The Pride Trilogy: Kyle Callahan 1-3 (12 page)

Bo blushed, having been seen through so easily, and just as quickly realized he had called her by name. They’d not spoken since she arrived.

“Who mentioned my name to you?”

Sid smiled with all the warmth of a lizard eyeing its meal, and said, “Oh, I make it my business to know all the guests’ names. It’s the right thing to do.” He put his hand out at last, “Sid,” he said. “Sid Stanhope, I own Pride Lodge, along with my husband Dylan.”

She shook his hand and held it, staring into his eyes. Two could play at the predator game.

“Let’s have a table photo,” Kyle said. He took the camera from the table and walked around to get a shot of the others.

“But you’re not in it!” Eileen protested. “And my hair looks like straw!”

“It is straw,” Kyle said. “Besides, I don’t take pictures of myself. So everybody just squeeze in a little and smile when I say so.”

Sid slid his chair in from one side, Eileen from the other. Bo found herself being pressed against by a man who had been in her house thirty years ago and seen the bodies of her parents, dead in their bed with bullet wounds in their heads. She at once wanted to move away, fearful she would find a knife blade slipped between her ribs, and to move closer, ever closer, to feel his breath on her face as she watched him die.

“Cheese!” Kyle said. They all smiled reflexively and he snapped the picture.

“I should say hello to the others,” Sid said, easing back to his place and rising from his chair. “I’m not supposed to play favorites.” And then, to Bo, “Not even with someone so charming as yourself. A jewelry maker, no less.”

“Yes,” she replied, her voice cold. The game was clearly up. “I specialize in pocket watches.”

“So I’m told,” Sid said. “Well, everyone. I’ll head off now and do the meet-n-greet. See you all at the party tomorrow, if not sooner. And don’t forget to vote on the pumpkins. There’s a high-tech basket with pencils and paper on the front desk. I’m partial to Bo’s Cinderella, but I mustn’t given anything away, it’s not fair.”

Sid glanced at her one final time, adjusted his smile, and walked away from the table.

Both Kyle and Danny wanted to say, “What was that?” but neither did. Instead they turned to find Austin back at last with their drinks. Animosity still hung in the air, and Kyle waved it away, telling himself it had just been a strange encounter, nothing more. He put his camera back on the table and sat down.

Chapter 18

A Little Night Music

A
s Kyle knew
he would, Danny declined to go to the bar that night, once they’d settled back into their cabin after dinner. It had long been Danny’s habit to retire to their bed shortly after dinner and read books or magazines with the television on low volume.

This night Danny found a Frasier marathon on the Hallmark Channel. He’d undressed, slipped into the gym shorts he slept in along with his t-shirt, and nestled under the covers to watch the reruns and eat from a box of chocolates every guest at the Lodge found on their beds when they checked in.

“You’re going dressed as Laurel?” Danny said, watching Kyle get ready to head to the piano bar.

“Why not?” Kyle said. “It’s more trouble to change clothes. I don’t plan on staying long anyway, once I hear what Dylan has to say.”

“What do you think’s going on? And why get involved? This is something for the police.”

Kyle had been lying next to Danny, resting up after dinner, but had got up and started adjusting his clothes in the dresser mirror. “I agree with you, and I have every intention of calling Detective Sikorsky myself if this is more than lurid speculation. He can be lurid, you know. Dylan’s got a dramatic streak.”

“Death is dramatic.”

Kyle glanced at Danny in the mirror.

“There was a death, remember?”

“Of course I remember. And it was a death that might have been prevented if I’d picked up the phone and called Teddy last night.”

“Have you thought about that?” Danny asked.

“About what?”

“About what if it was an accident? What if Teddy fell off the wagon and ended up falling in the pool?”

“I don’t think that’s what happened.”

“Because you don’t want to think it, Kyle.”

“He was sober, I believe that.”

“Just don’t believe it against the evidence, whatever that turns out to be.”

Kyle sighed, knowing Danny was right. He didn’t want to believe Teddy had gone over the edge, that he’d thrown away six months hard-earned sobriety. But it happened all the time. Addiction was merciless, and all it took was one sip from a glass or a bottle and someone like Teddy could find himself right back where he started—or even where he ended.

The Lodge was emptying out by the time Kyle got back. He’d lingered in the cabin longer than intended, and when he walked back in he saw the twins and Elzbetta closing up the restaurant. It was after 10:00 pm, and the restaurant had seated its last guest at 9:00. Ricki had changed back into his civilian clothes and was fidgeting behind the check-in desk. Few people would still be arriving at this time of night, but a few did and the desk was staffed until midnight. Grueling hours, Kyle thought, as he walked into the great room and saw a couple of stragglers playing checkers at a table, and Jeremy Johnson, the ancient sentry, settled in for his night of television watching until well past the witching hour. Jeremy would be the last person standing—or in his case sitting—and was so much of a fixture during his stays that people tended not to notice him; he, however, noticed everything and everyone.

Kyle regretted having kept his Stan Laurel costume on. The suit didn’t fit well and the bowler hat was at least a size too small, making it perch on his head rather than fit it.

