Death Is a Cabaret Page 11

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Jeff walked down the third-floor corridor with Brookner, he saw paramedics wheel a gurney out of a room at the west end. Lieutenant Mel Littlefield stood outside the door, waiting. When the paramedics were clear, she slapped yellow police tape across the entry, then ducked underneath it and went inside.

  Jeff wondered how the hotel’s owners would react to the tape slashed across the room’s entrance. It looked like a scar, one that put him in mind of something from his distant past.

  He’d been making cold calls, stopping at farmhouses and in small-town neighborhoods to see if anyone might have “junk” he wanted to get rid of, when in an attic he’d come across a blanket chest. It had been made in America in the early 1800s and still wore its original black pigment with a Dutch folk art design in muted yellows and reds. Frantically, yet carefully, he had begun clearing the items stacked on its top.

  His heart sank when he found the gash (it was too deep to be called a scratch). He ran his fingers along the raw yellow flesh of the pine that had so recently been exposed. To find the disfigurement cut him to the quick. He searched for the culprit, for that item which had been so carelessly raked across the surface, but he couldn’t find it. He questioned the owner, but the guy just kept asking what the big deal was. It drove Jeff’s investigative instincts nuts, as if a criminal were lurking somewhere.

  He’d purchased the wounded piece for ten bucks and had taken it home and daubed the cut with linseed oil. Since then, he’d been offered five figures for it—without the gash it would’ve easily brought six—but he could never bring himself to part with it. It was his personal reminder that every piece of American history has a soul.

  That, he decided, was how the owners would feel about the yellow scar.

  Jeff wasn’t the only one who looked at antique furniture as human, and with good reason. Consider, for instance, a handcrafted Queen Anne secretary. Its shell is called a carcass. Its legs have knees, shins, feet. It has curves, movement, flow. As the cabinetmaker shaped it, it took on some of the man’s spirit, his personality. It was no wonder, then, that the trade had a phrase that referred to those well-known or much-desired pieces floating around the antique world.

  It was called “keeping track of the bodies.”

  Keeping track of human bodies was becoming a challenge at the Grand. Body number one wasn’t cold yet, and now number two was being wheeled past Jeff and Brookner. Jeff recognized the two paramedics as those from the fountain that morning. They slowed, but Brookner showed no sign of stopping, so they resumed their pace.

  Brookner ducked under the tape. Jeff followed.

  Littlefield closed the door and stood guard. Jeff held back, took in the scene. The room was decorated in a tropical theme with splashes of orange, yellow, red, and green. That made it easy to pick out the forensics team.

  Two Caucasian males in their mid-thirties and wearing gray suits were at the desk, leafing through stacks of papers, folders, books, even the telephone directory. A woman in a white lab coat over gray slacks and sweater was having a quiet conversation on a cell phone while a bald man in white lab coat and gray trousers wore surgical gloves as he dusted the room’s phone for prints. As the man concentrated, his forehead split into five straight lines that put Jeff in mind of a musical staff.

  The woman cursed, then punched a button and dropped the cell phone—it was no bigger than a powder compact—into a pocket on her coat. Jeff guessed her to be about thirty. Her brown hair was wound in a tight bun secured at the nape of her neck with two red pencils. A third pencil was parked over her right ear, and she grabbed it and began jotting notes on a clipboard.

  One of the suits muttered something to the other, who in turn barked, “Then look again, damn it,” and the first one shrugged and started another trek through the stacks.

  Brookner checked his watch, then said to the woman, “Don’t give up, Nic. You’ve got twenty long minutes till kickoff.”

  “Go square to hell, Brookner.” She turned then, as if to check whether he’d vanished in a poof of purgatory-bound smoke, before continuing the conversation. The look changed to contempt when she saw Jeff. “This isn’t a sideshow, mister.”

  She shot a look at Mel that said the lieutenant should do her job better, but before Mel could defend herself, Brookner said, “Stop sweet-talkin’ the FBI, Nic. They don’t take to it.”

