Room At The Inn (The Jeff Resnick Mysteries) (21 page)

The clouds grew darker, reflecting my mood. That attitude wasn't going to win me any popularity contests with Richard or anyone else I came in contact with. I got in the Buick, buckled my seat belt, and avoided my brother's gaze.

"Is everything okay?" he asked.

"No."

He exhaled loudly. "Should I change the plane reservations?"

"Not yet."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know."

"But you're getting a funny feeling we're not going home tomorrow, right?" he persisted.

"I
don't
know."

He glared at me, his voice tight. "Are we going back to the inn?"

I nodded, preoccupied with thoughts of Maggie and worried about what awaited me.

He started the car, and then headed for the lot's exit. "Here's something you haven't thought to do: revisit the scene of the crime."

"The hot tub?" I asked.

"I haven't seen you go near it. Is there a reason?"

"I don't think so. Except, Brenda told me it's a breeding ground for germs."

"It is," he said. "But nobody's been in it since Eileen died, right?"

"Not as far as I know."

"Then it's probably all right. There're health codes the inn has to follow. It's probably pumped full of chlorine every day. Maybe you can soak up some residual vibes." He tore his gaze momentarily from the road and looked at me meaningfully.

"I suppose I could have a look." Not exactly an enthusiastic response, but I wasn't really worried about germs. My insight tends to warn me about unpleasant experiences. I had a feeling visiting the hot tub might be one.

Richard braked as we approached the inn. Unfamiliar cars lined the driveway—new guests?—as well as Ashley Samuels' junky-looking van. The vacancy sign was down, another indication Susan's balance sheet would improve. Despite the cluster of cars, the place was devoid of people.

We bypassed the front door, skirted the garage and headed for the back gardens. Like the rest of the place, the pool was deserted. Because of cool temperatures, there weren't even any towels laid out—or perhaps the deputies' presence earlier had disrupted the inn's routine. Still, steam from the hot tub curled into the clammy air. I stared at the crystal clear water and wondered what Zack's utility bills were like.

Richard gestured toward the tub. "Okay, peel off."

I looked up at him. "Peel off?"

"Yeah."

I took in all the windows that overlooked the pool and hot tub. Until that moment I'd never considered myself a bona fide prude.

"I don't think so."

"You haven't got anything I haven't seen before," Richard said.

"Give me a break."

"Did you bring swim trunks?"

I nodded.

"Put them on. I'll ask Susan for a couple of those big towels and meet you back here," Richard said.

The weather, or perhaps just my mood, really wasn't conducive to hot tubbing, but he had a point. And, if nothing else, it would probably be my last shot at learning anything else about the murder.

When I returned a few minutes later, he was waiting by the hot tub in one of the chairs he'd pulled up. As promised, two large fluffy towels sat on the empty chair and he'd set the tub's timer for fifteen minutes.

Without a word I kicked off my sneakers, peeled off my jacket and stuck one foot into the water. "Jesus, it's hot!"

"You'll get used to it."

Richard's supposedly helpful comments bugged me. There he sat, fully clothed and dry, unmindful of the chill air.

Easing myself into the steaming water, I realized I was a couple of inches shorter than its last occupant. The water came up to my chin as I positioned myself where I'd last seen Eileen alive. Richard watched, fists jammed into his jacket pockets.

"I can't help remembering what Brenda told me about germs."

"Don't be paranoid. Besides, these things have filters. They've probably already strained off her finger- and toenails, and all her sloughed-off skin cells."

"What?"

"What do you think happens to a body in water?"

I stared at him.

"I'm joking," Richard said. "Eileen wasn't in there long enough."

My mouth hung open. Realizing it, I shut it.

He gestured at the water. "Concentrate."

Pondering the final minutes of Eileen's life was the last thing I wanted to do, but the faster I got it over with, the faster I could get out of the hot tub and back into dry clothes.

The churning water mesmerized me, making it easier to clear my mind. My eyes slid shut and I thought back to Friday night—the night of the murder.

My breathing slowed and deepened. The stench of chlorine actually helped revive my memories. The warm evening breeze. The hum of an air conditioner somewhere in the background. A mosquito buzzed my ear. Maggie's voice was an echo, teasing me. And then there was Eileen. It was all too easy to slip into her melancholy memories. The absolute hopelessness she'd felt sucked at my soul like a yawning abyss.

"Everything was ... falling apart."

"How?" Richard asked.

Numbness.

"She was ... so damned drunk.”

I thought about what Kay Andolina had said to me when I was unconscious: Look within. Looking within brought back the image of the mountains. What the hell did that have to do with anything? I was definitely on the wrong track.

I replayed my mental video of Eileen in the hot tub. Poor unhealthy, unhappy Eileen. Drunk, alone, and unloved.

Something inside me twisted, and a familiar pain snaked through my skull.

"She .. .wondered if she should just...." I gestured with my hands, letting them sink beneath the surface of the swirling waters.

"Suicide?"

I squinted up at him. "You were right. Eileen wanted to die."

"And someone hit her with a blunt object, granting her wish."

"Yeah. If they'd been a little patient, they wouldn't have had to resort to murder."

Someone had stood over Eileen and delivered the fatal blow. She'd been hit hard enough to knock her out and then she'd drowned. Beach had said something about blood loss, too. Had Eileen argued with her killer first? If so, no one had heard them. Yet the blow had been delivered in anger, I knew it—felt it.

