Murder at the Lone Peak

by Kendall Scott

  From what she could make out, which wasn’t a lot, it seemed that they were papers that pertained to the creation of a news business – no! The liquidating of the business. It was called 'Capture.' When Constance read the name, she paused, then read it again. There was something familiar about that name, although she couldn’t for the life of her think on what it was.

  She continued to flip through the papers. It seemed that Mr. Tibbs had sold this business recently for… Constance’s eye bulged when she saw the sum. If what she was reading was correct, Mr. Tibbs had sold Capture for half a million dollars. She double checked this, confirmed its accuracy. The business – what it did was not specified – was sold to Facebook in fact.

  “How odd,” she mused. She thought of what Mr. Tibbs was wearing and wondered why a man worth so much would dress so poorly.

  As she continued to sift through the documents, slowly familiarizing herself with them, she spied another name, Marco Slazenger. Again and again this name popped up, often written just under Mr. Tibbs, with signatures side by side. He was the business partner in this venture. Although where was he now?

  Eyes wide with excitement, heart beating so fast that she was sure that Mr. Tibbs could hear it downstairs, she continued to flip through the papers, getting nearer the ended. When she reached the last few pages, a small Polaroid photo fell out.

  She scooped it up in a flurry of excitement. The photo featured two young men and was taken on a yacht. One of the men was Mr. Tibbs; his white-blonde hair made his identity in the photo undeniable. The other man was most likely Mr. Slazenger, but Constance didn’t recognize… unless. She looked closer. He had a clean-shaven face, yet deep blue eyes and when she squinted, she could have sworn she saw a scar just above his eye…

  A sudden crash from downstairs snapped Constance back into the moment.

  “You have got to be…!” The unmistakable growl of Mr. Tibbs could be heard, still in the restaurant by the sounds of things.

  “I am so sorry!” Sydney could be heard apologizing loudly. No doubt she had dropped something, or broken something, or fallen over something.

  Constance shook her head, shoved the papers back in the briefcase, closed it – was unable to fix the lock – and shoved it back under the bed. Pocketing the photo, she hurried to the door and slipped through it, breathing with relief the moment she was on the other side. Although she hadn’t gotten the answer that she was after, she was sure that she had stumbled upon something. Only what?

  It was the name Capture that rattled around in her head as she headed down the stairs. She figured that she better check on Sydney and see how much damage she had caused. But as she walked, she could barely think straight. Capture… Capture… she had heard that name before. No, not heard. She had read it before. But where?

  She walked into the restaurant, still deep in thought. Even the sight of Mr. Tibbs, covered in foodstuffs as Sydney did all she could to wipe him clean using her own dress, couldn’t snap Constance from her train of thought.

  “I’m sorry,” Sydney was saying as she continued to pat Mr. Tibbs down. “you shouldn’t have scared me like that!”

  “Scared you?!” Mr. Tibbs exclaimed. “I was reaching for my plate of food!”

  “I thought you were grabbing at me!”

  Capture… Capture…

  She looked around the restaurant, right past the commotion and to the table in the corner. For some reason she found herself thinking of Mr. Christie on that first day, when he had yelled at Sheila for…

  And just like that, Constance had the answer.

  She spun on her heel and sprinted back up the stairs. A second later she found herself out the front of Shelia’s room. Not caring how early it was, Constance hammered on the door until Sheila answered.

  “Good day,” Shelia said joyously when she answered. Hair a mess, still in her sleep-wear, she couldn’t have looked less excited to see Constance. Although that was how she always looked.

  “That photo of Mr. Christie you took,” Constance began. “Can I see it?”

  “Which one?” Shelia asked.

  “Of his corpse.”

  “Right,” she nodded. Sheila shuffled across the room and made for her bedside table.

  Without asking for permission, or caring how rude it might be, Constance followed her in, hovering over her shoulder as the Australian backpacker shuffled through a pile of photos that she must have had printed out. When she had the right one, Constance yanked it from her hand, smiling a triumphant smile the moment she laid eyes on it.

