Chapter 41
The ride back to the resort felt longer than ever and the sound of the tires, along with the movement of the car, lulled Cora into almost falling asleep.
“It’s late,” Cora said, when they entered the resort. “I’m exhausted and going to bed.”
“Okay,” Jane said. “I’m going to have a drink.”
Cora lifted her eyebrows. “Don’t be too late. Your class is early.”
“Yes, Mother,” Jane said, and smiled. “I’m so keyed up. A glass of wine might do the trick. Join me?”
Jane understood Cora’s weakness was wine. Well, one of her many, many weaknesses.
“Okay,” Cora said. “One drink.”
They both were surprised to see Hank still sitting at the bar. Had he been here all this time?
The two of them waved to him and sat in a booth. Jane recognized a few of the craft retreaters hanging around in clusters. A group laughed over in the corner. It was much too dark to see them, as they were too distant. A pianist played in the other corner. Something soft and bluesy.
“We’d like some wine,” Jane said to the server as she came up to their table.
“Here’s our list,” she said, and handed them a small menu.
“We’ll take the Moscato,” Jane said.
“Sounds good,” she said.
Cora was wilting. She was quiet and her eyelids were heavy. One glass of wine and she’d be ready for bed.
“So what do you think of Rue?” Jane asked.
“I liked her,” Cora said.
“That’s not what I asked. What about all that psychic business?”
“Well, you know how I feel about all that. Most of the time it’s nonsense.”
“Most of the time?”
“I’ve met a few real psychics,” Cora said. “Most of them keep to themselves.”
“Yes, but she’s trying to help. She told the officer that Adrian wasn’t their guy. That it was a large woman,” Jane said.
“I thought about that,” Cora said.
“Mathilde,” Jane said. The server came up and sat the glasses of wine on the small table. “Thank you,” Jane said.
“Or Rue is trying to point us in another direction to sidetrack us,” Cora said. She sighed. “All I understand is Adrian didn’t do it.”
“You two haven’t . . .”
“Absolutely not,” Cora said. “When has there been time? Besides we are—”
“Taking your time,” Jane said, and rolled her eyes. She took a sip of the wine. “Don’t look now. But you-know-who is heading our way.”
“Hey, ladies,” Hank said as he sidled up to the table.
“Hi, Hank. I’m surprised to see you here,” Jane said.
“Why’s that?” Hank said.
“Because you were fired or quit or whatever,” Jane said.
“True, but I live here,” he said. “This is my home.”
He slurred his words. He was a man who’d been drinking most of the evening. He was on the edge of being drunk. Jane thought she might take advantage of that.
“Please sit down with us,” Jane said. “You live here at the resort?”
“Yes,” he said. “Part of my employment package, you see. Of course, most of the time . . . I didn’t stay in my place. I stayed with . . . Mathilde. But that’s over. Way over.”
“You mean . . . ?” Cora leaned across the table. “You mean you were more than her assistant?”
He nodded. “I never should have let it happen.”
Not gay then.
Jane took a drink of her wine. Sweet. Delicious. Sort of like the news just now delivered. If Mathilde and Hank were together, it added a whole new layer of possibilities.
“But I did. We did. And now what a mess,” he said.
“This was all over one disagreement?” Cora said. “Maybe it’s not over.” Cora was now her counselor self. Jane recognized it.
“Oh, it was more than that, actually,” he said. “We’d been spatting about the tiara and then the murders happened and it became too intense. I’m not as tough as she is. I suppose that’s why she’s so successful.”
“Spatting about the tiara?” Jane said, grinning. She noted Cora had brightened a bit since Hank sat down.
“Oh yes,” he said, slurring his S’s. “That damned tiara. Designed for Marcy. Worth a mint.”
“What was there to fight about?” Cora said.
“Well, I gave it to Marcy,” he said. “Mathilde was furious. I thought because Marcy was famous in some circles and well connected, seeing it on her head would elevate the design part of the business.”
“And Mathilde wanted to charge her,” Jane said.
He nodded. “But I was in charge of marketing and PR and I thought it was my decision to make. Evidently not,” he said.
Jane didn’t know how she felt about that. She understood what he was saying—giving away items sometimes had far-reaching effects that you couldn’t put a price tag on. But as an artist herself, Jane needed the money for her own products she had put time, energy, and money into.
“How entangled are you with her?” Cora asked. “Did you sign a contract?”
“I’ll receive a severance package. Plus, I imagine I’ll take over the Drunken Mermaid,” he said. “She has hardly anything to do with that, as it is. But we’re both owners.”
Jane’s eyes met Cora’s.
“We’ve heard there’s a lot that goes on there,” Jane said.
“What have you heard?” he asked.
The server came up to the table. “Can I offer anybody another drink?”
They all shook their heads no.
When she left, Jane leaned in closer to him. “Drugs. That kind of thing.”
His face reddened. “Well, you have that in any beach bar. But we’ve tried to keep it at bay.”
“Our friend Cashel was drugged there earlier today,” Cora piped up. “What do you know about that?”
He coughed on his drink. “What? You must be mistaken.” He stammered and hit his chest.
“I don’t think so,” Jane said. “He was at the hospital most of the day.”
“Must be some kind of mistake,” he said, again.
“It’s not a mistake, Hank. Cashel was drugged at the Drunken Mermaid today, after researching the Marcy Grimm case for his client, my boyfriend Adrian Brisbane,” Cora said.
Hank squirmed in his seat. “Well, obviously, I need to check into this. The police haven’t come to me yet. Maybe they’ve contacted Mathilde.”
“We saw you there earlier,” Jane said.
“And? I don’t like what you’re implying, Jane,” he said. He stood up. “And if I were you—both of you—I’d mind my own business.”