“He’s not in here,” Della said.
“Get out of the way.” His voice got gruffer. “Della, get out of the way, you little brat.”
She slapped him across the cheek. “How dare you talk to me like that! I can’t believe I thought you were cute.” She slapped him a second time.
He didn’t flinch any more than a man carved from granite would.
“Slap me all you want.” He reached under her armpits and lifted her out of the way, then went into the room.
Della glared at me and spat, “Don’t make that face. I don’t need your pity.”
Inside the room, Butch called out, “Where is he? Where’s Franco?”
I walked in, Della close behind me. The room was breezy and cold. Clothes lay everywhere, the pictures on the walls were askew, and the formerly-crisp lampshades looked as though they’d lost a fight.
I commented, “Someone’s been redecorating.”
Butch surveyed the mess, then started yanking the covers off the bed. Next, he pulled off the entire mattress. If the room hadn’t been a mess before, it certainly was now.
“Where’s Franco?” Butch demanded.
“Did you look out there?” Della pointed to the patio. The room was near freezing because it had no door. Pebbles of broken safety glass lay along the patio door’s track.
Butch tossed the bare mattress back on the bed frame and walked with me, over the glass and onto the patio.
I pointed to the empty door frame. “This was the bang we heard at breakfast. It was this huge pane of glass breaking.”
“Couldn’t have been,” Butch said. “That crack sounded like a shotgun blast.”
“A big panel of safety glass can make an awfully loud noise,” I said. “That’s why skilled thieves don’t break them if they can avoid it.”
Della stepped out to join us. She tucked a stray tendril of glossy black hair into her loose bun and gave me a wary look. “You’re doing that detective thing again, aren’t you? Do you think he was fighting with someone in here?”
“If he was fighting, it wasn’t with one of the eight people who were in the dining room. Franco’s the only one of us who wasn’t there when we heard the bang.”
She watched me out of the sides of her eyes. Her voice high, she said, “But someone could have broken in. See how all the glass is inside the room?”
I crouched over the track frame. The pattern of the broken glass, sprayed largely across the interior, did suggest the patio door had been broken from the outside. What roused my suspicion, though, was Della’s transition from spitting venom at me in the hallway to being the helpful Watson to my Sherlock Holmes.
“Hold that thought,” I said. Their eyes were on me as I walked back into the room and went to the bedside table. Like the one in my room, the nightstand held an alarm clock that resembled a block of wood, and a heavy lamp with a stone base. The shade of the lamp had been crushed badly. Using my fingers, I located something embedded along the seam.
I held up a bead of safety glass. “Whoever broke the patio door did so with this lamp, which means, unless these lamps grow on trees in the surrounding forest, the glass was broken from the inside.” I locked my eyes on Della. “Either there was a vacuum inside this room, or someone swept up that glass and sprinkled it inside. Any idea why someone would do that?”
She stepped into the room and crossed her arms. “Franco’s stupid. He might have a genius IQ, but when he gets mad, he’s like a caveman. I’m always having to clean up his messes around the house. One time, he threw the toaster at the smoke detector.”
Butch went to the stone lamp and picked it up. “These are heavy,” he said. “Did Franco happen to let on what he was upset about?”
Della sat on the corner of the bare mattress and made eye contact with Butch. In a sultry tone, she said, “He might not have been sleeping after all, when you wandered into my room at about half past four this morning.”
“I was sleepwalking,” he said.
She smirked. “You did more than walk.”
He turned to me and repeated, “I was sleepwalking.”
I raised my eyebrows and said nothing.
Butch stuttered at me, “Are y-y-you calling me a liar? Hook me up to a lie d-d-detector, if you’re so sure. In fact, it’s about that time of the year, give me a free c-c-colonoscopy while you’re at it. I can drop my trousers right now. Grab a flashlight and have a good look. You might even find a dollar or two that hasn’t gone into this stinkin’ money pit.”
I held my hand up, palm out. “Butch Fairchild, I don’t care what sum of money you keep in your dark recesses, and I can assure you, I have neither the tools nor the inclination to search for it.”
After leaving Butch and Della alone to sort out the mess, I returned to my room to find it had also been redecorated—in shades of white. Toilet paper white.
Without his outdoor access, Jeffrey had been hit by cabin fever. His search for entertainment had resulted in the destruction of several rolls of toilet paper. I picked up shreds of white fluff while he watched with curiosity.
I told him that despite the mess, he was actually one of the better-behaved guests at the lodge.
Jessica returned to let me know she’d located Christopher.
I asked, “Does he have buckshot in his rump from the turkey hunters?”
“Actually, thanks to his bright green jacket, he made it back unscathed.” She surveyed the room’s confetti. “You had a party without me?”
I flung a handful of shredded toilet paper over our heads. “I needed to amuse myself somehow. I was going to start a torrid affair with the owner of the lodge, but it looks like Della beat me to it.”
She gasped. “Della is having an affair with Marie? Sort of a love-hate thing?”
