Room At The Inn (The Jeff Resnick Mysteries) (15 page)

Voices preceded the footfalls that echoed from the stairwell. "Hello, Jeffrey," Michele called, her husband Jean behind her.

"Hi."

"Do you play?" she asked, glancing at the piano behind me.

I stood. "No."

She looked around for signs of the other guests. "It seems we are early."

"I'm sure the other guests will be along soon. Can I get you a drink?" I asked, automatically heading for the well-stocked bar. Had Susan bought the liquor just for the party or did she have a stash she bought out for special occasions? No matter, Richard was paying dearly for it.

"Oui. White wine. Jean?"

"Beer."

The wine was perfectly chilled and I poured a glass for her, then cracked the cap off a bottle of Labatts. I felt like I was back at work at the Whole Nine Yards sports bar in Buffalo. Michele smiled shyly at me in thanks, then hand-in-hand she and Jean headed for the game room.

More footfalls sounded, and my brother came down the stairs. Dressed in a white polo shirt and a navy sports jacket and slacks, Richard looked every inch the well-to-do doctor on vacation. "Can I get you a drink, Dr. Alpert?"

"Scotch—on the rocks, please."

Before I could finish pouring, Zack appeared with two more trays of food before heading back to the kitchen. Richard's assessment of Susan's hostess abilities had been right on the money. Trays of canapés, shrimp piled on cracked ice, and bowls filled with mixed nuts and M&M candies were scattered around the room.

"Impressive," I said.

"I told you she'd throw one hell of a party.”

Susan brought out yet another tray from the kitchen, this one filled with an assortment of cheeses and crackers. "I'm very pleased," Richard told her.

"It's amazing what you can do with puff pastry, bacon, and cream cheese," she admitted. "If you'll excuse me, I think we need more cocktail napkins."

Laura and Ted were the next to arrive. Dressed to the nines in a shimmering black mini dress, her stiletto heels showed off her shapely legs. Ted ordered for them both: a beer and a dry martini—I could've predicted it. They claimed the overstuffed loveseat in the far corner of the game room, away from the other guests, snuggling like lovebirds.

"That's half the guests," I said to Richard. "Did you ask the Andolinas?"

"Yes. They'll be down in a few minutes. You know how women are."

Suddenly mellow jazz came from unseen speakers. "Subtle," Richard commented, sipping his scotch. Seconds later, Zack rounded the corner from the kitchen. "Would you care for a drink?" Richard offered.

"Don't mind if I do. Jack Daniels—neat."

I poured the drink, handing it to him.

"Are you the official bartender?" Richard asked me.

"I guess it comes naturally," I said, absently wiping the bar top.

"I don't think it's necessary. Would you take over?" he asked Zack.

"No problem, Doctor," he said and moved to take my place.

I was already getting antsy, but had to hang around for a while longer to see if the Andolinas and the bimbo, Alyssa, and her boyfriend Doug would make an appearance. Maggie's assessment of Mrs. Andolina seemed on the money. I suspected if she saw me nosing around the guest rooms, she would tattle to Susan—or maybe even Sgt. Beach.

"Would you like something?" Zack asked, interrupting my reverie.

I could've done with a large bourbon, neat. "No, thanks, I'm sticking to soft drinks."

"Suit yourself," he said, and helped himself to one of the shrimp.

I heard more footfalls on the stairs: the bimbo and Doug. They headed straight for the bar as well. Alyssa wore dark slacks and a peach colored, low-neck sweater. A push-up bra had enhanced what nature had given her. In contrast, Doug, in black Dockers and a leather vest, looked ready for a barroom brawl. And I thought
I'd
looked under-dressed.

Where the hell were the Andolinas?

I continued to edge away from the group, anxious for the latecomers to arrive. Parties are not my forte, but Richard seemed at ease with the casual chitchat. He'd done a lot of socializing in his former job, schmoozing government types for grant money. I wondered if any of the women at the party would confide a sexual fantasy to him. He had to be kidding about that.

