And so was the Yankee Doodle Motor Court, which was a living relic from the bygone days of drive-in movie theaters and poodle skirts. To the casual passerby, it was a wonder that the decaying little bungalow motel hadn’t been torn down twenty years ago. It had no swimming pool, was not near the beach or the interstate. There was no apparent reason for anyone on earth to stay there-not unless they were terribly lost or desperate.
But Des knew better.
The Yankee Doodle enjoyed a prized niche in Dorset society-it was the place where married people came to mess around. Des had learned early in her career that every town, no matter its size or degree of affluence, had just such a place for illicit trysts. Mostly, what the Yankee Doodle offered couples was privacy. The bungalows were spaced a discreet distance apart, and the parking spaces were around in back so that people driving by on Boston Post Roadcouldn’t see who was parked there. The management was reputed to be very discreet.
She got there in the purplish light of predawn. Danny Rochin, the sallow, unshaven night manager, came right out of the office to greet her wearing a too-large Hawaiian shirt, slacks, and bedroom slippers. He was a stringy, sixtyish swamp Yankee with a jet black Grecian Formula hair job that looked totally unnatural under the courtyard floodlights, especially in contrast with his bushy white eyebrows. They always neglected the eyebrows. Big mistake.
“Is anyone still staying here from last night?” Des asked him as she climbed out of her cruiser.
“No, ma’am, we’re all empty,” he replied, eyes bright with excitement. He was missing a few teeth, and his narrow shoulders were hunched against the morning’s unusual chill. It had dipped down into the forties, which was a shock to the system in July.
“Let’s go have us a look, Danny.”
There was blood. The spread on the double bed was spattered with it. So was the wall behind the bed. So were the shades on the night table lamps. Donna’s wire-rimmed glasses, which lay neatly folded on one of the night tables, were spattered, too. The bed did not appear to have been used. The covers were still crisply folded, and the pillows had no depressions in them.
The Yankee Doodle was the sort of a place where things like lamps and televisions were bolted down, just in case some low-class guest might be tempted to walk off with them. But Donna’s killer had still managed to find something to club her with-a night table drawer. It lay on the rug next to the bed, smashed, splintered and bloodied. Her shoulder bag was on the dresser next to the TV, as was her gauzy summer peasant dress, carefully folded. Also a see-through black nightie, very slinky, very hopeful, very sad.
The bungalow was tiny. There was barely enough space to squeeze around the bed to the bathroom, where Donna was on the floor. From where she stood, Des could just make out her bare feet.
“Did you touch anything, Danny?” Des asked him as he remained outside, pulling nervously on a cigarette.
“Not a thing, I swear. Her purse is just as I found it. I’m not here to steal no twenty bucks from some poor woman’s billfold.”
“I know that, Danny,” she said, flashing a reassuring smile at him. “I’m just trying to assess the crime scene.” Now she went farther in for a better look.
Donna was naked on her knees before the bathtub with her big butt sticking up in the air for the whole wide world to see. Not that she was obese but she wasn’t a nineteen-year-old runway model either. And the bathroom floor is not the most dignified place to die. Go ask Elvis. There was a foot of blood-tinged water in the tub. By the look of things, her killer had knocked her unconscious with the drawer, dragged her in there and held her head underwater until she was gone. Her center of gravity had tumbled her a bit backward after she’d died, lifting her face up out of the water. There were broken blood vessels around the eyes, and her lips were blue. The bloody wounds to the back of her wet head were readily apparent to Des from the bathroom doorway. There was some blood on the floor, but not much. No bloody shoeprints. The floor had been wiped. Des could not see any bloody towels in there. No towels at all, in fact. He’d taken them with him. Whoever he was, he was careful.
Standing there gazing at Donna Durslag, Des experienced that same mix of despair, horror, and fascination that she always felt when she saw what people were capable of doing to each other. She would need crime scene photos. She would need to get this down on paper. Possibly life-sized, so she could bring forth the full impact of Donna’s figure as it knelt there in death. She would draw this. Had to draw this. It was how she kept it together.
And to hell with Professor Weiss and his damned trees.
“How often do you run the vacuum in here, Danny?” she asked, starting back around the bed toward him.
“Once a week… maybe,” he replied.
Meaning there would be tons of hairs in the rug from past guests. Most likely, the tekkies wouldn’t even bother with it. But they would for sure check the surface of the bed for hair or fiber transfers, and the blood spatters for a blood sample that was not the victim’s. Alsothe smashed night table drawer for prints, although he’d doubtless wiped that clean same as he’d wiped down the bathroom. Des was certain that they’d find nothing. It smelled like a clean kill all the way.
“Where’s her car, Danny?”
“Around in back.”
It was faded gray Peugeot station wagon. Locked. Both the passenger seat and backseat were strewn with empty take-out coffee cups and food wrappers. There was one other vehicle parked back there, a red Nissan pickup truck that belonged to Danny.
He led Des back to his office now, where there was a reception counter made out of fake wood, a Coke machine, television, a couple of green plastic chairs. The worn linoleum on the floor was the color of canned salmon. A door marked Private led back to the inner office.
“What time did she check in?”
“Just after ten o’clock,” Danny replied, taking his place behind the counter. The man seemed much more at ease now that he was back there, straighter and taller.
“Was she alone?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Did she sign the register?”
“You bet. We run a clean operation here. No hookers, no minors, no monkey business.”
Des glanced at the register-Donna had signed her own name, clear as can be. “Did she pay you in cash?”
“Credit card,” he said, his bony hands shaking slightly as he produced the credit card slip for her. She suspected he was in need of a drink. He settled for another cigarette.
“The lady had a husband,” Des said, surprised that Donna had made no apparent effort to cover her tracks. “Is this typical?”
“Yes and no,” Danny answered, thumbing his stubbly chin shrewdly. “Some of ’em are real careful about keeping their after-hours activities off the household books, others aren’t. Depends on who takes care of the bills every month, is how I always figured it.”
“Had you ever seen her before?”
“No, ma’am. She was a first-timer. On my shift, anyway, and I been here on overnight for thirteen years.”
“How did she seem to you? Had she been drinking? Was she high?”
“She was nervous. A lot of ’em are. Men and women both.”
“And what does that generally tell you?”
“That they’re doing something they never thought they’d be doing.”
Des turned and glanced through the front window at Donna’s bungalow across the courtyard. “Did you see him arrive?”
“No, ma’am, I didn’t. Got no idea who he was.”
“Maybe you saw his car pull in. Think hard, please. This is important.”
“I wish I could help you, ma’am, but we’re real busy that time of night. Eleven, twelve o’clock is my rush hour. Lots of folks coming and going. Going, mostly. Some drop the key off in here with me. The rest just leave it in the door-the ones who don’t want to be seen together by anybody, if you know what I mean. Shoot, I must get one suspicious husband in here a week, offering me cash money for the lowdown on his missus.”