“I meant with Butch.” While she picked the flecks of toilet paper out of her red hair, I told her about the trashed room and broken glass door, how Franco had gone missing, and how I was ready to pack up my things and leave immediately.
She gave me a pleading look. “But I’m just starting to have fun.”
“We’ll stay for now, but I swear, if one more weird thing happens, I’m out of here.”
“Sure. One more weird thing and we’re gone.” She leaned over to check the time on the room’s clock. “Oops. I’m supposed to be in a yoga class right now. Christopher is teaching.”
“Christopher is teaching a yoga class? Pack your bags! I said one more weird thing, and I meant it.”
She ignored me, and started changing into her pink workout clothes. She offered no further explanation about how Christopher had gone from being a person who made fun of yoga to one who taught it.
She asked, “What are you going to do while I’m at yoga? You’re not going to hide out here alone, are you?”
“I’m not alone. Jeffrey is here, and we have a busy afternoon planned. Next on the agenda is dining on tuna, followed by drinking water from the toilet bowl, even though there are five bowls of perfectly good water spread throughout the room.”
“Come to yoga. We could put some toilet water in a bottle, if you’d like.”
“Send everyone my regards, especially Guru Christopher, but the meditation I’m craving involves quiet time with my email.”
She wished me luck with my email, then left the room.
Unfortunately, I still didn’t have the password for the network. I picked up the room’s phone and pressed zero, not expecting to reach anyone.
Marie answered. “Lunch will be late,” she said. “Around two o’clock.”
“Actually, I just wanted the network password so I can check my business email.”
“We’re not set up for that yet.”
“But I can see the network with my laptop.”
There was a long pause, then she gave me the alphanumeric code. “Don’t give that password to the others,” she said. “I think it’s the access to the whole network.”
“You’re the best,” I said, then settled in to do s
ome work. There was nothing new from Logan, but my inbox held some tasks that needed attention, so I got busy.
I was deep in the flow of things when someone knocked on the door.
I checked the peephole, just in case it was Della in a punching mood or Butch with a flashlight.
It was Marie Fairchild, in another drab gray dress, paired with her red clogs.
When I opened the door, she was wringing her hands.
“The password worked,” I said.
She pushed her glasses up her nose and looked around me, into the room, before asking, “Stormy, would you say you’re a good detective?”
Chapter 19
Was I a good detective?
Marie wanted to know, and since she’d asked me so directly, I felt she deserved an honest answer.
“I’m the best detective on this mountaintop,” I said.
She didn’t laugh. “I need to hire you.”
“How about a lawyer? Sometimes people think they want a detective, but what they really want is a lawyer.”
“Why would I need a lawyer?”
As I sometimes do with difficult questions, I answered with a question of my own. “Why do you need a detective?”
She took that as an invitation to enter my room. She had a gray handbag with her, and she pulled out a matching gray checkbook. “What do you charge? And will you take a post-dated check? I promise it should clear in a few days.”
“Marie, I can’t take your money.”
She slumped against the room’s dresser, looking fragile.
I quickly added, “Because you’re practically family. I can’t take your money because I won’t charge you.”
I cleared the clothes off the room’s chair. “Have a seat and tell me what I can do for you.”
She took a seat and crossed her legs primly. “Butch is up to something.”
I sat on the bed and leaned forward in anticipation, but then corrected myself and leaned back again. If I was going to be her detective, I couldn’t be her gossip-seeking girlfriend. As a professional, I’ve learned that the best way to keep things moving forward is to remain neutral.
“What exactly makes you think Butch is up to something?”
She pushed her glasses up and blinked three times before saying, “He called our insurance company this morning, several hours before we knew about the broken door in Franco’s room.”
“And?”
“That’s it. Why? Have you noticed anything else?”
I deflected her question by inviting her to tell me why it was suspicious that he’d talked to their insurance company.
While she spoke, I took notes using the lodge’s stationery. She explained that he told her about the patio door shortly after we discovered the mess in Franco’s room. They’d argued over money—an ugly fight—and he told her that she could deal with the insurance company, since opening the lodge was all her idea.
“When things aren’t going well, this place becomes my lodge,” she said, shaking her head. “He tossed me his phone to call them, and when I did, I saw he’d already called them once today.”
“And why’s that suspicious?”
“He hates dealing with the insurance company. He always gets me to call. I was surprised he even had the number in his phone. The call he made this morning lasted twenty-two minutes. He’s hiding something, and he doesn’t want me to know. I have a bad feeling about this. What should I do now?”
“This one’s easy,” I said. “You just want to know what he was calling about?”
She nodded vehemently.
I held out my hand and asked to borrow the phone.
Private investigators, licensed or otherwise, have rules governing their fact-gathering methods. We’re not allowed to pose as police officers, for example. However, we can and do get creative.
I have two secrets to getting information on the phone.
First, people are rarely listening closely, and they’ll blank out the first part of what you’re saying, such as your fake name, and focus on the words you end with, which should be a simple request—something that’s easy to say yes to.
Second, if you sound bored enough, people assume you’re just doing your job.
