The Readaholics and the Gothic Gala (19 page)

I was impressed. “Ooh, that's a great idea.”

Hart's response was more muted. “It's possible. Unlikely, but possible. We'll certainly test it for prints and run the serial number. It may well have been used in a robbery or other crime, but given Van Allen's record, I suspect he's the one who used it.” Stripping off his gloves, he tucked them into a coverall pocket. “I've got to arrange for a tow to Grand Junction so the forensic guys and gals can take it apart.” He lowered his voice and leaned in closer to me. “See you tonight?”

“After my event,” I said, unable to keep a goofy smile off my face. “It might be late, after ten, undoubtedly.”

“Doesn't matter,” he said. “I'll be up.”

His smile made me wish life had a fast-forward
button so we could skip straight to tonight. Resisting the urge to pull his head down so I could kiss him, I squeezed his hand and joined Maud at the van. I settled into the driver's seat, feeling instantly warmer out of the wind.

Maud didn't say anything about the interchange between me and Hart, which made me glad it was she and not Kerry or Brooke with me. Either of those two would have been grilling me for details, and probably giving me advice on what lingerie to wear. Maud was more task-focused. As soon as I reversed the van and headed out of the lot, she said, “So where did Van Allen stash his package?”

“Maybe someone stole it.”

She shook her head. “Don't think so. No one broke in to that car. I think his girlfriend was wrong. He didn't leave the package in the car—he took it with him. Which, when you think about it, makes more sense anyway. He wouldn't have to come all the way back here to get it once the deal's made with whoever he was meeting.”

“Sounds like he made the trade-off. Whoever he met killed him and got away with the package and the money.” I gripped and released the steering wheel a couple of times, frustrated by this turn of events. I really wanted to know what was in that package. It felt like it was the key to the whole case.

“Shoot.” Maud slumped in the passenger seat. “It does look that way, doesn't it?”

I gave a dispirited nod. It didn't seem like we were getting anywhere with this case. I thought about Lola,
and how guilty she felt about having brought the murder weapon to the party. I wanted her to at least know that the killer was going to be punished for his or her crime.

A hundred feet from the intersection with Jubilee Parkway, a car was pulled over on the shoulder, and I slowed. As we passed it, I noted the flat tire. A man hauled off and kicked it as we drove past.

“Wasn't that that movie guy?” Maud asked, craning her neck to get a better look.

I was already slowing and pulling over. He looked like he needed help. When we got out, the man was coming toward us. It was indeed Cosmo Zeller, looking less polished and urbane than he had at the cocktail party. His black blazer was rumpled, his tan silk shirt had a splotch of oil shaped like Florida on it, and his face and lips were wind-reddened.

“Thank God you stopped,” he said. “Hey, I know you.” He snapped his fingers twice. “Amy-Kay, right? The event planner. And you're Maud.” He gave Maud an appreciative once-over. Despite her being over sixty and making zero effort to attract the opposite sex, there was something about her that appealed to men of every age.

“Amy-Faye,” I said, “but close enough. Anything we can do to help? Looks like you've got a flat.”

“Damn rental. Not only do I have a flat, but the spare's missing and my phone's out of juice. You'd better believe the rental company is going to hear from my lawyer. If you could let me borrow your phone to call
them, that'd be great.” Maud handed over her phone and he made the call, gesticulating with his free hand as he talked. “They're bringing another car to the B and B,” he said, giving the phone back. “I'm supposed to leave the keys with this one and they'll fetch it later. Any chance I could get a ride back into town with you?” He smiled a plea, showing lots of white teeth. “These shoes aren't made for hiking.” He held out one foot, elegantly shod in an expensive-looking leather loafer. No socks, despite the cold.

“Happy to give you a lift,” I said, “but I don't have a seat in the back of the van. As long as you don't mind roughing it . . . I'll try not to crash, since you won't have a seat belt.”

“No prob,” he said. “Your van is a luxury vehicle compared to the heap I rode around in last month in Burundi. Rusted metal, seat upholstery thinner than a slice of prosciutto, and no shocks to speak of. No doors, so I was looking death in the eye every time we turned right. The driver drove like we were being chased by the zombies from
World War Z
. I didn't know if I was going to die of lockjaw or be jolted to death. When a lioness charged us, I almost welcomed a quick death. And the driver had the nerve to charge us five hundred dollars a day.” He scrambled limberly into the back when I slid the van's door open. “What is this? Moving day?” he asked, looking at the boxes of tableware and linens, the fake potted plants, and the life-sized stand-up figure of tonight's birthday boy, who was turning fifty.