I closed my eyes, dove under the water and let myself float. Bobbing for long moments, I listened to the muffled hum of the tub's motor, the sound of rushing water in my ears. Nothing else came to mind. Once Eileen lost consciousness she was gone.

I stood up, pushing the hair from my eyes.

"Is that it?" Richard asked.

"Yeah. The last thing I want right now is a skull-pounding headache from all this crap." He handed me a towel. "I'll be glad to get home. I don't want to do this any more."

"But you said your funny feelings would follow you if you didn't put them to rest here."

"Yeah ... I did." But I also had a feeling I was close to discovering the truth. "Can I use your shower again? I hate the smell of chlorine."

"Sure. Give me your key and I'll go get your clothes.”

I finished toweling off in the chill air, stuffed my feet back into my Nikes and clomped back into the inn, wondering why I felt so ill at ease, not wanting to discover the reason.

Richard's bathroom was spotless. I was impressed with the amenities included with the best room in the inn, things I'd been too out of it to notice on other occasions. Two large, thick bath towels hung over a brass warming rail. A small wicker basket on the vanity offered shampoo, lotion, a comb, toothbrush and a disposable razor. Yesiree, paying customers were treated like royalty—whereas the hired help were of no consequence. My irritation with Susan flared anew and I stepped into the shower to douse it.

Richard tossed my clothes on the vanity and shut the door.

As I showered, I thought about Susan's standards of cleanliness, not a speck of dust marred any flat surface or the thousands of knickknacks that decorated the place. With such a small staff, it meant Susan had to be doing as much of the dirty work as Adam and Nadine.

I thought about all the extra touches: the sherry on the bar at night; the bath sheets laid out by the Jacuzzi; the sumptuous breakfasts; the fresh cookies, and the bottomless coffee pot in the dining room.

Though more than my budget could handle, Susan's prices weren’t exorbitant for the accommodations she offered her guests. And the little extras, like the toiletry baskets in each of the guest bathrooms, were nicer than what I'd seen in higher priced hotel chains. No doubt they'd helped her earn the coveted AAA three-diamond rating.

I felt an unexpected pang of sympathy for her. Much as I disliked the woman, I was pretty sure Susan wasn't a murderer.

Minutes later I emerged from the bathroom, dropped my socks and sneakers and stopped before the mirror to use Susan's complimentary comb. Richard watched in silence from the loveseat.

Pocketing the comb, I picked up my shoes and took the chair nearest him, and put on my socks. "I keep thinking about what you said—that I know something that'll nail the killer."

"Did you figure it out?"

I stuffed my feet into my shoes. "On the night of the murder, the ice bucket behind the bar was empty, so I had to get some from the freezer. I stopped at the sink and a funny feeling came over me. I thought I should touch the dirty glasses, but I didn't want to because I didn't want to know."

"Know what?" Richard asked.

"That's it. I don't know. It's just ... I'd shaken so many hands and learned so much crap about the people here, things I wasn't prepared for and didn't want to know, that I couldn't face anyone else's emotional garbage. If I had, I probably couldn't have prevented the murder, but maybe I could've prevented all that's happened since."

"Jeff, you can't take on that kind of responsibility."

"That sounds very logical—very sane. Meanwhile my gut's telling me to keep asking questions, keep looking.”

"Okay, let's try and unlock that memory you can't get at with a little word association. I'll say a name and you say the first thing comes to mind."

It sounded stupid, but I was game. I sat back in the chair. "Shoot."

"Eileen."

"Sick and unhappy. But there's so much more."

"Just the first thing you get," he scolded. "Zack."

"Anger."

"Ted."

"Conceit."

"Why?"

"Because he thinks he's God's gift to women. Are we still playing?"

"Laura?"

"Aloof."

"Susan?"

"Bitch."

"Adam?"

"Liar."

"Why?"

"Because he lied. He lied about when he found the body. He lied about being at the inn on Friday night."

"Wait a minute. You said he lied about being there on Saturday, the night he tried to plant the scotch bottle in your room. Was he there Friday—the night of the murder—too?"

I thought about it for a moment. "I think that's when he sold Doug the pot."

Richard stared at the carpet, thoughtful. "Could it be that with so much going on with the most obvious suspects, you've completely ignored someone who directly threatened you?"

"Adam? Why would he want to kill Eileen?"

"You tell me."

I thought about it for a moment. "Okay, he admitted he pushed me down the stairs, but we don't know that he can hot wire a car."

"And we don't know he can't, either.”

That made sense. More than I wanted to admit. That all-too-familiar queasiness invaded my gut.

"Do you think he could be protecting Susan like he claimed?" Richard asked.

"I don't know what to think."

"Maybe we'd better have a little chat with Susan.”

I grabbed my jacket and followed him to the living room. As expected, we found Susan in the hole in the wall she called an office, tapping on her computer keyboard.

"Susan? Do you have a minute?"

She turned, looked at me over the top of her half glasses. "A minute."

"I want to ask you about Adam."

Something in her expression flickered—anger, annoyance?—then was gone. She looked at me suspiciously. "What about him?"

"Do you think he's capable of murder?"

Her eyes widened. "What?"

"You heard me.

"He's a nice kid."

"Nice kids don't push people down a flight of stairs.”

She turned in her chair. "Don't you think you're overreacting?"

"Don't you get it? He tried to kill me."

She looked back at me, her eyes narrowed. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh no?" Sudden insight filled me as images of them together assaulted my mind. "How about you and Adam in that hole of a room you stuck Maggie and me in? How about the two of you screwing on a blanket in the woods?"