Room At The Inn (The Jeff Resnick Mysteries)

by Bartlett, LL

  "How did I do?"

  "You're a very receptive subject."

  I struggled to sit up and took a deep breath. The clarity I'd experienced during hypnosis was already beginning to fade. Despite Richard's instructions to the contrary, under hypnosis the knowledge had still been emotionally laden. Fully conscious, it was no longer colored by Eileen's passions but mirrored my own.

  "My God. Laura's some kind of pedophile."

  "How do you feel about the idea of having sex with Eileen?" Richard teased.

  "That doesn't appeal to me, either. I wondered why she kept inviting me into the hot tub. I had no idea I was so attractive to old ladies."

  "Neither did I." He sobered. "Did I ask the right questions?"

  "Definitely."

  "Do you have impressions of things you didn't tell me about?"

  "Lots. I need to let it percolate. All I'm sure of now is that we've got four really good candidates as murderers."

  "What about that mountain stuff? What does that mean?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "Why would Kay Andolina say that to you?"

  I remembered my conversation with her at the party. "Maybe it's because an angel looks out for me."

  "A what?"

  "An angel," I repeated.

  He smiled. "I didn't know I'd been elevated to heavenly status."

  "Very funny. She's got it in her head that she's responsible for Eileen's death because she was rude to her. She complained, and Susan was going to throw Eileen out. She kept calling me Greg, too."

  Richard's amusement faded and he frowned. "I had a long conversation with her husband. That is until Alyssa came up and interrupted us." He cleared his throat, embarrassed. "Kay had a breakdown after the death of their son." He shook his head in sympathy. "She shot and killed him. His name was Greg."

  "An accident?" I asked, dreading the answer.

  "She heard a noise in the night. There was a loaded gun in the house. Now she talks to angels."

  "Did Fred ask you for professional advice?"

  "He just needed to talk. It's been hard on him. He loves her, but he's frustrated by the changes in her. Eileen's death brought back a lot of unpleasant memories, which is probably why she's confused."

  I felt a surge of compassion for the woman and her husband, regretting my earlier, hasty judgment of them.

  I forced myself to consider everything else I'd learned that evening. There were still so many pieces of the puzzle missing.

  "Do you think Beach would let me look at Eileen's belongings? I'm sure the killer—or someone—got rid of the incriminating page on that writing tablet, but the information I dredged up tonight might still be of use to Beach. And I might get more by touching Eileen's stuff."

  "Haven't you had enough for one day?"

  "I want to get it over with. You're the one who wanted to go home as soon as possible."

  He glanced at his watch. "It's 10:15."

  I got up and headed for the door. "I'll call the station to see if he's still there. If it's a go, I'll meet you in the living room in five minutes, okay? Or I can go by myself if you'll loan me your car."

  He shook his head. "I'd better go, too. But I've had too much to drink. You'll have to drive." He threw me the car keys.

  Chapter 20

  When I called the police station, Beach seemed surprised to hear from me and asked if it could wait until morning.

  It couldn't.

  The roads were nearly deserted, which suited me fine. When I have a headache, headlights penetrate my brain like knife thrusts. I was glad it took less than ten minutes to get to the police station.

  Despite the hour, Beach was waiting for us. We sat on plastic chairs in the reception area and he listened patiently while I told him everything I'd learned that evening—avoiding how I'd obtained some of the information.

  "It'll be interesting to hear what Mr. Dawson has to say about his expected windfall. I wonder if she even has a clue about her husband’s intentions."

  "You and the chief can tag-team them. It’s likely one of them will crack."

  "And it'll be interesting to hear what Ms. Ross has to say about being blackmailed. More likely, all three will deny everything. Unfortunately, without proof, everything you've told me is just hearsay."

  We followed him to the same interrogation room I'd been in the evening before. Spread out on the metal table were Eileen’s suitcase, a travel tote, and a briefcase. Beach jerked a thumb toward it. "Go for it."

