Death by Vanilla Latte

by Alex Erickson

  Before I could truly think about what I was going to do and talk myself out of it, I grabbed my purse and keys, called good-bye to Misfit, and was on my way.

  9

  There were fewer cars in the Ted and Bettfast parking lot than when I was last there. No cruisers remained, either. After the excitement from earlier, the silence sat heavily in my ears. A part of me expected to show up to find half the town gathering to get a look at the murder scene, but instead, it looked like everyone had abandoned the place. Justin’s truck was still there, at least, and I wondered if the police had taken Rick’s car in, which would account for one of the missing vehicles.

  I shut off the engine and sat back. Even though the sun still lounged in the sky, albeit on its descent, a gloom hung over the bed-and-breakfast, one I knew they would have a hard time dispelling. I knew what it was like to have someone die in your place of business. It wasn’t pleasant, and it always left its mark.

  I got out of my car and hesitated before closing the door. Getting involved in murders was usually how I ended up getting myself into trouble. How much easier would my life be if I’d simply stay home instead of poking my nose in other people’s business?

  Of course, my nose poking was precisely why a handful of cold-blooded killers were now behind bars.

  And this was my dad. There was no way I was going to leave him hanging. I didn’t trust Buchannan to do the right thing, especially since there was a witness. If anyone deserved my special brand of investigative genius, it was James Hancock, the man who not only raised me, but whose writing and life influenced most of my decisions, good or bad.

  With head held high, and a mind full of questions, I marched straight for the front door, determined to get to the bottom of Rick’s murder.

  Justin was sitting just inside the door, looking dejected. He glanced up when I entered, gave me a limp wave, and then went back to contemplating his sneakers. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here, and it was no wonder; a murderer was on the loose, and there was no telling when he or she might come back.

  I looked past Justin to where Ted and Bett Bunford were standing by the stairs, talking. They hadn’t noticed me yet. Worry lined each of their faces, and they both looked at least a dozen years older. Ted’s hair was quickly graying, something I hadn’t noticed before, and Bett’s black dye job had faded to steel gray. I wondered if their rapid aging had anything to do with the two men who’d stayed with them and were subsequently murdered. It would be hard not to blame yourself, even if you had nothing to do with it.

  Bett’s hands were worrying at one another. She said something to her husband that had him shaking his head. He paused midshake, eyes landing on me. Bett turned to follow his gaze and immediately started scowling.

  “Hi!” I said in a vain attempt to exude friendliness. I doubted either one of them wanted to see me right then, especially after my grisly discovery. “I’m Krissy Hancock. Do you remember me?”

  “How could we forget,” Bett said. “Every time you come around, someone ends up dead.”

  “Now, dear,” Ted said, his voice much softer and kinder than his wife’s. “She only shows up after the fact.”

  Not exactly a clanging endorsement, but I’d take what I could get.

  “I knew the victim,” I told them, playing the sympathy card. “He was my dad’s literary agent.” I pointed to where I’d left the flyers earlier. They were still sitting on the desk.

  Bett’s eyes narrowed. “You’re the one who found him.”

  It was a statement, but I answered, anyway. “I did.”

  “What were you doing in his room, hmm?” Bett glared at me, her implication clear. “We don’t condone that sort of behavior here, you know.”

  I suppressed a shudder. I didn’t want to think about Rick that way when he was alive, let alone now. “No one had heard from him, so I stopped by to make sure he was okay. We didn’t . . . do anything.”

  “Mm-hmm.” She glanced at her husband and rolled her eyes.

  “We’re sorry for your loss,” Ted said. At least one of them was pretending to be nice, though with the way he said it, I got the distinct impression he wanted me to leave.

  It made me feel bad. The Bunfords didn’t deserve this. There were quite a few people who wouldn’t want to spend the night in a room where someone had died. And since another murder victim had once stayed in the very same room, people might start to think it was cursed. It would be hard to attract customers when people started to believe that staying the night here was a death sentence.

  But darn it, it wasn’t my fault!

  “I had nothing to do with his death,” I said, planting a hand on my hip. “Neither did my dad, no matter what anyone says.” I glanced up the stairs as if I thought Iris might be standing there, watching. “This is a tragedy and I’d like to find out who is responsible, just as much as you would.”

  Bett looked abashed as she scowled at her hands, while her husband looked embarrassed.

  “It’s hard,” he said, rubbing at his Burt Reynolds–style mustache. “They’ve got the room taped off and guests are canceling reservations.”

  “It’s unfair,” Bett put in.

  “Did either of you see anyone go in or out last night?” I asked. “Someone who might have killed Rick?”

  Both Bunfords shook their heads, though it was Bett who spoke. “Mr. Wiseman knew, as do all of the guests, that the doors are locked at ten sharp. They aren’t to have unpaying visitors anytime afterward. I’m not sure how someone got in that late.”

  “We were asleep,” Ted said.

  “What about an employee?” I asked. “Could one of them have seen someone? Let them in, perhaps?”

