Death Is a Cabaret Page 16

  “I need something, Talbot. It’s been forty years since the last murder on Mackinac Island. That one was never solved. If this one isn’t solved either, we’ll never live it down. Media pounces on this sort of thing. Always has, but its reach is a hell of a lot farther now.”

  “Do you think the two deaths are related?”

  “Sure as hell do. Murder just doesn’t happen here. With that in mind, what are the odds of two deaths from unnatural causes happening at the same event, hours apart, not being related?”

  “Too much of a spread for my wallet.”

  “We need a suicide note or a skeleton in a closet or something on Davenport.”

  The rain started sporadically, with drops the size of quarters falling onto the horses’ rumps and forming mud spots in their dusty coats. It broke loose then, and in less time than it takes to tell it, both man and beast were soaked. Brookner urged the horses on, rushing through downtown as Jeff watched people scramble to get out of the way. Many of the pedestrians were in a state of panic, darting this way and that across the street, zigzagging in order not to be run down by wagons and bicyclists. Several drenched people tried to hail the horse-drawn taxis.

  The scene was not unlike Manhattan in sudden downpours that send pedestrians scrambling for cabs. Although there were far less people on this island, there were even fewer drivers for hire by comparison. One might argue, however, that these four-legged throwbacks to another time moved a little faster than the cabs in the Big Apple.

  Thunder crashed, and Dan and Pat reared as if a string of firecrackers had been thrown at their flanks. Brookner maintained control, expertly working the reins. He turned the team up Hoban Street and reined them in at Market. “We’re already soaked. If you don’t mind walking, I’ll take the rig over to Shawn. I don’t know that restaging what you saw will do any good, but nothing else is, either. I’ll meet you up top in about thirty.”

  Jeff hopped down and started toward Grand Avenue. “You don’t have any qualms about being stranded on an island with a murderer, do you?”

  Brookner’s question stopped Jeff in his tracks. He hadn’t thought of it that way before. “No, but I’m not sure why.”

  “I’ll tell you why. You’ve gotten to know several of those people relatively quickly.” He nodded toward the Grand’s hill when he spoke. “They appear to be normal, upstanding citizens. Some might even say trustworthy folks. You don’t want to suspect any of them. You’ve gone through some motions of playing cop, used your training—what little is left of it—to get some facts a little quicker than I could’ve gotten them. Remember this: at least one of ‘em has let himself—or herself, if you wanna get PC—get caught up in what looks like a crime of passion.”

  “You’re wrong, Brookner. My approach is just different from yours. Did you ever stop to think that we’ve covered quite a bit of ground in a short amount of time? We both know that’s the key to any investigation: Get as much as you can the first twenty-four hours. It will work to our advantage that we take very different approaches, like good cop-bad cop. Every damn one of those people is on my list.”

  “Good for you, Talbot. You’ve got a list. But yours isn’t necessarily a suspect list. That’s all my list is: suspects. The sister, the ex-fiancee, her husband, even your Three Musketeers and the dead auctioneer. Especially the auctioneer. They’re all suspects. And they’re all on my list.”

  A stream of water ran down Jeff’s forehead from his rain-soaked hair. Droplets beaded, clung to his lashes. He blinked rapidly. “Am I on that list?”

  Brookner waited a beat before he spoke.

  “Why not?”

  “You wanna be?” he asked sarcastically.

  “Come on. You know what I mean.”

  Brookner’s gaze was steady. “I’ve been a cop for most of my life. Call it a gut instinct if you want to. Add to it this: Why would you come all the way out here to kill him? You’d have a helluva lot better chance getting away with it in Seattle.”

  Brookner snapped the reins and was gone.

  Jeff had to give the guy credit. When he wanted to put things back on a business level, he didn’t jack around. And he’d shaken Jeff up with the island remark, too.

  Islands. Jeff had stayed on islands before, but never one this small. He walked up the hill toward his hotel. The day had been hot and humid. Now, the cool rain clashed with the heat held by the ground and formed large, steamy fog pockets that settled over the Tea Garden.

