“I do not believe this,” Des fumed, realizing she hadn’t gone in their closet last night. Hadn’t so much as opened the door. Just thrown her clothes over a chair and jumped into bed, as had Mitch.
“Hey, look at it this way,” he said brightly. “We can definitely set aside our ghost theory now.”
“Mitch, did you just land on your head?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Can you keep an eye on these folks for me?”
“Absolutely.”
Des herded everyone into Spence’s room, then unlocked the housekeeping closet out in the hall and fetched a broom. She went from room to room, checking the closet ceilings. Each had a trapdoor, just as Jory had said. With the broom handle, each trapdoor could easily be pushed open under the detachable third-floor rug-including the trapdoor in the very room she and Mitch had slept in. She positioned the dressing table chair underneath theirs. Standing on it, she did not find it particularly hard to pull herself up and into the closet of the third-floor room directly overhead. Admittedly, it was her business to stay fit. But any of these people could have managed the physical part of this, she believed. With the possible exception of Teddy. And Teddy wasn’t an issue since he had been downstairs playing the piano, not locked away in his room.
Des nosed her way around the chilly, vacant third floor, her mind quickly playing it out. Once Les’s killer had made it up here, he or she could have accessed the staff stairs by means of the third-floor hallway door and taken those stairs straight on down to the kitchen, bypassing her second-floor lookout entirely. After cold-cocking Mitch and killing Les, he or she had then stashed their wet things somewhere and returned to the third floor by those same stairs-using the towels in Isabella’s bathroom to dry off before dropping back down into their room, completely undetected. A well-positioned chair would have prevented the seismic disturbance that Mitch had set off when he’d touched down.
Des stretched a length of crime scene tape across the bathroom door, wondering how many sets of fingerprints they would find in there, and to whom they might belong. She also devoted a great deal of energy to beating the living crap out of herself for not hanging up her pants in the damned closet last night. If only she’d gone in there. If only she’d gone in there and looked up. If she had, Les Josephson would still be alive right now. This should not have happened. No, it should not. She was off her game. Enraged, she paced the third-floor corridor, calling herself any number of vile, politically incorrect names.
Her cell phone squawked. She went over by the windows in Isabella’s room to answer it.
And Soave said to her: “Yo, you are on a roll, Master Sergeant.”
“Could have fooled me,” she growled back at him.
“Hey, I don’t like your tone of voice. You sound down to me. Are you down?”
“Rico, I don’t have very much to be up about right now.”
“You can’t do this to me, Des. I need you to be up.”
“Yeah, why is that?”
“You’re my mentor, that’s why. If a boy sees his mentor falter, it completely wrecks him.”
“Rico, maybe the blood to my brain is starting to freeze, but you actually sound serious.”
“Des, I totally am.”
“In that case, feel free to cheer me up. What do you have? And please make it good.”
“Yolie got through to Tom Maynard of Dorset Pharmacy.”
“What did Tom have to say?”
Des’s heart immediately started beating faster as Soave told her.
“So, what, you’re not getting anywhere at your end?” he asked when he was done reporting.
“Starting right now I am, Rico,” she said, gazing out the window at the frozen outside world. “Believe it or not, the snow has just about stopped here. How is it where you are?”
“Same. The SP-One pilot says he’ll be good to go by the time we get there. Yolie’s on her way over here right now. I figure we’ll be on your doorstep in an hour, maybe ninety minutes. Sound good?”
“Way better than good. See you then, wow man.”
After she rang off, Des idled there by the windows for a moment with her engine revving. Then she shook herself and went down through the open trapdoor into Spence’s closet, with an assist by Mitch.
“Okay, everyone, new plan,” she announced briskly. “We’re moving downstairs to the taproom until the Major Crime Squad arrives.”
“Oh, thank God,” Carly sighed in relief.
“Amen,” echoed Teddy.
“Sanity restored,” Aaron declared, nodding his large head in agreement. “At long last.”
“Is it okay if I make us some sandwiches and coffee?” Jory asked.
“Good idea.”
“I’ll give you a hand,” Hannah said.
“Now can I go get some firewood?” Jase asked somewhat woefully.
“I’m afraid not, Jase. The woodshed is a crime scene, off limits.” As the young caretaker’s face fell, Des added, “But I do have a job for you. The parking lot needs to be plowed. Could you do that for me?”
“You bet.” Jase brightened considerably. “Be happy to.”
“You’ll be needing the keys to your truck.” She reached into her pocket for his key ring.
“Naw, I left ’em in the ignition. Always do.”
Typical Dorset behavior. Des had never lived in a place where so many drivers left their keys in their cars. In fact, she hadn’t known such places still existed. “Mitch can give you a hand,” she said, glancing at her doughboy. “If that’s okay with you.”
“Totally,” Mitch assured her. “Let’s get cracking, amigo.”
They all started out of Spence’s room now.
Until, that is, Des put her hand on Spence’s arm to stop him. “We need to talk,” she told the studio executive.
“Whatever you want,” he said readily.
Spence had kept a small fire going in his room. He poked at it and fed it with the last log from his woodpile, then sat in the armchair before it, looking very at ease and preppy in his burgundy crewneck sweater and flannel slacks. He was a handsome, well-put-together man. But he was also the type of man whom Des had never been attracted to. Too much smooth, corporate charm. Too few endearing personal quirks-they’d been bred out of him. Des preferred men who came fully equipped with all of their rough edges and flaws and surprises. Men like Mitch who were, for better or worse, real.
“What’s that you’re working on?” she asked, noticing the Astrid’s stationery and ballpoint pen parked on the end table at Spence’s elbow.
“A good old-fashioned love letter,” he replied.
Des turned the desk chair around and sat, gazing at him. Spence gazed right back at her, unperturbed. He gave every indication of being agreeable, sincere and innocent. If this man was a cold-blooded killer, then he was in the wrong end of the film business-he belonged in front of the cameras.
“I understand from Mitch that you’ve stayed at Astrid’s before.”
“Many times, yes. Ever since I was a little boy. We held our Sibley family reunions here.”
“Did you know anything about those trapdoors?”
Spence let out a laugh. “Hell, yes. Every red-blooded kid who’s ever stayed here knows about them. My cousins and I used to sneak from room to room in the middle of the night. We’d tell ghost stories, smoke cigarettes, major mischief like that. It was great fun.”
“What happened to Les wasn’t great fun,” Des pointed out, knowing that it would be a long time before she forgot the sight of the innkeeper on the woodshed floor with that hatchet stuck in his head. She’d taken photographs, her third set of the day. It would take her months to draw her way out of this particular winter storm. “Someone used their trapdoor to sneak out and kill him.”
“I realize that,” Spence said somberly, lowering his eyes.
“Why didn’t you warn me about them, Spence? Don’t you realize you could have prevented his death?”
“You seemed very sure of what you were doing, so I assumed that you knew. Didn’t think it through, I guess. I should have spoken up. You’re absolutely right.” He glanced up at her uncertainly. “You do believe me, don’t you?”