by Bartlett, LL
"Sounds like it's hard to keep good help," Maggie said.
"It is. Especially in a seasonal business like this. I can't blame them for finding other jobs when we're closed, but it's damned inconvenient."
I racked up for another game, aware of the lag in their conversation.
"I've been admiring that mirror on the stairway," Maggie said.
"Do you want to buy it?"
I glanced up as Maggie blinked in surprise. "Well—"
"Just about everything in the inn is for sale. It's my surplus."
"Surplus?"
"I rent space in one of the antique co-ops in Waitsfield. It's not a great moneymaker, but it helps make ends meet during the months we're closed."
"I've thought about doing the same thing, but I never had the capital to get started.”
"In spring, I go on buying sprees for weeks at a time. Usually in Pennsylvania and Ohio. After the autumn leaves are done and the tourists leave, we'll be closed for six weeks and I'll split my time between here and the co-op. We hope to renovate the rest of the rooms in time for ski season. That should make a big difference to our balance sheet. Come April, I'll go on another buying trip."
"Sounds like you've got all the bases covered."
Susan finished her drink and slipped her shoe back on. "I'd better warn Ms. Marshall about her mouth." She pursed her lips, as though taking on the bitch persona. She didn't have to stretch far to find it. "Good night," she said to Maggie, once again ignoring my presence. She took the dirty glasses to the kitchen. Moments later we heard the screen door bang.
I looked up over my cue stick to see Maggie watching me from the doorway. "Don't even think about it."
"About what?"
"Starting an antiques business."
"I don't have the money. But maybe I can talk Brenda into going in on it with me."
"Don't ask her for a nickel. I'm serious."
"Oh, you won't let me have any fun." She poked her tongue out at me, then wandered closer, and fanned her face with her hand. "That sherry made me feel flushed. Want to go for a swim?"
I concentrated on making my shot. The cue ball slammed into the eight ball. "We'll smell like chlorine."
"I don't care. It's hot. Please?"
The cue stick went back on the wall rack. "All right. Maybe we can steal some of those big towels they leave out."
We went back to our room and changed. Maggie's about a size twelve, which I consider just about right. I thought she'd look terrific in a two-piece swimsuit, but like most American women, Maggie believes anyone who isn't a size zero—herself especially—is too fat. Besides, she has a surgery scar she doesn't like parading around. So, she donned a conservative, black, one-piece swimsuit and her beach cover-up, which I'm sure had never been worn on any beach. She went ahead of me down the stairs and out through the gardens to the pool.
Spotlights on the inn's exterior lit the barbecue and pool area. Angry shouts split the night. I held Maggie back. Susan and Eileen were going at it down by the hot tub.
"Oh, God, she's still there," Maggie grated.
"So what. Ignore her. We came here to swim, remember?"
Susan's voice rose. "I don't care how much you paid! I want you out of here tomorrow morning. Do you understand?"
Sudden quiet ensued.
I peeked around the edge of the barbecue as Susan stalked off toward the sunroom. We waited a few more moments before I took Maggie's hand and we crept into the open.
Steam curled from the hot tub into the cool night air. Eileen sat with her back toward us, the scotch bottle and tumbler within easy reach.
For once, Maggie took my advice. She ignored the Englishwoman and kicked off her slippers, claiming a large, fluffy towel draped over the back of one of the white, wrought-iron chairs. Then she took off her cover-up, walked to the edge of the pool's deep end, and dove in. Perfection. She surfaced and swam to the shallow end.
I applauded her graceful form. "I had no idea you were such an athlete."
"I used to be on the girl's swim team in high school. How about you?"
"No," I said in mock seriousness, "I never made the girl's swim team. But I passed intermediate swimming in my freshman year. Failed it the other three times." I dipped a toe into the water. "God, that's cold."
"You have to get wet all at once."
I backed off to sit in one of the chairs. "I'll pass."
"Chicken." She pushed off the edge of the pool, doing the backstroke. Once at the opposite end of the pool, she effortlessly turned and did a butterfly stroke. I liked to watch her swim. I liked to watch her do just about anything.
