Blizzard in the Bay

by Kathi Daley

  “I have no idea, but I suspect that Colt is asking him a lot more questions now that he realizes Dax will only respond to questions he’s specifically asked.”

  “I will say that when Colt showed up asking for Dax, he didn’t look happy,” Georgia informed me.

  “I get that.” I felt bad that Dax was making this so hard for Colt, and that he was putting him in such a difficult situation. “I think Colt has been giving Dax the benefit of the doubt because he didn’t appear to have a motive for murder, and that he knew we were friends, but I suspect that benefit of the doubt has come to an end.” I paused to let things roll around in my mind a bit. “When I spoke to Dax, he said that it was his opinion that it was Tank who killed Train. He said that when he met Tank years ago, he had just moved into a house just off campus with a few other classmates, including his older brother. It sounded as if Train, who was two years behind Tank in school, just showed up expecting to be able to live with his brother. I don’t have any more details than that, but maybe Tank’s parents were paying for his housing and expected him to keep an eye on Train in exchange. Dax didn’t say why Tank didn’t just tell him to get lost, but he did tell me that Train made a lot of trouble for his brother. It seems he didn’t play well with others, and in Dax’s opinion, at the time he made that visit to his brother in college, Train was methodically ruining every relationship Tank had spent the past two years building.”

  “I can see how that would make someone mad.”

  “And then, two years ago, Train moved here to Holiday Bay and started doing the same thing again, creating problems between Tank and his current friends. I’m not saying that justifies stabbing him, but I do feel sorry for a big brother with a pesky little brother.”

  “Yeah, it sounds rough, but how does Dax fit into this? If Tank is guilty of killing Train, what would Dax have to gain by lying or withholding information?”

  “Maybe he doesn’t have anything to gain. Maybe he did go for a walk and just decided to go around to the back of the house for some reason. Maybe he found Train already dead and, not wanting to get involved, simply came around to the front and entered through the front door.”

  “That sounds sort of cowardly,” Georgia pointed out.

  I frowned. “It does. But it is an explanation for what could have happened. An explanation that doesn’t show Dax to be the killer.”

  “I’d leave this to Colt to sort out. He’s a good cop. He knows how to get to the bottom of things.”

  “He is a good cop,” I agreed, “And I do think he’ll sort it out. I do wonder, though, who it was that the pizza guy saw talking upstairs. It would have been after he delivered the pizza, but not long after.”

  “He saw someone upstairs?”

  I filled Georgia in on the rest of the things Velma had told me.

  “So, that means Frank wasn’t alone upstairs as he said he was. He may or may not have been one of the two men the pizza delivery guy saw, but even if he wasn’t, he must have seen or heard something that happened in that room.”

  “The upstairs bathroom is located near the guest rooms. If he was in that bathroom and someone went into a guest room, turning on a light as they entered, then yes, Frank would have seen or heard something.”

  “So basically, as you’ve said all along, it appears everyone involved is lying,” Georgia concluded.

  “That seems to be the case. At least for now. Why on earth would everyone lie? The killer, sure, but the others? It really makes no sense.”

  “It does feel that the more we know, the more questions there are to be answered.”

  Chapter 14

  I hoped that Colt would stick around and to chat for a minute after he was finished with the interview, but Dax came in through the kitchen door saying that he’d left. From the lack of a smile on Dax’s face, I assumed the interview had not been pleasant. At least he would still be here in the inn and not in jail, so that was something.

  “How’d it go?” I asked, suspecting he wouldn’t answer but hoping he would.

  “It was brutal but necessary, I suppose.”

  “Coffee?” Georgia offered.

  “You wouldn’t have some brandy or whiskey to put in the coffee, would you?”

  Georgia got up and went toward the pantry. “As a matter of fact, I do. Both actually. Which would you prefer?”

  “Whiskey, and you can hold the coffee.”

  Georgia handed him the bottle and a glass. I was grateful when he poured a modest amount. We did still have writers expecting his return after all.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” I asked, once again hoping he would.

  “I very much don’t want to talk about it, but I suppose that I owe you that much at least.” He took a sip of his whiskey and joined us at the table. “First off, I know that you know that the pizza delivery guy saw me coming around to the front of the house from the backyard. I probably should have come clean earlier, but yes, I will admit I was in the backyard. I’d gone to speak to Train, actually hoping that he would still be on the porch. When I arrived, he was already dead. I do have a motive for wanting him dead that I hadn’t yet mentioned to you, and I knew I would become a suspect immediately if I were to be the one to find the body, so I went back around the house and came in through the front door.”

  I had so many questions to ask but decided to wait to see what he offered up before I began bombarding him with them.

  “I didn’t kill Train, I can promise you that. And I’m sorry that I didn’t come clean with Chief Wilder the first time we spoke. He seems like a good guy and a fair man. I can see now that if I had just told him what I knew right off the bat, things would have gone easier.”

  I waited while he took a long sip of his whiskey, and then refilled his glass.

