Shadow of a Spout (17 page)

“Whoa, wait a minute,” he cried, flapping his hands at them. “That’s for employees only.”

Detective O’Hoolihan and a uniformed officer were coming through the front doors of the inn just then, as Sophie explained to the inn owner what they were doing. “We just want to check,” she finished. “Someone noticed Mrs. Earnshaw going through this door, and she hasn’t been seen since.”

“Having spoken to the lady in question, I would say she’s fully capable of not just going downstairs, but getting herself into trouble while there,” O’Hoolihan said.

Cissy bridled and was about to respond, but Sophie grabbed her arm and squeezed, since what he said helped them. “I’m sure you don’t want to be responsible if she’s hurt and unable to call for help. We’ll just take a quick look around and be back up in two seconds.” Sophie pulled her friend through the door as the detective engaged the innkeeper, asking him a question about something.

A fluorescent light flickered in an annoying jittery beat at the top of the cement stairway as the two descended. She led Cissy to the kitchen. “Hey, guys,” she said. The prep cook, chopping onions, did not respond, but the two guys at the stove and grill looked around. “Has anyone seen an elderly lady down here wandering around? She may have poked her head into the kitchen at some point.” Sophie knew enough not to say it out loud with Cissy right there, but everyone in Gracious Grove knew that Thelma Mae Earnshaw was a snoop and could not be trusted alone in anyone’s home or establishment.

Both shook their heads with identical mystified expressions.

“While we search for her, can you check with your buddy?” she said, indicating the guy who hadn’t looked around. She could see earbuds in his ears and a cell phone tucked in the pocket of his apron. He nodded his head in time with the beat in his headphones.

Tugging Cissy after her, she explored the warren of hallways, opening doors, finding the bathroom and storerooms and especially checking the walk-in freezer. She was immensely relieved to find no one in it, because she hadn’t put it past Mrs. Earnshaw to get trapped in such a spot. There was one locked door, though. She stopped at it, Cissy at her side, and shouted, “Mrs. Earnshaw? Are you here anywhere?”

“Grandma!” Cissy shouted. “Grandma, are you here?” No sound. Cissy shrugged. “I guess she’s not here. Let’s go back upstairs. Maybe she went shopping or something.”

But Sophie stubbornly held her spot. She had a feeling. “Quiet for a moment,” she said. There was a faint scratching sound on the other side of the door, Sophie thought. This was the very room Melissa had jokingly pointed out as Bertie’s panic room. She tapped on the door and called out, “Mrs. Earnshaw? Are you in there?”

A weak voice answered, “Help! I’ve been in here all day. Help!”

“Grandma?” Cissy cried, putting her ear to the door. “Grandma, are you okay?”

“Get me out of here!”

“This is the exact same room I got locked in when I was a teenager!” Cissy wailed, both hands on her head. She began crying, Mrs. Earnshaw was howling, and the two kitchen guys were in the background doubled over with laughter. Sophie shot them a dirty look. “Can one of you guys help? Unlock this door.”

One said, “We don’t have keys. We’re just the kitchen help.”

“You’re the chef here!” she exclaimed to the older of the two, guessing based on his seniority. “Surely you must have keys.”

They shrugged and slouched back into the kitchen. Sophie’s ire burned, but she was mostly concerned with Mrs. Earnshaw, who was howling even louder now, repeatedly, “
Get me out of here!
”

“Cissy, stay here by the door and I’ll get Bertie.”

She threaded through the halls and took the stairs two at a time then bolted through the door to the check-in desk. Pastor Frank was there, and he and Bertie looked to be in some kind of heated discussion, but Sophie didn’t have time to wait.

“Mr. Handler, come quick! Mrs. Earnshaw got herself locked in your panic room.” The moment she called it that she wished she had said it differently, because his expression changed to anger.

“My
what
?”

She impatiently hopped from foot to foot. “Whatever you want to call it . . . the locked room downstairs.”

“The one you locked me in the night Zunia was butchered!” Pastor Frank said, his cheeks bright red.

Sophie’s gaze swiveled to the pastor. “He had you locked in that room? Why?”

