by Mark McNease
“Go ahead, say it. If Sid goes to prison. I can’t imagine Dylan leaving under any circumstances.”
“What if the bank takes the property?”
Kyle had thought about that. If Dylan was right and Sid embezzled the money to buy Pride Lodge, the bank was going to want its money back. Kyle had no idea what the laws were about something like that, but he imagined they favored the bank.
“Maybe they’ll come to some arrangement. I can’t imagine the bank wants an old, sprawling gay lodge on its hands, and selling it’s a pain. They’d take a loss, I’m sure. And anyway, it’s all conjecture. Wait and see.”
Danny was first to spot Detective Sikorsky coming through the door. She’d taken the easy way out, costume-wise, and was wearing just a long black wig, witch’s hat and cape, the kind of costume a mother would throw together quickly for a child.
“Good thing she’s not in the fashion industry,” Kyle said as Sikorsky waved and approached the table.
A sudden gasp of recognition went up in the room. Kyle, Danny, and even Linda mid-stride turned to the door that connected Clyde’s with the karaoke room and saw none other than Pucky Green standing in the doorway, smiling at everyone. He had forgone a costume, either not wanting to wear one or, more likely, wanting to make sure everybody recognized him. He hadn’t been to Pride Lodge in nearly two years, and even though people had speculated all weekend he would come, there was an assumption that he might not. It was a hard place for Pucky to be, as haunted by his memories and it ever could be by make-believe ghosts and plastic goblins.
“Who’s that?” Sikorsky asked, sliding into a seat across from Danny.
“That’s Pucky Green,” Danny said. “The original owner of Pride Lodge, the visionary.”
“Ah, yes,” she said. She was aware of the Lodge’s history, having looked into it quickly the last thirty-six hours. “He moved to Key West after his partner died. On the steps, no less.”
The three of them were silent a moment, watching partygoers make their way to Pucky for a hug or a handshake, several of them trying to get him to sit with them. He seemed to prefer staying near the door, holding court for a time, and deserving to. If Pride Lodge truly belonged to anyone, it was Pucky.
“So,” the detective said, turning back in her seat, “what’s this evidence you have for me?”
Kyle reached into his jacket pocket for the email. He wasn’t sure it constituted evidence, or of what: that Sid had a dark past, that he was possibly involved in a crime? That Bo Sweetzer was connected, and that somehow it had all come together and caused the death of Teddy, and perhaps Happy? Were there others?
“He put it where I would find it,” Kyle said, handing the email to her. “In his AA book. He was always quoting a page, and sure enough . . .”
“Convenient,” she said, unfolding the email.
“I told you,” Kyle said.
“Shh.” Danny hushed him as Sikorsky read over the message.
Linda Sikorsky folded the email back up and put it in her blouse pocket. “This isn’t much, you know. And anyone could have written it.”
“But anyone didn’t,” Kyle said. It came from that man, Tatum. He’s dead, I read about it before dinner. An ice pick in the back of his head.”
“And you think Bo Sweetzer had something to do with that?” She felt herself blushing and was glad for the darkness of the bar. She had gone out with Sweetzer, not a date by any stretch, but still a revealing of herself. With a murderer? A criminal? She felt her stomach dropping.
“She’s not Bo Sweetzer,” Kyle said. “At least she wasn’t always. She was Emily Lapinsky, I’m sure of it.” And to Danny, “I should have brought that photograph, I could’ve used the Lodge printer. The resemblance is obvious.”
“The timing’s not right,” Sikorsky said, her mind starting to work out the puzzle. “She was here the night before Teddy Pembroke’s death, but what about Happy? And why would she kill Pembroke in the first place?”
“She wouldn’t,” Danny said. “That’s the point.”
“It’s Sid,” said Kyle. “There are two killers at Pride Lodge. That’s where this is taking me.”
Austin came up to the table carrying a tray of drinks. He was wearing a Frankenstein costume, complete with bolts in his neck. He looked the way the monster would if he’d been a post-Stonewall punk with blond and purple hair. “Courtesy of Mr. Hern,” he said, handing each of the three a special drink the bar had come up with just for this party. “Monster Mashes,” Austin explained.
