by Vicki Delany
“Miss Grady?”
“Yes.”
He passed his cigarette to his left hand and thrust out the right. “Jim Westenham.”
His hand was dry, his grip firm but not hard enough to be an attempt at a display of dominance.
“Mr. Westenham. I’m . . . I . . .” I wasn’t sure if I should say “I’m sorry for your loss.” No one had called us to officially say Harold Westenham had died.
“Thank you.” Jim crushed his cigarette in the nearest ashtray. “And thank you for taking the trouble to phone me last night. I got to the hospital too late to say goodbye to Uncle Harold, but I was glad to be there in any event.”
“Were you and your uncle close?”
“We were at one time. We saw less of each other than I would have liked since the war, but when I was a child he was an important part of my life.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
He smiled at me, and then he looked around the lobby. Guests were coming and going, filing into the dining room for breakfast or heading out to get a start on the day. The weather forecast for the next few days was for continued sun and heat, and I was glad of it. Nothing worse at a holiday resort than days of rain.
“Nice place you have here. The girl at reception tells me your mother owns it.”
“That’s right.”
“I’m not going back to the city right away. The doctor I spoke to at the hospital said the local police have some questions about my uncle’s death and thus they won’t be releasing the body right away.”
He waited for me to say something. I didn’t.
“No one’s spoken to me yet, so I’m planning to head back to town soon and drop into the police station. Find out what’s going on. My uncle’s room here’s paid for. Any chance I can take it for a couple of days?”
That, I had to answer. “I’m sorry, but not today, and I don’t know when it will be free. The police have ordered it sealed.”
“That tells me a lot, Miss Grady.”
“Elizabeth,” I said.
He grinned at me. “I’m Jim. If not my uncle’s, any chance of another room for a hard-done-by guy? I was woken up in the early hours this morning and drove all the way up here.” He studied my face and grinned again. “Although I’d say you didn’t get any more sleep than I did, as you’re the one who called me.”
I thought quickly. The hotel was satisfyingly full, but we did have a couple of small, dark rooms in one of the original buildings. They’d been guest rooms in the earliest days of Haggerman’s but were now mostly used for storage of things no one had used since the 1920s but would probably want again. One day. One day soon.
“I can have a room made ready for you,” I said. “But I have to warn you that, although it’s a guest room, it’s not a particularly nice one. It’s in an older building we use these days mostly as storage, so there might be some noise during the day as staff come and go. It has a shared bathroom at the end of the hall, but considering none of the other guest rooms are occupied, that qualifies as a private bath.”
“Elizabeth,” he said with a chuckle, “if you’re going to make it in the hotel business, you need to work on your sales pitch some more. I’ll take it. I’m not here for a vacation.”
“I won’t charge you for the room, and I’ll give you a discounted rate if you take your meals in the dining room.”
“Definitely not going to make it in the hotel business.”
His tone was light, teasing. He was very charming, and despite my attempts to be all business, I felt myself responding. I smiled back at him.
Finally, I stopped smiling. “It’ll be at least an hour before the room can be made up. Breakfast is underway while you’re waiting.”
“Would you like to join me?”
“No, thank you,” I said. I never eat in the dining room. “Check with reception in an hour. I’ll have the head of housekeeping let them know when the room’s ready.”
I turned to go, ready to send a page with a message for Aunt Tatiana. The lobby doors opened, and two men walked in. Cheap suits, crew cuts, serious faces. I knew right away they weren’t checking in.
“Now, that’s interesting,” Jim Westenham muttered. “Very interesting.”
The men headed straight for the reception counter. Assuming they were here to speak to me, I cut them off. “Gentlemen, I’m Mrs. Grady. Hotel manager. Can I help you?”
“You in charge?” the older one said. He didn’t look as though he believed me.
“I’m the manager. Like I said. My mother owns Haggerman’s, and I run everything.”
Jim Westenham had put his hat back on his head, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and followed me.
“You the guy in charge?” the new arrival asked him.
“I just told you I am!” I said. “This gentleman is a hotel guest.”
“More than a guest,” Jim said. “Agent . . . ? I didn’t get your name.”
“Jones.” He jerked his head to his younger, shorter, rounder, uglier companion. “This is Agent Smith.”
Smith said nothing.
“And I’m the Easter Bunny. Pleased to meet you. When I’m not handing out chocolate to deserving kids, my name’s Jim Westenham. You’re here about the death of my uncle Harold.”
“We’ve got some questions,” Jones said.
“You got here mighty quickly.”
“We can move quickly, when it’s important.”
“Jim Westenham,” Smith said slowly. “You’re not—”
“Guilty as charged,” Jim said. “I see my reputation has preceded me. Glad to hear it.”
I was beginning to feel like chopped liver here. “Excuse me. As the person in charge of this establishment, can one of you gentlemen tell me what’s going on?”
Guests were walking past our group, keeping a wary eye open. No one actually stopped to listen, but I did see a couple of older men casually flipping through the hotel’s brochure, or spending a lot of time studying the day’s activity chart tacked to the notice board next to the dining room doors.
