I returned the magazine. “Very impressive. That must’ve helped business.”
“It didn’t hurt. Of course they were here before it started stinking like a sewer.” Rarig passed it over to Tyler and then went about pouring us cups of coffee from a fancy thermos parked on the table. As he did, I watched his profile, still digesting the improbable coincidence of his having come from the very city where I’d almost been stuck with a knife.
“You ever been back to Washington?”
He gave me my cup. “Not even maybe. I missed my own retirement party. They called me and said I had a certificate or something coming. I told ’em to mail it. It never arrived.”
He handed a second cup to J.P. and sat back, cradling his own before him. “No. If I never see another city again, that’ll suit me just fine. This life is no feather bed. You get cranky guests, leaky roofs, and bursting pipes in the winter-the place was built in 1823-but they’re the kinds of problems you can actually fix. Not some vague matters of policy set in place by a bunch of on-the-job-retirement bureaucrats.”
I took advantage of the reference to ask, “You have many cranky guests?”
He took a sip before answering. “Not really. There’s a New Yorker right now who’s a little thin-skinned, but I get the feeling he’s got problems back at the office-it’s nothing personal.”
“I suppose a lot of people come up here to get away from it all, kind of like you did.”
“Oh, sure,” he said. “They can never resist bringing their cell phones, of course, but they tell themselves they’re relaxing, and I suppose that’s half the battle. We try to make them feel like it’s real.”
He sighed deeply. “This isn’t the way I’d really like it, though. Twenty-five years ago, this place was almost a commune. The guests had to pay, of course. But they all ate family style, at one huge table, from a fixed menu. And everybody mixed in-the employees and the guests, everyone’s kids. Must’ve been like the Waltons. It caught a little flak for that, of course, especially from the local cops. The owners were pretty left-wing. Unmarried mothers-to-be, Vietnam War protesters, illegal immigrants-people like that hung out here a lot, mostly as temp help. But I really like the idea of one big family, all sharing the same experience, getting rid of the elitist image most inns try to pump up.”
Rarig paused, staring at the ceiling, and then blinked a couple of times, clearing his throat and looking straight at us. “Can’t do it, of course-economics. Nowadays, people expect the French cuisine, the four-star treatment. I’d be cutting my throat, turning it back into a hippie hangout.”
He shook his head mournfully. “That’s the only reason I really am considering cutting the tree down. On the other hand, late summer isn’t the best time for us anyhow. People have to get back home. Maybe I could just shut down for a month and a half… It’s a tough decision.”
“How long do your guests stay, on average?” J.P. asked, speaking for the first time since we’d sat down.
“Two days-a standard weekend-but we encourage them to stretch things out a little. The third day is half price, and the fifth is on us. Right now we have twelve guests, and for about half of them this is their fourth day, which is pretty unusual.”
“Any that’ve been here longer?” I asked. According to our calculations, the man with the tattooed toes had been killed eight or nine days ago. I knew such an obvious question might tip our hand, but I also couldn’t see what we’d gain by letting more time slip by.
Rarig slowly leaned forward and gently placed his half-empty coffee cup on the table, as if it were full to the brim. He stayed slightly hunched up and looked at me closely, his head tilted. “No. What is this all about?”
J.P. and I exchanged glances. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged almost imperceptibly. “We’re investigating a murder, Mr. Rarig,” I said, “and we suspect the inn is somehow connected.”
He didn’t move. “How?”
I didn’t have much to lose. If he was tied into all this, my being coy would be purposeless, and if he was as innocent as he seemed, he could do us some good.
J.P. answered for me. “We have compelling evidence the killing took place here.”
Rarig sat back again, smiling slightly. “The tree, right?”
“Why do you say that?” J.P. asked.
It was a silly question, occasionally workable with one of our run-of-the-mill clients, whose gullibility often seemed without bottom, but not with John Rarig, who was patently nobody’s fool. J.P. Tyler was a scientist by instinct, a little slow to discern such human subtleties.
Rarig laughed softly at his awkwardness. “Two cops drop by, a long way from their home turf, having discussed ginkgo trees in Newfane. Sure sounds like a research trip to me. Did your dead body have a branch clutched in one hand?”
But while no wizard at interviewing, Tyler had a fetish for discretion. He merely stared back.
“Have you been around here all week, Mr. Rarig?” I asked.
He crossed his arms, the informality of our get-together now utterly gone. “Yes.”
“Do you recall anything unusual happening eight or nine days ago, day or night?”
“No, but then I don’t live at the inn. I have a house just over the hill-well out of earshot. No one reported anything, though.”
“Did any guests leave ahead of schedule around then, or show any signs that something was wrong?” Tyler asked.
Rarig hesitated. “I’d have to check the register, but nothing comes to mind.”
I took the bait. “Could we look at that?”
Rarig avoided a direct answer. “What makes you think it was one of my guests? What is your evidence?”
“It’s the tree,” I told him. “Specifically, one of the seeds.”
“And one of the small lower branches has been freshly broken,” J.P. added, touching his hair. “About head high.”
To give Tyler his due, it was a nice bit of timing. Rarig pushed out his lips and expelled a small sigh, staring straight ahead. “I see,” he finally said.
“So?” I prompted.
He looked uncomfortable. “We’ve got a very good reputation here. You saw the article. Word gets out I handed you my guest list, I could lose my shirt-maybe even end up in court. I don’t suppose you have a warrant?”
I in turn ducked that. “We’re not exactly Keystone Kops, Mr. Rarig. We could check them out without their even knowing it, at least initially. If we found something suspicious, the person involved would probably have more to worry about than smearing your reputation.”
Rarig shook his head. “I better call my lawyer and get some advice. I don’t want to be unfriendly, but I’m way out of my depths here, and I don’t want to lose everything I’ve put into this place.”
I was impressed by the sincerity in his voice, which I also knew meant nothing whatsoever.
“What about your employees?” Tyler asked. “How many are there?”
His answer surprised me. “Twenty-five, not counting me, although only five of them are full-time salaried.”
“Could we have their names, at least?” I asked.
Again, he didn’t answer immediately.
“There are Labor and Industry files we could consult,” I prompted, being somewhat less than truthful. “Tax records, Department of Health, disability insurance. It would take time, but-”
He waved his hand and stood up. “All right. I don’t see the harm there. I will warn them about what I’ve done, though.”
J.P. and I joined him. “Fair enough,” I said. “When can we expect them?”
“Would tomorrow be too late? That’ll give me time to call my lawyer, too.”
I shook his hand. “That’ll be fine.”
He led us back to the front door, where I removed the retouched photo of the man in Hillstrom’s cooler from my pocket. “You ever see him?”
He looked at it carefully. “He’s the one in the paper, who was found in the quarry.”
“That’s right.”
He returned the picture. “No. I’m afraid not.”