  He continued. “The reason I went around to the back of the house to talk to Train was because he had been blackmailing me. For quite a while, actually. As I’ve already said, we first met when I visited my brother at college, but what I didn’t share was that we hit it off in the beginning. We were both younger brothers. We got to talking about our older siblings and realized we shared common complaints. I guess you could say we got pretty close that summer. Close enough that I shared the misery I felt over the fact that I was barely getting through college and had, by that point, decided to quit to pursue a career in writing with him.”

  “That all sounds harmless,” I said. “Why would he blackmail you over it?”

  “He was blackmailing me because I also admitted to him that the reason I came up with the idea of trying to be a writer in the first place was because I had recently won a short story contest.”

  “I’m still not seeing the problem.”

  “The story that was entered into the contest on my behalf was not mine. I’d stolen it from a roommate who’d written the piece before he transferred to another university and left it behind.”

  I guess I must have audibly gasped because he cringed.

  “I’m not sure my explanation will make you hate me less, but I didn’t set out to establish a career based on a lie. What I set out to do was pass a class. As I said, I’d been flunking out, and my parents were coming down hard on me to get my grades up. My writing professor offered me the chance to improve my grade by turning in a short story for extra credit. But I was a total screw-up back then, so instead of just writing a story, I turned in the one written by the roommate who’d transferred but left a notebook with the completed story in his nightstand. My professor loved the story, and without even telling me what he was doing, he entered it into a contest. I won. Of course, after I won, I couldn’t very well tell my professor—or anyone else, for that matter—that I hadn’t written it, so I just kept on pretending I had.”

  “So, you used this stolen story to launch a career that has made you millions?” I couldn’t have been more shocked if he’d told me he’d accidentally blown up the moon.

  “I did, but I want to assure you that the story my professor entered in
to that contest was the first and last thing I ever stole, and every word I have written since has been my own. But I do understand that given the fact that it was that particular story that virtually launched my career, it is a big deal that could very well ruin me if it got out. I guess Train realized how badly I would want to keep my deep, dark secret hidden, so once I started making some bucks, he came to me and told me he wanted a cut. At first, it was just a small amount, and I wanted to ensure his silence, so I agreed to his terms. But then he came back wanting more and more. I paid that man so much it isn’t funny, but the longer it went on, the more trapped I felt. In the beginning, I was simply a writer who had a funny story to tell about cheating in college, but by this point, I have been lying to everyone for years.”

  “So you killed him,” Georgia said.

  “No! I didn’t kill him. When Tank invited me to sit in on the poker game, I had no idea Train would be there. I didn’t even know he was living in Holiday Bay. When he showed up, I almost lost it altogether, but somehow I managed to keep my cool, act like nothing was wrong. When the others called the break, I went out to my car. My intention was to text Tank, making up some excuse for leaving. But instead of doing that, I found myself thinking about the mess I’d made of my life. After I’d sat there a while, I took a walk, as I said I had, and when I returned to the house, I decided to try to talk to Train. I knew he’d been heading out back to take a smoke, and that he was a chain smoker, so I assumed he’d still be on the porch. But when I went around to the back to find him, he was already dead. I know I should have called 911 right then, or at least run into the house to get the others, but I panicked and went back to the front. When I went through the gate, I saw the guy with the pizzas, so I went inside and hoped no one would notice how nervous I was. Someone commented that Train hadn’t come back in, and Tank went to find him. Eventually, Tank came back and told everyone that he was dead. The police were called, and you know the rest.”

  I had no idea what to say. I was beyond disappointed in Dax, who had never, apparently, been the man I thought he was.

  “Say something,” Dax said.

  I just looked at him. “Say something? What can I say? I mean, cheating on a college assignment is not all that big of a deal. I’m sure a lot of people have done as much. In fact, it was quite common to hear about students buying and selling papers when I was in college. But then you lied to everyone about the story that is credited with launching your career. I guess in a way, I can see how your professor’s action put you in a tough spot, but it still seems like there might have been something you could do about it. The worst part isn’t the lie about the story, though; it is that when you found a man lying in a pool of blood with a knife in his chest, you tried to cover up the fact that you’d even seen him. What if he only looked dead but was still alive? What if you could have saved his life by calling 911 right away?”

  “Do you want me to leave?”

  Did I? Part of me did want him to go, but nothing he’d done would alter the fact that he had a lot to offer the other writers. I didn’t know if any of this would come out. Maybe it wouldn’t. Dax had written a whole lot of really amazing books during his career, and the fact that the contest that had launched his career had been won with a story he’d stolen didn’t change that. And then there was Kate. I was certain that Dax was her biggest client. It would hurt her as well if this was made public. I wouldn’t tell, and neither would Georgia, and as long as Dax ended up being innocent of killing Train, as I still felt sure he was. Colt wouldn’t tell anyone about the stolen story either.

  “I don’t want you to leave. I’m sure Colt isn’t going to want you to leave either. I won’t tell anyone about the stolen story. Georgia won’t either, will you?”

  Dax looked over at her, and she nodded her head.