  “What?” Shelia asked. She wore a big smile and seemed delighted in how happy Constance was by the photo. “Good photo, right?”

  “Not that,” Constance chuckled. “This.”

  She held the photo up and showed it to Shelia. When she did, she directed her eyesight down Mr. Christie's raincoat where there was a pamphlet sticking half out of the pocket. Only the top of the pamphlet was visible and printed across it, clear as day, was the word Capture. Mr. Christie was Mr. Slazanger, Mr. Tibbs' business partner.

  Just like that the final piece of the puzzle had fallen into place.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Where the day had seemed an average one at best when Constance first woke, as she stepped outside with Eleanor and Sydney by her side, she could not believe how beautiful it was. Dare she say that it was a perfect day?

  Although Spring was still a few days from arrival, there was a balmy quality in the air that made the need for sweaters and coats irrelevant. And as there wasn’t so much as a cloud in the sky, the sun warmed Constance’s exposed skin in a most delightful manner. The wind that had been howling and carrying on for the past few days was gone as well and this allowed for the birds to come out in full and sing their morning song. Indeed, their cry carried through the air and was more akin to the sound of angels crying, than birds screeching.

  Yes, a more perfect day Constance could not remember. But as the three ladies crested the front gate and turned right to head into town, Constance was wont to admit that perhaps her mood had something to do with how she was perceiving the day. Really, she could scarce remember a time she had been in a better one.

  “We’re walking the whole way?” Sydney frowned as the three ladies set off into town.

  “I don’t see why not,” Constance answered pleasantly. There was a spring to her step as she went, and the other two ladies had to hurry to keep up.

  The destination for the three ladies was the police station on the other side of town, and where driving there would have certainly gotten them there faster, Constance was in no rush. In fact, she relished the chance to walk through town and savor in the moment for it wasn’t every day that one solved a murder.

  It was the photo Sheila had taken that had done it; the final nail in Mr. Tibbs’ proverbial coffin. The photo proved that Mr. Christie knew of Capture. What was more, when Constance took another look at the Polaroid she had stolen from Mr. Tibbs’ room, there wasn’t a doubt in her mind that it was of the two men. Business partners who had sold their start-up company for a small fortune and were set for the rest of their lives.

  So why the murder?

  Now, Constance was aware that everything after what she knew to be speculation, but it was damn convincing speculation. She remembered the shocked look on Mr. Tibbs’ face when Mr. Christie arrive at the hotel. She remembered the fear in his eyes – and the anger in Mr. Christie’s. She remembered the way that Mr. Tibbs had clutched the briefcase up to his chest when he saw him, as if trying to protect its contents.

  She was all but certain that Mr. Tibbs had tried to run with the cash… or business papers or whatever they were. No doubt he thought he was home free, only for Mr. Christie to turn up on his heel. Mr. Christie had confronted him, the two men had argued and that was that. He had to go.

  It was amazing the way a good motive opened up a case. Now that Constance had said motive, the whole thing seemed to obvious. Of course it was Mr. Tibbs. Of course had had do
ne it to cover his tracks and keep hold of what he thought was his. Of course the Flanders were just red herrings and nothing more. Of course, of course, of course.

  Constance skipped in the air as she hurried down Modest-View Street; Eleanor and Sydney following from behind, barely able to keep up.

  She had explained all of this to the two ladies too of course, unable to control her excitement. Where Sydney seemed convinced that Constance had solved the case, Eleanor wasn’t so sure.

  “We still don’t know how he was killed, remember,” she had pointed out.

  “Oh,” Constance waved her down. “It was poison, even if Nevil won’t admit it to me. No doubt when they were sharing a drink, Mr. Tibbs slipped something into his drink. It fits!”

  “So, what now?” Eleanor continued in a tone that indicated she was not impressed in the least. “A citizen’s arrest?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Constance chortled. “I’m going to go to the police station and tell Sheriff Nevil what I found out.”

  “You mean rub his face in it?”

  “Exactly!”