  “Since when do we need FBI for suicide?”

  “We don’t. But this one’s been kind of handy. Jeff Talbot, Nicole Whitney.”

  “The only way he’ll be handy is if he’s got a suicide note on him.”

  “I hadn’t planned on needing one, Miss Whitney.”

  “That’s reassuring, Mr. Talbot. I wonder if our Mr. Davenport planned his suicide. If he did, he sure as hell didn’t let us know why.”

  “No note, huh?” Brookner said.

  “Nope. If there were, do you think I’d still be here?”

  “Point taken.” Brookner gave the room the once-over.

  “What have you found?”

  “The only thing worth mentioning is this.” She produced a Ziploc bag. In it was a prescription bottle full of pink pills.

  “Davenport took one of those at dinner last night,” Jeff said. “With champagne.”

  “Not smart,” said Whitney. “This is Tegretol. Among other things, it’s used for treating bipolar disorder.”

  “Manic depression?” Brookner examined the full bottle. “Wonder why he didn’t use these to check out with?”

  Whitney grunted. “And deny me the pleasure of his swollen tongue and soiled suit?”

  Brookner grinned. “I’m going downstairs where I can inhale some nicotine. For some reason, I always need a smoke after I talk to you.”

  The ME smiled for the first time. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Detective.”

  The interrogation room looked pretty much the same as it had earlier, only there were a lot more folders on the desk.

  Brookner motioned Jeff to a chair, then lowered himself into the one behind the desk with a heaviness that said he’d had to plant his butt there one too many times. He lit a cigarette and sucked in his fix. “Talbot.” The word escaped with the smoke. “What did the FBI teach you about situations like this?”

  “Like what? Murder? Suicide? They said to avoid them.”

  “Smart-ass.” He sighed wearily. “You know, Talbot, your mug is showing up in a little too many scenarios connected to this case. I think you’d better start cooperating.”

  “My apologies, Detective. Murder’s not a federal crime, unless it’s the president, vice-president, or a member of Congress, so my training is different from yours. I have been giving this case a lot of thought, though. We’re not going to get very far until we come up with some connections.”

  “We, huh?”

  Jeff grinned. “Old habit, I guess. If it’s okay with you I’d like to check with one of my old FBI buddies, see if I can turn up any common bonds.”

  “You do that. As long as you understand that I’m first on your snitch list. Understood?”

  Jeff nodded. “Hasn’t questioning the guests turned up anything?”

  “Not so far. Pieces here and there, but none of them fit together. Not yet, anyway.”

  “What about Hamilton’s room? Anything there?”

  “The usual stuff: shaving kit, some old suitcases, couple books.”

  “Mind if I take a look? Sometimes people in my line of work find ingenious ways of hiding things.”

  Brookner pondered this offer. At length, he shrugged. “Oh, what the hell. I got no problem with it, so long as you don’t go telling any cops that I’m cooperating with the FBI.” A crystal ashtray had been placed on the desk since Jeff’s last time to the room. Brookner balanced his cigarette on it, then located a manila envelope with Hamilton written across it in red block letters and fished out a key. He tossed it to Jeff.

  Mel Littlefield walked in without knocking. Apparently they’d dis
pensed with formalities in the interest of time. “Detective, Callie here says she saw our necktie expert talking with Hamilton last night.”

  Brookner slapped the top of the desk and said, “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  Jeff stood and offered his chair to the woman. She waved him off.

  She was black, large boned and stocky, and had that same ageless quality Jeff had observed earlier in Lieutenant Littlefield. He wondered whether it was the dark-skinned heritage or the extra weight that gave this ageless illusion. Caucasian women cooked their skin for the dark effect, which only negated their attempts at youth by adding wrinkles. But too much money had been spent in the war against fat for women to change their minds at this late date.

  Jeff made a mental note to invest in America’s diet industry.

  Callie’s crisp housekeeping uniform was a gray dress with a starched white collar and matching cuffs. A white apron and well-cushioned white shoes completed the outfit. Jeff wondered whether the maids dressed in neutral tones in order to pick one another out from their bright surroundings.