  Anxiety came over Jeff. As the fog thickened, he felt something tighten around his chest like a vise. He bounded up the wide staircase and ran to the west end of the hotel’s long porch. He strained to see the lights of the mainland. Nothing. He tried to see the lights strung along the lines of Mackinac Bridge, those he’d seen last night that put him in mind of a skeleton, the brittle bones of its form. Again, nothing. Panic gripped him. His heart beat faster. He took a deep breath, told himself to shake it off, shake away the fear of being trapped on the island. A chilling glimpse of life in Sheila’s world came over him. He’d never felt more isolated.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  He thought he could get through the Parlor without being noticed. Quite a few people were having after-dinner drinks, and he hoped they were interested enough in one another not to notice him walking through, dripping all over the carpet of geraniums. This was the second night he had missed out on the after-dinner drinks.

  “Jeff!” It was Jennifer Hurst’s voice.

  Hearing her reminded him that he’d forgotten about his dinner date with her and Ben. He turned. “I’m—”

  “Jeff, what on earth?” Jennifer rushed to him, followed closely by Ben. “It’s cliché, but I have to say it. You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

  “What?”

  “You’re positively white.” Jennifer grabbed his arm, then drew away and gave her now wet hand a confused look. “And your. . . your arm’s wet.”

  “For all your observations, my dear wife, you missed the obvious. He’s dripping.” Ben pulled a crisply folded handkerchief from his back pocket and handed it to Jeff. “You’re going to need a hell of a lot more than this, but it’s a start.”

  Jeff accepted it and sluiced water from his face, then looked at the couple. Jennifer was wearing a shimmering white gown covered with hundreds of ostrich feathers. Ben was in full dress, right down to the white tie, tails, top hat, and cane.

  Just as he suspected, he would have faded into the background had he been with them all evening. Although that would’ve been preferable to the stares he was now getting.

  “Do you dance like Fred and Ginger, too?”

  The Hursts groaned.

  “You’ve heard that line a time or two tonight.” Ben said, “A time or two.”

  “I know we seem a little over the top,” Jennifer said, “but you’ll appreciate it once you know the facts. Ben’s hat and cane are authentic. They were Astaire’s in Top Hat.”

  Jeff’s brows shot up. “You’re right, I do. But your dress?” He knew for a fact that Ginger Rogers had been only a little over five feet.

  “Oh, I own the dress from the movie as well. But I found this copy last year in New York at a vintage fashion show.”

  “My apologies for assuming otherwise.” Jeff bowed slightly. “Actually, I should be apologizing about dinner. Brookner grabbed me to go downtown, and I didn’t have a chance to let you know.”

  “Never mind that. Are you okay?”

  “Nothing a hot shower and a gallon of coffee won’t fix.”

  “What did the detective do? Throw you in the lake?”

  “He probably wanted to.” Jeff handed the now soaking wet handkerchief back to Ben. “I suppose I should get out of these clothes.”

  Jennifer said, “You’ll be back down, won’t you?”

  “Sure. Out, anyway. I have to meet Brookner in the Cupola in a little while.”

  “So do we,” Ben said. “He wants us to help re-create what you saw last night.”

 
; “I hope it does some good.”

  “Oh,” Jennifer said, “the concierge was looking for you, something about a message.”

  “Thanks. I’ll check at his desk on my way up.”

  “We’ll see you in the Cupola, then.”

  The leather inlays of the oak partners’ desk that served as the concierge station had been recently replaced and retooled with finely detailed borders in gold. The decision to alter such an antique would be a difficult call and Jeff wondered how furniture gurus Leigh and Leslie Keno might react if they saw it. Their mantra, “Don’t Refinish,” held merit and was proved widely in the American antiques world as sound advice. Jeff usually agreed, knowing that to defy it meant a hefty markdown in value. But antiques pressed into constant service would require attention, just as they might have a hundred years ago.