Bertie glared at him, his gray eyes bulging and bloodshot. “I
told
you not to say anything about that. I apologized for forgetting you, now shut up!”

The pastor backed away from the desk, watching the innkeeper. “I’m sorry, Bertie, but—”

“What’s going on here?”

It was Detective Hodge. Sophie turned to him in relief and explained the situation without referencing the conflict between the pastor and the innkeeper, though her mind was going a mile a minute on that subject. Why would the innkeeper lock the pastor in a room downstairs? Was the pastor afraid of Bertie, as he appeared to be?

But back to the matter at hand.

The detective held out one hand to Bertie and snapped his fingers. “The keys!”

“I’ll do it.
I’ll
unlock the door!” he said, with bad grace, pulling a ring of keys out of his pocket and selecting one.

“Just give me the keys,” the detective said, holding his gaze. The innkeeper obliged without another murmur.

Sophie led the way. They found Cissy almost hysterical and Thelma still howling behind the locked door. Detective Hodge unlocked it and Thelma burst from the room, falling into Eli’s arms. She looked up.

“Who are
you
?” she asked, righting herself and pulling away, settling her floral muumuu around her ample midsection.

Cissy, weeping, threw her arms around her grandmother. “Are you okay, Grandma? I was so worried!”

Thelma shrugged her granddaughter off and stared at the detective. Sophie introduced them.

“You’re one of Laverne’s nephews?” Thelma said, eyes wide. “You’re a tall drink of water, aren’t you?” She turned to her granddaughter. “What are
you
crying for? I’m the one who was locked away.”

Sophie stepped into the room, curious, as Bertie Handler hustled down the hall toward them. The windowless room was smallish and lined with piles of boxes, mostly canned and dry goods, as well as some office supplies. But there was a cot and magazines, a lamp, which was on, a flashlight and some rumpled bedding.

“Nothing to see here,” Bertie said, entering and trying to shoo her out.

“Is this where you were hiding the evening Zunia was killed? I was told that you were going to hide in the cellar if the storm got bad, and it
did
get bad, bad enough that the thunder and lightning set off the fire alarm, I understand.” She met the innkeeper’s gaze. “But . . . no, because Pastor Frank said you locked him in here that night. What was
that
all about?”

“Yes, what
was
that all about?” the detective asked.

“I told the other fellow, Detective O’Hoolihan, what happened,” Bertie said, crossing his arms over his chest, beads of sweat erupting on his forehead and balding dome. “Frank got into a tiff with Mr. Pettigrew. I had to separate them and locked Frank in here. I forgot about him for a while, but when the storm hit in the middle of the night I came down here. He was gone, though, and the room was unlocked. He got out somehow, and
that
is the truth! I told the cops everything.”

“Pastor Frank was out when you came down?” Sophie said. “How was that possible if you had the key?”

“I don’t know, I tell you!” He covered his eyes with shaking hands and moaned, “When is this going to end? Why me?”

“For Pete’s sake,” Thelma said, making a rude noise, tongue thrust out. “What a crybaby.
I’m
the one who got locked in there. Durned lock must be faulty, ’cause I just fell against the door, it opened, I fell in and the door locked behind me.”

So even if Pastor Frank was locked in here at the time of the murder, Sophie reasoned, it didn’t eliminate him as a suspect, not if the lock was faulty.

“How long were you in there, Grandma? You said all day, but that’s not true.”

She shrugged “That isn’t important. I need a bathroom, and fast, or you’re gonna have to clean up a puddle.”

The detective cleared his throat as Cissy supported her grandmother down the hall. Sophie glanced over at him suspiciously, wondering if he was stifling a chuckle; however, his expression was sober and serious. Bertie started to follow the two women, but Eli grabbed him by the sleeve. “Wait just a minute. Miss Taylor had a good question that you didn’t answer. If you didn’t let the pastor out, who did?
He
says you let him out;
you
say he was gone when you came down. So . . . was the door still locked when you came down to let the pastor out?”

