“We haven’t found out anything,” Paul said.
I hadn’t even made it all the way through the door. One foot was still outside in the warmth of the June evening and already I was being hit with the news I didn’t want. It was a lot like having CNN on whenever you came home.
Carrying the pizza I’d bought in town—a five-minute drive from here and it was already starting to cool—I assessed the situation in my kitchen: Paul and Richard were floating near the door, which didn’t stop my progress but made it weirder. Josh and Melissa were nowhere to be seen, but Gregory Lewis was lurking just outside the swinging kitchen door, visible in his attempts to be inconspicuous. He was calling in from the den, “Alison? I’m sorry; is that Alison?”
It was in fact me, so I ignored Paul and his bleak report to put the pizza down on the island and went to the kitchen door. I opened it gingerly to avoid hitting Mr. Lewis in the face.
“Anything I can help you with, Greg?” I remembered he’d asked me to call him Greg.
“Just a quick question. I don’t want to be a pest,” Mr. Lewis said. He was trying out for the title of Most Timid Man in the World and wanted to start in my house. That was my best guess.
“You’re not at all,” I assured him. “Please, come in.” It’s best to show the guests they can come into the kitchen even if I do like to use it as a ghost-safe space. They chose to come to a vacation spot called the Haunted Guesthouse, after all. I felt it was important to own the idea. I gestured to Mr. Lewis to walk into the kitchen, and he followed my lead. “How can I help you?”
“Do you know how to make a mix tape?” Mr. Lewis asked.
“Oh, for the love of—” Richard felt that my business, the one that actually kept food and clothing coming for my daughter (although things had been easier since I’d married a man with a going business), was not as important as my listening to his story of how they hadn’t found out anything of significance. I’ve never had a sibling, so I was starting to wonder what strange bond there was that made Paul tolerate his brother.
“A mix tape? What do you need done exactly, Greg?” Because although I was sure Melissa could no doubt create whatever it was he needed in a matter of minutes, I have some ethical questions about people taking music or other copyrighted material without paying for it—not that that was what he was asking, but I wanted to make sure.
“I wanted to take a recording I have and make a disc that would best showcase it,” he said, telling me virtually nothing I needed to know. “Do you know how to do that?”
“I don’t, but I’m sure Melissa does,” I said. “But I have to make one caveat: I will not reproduce something that violates an artist’s copyright. I think those people need to be paid for their work, and so does everyone who helps them create the music we love.”
Mr. Lewis tightened his mouth a little and shook his head the smallest amount possible while still creating a visible motion. “Oh, I wouldn’t ask you to do anything like that, Alison. I completely agree with you. I just need to copy some recordings I’ve made myself. Do you think that would be possible? I assure you, it’s not infringing on anyone’s rights but my own, and I don’t really mind.” I think that was Mr. Lewis attempting a joke.
“Well, then, I think we can help you, but it will be important to know what format you’re using for your recording. I’ll tell you what: I’m about to call Melissa in for dinner, and when she comes downstairs, you can give her an idea of what you need. How’s that?”
Mr. Lewis seemed quite pleased and not a little relieved. He thanked me and left the kitchen, saying he’d be in his room but that I could text him after I’d spoken to Liss about his audio conversion, whatever that was going to turn out to be.
Once alone—at least technically—in the kitchen, I looked up at the two deceased brothers populating the upper reaches of the room. Paul was hovering in the area of the stove, his favorite for reasons I don’t understand, and Richard was at the center of the room, arms folded with frustrated impatience.
“Have you completed your innkeeper duties for the time being?” he asked. Some haughtiness dropped off his lower lip and formed a pool on the floor.
“Unless something else comes up,” I countered. “Keep in mind, Richard, that this is my business, and it’s going to take priority at all times.”
“There has already been one attempt on Cassidy’s life, and there will probably be more,” Richard said. “There is no time for mix tapes.”
I saw no point in continuing this discussion since I was going to act as I saw fit and Richard had remarkably little he could do about it, but I did say, “I spoke to Cassidy briefly this morning, and she said she’d rehired the security firm that had been working with her. You don’t have to worry.”
“It’s not worry,” Richard sniffed. “It’s concern.” Of course it was.
“Let’s try to keep our focus on what we can do,” Paul interjected. I’d noticed him being just the least bit more assertive about his investigation skills since I’d spoken to him about his relationship with Richard.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to do,” Richard said, glaring at me.
“Of course,” Paul said. Look back; you’ll see I did say it was the least bit more assertive. Don’t expect miracles.
“You said you didn’t learn anything,” I reminded him. I decided I would be petty and not talk to Richard until I had to.
“Not about the computer thief,” Paul said. “We ran through that whole scenario and made sure we were audible all over the house, but after Maxie put the laptop down on the counter, right there, we stayed and watched. Nothing happened, and we gave it plenty of time.”
We all looked at the laptop, which I noted was mine and not Maxie’s—she wasn’t taking any more chances—like it was going to tell us something. It didn’t. But I only gave it a quick glance.
I was busy texting Melissa and Josh that dinner, such as it was, had arrived. In a house the size of mine, going to each person to deliver the news is time consuming and rough on the feet.
“We aren’t distracting you, are we?” Richard was in an especially prickly mood. I stuck with my resolution and did not respond.
Instead I looked at Paul. “So you weren’t any more successful than I was.” I filled him in on my conversation with McElone and gave him the voice recorder so he could listen to it later and determine that what I had encapsulated for him in twenty seconds was indeed true by listening to it for fifteen minutes. Paul’s philosophy of time, based on the fact that he’s not going anywhere anytime in the next few millennia, is somewhat different from mine.
