“You’re very blunt,” I said.
“It facilitates things, doesn’t it?” she replied bitterly. “What else would you like to know?”
“Did Mr. Wingfield have any enemies who might want to kill him?” the chief asked.
“You mean besides Marilyn Losser’s husband? Yes, quite a few, I imagine.” She paused and asked the chief for a cigarette. He passed the pack across and lit one for her. “Claude wasn’t an especially likeable man. He wasn’t a bad person, but his manner was a bit too self-confident, distant, forceful. He smelled of success. He’d made a name for himself in Des Moines, especially after the scandal two years ago.”
“What was that?”
“There was a big political scandal — misuse of municipal funds, bribes, kickbacks. One of the people involved committed suicide.”
“What was your husband’s part in that?”
“He exposed it. He wasn’t a professional do-gooder, but he had information on some people and saw that it would suit his career to make the mess public, so he did.”
Chief Hewitt cleared his throat.
“Do you want to see the body now? We need positive identification. But it can wait till tomorrow.”
“I’ll see it now,” she said.
He rose. “I’ll have one of my men take you.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you have a hotel room?”
“I hoped you could help me with that.”
“Of course,” the chief said.
“I’m willing to stay here as long as you need me,” Mrs. Wingfield said, “but I don’t want to stay any longer than that.”
“I understand,” the chief said and went to fetch one of his men.
Joe wanted to get an early start next morning. I wanted to see Chief Hewitt first.
“I’ll start packing the stuff on the car,” Joe said. “Don’t take all morning. It’s not your case.”
I met Hewitt and another cop coming out of the station as I was going in.
“You’re just in time to join us for a walk,” Hewitt said.
“Where to?”
“Green Pine Lodge.”
“What’s up?”
“Wingfield had a fight with a guy in a bar Monday night. The bar’s just down the street from the Green Pine. The fight, apparently, was over a woman — a blonde.”
“How did you get that information?”
“Three people volunteered it after they saw Wingfield’s picture in last night’s paper. One of them knew the other guy. He’s staying at the Green Pine. Same as Wingfield was.”
For an older man, the chief was a fast walker. We covered the four blocks to the lodge in as many minutes.
Green Pine Lodge was a three story affair with a lobby full of big-leafed plants. It had oiled wooden walls, a shiny red-tiled floor, and, to the left of the reception desk, a brick fireplace. Two youngish clerks stood behind the desk.
Chief Hewitt asked to see Mrs. Muller.
One of the clerks knocked on a door behind the desk and a woman opened it from inside. The clerk spoke to her a moment and pointed to us. She called, “Come on in, chief. I’ve been expecting you.”
We walked through the hinged counter and into the office. The chief shut the door after him and introduced me to Mrs. Muller. She took a seat at her desk and we dropped into comfortable armchairs.
She was a woman of about fifty-five — vigorous-looking, with long limbs and fancy inlaid eyeglasses on a gold chain. She looked as if she could handle not only Green Pine Lodge but half of the rest of the town as well. “Well,” she said, “I suppose it’s about that killing.”
“I’m afraid so, Mrs. Muller.”
“First time we’ve ever had anything like that here. The place is fifteen years old.”
“It didn’t happen here,” the chief said. “It happened up on the mountain.”
“Still, it was one of our guests.”
“True. To tell you the truth, Mrs. Muller, I’m here to check out another of your guests. I don’t know his name, but he’s about five feet ten, has black hair and a bad complexion. Maybe a hundred and seventy pounds — age thirty or so.”
“Staying here alone?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll ask the desk clerk.”
She went out and returned about three minutes later. “It sounds like a man named Aaron — Room 26 on the second floor. He shares the room with a man named Kozinsky. Why are you looking for him?”
“Just a routine inquiry,” the chief said.
“I’m not anxious to have the place become notorious,” she said.
“It won’t, Mrs. Muller. We’ll just see if Mr. Aaron’s in.”
The chief unsnapped his holster and motioned to the other cop to do the same. We walked down the hall to 26 and Hewitt knocked. There was the sound of footsteps and the door swung open. A man in a T-shirt and ski pants stood looking at us. He matched the chief’s description perfectly.
“I’m the chief of police,” Hewitt told him. “Do you mind if we come in a minute?”
The man backed off to let us enter. “What’s this about?”
“Could I see some identification?” the chief asked.
The man pulled his wallet out of a back pocket in his pants and handed it to Hewitt, who checked the driver’s license. “Frank Aaron, San Francisco,” he verified.
“So?” Aaron said.
The chief handed him back his wallet. “You’re here with a friend?”
“That’s right. Ralph. He’s already out on the slopes. I’m on the way there myself.”
“You had a fight at the Silver Lode a couple of nights ago, I understand.”
“Maybe. What about it?”
“Know who the guy was?”
“Sure — that dude that’s staying down at the end of the hall. The one who thinks he’s a movie star.”
“Know his name?”
“Nope. I never asked him.”
“I guess you haven’t been reading the papers,” the chief said. “His name was Wingfield, and he was shot to death up on the mountain yesterday afternoon. How come you don’t know about it?”
“I haven’t been out of this room since four o’clock yesterday afternoon. I was beat. Slept for twelve hours.”
It was the wrong reaction. Too pat. He was lying.
“What was the fight about, Mr. Aaron?” the chief asked.
“If you know about the fight, you should know what it was about.”
“You tell me.”
“It was over a woman, for God’s sake. I was drunk and I tried to move in on the blonde he was with. I wouldn’t have tried it if I’d been sober. He got sore. I guess I was pretty obnoxious. But it never got beyond some shouting and a couple of broken glasses.”
“Who was the blonde?” I asked him.
“The best-looking woman I’ve seen in a long time. She was wearing a see-through blouse.” He looked from me to Hewitt, then back at me. “Why the hell are you asking me? Ask at the desk. She’s staying here.”
“It’s all coming together,” the chief said.
“Do you own a gun, Mr. Aaron?” I asked.
“No,” he said. Then he looked down at his shoes. “All right, so I own a gun. You’d find out anyway. What does that prove?”
“You have it with you?”
“It’s in the glove compartment of my car, in the lot.”
“Show this officer your car,” the chief told him. “Let’s see if the blonde lady love is in,” he said to me.
Aaron went out to the lot with the other cop while the chief and I checked back at the desk. The blonde in question was registered as Jill Howells, Room 9. We walked to the room and knocked. There was no answer and the door was locked.
“Would you know where the lady in Room 9 might be?” Hewitt asked the desk clerk.
“She may be gone. She’s only paid through last night.”
“You didn’t see her go out?”