Maggie's splashing didn't garner much attention from our fellow bather. Eileen kept her back to us, morosely sipping her scotch. I felt a pinch and swatted a mosquito on my arm.
The breeze rose, bringing with it the unmistakable odor of marijuana. I heard a woman's laughter—Alyssa?—coming from the edge of the yard where I'd seen Adirondack chairs overlooking the creek. At least two of the nonsmoking inn's patrons hadn't kicked the habit.
I shivered in the cool night air and my thoughts drifted to Colorado, wondering how it related to my brother and that lonely stretch of road.
Lost in thought, I was totally unprepared for the cold water that splashed me. "Hey!"
"You look like you're in a daze," Maggie said playfully.
I toweled off my arm and leg. "So?"
She tread water in the middle of the deep end. "Come on in, the water's fine."
"It's freezing."
"It's heated!"
"To what? Sixty-eight? Sorry, I like my pool water warm as bath water."
"Then join me," came the voice from the hot tub. Did Eileen sound just a little desperate?
Maggie glared at me. I shrugged for her benefit. "Uh, thanks, but—" I faked a yawn. "All this mountain air has gotten to me. Are you ready to call it a night, Maggie?"
In answer, she swam over to the shallow end and walked up the steps. I handed her a towel, and she dried off. I grabbed another couple of towels to take to the room, waiting for Maggie to don her cover-up and slippers.
"Good night, Eileen," I said as we headed back for the inn.
She ignored me, apparently tired of being rebuffed. Barefooted, I padded across the patio and opened the screen door to the kitchen for Maggie.
"Grab some glasses and ice and we'll have a nightcap," she said.
"Good idea." I handed her the towels and she continued up the stairs for our room.
The downstairs common areas seemed deserted. I went behind the bar, annoyed to find the ice bucket empty, cursing whoever left it that way. Grabbing it, I headed back for the kitchen. A single fluorescent fixture switched on over the center island was the room's only light. Except for dirty coffee cups and wine glasses in the large porcelain sink, the room was immaculate. A hulking, commercial refrigerator stood defiantly against the north wall. The freezer was full of blocks of frozen sausage, blueberries, and other assorted goodies for the breakfast buffet. I filled the bucket from a half-empty ten pound bag of ice and closed the heavy door.
Something niggled at my brain, but nothing looked out of place. My eyes were drawn back to the sink, or rather what was in it. I resisted the urge to pick up the cups and glasses. If I touched them, I might get some unpleasant flash of insight, and I was too tired to learn some new, no doubt unsavory, fact on one or more of the guests.
"The hell with you all," I muttered, and headed back for the barroom. I grabbed two of the tall glasses, filled them with ice, and went straight to our room, determined I wouldn't think about those dirty dishes in the sink.
Chapter 7
I dreamed I was falling—mouth open in a silent scream—tumbling, end over end into a black abyss. Hot air whooshed past me, whipping my clothes, searing my soul. And I knew when I hit bottom it would be the end.
I awoke, muscles quivering, sweating, and panting. Faint light brightened the uncurtained window. Maggie slept on her side, facing the op
posite wall, her breathing slow and even.
Still groggy, it took me a full ten seconds to figure out I was safe, but the feeling of panic wouldn't quit.
I was all right ... but someone else wasn't.
My back protested as I hauled myself out of that awful bed. I grabbed my watch: 6:15. Tossing on my clothes, I stuffed bare feet into my Reeboks and closed the door behind me. I nearly stumbled on the stairs in my haste, some inner force guiding me toward the back of the house.
Adam was alone in the kitchen, setting up the warming trays for the buffet. "Good morning. You're too early for breakfast, but I've got a pot of coffee brewing." His smile looked forced. My expression must have warned him that something was up. "What's wrong?"
"I thought I heard a noise outside. I'm not familiar with the grounds. Will you come out with me?" I'd lied. I knew exactly what I'd find, and I wanted a witness.