“Tools of the trade,” I said.

He seated himself gingerly on a sturdy plastic tub and Maud and I returned to the front. I started the van and pulled onto the road gently, trying to take it easy so Zeller wouldn't rattle around in the back like a loose marble.

“What were you doing in Burundi?” Maud asked. “Joe was there two years ago and loved it.”

“Scouting locations,” Zeller said. “Like I was doing here.” He flipped a hand to indicate Jubilee Mansions as a whole. “Someone told me there was a great house up here, with an observatory at the top, and a couple of turrets. Sounded perfect for one of the scenes in
Barbary Close
. You know the one. I took a wrong turn, and the car crapped out before I could visit it, though.”

“We can drive you past, if you want,” I said, with absolutely no idea what scene he was referring to, since I hadn't read the book. I turned right on the main drag through the housing area, rather than left to exit past the gatehouse. “It's just up here.” I slowed as we drew near the Gaebler mansion, not the largest but definitely one of the most distinctive homes in the area. It was made of gray stone with crenellated turrets at either end. The house was mostly two stories, but a segment in the middle rose to three stories and was crowned with a glass dome. Against the now steely sky, and surrounded by wind-whipped trees, bare of leaves, and a nine-foot-high iron fence topped with pointy arrow-shaped finials, it looked properly gothic, someplace Dr. Frankenstein might perform his experiments. I'd done an event for the Gaeblers once, though, and I
knew it was much warmer and homier on the inside than it looked from here.

Zeller hung over my seat to get a better look through the windshield. He smelled of spicy cologne. “Blimey. What an eyesore. It's perfect. Think the owners would be willing to let us use it?”

“No idea,” I said, pulling into the driveway so I could turn around. “They're an older couple, and they spend the winters in Florida. I don't know if they've left for Clearwater Beach yet or not.”

“I'm sure we can come to terms.” He tried to input something on his smartphone, remembered that the battery was dead, cursed, pulled a business card out of his wallet, and jotted a note.

“Where else are you planning to film around here?” Maud asked.

“I'm in talks with the management of the Rocky Peaks Golf and Country Club, and I think my company can make it worth their while to let us film on the back nine for a week. My buddy Seb McManus is going to let us use his ski lodge, too.”

Sebastian McManus was the billionaire who owned the closest ski resort to Heaven.

“You know,” he said, “when we start filming, I can make sure you both get parts as extras. Maybe even a line or two of dialogue.” He announced it like he was conferring a knighthood on us, or at least telling us we'd won the Lotto.

“I've got a SAG card,” Maud said, surprising me but apparently not Zeller.

“I thought you looked familiar,” he said. Snapping
his fingers twice, he ended with a forefinger pointed at Maud. “
The Lost Ones
, am I right? You played the skinny prostitute.”

Maud nodded. “The pinnacle of my acting career.”

“You should've kept at it,” he said. “You had a future.”

I drew up at the curb in front of the Columbine. “End of the line,” I said.

Zeller jumped out of the van. “I appreciate the ride,” he said. “Keep an eye on the local rag. We'll advertise when we start looking for extras. You two are
in
.” He thumped his hand against the van and walked up the sidewalk toward the inn.

“So, you're ready to relaunch your screen career?” I teased Maud. I knew she'd done some acting, but I hadn't realized she was serious enough about it to have a Screen Actors Guild membership.

She stretched her legs out and flexed her feet in their socks and Tevas. “It was a short-lived phase, but it was fun while it lasted. I didn't have the patience for it. There's a lot of standing around and waiting in the movie biz. If I'd kept acting, I'd have done more stage work.”

I cranked the ignition. “How many movies were you in?”

“Five,” she said, “but one never got released. This was back in the days before flicks that didn't live up to their producers' expectations got released straight to video.”

“Did you ever work with anyone famous?”

“Jack Nicholson,” she said with a reminiscent smile. “They used to talk about Warren Beatty being a playboy, but he had nothing on Jack.”