  “This isn’t a hotel.” Bett sounded offended, though it hadn’t been my intent to insinuate anything. “We don’t have anyone on desk duty or anything like that.” “Our employees are here to help us make the stay pleasant for our guests,” Ted said, taking over. “We used to handle it ourselves, but we can no longer manage it like we once did.” He sighed, as if thinking about the old days.

  “Does anyone work nights?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Who was working last night? Maybe they saw something that might help.”

  The Bunfords looked at one another, and for a second, I thought they might withhold the information. They were under no obligation to tell me anything, yet I could see the look of concern in their eyes. They wanted this case solved quickly so they could move on with their lives. They might not approve of me, but they knew what I could do.

  “Kari Collins,” Ted said after a moment. “She’s our night lady. She cleans up downstairs and makes sure the doors get locked every night.”

  “Will she be in soon?” I asked, hoping to talk to her.

  “Not tonight. We decided it might be best to take care of things ourselves for a few days. There is quite a mess to clean up.” I don’t think he was referring solely to the room.

  I filed Kari’s name away for later. “Do you think she would have let anyone in to see Mr. Wiseman after closing time?” I asked.

  “I doubt it,” Bett said. “She is a stickler for doing things right. She can be . . .” She glanced at her husband.

  “Unpleasant.”

  “But she works hard.”

  “This has never happened before,” Ted said. “I don’t believe for one second Kari would have let anyone inside without informing us first. It was a busy night, so perhaps someone stuck around who wasn’t supposed to be here.”

  I could have continued to grill them about last night, but there was no point. Neither had seen anything, and it was clear their night lady hadn’t told them anything. I would just have to talk to Kari Collins on my own when I got the chance.

  But for now, there was someone who was here I wanted to see.

  “Is Iris McDonahue still here?” I asked.

  “Why?” Bett’s face contorted in suspicion.

  “I’d like to ask her about what she saw las
t night. She claims she saw the murderer.”

  “She did,” Ted said. “And she gave her statement to the police.”

  “I just want to hear her side of the story from her own lips,” I said, smiling brightly. “I’m not going to accuse her of anything or upset her.”

  Bett sighed. “She’s here, though I don’t think she will be for long.”

  “She’s leaving?”

  “She says she can’t take the stress,” Ted said. “She comes here to relax and this tragedy is about as far from relaxing as you can get.”

  “I could talk to her for you,” I said. “See if I can get her to stay.”

  Ted and Bett glanced at one another before he answered. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt. If you can talk her into staying, it would help us out a lot.”

  I thanked both the Bunfords and then headed up the stairs. The door to Rick’s room was closed, yellow police tape strung across it in a big X. I stopped and stared at it, thinking back to all the other times I’d been stuck in the middle of a police investigation. It was becoming a habit, one I was starting to think I might need to kick before it got me killed.

  The door opened behind me, and I turned to find Iris coming out of her room, a pair of heavy-looking suitcases in hand. She jumped when she saw me standing there, and then scowled at me like I’d done it on purpose.

  “Excuse me,” I said before she could walk away. “My name is Krissy Hancock. Is it all right if I talk to you for a moment?”

  Iris took a step back from me and looked me up and down. “You’re that author’s girl, aren’t you?”

  “I’m his daughter,” I said, not sure if that’s what she’d meant, or if she thought I was Dad’s girlfriend.

  “What do you want with me?” she asked. “I already talked to the police.”

  “I know,” I said. “I’m hoping to help them find Rick’s killer.” I jerked a thumb toward the taped-up room.

  Iris snorted in a very unladylike way. “Uh-huh.” Sarcasm dripped from her words. “You’re just looking to interfere.”

  My hackles rose, though I did a good job of not rising to the bait. “I just want to help.” I glanced at her suitcases. “Are you sure you should be leaving? The police might want to talk to you again.”

  “They might,” Iris said. “And if they do, they can find me at a nearby hotel where I feel safe. I’m not staying here.”

  She moved as if to push past me, but I stood steadfastly in her way.

  “You said you saw my dad, James Hancock, leaving Rick’s room last night,” I said. “How can you be sure it was him?”

  “I know.” She scanned me again. “Just like I could take one look at you and know you was his offspring. I read his books and saw his picture and I never forget a face.”

  “Was it dark in the hall?” I asked.

  “The light was off, sure, but they have those nightlights down there.” She pointed to a small light plugged into the outlet. “So guests don’t trip over their own feet when they have to take a leak.”

  “What exactly happened last night?”

  Iris clenched her fists on the handles of her suitcases. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

  “No, you don’t,” I admitted. “But it will help me understand what happened. I knew Rick. And you said you saw my dad. It’s kind of personal.”

  Iris huffed, but relented. “I was in bed when I heard an argument. These walls aren’t nearly as thick as they look.” She thumped one as if to prove her point. “The shouts got louder until I heard someone scream, ‘You’re fired!’ I peeked out the door just as the author came storming out of the room, looking guilty as hell.”

  “Did he see you?”

  “How stupid do you think I am?” Iris asked. “I closed my door right quick and locked it. He’d just killed one man. What was to stop him from killing me?”

  “Are you sure he killed him?” I asked. “Did you see a body?”