Adam looked at me with suspicion, studying me. Then, reluctantly, "Okay.”
He unlocked the door to the back garden and we stepped outside. Mist clung to the mountaintops, the damp, chill air penetrating my cotton shirt. I wished I'd put on a jacket. I looked around to get my bearings, and then knew where we had to look.
Across the patio, a magnificent stand of cosmos blocked the view from the house to the pool. "Over there," I said, leading the way.
We pushed past the flowers and onto the empty concrete deck. A smattering of leaves floated on the surface of the pool, and next to them Eileen Marshall bobbed face down in the hot tub.
Adam ran toward her, skidding to a halt. "Do you know CPR?"
"Don't touch her!"
"But maybe it's not too late!"
I let out a shuddering breath. "She was there when we went in last night. She must have been dead for hours.”
Except for the hum of an air conditioner somewhere behind us, it was eerily silent. Adam kept staring at the dead woman, his face twisted with distress.
"Come on," I said. "We'd better call 911."
"Damn," Adam grated. "Susan's going to have a shit fit when she hears about this."
Susan was pissed. Lips drawn into a thin line, she surveyed the hot tub's victim. By the time the first Stowe PD patrol car showed up some ten minutes later, a rather breathless Zack had also arrived. His expression was unreadable, but Susan seemed more angry than upset that Eileen had died on her property. Typically, she viewed the woman's death from strictly a commercial perspective: how was this going to affect her business?
"Her name is Eileen Marshall," Susan volunteered to the young officer.
"Who found her?"
"We did," Adam answered, and nodded toward me.
"What happened?" the officer asked me.
I read his nametag: Dan Morris. "She was pretty drunk last night. Maybe she fell asleep," I offered, although I'd known from the moment I saw Eileen floating that she'd been murdered, but I wasn't eager to volunteer that information and become the prime suspect, either.
"I suppose she could have had a heart attack. We posted a sign warning people with medical conditions not to use the hot tub, but there's not much we can do to stop them," Susan said.
"We'll wait for the ME to decide the cause of death," the officer said.
I glanced back at the inn. Some of the other guests had awakened and were rubbernecking and speculating on the scene before them.
Susan spoke to Zack. "I'm sure we both don't need to be out here. You'd better go in and supervise breakfast. I can answer any questions the police have.”
"Are you sure, honey?"
"Yes," she snapped—her standard mode of speech. Oblivious, Zack nodded and headed for the house.
"Can I go in now, too?" Adam asked.
"No, we'll need you here for a while yet," the officer said and ushered us away from the site—standard crime-scene protocol. I guess I wasn't the only one thinking this might not be an accident.
Adam slumped into one of the patio chairs. "It'll be okay," I assured him.
He shrugged, unconvinced.
"Sir," the cop said, and motioned to me.
Another standard procedure: separate the witnesses so they don't contaminate each other's stories. This cop was good.
"You said the victim was drunk last night," Morris said.
"I'm a bartender. She was definitely over the legal limit."
"What was her state of mind?"
"Argumentative. She said some caustic things to several of the other guests." I told him Eileen had insulted Mrs. Andolina, what she'd said to Laura Ross the night before, and her loud discussion with Susan.
"What time did you last see her?"
I frowned. "We left the pool about ten forty-five, maybe eleven o'clock."
"We?"
"Me and my girlfriend, Maggie Brennan."
He wrote down her name. "And you say the victim had a bottle of whiskey?"
"Scotch. Grand Macnish, in a plastic bottle. She was drinking out of a plastic tumbler. Pool rules, no glass."
The cop looked around. "There’s no sign of it. Was anyone else around?"
"Two other guests may have seen her. Doug and Alyssa. They were out by the creek," I said, leaving out my suspicions on how they'd spent their evening.
Within minutes, two plainclothes detectives had arrived, along with the chief of police. The yellow crime tape came out and the investigation began in earnest.