Bertie paused and looked down at the floor. Whether he was trying to remember or trying to figure out what story would be best for his alibi, it was hard to say.

“I don’t remember. I think it was unlocked,” he said stiffly. “You heard that woman; the lock is faulty. Now, if you do not mind I am in the middle of a crisis and quite possibly a nervous breakdown.” He whirled on his feet and headed down the passageway toward the stairs, and they could hear him clomp up them with a heavy tread.

Chapter 18

“I
know this isn’t your case.” Sophie paused, trying to figure out how to say that she’d rather talk to him than one of the others. She didn’t want to badmouth the other detectives, but perhaps because of his tie to her godmother she instantly trusted Eli and preferred to tell him over anyone else. “But I have some information that I may as well pass along to you while I have you.” In an undertone so the cooks couldn’t hear, she told Eli most of what she had thought and imagined and investigated. He listened, leaning back against the wall, looking down at the floor.

She then told him that she was looking into Dahlia Pettigrew’s movements that night and he took in a deep breath, shaking his head. “Miss Taylor—”

“Sophie.”

“Sophie. I appreciate that you’re trying to help, but you just can’t interfere in an investigation.”

“I’m not interfering.” Her phone buzzed just then and she checked it. Jason had just texted her that Dahlia Pettigrew’s car had not come back to the lot until three forty-seven in the morning. She showed the message to the detective. “Cruickshank College is about twenty-five or thirty minutes from here.”

He nodded and narrowed his eyes, staring down at Sophie. “I know that. And you did
this
after I basically told you to butt out.”

Sophie didn’t reply; she was too busy working out the timeline. Nana had said that the body was found at around three thirty. It seemed that Dahlia was out of contention as the murderer, then, but where was Emma? Josh had said that Emma came into the inn while they were all gathered in the convention room, and that was well
after
the murder. If she had been with her mother, where was she in the meantime? “Sorry . . . what did you say, Detective?”

“Look, we appreciate the information. I’m not sure O’Hoolihan is aware of the Dahlia Pettigrew angle, so I’ll bring it to his attention.”

“Josh Sinclair told me that Emma Pettigrew came into the inn early in the morning after the murder in the same clothes he’d seen her in the night before, so she could have been with her mother, I guess.” She’d let him figure out the timeline himself.

He was silent for a long moment, but then said, “I’ve read through all the statements, but I can’t share that stuff with you. We’ll take it into consideration. Thank you for your information; now leave it alone.”

“But can’t you—”

“No, Sophie, leave it alone!” he said sternly. He paused, watching her, then said, “You seem like a reasonable sort, so I’ll tell you why you must let it be. You could seriously damage the case if you interfere. Don’t endanger yourself out of some mistaken sense that you can find the truth before we do.”

“Okay,” she said, subdued by his demeanor. “I haven’t been asking around because I think I can solve the case.” For some reason his opinion mattered to her, and it concerned her that he thought she didn’t have confidence in the police’s ability to solve the murder. But she had a vague feeling that he had manipulated her to feel that way, and it irritated her. “I was just trying to help. I’m mainly concerned for my grandmother.”

“I don’t mean to be harsh,” he said gently, his serious blue-gray eyes holding her gaze. “I’m concerned for your safety. In my experience murderers find it easier to kill a second time. And they get paranoid; they’ll kill just to cover their tracks.”

Reality-check time
, Sophie thought, with a shiver. She touched his arm. “Thank you, Eli. You’re absolutely right. I’ll take your advice and be careful. All I want is to get my grandmother home safe and sound.”

“That’s my focus, too, getting my Auntie Lala back to GiGi.”

Dana’s smitten expression and hyped-up awareness came back to her; her friend hadn’t had a lot of luck in the romance department. In fact, the girl hadn’t dated in over a year, she’d told Sophie. She complained of a list of losers in her dating past and stated her determination not to date again unless the guy was marriage worthy. “Detective, you seem like a really nice guy,” she said, on impulse.

“I hope I am,” he replied, taking her arm and leading her toward the stairs. “Some men think ‘nice’ is an old-fashioned concept, along with manners and honor. I don’t hold with fellows who think that to be cool they have to be bad boys.”