“It sounds like you did have some success,” he said when I was done. “You found out about the iron and about Thomas Zink in Ames, Iowa. I think it might be worth getting in touch with him.”
Thomas Zink? He was the person I’d decided was least interesting in this whole story. “You think this Zink guy killed Richard?” I asked.
“I never heard of the man in my life,” Richard said. That was verifiably true. But I didn’t answer him.
“Nonetheless,” Paul said. “I don’t believe he was the killer by any means, but the iron that was in his hotel room was the one that killed Richard.”
“I’m right here in the room,” Richard noted. Apparently he felt he wasn’t getting enough attention.
That was going to compound itself because Josh walked through the swinging door and gave me a kiss. “Thanks for picking up dinner,” he said and then set about putting out plates and utensils (we’d need the plates; the utensils were just because Josh can’t stand not putting them out) for our meal.
Paul was plowing on despite the conspicuous display of domesticity going on directly in front of his eyes. “I don’t think Thomas Zink killed Richard, but I doubt parts of his story and think they might be significant to our investigation.”
Melissa came in and nodded hello to the two ghosts. She knows Josh is aware of their presence but doesn’t like to be obvious about it and make him feel left out. My daughter is a just soul. She went to the cabinet and got cups for the three of us who would be having dinner.
“I’m going to talk to Paul for a bit, Josh,” I said. “Sorry about that.” I had specifically not said I’d be talking to Richard. Being petty and childish was feeling good.
“No big,” said my husband. He just went about his business with the plates, got some paper napkins from the cabinet, and set about putting them out.
I kissed him on the cheek as he went by. “Okay, so that’s your opinion, Paul. Why do you think that?”
There’s nothing Paul enjoys more than being able to lecture. “There are things a man in town for one night might do in a hotel room that he wouldn’t want to have to report to the police,” he said. “I don’t know for a fact that’s what happened with Mr. Zink, but it is curious that his room was chosen for the theft of the iron. It would be helpful to know if he was with anyone the night in question.”
“How will we find that out?” I asked as we sat down on the barstools next to the island. Yeah, I could have had an actual kitchen table, but the island is also good for cooking (Mom and Melissa tell me), and the barstools are actually kind of fun.
“We will ask Mr. Zink,” Paul answered.
“I’m an attorney, Paul,” Richard said, just in case anyone didn’t remember. “I can tell you that if someone lied to the police, he is at least as liable to lie to an investigator calling from another state.” Thanks for the incredibly obvious point, Richard.
“Perhaps so, but if the argument is offered in a way other than a simple question, we might be able to glean more information than the police. We are, after all, not an organization that can offer incarceration or other punishment for telling a lie.”
The pizza was a little cold, but it was too warm tonight to put on the oven, and besides, I was hungry and didn’t feel like waiting for my slice to heat up. “What have you got in mind?” I asked Paul.
“We can discuss that later. For now, I’d like to consider the day Keith Johnson was drowned. We have at least two people going into and coming out of his room before Cassidy Van Doren reported finding his body, and not one of them appeared to have been splashed with water, which is what we’d expect under such circumstances. That goes against the laws of physics, or it indicates that someone else was in that room at the Cranbury Bog. That also pertains to the wet blue jeans found outside the room.”
I considered bringing up the possibility that the person who had killed Keith Johnson had brought a change of clothes, but even in my head that sounded too stupid to say out loud.
Then Melissa said, “Maybe the killer brought a change of clothes.” It made perfect sense when she said it.
Paul stroked his goatee thoughtfully. “That is a very strong possibility, Melissa. I hadn’t thought of that.”
Go raise children.
Liss put down her slice of pizza and looked thoughtfully at Paul. “About Mr. Zink,” she said.
“Yes?” Paul takes Melissa seriously, which I consider a sign of intelligence, and weighs her input in investigations very highly.
“If you think that he was with a prostitute that night, don’t you think it would be worthwhile to check with the restaurants and bars around the hotel and see if he was noticed with anyone in particular?” She picked up her piece of pizza and took another bite.
Josh’s amused smile was just a little tinged with discomfort. Just a little.
Richard made some noises that were not exactly words. He was an attorney, you know.
Paul, however, was not considering the source, just the suggestion being made. “It’s a good thought, Melissa, but I was not assuming Thomas Zink was with a prostitute. A woman who didn’t know Richard would have no motive to kill him with a hotel iron, and that part of the plan was clearly premeditated. I think we’re more likely to find that one of the suspects we already know in this case—male or female—might have been Mr. Zink’s companion for part of that evening.”
“It still makes sense to check with the restaurants and bars, though,” I chimed in. “Liss is right—and the hotel restaurant and bar are probably the places to start, don’t you think, Paul?”
Paul nodded. “I would tend to agree.”
“It still seems that the person who . . . did this to me should be less the focus of the investigation than Keith Johnson’s killer,” Richard insisted. “Cassidy’s life is in danger.”
Again with this. “I know, but we’ve explained,” I told him before Paul could acquiesce. “The two murders are almost definitely linked. Finding one killer helps us find both, so investigating both murders doubles our chances of succeeding.”
I think Paul looked grateful. It’s possible I’m projecting.
“What about the research you and Maxie are doing?” Liss asked Richard. “Have you found out anything yet that might tell us who killed Keith Johnson?”
Richard’s voice was subdued, which made it sound like a grumble. “We spent so much time with that ridiculous laptop charade that we barely had time to start,” he said. “Silly playacting, if you ask me.” Nobody had asked him, but that hardly seemed the point at the time.
All our eyes (except Josh’s, which were sweetly trained on me, I noted) instinctively looked over at the counter where Maxie had laid the laptop waiting for someone to make an attempt on it.
And of course now it was gone.