I snuck a glance at her profile, and saw the smile widen, deepening the lines bracketing her mouth. Somehow, I had no trouble believing she'd attracted Jack Nicholson's attention.

I started to angle into the road, when I glanced in the side mirror and saw a police car pull up across the street. Officer Hardaway got out and marched into the Columbine with a purposeful stride. I stomped on the brakes, bringing us to a lurching halt, at the same time Maud said, “Stop. That's an HPD vehicle. What's it doing here?”

I was already halfway out of the van. “I don't know, but I think we should find out, don't you?”

J
ogging back to the inn, Maud and I burst through the door to find a chaotic scene in progress. It seemed like every guest at the inn was gathered in the foyer. Francesca Bugle was on the stairs, dressed to go out with a rust-colored boiled-wool jacket and a black felt hat with an embroidered design. Cosmo Zeller looked over her shoulder, nostrils flaring like he smelled a bad odor. The Aldringhams were clustered near the dining room door, Allyson sandwiched between her parents. Her face was ghost white. Mary and Lucas Stewart were squeezed into the small hallway that led to the kitchen, and also looked nervous. Surely they didn't think their charade was arrest-worthy? Or was there more to the story of the stolen manuscript than I suspected? Sandy Milliken stood in front of Officer Hardaway, a bucket with a mop standing in it at her feet. Everyone was talking and asking questions. Officer Hardaway seemed overwhelmed by the hubbub and was having trouble making herself heard.

Maud put two fingers in her mouth and shrilled a whistle. Everyone shut up.

“Thank you, ma'am,” Officer Hardaway said. “Now,
as I was saying, I need to escort Allyson Aldringham to the police station. Which of you is Allyson?”

Allyson took a hesitant step forward. “I'm Allyson,” she said. She wore a short baby-doll-style dress of pale blue that made her look younger than her years.

Constance shoved past her daughter. “What is this in reference to?” she asked haughtily. “I simply must know why you want to see my daughter. I'm sure there's been a mistake.”

Her contemptuous attitude straightened Officer Hardaway's spine. “I'm not at liberty to give you details,” she said, sounding happy to be able to frustrate Constance's quest for information. “We are hoping she can help us with our inquiries. Ms. Aldringham can fill you in when she gets back. If you please, ma'am?” She gestured for Allyson to precede her out the door.

“I'm going to call a lawyer,” Merle said.

Constance looked at her husband with rare approval. “Don't say a word until the lawyer gets there, Allyson. Not a word.”

As if taking her mother's advice immediately to heart, Allyson nodded mutely and let Officer Hardaway escort her from the inn. At least she wasn't in handcuffs. I couldn't imagine what new evidence had appeared in between our leaving Hart and arriving here. I wasn't too sure he would tell me.

“I need to find a lawyer,” Merle said. “Someone local.”

He was talking to Sandy, but I answered. “Doug Elvaston. He's the best in town.” I reeled off his cell phone number from memory. We'd dated off and on since we
were high school juniors; that number was engraved on my brain forever. Merle thanked me and went outside to call Doug.

Francesca Bugle descended the stairs, with sharp
pock
ing sounds from her low-heeled pumps at every step. “Well, I would never have guessed that sweet girl was involved in a murder,” she said, shaking her head.

“It's like in a TV show,” Mary Stewart put in.

Everyone turned to look at her, puzzled. She made quite a picture wearing skinny jeans and a white top printed with gray flowers. Her hair was a flame cascading over her shoulders. She widened her eyes and blinked once. “The culprit on TV detective shows is always the least likely seeming person, who doesn't really have a reason for being in the show at all, and who doesn't have an immediately obvious motive. I wonder what her motive was.”

Lucas, looking concerned, nudged her before she could speculate further about Allyson's possible motives.

Constance drew herself up and spoke in tones that would freeze lava. “Allyson wasn't involved in that murder in any way whatsoever. She simply isn't capable of killing someone. She doesn't have it in her.” She sounded confident, but her hand trembled as she adjusted the pashmina draped over her shoulders, pulling it closer.

Merle came back inside. His hair was mussed and his beard had furrows, as if he'd raked his fingers through it. Worry tightened his sun-mottled brow. “The lawyer says he'll meet us at the police department,” he said. “Come on, Connie.”

Maud put a hand on his arm. “Is there anything we can do, Merle?”

