“Do you remember everything that happened last night?”
Peter looked away and nodded uncertainly. “Most of it, I think. I know I passed out, Yvonne and I were talking . . ."
“Do you remember calling the police?”
“Police? No, of course I didn’t. Why would I call the police?”
“And then you had an argument with Yvonne.”
The stern lines on his face deteriorated. Looking away, he slowly shook his head. “I’m sure I don’t remember any of that. What was the argument about?”
Not wanting to explain the little he knew, he replied, “I don’t know much about it.”
“So she’s upset with me?”
Mark tilted his head back and forth. “A bit, I guess, though she was really worried when you passed out.”
“I’d like to apologize to her,” he said.
Mark heard the thud of Bear Foot’s truck door. He slid over to get a view and watched as Bear Foot got into his truck with the two women as passengers. They drove off. It had worked. “The doctor said you shouldn’t be driving until you’re . . ." He couldn’t think of a word other than normal. “Stable,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Stable with your medications and sleep.”
“I feel pretty good now.”
“I recommend the Cozy Inn.”
“Can’t I stay here?”
“No, unfortunately, no,” he said, sounding as melancholy as he could. “The Cozy Inn is a fine hotel, though.”
“The Cozy Inn?”
“Yeah, just a mile or so east on the highway.”
“Can I wait for Yvonne?”
Peter pouted slightly, which irritated Mark.
“I’ll let Yvonne know you’re there. That way, she can see you if she wants to. Okay?”
Peter nodded and grabbed the box of cereal. He poured a little more into his bowl, which had a little milk left. Then he poured a little more milk.
Mark started for the parlor. “If you need anything, just holler.”
“Did George leave?” he asked.
Mark couldn’t believe he remembered George. “He’s . . . umm . . ." He groped with the truth, as Emily had suggested, but saying, He’s dead, and his body is upstairs risked upsetting the man even more. He seemed emotionally on edge as it was. “He’s gone.”
A couple of minutes later, Mark heard the chair slide back. “Thanks for breakfast,” Peter called out.
Mark stepped out of the parlor and gave him a single nod. “Sure.”
“That was excellent cereal. I’ll have to find that brand when I get back to Minneapolis.” He told Mark that he would be back down quickly to check out.
Ten minutes later, Peter returned. He handed the key to Mark, who slipped it into his pocket and pointed at the suitcase. “Let me take that.”
“Don’t I need to pay first?”
Mark shook his head. “I’ll send you a bill in the mail, if that’s all right.”
Peter shrugged. “Sure, okay.”
Mark grabbed the suitcase and started for the front door. He halted when he heard a car door slam. He immediately turned around and nearly bumped into Peter. “Sorry, let’s go this way! It’s a shorter way to the car.”
“Okey-dokey.”
Another door slammed. Thinking it was likely the coroner, Mark charged toward the kitchen, Peter following at a distance. “This way, this way,” he insisted pushing through the kitchen door. A bit embarrassed, he explained, “There’s a back door over here that leads straight to the garage. Much easier than going all the way around.”
“All right, thanks.”
The doorbell rang. Mark ignored it and opened the back door.
“The doorbell just rang,” Peter said and pointed back with his thumb.
“It’s all right. They can wait a minute.”
“No, I’m fine. I can see my way to the garage. Is it unlocked?”
“Yes.” He set the suitcase just outside the door and stepped out of the way, practically pushing Peter out the door. “Thanks for staying.”
“Tell Vivian thank you.”
The remark caught Mark by off-guard. That’s right, he was asleep during all that. “Right. Goodbye.” He shut the door and ran to the front.
Mark stopped when he got close enough to see through the thin curtain. But he had made such a ruckus trampling toward the door that he couldn’t tiptoe his way out now.
Mark opened the door. “Dr. Butch—Bulcher. Bulcher. Sorry.”
“Good morning. Is Dr. Davis in?”
“Unfortunately, Emily isn’t here right now. I’ll let her know you stopped by.” He started shutting the door.
