I PICKED UP OUR FLYERS at the print shop and headed for the Hotel Residence. The hotel was one of Leavenworth’s grandest properties, with its sloping red tile roof, stone chimneys, and wooden turrets. Each guest room had its own private balcony with a view facing the mountains or looking out over the village. Hanging baskets cascading with bleeding hearts and trumpet vine greeted me as I entered the lobby. The interior of the hotel had been decked out for Oktoberfest. Garlands of German flags were draped over the massive wooden chandelier, and rows of bright red, yellow, and black welcome packages lined the reception desk. It smelled of baking apples.
“Sloan, nice to see you,” Brad, the hotel’s younger owner, said from behind the desk. Like his father, he had embraced German tradition and was a master craftsman when it came woodwork. He had mentored Hans when Hans decided that the brewery life wasn’t for him. “How’s that kid-brother-in-law of yours? He’s supposed to stop by and help me with a holiday project.”
“Funny. I just left him in the park.” I glanced toward the ornately carved lobby doors. “What smells so good?”
“Hot apple cider,” Brad said, nodding to a self-serve cart with baskets of mini doughnuts and a carafe of steaming cider with cinnamon sticks. “It’s our signature welcome for our Oktoberfest guests.”
Touches like this were just one of the reasons that the Hotel Residence was highly sought after. Brad was in his early fifties and had worked in the family business for his entire career. I had heard that his father had recently begun teaching him how to play the alpenhorn so that Brad could carry on the morning serenade when he retired. I didn’t think his dad would make an exit anytime soon. The almost eighty-year-old was still spry and a fixture in town. Then again, a few weeks ago, I would have sworn that Otto and Ursula would work at Der Keller until their final days.
“That sounds like Hans, hanging around in the park while the rest of us work our fingers to the bone.” He winked. “Are you ready for the madness?”
“I hope so.” I crossed my fingers.
He waved his hand over the rows of gift bags. “The first guests should be arriving in the next couple hours. I love the calm before the storm.”
“Actually, that’s why I’m here.”
“Don’t tell me that you want a room.” He rested his face on his hands. I looked around the stunning lobby. No detail had been overlooked. Brad and his father had left their mark with hand-carved woodwork chiseled with love. From the spiraling balcony above me to the solid-core wood doors with wrought-iron handles, every beam of wood had been carefully designed. Huge windows offered views of the deep green mountainside, and a piano with comfy seating welcomed guests to gather in front of a stone fireplace.
“No. Not exactly. I’m guessing you heard about the murder last night?” I straightened the stack of flyers in my hands.
He gave me a solemn nod. “Terrible news. I can’t believe it.”
“One of the women attached to the film crew said that Mitchell—the actor who was killed—reserved a room for her here.” I placed the stack on the recently oiled reception counter, and tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “Apparently when she tried to check in last night, they couldn’t find the reservation.”
Brad scowled. “Really?” He moved closer to one of the computer monitors. “What’s her name?”
“Kat Kelly.”
He typed in the name. “Nope. Nothing comes up under that name.”
“What about Mitchell Morgan?”
He tried Mitchell’s name too. “I don’t see anything under that name either.”
“Okay. That’s what she said.” I picked up my stack of flyers. “She said she tried to get a room last night, but since you were booked, she ended up sleeping in the gazebo.”
Brad’s eyes went wide. “What? We had plenty of room last night. She slept on the streets?”
I nodded. “She said that she begged your staff to let her have a room for one night, but that they turned her away. I didn’t think that sounded like something any of your staff would say, which is why I wanted to check in.”
“I’m glad you did.” Brad looked concerned. “Hang on a minute. My front desk manager just went to lunch. She was here all night. I want to see what she has to say.”
“Sure.” Brad’s reaction was what I had expected. Kat’s story didn’t add up. A guest stopped to help herself to a cup of the ambrosial cider. The smell was intoxicating—sweet and spicy, my preferred flavor profile. Maybe Garrett and I would have to experiment with an apple-cider brew.