Giving her a grateful look, he said, “Not right now, but thanks. I'll call you later.” Taking Constance's elbow, he hustled her down the narrow hall leading to a back door and the inn's small parking area. Even in the midst of the drama, it tickled me to see him take charge. I'd thought he was a total milquetoast, under his wife's thumb, but clearly there was more to him.

“That's the old Merle,” Maud said in a low voice, a smile hovering around her lips.

Now that the show was over, Francesca hooked a purse over her arm and went out the front door, saying something about wanting to do some souvenir shopping. Cosmo Zeller and the Stewarts disappeared upstairs.

When it was only Sandy, Maud, and I left in the foyer, Sandy said, “This has been the longest week. I don't know why, but I thought authors would be a nice, quiet bunch of guests, easy to get along with, tucked up in their rooms writing most of the time. Instead of which, I find them all over the house at the strangest hours—they argue, drink like sailors on liberty, and are finicky about their food. As if that weren't enough, one of them pisses someone off bad enough that I get a brick through my window—thank God for insurance—there's a murder, and now an arrest.”

“She wasn't arrested,” I said.

“As good as.” Sandy shook her head. “On top of all that, my dishwasher broke and flooded the kitchen—we'll have to replace it, so there goes our weekend in
Denver next month—Dave's cold has turned into walking pneumonia, and I can't find the snow globe paperweight my parents brought back from their honeymoon in Japan.” She patted the registration counter. “You remember it—it always sat right here.”

Maud spoke up. “Who was arguing, and what were they arguing about?”

Good question.

Sandy rolled her eyes. “Who wasn't? The diva—”

I took that to mean Constance.

“—harangues her husband nonstop. She was tearing a strip off him about losing money on the stock market when I walked in on them in the sunroom. And she cuts that daughter of hers no slack, either. Pearl, one of my maids, heard her through the bedroom door, telling Allyson that she was done, that she wasn't bailing her out ever again, and that she was tired of being embarrassed in front of her friends. Whatever that means. Treats me like a scullery wench, too, when I made more money on Wall Street in one year than she makes in five years.” Dropping her voice and glancing up the stairs, she continued. “That Stewart gal's brother has a temper on him, too, although I must say she gives as good as she gets. You can tell they're brother and sister by the way they bicker. My brother, Mike, and I were just like that.”

I kept a straight face at that and avoided looking at Maud.

“That movie guy doesn't fight with anyone, but he's an odd duck. Hasn't unpacked a single thing. Keeps all his duds in his suitcases and keeps them locked.” She
sniffed. “My gals are all bonded—we've never had trouble with theft at the Columbine.” She let out a long breath. “I will be glad to see the back of them come Monday morning. I'm sorry. I shouldn't be talking to you like this. I needed to let off some steam, and with Dave under the weather, well—I'm sorry I unloaded on you.”

“No problem,” I said. “I get that way myself. I know you're busy, so we'll get out of your hair.” Impulsively, I hugged her. She disengaged almost immediately, but gave me a crooked smile.

“I'm not usually much of one for hug therapy, but that helped. Now, shoo, you two, so I can get the floors mopped and pop some cinnamon scones in the oven.”

Maud and I shooed.

*   *   *

After dropping Maud off at her house, and extracting her promise to call me the minute she heard from Merle, I drove home and pondered my options. It was just noon, and I didn't have to be at the Club to set up until five o'clock. I drifted into my bedroom and dumped the contents of my laundry hamper onto the floor. I sat cross-legged on the floor, and began to sort the clothes, placing a yoga top in the cold pile and a pair of jeans in the warm pile. My hand sorted automatically while I thought. I could stay home and do some cleaning and laundry, but that had little appeal. I wanted to make progress on this case, find out who killed Van Allen and why, set Lola's mind at ease, and make sure a murderer didn't leave Heaven on Monday morning. I knew there was no point to calling Hart and
asking why Officer Hardaway had picked up Allyson for questioning, and even less point in calling Doug, who would never breach client confidentiality. I chewed on my lower lip. Socks in warm, bra in cold, yellow blouse in cold.