“Wait!” the doctor protested.
Instead of opening the door again, Mark tilted his head to look through the crack. “Yes?”
“Can I wait for her to come back?”
“No, sorry, we don’t allow visitors inside,” Mark replied. “Unless it’s a medical emergency, of course.” He started closing the door.
“I waited inside yesterday,” he protested.
It struck Mark as ridiculous to continue the conversation this way, so he begrudgingly opened the door wider. “Guests are allowed to have visitors, of course.”
“Is he here?”
“Who?”
“The older gentleman who let me wait. I think, George.”
“George? No, unfortunately, he passed away last night. Anyone else you want to check with?”
“Hello,” came out behind Mark.
Mark finched. He turned around “Why are you back?” he asked Peter tersely.
“What do you mean he passed away?” Butcher asked.
Mark ignored the doctor.
“I forgot my guitar,” Peter said. “You don’t mind if I go up and get it, do you?”
“No, no, go right ahead,” Mark replied nervously.
Peter started up the stairs.
“Are you serious?” the doctor asked.
Mark turned back. He looked at Butcher intently. “About George? Yes.” Dead serious, he wanted to say.
“What happened?”
Mark shrugged. “We don’t know. Emily and I found him this morning.”
“You don’t know the cause of death?”
“No. Emily thinks he had a heart attack, but we won’t know until they do an autopsy.”
Dr. Butcher shook his head. “This place has some bad karma.”
Mark looked at him sardonically. “An elderly man passed away and a narcoleptic man fell asleep. I’d hardly call that bad karma. it’s not like a ten-year-old boy died.”
Butcher’s eyes widened before he raised his hands slightly. “Didn’t mean anything by it, Pastor.”
“Why—” Mark heard Peter’s footsteps coming back down the stairs behind him. Butcher’s eyes focused behind Mark. He started shutting the door again. “Never mind. Good bye.”
Butcher made a move, leaning his head inside the house. “How are you feeling, sir?” the doctor called out.
Mark scowled at Butcher. Peter squinted.
“Fine, fine. Thank you.” He approached the door. “Do I know you?”
“No,” Mark cut in. “This is the third doctor who came to help you yesterday.”
“Three doctors?”
“I’m visiting from out of town, and I was in the area, so . . ."
“Thank you for helping me,” Peter said in a gracious tone.
“Yes, of course. I’m John Bulcher.”
“Peter Hinton.” He extended his hand.
Mark got out of the way, and the doctor immediately stepped inside. “Are you feeling back to normal?” Butcher asked.
“I think so. Yes. But I’m staying one more day.”
Butcher nodded. “I think that’s a really good idea.”
“Okay,” Mark said, clasping his hands. “You got everything?”
“Yes, thank you for you hospitality.”
“I thought you were staying,” Butcher said.
Peter’s eyes shifted briefly
to Mark and then back to the doctor. “Unfortunately, there are no extra rooms tonight.”
Behind the doctor, a white van slowed, the brakes squeaking. It stopped on the opposite side of the street. This was the coroner, Mark was sure. He pushed the door toward Butcher, who was standing in the way, then pressed firmly on Butcher’s shoulder, shoving him inside so he could shut the door.
“Sorry. I don’t want the mosquitoes to come in.”
“Where are you going, then?” the doctor asked Peter. “You shouldn’t be driving yet.”
“Yes, Emily said the same thing,” Mark answered, trying to speed up the conversation. “He’s going to the Cozy Inn.” He patted Peter’s shoulder. “You’ll still get the record even if it’s an extra day.”
Peter nodded.
“What record is that?” the doctor asked.
Peter’s chest puffed slightly. “First electric car to do the Lake Michigan Circle Tour,” he replied.
“Oh really? Interesting.”
Mark peeked through the curtain. Someone was getting out of the van.
“Why don’t you show him your car?” Mark said.
“Sure,” Peter said excitedly. “Would you like to see it?”