  I opened the briefcase first. It contained maps, a magazine, several travel folders, and a yellow legal pad—the one I'd seen in the vision. No indentations marred the remaining pages, indicating more than just the sheet Eileen had written on had been removed. It was disappointing, but not unexpected. "Maybe I should look at the fireplaces when we get back to the inn."

  "And the barbecue," Richard added.

  The travel tote, complete with shampoo, deodorant, and toothpaste, was of no help. Richard looked over the bottles of medication.

  "Are you familiar with those?" Beach asked.

  "I've seen the same combinations before for cancer treatment."

  The black, soft-sided suitcase beckoned. I exhaled, sweat already dampening the back of my shirt.

  "What's wrong?" Richard asked.

  I gestured toward my chest. "I've got this weird feeling in my gut. Like I shouldn't touch it."

  "You're the one who asked to see it," Beach reminded me.

  "Yeah.”

  Putting on a brave front, I unzipped the case and threw back the lid. A swell of emotion pounded me. Overwhelmed, I wasn't immediately able to identify it. My breath caught in my throat as my eyes welled with sudden tears.

  "Jeff?" Richard asked.

  I stumbled into a chair and forced myself to breathe evenly. Eileen's neatly folded, terry cloth robe—the last thing she'd ever worn—sat atop her other clothes, radiating wave after wave of despair.

  "What is it?" Beach asked.

  "Betrayal." I covered my eyes with my hand, massaging my aching temples.

  "Get beyond it," a detached Richard advised.

  I nodded—reached for the robe, and settled my left hand on it. Conflicting images filled my mind. Laura. Mouthing epithets. In the clearing behind the inn. Then a younger, more vulnerable Laura, crying. The images strobed back and forth, making me dizzy.

  "Eileen ... argued with Laura. But she didn't look the way she does today. Her hair was darker. It must've been years ago. Why am I'm getting something from so long ago?"

  "Can you zero in on what happened Friday night?" Richard asked.

  I shut my eyes, swamped by more painful memories. Zack—his eyes wide in anger. Pushing Eileen. Demanding money. Blaming Eileen. Eileen's terrible guilt.

  "Eileen ... talked to Zack. She argued with him."

  "About what?"

  "Money. I don't know when. It could've been Friday. I'm not sure."

  "What else?" Beach asked.

  Eileen's lingering emotional baggage poured relentlessly out of the suitcase.

  The hot tub. Eileen's hand clutching the tumbler of scotch, gulping it, the amber liquid dibbling down her chin. A voice. Quiet. Menacing. Unintelligible. Skyrockets of pain. Then, blissful nothingness.

  I let out a shaky breath.

  "All I'm getting is betrayal. She felt she had no reason to live. Then she was dead. Floating in the hot tub."

  "Murdered," Beach said. "But who did it?"

  I shrugged, my head pounding. I reached into my jeans pocket and pulled out the prescription bottle.

  "No," Richard said, taking it from me. "That's it for tonight. Sit back and relax."

  I did as I was told, and watched in silence as he closed the suitcase, zipped it shut, and set it in the corner of the room farthest from me.

  Acute defeat settled over me. "Sorry, Beach. I thought maybe I could get to the bottom of this if I saw—touched—Eileen's stuff."

  He shrugged, obviously as disappointed as me. "You t
ried. It looks like I go about this the old-fashioned way."

  Exhaustion pulled at me. But there was still so much that needed to be said—to be asked. I forced myself to think about other things. "What's Stowe's drug problem like?"

  "Not good. It's a transient population—upper-middle class to wealthy people who like to party. Why?"

  "Adam Henderson grows and sells marijuana on the side. You might want to look into that when you get a chance."

  "Did he try to sell you some?"

  "No, but he sold it to at least one of the other guests."

  "Are you telling me this to get back at him for pushing you down the stairs?"

  "I could've pressed charges if I was that pissed. I'm just telling you what he does to make money on the side."

  Beach scowled. "Anything else?"

  "Yeah, what's this about Ted Palmer being arrested for joyriding?"

  "He mentioned it to you?"

  "He thought you'd already told me. Either that or he wanted to tell me himself before I found out some other way." That struck me as odd. "How did he think I'd find out?"

