by Mark McNease
Kevin was filling in at the main desk while Ricki seated people. It wasn’t his job, nor had he been asked to help out, but he was in a good mood and this was the busiest weekend of the year. He was wearing a sheep costume with a Bo-Peep doll under his arm. Kyle waved as he and Danny came into the Lodge. The temperature had dropped considerably from the night before, and it had made Kyle think of something that had slipped all their minds that morning: Teddy hadn’t been dressed for a chilly October night. Even someone who was drunk—if that had been the case—had the sense to put on a sweater or a jacket in late October. But there they’d found him at the bottom of the pool, in loafers without socks and a button-down blue striped shirt, with a shattered martini glass by his hand. It made no sense, none of it did, and he hoped his meeting with Dylan later that night would clear some things up, or give him enough reason to call the detective. Forty-eight hours, wasn’t that what they said on all those cop shows? Forty-eight hours and the case begins to go cold. He wouldn’t even be here forty-eight hours from now; things had to move quickly if they were going to move at all.
Danny knew Dylan’s modus operandi by now and when Dylan glided over to seat them Danny deliberately waved at Eileen, who was sitting by herself at a large table near a window. Ricki had his hands full with a group of women who’d already started drinking at the tiny restaurant bar and kept wanting to change tables, very loudly.
“Eileen!” Danny called out, “How about some company?”
Dylan frowned. He had wanted to seat them with some newcomers, determined to replicate his cruise experience regardless of its effectiveness on dry land.
“Please,” Dylan said to them, declining to walk them over. “Enjoy.”
Kyle and Danny made their way over to the table for six where Eileen was halfway through a glass of white wine. She was dressed as a scarecrow, and it looked like the exact costume, burlap and all, that Kyle had worn the year before.
“Ouch,” Kyle said, taking a seat to Eileen’s right, with Danny between them.
She knew he was talking about her costume, and said, “Never again. The scarecrow was the one without a brain, right? He’d have to be brainless to wear this damn thing.”
“But it was cheap,” they both said, and laughed.
“You get what you pay for,” Kyle said. “Where’s Maggie?”
“I think her battery went dead. You spend that much time on a smart phone or iThing or whatever and you don’t last long, constantly with the re-charging. So that’s what she’s doing, watching CSI or NCIS or XYZ-something reruns on television. Which one of you is Laurel, by the way? I never could keep them straight.”
“Oliver Hardy was the short, fat one,” Danny said, “Does that help?”
“Hardy was taller, actually,” Kyle said, “and you’re not fat. There’s a pillow in there, remember.”
Dallas—or was it Austin?—suddenly appeared across from them with a pen and order pad in hand to take their drink orders. He was dressed, Kyle guessed, as a Chimney sweep, with black high-water jeans and a t-shirt streaked with charcoal, as was his face. He had on red suspenders, which Kyle didn’t think were part of the chimney sweep look, but it didn’t matter. He looked at the waiter a moment too long.
“Austin,” the young waiter said, knowing Kyle was trying to decide which of the twins he was. “You’ll have an easy time of it tonight. Dallas is David Bowie with the lightning bolt on his face. I think it’s so forty years ago, but whatever. “
“Sure,” Eileen said. “Chimney sweeps are so . . . a day ago.”
“Timeless is the word. What can I get you to drink?”
Kyle ordered a Bloody Mary and Danny a vodka martini, dirty with olives. Austin hurried off as quickly and quietly as he’d arrived and the three of them got back to their conversation.
Just then Linus Hern showed up, and, like Kyle and Danny, he ignored Dylan’s attempt to seat him, his boyfriend and his two hangers-on at the large table for eight. Danny thought it was odd, since the biggest table in the room had the appearance of being where the captain ate—whoever that captain was and whatever ship he was sailing. For Linus to turn down a place at the center of attention seemed unlike him, until Danny remembered that Linus was always the center of attention, it mattered not where he sat.