The doctor nodded unenthusiastically.
Mark led the way with an outstretched arm, trying to rush them. “Go ahead and go out through the back.”
Peter started for the kitchen, and the doctor followed, leaving Mark a distrustful look.
“Good luck,” Mark said.
From the porch, Mark watched a man open the back of the plain white van, no markings indicating that it was from the coroner’s office. For all he knew, the man was a painter or a handyman. After a minute he pulled out a stretcher that popped down on wheels as it left the van. He stood next to it for a moment, arms akimbo, then closed the van doors and crossed the street.
Mark pulled out his phone and texted Emily: your boyfriend is here. the coroner showed up too.
Mark expected a second person to emerge from somewhere, but no one did. The man, who was tall and lanky, had thin, brown hair parted down the middle. Late forties. He traveled up the path and removed his sunglasses.
Ding. Mark glanced down at his phone: He’s not my boyfriend!
“I’m from the coroner’s office,” the man said as he walked up the path.
“Yes, been expecting you. Don’t you need a second person?”
He sighed. His eyes were bloodshot. “Yes, but he hurt his hand yesterday.”
“Not Conrad?” Mark blurted out.
“Yeah, you know him?”
“Not really,” he said, whiffing a laugh. “We helped him yesterday when he got injured—well, my friend helped him. I only drove.”
“Is your friend Dr. Davis?”
“How did you know?”
“Jimbo—uh, Dr. Currant. He told me all about her. I’m going to leave that there,” he indicated to the stretcher behind the van, “until I see what the situation is.”
Another car pulled up, an old Ford. The real estate agent, Ron.
“Excuse me one second,” Mark said to the coroner and approached Ron. “Sorry, I meant to call you. It’s actually a really bad time, again. I mean really bad.”
“No, no. I’m here to help out Mike.”
“Huh? I don’t get it.”
He pointed behind Mark. “The coroner. Mike.”
“Ohhhh.” They started up the walkway. “So obviously you heard we had a death.”
He nodded. “A guest?”
“Yeah. It was the older gentleman from the casino tour.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that.”
Mark heard quick pounding steps and huffing. He turned to look. Running down the sidewalk came Dr. Currant.
“No need to rush, doc. The man is dead!” Mark called out.
Currant was winded. He appeared distraught. He stopped at the corner catching his breath, his shoulders slumped.
Mark texted: your other boyfriend is here now too...jimbo
“Are you related to the deceased?” the coroner asked.
“No, George was—is—was a guest here. He was traveling alone with that casino tour group that left yesterday.”
“You run this place?”
Mark began with an explanation, then paused. “Sort of,” he finally answered.
“Has anyone notified his next of kin?”
“No,” Mark answered, hoping Mike the coroner wasn’t expecting him, the hapless host, to do it. He watched Dr. Currant lumbering down the sidewalk toward the path.
“What happened?” Currant asked, throwing up his hands and dropping them exasperatedly. His face was ashen.
Mark shrugged. “We don’t know yet.”
Ding. Who? Emily had texted.
Mark texted doc curant quickly and shoved his phone in his pocket.
“I don’t understand.”
“Don’t understand what?” Mark asked. He didn’t think Dr. Currant knew George. “He was old.”
A car turned out onto the adjacent street and honked. It was Peter in his quiet electric car.
Currant turned around.
Peter rolled down the window and waved, smiling like a kid off to college.
After a couple seconds, Dr. Currant lifted his hand as if he were holding a ten-pound weight, awkwardly waving back.
He turned back around. Color had returned to his face.
Mark figured it out. “It’s George who passed away last night. Not Peter.”
Currant exhaled loudly, then blew out a laugh.
Mark laughed too, then Ron and the coroner joined in.
“What’s so funny?” Ron asked.
“Yeah, why are we laughing?” Mike asked.
Currant said, “I thought the narcoleptic man died. I didn’t realize . . ."
Now the coroner laughed harder, then stopped himself. “I suppose we shouldn’t be laughing.”