“What’s on tonight, Jeremy?” he said to the old man. Jeremy was wearing pastel striped pajamas, and it was not a costume. This is how he dressed after dinner, for his long stay in the easy chair.

“A couple of Christopher Lee Draculas,” Jeremy replied. He had a snifter of brandy sitting on the small stand by his chair. Kyle knew it would be top-of-the line and supplied by Jeremy himself. The old gent may love his visits to Pride Lodge, but there were some things even he was too particular about to leave to his hosts.

“They scared the shit out of me when I was a kid.”

“Me, too!” Ricki said from behind the desk. “Maybe I’ll join you.”

“Off to the bar?” Jeremy asked.

“Normally no, not by myself,” Kyle said. “But I thought a nightcap was in order. Danny’s asleep right about”—and he looked at his watch—“now.”

“Have fun. The kids are a little wild for me, as you know.”

By ‘kids’ Jeremy meant anyone under the age of sixty. Kyle waved to him, noticing the two men playing checkers had never looked up during the exchange, and made his way downstairs.

“Basement” wasn’t really a word that described the below-ground level of Pride Lodge. It usually conjured images of house basements with family rooms or exercise setups, washers and dryers and boxes stored away never to be opened. The basement of the Lodge was cavernous, as long and wide as the Lodge itself, and Pucky had had the idea to gut it, renovate it, and launch it as two clubs in one: a piano bar reminiscent of his favorites in New York City, and an adjacent karaoke club.

The following night the clubs would be combined for the annual Halloween blowout, but tonight they still maintained separate identities. He glanced into the karaoke bar, christened “Club K” (not, he presumed, a reference to the infamous club drug Ketamine, but to “karaoke”), and saw a dozen people sitting at booths around a central stage area where Kevin was announcing the next singer.

He headed past it down the short hall and was immediately met with the sounds of Pete the Piano Guy playing and singing “Come In From The Rain,” the Melissa Manchester, Carole Bayer Sager collaboration that always gave him goose bumps. It was a melancholy song and he knew there wouldn’t be too many of those played this weekend.

He entered Clyde’s and glanced around. The decor consisted of loveseats, sofas and overstuffed armchairs accompanied by small tables for drinks; a bar area with a dozen stools, and in a corner a baby grand where Pete held court with just his voice, his music sheets, and a giant snifter as a tip jar. Kyle knew nothing about Pete except that he’d been the main entertainment here since Clyde herself passed on some twenty years ago. He rotated now and then with other local musicians, but Pete was the main headliner. The fact that so many of the Lodge’s staff and guests had been there for many years made it that much more welcoming. It was, Kyle knew, an old friend to many, and he nodded at Pete when he entered. He noticed Pete had lost weight: the piano player wore a tuxedo, his own gimmick, but Kyle saw it was a much smaller tuxedo than it had been the last time he and Danny were here.

There were probably twenty people in the bar, as Kyle made a quick headcount. Cowboy Dave was bartending, named so for his habit of wearing a cowboy hat even though there was nothing else cowboy about him. He, too, had been a regular presence at Pride Lodge for some years, certainly since before Kyle and Danny had been coming there, and Kyle said hello as he stepped to the bar and ordered a diet cola. He wanted his senses about him tonight and wouldn’t allow himself so much as a beer.

“How’s it hanging, Kyle?” Dave asked, sliding the soda across to Kyle.

“You’d have to ask Danny that,” Kyle said, winking.

“Good to know it still works at our age, ain’t it?” Dave said.

Kyle wasn’t sure how old Dave was, and he couldn’t tell if there was hair under the hat or not; he’d never seen Dave without it. But he looked to be about fifty, and a well-kept fifty at that. The kind of older man who did a hundred sit-ups in the morning while he watched the news.

“Sorry about Happy,” Kyle said, sipping his drink.

“Oh, he’ll come back,” Dave said, and Kyle saw a distress on Dave’s face that made him think the older man and the younger one had been more than co-workers. But he knew Happy and Teddy had had something going. In fact, that was what he thought Teddy wanted to talk about and why he was leaving the Lodge. Relationships get very complicated in close quarters.

“I’ll have help tomorrow night,” Dave said. “Elzbetta for some lesbian vibe, it’s always good to have, and the twins. Ricki gets the night to party, it’s his turn this year.”

Kyle marveled at the planning, execution and sheer work of keeping an operation like the Lodge going. Someone on duty almost twenty-four hours a day. Bartending, the restaurant, it really was quite a daily undertaking.

“I never expected to see her here,” Dave said, indicating someone along the wall behind Kyle. “Maybe she’s curious. It happens.”

Kyle set his drink down, turned around, and was surprised to see Detective Linda Sikorsky sitting alone on a leather loveseat under a low-lit sconce. She saw Kyle looking at her and waved slightly. Kyle took it as an invitation, whether it was or not, and headed over to her.

