Eighteen

I sat in my car, gripping the steering wheel while staring out the window at the inn’s crowded parking lot. I needed to talk with Stanley Gordon. My dilemma was that Stanley and his new wife had checked out of the inn a mere half hour before I arrived. Thanks to hotel records, I not only had Stanley’s home address and email but also the make, model, and license plate number of his car. It was a lot of info, but unfortunately, unless I wanted to question him by email or drive all the way down to his house in Barrington, Illinois, none of it helped me. What I needed was the man’s cell phone number, which I was pretty certain Jack had gotten as part of his interview. But did I really want to call Jack?

“Babe, let me handle this.”

I looked beside me and saw that Tate already had his phone to his ear. His uber-tanned and perfectly muscled chest had been covered, thank heavens, but for some odd reason the horned helmet remained. I must have been staring. He cast me a seductive wink just before addressing the man on the other end of the phone.

“Hey, MacLaren, what’s up, bro?” Tate listened to Jack a moment before replying, “Oh, right, busy investigating a murder. Bummer. So where are you now? The Larson house?”

This was news to Tate, unpleasant news at that. To me, however, it was music to my ears. Although I was unnerved by the fact that Jack considered Erik a suspect and would put him through his paces, so to speak, it also meant that my investigation was ahead of Jack’s. And I wanted to keep it that way. Ignoring Tate’s look of genuine concern for Erik, I urged him to continue.

“Yeah, all right. So, um, I was wondering if you had the cell number for of one of the guests who recently left the inn? A Mr. Stanley Gordon?” There was a slight pause on the other end. Then, in a flash of creativity, Tate lied. “He, ah, left in a hurry this morning and forgot one of his bags. I’m here at the inn. Baggsie asked me to call and see if you have it.” Bringing Baggsie—aka my dad—into it was a nice touch.

I held my breath as Tate awaited Jack’s reply. A moment later I heaved a sigh of relief as Tate gave me a thumbs-up. His lie had worked. He then asked Jack to text him the number before ending the call. With cell number loaded, he handed me the phone. “All right, babe, make the call.”

The Gordons agreed to meet us in Sturgeon Bay. They were heading to their favorite supper club for lunch and would remain only as long as their food lasted.

Even though Jack was one step behind me, I had the feeling he was catching up quickly. As Tate and I drove, my iPhone kept lighting up with his number. Three times I let it go to voicemail. The fourth time, Tate, growing irritated, synced my phone with the car’s speakers and answered it.

“Where are you?” Jack wasn’t mincing words as his voice echoed down around us in my Escape.

“Um, at the inn,” I lied.

“You’re not at the inn. How do I know this, you ask? Because I’m there now, witnessing some bizarre vigil being held for Silvia Lumiere. The whole artist community is here, and Edna Baker. They’re singing and are about ready to burn you in effigy.”

“I hope you’re joking.”

“Not about the singing.” It was true. A discordant choir of voices rose and fell in the background, struggling through the words and melody of what sounded like Amazing Grace with a twang of Old MacDonald thrown in. “Hear that?” Jack asked. “It’s the second murder at the inn today.” Tate and I almost laughed until Jack cut in with, “You’ve gone after Gordon, haven’t you? He never left anything at the inn. My suspicions were confirmed when Alexa Livingstone told me that you tried to interrogate her.”

“Interrogate is hardly the word for it. I asked a few questions. Is that a crime?”

“You’re a suspect, Whitney. The entire arts council is convinced you murdered Ms. Lumiere, and you’re further fanning the flames by sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong. I’ve already talked with Ms. Livingstone. She was Ms. Lumiere’s friend and therefore maybe had some information on what happened last night. Unfortunately, she didn’t.”

“What if she did it, Jack?”

“Without motive, means, or opportunity, and with an alibi that checks out? Come on, Whitney. Now tell me why you used Tate to get Gordon’s cell number.”

“Not used, bro.” Tate, slightly offended by the barb, stepped in to defend himself. “I’m on the case with Whitney.”

“Tate’s in the car with you?” Jack’s voice sounded as shocked as it was reprimanding.

“Excellent deduction, Sherlock. All right,” I said, having had quite enough of Jack and his attitude for one day. “I’ll tell you why I’m interested in Stanley Gordon. While you and the lazy vigilantes are convinced I murdered Ms. Lumiere, I’m actually trying to solve this case by finding the real person responsible. You obviously interviewed Stanley Gordon earlier today. Nothing stood out to you?”

“Look, Whit, you’re a suspect. I want to believe you’re innocent, but I have to do my job. And regarding Stanley Gordon, he was upset. But so was everyone else I talked to.”

“But unlike everyone else you talked to, Stanley Gordon had to be asked several times to get back to his room and not stare over the railing at the dead body on the floor.”

“So he’s morbidly curious,” Jack parried, playing devil’s advocate.

“I thought so too until I learned that Stanley Gordon had been married to the newly departed.”

“What?” Jack’s voice crackled over the car speakers. “Where did you learn that?”