The group’s trajectory brought them past Kyle and Danny’s table. Linus was dressed as someone out of the Matrix movies, complete with sweeping black coat that ran from his buttoned collar down to his black boots. His boyfriend was wearing a collar as well, but studded, and Danny took it as an indication of what the pair did behind closed doors. Aside from the collar, the handsome youth was wearing a suit, as one might to a fine restaurant. The two sycophants appeared to be Munchkins representing a Lollipop Guild from Hell.
As they floated by the table Linus stopped in front of Danny. Danny eyed him quickly and said, “No costume this year?”
Linus chuckled. “You’re very amusing, Mr. Durban. This,” he said, indicating his companion in the studded collar, “is Carlos, remember the name. Phineus you’ve met.”
“I fired him, as you told the room earlier.”
“Yes, you fired him. And this is Henry. Not nearly as distinct a name as Phineus, but with its own rich history. Now if you’ll excuse us, Carlos is a feng shui expert and said this table’s toxic.”
“It’s nice to meet you all,” Kyle said. He secretly enjoyed encounters between Linus and Danny.
“The pleasure’s all yours,” Linus said dryly. Then he leaned down just a bit and said to Danny, “Tell Margaret happy birthday for me. Eighty is quite an accomplishment. She can’t have many left.”
“I’ll give her your regards,” Danny said. “I know how much you mean to her.”
“So much I wasn’t invited.”
“It’s a small venue, nothing personal.”
“Not at all,” Linus said. “Not at all. I’m sure she’ll remember me for her ninetieth. Or maybe not.”
The Munchkins chuckled slightly. Carlos the collar boy didn’t seem to get it and just looked bored.
“We’ll see you later at the bar?” Linus said.
“He’ll be asleep,” Kyle interjected. “Beauty rest, Linus, something you could use more of.”
“Oh I did forget you’re just about as entertaining as your husband. You are married, aren’t you? New York permits it now.”
“It’s in the planning,” Danny said. “Don’t worry, you’ll be the last to know.”
The sparring had run its course, the verbal fencing having left a prick or two but drawn no blood. It was time to get on with the evening, something they all realized and silently agreed on as Linus nodded goodbye and took his troupe to a table in the corner.
“Who was that?” Eileen asked, having stayed quiet through the exchange.
“The Creature from the Chelsea Lagoon,” Danny replied. “No one to be concerned with.”
The restaurant was filling up by then and Kyle was wondering if they might be joined by some strangers when Bo walked into the restaurant, spotted them and came over. “May I?” she asked.
They all nodded. Kyle knew people often formed clusters at extended gatherings. It seemed natural to gravitate toward a few other guests as a way of increasing the comfort level and having reliable conversation partners when they all knew they would be there for a weekend.
“To costume or not to costume,” Bo said as she took one of the two remaining seats. “I decided not to. I’d rather surprise everyone tomorrow night and walk away with the prize.”
“There’s a prize?” Eileen asked, waving across the room at Austin to let him know they had another person at the table.
“The prize is for the pumpkin,” Danny said. “I don’t think they give another one for costume, do they?”
“We haven’t stayed that late to find out,” Kyle said.
“We should this year.”
“Fine. You’ll be sleeping in a booth by then but we can set our sights high.
Bo p
icked up one of the menus and glanced at it. It hadn’t changed since Kyle and Danny had been there in the spring, or, for that matter, since Pucky had sold the place to Sid and Dylan. They’d hired a new chef and made a few changes, but they had kept the Lodge’s long-time success in mind and not fixed what wasn’t broken. There were lamb, chicken, fish and vegetarian lasagna dishes as entrees, supplemented with a half dozen choices for sides and appetizers.
“How’s the food here?” Bo asked.
“Above average,” Danny said.
“He’d know, too,” said Kyle. “He manages one of the best restaurants in Manhattan.”
“But homey, don’t you think?” Danny added. “Margaret’s—she’s a real person, by the way—it’s high-end but not uncomfortably so.”