I was impressed with the care the small town cops gave the scene—especially since at first glance the area looked totally innocent. As a former insurance investigator, I was used to looking over possible crime scenes. Being there brought back a kind of macabre nostalgia.
When the crime photographer arrived, I admit a degree of professional curiosity. Though they kept me pretty far back, I watched as he took photos from every conceivable angle, including flat on the cement deck for a shot of the body at ground level. They paid particular attention to the concrete deck, and I wondered if I'd missed traces of blood.
After the initial photos were taken, and the county medical examiner arrived, they hauled Eileen's bloated, naked body from the tub, laying her on the concrete deck. In death she looked younger than she had the night before. A discolored, crescent-shaped cut and bruise marred the left side of her forehead. The photographer took close-ups of her face, as well as the edges of the hot tub; there were no other signs of trauma on the body. The bruise didn't match the edge of the tub. But something else was wrong. Eileen's abdomen should've been discolored by pooled blood. Could she have bled to death? The police had the same idea, for next they took water samples, then completely dismantled the hot tub's filtering system.
I turned away, embarrassed for the dead woman. The last thing she would have wanted was strangers gawking at her wrinkled, naked body.
With all the questions and photos, it was hours before the Eileen Marshall’s body was removed by the medical examiner. By then I'd told my story to four or five officers of different ranks, making sure to tell it exactly the same every time. Sgt. Beach seemed to be in charge. He wasn't a local. His voice bore the trace of a mid-western accent—maybe Iowa. He wasn't much older than me, and maybe five-ten in height.
Meanwhile, Morris and the other officers interviewed the rest of the guests. They even went through the inn's trash looking for the missing scotch bottle. And while there wasn't talk about them coming back with a warrant to search each room, it seemed like the next step. At one point Susan disappeared with two of the cops, and the photographer, to chronicle and then pack Eileen's belongings.
When the ME's wagon pulled away, Sgt. Beach gathered all the guests in the dining room. "Folks, I know this is going to be an inconvenience to some of you, but until we determine how Ms. Marshall died, I ask that everyone stay in the area. If you move to different accommodations, please let the police department know. We'll be in touch."
The Andolinas looked grim as they left the dining room, presumably for their room. Alyssa and her beau seemed shell-shocked, and wandered out back, probably
to look over the death site.
I was starved, and it was almost eleven when I finally sat down to eat. A tense-looking Maggie waited for me, and pulled her chair close to mine. The meal was a somber affair. The camaraderie evident in the kitchen the day before was gone. None of the guests were particularly hungry, as evidenced by the food still heaped in the warming trays. Even though they were booked for another week, we overhead the young Canadian couple debating whether they should cancel and go home. I put odds that the wife would win and as soon as the police cleared them they'd be on their way home to Québec as fast as their BMW could take them. Personally, I didn't blame them.
Maggie sipped her coffee and picked apart a carrot muffin. "How do you think it happened?"
"Not here," I said under my breath.
She nodded and pushed her plate aside. I finished my breakfast in silence.
About the time the dust from the preliminary investigation had settled, Susan came looking for us. Her eyes were haunted. "You'll still take the pictures and finish the article, won't you?" Her voice just broke a whisper.
"We'll finish the job," I said.
"Thank you." Real humility colored her voice. "We've worked so hard, I hope this doesn't ruin our business." She turned and slowly walked toward the stairs.
I downed the rest of my orange juice, pushed back from the table, and we headed for our room.
"Well?" Maggie asked, as soon as I'd shut the door.
"Eileen was murdered."
Her pale face and worried eyes reflected her fear. "That means somebody here at the inn killed her. Why? Do you think they'll come after any one else?"
I took her in my arms and brushed a kiss along her forehead. "Now why would they do that?"
"I don't know. I'm scared. I've never seen a murdered person before."
"It's scary," I admitted.
"Is that how you felt when Shelley was killed?"
My wife and I had separated six months before the police came to my Manhattan apartment to tell me she'd been killed, execution style, in what they figured was a drug deal gone sour. Shelley's cocaine habit had caused our breakup.