  And that was where the three women were heading. With the sun shining down on them, the birds chirping and Constance dancing with joy, they made their way through town and toward the police station. When they reached it, Constance threw the doors opened and stormed in like she owned the place.

  “Ms. Aberfield!” Stanley Small exclaimed when he saw her. He could not have looked more terrified, most likely worried that she was going to blackmail him again.

  “Stanley,” she practically cheered as she reached the desk. “Please call Sheriff Nevil out, thank you very much. I need to speak to him.”

  “Concerning?” Stanley asked, chin quivering.

  “The solving of a murder,” she said with a wink. “As in I have just solved one and am here to throw Sheriff Nevil a —”

  “Constance.” Sheriff Nevil stepped out from around the corner as if he had been hiding there the whole time. He wore a frown as he assessed the three women; a combination of uncertainty and anticipation for what this meant. “Did I hear you correctly? Or am I just that bad at eavesdropping?”

  “Oh, you heard correctly,” Constance responded in the same confident tone she had borne on Stanley. “While you were busy arresting the wrong man, I was out solving a murder.”

  Sheriff Nevil crossed his arms, smirking at the three women as he did so. He didn’t look surprised, upset or even mad. More as if he didn’t believe it. “Is that so?”

  “It is,” Constance continued in the same haughty manner. “You like to know how I did it… or more who did it?”

  Sheriff Nevil sighed and dropped his arms. “I suppose you better come to my office.”

  It was just as the three ladies were walking around the reception desk that the phone rang. Stanley answered and when he did his face went a very pale shade of grey.

  “Ah, Sheriff….” he murmured, holding the phone out for the Sheriff to take. “You better… this is… it’s….”

  Nevil frowned as he reached for the phone. “Sheriff Nevil here,” he said into the phone. “Is that so? Just now, you say?” His face gave nothing away. It could have been his mother reminding him to pick up the milk on the way home for all Constance could tell. “No, thank you for calling, we’ll be right down.” He handed the phone back to Stanley.

  He turned to face Constance. Again, his face was without emotion, giving nothing away. “That was your chef, Gustavo.”

  “Oh...” was all Constance could say. She couldn’t begin to imagine why Gustavo would be calling the police station. Unless he was after her? But then why did he ask for the Sheriff?

  “Yes, he called to say that he just stumbled upon the dead body of one Mr. Tibbs. There has been another murder, it would seem.”

  “Oh...” was about all Constance could say. She felt herself deflate on the spot, half because of the dead body discovered and half because of how wrong she had been.

  So very, very wrong indeed.

  Chapter Fourteen

  "… I came back to the hotel to get my hat," Gustavo was saying to Sheriff Nevil. He looked rather shaken as he spoke, arms hugged tight around his body. The biggest clue as to how shook he was though was in his accent – completely normal and devoid of any fake Italian flair. "And the kitchen door was unlocked."

  "And that was when you heard shouting?" Sheriff Nevil prompted.

  Gustavo shook his head violently. "No, first I noticed my knife was missing. It's my favorite knife, so when I saw it was gone..." He shuddered violently. "I'm sorry."

  "It's OK," Sheriff Nevil assured him. "Take your time."

  Constance was standing on the first step of the staircase, a little way back from the two men. As all the action was taking place in the parking lot outside, she could hear the conversation perfectly. Not that Sheriff Nevil was trying to keep it from her; it was almost as if he wanted her to hear.

  Gustavo nodded bravely. "It was when I noticed the knife was missing that I heard shouting. It was a man shouting. Blood curdling. It was coming from outside, so I ran toward it."

  "The parking lot?" Sheriff Nevil confirmed. As he did he scribbled away in his notepad.

  "That's right. It was just as I came outside that I saw two people – a man and woman. They were sprinting from the caravan —”

  "Winnebago."

  "Yes, that's right," Gustavo corrected. He hugged himself again. "They left it open, and the light on. So, I went to see what they were running from and that was when... when I saw... when I..." like something had suddenly caught in his throat, Gustavo choked up and couldn't continue.