  Brookner pulled a pen from his pocket. “Tell me what you saw.”

  “Yes, sir. It was around eight o’clock in the evening.” It was obvious that English was her second language. She took great care with pronunciation and spent a little more time on the Ns, creating the illusion of liquid flowing. “I was providing turn-down service on the third floor. Most folks are downstairs to dinner during that time, so we knock a couple of times, then let ourselves in, turn down the bedding, and put chocolates on the pillows.”

  “Chocolates.”

  “Yes, sir” She reached in her apron’s pocket and brought out a miniature square envelope with a moon and stars and the Grand Hotel nestled in a bed of clouds. Scripted alongside was the greeting, “Sweet Dreams.” It was just like the one Jeff had found on his pillow last night. “Want one?” She passed them out to all of us. “They’s not bad,” she added, her proper English slipping slightly.

  Brookner studied the little packet.

  “Eight?” Jeff looked at Brookner. “That’s about the time Davenport was called away from dinner.”

  Brookner’s brows raised accusingly.

  “Let me explain. I’d been invited to dinner by Ben and Jennifer Hurst. They mentioned that they were dining with a friend. I decided it beat eating alone.” He thought about adding that it hadn’t, but the jury was still out. “Anyway, around eight, a hotel messenger approached the table and handed Davenport a note. He was upset after he read it, said something about a glitch with the auction plans. He left in a big hurry.”

  Brookner turned to Littlefield. “Get the Hursts in here.” Littlefield started toward the door.

  “And see if somebody can track down the messenger who delivered that note to Davenport last night.”

  “Can I go, too?” Callie asked anxiously. Littlefield waited while the maid continued. “Belinda’s so upset that she can’t work, and I’ve got to cover her.”

  “Upset?” Brookner said. “Why?”

  “She’s the one who found that man with a belt around his neck.”

  “Littletfield-”

  “Got it, boss. I’ll bring her, too.”

  After Jeff was dismissed, he fought the urge to go to Hamilton’s room and went instead to his own.

  He needed to put his FBI source and long-time fishing buddy, Gordon Easthope, to work on some background checks. Jeff was a master of the contingency plan and always traveled with contact information on a variety of sources, from FBI to antiques experts to an encoded list on a subculture of people who had proven indispensable during his time with the bureau.

  He looked up a number in his address book and picked up the phone. A sense of déjà vu came with it. When he’d worked as a desk jockey, he’d gotten so damned tired of having a phone screwed to his ear. He’d be glad when this death business was wrapped up so he could concentrate on finding antiques and on getting that cabaret set for Blanche. He punched numbers.

  A deep bass identified itself as Easthope.

  “Gordy? What are you doing answering your own phone? Did you sprout a heart and give Joan the day off?”

  “Like hell. You didn’t go that far east, Talbot. It’s Saturday here, too.”

  “Saturday?” Jeff sighed wearily. “I guess you’re right. Feels like I’ve been here for a hell of a lot longer than one day.”

  “Sounds like it, too. What did you do? Get up early and pull in a few trout?”

  “Haven’t even had a chance.”

  “You’re missing a bet. Michigan’s a fishing paradise. What about the treasure hunting?”

  “Getting interrupted by murder, mostly.”

  “Yeah? At an antique convention? What happened, did you kill some guy who outbid you, or did some female wallop the gal next to her so she could make off with the goods? That happens all the time at Macy’s.”

  “I found the first body. Turns out it’s another picker from Seattle.”

  “You know him?”

  “You could say that. Matter of fact, I had a run-in with him a couple of days ago.”

  “Trying to clear your own name then.”

  “I guess you could say that.” Jeff started jotting names on the yellow pad by the phone.

  “Wait a minute. You said ‘first body.’ How many you got?”

  “Two. Second one’s suicide.”

  “Is it? Or does it just look that way?”

  “Only thing missing is a note,” Jeff said ironically.