“Of course,” Kyle said.
Danny peered around the room, trying to locate Linus Hern and his pocket-sized entourage. “Why would Linus Hern buy us drinks?”
“A truce?”
“More likely slow acting poison.”
“Do you want them or not?” Austin asked.
“You can just leave them on the table,” Danny said. “And please tell Mr. Hern we appreciate the gesture.”
Austin set the drinks down and hurried off.
“He’s up to something,” Danny said, taking the drink and sniffing it. “No faint smell of almonds. Cyanide’s out.”
“You two really don’t like each other, do you?” Sikorsky said.
“It’s a hate-hate relationship,” Kyle said. “And a long story. I’d even say they respect each other, the way a cobra respects a mongoose.”
“Please tell me I’m the mongoose,” Danny said.
Pucky had been making his way around the room, choosing not to sit anywhere. He was enjoying the attention, the glad-handing and congratulations, although he wasn’t sure why anyone would congratulate him. For still being alive? For surviving Stu’s death? He had arrived that evening and the “welcome backs” had not stopped since. He walked up to the trio’s table just as Danny was hoping to be the mongoose.
“I see you more as a cobra,” Pucky said to Danny, extending his hand. “Patient and wise.”
Danny would have none of the hand shaking and quickly stood instead, putting his arms around the old man. “You’re looking great,” he said.
Pucky was dressed like someone who lived in Key West, with lime green pants, a beige sweater and what looked like dock shoes, the kind you see people wearing on a cruise ship. Or a beach.
“I’ve gained a few,” Pucky said. He turned to hug Kyle, who’d also stood, as had the detective. It just seemed the right thing to do, paying deference to a Pride Lodge legend.
“Linda Sikorsky,” she said, extending her hand. Pucky took it in both of his and welcomed her to the Lodge, just as he would have when he ran it.
“Sit, sit,” Danny said, and to their surprise Pucky agreed. Apparently he was weary of walking slowly around the room hugging and shaking, shaking and hugging.
“Ah,” Pucky said, seeing the drinks. “You’re enjoying the Monster Mashes. I have no idea what’s in them. Creme de Menthe from the look of it.”
“Please,” Danny said, “have mine.”
Pucky thought about it a moment, then agreed, taking the green drink and sipping. He made a face as if to say the Monster Mash was monstrous, and put the drink back on the table.
The conversation veered away then from emails, murders and criminals. Pucky told them about his life in Key West, and how his only regret is that he didn’t go there more often with Stu. He talked about life on the island and his neighbors, and the near-perfect climate. Kyle could tell by the tone of his voice and the sadness that kept coming into his eyes that life in the Keys, while no doubt as enjoyable as Pucky said it was, was still life without Stu and that hole would never be filled.
“You could always come back here,” Danny said. “Maybe in the summers.”
“No,” Pucky said. “My time has passed here. I’m sure they’d have me, and maybe even put me to work! But we have to let go eventually. Of everything, and everyone.”
“The timing was certainly perfect,” Kyle said. “You wanted to go, and Sid and Dylan were there. I can’t imagine what would have happened t
o this place if Sid hadn’t had the money.”
Pucky looked at him. “Sid?” he said. “Oh, Sid didn’t have the money. Jeremy did.”
Kyle stared at him. “Jeremy?” he said. “Old Jeremy who sits in the chair for hours and stays up till two in the morning?”
“What other Jeremy is there? He lent them the money, I know that for a fact.”
The significance of this information was lost on Danny and Detective Sikorsky. They both waited for Kyle to speak, not sure where he was going with this.
“Pucky, it’s great to see you again,” Kyle said, as he stood up quickly from the table. “You’ll have to excuse us.”
Kyle turned to Sikorsky. “We’ve been played,” he said. “We need to go upstairs, now. Have you seen Sid or Dylan?”
“Come to think of it, no” she said.
“Now,” Kyle said again, and he lead the way as the three of them hurried out of the bar.
“Where are we going?” Danny asked as they headed up the stairs.