Tate turned his be-horned head, looking impressed. “I have my sources,” I told Jack. “Thanks for his number, by the way. The Gordons have agreed to meet us at Babette’s Supper Club.”

“Okay,” Jack said, “I’m on my way. Keep them talking until I get there.”

The Wisconsin supper club was a nostalgic blast from the past and, sadly, a dying breed. I’d grown up with supper clubs; my parents’ and grandparents’ most memorable meals had come from supper clubs; and I was shocked that my Chicago friends had no idea what a supper club was all about.

A supper club was always a destination. The theme and style of the building was up to the owner, but it was usually set apart, nestled in a picturesque setting or just off the highway where its big neon sign was enough to draw in diners like moths to a flame. The menu was fancy and the prices reasonable. The drink of choice was a cosmopolitan or a brandy old fashioned, never beer or wine. A complimentary relish tray filled with carrot sticks and pickled delicacies was plopped on every table alongside a basket of bread and crackers and plenty of orange cheese spread to go around. Prime rib, perch, and chicken were the stars of the menu; everything came with soup and salad and potatoes and vegetables; and one dessert could feed the entire table. Every Friday was an all-you-can-eat fish fry. In a supper club the décor was circa 1950s, the service friendly but not fast, and few left the restaurant without a doggy bag. It was quintessential Wisconsin, and a dining experience that still spoke to older generations, but not so much to millennials. I, for one, however, was glad that the Gordons had decided to stop at Babette’s Supper Club. It meant that they weren’t about to leave the Door Peninsula anytime soon.

Tate was the type of man who stood out in a crowd; the fact that he was dressed like a Viking only exaggerated the effect as we entered the restaurant. “Take off the helmet,” I whispered as every head turned. Stanley and his wife had been sitting at a booth beside a large picture window. Soup and salad finished, they were now on to the complimentary relish tray where the pickled beets and three-bean salad were currently under attack. Stanley recognized me immediately and stopped chewing.

“Mr. Gordon, thank you for agreeing to meet with us,” I said, standing beside the table.

“We didn’t know you were bringing a Viking with you,” his wife added, clearly enjoying the spectacle. She was a pretty woman, at least a decade younger than her sixty-something-year-old husband and dripping with expensive jewelry,

“This is my friend, Tate Vander Hagen,” I explained. “We’re supposed to be going to a Renaissance fair today, but our plans got changed.”

“I imagine so.” A troubled look crossed Stanley’s face. “Rough morning at the inn, Ms. Bloom. Please, join us.”

“We’ll only be a moment,” I assured them, slipping in beside Mrs. Gordon. Tate plopped his helmet on the table and sat down next to Stanley.

Mr. Gordon gave me a hard stare from across the table. “I thought you were brought in for questioning?”

“I was,” I told him. “It’s a formality, of course. And that’s partially why I’m here. I learned that you were once married to Silvia. I find it a little suspicious that you checked in to the inn on the weekend your ex-wife happened to be murdered.”

A troubled look passed between the Gordons. “Ah,” Stanley finally said. “So you found out about that. I thought that might be the case when you called and asked to meet with us here. It’s tradition for us to come to Babette’s. The last stop before heading back to Chicago.”

“Nice choice,” Tate agreed, as he lifted a sourdough roll from the basket. “May I?”

Besides the fact it was a bottomless roll basket, the Gordons would hardly want the fingered roll back. Without getting a reply, Tate began eating it. I took the opportunity to ask a few questions.

“I have a witness that says you were wandering around the inn after midnight. Is that true?”

“Is that a crime, Ms. Bloom?”

“No, but it is suspicious. We know that Ms. Lumiere was killed sometime between twelve thirty and five o’clock in the morning. Look,” I said, casting a glance at Mrs. Gordon sitting next to me. “We all know that Silvia was a difficult woman. I also understand that your divorce wasn’t a pleasant one.”

“That’s an understatement,” the new Mrs. Gordon quipped.

“Therefore, knowing that you knew the deceased, I have to ask you both if you saw Ms. Lumiere any time after twelve thirty a.m.?”

Stanley set down his fork. To be fair, the complimentary relish tray had already been picked clean. “Okay,” he said, his dark eyebrows merging together on his forehead like magnetically charged tufts of fur. “Let me explain a little something to you about Silvia. There might have been a time when I wished her dead, but certainly not now. Last night Carol and I went to a play, then went to Shenanigans for a couple of drinks and came home. Yes, it was well after midnight. Yes, we were fumbling around on the second floor, but we never saw Silvia until this morning. It was a real shock to see her like that, sprawled at the bottom of the stairs.”

“But you said nothing about having been married to her when Officer MacLaren interviewed you. Why?”

“For the exact reason you think. It looks highly suspicious. Carol and I were scared and just wanted to get away from it all.”

“It’s true,” Carol added, looking genuinely frightened. “Stanley and I knew that Silvia would be in Cherry Cove,” she admitted. “But we never imagined she’d have the money to stay at the Cherry Orchard Inn for the whole summer.” She lowered her voice. “I don’t like talking ill of the dead, Ms. Bloom, but Silvia was having money problems.”