“True, anybody would feel welcome there, providing they can spend a couple hundred dollars for dinner.”
“So they come for lunch and only part with half that. It’s a bargain.”
“You think it’s a bargain because we get to eat there for free.”
The two women watched, amused, as Kyle and Danny mildly bickered over Margaret’s Passion.
Eileen suddenly jumped at a hand on her shoulder. Sid had come up to the table unseen and unheard. He was wearing gray trousers and a navy jacket over his sweater, looking unusually dapper, like the proprietor of a guest lodge he was.
“Kyle,” he said, his voice low and full. It had a soothing depth to it, and Kyle sensed that Sid had deliberately adjusted his voice.
“Sid,” Danny answered, “It’s going great, you look full.”
“Me or the Lodge?” Sid said, following it with an affected laugh. “Halloween is the big event here every year, you know that. It was falling off some in Pucky’s last year, he just wasn’t up to it and it made people . . . sad, I suppose. Quite a few stayed away last year, but it was so good you and Kyle came. I know it meant a lot to Pucky. I heard he might be coming.”
“Really?” Kyle said, pleasantly surprised.
“Yes, but not staying here. We’d know, of course. Too painful for him I’d guess.”
“Who’s Pucky?” asked Bo. She was smiling, but it was as artificial as Sid’s voice. She was staring at him and something told her he hadn’t come to their table by chance.
“May I?” Sid said, nodding at the last available seat. No one objected, and in a moment Sid was sitting with them, next to the woman who had come here to kill him. “Pucky Green was the owner of Pride Lodge, along with his partner Stu Patterson, for twenty-three years? Twenty-five? They built it up from an old Inn that was about to be torn down. Then two years ago poor Stu died from a heart attack on the steps to the pool.”
“That’s a very unlucky pool,” Bo said. “Maybe you should fill it in.”
Kyle noticed a tension between the Lodge owner and the jewelry maker. There wasn’t any reason for it he knew of, and he wondered, watching and listening to them, if Bo was someone who simply didn’t care for men. But that didn’t jibe, since she’d been very friendly with him. And then he thought it might simply be a case of clashing personas; if there was love at first sight, there was certainly dislike at first sight.
“Do you suppose that detective will come back?” Bo asked. “For follow up questions?”
“Why, Bo, it sounds like you’re interested in Ms. Sikorsky. Plenty of couples have met here over the years, but I’m not sure she’s even family.”
Bo blushed, having been seen through so easily, and just as quickly realized he had called her by name. They’d not spoken since she arrived.
“Who mentioned my name to you?”
Sid smiled with all the warmth of a lizard eyeing its meal, and said, “Oh, I make it my business to know all the guests’ names. It’s the right thing to do.” He put his hand out at last, “Sid,” he said. “Sid Stanhope, I own Pride Lodge, along with my husband Dylan.”
She shook his hand and held it, staring into his eyes. Two could play at the predator game.
“Let’s have a table photo,” Kyle said. He took the camera from the table and walked around to get a shot of the others.
“But you’re not in it!” Eileen protested. “And my hair looks like straw!”
“It is straw,” Kyle said. “Besides, I don’t take pictures of myself. So everybody just squeeze in a little and smile when I say so.”
Sid slid his chair in from one side, Eileen from the other. Bo found herself being pressed against by a man who had been in her house thirty years ago and seen the bodies of her parents, dead in their bed with bullet wounds in their heads. She at once wanted to move away, fearful she would find a knife blade slipped between her ribs, and to move closer, ever closer, to feel his breath on her face as she watched him die.
“Cheese!” Kyle said. They all smiled reflexively and he snapped the picture.
“I should say hello to the others,” Sid said, easing back to his place and rising from his chair. “I’m not supposed to play favorites.” And then, to Bo, “Not even with someone so charming as yourself. A jewelry maker, no less.”