A thought came to me. What if . . . what if Maud was right about Van Allen taking the mysterious package with him to the Club, but wrong about the killer stealing it? Van Allen was a career criminal, nobody's stooge. Would he walk into a meeting with a blackmail victim without taking some precautions? I didn't think so. At least, I amended, I hoped not. Maybe he was stabbed because he refused to give up the package, or maybe Van Allen tried to steal the money from his mark without giving up his package, planning to continue to bleed him or her for years to come. He miscalculated by not realizing the mark had a weapon and was prepared to use it in such a public place. I wished I had a way to get in touch with Sharla and ask her more about Van Allen. Wait a minute. . . . I did have a way to get in touch, albeit a roundabout one. I pulled out my cell phone, located Flavia Dunbarton's number, and punched it in.

When she answered with, “
Grand Junction Gabbler
, Dunbarton speaking,” I said, “It's Amy-Faye Johnson. If you're interested in some breaking news on the Van Allen murder, you might want to check with the HPD.”

She tried to get me to give more details, but I figured I was skating close enough to the line by giving her a heads-up; I wasn't going to risk Hart's wrath by telling her about the car or about Allyson “helping the police
with their inquiries.” I promised her a quote if my name happened to come up during her conversation with the police.

She thanked me for the tip and hung up. I returned my cell phone to my pocket, hoping that she would get a story out of Hart or Chief Uggams, and hoping that Sharla would get back in touch when she read it. Throwing the load of whites into the washing machine, I climbed back into the van and headed for the Club. If Van Allen had hidden the package, it would be at the Club somewhere. Anticipation tingled through me. The treasure hunt was back on.

*   *   *

I decided to start my search in the pro shop. It was open until seven o'clock on Saturday nights at this time of year and it made sense that Van Allen would have come in this way. I had stopped for a sub sandwich on my way over, so it was coming up on one o'clock when I parked on the golf-course side of the building. Even with a wind stiff enough to knock balls well off course, the fairways and greens were crowded with golfers trying to get in an extra round or two before a big snowfall ended their season. I thought I saw Troy Widefield Jr., Brooke's husband, piloting a cart, and waved, but he didn't see me. I pushed through the glass door to the pro shop. Betty Bullock, the Club's pro, was ringing up a Windbreaker for a customer, but looked up when the bell over the door pealed. A short, no-nonsense woman in her sixties who had competed on the LPGA tour for six or seven years, she had skin the texture of an old leather golf bag, baked by too
many rounds in the sun, and white crow's-feet where the skin hadn't tanned because she was smiling or squinting. She wore a polo shirt with “Rocky Peaks Golf and Country Club” embroidered over her left breast, and a matching skort. Her straw-blond hair, liberally laced with gray, was shorter than I remembered, and waxed into soft spikes.

She grinned at me when the customer left. “You're not here for a lesson, I hope?”

I smiled in return. Ever since I'd taken a few lessons from her, discovering that I had no aptitude whatsoever for hitting a little white ball with a long metal stick, she had teased me that if I ever came back for more, it was going to be her cue to retire. “No, you don't get to ride off into the sunset today,” I told her. “Actually, I'm hoping you'll let me search the place.”

“Did you lose something?”

When I explained what I was after, she looked intrigued. “I wasn't working Saturday night—Louis was on—so I didn't see the guy you're talking about. Heard about it all the next day, of course. There hasn't been so much gossip floating around this place since that busboy started a fire in the kitchen because he was mad at the pastry chef for cheating on him.” She came around the counter. “I'll help you look. I know every inch of this store, and every item in inventory, so I can't imagine that I wouldn't have tripped over this mysterious ‘package' before now, but let's have a go at it.”

We searched for half an hour with Betty occasionally attending to customers. I unstacked the golf ball twelve-packs, looked inside the spinning garment
racks, pulled golf clubs out of bins to look down inside them, and rearranged all the shoe boxes. Betty even checked the stockroom, although she said it was unlikely that a customer would have gained access to it. At the end of the half hour, we had nothing to show for our labors. “It's not here,” Betty announced.

“No, I guess not,” I said. Damn. I had so hoped Van Allen's package would be in the pro shop. Searching the entire club was a much larger task, and I wasn't sure Wallace Pinnecoose would be thrilled about my poking around. For Wallace, the Club's reputation took precedence over any other consideration. I was sure he'd be happy to let a murderer escape justice if that would keep the Club from being dragged through the mud. I was disappointed, but nowhere near giving up. The package was here somewhere. It had to be.