A Body to Die For (13 page)

As she spoke, she leaned closer, pointing to the spot on the menu where I could find the chicken. She was wearing an open-neck
white shirt, and at closer range I saw that she had a hickey on her neck the shape of Texas and just about as big. I wasn’t
going to hold that against her. I was just grateful she was the friendly, chatty type.

“Great,” I said. “I’ll take a look.”

While she sashayed off to place my drink order, her butt twitching, I checked out the room. It was only a quarter full, reflecting
the fact that it was Sunday night or still early or both. Though redneck types seemed to dominate the bar and the alcove with
the pool table, most of the people who were eating looked like middle-class locals, maybe even a few tourists. There was no
sign of anyone who might be William Litchauer’s son. The people waiting on tables were all women, and the bartender appeared
to be under thirty.

“You decide what you’d like?” Stacey asked, setting down my wineglass.

“I’m leaning toward the chicken. It’s good, huh?”

“Oh yeah. Everything’s good here.”

“How long has this place been here? George Washington didn’t eat here, did he?”

She laughed. “Maybe. The tavern’s been here forever, though it changes owners every once in a while. You visiting the area?”

“Yeah, I’m just up for the weekend. I’m staying at the Cedar Inn. I didn’t feel like eating there tonight, though—what with
everything that’s happened.”

“Omigod, you’re
staying
there?” She swung her eyes once around the room, making certain none of her customers looked impatient, and then back to
me. “I just can’t believe someone was
murdered
there.”

“You didn’t know her, did you?” I asked, keeping my tone easy.

“No. Those folks never come in here. I heard that the police don’t have any idea who killed her.”

“I don’t think they do,” I said. “I mean, they’re not telling
me
anything, but they haven’t arrested anyone yet as far as I know.”

“I bet the boyfriend did it,” she said, shaking her head in disgust. “Anyway, you said the chicken. Mashed potatoes okay?”

“That’s fine.
Was
there a boyfriend? Is that what you’d heard?”

“No, just assuming. Isn’t it always the creepy boyfriend? Lemme put this in for you.”

Go easy, I told myself as she wiggled off again. If I acted too eager beavery, she was going to suspect I was up to something.

I had nothing to do while I waited for my order but observe the scene and listen to the old music—Bonnie Tyler was now singing
“Total Eclipse of the Heart.” The townie types in the alcove finally pushed off from the walls and started a pool game. A
table of diners paid their bill and departed, but two more groups came in, including four people arguing about a movie they’d
just seen. Other diners raised their voices to compete with the crack of billiard balls and the new conversation, and in an
instant the noise level of the room went up two notches. My waitress and two others bustled around like real pros, chatting,
busing their own tables, never looking frazzled. As they moved back and forth from the kitchen, pushing through a swinging
door, I caught sight of a tubby short-order cook. Could
that
be Litchauer? I wondered. Doubtful, I decided as quickly as I’d asked myself the question.

I’d waited about ten minutes for my meal when Stacey suddenly rocketed out of the kitchen, the swinging door flapping behind
her. This time I got a surprise. Talking on a wall phone was a hefty guy in a plaid sports jacket. That, I realized, could
very well be Litchauer.

“Here ya go, hon,” Stacey said, setting down a half chicken the size of a pterodactyl. “Careful, the plate’s real hot.”

I was hoping she’d stay to chitchat, but another diner flagged her down just then. My last chance was going to come when I
finished the meal. I ate slowly, trying to look as if I had all the time in the world. Twenty minutes later, as I was pushing
a pile of bird bones around on my plate, Stacey sidled up to my booth again.

“How’d you like it?”

“It was wonderful,” I said. “I wish I’d known about this place earlier—I would have come last night, too. Anything to get
away from that inn.”

“It’s givin’ you the heebie-jeebies, huh?”

“Yeah, that’s for sure. And I heard this afternoon that someone else died there this past July.”

She surveyed the room for potential eavesdroppers and then turned back to me. “That was my boss’s
father,
” she said sotto-voce. “He wasn’t staying there. He was at that day spa they run.”

“And he was
murdered?
”

“Well, no. He had a heart attack. But there was something weird about the whole thing. You’ve got a guy who’s fit as can be,
goes in for a massage, and then boom—he drops dead. Tell me that ain’t funny.”

“The police have any ideas?”

“Matt told me they couldn’t be bothered,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Well, what do
you
think was going on?”

It was no sooner out of my mouth than I realized I’d asked it too fast and too eagerly. Her eyes widened slightly, and I could
see her brain go on alert. Shit, I’d spooked her.

“Who knows?” she said quickly. “You want any dessert? We’ve got ice cream, cheesecake, and apple pie.”

“Sure,” I said, desperately trying to sound breezy. “Why don’t I try the pie?”

I had as much interest in pie as I had in slow dancing with one of the mulleted morons playing pool, but I was hoping maybe
she’d give me a second chance. No such luck. Stacey never came back, other than to slide my pie across the table and hand
me my bill. And when she did, she barely made eye contact with me.

By the time I called it a night, the room was half-full and thick with smoke and there was a large, raucous crowd around the
pool table. I’d come hoping for info, and I was leaving with nothing. Unless you counted the tidbit about Matt being upset
with the police—and the carbo load I had from the potatoes and pie. I pulled on my jacket and slipped outside.

The moon was riding on the crest of a large cluster of clouds, augmenting the security lights on the wall of the tavern. As
I hurried across the parking lot, now crowded with cars, I couldn’t help but think back to the night of the murder, of me
scurrying across the parking lot of the inn. Had the murderer watched me from the spa, I wondered, or from behind the trees?
As I approached the Jeep, I realized that I’d stupidly forgotten to dig out my car keys beforehand, and now I had to riffle
through my purse for them. Behind me, suddenly, I heard the sound of crunching gravel.