“Jim Westenham,” Smith said to Jones. Or was it Jones said to Smith? I’d already forgotten which was which. “New York Times.”
That would explain the ink stains on Jim’s fingers. Probably the tobacco stains as well.
“Right,” Jim said. “I work the crime beat, but I’m not here in that capacity but to deal with my uncle’s death.”
“Muckraking journalist of the worse sort,” Jones (Smith?) said.
“I take offense to that,” Jim said. “I prefer ‘muckraking journalist of the best sort.’ ”
Jones growled.
“I assume,” I said before things could get out of hand. “You’re here to see Mr. Westenham’s rooms. I’ll show you the way.”
“Yeah,” Jones said.
“You might as well tell me your real names,” Jim said. “I’ve told you mine, the lady told you hers. It’s impolite to lie to a lady.”
The men hesitated.
“Whether I’m here officially or not,” Jim said. “I’m not exactly without the resources necessary to find out. One phone call should do it.”
“Agent O’Reilly,” grunted the older one. “This is Kowalski. Before we see the room, Jim, were you aware your uncle was a communist?”
Jim’s jaw dropped. He gaped at the FBI agents, and then he let out a roar of laughter. “I don’t think this is a time for jokes.”
“We never joke,” Kowalski said. “Maybe you were more than aware. Are you a fellow red?”
He hadn’t kept his voice down, and a buzz began to spread through the lobby. Communist. Reds.
“Why don’t we find a private place to talk?” I said.
Kowalski checked his watch. “We’re supposed to be meeting the chief of police here at eight thirty. It’s twenty to nine now. Sm
all-town cops. Waste of breath the lot of them.”
“I’m not going to hang around all day waiting,” O’Reilly said. “Show us the way to the dead guy’s room.”
As if summoned by some sort of underground telegraph, more guests were arriving. They stood back, watching us, whispering among themselves.
“They arrested a commie last night,” one old man said to another.
“Are we safe here, honey?” a woman asked her husband.
I headed for the exit, hoping the FBI would follow. They did. Jim followed them. The wide-eyed bellhop opened the door for us. O’Reilly stopped on the front steps. “You don’t need to come, Jim-boy.”
“I think I do,” Jim said. “My uncle’s things will be in his room, and I need to ensure nothing goes missing. Accidentally, of course.”
O’Reilly looked as though he was about to refuse, but at that moment the Summervale police car pulled up in a spray of gravel and a burst of exhaust. Chief Monahan leapt out. He bounded up the steps, as much as he was capable of bounding, and stuck out his hand. Introductions were made all around. Jim introduced himself as next of kin of the deceased, and Monahan mumbled, “Condolences.” Today’s uniform was slightly less rumpled than the one he’d had on last night.
“Yup, guy was murdered,” he said to the FBI with what I thought a considerable lack of tact. “No doubt about it whatsoever. Bashed over the back of the head with a rock and rolled into the lake. The rock’s probably at the bottom of the lake now.”
“Has the autopsy been done?” Kowalski asked.
“No, but it’s obvious to me what happened.”
“It is, is it?” O’Reilly said.
“Yup. Been on the force a long time. I’ve seen it all. I was a cop in towns around here for a lot of years. Soon as the war ended I came back to Summervale, my hometown, so my dad could retire. He was the chief here before me.” Monahan beamed at the FBI agents, expecting them to be impressed.
They weren’t.
“Let’s see these papers you said you found,” O’Reilly said. “Uh, ma’am.” This to a tiny wizened woman who’d placed herself directly in front of him. “If you would excuse us.”
“What’s this talk about communists?” She scowled at me. “What sort of hotel are you running here?”
“Me? Us? This has nothing to do with us.”
“My daughter said we should go to Grossinger’s this year, but they’re getting too big for their britches over there and they put the rates up. Besides, your food’s better.”
“Ma’am,” Chief Monahan said, “please don’t concern yourself. I’m here to ensure that nothing spoils your vacation in our beautiful mountains. You run along and enjoy your day.”
She harrumphed, but stepped aside.
I led the way down the path to the woods, followed by the chief of police, the FBI, a New York Times reporter, and about a hundred sets of eyes. The sun was rising, the heat building, and guests were emerging from their cabins and rooms. Bathing-suit-clad children ran for the pool, while towel-bearing mothers or hotel-provided nannies told them not to run; paddleboats were heading out; canoes and rowboats were leaving the dock. On the dock itself, Velvet’s exercise class was going through their morning stretches. Out in the lake, Randy was getting ready for his first class of the day, teaching preteens to dive off the floating platform. A busboy passed me carrying a tray bearing the remains of a room-service breakfast.
Velvet noticed me and my little group and stopped to stare, her hips bent to one side, her arms forming a circle over her head. I gave her a shrug.
“Aaaaand the other side,” she called to her class.
As we turned onto the side path, O’Reilly stopped, put his hands on his hips, and looked around. “Where does this trail lead?”
“To cabin nineteen, Mr. Westenham’s,” I said. “It’s the last of the guest cabins. Beyond that to various equipment sheds and a side path leading to senior staff accommodations.”