  “Uh-huh.” Gordy’s tone was heavy with skepticism. “Notes are iffy at best. People fake ‘em or force a guy to sign some typewritten piece of crap. What you need is motive, my friend, whether you’re dealing with murder or suicide.”

  Although Gordy had been with the Bureau for more than twenty years, he’d begun his career with the Dallas Police Department. Jeff’s own deduction skills had been honed by Gordy, his mentor and long-time friend.

  “Listen, Gordy. There’s a George Lawrence creel here with your name on it if you’ll run a few checks for me, see what the system spits out.” Jeff was always on the lookout for fishing memorabilia—decoys, lures, creels, anything fishy—to add to Gordy’s collection.

  “You’re kidding.” The muffled screech of Gordy’s ancient but broken-in desk chair came over the line. Jeff knew the man had jumped to his feet. “Tooled leather?”

  “You know it.”

  “Brass plate, too?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’ve been looking for that one since Papa fished Walloon Lake.” When Gordy said “Papa,” he was referring to his favorite fisherman and author—in that order—Ernest Hemingway. He’d always claimed it was too endearing a term to be wasted on his own deadbeat dad.

  When Gordy continued, his tone was more reserved. “Hell, you know that. You’ll bring it to me anyway, just because you think you can rob an old man blind. Hang on.” Jeff could hear paper rattling, then Gordy continued. “I’m in. Shoot.”

  Jeff rattled off the list he’d just written—surprised, suddenly, that it was a list. When he was through, he said, “Leave a message if I’m not in the room. Brookner—that’s the detective heading up the investigation—gave me a key to Hamilton’s room. I’m headed there now to see if anything was overlooked.”

  “Key, huh?” Gordy grunted. “Yeah, it sounds like you’re one of their prime suspects, all right.”

  “You always told me I have an honest face.”

  “Yeah, as long as you hold that outdated federal ID in front of it.”

  “What can I say? Most people think FBI stands for Fanatical But Innocent.”

  “They must.” Gordy hung up.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Frank Hamilton’s room was near the west end of the Parlor level. Jeff started down the corridor, noting a brass plate with a number that told him he had a walk ahead of him. As he strode down the corridor, he also noted that all the doors were alike: massive white slabs that looked more like entran
ces to columned mansions. These guarded rooms were as different from one another as a Regency sideboard was from a Shaker washstand. He hurried along, keeping an eye out for another yellow scar. There wasn’t one, and he almost shot past the room. This surprised him, until he realized the police tape wouldn’t be here. Hamilton was dead, but he hadn’t been killed in his room.

  The brass oval plate that hung beside the door and identified the room almost escaped Jeff’s attention. It had been polished recently, and as he slid the key into the hole he angled himself in order to cut the glare and see what was engraved upon the disk. An elegant script read Napoleon Suite.

  An instant of confusion, followed by a flash of envy. Was it possible? Had he missed the opportunity to stay in this suite because of Frank Hamilton, a guy who probably didn’t give a damn about atmosphere?

  Jeff opened the door and slipped inside. He flipped the light switch and stood there for several moments while the atmosphere permeated his senses.

  Bonaparte would have complained. Not because of the decorating, which at first glance was true to the empire’s clarets and golds and black lacquers. The emperor, in spite of his slight stature, would have groused for want of more floor space to spread his maps and get belly down among them like a child playing engineer with a toy train set.

  Jeff walked around. It wasn’t a suite in the true sense of the word, but it had obviously earned that status by way of sheer decadence. Rich claret paper covered the walls in a design that mimicked festooned silk. Above that, gilded molding framed the room. The bedding and draperies were in rich claret tones and heavy with gold satin passementerie, from the corded ropes to the yards and yards of bullion fringe. A massive oval mirror, antique and gilded and worth more than everything else in the room combined, dominated one wall.

  The bed was made. Jeff wondered if housekeeping had been in. He remembered then that Hamilton had likely never slept in it. Even if the cops had checked under the layers of bedspread and sheets, someone had followed them and made it up again.