“Who the hell are
you?
” someone said through the darkness.

I
JUMPED A
foot and spun around. The man in the plaid coat was standing just a few feet behind me. He looked as big as a water buffalo
and as mean as one, too.

“Excuse me?”
I said with what I hoped sounded like indignation. My legs were feeling floppy, but I knew it was essential to keep my cool.

“You come into my establishment and start asking lots of questions. I want to know who you are.”

“Is that what the waitress told you?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” he snapped. As Danny had mentioned, he was probably in his mid-thirties, but his ruddy, thick-skinned
face belonged to someone who’d packed a lot of booze and bad behavior into those years.

“I think she’s got it backward.
She
was the one who started asking
me
questions—about what it was like staying at the Cedar Inn since the murder. It just evolved into a conversation from there.”

“That right? She said you seemed awfully nosy about my situation.”

“So
you’re
the one whose father died?” I said, playing dumb.

“Yeah, and what makes you so damn curious about it?” He took a step closer, and I caught a whiff of his breath—a mix of bourbon,
garlic, and swamp gas.

“Okay, I’ll be honest,” I said. “I’m up here on vacation, but I’m a writer, and when the waitress mentioned that there might
be something odd about your father’s death, I wondered if there was a story in what was going on at the inn. If you
are
suspicious, maybe I can be of some help.”

“Prove it to me,” he said.

“Prove what?” I asked.

“That you’re a writer.”

I yanked open my purse and fished around quickly for the little leather case that I carry my business cards in. As I drew
out a card, I couldn’t see in the dark if it was the one I use that says “freelance writer” or the other kind with “contributing
writer,
Gloss
magazine” on it. He practically tore two of my fingers from their sockets as he grabbed the card from my hand.

“
Gloss
magazine?” he read sarcastically, holding it up so the light from the tavern caught it. “What do you write? Articles on how
to pop a zit?”

“Actually, I write true crime stories for them. That’s why your story caught my interest. If you think something was covered
up, I’d love to know. I could help investigate.”

“What makes you think something was covered up?”

“That’s what your waitress implied. That you thought there was something
off
about the situation, but the police didn’t seem to care.”

A door slammed at that moment, followed by the refrains of a Journey song and the sound of people making their way toward
the parking lot. Litchauer relaxed his stance. He obviously didn’t want anyone to observe him threatening me.

“The police didn’t do jack shit,” he said quickly. “They wouldn’t even take my calls. But I don’t need any help from you or
your candy-ass magazine. Do you hear me?”

“Loud and clear,” I said. The other customers were approaching, chattering loudly. If I was going to escape, this was the
moment. I turned on my heels, hit my key case to unlock the door, and then threw myself into the Jeep, locking the door behind
me.

As I peeled out of my parking spot, spraying gravel, Litchauer stayed right where I’d left him, legs astride and welded to
the ground, doing an imitation of the Colossus at Rhodes. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of glancing over in his direction,
but out of the corner of my eye I could see him glaring at me.

As I drove quickly through the empty streets of town, I checked my rearview mirror every three seconds, making sure Litchauer
hadn’t hopped into the Death Star and taken off after me. But there was nothing behind me other than blackness. This was a
town that shut down on a Sunday night. I’d driven for about ten minutes when I realized I’d made a wrong turn. I can get from
Great Jones Street to Jane Street with my eyes closed, but outside of the Village my sense of direction is abysmal. I drove
around for a few minutes with my heart going skippity skip, until suddenly out of nowhere a sign for the Cedar Inn appeared.
Five minutes later I pulled into the driveway.

An older guy I hadn’t seen before was on duty at the reception desk, leafing through a copy of
Yankee
magazine with a slightly wigged-out look on his face, but otherwise the lobby was empty. The only sound coming from the lounge
was the hum of the gas fire in the hearth. I walked down the corridor to the dining room to pick up a glass of wine, and that
room was empty too, except for one couple sitting at the tiny bar. As I accepted my glass of Cabernet, I noticed that my hand
trembled slightly. That obnoxious asshole Litchauer had rattled me more than I’d realized.

Back in my room, I drew a hot bath, not bothering with the bath salts that promised enchantment and empowerment. At this point,
that seemed way too much to hope for. After stripping off my clothes, I sank into the tub, wineglass in hand. As I lay there,
I replayed my conversations with Stacey, the stoolie slut, and Litchauer, the host from hell. That guy needed to be checked
for rabies. If he was convinced there was something suspicious about his father’s death, why not take me up on my offer to
help? Perhaps he simply preferred being an independent operative. Or perhaps he’d already taken matters into his own hands,
so to speak.

I wondered suddenly if Litchauer’s name had darted across Beck’s radar screen yet or if he was too busy concentrating on people
at the spa. What Litchauer had said about the police intrigued me—that in his view they hadn’t given a damn about his father’s
death. Danny had articulated just the opposite from her vantage point—that Beck had been extremely thorough. Based on the
little evidence I had, I was tempted to buy Danny’s assessment of Beck. Matt Litchauer seemed to have a giant chip on his
shoulder. And I couldn’t deny it—I wanted to think good things about Beck.

After half an hour of soaking, I hauled myself out of the tub and dried off with one of the big Egyptian towels. Then I slid
into a robe. Still sipping my wine, I yanked my clothes off hangers and out of drawers and tossed them all into my bag, making
sure the dirty things were separated into a plastic laundry bag swiped from the back of the closet. My plan was to be on the
road right after breakfast tomorrow.