Room At The Inn (The Jeff Resnick Mysteries) (22 page)

"Jeff—" Richard warned.

Susan's glare grew menacing, her words deliberate—her tone icy. "I've had enough interrogation for one day. I want you out of my house. Now!"

"Jeff, let's get some coffee."

My defiant stare made no impression on Richard, so I pivoted and walked off. He quickly caught up with me, snagged my arm and steered me toward the stairs to the lower level.

"I don't want coffee."

"Yes, you do," he said and gave me a shove.

I headed down the steps. "The last thing I need right now—"

He jostled past me on the stairway. "Shut up."

Surprised by his tone, I did as I was told.

The lower level was deserted, and I reluctantly followed my brother into the empty, spotless kitchen.

"What the hell was that all about?" he demanded. "Why tip your hand? She could be in this with Adam."

"I don't know," I said stupidly. "She pisses me off."

"Letting your anger get the better of you isn't going to solve this."

"Now look who's talking about solving it."

He leaned again
against the center island, resigned. "Let's drop it. Instead, tell me what you were doing when that funny feeling came over you Friday night."

I leaned against the sink, trying to overcome my annoyance. "I went to the bar to get ice. The bucket was empty, so I came in here."

"Show me what you did.”

Dutifully, I trudged to the freezer, opened the door, saw a new, ten-pound bag of ice.

Déjà vu.

I closed the freezer door with exaggerated care. My gaze traveled around the room, like it had Friday night. Again, my eyes were drawn to the sink.

"I felt like I should pick up the glasses."

"But you didn't.”

I shook my head, puzzled by the anxiety—the dread—building within me.

"Go ahead—do it now."

"What's the point?"

"Humor me."

I stepped up to the deep porcelain sink, reached for one of the glasses, but stopped, frowning. "Maybe it wasn't the glasses...." My gaze shifted up from the sink to the antique cooking utensils decorating the wall. "Something's different."

Before Richard could ask, a commotion overhead interrupted us. A herd of heavy footsteps clomped across the wooden floor. I heard muffled voices. The words were indistinct, but the tone was angry.

In an instant, I sprinted for the lobby. Topping the stairs, I pushed my way through a crowd of new guests just in time to see one of the uniformed cops hauling a handcuffed Susan through the front door, with Beach bringing up the rear.

"Wait," I yelled, but the police ignored me. "Beach, she didn't kill Eileen."

He turned, annoyed. "How do you know?"

"I just do."

"Not good enough. If you come up with anything solid—call me."

They shoved Susan into the back of a patrol car, while Ashley snapped pictures as fast as her flash could recycle.

"I'll call the lawyer, honey, and see you at the station," Zack called, and rushed back inside the inn, heading for the office.

Richard and I watched from the porch as the patrol car pulled out of the driveway and headed south toward the village. Ashley stood in the drive, her camera still slung around her neck, scribbling in a spiral notebook.

"Ashley, what's going on?" I called.

"Just what it looks like," she hollered and started for her van.

I jogged to intercept her. "They're arresting Susan for murder?"

"Yeah. I’ve got to get back to the office. It'll be my byline on page one."

"They're going to let her go—she didn't kill Eileen."

She turned away, ignoring me. "What are you, psychic?"

"Yeah, I am."

She climbed behind the wheel of her van and started the engine.

Richard came up behind me. "Do you know for sure Susan didn't kill him?"

"Yes. C'mon, I want to show you something.”

The throng of curious bystanders had thinned by the time we reentered the inn. Richard followed me back to the kitchen, where I pointed at the wall of antiques. "Look at the potato mashers."

His gaze traveled along the shelf where some dozen or so antique, heavy wooden mashers stood. They were more or less cylindrical with tapered handles. Each worthy of the description blunt instrument.

"So?"

"One of them was missing Friday night."

"Which one?"

I went to take one, but he grabbed my hand. "Wait." He took out his clean handkerchief and picked it up by the slender handle. "There probably aren't any fingerprints, but just in case." He rolled the masher in the cloth, noting a mark on the side.

"Is that blood?" I asked.

"Hard to tell. It would have to be tested in a lab. Do you think it was Adam who did it?"

"I'd have to touch it. And I can't ... not until the cops look at it."

"You'll have to call Beach."

"And say what? That I think Adam smacked Eileen in the head with a potato masher?" I hefted the primitive utensil; it weighed about a pound, but was capable of delivering a deadly blow. "That sounds kind of stupid, don't you think?"

"Not if it's true."

"But I can't prove it. It's just hearsay." We stared at the masher. "Put it back. It isn't going anywhere. I can tell Beach about it later."