I glanced at my watch, conscious of the fact that time was slipping away. Then I heard Kay Andolina's voice. I watched Richard home in on her and her husband. Once he had them engaged, I slipped out the back way, circled the house and came in through the front door.

I didn't know how much time I'd have, so I decided to concentrate on the Dawson's apartment and Laura's and Ted's room. If I was going to find anything incriminating, I felt it would be there. If not, Richard would be out of pocket for nothing.

I slipped out of my shoes to avoid making noise. After hiding them under the loveseat, I donned Richard's latex gloves and used Maggie's trusty hairpin to open the door to the Dawson's residence.

The apartment consisted of the combination kitchen-living room, the cubbyhole office that opened into the inn's lobby, a bedroom, a bathroom and a couple of closets. Everything looked neat, tidy, and innocent. Since I didn't know what I was looking for, that made the job of finding anything meaningful that much more difficult.

I zeroed in on the bedroom. Though painted pink—with cutesy curtains and a matching spread—like the rest of the place, it seemed rather sterile. The queen-sized bed, with no headboard, was pushed against the south wall. I tested it. Much more comfortable than the slab Susan had given Maggie and me. I ran my gloved hand over the spread. Nothing. Of course not, I wasn't touching it. I peeled off the left glove and tried again, instantly picking up residual anger, like what I'd experienced when I'd met Zack that first evening. The passion between them was long gone. Every night they slept back to back, nothing more than business partners.

I stood, straightened the spread, and tried to shrug off the creepy feeling of voyeurism that clung to me. I didn't like doing this, but I liked it even less that someone had tried to kill Maggie and me some twenty-four hours before.

Next, came the dresser. The glove wouldn't go back on my sweating hand. Great. I'd have to be careful not to leave fingerprints. I balled it and shoved it into my left-hand pocket.

The top drawer held Susan's underwear; the second drawer, sweaters and blouses. Everything was neatly stacked and I made sure it looked undisturbed when I'd finished my one-handed groping. No ribbon-bound stack of love letters, nothing incriminating. I tried the other dresser and found it in the same neat condition, except it was full of Zack's clothes.

The closet was jammed. Boxes crowded the top shelf, labeled in what was probably Susan's neat handwriting. I grabbed one marked "receipts" and found receipts and tax records. Nothing of interest. My foot nudged a pair of men's shoes and a prescription bottle rolled out of one. As expected, it belonged to Zack. The doctor's name was Haskins, and the prescription had been filled in Burlington just a week before. Two refills remained. I memorized the drug name to ask Richard about later, then replaced the bottle in the shoe.

Susan's jewelry box contained mostly cheap costume stuff, along with several gold and silver chains, and a couple of old broaches. I closed the lid and ducked into the bathroom.

A small cupboard held extra rolls of toilet paper and neatly folded towels. Two plush terry robes hung from hooks on the back of the door. One white, the other pink. I touched the pink one first. Nothing. I grasped the lapel of the white one and got a vague impression of the hot tub outside, the steam rising on a cool, crisp day. It didn't make sense, but I also knew it sometimes took time for the full impact of these flashes to become meaningful.

The kitchen was sparsely decorated with more of Susan's surplus. One of the cabinets housed an extensive liquor collection, heavily favoring bourbon. I closed my eyes and held one of the opened bottles: Zack. They had arguments about that, too. Definitely a dysfunctional couple.

All in all, I'd garnered very little information. But then I really shouldn't have expected more. Susan was pretty much a closed book. And since I got no insight from touching her, it wasn't surprising her possessions held nothing for me either.

Opening the door a crack, I listened for a moment before venturing back into the inn's lobby. No one around. So far so good. The murmur of voices from the party downstairs was audible as I closed the door behind me and crept across the room.

With a few skillful twists of the hairpin, I gained access to Laura's and Ted's room. Like the rest of the inn, it was tastefully decorated with oak and wicker furniture, lots of ruffled pillows and lacy do-dads. Unlike the others I'd seen, this room had a king-sized waterbed. Two suitcases were tucked in the closet, along with two mismatched garment bags. The bathroom's vanity was decked out with a ton of cosmetics and a man's travel kit.