  "Does anyone at the inn know about this psychic stuff you do?"

  "I don't think so. Maggie could've told Susan, but she knows I like to keep it quiet."

  "I can see why. Anyway, Palmer's never been in trouble since his arrest almost eleven years ago. But he still could've been the one who forced you off the road. Wouldn't you have known that?"

  "Not necessarily. I tap into emotions. If he wasn't bothered by nearly killing us—I wouldn't pick up on it. And whoever killed Eileen obviously isn't obsessing over it and feels confident he—or she—won't get caught."

  Beach frowned. "Two days ago I would've laughed if anyone told me I'd believe a psychic. Now...." He stared at the floor. Suddenly I was getting something from him.

  I couldn't take much more.

  "What is it, Beach?" I asked, anticipating his question.

  "My sister—is she...?" His expression was one of hopeful dread.

  "I don't know about the hereafter. I only got what you felt about the accident. You're being too hard on yourself. How old were you, six?"

  He nodded. "I caught a bass. Karen was so excited. She tried to help me land it and fell in. Neither of us could swim. The dock was two feet higher than the water. I couldn't reach her. By the time I got help, it was too late."

  He fell silent, radiating remorse.

  I felt like a creep intruding on his misery.

  My head threatened to split. "I—I have to go," I said, then Richard was at my elbow, helped me from the chair and guided me out the room.

  "Wait," Beach called after us, and handed Richard a large brown envelope.

  Before I knew it, we were outside, standing in the parking lot. Above the mercury vapor lights the sky was inky black and dotted with stars. My breath came out in a wispy fog. There'd be a frost by morning.

  "Come on," Richard said, steering me toward the car. "I'm taking you back to the inn and putting you to bed."

  "You make me sound like a bad little boy."

  "Well, you certainly don't know your own limits." He got in the car, tossed the envelope in back and buckled himself in. "Seat belt," he reminded me.

  I didn't have the stamina to argue. I fumbled with the belt. "Beach ought to chat with Kay Andolina," I said, sinking back in the seat. "She's the one who talks to angels."

  Then we were on the road heading north. Except for a few of the village's hot spots, the place seemed deserted, shut down, asleep.

  I was shutting down, too.

  Chapter 21

  I awoke to the sounds of car doors and trunks slamming. I opened one eye and looked at Richard's travel clock: 7:36. His bed was empty and the shower was running. I heard another slam, realizing the departing guests were probably already loading their cars. That way they could eat as soon as the kitchen opened and hit the road for home only a day late.

  It took a minute or two for me to realize my headache was nearly gone. I thought back to Richard's posthypnotic suggestion and felt myself instantly relax. Why hadn't we thought to try this during the past six months?

  The water stopped running and a few minutes later Richard emerged, dressed in Dockers and an Izod shirt, his graying hair tousled. "Good morning, roomie.”

  "Roomie?"

  "Yeah. I never had one before. Unless you count my lady friends."

  I sank back on my pillow, too lazy to get up. "I had twenty-three roomies in my barracks at Fort Gordon. It wasn't much fun as I recall."

  Richard turned to the mirror and combed his hair. "I offered to send you to college, but you had to prove you were a grown-up and enlist." At least there was no animosity in his rebuke.

  "Why am I back here with you, anyway? I've got a room of my own, you know."

  "Hey, it was all I could do to drag you in from the car last night. Once you're out of it, kid, you're dead to the world. And I swear, when you sleep, you're as still as a corpse. It made me want to put a mirror under your nose to see if you were still breathing."

  "I'll try to be more animated in future."

  "Are you getting up?"

  "Yeah. I've got to call the insurance company about my car." I didn't move. I thought of my charred, demolished Chevy. "Damn. It was a wreck, but it was my wreck. And paid for."

  "We'll start looking again once we get home. At least you weren't too badly hurt, and Maggie's going to be all right, too."

  I thought about that five-inch tear in her leg.

  "Can we go home tomorrow?" Richard asked, grabbing a pair of socks from the dresser drawer.

  "God, I hope so."

  "Good. I’m running out of clean clothes."