  Slumped in a leather chair behind the desk was a blond-haired boy in his teens wearing a red blazer and a sullen smirk. He made no move to sit up when Jeff approached. “I understand you’re holding a message for me.”

  “Depends on who you are.”

  Jeff’s jaw tightened. He hadn’t cut a four-figure check to be treated like this by the help. “I hope to God you’re not going to tell me you’re the concierge. Is he around?”

  “The concierge has left for the evening.”

  “Then the concierge can expect a letter from me about your lack of people skills.”

  He shrugged, his acne-scarred face showing no emotion. “I’ll be gone by the time he receives it.”

  Jeff wondered what school district the little prick lived in. Shouldn’t he have been back in class two weeks ago, advertising Hilfiger clothes and snapping girls’ bras? “Must be nice not to need this job next year.”

  That got his attention. He moved to the edge of the seat. “Sorry, sir. Your name?”

  Jeff gave it to him.

  The kid handed him an envelope and a question. “You’re not gonna write that letter, are you?”

  Jeff didn’t give him the satisfaction of a response.

  He took the stairs beside the concierge station, ripping open the envelope as he went. He unfolded the note and looked at the three words: Call your wife.

  That was it? Why hadn’t she just left a message on voice mail?

  In his room, he peeled the wet clothes from his shivering body and dropped them in the tub, then wrapped himself in the hotel’s robe and dialed his home number. After four rings, voice mail on that end kicked in, and he told his own voice that he’d be in the room till midnight.

  A pot of coffee was what he needed. He put one on to brew, then called housekeeping to pick up his suit and do what they could for it. After the maid left, he downed a full mug of the hot liquid just as fast as his body would let him.

  The second mug wasn’t as urgent. He took it onto the balcony. The rain had stopped, and he searched for the Mackinac Bridge. Its lights, like tiny, flickering white Christmas bulbs, winked reassuringly in the distance. The structure no longer looked skeletal. He heaved a sigh of relief, as if the bridge were his only link to civilization.

  He went back inside, checked the clock on the night-stand, which read 9:57, and flipped on the television. An Antiques Roadshow special, complete with behind-the-scenes footage, was about to begin. It was the best luck he’d had all day, so he settled against propped-up bed pillows to fill the minutes till midnight.

  As the credits rolled two hours later, Jeff quickly dressed in a fresh shirt with the slacks and jacket he’d worn that afternoon. The message light was flashing, and he was amazed he hadn’t noticed it earlier. Then he realized that Sheila must’ve been leaving him a message while he was trying to call her.

  Phone tag, you’re it, the blinking seemed to say. He’d have to call her after the meeting with Brookner.

  The striped awning that formed a circus big top in the Cupola Bar couldn’t have been more fitting for the scene unfolding when Jeff arrived.

  In one ring was Brookner—he’d changed clothes as well—with Lieutenant Mel Littlefield and another cop Jeff hadn’t met. The detective, one knee on the padded bench seat that bordered the room, was leaning over and pointing down toward the gardens. He held a walkie-talkie in his other hand.

  In the middle ring were Ben and Jennifer Hurst, wearing the clothes they’d had on when Jeff first met them: Ben in a charcoal suit and Jennifer in the black dress, gloves, and picture hat.

  Completing the three-ring circus was a group that included Lily Chastain, Asia Graham, and Ruth Ann Longan. There was no elevator to the Cupola, and Jeff wondered how the three had ever managed the stairs. He also wondered why.

  Asia was seated in one of two wrought-iron chairs, drumming her fingers on the Frisbee-sized cocktail table. Ruth Ann was dragging a third chair over while Lily maneuvered herself into the seat next to Asia.

  Jeff hurried over and rescued Ruth Ann.

  “Why thank you, dear.” She turned to him with a grateful smile and gasped when she saw his face. “You’ve been hurt!”

  Asia craned her neck to see what the fuss was about, then announced, “You’re lucky you didn’t lose an eye.”

  “Asia’s right,” Lily said. “What happened?”