She looked handsome dressed in civilian clothes. Sky-blue jeans Kyle guessed had been made to look that way with some sort of stone washing; a tan blouse with just a slight frill down the buttons; brown leather loafers. Even in street clothes she projected calm and confidence, and Kyle noticed for the first time her green eyes, made more startling by their obvious intelligence and curiosity. This was a woman who did not miss anything, and he suddenly understood that that’s why she was here: the good detective was interested in what she could learn from coming closer to what could be the scene of a crime.

“Mr. Callahan,” Linda said, patting the cushion next to her. “Have a seat.”

Kyle sat down and placed his drink on a side table. “Here for an after dinner drink?” he asked.

“What else would I be here for?”

He saw she was being mischievous.

“I’m not gay, not officially,” she said. “But I’m thinking about it. Which is still not why I’m here. I wanted to get a feel for things.”

“In a piano bar full of mature patrons.”

“At Pride Lodge,” she said. “The place has quite a history. I’ve been reading about it. Did you know it was a farmhouse in the early 1800s?”

“I had no idea.”

“Yes, and the man who owned it lost two children and his wife in rapid succession. Influenza. He was heartbroken, left the farm to decay and was never heard from again.”

“That explains the whispers of haunting.”

She arched an eyebrow and reached for her glass of white wine on a coffee table in front of them.

“Ghosts on the moors, you know.”

“More recently,” she continued, “what came to be known as ‘Pride Lodge’ was sold to Sid Stanhope and Dylan Tremblay. Or more accurately sold to one of them with the money to buy it.”

“Let me guess,” Kyle said. “Sid.”

“Yes, Sid,” she answered. “Who, most astonishingly, paid cash with the explanation he’d recently inherited it.”

“Lucky man, unlucky relative. Nobody wondered about such good fortune?”

“Cash is still king. Questions have a way of never being asked when there’s a million dollars on the table. Make that a million-five.”

Kyle was as torn as he was intrigued. He considered telling her about Dylan’s aside during the pumpkin carving. But if he told her she would likely get involved, or want to somehow listen in. He thought he should wait and hear what Dylan had to tell him, then decide what to do with the information.

“You don’t think Teddy fell into the pool by accident, either,” he said, feeling a sadness as he remembered how the day had begun. “That means a lot to me.”

“As much as I’m starting to like you, my interest is in justice.”

He nodded, understanding. It wasn’t about what Kyle wanted or needed to be true, but what Teddy needed to be known.

It was then he saw Dylan in the hallway, looking at him. The two of them exchanged quick nods, as Dylan disappeared to the men’s room and Kyle got up to follow.

“Be careful, Detective Callahan,” she said.

No, Kyle thought to himself, she didn’t miss a thing.

“Isn’t meeting in a bathroom a little . . . I don’t know, B-movieish?”

Kyle was leaning against the wall while Dylan poked his head out the door a last time to make sure no one was coming.

Dylan bent down and looked under the stalls: no one there, the coast was clear.

“I can’t risk being overheard,” he said, in a voice so low and soft he assured he would not be.

“Dylan, listen —”

“I saw you with the cop lady. She shouldn’t be here.”

“You run a public establishment. Besides, she’ll be a lesbian soon and she has to start somewhere.”

“Can we not joke for the moment?” Dylan said, and Kyle realized he was truly afraid.

“What’s going on here?”

“I don’t know!” Dylan said, his voice rising. “I don’t know! That’s the problem. I think Sid stole the money to buy this place.”

“I thought he inherited the money from an aunt.”

“That’s what he said, but why is it I never met this aunt? And when I went searching . . . nothing, Kyle. If there was a rich aunt he never mentioned, she did a very good job of taking any trace of herself to the grave. No, I think he stole the money, and I think Teddy found out.”

“A fatal bit of information, so it seems.”

“Please, I so much don’t want to think that. We’ve been together for ten years. I know Sid, he wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

Kyle waited a moment, hoping Dylan would relax enough to have a conversation that wasn’t infused with panic.

“So he wouldn’t hurt anyone, but he would steal a million dollars, or whatever the Lodge cost . . .”

“Most of it’s the land. And yes, I’m afraid he would. But I can’t say for sure he did! He told me it was an inheritance.”

“Good timing.”

“Good timing, indeed. I never questioned him. There wasn’t any reason to, and . . . no desire to. I mean, this was the chance of a lifetime, a dream come true.”

“Where would he get his hands on that kind of money if it wasn’t inherited?” Kyle asked.

“He worked at a bank,” Dylan hissed, and it was suddenly clear. If Sid had stolen the money, he had embezzled it; a large sum of it, which could not go unnoticed forever.

“You need to speak to the police,” Kyle said. “And they need to speak to the bank.”

Dylan was crestfallen, his face expressing pain and indecision. This was his partner, his husband, the man he planned to spend the rest of his life with.

“I can’t,” he said.

Suddenly Kyle knew why they were having this conversation: Dylan wanted him to be the one to go to the authorities. He’d been able to reveal his suspicions to Kyle, but not to take it further, not to put his prints on a noose that might soon be around Sid Stanhope’s neck.