Checking Inn (10 page)

“Who was friends with her?” he asks.  “Maybe they were still in contact with her at the time of her death.”

“Well, Tracy was her best friend,” I say.  “But I know they haven’t spoken in years.  And Tim, Tracy’s husband.  He was good friends with her, too.”

“Did she have any boyfriends?” he asks.

“Just one,” I say, and I can feel my face go red.  “She dated Greg all throughout high school.”

He studies me with his eyebrows raised.

“You haven’t told him anything, have you?”

“No,” I say, “but I can see where you are going with this, and you’re wrong.”

He nods his head and writes something down.

“So, what are you going to do next?” I ask.

“Wait for the forensics to come back.  Keep trying to contact her mother.  Ask around town some more.  I’m going to New York tomorrow to speak with her boss and look around her apartment.”

It would be interesting to see what Samantha’s place looked like.  I imagine it would be super modern, with sharp corners everywhere.

“Would you like to come?” he asks, and I open my eyes wider.  I wonder if he can read my mind.

“Would that be 
allowed
?” I ask.  “Aren’t only police supposed to be a part of the investigation?”

“Normally yes, but sometimes we bring civilians in when we think their expertise might help the case.”

“I’m not an expert on anything though,” I argue.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re a little… obsessive.”

What?  How am I 
not
 supposed to take that wrong?

And it is so untrue.  I am not–

Alright, maybe just a little.

“So far we have next to no leads and no evidence.  We have limited time left before we eventually get in contact with her mother, at which point this probably won’t be kept quiet any longer.  You knew her and you might be able to pick something up that I would overlook.”

“Alright.  I’m not sure I’m going to be able to help, but I’ll try,” I promise.

“Thanks,” he says.  “I’ll pick you up at eight in the morning?”

“You know, maybe we should take my car,” I say.  “Your SUV kind of screams police car, my car is a little less flashy.”

And honestly I cannot handle the drive to New York in that mess. 

He studies me for a moment before shrugging.

The door opens to the staff room and my mother’s head pops through the doorway.  “Luisa said you kids might be in here.”

“I was actually just leaving,” Ben says, standing up.

“Detective Gable and I have to go to New York tomorrow.  Do you think you can be at the Inn all day?” And not burn down the place, I choose not to add.

“Of course, you two have a nice time and don’t worry about anything here.”

I’m sure going through a dead woman’s apartment is going to be the time of our lives.

Ben walks to the door and turns to me.  “I’ll be at your place for eight.”

I nod.

As Ben walks through the doorway he stops and turns to my mom.  “You were in New York last weekend, right Tara?”

“Yes,” she says smiling at him.  “I had a course I was taking.”

My body tenses as he nods.

“See you tomorrow,” he says before disappearing through the doorway.

I’m starting to regret I ever agreed to this.

Thank God I didn’t tell him about the insurance money.

Eight

See, this is how a car ride should be.  My jacket is neatly folded on the back seat, the car window is slightly rolled down, and the radio is set to the news, volume level five.

True to his word, Ben is at my house at exactly eight o’clock and sits quietly in the passenger seat while I do my five point checklist before the journey.  Luckily he doesn’t try and bring his coffee mug in the car, but if he had I stocked up the glove compartment with Lysol wipes- just in case.

We start off the journey in silence, the only movement from Ben is when he leans over and looks at my odometer with his eyebrows raised.

Honestly, there is nothing wrong with the slow lane.  And there is also nothing wrong with going five miles under the posted speed limit.   You never know if you are going to drive over black ice, or a deer may run out in the road. 

I’ll admit it is 
unlikely
 in October while driving on a city highway in the middle of the day.  But not impossible.

“Can I ask you a question?” I ask as a truck flies by us, blaring his horn.

“Sure,” he answers.

“Why did you agree not to tell the media about the murder?” I ask.

He studies me for a minute and I can’t tell what he’s thinking.

“I know we contaminated the crime scene and there probably isn’t much evidence.  It’s a pretty big risk you’re taking; I’m sure it would be easier for you if you could openly interrogate people,” I point out.