Richard stretched to put the masher back on the shelf; this time I stopped him. "Just in case, why don't we exchange it with that one over there." I pointed to a duplicate.

He switched mashers, angling the murder weapon so the dark smudge faced the wall. "Now what?"

"We could confront him."

"He's a murderer. Why make yourself a target?" Richard asked.

"Maybe he didn't mean to kill Eileen."

"Or push you down the stairs, or crash your car—?"

My half-hearted attempt at devil's advocacy instantly vanished.

"What are you doing?"

We both whirled. Adam stood in the doorway, a sack of groceries in his arms, his expression clouded with anger. My stomach knotted: how much had he seen and heard?

"Just admiring the antiques," I bluffed.

"Bullshit! Get away from there."

We backed away slowly—and into a corner.

"Look," Richard started reasonably, "we're just—"

"Shut up," Adam ordered, dumping the sack on the center island. Growing fury twisted his features. "What happened upstairs?"

"They arrested Susan for Eileen Marshall's murder."

"Shit!" He smashed his fist on the counter, making us flinch.

"What really happened that night, Adam?" I asked.

"How would I know?"

"Because you were there. You lied to Beach. You never work nights, but you were at the inn on Friday
and
Saturday nights. You parked your truck up on the adjoining property so no one would see it."

"Jeff—" Richard's voice was a warning.

"You seem to know a lot about what's been going on here."

It was time to hedge. "No more than the cops."

"Yeah, then how come
you're
asking these questions, not them?"

Uh-oh.

"You know, Mr
.
Resnick, I think you know just a little
too
much." He grabbed a knife from the island's cutlery rack, its eight-inch blade glinting under the fluorescent light.

He moved closer.

Cornered, there was nowhere for us to go.

I lashed out with my sneakered foot, catching his left arm, but instead of knocking him off balance, he whirled and lunged forward, slashing the sleeve of my heavy denim jacket. I fell back against Richard, my right hand clamped to my bleeding forearm.

Adam loomed with the knife. "That's the last stupid move you're going to make,
Mr.
Resnick—" He made the title an insult.

I swallowed, collecting some very bad vibes from our young friend.

Warm blood soaked my sleeve, dripping onto the linoleum. Adam nodded at Richard and tossed him a soiled kitchen towel. "You, doctor, take care of him."

Wary, Richard unsnapped my sleeve cuff, folded back the fabric, pried my fingers away from the wound, all the while keeping an eye on our assailant. He blotted the blood.

"It's not too bad, but it really should be sutured." He tore the towel in half, making a bandage out of it, tying it with a strip from the bloodied cloth. "Isn't that the same move that got your arm broken last winter?" he grated.

"Old habits die hard.”

He winced at my word choice.

"Shut up," Adam ordered. "Now, button it up—I don't want anyone getting curious." He pointed at me. "Clean up this mess.”

He tossed me a towel to wipe up my own blood. Queasy, I did as he said—anything to stall for time. I was about to dump the towel into the hamper when Adam tossed me a plastic trash bag.

"In there. I'm not leaving evidence behind this time."

The dumb shit didn't know spraying the area with Luminol would cause any trace of blood to fluoresce. Expensive—highly toxic—and probably out of the league of a small-town police force, but there'd be enough evidence to place me at the scene … if anyone thought to look.

Adam grabbed the potato masher—the wrong one—and shoved it into his jacket pocket. "Now, the three of us are going for a ride. Doctor, you'll drive. And I'm going to hold a knife on your little buddy the whole way. Do anything stupid and you'll have his death on your conscience."

Still on my knees, he waved for Richard to back off, then grabbed me by my jacket collar and yanked me to my feet. The knife pressed into my side. He nodded toward the patio. "Outside.”

With Richard in the lead, we circled the inn, staying close to the building. I'm not the hero type, and my throbbing arm was enough to convince me to wait for a better opportunity. I wondered if Richard would make some kind of move—do something—to give me that opportunity, all the while hoping there'd be a stray cop out front.

No such luck.

Adam stuck to me like a shadow, his left hand on my left shoulder, the knife pressed against my back. He steered us toward the side of the garage where his battered green pick-up was parked. My heart sank at the sight of a hunting rifle with a scope resting on the gun rack.

We were as good as dead.

The cool, overcast day had either driven everyone into their rooms or enticed them to leave for an early dinner. No one was around—no one looked out the inn's windows.

Adam shoved me against the side of the truck. He tossed Richard a set of keys. "Get in.”