“To stop a murder,” Kyle replied, taking the stairs two at a time now. “I hope.”
Chapter Thirty-One
And the Winner Is . . .
Dylan was standing in the doorway to the Suite, his face frozen in shock. He was babbling under his breath as Kyle, Danny and Detective Sikorsky hurried down the hallway toward him.
“She killed him,” he said, holding out his bloody hands. “She killed Sid.”
Sikorsky eased Dylan to the side as the three of them filed into the living room. The scene was horrific. Sid was at his desk, the X-Acto knife from the pumpkin carving sticking grotesquely from his throat. And there, next to his computer keyboard, was the Cinderella pumpkin Bo Sweetzer had carved.
“I tried to save him,” Dylan said, still dazed. “I should have taken the knife out . . . I didn’t know . . . why would she do that?”
Linda Sikorsky had been to her share of murder scenes, more than one might guess for a place like New Hope, but this one ranked among the worst. Sid Stanhope was now a corpse in a chair, with a considerable amount of his blood drained from his neck onto his shirt, his pants, his shoes, the floor. No one, she knew, could lose that much blood and survive. The knife had been buried fully half its length into his neck. She did not immediately reach for her phone; calling the paramedics now was pointless. Sid was as dead as Sam Tatum had been when a mother and daughter came upon his lifeless body.
“What am I going to do?” Dylan sobbed. He buried his face in his hands.
“You can start by telling the truth,” Kyle said. There was no compassion in his voice.
Everyone turned to Kyle, startled by what he’d said.
“My husband’s dead!” Dylan shrieked. “That maniac killed him!”
“I doubt she would make it so obvious after killing two other men quite efficiently,” Kyle said coldly, staring at Dylan. “This is more the work of someone local. Someone very close to Sid. About six feet away, as a matter of fact.”
Dylan suddenly seemed not quite so shocked, not quite so shaken by the death of his partner, as he began to quickly appraise the situation. Kyle could see it in his eyes, the instant calculation.
“The police are already here,” Dylan said, and to Linda, “Arrest her! She can’t be far, you have to find her! Do something!”
Detective Linda Sikorsky thought she’d seen it all, but this was rattling her. The only clear victim in the room was dead in a chair. But who was the killer? Who should she be arresting?
Kyle glanced out the window then and saw a pair of taillights disappearing down the road. “I think she’s gone by now,” he said, turning back to them. “Probably hours ago.”
“But Sid stole the money,” Dylan cried, desperate to cast the blame on anyone but himself. “And he did something terrible, years ago, it was in that email. Someone wanted him dead.”
“They did indeed,” Kyle said. “There was no embezzlement. Sid was a criminal, there’s no doubt about that, but he didn’t steal a dime from the bank. The money came from old Jeremy. Dylan only wanted us to think Sid was a thief.”
“Why in hell would I want that?” Dylan demanded, now a very different man from the one who’d been standing in the doorway when they came up the stairs.
“Because it’s all yours now,” Kyle replied. “Or it would have been, had Pucky not shown up. Not a bad plan, Dylan. Not a flawless one, but you could have gotten away with it. Sid gone, the Lodge and inheritance, whatever there was, yours free and clear with just a sizable loan to repay. Bo Sweetzer—or should I say Emily Lapinsky—blamed for the murders. Who would believe her if she denied it? And Jeremy bankrolling the whole thing, unaware of what you’ve done. He is unaware, isn’t he? I just can’t see him as a partner in crime.”
“You’re out of your mind. She killed him. I have no idea why she was careless. For the same reason she brought the pumpkin, so everyone would know it was her!”
“You mean so everyone would think it was her.”
Linda Sikosrky stepped toward Dylan. “You’re under arrest, Mr. Tremblay.”
“Arrest? Me?! For what?!” Dylan shouted.
“For finishing the job Bo Sweetzer started,” Kyle said. “For Teddy, for poor Happy, just a kid who couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Is that what happened, he told you what Teddy told him, what Teddy found out, and the wheels were set in motion? You’re a monster, Dylan. And as bad a man as Sid was, I wish he’d lived to know it.”