Laura's purse was tucked into one of the dresser drawers. I thumbed through her wallet, fat with twenty-dollar bills. Behind the wad of credit cards were several pictures of children—nieces and nephews perhaps. Replacing the photos, I made sure the drawer looked undisturbed.

Ted's belongings were less interesting. A bottle of Polo after-shave, clean underwear—nothing of sentimental value.

An old wind-up travel alarm clock, its face scratched from years of use, sat on the left side of the bed. Grasping it, I got a shadowy impression of a woman ... it had been a gift. From someone Laura admired? Could that woman have been Eileen? I wasn't sure. Using my shirttail, I wiped off my fingerprints and placed it back on the night table, hoping I'd put it in the same position as I'd found it.

Since the bed was where I'd gotten the strongest impressions in the Dawson's room, I laid back, closed my eyes. Conflicting emotions seeped into me: guilt, shame, and lascivious pleasure. I couldn't tell if the feelings were from the room's current occupants or a conglomeration of emotions from years worth of lovemaking by past guests.

The overlapping sensations left me vaguely nauseated. I crawled off, realizing my head ached, too. It took a few moments to catch my breath. As I straightened the spread so the bed looked undisturbed, I noticed a leather attaché by the side of a wicker chair. It was locked and, unlike the flimsy locks on the room doors, my trusty hairpin wasn't going to open it. I rested my hand on the top, closed my eyes and waited. Nothing. For all I knew, it could be filled with magazines or old utility receipts. Reluctantly, I replaced it and took a last look around. For all the money the party was costing Richard, I'd gotten virtually nothing useful. I glanced at my watch: the entire ordeal had taken less than fifteen minutes.

I turned for the door and tripped over a throw rug at the side of the bed. The nightstand broke my fall, but the clock hit the floor with a crash.

Adrenaline shot through me. I grabbed the clock, dropped it on the table and opened the door.

What if I'd broken it?

I turned back, picked it up, and listened.

My pulse slammed in my ears. Endless seconds passed before I heard it ticking. Hands shaking, I put it down and got the hell out of there.

I'd ripped off the remaining glove and was stuffing my feet back into my shoes when I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. I grabbed the first book I saw, planted myself in a chair, and tried not to look like I was sweating.

Susan rounded the stairwell, looked at me suspiciously. "Jeff—why aren't you downstairs?"

I looked up, as though I'd been engrossed. "I'm not really in a partying mood. Not while Maggie's in the hospital."

"Oh. Of course." Was that an actual expression of compassion that momentarily crossed her features? "I'm sure Maggie wouldn't mind," she said.

"I'll go back down in a couple of minutes." She nodded and continued to her office.

I looked at the book in my hands—an old guest book—and flipped through the pages. It began in December of the previous year. Among the names listed during New Year's weekend was Eileen Marshall. She'd mentioned visiting the inn several times, and I wondered if she'd signed it every time. Sure enough, I found her signature for the 4th of July holiday and when she'd checked in some six days previously. I skimmed through the book again. There should
have been one more entry. She'd said something about enjoying the hot tub in the spring. I couldn't find it. Something about that didn't feel right.

I shut the book and replaced it on the coffee table, disappointed my foray into crime had netted me so little information. But all the players were still assembled downstairs. Questioning them was now my best—perhaps my only—shot at finding the truth.

The food had been decimated by the time I eased back into the barroom, trying to look as though I'd never left. Filling a glass with ice, I poured myself a Coke, needing the caffeine fix for my pounding head—wishing I could have a double Jack Daniels instead.

Meanwhile, the JD drinker, Zack, was playing host, albeit with a kind of forced cheerfulness. Though conversing with the Canadians, his gaze kept drifting toward Laura, his expression not entirely friendly.

Doug sauntered up, interrupting my musings. He set an empty beer bottle on the bar. "Got any more?"