“Not necessarily.  People get their backs up when they hear you’re investigating a murder.  Even if they are completely innocent, they tend not to tell you too much because they think we are going to somehow magically blame them for everything,” he replies.  “Besides, we don’t release any information to the public before we are able to contact the next of kin.”

“Okay,” I say, nodding. 

“But if I’m being completely honest, that’s not the real reason, that’s just what I told the captain.”

“So what is the real reason?” I ask.

He looks down at his hands before lifting his gaze to look out the window.  “What you did with that Inn– it’s amazing,” he says.  “My dad used to take me by it sometimes… he loved that old mansion.  He used to like to do woodwork as a hobby and talked about all the architecture and molding inside it.  He would have loved to see it restored, and he wouldn’t have wanted me to destroy that.”

For a moment I am lost for words.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Okay, now my turn,” he says, turning in his seat slightly. 

I raise an eyebrow in his direction.

“What would you have done if I had said no to the whole firemen costumes deal?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I shake my head.  “My whole life is the Inn.  The people in town would have understood eventually, but the guests... they either would be non-existent, or people that get off on murders and ghost stories.  Not exactly the clientele I’m going for.”

“What clientele is that?”

“I’ve always just wanted people to come stay at the Inn and feel included, like they are part of our family– our town,” I say.  “My dad used to take me to Inn when I was little, too.  It was already abandoned at that point, but sometimes he would sneak me inside and let me slide down the banister.”

“You slid down a banister?” he asks.

“I used to,” I say. 

“So you were a little adventurist as a child, and then a bookworm as a teenager?” he asks.

I nod my head.

“When did you start dating Greg?” he asks.

“Greg moved to the city for college and I stayed here.  He came back to visit Vivienne after he was done for Thanksgiving and we kind of hit it off,” I shrug.

Hit it off would probably be the right way to describe it.  Greg ran into the back of my car because he was on his cell phone and asked me to dinner to make it up to me.  We had dinner the next day, and slowly over the next few months we just started seeing more and more of each other on the weekends.  I just couldn’t believe that someone like him– one of the 
popular
 kids– would be interested in me.

He was so attentive to me back then, always bringing me little gifts or saying the right things.  Not that he’s not now.  I mean, I know he’s just busy.  He’ll make it up to me when he gets a moment.

“Wasn’t it ever weird for you?  That he dated the woman who bullied you for most of your life?” he asks. 

“I make it a point to not hold other people’s mistakes against others; Greg’s not like that.  He didn’t bully me, Samantha did,” I point out.  “Greg is great–”

I swallow the last word.  Okay, maybe I do say it a little too much.

He sits quietly for a moment, mulling over my words.  “Yeah, but he never did anything to stop it, either.”

My movements become slow as I think about what he just said.

Well, it wasn’t Greg’s job to stand up for me.  I can stand up for myself. 

“What are you going to do when people actually find out that Samantha Manning was murdered at your Inn?  Because, it will come out eventually.  As soon as we tell Samantha’s mother we have very little control over what is shared with the public.”

I face forward with a determined look on my face, and try not to panic at what he is saying. 

“I don’t know.  I’m just hoping that we can somehow find the killer before then, and explain it to the public in a way that won’t hurt the Inn,” I say.

“You know these things usually take a long time to solve.  Unless there is evidence or a confession, it could take weeks, months, or even years,” he says.

I turn my head and look in his eyes.

“Well, we better hurry up then,” I put my foot down on the accelerator.

“Hello, Mr. Sanders.  Thank you for meeting with us on such short notice,” Ben shakes his hand.  “This is my assistant–”

“Candice Bourgoe,” I say, interrupting Ben, and shake the man’s hand.  “It’s French.”

Ben raises his eyebrow to me and I return it with a smile.  I came up with a whole fake identity for myself last night.  I even managed to sketch out a brief family tree.  You just never know who we might be talking to, what if Mr. Sanders was the one that killed Samantha?  Do I really want a murderer knowing my real name?