  Sheriff Nevil seemed fine with this, patting the chef on the shoulder and directing him toward the back of the hotel. There were more officers waiting out there, all with questions of their own.

  Once he was gone, Sheriff Nevil turned back and feigned surprise at the sight of Constance, perched on the stairwell watching the exchange. This surprise lasted for less than a moment. No sooner was it gone, had his face taken on a look of inexplicable smugness... or at least that was how Constance interpreted it.

  "You could try acting a little less... smug!" Constance scolded him as he continued to peer at her. "A man has just been killed."

  "Smug?" Sheriff Nevil asked seriously. He looked a little taken aback by the accusation. "Certainly not. Grieved, is perhaps a better term."

  "Ohhhhh," Constance shook with a combination of anger and embarrassment. "Just go away," was all she managed in the end.

  She wanted to be angrier with the Sheriff, she really did. She wanted to tell him to shove his smug face where the sun didn't shine. But in the end, she couldn't. A man had just been murdered after all.

  In the end, Constance was wrong about Mr. Tibbs. And if there was ever a doubt in her mind to this, there was no greater proof then the fact that he had been brutally stabbed to death in the Flanders' Winnebago.

  As detailed by Gustavo, he had seen the Flanders couple fleeing the crime scene, and then found the body seconds later. It was essentially an open a shut case, which ended when the Flanders couple were arrested having dinner at Modest Peaks other fining dining establishment, A Modest Affair.

  What was even more perfect – at least from a police Sheriff's point of view – was the way in which the murder of Mr. Tibbs tied into that of Mr. Christie. With the knowledge that Mr. Christie had gotten into a heated argument with the Flanders after being caught trying to break into their van, and then Mr. Tibbs being murdered after having succeeded in this endeavor, it only made sense that the Flanders killed both victims.

  And yet... and yet Constance couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't quite right. Call it her female intuition, but as nice and neat as the case was perpetrated as being, she just didn't see it as so. It had the appearance of being wrapped up, while everything tumbled out from the other side. The annoying thing was that she was the only one who could see it.

  "Don't be like that," Sheriff Nevil continued as
he made his way across the foyer and toward Constance. When he reached her, he leaned on the stairwell looking at her like he was a cowboy chewing on a strand of straw, and she was some dame he was winning over with his charm. "So you were wrong. What of it? People are wrong all the time."

  "I wasn't wrong," she snapped.

  "Okay..." He began slowly with an annoying smirk. Was it just Constance, or was Sheriff Nevil doing everything he could to antagonize her? "How about this? I'll admit that Mr. Tibbs killed Mr. Christie. It won't be official or anything like that, but if it makes you feel better —”

  "Will you—," she bit her tongue before she said something she knew she would regret. Instead she looked ahead, jaw clenched, stare rueful. Indeed, the wall that she was staring at seemed to cower under her glare.

  In truth, Constance wasn't even mad that she was wrong... and that she had made a fool out of herself in the process. Oh sure, that didn't help, and it also went a long way toward no one believing that she really didn't mind. But truthfully, she didn't. She had been wrong before and she was a big enough woman to admit it. The reason she was acting the way she was, and feeling as venomous as she was, was simply because she still wasn't convinced about the murder.

  When they had first hurried back to the hotel – this time catching a lift in the back of the police car – she filled Sheriff Nevil in on everything that she had learned. Although he claimed that it was all very interesting, he just couldn't get past the fact that it was also null and void.

  "If you had come to me yesterday with this, Constance, things might have been different" he had yelled over his shoulder as he sped the police car down Modest-View Street. The sirens were blaring, making yelling a necessity. "But your murderer is dead, so you can see the bind I'm in?"

  "Yes, I know," she snapped. She leaned forward, pressing her face up against the grill window that separated the back and front seats. "But what if it's unrelated?"

  This time he glanced back in her direction, making sure she could see the look of disbelief on his face before he had to turn back to watch the road. "Two unrelated murders inside a week in your hotel? You better home that it's not."