  I didn’t bother to tell him that I already had.

  I showered and dressed and was ready to head for breakfast by 8:10. We passed through the bar on the way to the dining room. All evidence of the party the night before was gone. The rug had even been vacuumed, a testament to Susan’s good housekeeping.

  As I expected, Jean and Michele Dubois and Doug and Alyssa were already breakfasting. I poured myself a cup of coffee, glanced out the window, and saw Sgt. Beach crouched by the backyard barbeque, accompanied by the same photographer who’d taken shots of the crime scene three days before.

  "Rich?" I nodded toward the window.

  Richard noted the sergeant’s presence. "He didn’t waste time getting here."

  "We took our coffee out to the patio."

  "You're up early," I said.

  Beach looked up at me. "Unfortunately, I couldn't get a warrant just on your say so, but Mrs. Dawson signed a consent to search form, letting me look at the fireplaces and barbecue."

  I gestured toward the ash pit. "Did you find anything?"

  "Ashes from the tablet in the barbecue here. Nothing in the fireplaces inside. It doesn't point the finger at anyone, but it confirms your story about incriminating evidence."

  I sipped my coffee. My story. That irked me—Maggie's the writer, not me.

  "We want to head home tomorrow. Is that okay?"

  He shrugged. "Are you willing to come back to testify—that is, if we solve this?"

  "Sure. I want to know how it all turns out. I have a vested interest, if you know what I mean."

  "If you come up with anything else, give me a call."

  "You got it."

  I followed Richard back to the dining room. We paused by the coffeemaker for a warm up, then sat at one of the empty tables. Moments later, Nadine came out from the kitchen.

  "Zack's making huevos rancheros and blueberry pancakes. Can I interest either of you in them?" Her voice was a monotone. Definitely no joie de vivre.

  "I'll just go through the buffet," I said.

  "I'll have the eggs and whole wheat toast, please," Richard said. She nodded and headed back for the kitchen.

  "What're we going to do about getting home?" I asked.

  "How about we drive the rental car to Burlington and take a flight to Buffalo?"
<
br />   "What about all that camera equipment upstairs?"

  "It'll have to go as excess baggage. I wish we could fly straight home from here, but there's no way Maggie could do it in a Cessna with her leg the way it is. And, to tell you the truth, I'm in no hurry to get back in one of those rattletraps."

  I tried—and failed—to suppress a smile.

  "I'll call the airlines and make reservations after breakfast," Richard volunteered.

  "Okay." I looked toward the kitchen and food. "Well, my stomach calls.”

  As I crossed the threshold, the tension in the kitchen hit me like a slap in the face. There was no conversation today. Adam's dishonesty and the fact that he'd attacked me had not been enough for Zack and Susan to fire him. He was busy scrubbing pots at the large sink. I tore my gaze from him. Anger had deadened my appetite, but I grabbed a couple of sausage links and a spoonful of eggs before heading back into the dining room.

  I dropped the plate with a clunk, making Richard jump.

  "Is something wrong?"

  "No." I sat down and started shoveling scrambled eggs into my mouth.

  Nadine reappeared, her smile tight as she placed Richard's breakfast in front of him. "Enjoy."

  He looked at her retreating figure, then back to me. "Did the whole world suddenly get pissed off when I wasn't looking?"

  I swallowed, spoke quietly. "Adam's still here. Maybe if he'd pushed a paying guest down stairs he would've lost his job. Damn that Susan."

  "How do you know it wasn't Zack who gave him another chance?"

  "Because he's been screwing Susan for months!"

  I stopped chewing. I hadn't known that juicy little fact before that moment, but it made sense.

  "My, you're just full of surprises," Richard said.

  I looked away, my anger smoldering.

  "Jeff, calm down. There's nothing you can do about it."

  "That still doesn't make it right."

  Richard refrained from commenting, picked up his fork, and started eating his breakfast. He was halfway through his eggs, and I was polishing off the last sausage on my plate when the Andolinas came in and sat at a table next to the window overlooking the garden. Kay smiled shyly and waved at me. I gave her a self-conscious smile and halfhearted wave in return.