“Are you single?”

She felt a jolt of surprise go though his body and he looked down at her.

“Uh, yes. Yes, I am.” His expression was uncertain.

It took her a moment, but she got why he looked that way; she smiled. He thought she was coming on to him! Wow, that was so far from her modus operandi. He was giving her points for guts she didn’t have. She couldn’t even talk to Jason about their relationship, whatever it was. “Just curious. Thought I’d let you know, my friend Dana Saunders is not only gorgeous but one of the smartest woman I’ve met in a long time and nicer than she pretends to be.”

“Why does everyone in my life think they have to fix me up?”

She chuckled at his plaintive tone as they wound back through the hallways. “I have a feeling it’s because you’re a really nice guy. Take it as a compliment! I’m just saying . . . she is worth going out of your way for.” She stole a glance sideways, but his expression was impossible to read. “I won’t say another word, I promise.”

Once upstairs the detective went to find his colleagues, so Sophie took a seat in the lobby alcove to text a thank-you for the information back to Jason. She finished that and got her notebook out as a shadow fell over her.

It was Rhiannon with a box in her arms. “I have Rose’s Tea-riffic Tea Blend order,” she said.

“Okay,” Sophie replied. She waited a moment, watching her friend’s face. “You look like you have something more to say,” she said.

“I do.” Rhiannon set the box down and sat in one of the alcove chairs across from Sophie, the leather crackling and squeaking as she shifted. “Is Detective O’Hoolihan here?”

Sophie nodded.

“I need to talk to him.”

Sophie remembered what Detective Hodge said about Rhiannon lying about being home all night. “What’s up?”

Rhiannon paused, but then looked down and scuffed at the worn carpet with one toe of her sandals. “I wasn’t home that night like I told the cops.”

“Where were you?”

Rhiannon let the silence stretch for a while. When she spoke again, it was not in answer to Sophie’s question. “I work hard to make my business a success. It’s my mother’s, after all, and I don’t want to bring shame to it.” She paused and shook her head. “Geez, that sounds so lame.”

“It’s
not
lame. I get it, Rhi, I really do,” Sophie said. “I feel the same about Nana’s tearoom.”

“Friday was hard. I had a rotten day here, for reasons I won’t go into.”

Sophie knew some of it and could imagine more. Rhiannon was being sidelined by the ITCS leadership and it was affecting not only her personal life, but also her business, if what Sophie had heard was correct. Nana said that Zunia was trying to get Rhiannon removed as official tea supplier to the ITCS New York division. But Rhi was also faced with her former lover Walter Sommer, his new lover Zunia, and everything else. It’s no wonder that she had that fight with Zunia at the inn that evening.

“Instead of going home after that argument with Zunia, I headed out—I didn’t care where I was going. I ended up at a bar on the highway and met Mike, this guy I know. He’s the courier driver who brings my packages.” She shook her head and sighed. “I went home with him.”

Gently, Sophie said, “Don’t beat yourself up. So you had a night with a guy you know; it’s not the end of the world and it’s not like you picked up some stranger.”

Rhiannon sighed. “I don’t handle stress very well. I’ve done that before and it’s no way to behave. I need to get my act together.”

Sophie reached out and took Rhi’s hand, ducking her head to meet her friend’s green eyes. “Stop being so mean to yourself. You’re a good person. Nobody’s perfect.”

“I hate the regrets I have the next day, you know?”

“The things we do that we regret don’t define who we are.”

“Maybe not, but if Nora Sommer ever gets wind she’ll make sure Zunia’s aim is finished. She and Zunia have a lot in common, like two peas in a pod.”

“But that wouldn’t be any of her business, would it?” Sophie asked, wondering if Rhiannon was being just a little paranoid. Maybe her experience from the year before had made her hypersensitive.

“She wouldn’t see it that way, I can tell you that.”

“So Nora doesn’t like you, either?”

“Let’s just say that both Zunia and Nora have a good reason not to be too fond of me.”