Richard opened the driver's door and climbed behind the wheel.

"Open the door," Adam told me.

I slid in next to Richard. Before I had time to reach for and slam the door, Adam piled in. He wrapped his left arm around my throat. The knife jabbed my ribs. "Toss the bag on the floor. Now, pull out and head north," he told Richard.

Richard shoved the key into the ignition. The engine roared to life. No one saw us pull out of the drive and onto the highway.

Hands clenching the wheel, Richard kept his eyes riveted on the road. I tried not to look at him or at Adam, but my gaze kept drifting from the knife, to the road, and back again. I felt I should do something, maybe elbow Adam in the stomach, but I knew he'd shove the blade between my ribs without hesitation. It was harder to wait, but it might be our best chance.

As always, Richard was a blank to me, but in this instance it was a blessing; I had my own fears to contend with. Adam exuded absolute confidence, without a shred of fear—which scared me shitless.

We traveled along the empty road, past motels, restaurants, and acres of forest in between, for two or three miles. I kept hoping Richard would do something—smash the truck into a tree—anything! But he drove like a grandmother, obeying all the traffic laws. I couldn't blame him; I wouldn't have gambled with his life either.

Adam broke the heavy silence. "Slow down. There's a road on the left that leads to the Mt. Mansfield ski area. Take it."

A gravel track appeared. Richard pulled onto it, slowing. We traveled a couple hundred yards until we came to a service road and a large empty gravel parking lot.

"Drive up there. Park behind that building."

Richard stopped the truck behind a small shed. Above a boarding ramp, a miniature cabin sat atop the world’s largest pulley. He cut the engine and looked past me to our captor. "Now what?"

"Get out. Keep your hands where I can see them."

We waited as Richard got out, and then moved away from the truck, his hands raised in surrender. Adam shoved me facedown on the seat, pinned me, as he grabbed the rifle from the rack. "In case you were wondering, it
is
loaded.”

Adam backed off, and I looked over my shoulder to see him toss the knife into the truck bed, and the gun trained on my face. Then he opened the glove compartment, took out a box of ammo, and pocketed it. "Get out.”

I slid across the seat and got out. He nudged me with the barrel. "Over there.”

With my hands in plain sight, I moved to stand beside Richard, who looked downright terrified. Just as scared, I couldn't offer comfort. Adam walked to the front of the truck, reached in the driver's side, grabbed the keys, pocketed them, and slammed the door.

He herded us closer to the shed, backed up to the door and smashed the glass with the butt of the stock, then reached through and opened it. I was sure he meant to kill us right then—but instead he groped for a key—turned it, and threw the main power switch. The ski lift jerked into motion.

"I know a nice quiet place at the top of the mountain, where nobody's going to find you. At least not for a very long time."

He motioned us over to the platform where a plaque overhead read: Wait Here.

"When the next seat comes up, get on.”

I looked at Richard, who only shrugged. The metal chair came up from behind at mid-thigh, forcing us into it. Adam slapped the safety bar into place.

"I'll be right behind you," he warned, brandishing the rifle for emphasis.

"Jesus Christ," Richard muttered. "What the hell—?"

"Shut up," Adam shouted behind us.

The chair rose in the air, high above the ground, heading up the side of the mountain at a leisurely pace. We faced straight ahead, eyes intent on the scenery before us.

"What the hell are we going to do?" Richard grated.

"If Adam had any brains, he would've killed us the minute we got out of the truck."

"Well, the dumb ass sure outfoxed us, and the cops."

"Sorry I got you involved in this, Rich. God, I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted. Now get me out of it."

I tried to squelch my growing panic. I'd been skiing exactly twice in my life and never on this mountain. I had no idea how long the ride to the summit would take—but I knew we only had minutes to live if we didn't do something before we got to the top. I could see only one way out.

"We've got to jump."

Richard glanced at me, aghast, then turned to stare straight ahead once more. "We'll break our necks."

"It's either that or a rifle shot in the back."

Richard swallowed. "I'll take my chances jumping. When?"

"I'll tell you.”

Frantic, I studied the terrain ahead. Boulders jutted through the thin topsoil directly underneath us, but a hundred yards farther up the mountain was a clear grassy spot with a drop of perhaps only fifteen feet.

"What about the safety bar?"

It would take split-second timing. Even with an injured arm, I figured my reflexes were still probably faster than Richard's. "I'll take care of it. Jump when I tell you. Don't grab the seat—don't hang on—or he'll have a clear shot at you. Try and roll when you land."

"We're going to kill ourselves."

"Have you got a better idea?"