“He shouldn’t be driving yet,” Currant said, frowning, pointing in the direction in which Peter had driven off.
“Don’t worry. He’s only driving to the Cozy Inn.”
The front door opened, and Butcher appeared. “Hello, Dr. Currant,” Butcher said, coldly professional, and stepped down onto the porch.
“Dr. Bulcher. It’s good to see you again. Are you here for the deceased?”
“No.” He shook his head.
Mark cut the slight awkwardness, “Why don’t we get going? There is a guest returning soon, and I’d like to avoid all this if possible.”
“Okay,” the coroner replied. “Where’s the deceased?”
“Upstairs, I’ll show you.”
They all followed Mark, including Dr. Butcher, up the stairs and to George’s room. There, they stood around the bed, all five of them, silent for a second before Dr. Currant asked, “Did he complain of anything yesterday?”
Mark shook his head. “No, but he was talking strangely, and Emily—uh, Dr. Davis—said that he was likely suffering from the early stages of Alzheimer’s.”
Dr. Currant nodded and approached George.
A pit of sadness ached in Mark’s chest, and he cleared his throat. “I’ll be downstairs.”
On his way down, the phone dinged. He stopped on a step and read his phone: On our way back.
He typed feverishly: everybody still here!!! but he didn’t send it. He walked down the remaining steps and out the front door. So what? he thought. He stood there, on the front porch, looking out at the van with the stretcher behind it, thinking Emily had been right all along and he should have just been upfront about George’s death. What could be the worst reaction from Bear Foot or crazy Yvonne? Mark laughed to himself. He deleted the text and instead thumbed, it’s fine... it doesn’t matter, and sent it.
When Mark looked back up, a car had pulled up in the street. Peter was back.
Mark ran down the steps, down the path, desperate again. At a minimum, he wanted to avoid Peter crossing paths with Yvonne. The passenger window rolled down.
“Hello,” Peter said.
“Did you forget something else? A harmonica, maybe?”
“No, no,” he replied with a slight laugh. “I don’t play the harmonica.” He pulled out a necklace and held it up, so that the two rings on it dangled.
“What’s that?”
“It’s Yvonne’s necklace. She left it in my car. Can you make sure she gets it back?” He held it out for Mark. “The rings belonged to her parents, so it’s obviously very precious. In fact, she got a little sad yesterday because George reminded her of her father. I can’t imagine how upset she’d be if she thought she had lost this.”
“George?” Mark muttered. “Here! You give it to her,” he exclaimed, thrusting the necklace back toward Peter. “I’ll tell her you’re safeguarding it.”
A glint surfaced in Peter’s eye, “Yes, that’s a good idea.”
Mark quickly stood up straight and backed away. Bear Foot, Yvonne, and Emily would be back any minute.
Peter set the necklace down gently in the car’s console. “Oh! Tell her I’ll be in the restaurant next to the Cozy Inn until after lunch. They won’t let me check in before noon.”
“Got it.” Mark felt a little guilty about kicking Peter out before the Cozy Inn would take him in. But only a little. He just wanted him gone now. “Bye.”
Peter drove away.
About a minute passed, and then Mark heard a sputtering roar. He stepped into Lake Street and watched as the white truck rolled toward him—Bear Foot driving, Yvonne in the middle, and Emily leaning against the door.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
When Emily saw Mark standing in the street with his hand raised as if hailing a cab, she shook her head. What plot or ploy now?
“Is that Mark?” Yvonne asked. “Why is he out in the street?”
A white van was parked across from the house, and Emily knew it belonged to the coroner. “This should be interesting,” she mumbled.
Yvonne nudged her lightly with her elbow. “He’s such a goof, isn’t he?”
“A goof, yeah,” Emily replied absentmindedly as Bear Foot slowed and rolled up next to Mark. She cranked down the window.
“Hey,” Mark said. Bear Foot threw the car into Park. “Peter left but he wanted me to tell you that he has your necklace.”
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