Sophie tried to think of a way to ask about her and Walter’s relationship but was tongue-tied. There were just some things you couldn’t ask, but her self-confessed tendency to have flings explained a lot. “Rhi, did you notice anything else going on that evening when you were here arguing with Zunia?” Sophie asked, thinking of the confrontation between Orlando Pettigrew and Pastor Frank, and Bertie Handler’s “jailing” of Frank in the panic room.

“What do you mean?” Rhiannon said, standing and tugging her shorts down.

“Was there anyone else around?”

“I came here to confront Zunia. I had phoned her, wanting to clear the air. She had some . . . uh . . . mistaken ideas about me and Walter.” She shifted from foot to foot and looked off into the distance. “I don’t want to go into that. Anyway, I met her here in the lobby and we argued, then I stormed off. I didn’t see anyone else, but there probably could have been a dozen costumed clowns here and I wouldn’t have noticed, I was so angry.”

“What time was that, anyway?”

“About ten thirty or eleven. It was late. I had been stewing about it, so I texted her and then called her, saying I wasn’t just going to slink off and let her ruin my standing with the ITCS, not when my mother worked hard to build that darned organization to what it is today.” She stared at Sophie. “Why are you asking all these questions?”

“No reason. Just curious,” Sophie said.

Rhi took a deep breath. “Well, that’s off my chest to you, and now I have to go talk to that detective. It was so stupid of me to lie to the cops about where I was, but I just . . . I felt like an idiot. Can I leave the box of tea with you?”

“Sure. Nana will send you a check when we get back to GiGi.” She hesitated a moment, but then said, “If you don’t feel comfortable talking to O’Hoolihan, look for Detective Hodge. You might find him more simpatico.”

“It doesn’t really matter who I talk to, but I don’t want to have to explain myself all over again to a new detective, so my fellow Irishman will do. Talk to you later, Soph.”

“’kay. Keep your chin up. It’ll all be okay.”

Rhiannon walked away, but just before she reached the check-in desk, presumably to ask Bertie where the detective was, Walter Sommer emerged from the dining room and saw her. He strode over to her. They chatted for a moment, and then he took her in his arms and hugged her. He glanced around with a guilty start and released her. She clung to his arm and they walked away together.

It was odd that Rhiannon had referenced her relationship to Walter, said that Zunia didn’t need to worry about it, and yet there she was hugging him in an intimate manner. Maybe Nora and Zunia did have the same reason for not liking Rhiannon. Maybe Walter was still fond of Rhi in a way he shouldn’t be, as a married man.

But it all came down to the facts: If Rhiannon was telling the truth then she could not have been Zunia Pettigrew’s killer. That was good—one person knocked off the list, but many more to go.

She paused to marshal her thoughts and glanced down at her notebook. What had she established so far? The teapot was not the real weapon, so the teapot was stolen just to make Nana look guilty. That meant there was another weapon out there, and if they hadn’t found it readily, then it had been disposed of, either nearby or somewhere else. But it would pretty much have to be nearby, because the killer, if it was one of the inn guests, had to be close at hand.

She remembered the Dumpster in back and the yellow police tape floating from it. That was the most likely location of the real murder weapon, and it meant that the killer did indeed nip through the downstairs, out the door and likely back in again. The killer had to have known their way around the inn, but she knew it pretty well already herself, and she had just arrived the day before. For all Bertie’s antsiness about her going down there, if even Thelma Earnshaw could slip down to the basement unnoticed, then anyone could.

The basement made her think of Pastor Frank’s assertion that Bertie had let him out of the locked room, and Bertie’s adamant statement that he had
not
released him but had come to the room and found Frank gone. Was it possible that the killer, with the master key in hand, had turned the key in the lock to free the pastor and then escaped back upstairs before he emerged?

It
was
possible. If it was dark down there, as it likely was in the dead of night, it would be easy to disappear before Frank got out into the hall. He would think Bertie had let him out when it was really the killer, who wanted yet another potential suspect free. But if that was so, then where did the pastor go? If he went up to his room and Zunia was already dead by the elevator . . . But who said she was already dead?