Room At The Inn (The Jeff Resnick Mysteries) (19 page)

I awoke to the sounds of car doors and trunks slamming. I opened one eye and looked at Richard's travel clock: 7:36. His bed was empty and the shower was running. I heard another slam, realizing the departing guests were probably already loading their cars. That way they could eat as soon as the kitchen opened and hit the road for home only a day late.

It took a minute or two for me to realize my headache was nearly gone. I thought back to Richard's posthypnotic suggestion and felt myself instantly relax. Why hadn't we thought to try this during the past six months?

The water stopped running and a few minutes later Richard emerged, dressed in Dockers and an Izod shirt, his graying hair tousled. "Good morning, roomie.”

"Roomie?"

"Yeah. I never had one before. Unless you count my lady friends."

I sank back on my pillow, too lazy to get up. "I had twenty-three roomies in my barracks at Fort Gordon. It wasn't much fun as I recall."

Richard turned to the mirror and combed his hair. "I offered to send you to college, but you had to prove you were a grown-up and enlist." At least there was no animosity in his rebuke.

"Why am I back here with you, anyway? I've got a room of my own, you know."

"Hey, it was all I could do to drag you in from the car last night. Once you're out of it, kid, you're dead to the world. And I swear, when you sleep, you're as still as a corpse. It made me want to put a mirror under your nose to see if you were still breathing."

"I'll try to be more animated in future."

"Are you getting up?"

"Yeah. I've got to call the insurance company about my car." I didn't move. I thought of my charred, demolished Chevy. "Damn. It was a wreck, but it was
my
wreck. And paid for."

"We'll start looking again once we get home. At least you weren't too badly hurt, and Maggie's going to be all right, too."

I thought about that five-inch tear in her leg.

"Can we go home tomorrow?" Richard asked, grabbing a pair of socks from the dresser drawer.

"God, I hope so."

"Good. I’m running out of clean clothes."

I didn’t bother to tell him that I already had.

I showered and dressed and was ready to head for breakfast by 8:10. We passed through the bar on the way to the dining room. All evidence of the party the night before was gone. The rug had even been vacuumed, a testament to Susan’s good housekeeping.

As I expected, Jean and Michele Dubois and Doug and Alyssa were already breakfasting. I poured myself a cup of coffee, glanced out the window, and saw Sgt. Beach crouched by the backyard barbeque, accompanied by the same photographer who’d taken shots of the crime scene three days before.

"Rich?" I nodded toward the window.

Richard noted the sergeant’s presence. "He didn’t waste time getting here."

"We took our coffee out to the patio."

"You're up early," I said.

Beach looked up at me. "Unfortunately, I couldn't get a warrant just on your say so, but Mrs. Dawson signed a consent to search form, letting me look at the fireplaces and barbecue."

I gestured toward the ash pit. "Did you find anything?"

"Ashes from the tablet in the barbecue here. Nothing in the fireplaces inside. It doesn't point the finger at anyone, but it confirms your story about incriminating evidence."

I sipped my coffee. My story. That irked me—Maggie's the writer, not me.

"We want to head home tomorrow. Is that okay?"

He shrugged. "Are you willing to come back to testify—that is, if we solve this?"

"Sure. I want to know how it all turns out. I have a vested interest, if you know what I mean."

"If you come up with anything else, give me a call."

"You got it."

I followed Richard back to the dining room. We paused by the coffeemaker for a warm up, then sat at one of the empty tables. Moments later, Nadine came out from the kitchen.

"Zack's making huevos rancheros and blueberry pancakes. Can I interest either of you in them?" Her voice was a monotone. Definitely no joie de vivre.

"I'll just go through the buffet," I said.

"I'll have the eggs and whole wheat toast, please," Richard said. She nodded and headed back for the kitchen.

"What're we going to do about getting home?" I asked.

"How about we drive the rental car to Burlington and take a flight to Buffalo?"

"What about all that camera equipment upstairs?"

"It'll have to go as excess baggage. I wish we could fly straight home from here, but there's no way Maggie could do it in a Cessna with her leg the way it is. And, to tell you the truth, I'm in no hurry to get back in one of those rattletraps."

I tried—and failed—to suppress a smile.

"I'll call the airlines and make reservations after breakfast," Richard volunteered.

"Okay." I looked toward the kitchen and food. "Well, my stomach calls.”

As I crossed the threshold, the tension in the kitchen hit me like a slap in the face. There was no conversation today. Adam's dishonesty and the fact that he'd attacked me had not been enough for Zack and Susan to fire him. He was busy scrubbing pots at the large sink. I tore my gaze from him. Anger had deadened my appetite, but I grabbed a couple of sausage links and a spoonful of eggs before heading back into the dining room.

I dropped the plate with a clunk, making Richard jump.

"Is something wrong?"

"No." I sat down and started shoveling scrambled eggs into my mouth.

Nadine reappeared, her smile tight as she placed Richard's breakfast in front of him. "Enjoy."

He looked at her retreating figure, then back to me. "Did the whole world suddenly get pissed off when I wasn't looking?"

I swallowed, spoke quietly. "Adam's still here. Maybe if he'd pushed a
paying
guest down stairs he would've lost his job. Damn that Susan."

"How do you know it wasn't Zack who gave him another chance?"

"Because he's been screwing Susan for months!"

I stopped chewing. I hadn't known that juicy little fact before that moment, but it made sense.

"My, you're just full of surprises," Richard said.

I looked away, my anger smoldering.

"Jeff, calm down. There's nothing you can do about it."

"That still doesn't make it right."