Brad returned a few minutes later. “I spoke with the front desk manager. She said that no one came in last night asking for a reservation. We were only at thirty percent capacity with a few early arrivals, so there were ample rooms available should anyone have come in.”
So Kat had lied. “Thanks for asking. That’s really helpful.”
“No problem.” Brad offered me a caramel toffee from a bowl on the counter.
I declined. “I have to get back to the pub. You should come by and try our new Cherry Weizen if you get a free moment.”
“You had me at Cherry Weizen.” He grinned. “I’ll try. Good luck!”
“Same to you.” I left with a wave. Chief Meyers’s warning rang in my head. Kat had lied about trying to find a hotel room last night. The question was why? Had she been embarrassed that she didn’t have the cash to cover the cost? Or had she been involved in Mitchell’s murder?
My conversation with Brad made me more convinced that bringing Kat home was a bad idea, so before I returned to Nitro I decided to see if I could track down Lisa. She and her mom had an office on the opposite side of town. I retraced my steps past the gazebo and headed up the hill toward the bookstore and The Carriage House, where the restaurant’s old-fashioned horse-drawn carriage was being outfitted with streaming silky ribbons and carnations for tomorrow’s parade.
Continuing on, I passed a pretzel stand, wine shop, and Spielzeug, a toy shop that imported European toys and games. The Wenatchee River flowed past Blackbird Island to my left. A canopy of gold-hued trees clustered on the island. Straight ahead lay Icicle Ridge. Soon its peak would be dusted with fresh snow.
I came to two adjoining A-frame chalets. Flyers for vacation homes and acreage for sale were posted in the front windows. A wraparound deck connected the two cabins. One side housed April’s real estate firm, and the other, Balmes Vacation Properties.
Please don’t let April see me, I said internally as I climbed the short flight of wooden stairs and made a beeline to my right. The door to Balmes Vacation Properties was propped open.
“Hello?” I called, peering inside to see Lisa slumped on the floor crying.
“Lisa, is everything okay?” I stepped into the doorway.
She reddened and stood up immediately. “Oh God, Sloan, this is so embarrassing. Sorry.” Blinking rapidly, she patted her eyes with the tips of her fingers. “I’m so sorry to be so unprofessional.”
“No need to apologize. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
She pressed her knee-length skirt back into place. A strand of honey-colored hair had fallen out of its short ponytail. She twisted her finger around it. “I can’t believe you saw me crying. I never cry.”
“Is it because of last night?”
“Last night?” Lisa thought for a moment and then it hit her. “Oh, the murder. No. I mean that’s terrible, of course, but the guy was such an ass. He deserved what he got.”
I was surprised by her response and how easily she dismissed Mitchell’s murder.
She fiddled with three silver bands around her wrist. “You have to see this review.”
“A review?” Now it was my turn to be confused.
“A bad review. A horrid review. The kind of review that could destroy my business.” She walked to her desk and handed me a sheet of paper.
It was a printout of a popular travel review website. According to the site, Balmes Vacation Properties had over one thousand four-star reviews. The most recent review, however, was scathing. FILTHY, RAT-INFESTED! read the headline. It went on to complain about customer service and false advertising, and ended with “This company is so bad that I won’t even give it one star. If I could I would give it a negative star. I’ll never stay at a Balmes Vacation Property and suggest that unless you like living like a homeless person you don’t either.”
“Ouch.” I handed her back the paper.
“Did you see who wrote that?” She pointed to the bottom of the page.
I stared at the spot where she placed her finger. “Mitchell Morgan?” I said aloud.
“Can you believe it? Why? Why would he do that? He had only been in his cabin for an hour, and I can promise you the place was spotless. He went straight to the internet and posted this under his real name. What a troll.