A thought struck, and I asked, “Was she trying to blackmail you for money?”

Stanley nearly laughed at this. “Money, ha! It was always about money with Silvia. There’s little doubt that she’d blackmail me if she could, but she had nothing on me. And there was really no need. Carol can attest to the fact that I’ve always thought it best to”—he put up air quotes—“‘support the arts,’ namely Silvia. Stay one step ahead of the game, y’ know. Plus, I take the charitable write-off on my taxes.”

It was then that Stanley decided to tell us about his marriage to the portrait painter. Apparently the marriage had been volatile from the start. He’d met Silvia twenty years ago at a fancy charity event and was instantly taken with the popular artist. Stanley owned a car dealership at the time and believed Silvia would be the perfect wife for an ambitious business owner who wanted to attract a wealthier clientele for his high-end cars. Silvia had been attracted to Stanley’s money and stability. The marriage lasted for seven years and ended badly when Stanley found out that his middle-aged wife had been having a torrid affair with the pool boy.

“No kidding,” Tate breathed, resting his elbows on the table and cradling his face between his hands. He’d just finished his second roll and was staring at the man beside him. “The cheating little bitch.” Tate, no stranger to his own troubling indiscretions, received a gesture from me to zip it.

“A cougar is what she was,” Stanley added. “It was highly upsetting. Truth be told, the most upsetting part was the huge divorce settlement she got from me. I was so angry at her at the time, I might have considered killing her. Now, oddly, I realize it was all for the best. Two years after my divorce from Silvia I met Carol. My business has been growing by leaps and bounds ever since, and I’ve never been happier.” Stanley reached across the table and took his wife’s hand, a gesture that received a smile of pure adoration from Carol.

“In fact,” Stanley added, “to prove I have no animosity toward Silvia, I’ll tell you this as well. Two months ago she came to me asking for money. As I’ve explained, this wasn’t unusual. I’ve been known to help the old girl out from time to time, especially when she pulled back on her corporate accounts to concentrate on portraits. But this was different. Silvia was losing her condo and had sold off nearly all her belongings. I’d never seen her so desperate. Said she needed to get up to Cherry Cove for the summer and sort things out. I think she was seeing a man up here, another artist fellow. Only I believe she made it clear that the poor guy couldn’t afford her. Anyhow, I told Silvia I couldn’t give her the money she needed to save her condo, but I did do her a favor. Silvia may have been a terrible wife, but she was always good for business. I have to give her that. Her haughty attitude, her pretentious mannerism, her ability to butter-up a customer and make them believe they couldn’t live without luxury were invaluable to me. So I paid for a two-year lease on a brand-new Cadillac Escalade, and bought a big trailer for all her worldly possessions to go along with it.”

“Wait,” Tate said, looking at Stanley. “You leased her that huge Escalade? Dude, that’s generous.”

Stanley smiled at the compliment. “Told her it was my parting gift and hoped she’d be able to buy the truck at the end of the lease. The old girl deserved to start out anew. Carol and I came up for a quick weekend getaway, and to check up on her, you know, make sure her new hippie assistant hasn’t damaged the truck beyond repair.”

“You know about Peter?” I asked.

Stanley nodded. “Silvia couldn’t drive. She always had a younger male assistant drive her around and carry all her paints and supplies. Made her feel important.”

“Did you ever wonder how she could afford to keep them?”

“No,” he said. “I was always amazed that they’d put up with her.”

I looked at Tate, suddenly thinking about Silvia’s affinity for younger men and her desire to paint them in the nude. “Mr. Gordon, you said that Silvia was having an affair with the pool boy. Do you remember his name? Where he lived?”

“Of course I remember his name. I was paying the guy to mow my lawn, maintain my gardens and pool, and apparently entertain my wife! But he’s no longer a kid. He’s got to be in his mid-thirties by now. Jake Jones. The little bastard used to live in Palatine. I have no idea where he is now.”

I checked the time on my iPhone. We’d been with the Gordons for fifteen minutes. Jack would be along any moment. We thanked the couple for their time just as two heaping plates of prime rib were served. It looked mouthwateringly delicious, causing my own empty stomach to growl. Tate picked up his helmet and ushered me out of Babette’s before I decided to join the Gordons and order my own slab of prime rib.

I had to admit that there was an honesty about Stanley and Carol that would be hard to manufacture. Stanley had said that even though Silvia was a nightmare of a wife she had been good for his business, and I knew what he meant. I was convinced that they had nothing to do with Silvia’s murder. Heck, Stanley had even gone so far as to help Silvia on many occasions, the latest act of charity being her huge white Cadillac Escalade. That was very generous indeed. I felt that a light had been cast on Silvia’s little games and things were beginning to add up. But if the Gordons were innocent of her murder, they had still mentioned the name of a young man who might have reason to want Silvia dead. An unnamed young man had once tried to sue the portrait painter for sexual harassment. I wondered if Jake Jones had ever worked for Silvia after her divorce, and if so, had he been required to pose in the nude for a painting?