Richard refrained from commenting, picked up his fork, and started eating his breakfast. He was halfway through his eggs, and I was polishing off the last sausage on my plate when the Andolinas came in and sat at a table next to the window overlooking the garden. Kay smiled shyly and waved at me. I gave her a self-conscious smile and halfhearted wave in return.

"Do you think she really believes I'm her son?" I muttered under my breath.

Richard took a quick look over his shoulder. "I doubt it. But apparently you do look a bit like him. He had dark hair and dark eyes. It's only been six months. Hopefully she'll come to terms with it and won't try suicide again."

"Suicide?"

He nodded. "Two months ago. Pills. Fred decided she needed to get away. They came to Vermont on their honeymoon thirty-four years ago. He thought it might be good for her to return."

Again I felt a pang of guilt for my hasty judgment of the woman. "Boy, people really do confide in you."

"I told you, they'll tell doctors things they wouldn't tell their best friends."

"I take it you got no such revelations out of Laura?"

He shook his head, taking a sip of coffee. "She’s a real ice queen."

Beach came in through the garden door and headed for the Andolina's table. He spoke with them for a few moments, and I guessed he was giving them permission to leave, too.

Dipping my hand in my pants pocket, I came up with Maggie’s cell phone. "Guess I'd better go make my call."

I went outside on the patio to call my insurance company and report the accident, telling them where to send the adjuster to look at the remains. I'd have to fill in the paperwork back home, and I made a mental note to remind Beach to give me a copy of the police report.

Richard was saying good-bye to the Canucks as I came back to the dining room. They gave me a wave as they headed up the stairs one last time.

"Lucky bums," Richard muttered.

"Tomorrow, bro."

"It can't come soon enough for me." He got up from the table. "It’s my turn to make calls.

I sat down to nurse another cup of coffee and wait for Richard, wondering how we'd kill time before visiting hours at the hospital. As it turned out, I didn't have to. I was on my third cup when Richard finally reappeared. He sat across from me, his expression grim.

"I couldn't get us home from Burlington without a four-hour layover in Albany, so we're driving to Albany. I had a little trouble with the car rental agency. They didn't want me to take the wagon to New York, but it's all straightened out."

"How much is this going to cost you?"

"Don't ask."

We split up, with Richard heading for Susan's office to tell her of our checkout plans, and me to my room to finish straightening up and pack. I had a feeling there might not be a whole lot of time to do so later.

It amazes me how I don't analyze funny feelings that deal with seemingly insignificant things. If I did, I'd save myself a lot of trouble in the long run.

I came downstairs to collect Richard, rounded the stairwell and saw Patrolman Morris, the first cop to arrive at the murder scene, standing guard outside the door to Susan's and Zack's apartment. His expression said no nonsense tolerated. I nodded a terse hello, turned the corner and knocked on Richard's door. He was ready, shrugging into his jacket.

"It looks like Beach is pushing Zack and Susan."

"Both?" he asked.

"One or the other or both."

He pulled the door shut and followed me outside.

The day was hazy and cool—almost clammy. Rain was in the offing and I was glad I'd thought to grab a jacket.

I followed Richard down the steps to the car and noticed the vacancy sign was out. Susan had wasted no time trolling for new customers. Across the lot, Ted spoke to the lady cop while a crying Laura sat in the back seat of a patrol car.

"Do you think she's been arrested?" Richard asked.

I shook my head. "No handcuffs. My guess is she'll be taken to the station for a little chat like Maggie and me the other night. Let's get out of here. Just thinking about that gives me the creeps."

We made it through the village in record time, thanks to the nearly deserted streets. The mass exodus after the Labor Day holiday was only a pause in the tourist trade. In another couple of weeks when the leaves turned color the entire state would be jammed with sightseers and tour busses.

We arrived at Copley Hospital at precisely eleven o'clock and headed for the elevators. My footsteps slowed as we approached Maggie's room and a dark, queasy feeling came over me. "Uh-oh....”

"What's wrong?" Richard asked.

"I'm not sure." I moved ahead, knocked at the doorjamb and looked in. "Hello?"

Maggie was waiting for us all right, only she was dressed and sitting in the room's only chair, with a pair of crutches propped against the wall beside her and her bag packed. I didn't need to see that her face was shadowed with misgiving; I could feel it radiating from her.

"What's going on?" Richard asked.

"My insurance company says I'm well enough to leave."

If there's one topic in medicine that sets off Richard's seldom-seen anger, it's insurance companies dictating patient care.

"What did your doctor say?"

"He said there was no real reason for me to stay. But no stairs."

"Which means you can't go back to the inn," I put in. "It’s just as well. I don't want you going back there—it's not safe.
I
don't feel safe there."

"I'll talk to the head nurse," Richard said. "I don't think you're ready to leave. And I'll pay for you to stay, if that's what it takes."

"No, please," Maggie begged. "I want to get out of here. Can't we just go home?"

"We've got plane reservations for tomorrow," Richard said. "Would you mind staying at one of the motels in town?"

"It looks like I don't have much choice."

We called for the nurse, who arrived with a wheelchair, and within minutes we were on the road—complete with flowers, crutches and teddy bear in tow—and on our way back to Stowe. We stopped at the first motel along the strip that sported a vacancy sign. Clean and comfortable, its ground-floor location made for easy accessibility.

Sensing he needed to play doctor, if only to reassure himself Maggie could navigate on her own, I left Richard to help her get settled, while I hit the deli across the street.

Twenty minutes later, Maggie sat propped up on one of the beds, her injured leg resting on a pillow, while I doled out sandwiches and drinks. Richard and I settled on the room's two chairs, looking like mismatched bookends as we squirted packets of horseradish sauce on our beef hoagies.