“Yes,” she replied, her voice cold. The game was clearly up. “I specialize in pocket watches.”
“So I’m told,” Sid said. “Well, everyone. I’ll head off now and do the meet-n-greet. See you all at the party tomorrow, if not sooner. And don’t forget to vote on the pumpkins. There’s a high-tech basket with pencils and paper on the front desk. I’m partial to Bo’s Cinderella, but I mustn’t given anything away, it’s not fair.”
Sid glanced at her one final time, adjusted his smile, and walked away from the table.
Both Kyle and Danny wanted to say, “What was that?” but neither did. Instead they turned to find Austin back at last with their drinks. Animosity still hung in the air, and Kyle waved it away, telling himself it had just been a strange encounter, nothing more. He put his camera back on the table and sat down.
Chapter Eighteen
A Little Night Music
As Kyle knew he would, Danny declined to go to the bar that night, once they’d settled back into their cabin after dinner. It had long been Danny’s habit to retire to their bed shortly after dinner and read books or magazines, all the while with the television on low volume.
This night Danny found a Frasier marathon on the Hallmark Channel. Neither of them were much for situation comedies, but they both appreciated the really well-written ones, and Frasier was in the top tier. Danny had undressed, slipped into the gym shorts he slept in, along with his t-shirt, and nestled under the covers to watch the reruns and eat from a box of chocolates every guest at the Lodge found on their beds when they checked in.
“You’re going as Laurel?” Danny said, watching Kyle get ready to head to the piano bar.
“Why not?” Kyle said. “It’s more trouble to change clothes. I don’t plan on staying long anyway, once I hear what Dylan has to say.”
“What do you think’s going on? And why get involved? This is something for the police.”
Kyle had been lying next to Danny, resting up after dinner, but had got up and started adjusting his clothes in the dresser mirror. “I agree with you, and I have every intention of calling Detective Sikorsky myself if this is more than lurid speculation. He can be lurid, you know. Dylan’s got a dramatic streak.”
“Death is dramatic.”
Kyle glanced at Danny in the mirror.
“There was a death, remember?”
“Of course I remember. And it was a death that might have been prevented if I’d picked up the phone and called Teddy last night.”
“Have you thought about that?” Danny asked.
“About what?”
“About what if it was an accident? What if Teddy fell off the wagon and ended up falling in the pool?”
“I don’t think that’s what happened.”
“Because you don’t want to think it, Kyle.”
“He was sober, I believe that.”
“Just don’t believe it against the evidence, whatever that turns
out to be.”
Kyle sighed, knowing Danny was right. He didn’t want to believe Teddy had gone over the edge, that he’d thrown away six months of what, Kyle knew, had been hard work and determination to change his life. But it happened, and it happened frequently. Addiction was merciless, and all it took was one sip from a glass or a bottle and someone like Teddy could find himself right back where he started—or even where he ended.
The Lodge was emptying out by the time Kyle got back. He’d lingered in the cabin longer than intended, and when he walked back in he saw the twins and Elzbetta closing up the restaurant. It was after 10:00 pm, and the restaurant had seated its last guest at 9:00. Ricki had changed back into his civilian clothes and was fidgeting behind the check-in desk. Few people would still be arriving at this time of night, but it happened, and the desk was staffed until midnight. Grueling hours, Kyle thought, as he walked into the great room and saw a couple of stragglers playing checkers at a table, and Jeremy Johnson, the ancient sentry, settled in for his night of television watching until well past the witching hour. Jeremy would be the last person standing—or in his case sitting—and was so much of a fixture during his stays that people tended not to notice him; he, however, noticed everything and everyone.
Kyle regretted having kept his Stan Laurel costume on. The suit didn’t fit well and the bowler hat was at least a size too small, making it perch on his head rather than fit it.
“What’s on tonight, Jeremy?” he said to the old man. Jeremy was wearing pastel striped pajamas, and it was not a costume. This is how he dressed after dinner, for his long stay in the easy chair.