  “People do dumb things sometimes,” I said. “I understand that. But it might help you to clear your own conscience if you come clean about the mistake you made and seem to regret at some point. But that is up to you. I know you are an amazing writer, and whatever else I feel about what has happened, my opinion of your talent hasn’t changed.”

  “Thanks, Abby. And I will think about what you said.”

  He turned and walked away. I watched him leave knowing that any warm fuzzy feelings I had ever felt for him had been washed away with my idolized image of the man who really was too good to be true.

  Chapter 15

  I was afraid that things would be weird when the writers gathered for dinner that night, but they weren’t. Dax appeared to be in a good mood and acted like nothing had happened. Alfred did ask about the police vehicle, but Dax simply responded that the investigating officer had some additional questions about the murder that had occurred in town while he’d been visiting a friend a few days earlier. I supposed that much was true. Incomplete, but true.

  The sisters had made a breakthrough at some point during the course of the day and were enthusiastically sharing their news with the others. It seemed as if everyone at the table was totally in to the discussion, and no one seemed to notice that, while I’d forced a smile, I was distracted. It had been a tough day. I hated that Dax wasn’t the man I’d thought he was, but maybe the real problem wasn’t the fact that he was human and had made a mistake, just that I had put him on a pedestal of some sort in the first place.

  “So, what are you up to, Alfred?” I asked the retired doctor, who seemed to be having trouble getting a word in edgewise.

  “I’m working on a whodunit that takes place at a party held on an isolated estate. It’s a plot that has been done many times, but I have some ideas about how to add twists to make it my own.”

  “I love traditional whodunits with limited suspects that take place at a party, or on a train or a cruise ship,” I said. “I’ve always wanted to do one on a train, and still might one day, but so far, I haven’t gotten around to it.”

  “I love the whodunits with quirky characters that add some humor to the plot,” Hazel said. “Maybe I’ll write a murder mystery that takes place in a convent or possibly a monastery after I complete my series about the time-traveling nun. You might not think it, but I’ve met my share of kooky nuns, myself included.” She chuckled.

  “Silvia and I have a whodunit outlined that takes place at a summer camp,” Connie informed us. “It’s a camp for tweens and teens, but the murder mystery involves the camp counselors, not the kids. We didn’t want to write a story where a child was harmed in any way.”

  I sat back and enjoyed the exchange of ideas that was flowing freely. I knew that most, if not all, of the retreat participants would go home with more ideas than they could possibly hope to get to, but the generation of ideas was usually part of the point of such a gathering.

  After dinner, I went to help Georgia in the kitchen. She basically worked seven days a week when we had guests. Currently, there were down times between guests, but as the inn became more popular, I knew that those downtimes would decrease significantly. We did have Jeremy to help out, but during times like this, when there was a lot of snow, even he had a hard time handling the place on his own. I supposed I could take a more active role in the future, but the truth was, while I owned the building and grounds, I was a writer, not an innkeeper. If our customer base continued to grow at the present rate, at some point, I’d have to hire additional help. Nikki already worked for us part-time. I wondered if she might be interested in more hours and be willing to fill in for Georgia when she had time off. If not, I could advertise for someone. But that issue was a problem for another day. Right now, Georgia, Jeremy, Nikki, and I were making it work, and that was all I really needed to worry about.

  “Alfred was asking me about our murder mystery weekends,” Georgia said as I began putting food away. “I told him about the one we did in October, and he expressed interest in attending if we decided to do another. I know we talked about doing a Great Gatsby–themed weekend in the spring. Are we still considering that?”

  “It wou
ld be fun. Everyone could dress up in clothing from the 1920s. We could create a menu that complements the theme, and the weapon used and method of murder, could be based on the time period. I still think a Great Gatsby–themed murder mystery is a wonderful idea. Do we have a free weekend to hold it?”

  “We are pretty booked up after Memorial Day and around Easter, but there are a few little gaps in our bookings we could reserve. Of course, we’d need to mark those dates out now, before they fill up. I have to say that bookings are way up after the article in the Times.”

  “You and I should sit down with a calendar and figure out which weekends we want to reserve for special events. We really should look at the entire year.”

  “We’ll do it in the next few days. There are several fall events that we held last year that I want to do again this year, and of course, our holiday events were the talk of the town.”

  Georgia was just suggesting an Easter egg hunt for the spring when my cell rang. After checking my caller ID, I answered. “Hey, Colt, what’s up?”

  “I was just finishing up here and thought I’d call to see how you were doing before I took off. I’m sure today was tough on you.”

  “It was. It’s not like Dax and I are really close, but I’ve known him for a long time. I’ll need some time to process everything, but I’m okay. Have you eaten yet?”

  “No. To tell the truth, I’m not sure when I last ate.”

  “Georgia and I are just cleaning up. There are a lot of leftovers. I can make you a plate if you want to come by. There is even a large piece of Georgia’s apple pie left.”

  “Sold. I’ll be there in about twenty minutes. Is there anything you need from town?”

  “No. I think we’re good. Just come to the cottage. I’ll take the food over there.”

  “Okay. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  We hung up, and I looked at Georgia. “Colt is coming by. I’m going to make him a plate.”