  “I didn’t, but I know what I did see, and the look on your father’s face was one of a killer. He tried to hide it with that hat, but I could see it.”

  “Have you ever met my dad before?” I asked.

  “Well, no,” Iris admitted. “Before last night, I’d only seen his picture on the backs of the books I’ve read.”

  “Do you have the books here with you?”

  “I don’t.”

  “So, how can you be sure it was my dad and not someone who looks like him?” I didn’t even bring up the fact that those book jacket photos were older and didn’t truly represent what my dad looked like. They’d all been staged with him dressed like a detective.

  Iris narrowed her eyes at me. “Are you questioning my integrity?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m questioning whether or not you actually saw my dad, or if perhaps you might have been mistaken.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  She sounded sincere. Dad had said he’d come to the bed-and-breakfast last night, so it was entirely possible she had seen him. But to say he’d killed Rick for certain was simply not true. By her own admission, she didn’t see the body. Rick could have been sitting there, stewing in his room, making the vanilla latte that ended up spilled on the carpet, when the killer had snuck in.

  “Did you see anyone else that night?” I asked.

  “There were lots of people in and out. They made a hell of a racket, but it quieted down eventually.” Iris snorted. “No respect for those of us trying to sleep.”

  “Did you see anyone else enter or leave Mr. Wiseman’s room? Did you hear anything after my dad left?”

  “Of course not,” she said. “The man was already dead.”

  “Did you stay up long after he was gone?” I was getting annoyed by her certainty that my dad did it, and was struggling to keep from yelling at her.

  Iris laughed. “I wasn’t about to waste my night sitting by the door. I went to bed and fell asleep almost immediately.”

  Which meant she might have missed it if something else had happened.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m leaving.” Iris pushed forward, forcing me back a step.

  “You should stay,” I said. “The killer isn’t going to come back.”

  She snorted and continued on down the hall. “Right. I’m not taking the chance.” She started down the stairs, suitcases clumping heavily on each step.

  I watched her go with a frown. I wasn’t entirely buying her story. She might have seen my dad, but she hadn’t seen him kill Rick. Nor had she seen a body. She admitted it was loud before the fight, but hadn’t said whether or not anyone else had threatened the surly agent. And since she went to bed after it quieted down, she very well could have missed Rick’s murder. It didn’t look like he’d struggled enough to make much noise. Other than the coffee, nothing had been knocked over.

  But who would have had a reason to kill him?

  And why?

  I turned, eyes falling on the X blocking the door to Rick’s room. Any evidence of who might have been there the night of his death could very well be behind that door. The police had already looked around, but they might have missed something important. I was alone, with no one watching me, with nowhere else to be, so no one would miss me. What harm could a few minutes of poking around really do?

  I glanced toward the stairs. Iris was gone. Ted and Bett were nowhere in sight. They were probably dealing with their fleeing guest, so they might not think to come looking for me.

  With a quick prayer that I wouldn’t get caught, I started for the door.

  10

  The door to Rick’s room was unlocked, which I guessed meant the police were completely done with investigating the space. The police tape was likely still there to preserve the scene, though since I didn’t know exact procedure, this was pure conjecture. For all I knew, they were monitoring the room, just in case the killer decided to come back.

  The thought gave me pause, but only for an instant. If they were watching the place, I was already busted, so I might as well take a lo
ok before they arrested me. I slipped through the tape and into the room. I managed it without having to touch much of anything, and I mentally reminded myself to be careful about what I did touch. If the police weren’t done and the door had been unlocked due to an oversight, I didn’t want them finding my fingerprints all over the place.

  The room looked pretty much the same, other than Rick’s body being gone. Although I’ll admit, I didn’t look around too hard the first time I was there. I peeked on the far side of the bed and was relieved to see there was no body outline like you’d see in the movies—just the coffee stain and a darker stain near the bed that I didn’t want to think about.

  “Who would have wanted to hurt you, Rick?” A quick rush of sympathy washed through me as I looked at those stains. I mean, the guy wasn’t the friendliest man around. In fact, he was a downright self-centered jerk who thought everyone should bow down to him and give him everything he demanded, simply because he’d represented an author who’d done pretty well for himself. His ego had to have been the size of Texas. Still, that was no reason for someone to want to kill him.

  I tore my gaze away from the stains, and instead focused on the latte machine. It might have been the last thing he’d touched before he’d died. The machine was one of the expensive brands, rivaling what we had at Death by Coffee, but in no way would it make a superior coffee to what I made. Had he been preoccupied with making his latte, so that when the killer came in, he hadn’t heard him? These machines didn’t make that much noise, but I supposed it was possible.

  Or had he known the killer? I didn’t see another mug anywhere, though I doubted Rick would have offered anyone else a drink. Maybe he’d been standing here, drink in hand, when the killer came in.

  Worry made my stomach clench. Rick would have let Dad in without too much complaint. The only other person in town who wouldn’t have been thrown out on his ear was Cameron. I’d much rather think the killer had snuck in and done the deed than to think it had anything to do with Dad’s writing life.