He shook his head almost imperceptibly.

"Get ready." I moved my arms under the safety bar.

Richard closed his eyes. "Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners—"

"Now!"

The bar flew up.

We pushed forward into open space.

The rifle went off with a bang.

Richard rolled as he landed. I didn't. My left ankle hit solid rock with the force of a pile driver. White-hot explosions ignited before my eyes.

Richard grabbed my arm. "Move!"

He hauled me toward the trees and cover. The rifle thundered again, the dirt just inches from my feet exploding like a mortar blast.

Hopping and scrabbling, we darted into the safety of the trees, where I collapsed on the moldering mat of leaves and dirt, breathless.

Adam faced backwards, balanced on the lift chair, reloading, aiming the rifle. He fired twice, wide and high over our heads.

Panting, Richard plastered his right arm across his chest, fingers clutching the fabric on his left shoulder.

"Are you okay?" I rasped.

"I think I fractured my collar bone. It hurts like hell. How about you?"

"Ankle. I think it's broken."

"Let's see." He crouched down, helped me peel back my sock. It was too soon to see a sign of damage, and the light filtering through the trees was far from good. He grasped my ankle. The pain shot straight through to my skull. I fell back, my vision darkening until I thought I'd pass out.

"It doesn't feel broken," Richard said, still palpating. "But a sprain can hurt more than a break. Without ice, it'll swell up like a melon, too."

I leaned against a tree, still trying to catch my breath. "Talk about the walking wounded.”

Richard pulled up my sock. He sat back on his heels, brushed his sleeve against his face, which came away bloody from a cut on his cheek. "Now what?"

My mind raced as my stomach roiled.

Adam.

There’d been no more shots. Had he jumped, too?

"We’ve got to get the hell out of here."

"And go where?" Richard asked.

"Back down the mountain."

"There's no one around for miles. We're both hurt and there's a maniac with a gun after us."

"Yeah, let's go.”

"Sweet Jesus, how do you get me involved in these things?"

"Shut up and move!"

Richard hauled me to my feet and we shuffle-hopped through the trees and brush, every step exquisite torment. Richard's face was a grimace. Grunting with effort, we crept down the slope, breathless in a minute.

"Slow down," Richard commanded.

"Can't," I puffed. "We don't know how close he is."

"You're hyperventilating. You'll keel over if you don't slow down. Then we won't be going anywhere."

I leaned against a birch for support, noting how Richard's fingers dug into the fabric of his jacket as he fought to keep his injured shoulder immobile; his knuckles were paper white. Despite the chill air, we were both sweating.

"How's the shoulder?"

"Fine."

"Liar."

"So sue me."

I studied the terrain, picking a new goal: a large maple. "That's enough rest. See that big tree down there." I nodded toward the right and pushed myself up. Richard put his arm around my waist, steadying me, and we were off again.

Stumbling fifteen yards over uneven, boulder-strewn ground seemed like fifteen miles. I was hyperventilating again, my vision dappling.

Skittering into the trunk, I clung to a branch, closed my eyes, and dragged in deep lungsful of air. Richard was breathing just as hard.

"This ain't working."

"Shut up and breathe," he ordered.

I glanced at my watch; it was already after six—we had maybe an hour of daylight left. We'd been on the run less than five minutes and already my reserve of strength was just about gone. My dark denim jacket gave good camouflage, but Richard's buff-colored one may as well have been a flag of surrender. Survival was the name of the game, and if we stayed together neither of us would make it.

"You’ve got to go on without me."

Richard looked up sharply. "No."

"You
have
to."

"I can't."

"Rich, there's not much daylight left. It's our only chance. Go—get help! I'll only slow us down—get us both killed."

"I
won't
leave you!"

"What about Maggie? This nut case could think she knows about him, find her, and kill her, too. Don't you see, he won't stop with just us!"

The war between logic and emotion played out across his face. "Jeff, I—"

"Brenda needs you. You’ve got to go. Stay in the woods—but close to the ski lift so you don't get lost."

"I can't leave you here to die."

"It's a big mountain. Adam won't find me in the dark. Besides, I'll find a place to hole-up.”

His worried eyes, filled with indecision, bore into me.

"Rich, you're wasting time."

He grabbed me in a fierce, one-armed hug. When he pulled back, he looked me in the eyes. "I'll be back for you. I promise. I love you, kid."

"Go!"

He turned, skittering down the slope without looking back. I watched as he half-ran, half-slid down the incline, and followed his progress until he was out of sight, hidden by trees and brush.

Then I was truly alone in that damnably quiet forest.