“How can I help you?” he asks, sitting back in his chair.

Samantha works– er, worked– for Review, a website originating from New York City which specializes in reviewing the hospitality industry.  Mr. Sanders’ walls are lined with sleek silver photo frames, all depicting five star restaurants and hotels from all over the world that his company has reviewed.

The Inn could have been on this wall.

“Miss. Bourgoe,” I notice Ben pauses on my name, and I send Mr. Sanders another smile, “and I are from the New York Times.  We are planning on writing an article on some local, high profile critics, and one of your employee’s name is being considered.  Samantha Manning.”

Mr. Sanders nods his head and sits forward in his chair, rubbing his chin.  “Well, this is going to be a bit awkward, but Samantha Manning no longer works for this company.”

“
What?
” I yell, and at Ben’s look I clear my throat.  “What I mean is, when did Miss. Manning leave the company?”

“We fired her a week ago,” he says and shuffles the tidy papers in front of him.

What is going on here?  If Samantha was fired, why did she come to the Inn to write a review?

“Can I ask why?” I say. 

“We had a difference of opinion on many things,” he says, averting his eyes.  “I had to let her go.”

“Difference of opinions on 
what
 exactly?” Ben asks.

“It was just a matter of personalities that clashed,” he shrugs.

“I’m afraid you’re going to need to be more specific than that, Mr. Sanders,” Ben says.

“I’m afraid that’s all I am able to say about the matter,” he says, leaning back in his chair.

I see Ben’s jaw tighten, obviously not pleased with the information a civilian can obtain, and I try to think quickly.

“Mr. Sanders, we appreciate that this is a delicate matter.  Because we are from similar industries I can appreciate the different personalities involved in the critiquing business.  But we came here to write a story.  Now, we can either ask around, perhaps talk to some of your clients, or some of your competitors, maybe even get Samantha Manning’s side of the story. Or, we can extend you the professional courtesy of your company only being noted as one of her previous employers and hear your version of the story.”

At his continued silence, I smile and pick up my bag.  “There’s one ‘A’ in Sanders, right?  I just want to make sure I get it write for the headline.”

“Alright, alright,” he says and leans forward.  “I’ll tell you, but if I do, I have your word that we are kept out of the article, right?”

Ben leans forward as I nod.

“Samantha is a bitch, if you want me to put it bluntly.  She goes around pissing the wrong people off all the time, and doesn’t appreciate that those same people she is trampling all over are the ones that are funding our business.”

“What do you mean, funding the business?”

“We like to call them ‘gifts from appreciative clients’.”

“You mean cut backs for five star reviews?” I ask.

“Don’t look so surprised, everyone does it,” he says. 

I wonder how much my scented hands soaps and chocolates would have got me.

“Samantha had just wrote a scathing review for one of our clients who was willing to fund our project for the entire year, but she wouldn’t listen to reason,” he says, shaking his head.  “I told her she was fired, and if I saw she had it printed somewhere else I would sue her for breach of contract.”

“Who was the client?” Ben asks.

“No,” he says shaking his head.  “No names.”

“What do you mean by breach of contract?” I ask.

“All my reviewers sign a contract when they start working here: any review written during their employment is owned by the company, and it is at our discretion whether we choose to print it or not.”

“So, you print the reviews from people who give you money, and those who can’t afford it get… what?”  I say, rising from my seat.  “Basically it’s a ‘pay up or you’re out of business’ venture you’re running here?”

Ben rises and puts a hand on my arm.

“Oh, don’t act so innocent.  We all do it, it’s called 
sponsorship
,” he says.    “We print a wide range of reviews.  There are some that do not get the best ratings, but that is not reflected by their lack of sponsorship.  There are times when we write very good reviews for people that do not offer us any compensation.”

“Yes, but with a sponsorship the reader is made aware it is a paid advertisement,” I argue.  “What you are doing is helping the rich get richer!”

“We had a deal,” he says, pointing his finger at me.  “None of this goes in your article.”