When the Fairchilds’ insurance agent answered, I said, “This is Susan Squirrel, calling on behalf of Mr. Butch Fairchild. I’m sorry to bore you with this, but my boss has misplaced his notes. The darn guy would lose his head if it wasn’t attached. Would you mind repeating back to me what you told Mr. Fairchild this morning, during your conversation?”
There was a pause, and I worried that my brazen use of the name Susan Squirrel was too showy, but then the man on the other end of the call started talking. Talking and talking. About risk management, appurtenances, and liability.
I scribbled notes as quickly as I could, pausing only when the man said, “Unfortunately, accidental death or dismemberment on the premises could exceed your coverage.”
Every fiber of my body tensed. My mouth went dry. Accidental death or dismemberment? Was there a dead body somewhere on the premises, waiting for me to stumble over it? I glanced out the window, past the patio, where every lump and bump of snow could be hiding something sinister. Why couldn’t spring come faster?
“And that’s why you need those signs,” the man concluded.
“Signs?”
“You tell your boss, Mr. Fairchild, that no matter how ugly his wife finds the warning signs about medical conditions, they’re very important. When I come up there for the grand opening, I want to see those signs on all the doors leading to those crazy things you have, those float tanks. We can’t prevent people from expiring on the premises, but we can reduce our exposure to litigation and investigation.”
I thanked him, ended the call, and relayed my findings to Marie.
She let out a long sigh of relief. “That’s all? He wants us to put up those ugly warning signs? I can do that.” She took back the phone and got up to leave. “Please don’t tell Butch about this, will you? I feel so paranoid, with these crazy suspicions popping into my head.”
“I know the feeling. Let me know if you need anything else.”
“Here’s hoping I won’t.” She stopped to give Jeffrey a chin scratch. “There’s probably another perfectly good explanation for why Butch was reviewing the security camera footage from the hallway, so I won’t waste your time with that.”
She thanked me again as I walked her out. When I glanced up at the hallway ceiling, I spotted the dome for the security camera immediately.
Back in the room, I pulled Jeffrey onto my lap and mulled over the facts.
Butch’s call to the insurance company could have been nothing, but the timing seemed odd. Why ask about accidental deaths on the premises now? Had something happened recently? Or was something going to happen?
Where was Franco, anyway? Butch had seemed so certain he would find him in the trashed room, in or under the bed.
Had Franco gotten ill during his stay? From the food, or something in the lodge? And if Butch knew, was he trying to sweep it under the carpet? I’d seen him get upset over the threat of people spreading rumors about the lodge.
And what had the security camera captured in the hallway?
Marie had quickly lost interest in the footage, but I hadn’t.
Getting the footage was something I could do on my own. I’d already been inside the building’s electrical room once that day, and I’d seen the brand-new sticker from a security system manufacturer. I just had to pop into the room again, get the name of the maintenance company, then call customer support to help me access the camera footage.
When Marie gave me the password so I could get on the internet, she inadvertently gave me access to the entire computer system.
She probably thought I was through helping her, finished as of that one phone call. Little did she know that when you hire Stormy Day to investigate a mystery, the job doesn’t stop until everything’s uncovered and somebody’s in trouble.
&nb
sp; I left my room and started toward the stairwell, then stopped. I could feel the security camera on me, recording my hesitation.
Something about my meeting with Marie smelled fishier than the seared tuna steaks Jeffrey had been feasting on.
I’d learned a bit about Marie and her three childhood friends over dinner. They’d called themselves geniuses because they’d all scored high on conventional intelligence tests. That didn’t guarantee they were smart in all aspects of life, but it meant I shouldn’t underestimate any of them.
Why would she be so concerned about a twenty-two-minute phone call to an insurance agent, but lose interest in the more suspicious behavior of her husband reviewing camera footage of their friends?
It was almost as if she’d wanted me to hear that specific information from the insurance agent. And right after she’d given me full access to the resort’s computer system.
Was I being set up?
My gut was trying to tell me something.
Who was being paranoid now?
I needed somewhere quiet to think, so I turned and crossed to the opposite end of the hallway, to the doors for the spa.
Inside the in-house spa, the air had a refreshing aroma—like the scent of my gift shop, but simpler. Huge pillars of white scented candles placed throughout the space smelled of tea tree oil and mint.
The construction crew hadn’t finished, so the walls had only a patchy coat of chocolate-milk-colored paint. Overhead was a tangle of exposed electrical and plumbing, not yet hidden by a drop ceiling.
I found the perfect place to think, in a reclining leather pedicure chair, positioned to take in the view. The spa was directly below the dining room, with the same outlook.
Off in the distance, gray storm clouds were gathering.
I squirmed in the leather chair. I puzzled over my meeting with Marie, and all the layers of what she might have meant, but I kept thinking the same pesky thought: I really didn’t like pedicures.
Just sitting in the chair made me twitch. Over the years, I’d been talked into getting a few pedicures. Every time, I’d been excited about the “treat,” only to dread every minute of the foot-tickling torture, gritting my teeth to keep from jerking my foot and kicking some well-meaning spa attendant in the face.
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