everybody else couldn’t get into the airport in Newburgh, and of course some folks weren’t comin’ in till tomorrow, anyway. The phones’ve been out for a good hour, now, so we’re not sure exactly what’s what, in a lot of cases.”
“Have you arranged for that waitress, Amy Barlow, to wait on us?”
“I’ve told my wife Pearl, she’s the hostess. Amy’s the only waitress made it in, though we do have a waiter workin’.” Cormier looked Grissom over. “You’re dressed warmer, I see—you look like you can survive a few hours out there…. I’ll get my things and meet you in five or ten minutes. Here in the lobby?”
“No,” Grissom said. “I’ll be with Sara in the dining room.”
“Fine with me,” Cormier said, and took off toward the check-in counter, disappearing behind it, through a door marked HOTEL MANAGER—PRIVATE.
Sara and Grissom followed the arrowed DINING ROOM signs past the lobby down a hallway lined with framed photos of Mumford Mountain Hotel staff and management dating to roughly the beginning of time. At the end of the hall, to the left, was a wide stairway to the dining room.
The Victorian theme continued in the expansive restaurant, with its open-beamed two-story ceiling and scores of tables with white linen cloths and hardwood chairs, the quiet elegance of a bygone era reflected in the “M”-engraved sterling flatware and green monogrammed china. With only a handful of diners, the hall seemed absurdly large, the chandeliers bathing the all-but-empty chamber in soft yellow light, as if Sara and Grissom had wandered into an abandoned movie set on some vast soundstage.
They waited as the hostess showed another couple to a table. Heavyset, in her early sixties, her gray hair in a short shag, the hostess wore a midcalf gray knit dress dressed up by a white-and-red corsage, and sensible black shoes.
She trundled their way, greeting them with a big, wide smile, bifocals on a cord draped around her neck. “Good evening, folks,” she said, hands folded before her; she looked like a fifth-grade schoolteacher scrutinizing her new pupils.
Grissom just stood there, as if the woman had been speaking esperanto.
“I think you should have a reservation for us,” Sara said. “Either under Grissom or Sidle.”
The woman’s only jewelry, Sara noted, was a watch and a wedding ring with a good-size diamond.
“You must be the folks Herm told me about,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Pearl Cormier—Herm’s wife.”
Grissom shook the woman’s hand and said, “I won’t be dining with you this evening, but I will have a cup of coffee with Ms. Sidle.”
“Right this way,” she said. She steered them to a table not too close to the other couple (the only other diners at the moment), and they sat down.
“We serve family-style,” Pearl told Sara. “Your choice of meats tonight is fried chicken or medium-rare roast beef.” With a knowing nod and a wink, she added, “Amy will be right with you.”
They had expected Mrs. Cormier to know they wanted to talk to Amy; nonetheless, Sara glanced at Grissom, who also seemed to be wondering what else Herm had told the missus.
Sara sat with her back to the kitchen, Grissom on her right, the varsity jacket slung over his chair, the CSI windbreaker exposed. Sara had barely gotten her menu open before a cheerful voice chimed, “Hi, I’m Amy. I’ll be your server tonight.”
They smiled up at her.
Amy smiled back and said, “Frankly, I’m just about everybody’s server tonight.”
Sara laughed politely and, after a beat, so did Grissom.
Their prospective witness was tall and thin, in her late twenties, her dark hair tied into a loose ponytail that ran halfway down her back. Amy Barlow’s smile revealed wide teeth stained yellow, probably by cigarettes. She wore black slacks and a black bow tie over a white blouse whose buttons were tested by an ample bosom. A gauze bandage encircled her left hand.
“Start you folks off with a drink?” she asked.
Pleasantly, Grissom asked, “What happened to your hand, Amy?”
She shook the hand like it still hurt. “Cut myself cutting up an onion—they’re short in the kitchen tonight.”
“You all right?”
She nodded. “It don’t need stitches—but boy, it…L
isten, you’re sweet to ask, only there are better subjects to whet your appetites. Take your drink orders?”
“Coffee, black,” Grissom said.
“Hot chocolate,” Sara said.
When Amy returned with their beverages, Grissom said, “I heard you were one of the last to get here tonight, before the storm closed the roads. Or was it still afternoon?”
As she gave Sara the steaming mug, Amy said, “Afternoon. Two-thirty or three, I guess. But it was getting pretty slick out even then.”
“Lucky you made it in at all,” Sara said, over the rim of her mug.
“Yeah, I wanted to beat the storm in; don’t like missin’ a night’s work…I can use the money.”
“I hear that,” Sara said. “You were lucky nobody hit you, rushing home, when you were coming in.”
“I did see a couple cars, and it made me nervous—didn’t want any slidin’ into me, that’s for sure. Some of these guests, with rental cars, if they’re from some part of the country where it doesn’t snow, well!”
“We’re from Vegas,” Grissom said.
“You’re dangerous, then!” the waitress said, with a good-natured chuckle. “You people who aren’t used to winter driving, you’re lethal weapons on wheels.”
“Sounds like you almost got hit,” Sara said.
“Not really. It wasn’t on the mountain drive, anyway, it was down on the road between here and New Paltz. Anyway, you decided on choice of meat?”
Grissom explained he was only having the coffee, and Sara asked for just the vegetable dishes.
And off Amy went.
“We need to talk to Amy in depth,” Grissom said. “One of those cars may have been driven by the killer.”
“If so, then our perp is off the premises, and even if that waitress has a photographic memory and gives us a license plate number, what are we going to do about it? With the phone lines down and cells dead and…”
Grissom shrugged. “How did detectives solve cases before all the technology came along?”
Sara paused. “By observing. By asking questions.”
“That’s what we need to be doing.”
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