“Remote. Quiet.”
“Yes. People request cabin nineteen specifically because remote and quiet is what they want.”
O’Reilly and Kowalski exchanged a meaningful look.
“What?” I said.
“Good place to meet up with a contact if you don’t want to be overheard.”
“Anyone who wants to meet in secret without being overheard shouldn’t have come to the Catskills in the first place,” Jim said.
I stifled a laugh. He wasn’t wrong.
Deputy Dave leapt to his feet when he saw us approaching. His Brownie camera was on the table in front of him.
“Have any trouble?” Monahan asked.
The deputy shook his head. “A few people wandered by and asked what was going on. No one tried to get inside, though.” He attempted to stifle a yawn. His tie was crooked, his hair tousled, his eyes red, and stubble growing on his chin. He’d had a long, boring night. “Did you remember to call June? Tell her I wouldn’t be home?”
“Yeah.” Monahan’s eyes slid to one side. He saw me watching him and flushed. Presumably June was Mrs. Deputy Dave, and Monahan either had forgotten to call her or couldn’t be bothered. “I radioed the county dispatcher,” he mumbled. “He knows where you are if June calls.”
I unlocked the door to cabin nineteen, and we went inside. The deputy remained on the porch. The air was stale and stuffy, the scent of tobacco heavy. “It’s going to get hot soon,” I said. “Can I open a window?”
“No,” O’Reilly said.
“Through there.” Monahan pointed to the second bedroom. “I left everything as I found it and stationed my deputy outside to make sure no one broke in to remove evidence.”
Jim and I hung back as the men went into the bedroom, and we stood in the doorway, watching.
O’Reilly let out a low whistle. “That’s Washington, that map.”
“Yeah,” Monahan said. “Recognize the other one?”
“No,” Kowalski said.
“The girl said it’s London, England,” Monahan told them.
“Place looks like it’s been tossed,” O’Reilly said. “Someone was searching for something. Wonder if they found it.”
“No,” Jim said. “This is normal.”
“What?”
“My uncle was a tidy, well-organized man in most of his life, but when it came to his work . . . Let’s say he was organized in a way other people wouldn’t recognize. His office at the college and his study at his house always looked like this.” He waved his hand to indicate the snowstorm of papers. “I’m not saying nothing’s missing, I’m only saying don’t read anything into the state of things.”
O’Reilly flicked through the papers on the table, while Kowalski examined the ones on the bed. O’Reilly picked up the topmost book. He held it up. “This is the sort of thing your uncle read, is it?”
Jim crossed the floor. “My uncle was an intelligent, well-read man. Before the war he was a professor of history.”
O’Reilly nodded knowingly. “Where’d he teach?”
“University at Albany, when it was called the College for Teachers. He didn’t go back after the war. He didn’t do a lot of things after the war.” A note of sadness crept into his voice. Then it was gone as quickly as it had come.
“He has a copy of The Communist Manifesto, what of it? He was obviously doing research.” Jim picked up the other book. “This one’s The Hinge of Fate, volume 4 of The Second World War. Written by Winston Churchill. My uncle wasn’t an English parliamentarian, either.”
“That book’s a cover,” Monahan said. “In case one of the chambermaids got too much of an interest in what he was up to. Those maps are the cincher. What was he planning?”
Jim grabbed a piece of paper covered with type and began to read. “He gazed into her warm blue eyes. ‘Someday,’ he said, ‘someday.’ ‘Yes, mon chéri,’ she breathed a
s her chest heaved, ‘someday.’ ” He threw the paper to one side. “He was writing a book. Okay, I’ll admit it doesn’t sound like a very good book, but it’s still a dratted book. Sorry, Elizabeth. Pardon me.”
“He needed a cover story for being here,” Monahan said. “How many men do you get staying at this hotel, Mrs. Grady? Men by themselves, I mean.”
“None. Mr. Westenham’s the first.”
“Exactly!” Monahan said. “Obviously he was up to something fishy.”
Jim threw up his hands. “You’re not listening to this rubbish, are you?” he said to the FBI agents.
“How long was he planning to stay?” Monahan asked me.
“Five weeks.”
“Five weeks. Enough time to meet his confederates and make their plans.”
“Plans?” I said.
The police chief pointed to the maps. “An attack on Washington, obviously.”
Jim swore. He didn’t bother to apologize this time.
“You hear any communist talk around here?” Kowalski asked me.
I didn’t bother to mention the two old men arguing about Senator McCarthy over a chess game. “Of course not. Our guests are too busy trying to decide if they’re going to have the orange juice or the tomato cocktail at dinner. If I’m asked, I always recommend the tomato cocktail. The orange juice is watery. Don’t tell anyone I said that.” Four men stared at me. I clamped my lips tightly together.
“I think you’re onto something, Chief,” O’Reilly said. “We’ll take all these papers. See if there’s any names or other details mentioned.”
“You’ve reached a conclusion and now you’ll do everything you can to prove it.” Jim grabbed another piece of paper. “The street was dark, and he couldn’t see a thing. Thick clouds covered the moon, and the blackout curtains hid all light inside the houses.”