"Sure." I handed him another bottle, realizing his appearance gave me a conversation opener. "The other night you scored some weed," I said, lowering my voice. "Local connection?"

His grip tightened on the bottle. "Why'd you ask?"

I proffered my glass of soda. "I can't drink and my lady's in the hospital. I'm just looking to ease the pain. Where I can get some?"

His smile was sly. "The guy in the kitchen. Good stuff; grows it himself."

My stomach tensed: Adam. I faked a smile and clapped him on the shoulder. "Thanks, man."

"No problem." He headed back toward the game room.

In an effort to disguise my agitation, I wandered to the eats table. Not that I was the least bit hungry after our Chinese feast, but studying the leftovers gave me something to do, and an opportunity to eavesdrop.

Richard was talking with Fred Andolina when Alyssa moved to stand beside him. I popped a shrimp into my mouth, hoping I didn't look as jittery as I felt. Alyssa stared intently at my brother and, unnerved, Fred finally turned away.

"Dr. Alpert, I have a problem and I was wondering if you could help me."

Richard turned his full attention to her. "Of course."

She bit her lip, looking concerned. "I have this recurring pain—in my chest."

"Oh?"

"Yes, it's—" she took his hand, placing it on her left breast, "right here."

Richard's gaze wandered over to me with a look that said
I told you so
.

Doug erupted from the corner. "Hey!"

Richard pulled his hand away.

Doug shoved his way through the crowd, looking ready to kill. "What the hell are you doing to my girl?"

Alyssa looked embarrassed, although not for herself or Richard. "Oh, Doug, grow up. He's a doctor.”

"Oh, yeah? Well, I'll bet he isn't even licensed to practice medicine in Vermont.”

Maybe Doug had more upstairs than I'd given him credit for.

Richard forced a smile. "I suggest you see your own doctor to talk about this problem. I'm sure he or she will be able to advise you better than me. If you'll excuse me." He crossed the room, heading for the bar, where he filled his glass with ice and poured himself a generous scotch.

I ambled over to join him and nodded toward the bimbo, who continued to argue with her boyfriend.

Richard eyed me, still shaken by the encounter, and took a swallow of his drink. "I told you, this kind of thing happens to me all the time at cocktail parties."

"What does Brenda think about that?"

He took another long pull before answering. "How do you think I met her?"

Incredulous, I could only blink.

Finally a smile cracked his serious expression. "I'm kidding."

"Don't let Brenda or Maggie hear you kid like that."

"I suspect Alyssa's boyfriend hasn't been paying enough attention to her and she chose me as a way to get it." The two were still quarreling, and I'd bet that after leaving the party they'd make up—in bed.

Someone tapped my shoulder: Ted Palmer. "Hey, man. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about your girlfriend getting hurt." His expression was earnest. Of all the guests, he'd been the only one to mention Maggie's near-fatal accident. Somehow, he didn't seem the type.

"Thanks."

"Is she going to be all right?"

"I think so."

"No matter what Sgt. Beach thinks, I wanted you to know I wasn't responsible."

A heaviness began to creep across my chest. "I beg your pardon."

"I mean, I made a mistake—but that was a long time ago. I don't make a habit of hot-wiring cars and causing accidents."

I struggled to keep my voice level. "You got caught joyriding?"

"Maybe I was a wild kid, but that was over ten years ago. I've never been in trouble with the law since. I swear, not even a parking ticket."

I made a mental note to ask Beach about that little incident, but put on my best poker face. "Thanks for leveling with me." I took a sip of Coke, knowing it wouldn't help steady my jagged nerves. I cleared my throat: time to go into my act. "How did you and Laura meet?"

He seemed glad to change the subject. "We were guests at a wedding reception at the local country club. I'm the tennis pro. I was a friend of the groom, Laura was a friend of the bride's mother. We were seated at the same table and things just clicked between us." He glanced at Laura across the room. "Something weird is going on with her since we came here, though. She's not the same person. One of the things that drew me to her was her confidence. This Eileen person's death really shook her."

"Were they friends?"