Dylan thought about running, dashing out of the room and through the Lodge front door, but he knew there was nowhere to go. How far could he get? Everything he owned was here. Better to try and talk his way out of this later. What proof was there? He’d been careful every step of the way. He would find a way out of this, he believed that, he had to believe it. In the meanwhile it was time to be silent, to give them nothing that could and would be used against him, and to think.
Detective Sikorsky finally pulled out her phone and started making calls. The coroner’s office for a dead man, back up to help her get Dylan Tremblay to the station house. It was going to be a very long night.
Chapter Thirty-Two
In the Rearview Mirror
She’d had the chance to do it, then and there, and yet she had refrained. Hesitated. Was it the influence of her evening with the woman she would never see again, the beguiling detective from New Hope? Or had vengeance run long enough through her veins?
She’d left her room and headed downstairs when she was suddenly, strangely, compelled to see this man face-to-face again. She had thought her reasoning was to tell him the end was near. So near, in fact, it was here, right then and there, and she would shoot him in his doorway. But when he had answered her knock—her hand sliding to her waist where the gun could be slipped out quickly—she had stopped hating, just for an instant, just long enough for the two of them to stare silently at one another.
Finally, she said to the man she had been waiting thirty years to kill, “Why did you do that to me?”
Sid thought a long moment, even as he expected to die any second, and said, “You weren’t supposed to be there.”
“Well,” Bo said to him, “I was. And now, I’m here. I’ll be downstairs, waiting. I know you’ll come. There’s no way around this. You know that as well as I do. “
Sid nodded. She was right. He could run, but she would find him. She was that determined. He had closed the door then and gone back to his desk to sit and think. Maybe the best thing to do was call the police, to give himself up, to be done with it once and for all. He was trying to decide his course of action when the door opened and Dylan came in, carrying a pumpkin.
Bo knew they would probably catch up with her eventually. When she saw the three of them rush out of the bar—Kyle, Danny and the detective—she knew it was time to go. At first she’d thought Sid might have killed himself, but whatever had happened, an alarm had been sounded and her plans had changed in the instant. She had been at this long enough to know something big had happened
, and the time for an escape was now or never.
They had not seen her. She had been alone in the crowd, watching and waiting. She had planned to give Sid another hour to show up, then she would go looking for him. He would be waiting, too, she knew that. Waiting to die, or to kill her instead. And now, just like that, everything had changed.
She drove away from Pride Lodge with nothing but her purse and a gun that would soon be rusting at the bottom of the Delaware River. She could not have gone back to her room, and she knew she was leaving everything behind her, including Bo Sweetzer. She’d glanced in the rearview mirror as she drove down the hill, wondering what name she would take next, when she swore she saw Kyle Callahan in an upstairs window. But of course he had no way of knowing it was her car, if he’d seen it at all.
She drove carefully along to the highway, thought of making a left turn, then made a right instead, and disappeared into the night.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Check Out Time is 11:00 a.m.
Seventeen messages. That’s how many times Imogene had tried to reach Kyle, once he added up voicemail, texts and two tweets. He’d tried to tell her that, while he had a Twitter account for his photoblog feed that would send out new posts with photos when he put them up, he never actually tweeted. Not with his phone, not with his thumbs, not in any way. So trying to reach him @AsKyleSeesIt was like people who tried to communicate with him through Facebook messages. He seldom ever looked to see what was there.
It didn’t matter anyway. He had seen Imogene’s car drive past ten minutes earlier. There weren’t many like it, a vintage, pink 1968 Mustang that only Imogene Landis would be seen driving. He knew she was at the Lodge now, already asking questions, and he regretted having called her in the first place. Danny was right: it was unseemly, and it appeared, however much Kyle told himself the appearance was deceiving, to be taking advantage of a particularly bad situation. Three people were dead, not counting the men in Los Angeles and Detroit. Having a mouthy livewire like Imogene show up with a microphone, reporter’s notebook and handlheld HD camera made it all seem so . . . DeathWatchNewHope.