  “You’ll never believe it. I was downtown when the storm hit and there was a maiden in distress in a runaway carriage and—”

  “Fine, then,” snapped Asia. “Don’t tell us.”

  Ruth Ann looked anxiously at him like she wanted to hear how the adventure had ended.

  Lily grinned. “Now, Asia, be nice to the boy. He’s only having a little fun.”

  Asia ignored her. “We heard there was something special going on up here tonight. Do you know what it’s about?”

  “I don’t know that I’d call it special. The—”

  “Isn’t it a special program or something?” Ruth Ann asked.

  There had been a pianist the night before. Jeff checked his watch, then pointed out the piano. “Someone will probably start playing in fifteen minutes or so.”

  “That’ll just make it hard for us to hear one another.” Asia started to get up.

  “We can at least stay and order a drink,” offered Lily. “You can if you want to, but this old gal’s turnin’ in.”

  “Asia’s right, Lily.” Ruth Ann stood. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

  “Nothin’ but a bunch of party poopers.” Lily struggled to her feet as she said it and followed the others toward the stairs.

  Several people were in the bar now, sipping cocktails and whispering among themselves. None of them seemed curious about the police being there. A body could drop right in front of some people and they’d simply step over it on their way out.

  Brookner turned and cursed when he saw the crowd that had gathered. He rapped a table three times with the walkie-talkie, but it didn’t get the attention of the crowd. The noise continued.

  Jeff expected a boisterous Ladies and Gentlemen! to come from the detective’s lungs, closely followed by a buxom woman in sequins leading a trunk-to-tail string of elephants.

  “What is this?” Brookner yelled. “A three-ring circus?”

  The barmaid Jeff had talked with the night before walked past Brookner about then and said, “Helluva fine job of detecting.” She pointed at the circus ceiling with one of her geranium-lacquered nails.

  Brookner’s glare followed the nail and he offered up a few choice words.

  “People, let me have your attention.” Brookner’s voice held none of the pomp and circumstance of a ringmaster. The bubble was broken, and the detective got down to business.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Hurst,” Brookner said. “If you will go down to the garden, please, I have a couple of officers waiting there for you. They’ll position you when I give them the word.”

  Brookner waited for the couple to leave.

  “Talbot, I want you over here at the window.”

  Jeff walked over and stood beside the detective. “You’re sure you remember where you saw Hamilton last night?�
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  Jeff assured him that he did.

  “Anything new from your contacts?”

  He told the detective about the phone tag with Sheila. “I’ll try her again when we’re through here.”

  Brookner’s walkie-talkie squawked.

  “Yeah?”

  “They’re down here. Where do you want them?” Brookner handed the walkie-talkie to Jeff.

  He leaned over and looked down at the small group. Four faces were looking up at him. “For starters, have Ben and Jennifer look at each other, not up here.”

  The cop turned to the couple and spoke. Their heads went down.

  “There. Now, she needs to step to the right. Good. Now, tell him to back up a couple steps.” Jeff closed his eyes, summoned the image of Frank Hamilton and the mystery woman from the night before. He opened his eyes, peered back down at the two now standing in their places. He continued with the orchestration until the scene below him matched up with his memory.

  Brookner looked at Jeff, then down at the scene.

  “You were right. Can’t recognize them without the body language.”

  “Something’s not right.”

  “Like what? Aren’t they in the right places?”

  “Yes, but something’s missing.” Jeff thought about it a minute. “There was a glint of light beside the woman last night. From up here, I thought maybe it was a Malibu light—you know, those lanterns that are close to the ground to highlight an area.” Jeff radioed the cops and asked them to check for the lights, make sure all were still burning.

  After a moment, the radio buzzed. “We’ve got the groundkeep down here. He says they don’t use those lights you’re talking about. Only these along the walkway.”

  Jeff could see the officer swing his arm, indicating the lanterns on posts that led toward the pool.

  Brookner said, “Maybe she had on a sparkly ring, or she was holding a drink. You said it was late. Maybe she had a flashlight.”