“We’ve never received a one-star review. Never. It’s a good thing that he’s dead, because otherwise I would have killed him myself.” Her almond eyes flared with anger.
I wasn’t sure how to respond. The review was terrible. I had no idea why Mitchell had decided to take to the internet. But I couldn’t help wondering if this was the first time Lisa had seen the review. Could she have seen it last night? If she prided herself on her business’s reputation, could she have killed Mitchell in retaliation or in a fit of rage?
I wanted to tell her not to sweat it. Bad reviews were part of working in the service industry. Even Der Keller had received a handful of snarky reviews over the years. Otto and Ursula made it a point never to respond to negativity.
“Ziz is not about us,” Otto had once said at a staff meeting when a server showed him a less-than-glowing review from a popular website. The commenter had filled paragraph after paragraph with details about German beers, claiming that Der Keller was a fraud.
Our staff burst into laughter when Otto read one of the lines from the review aloud. “Has anyone who works at this place ever been to Germany? I think not!” He folded the sheet of paper. “I think, ja—we have.” Everyone chuckled. Otto continued in a calm tone. “If one of our customers has something to tell us that can make us better and improve, then ja, we will listen, but ziz is nonsense.” Then he proceeded to shred the nasty review.
“You can’t let it get to you,” I said to Lisa. “I make it a point never to read reviews.”
“What? You have to read your reviews. Clients today make purchasing decisions based on reviews. This is a new century, Sloan. Customers are savvy. They read reviews. They read comments. They have the ability to learn tons about a business before making a purchase or booking a reservation. This one review could costs me thousands and thousands of dollars.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. God, I can’t believe Mitchell. After everything I did for him. That is one of the nicest properties we manage. I just can’t figure out why Mitchell was so awful.” She opened her desk drawer and pulled out a ring of keys. “In fact I have to walk over there now to let the police in. Mitchell locked every door and window. Can you believe it?”
I shook my head. “Mind if I walk with you?”
She motioned to the door. “Be my guest.”
“Had you ever met Mitchell before?” I asked, waiting for her to close the door behind us and trying to keep my body close to the building. It would be just my luck to see April pop her head out of the office next door.
“Never.” She pointed up the street. “We’re going that way. Why?”
“I just wondered if he had some sort of grudge.”
“No. Why would he? I never even interacted with him. Everything was set up through the film company. Payton organized it all. From the minute that man arrived in town, he started complaining. You would think he was an A-list star or something. He sent over a list of demands when my mom let him in.”
“He did? Like what?” Lisa was shorter than me by at least four inches, but she was on a mission. I practically had to sprint to keep up with her.
Her heels slammed on the sidewalk with each step. “It was ridiculous. He said his skin type demanded a sheet thread count of no less than eighteen hundred.”
“Do they even make sheets with that kind of thread count?”
She shrugged. “Probably. I assured him that our linens were of the highest quality. We buy sheets made of Egyptian cotton that are soft and luxurious and great for any skin type, but that wasn’t good enough for him.”
“Seriously?” Mitchell was sounding more and more like a diva by the minute.
“Oh, that’s just the tip of the iceberg. He wanted the fridge stocked with imported bottled water, demanded a visit by an in-house masseuse, and wanted a driver to take him around town.” Her arms pumped back and forth as we crested the hill and headed toward a row of charming cabins nestled above the river.
“Where? Up to the mountains?” I pointed to the ridgeline. “You can walk everywhere in Leavenworth—literally.”
“I know!” Lisa become more agitated as she spoke. “The guy was a first-class jerk. Mom and I are used to filling requests for guests, but not like Mitchell’s and not at the last minute. This isn’t New York. Where did he expect us to come up with a masseuse? Or we were supposed to drive to Seattle to find his brand of imported bottled water?”
“And you’re sure he was serious about these requests? Do you think he could have been putting on an act?”
Lisa shook her head. “No way. You should see my cell phone. I must have a log of fifty calls from him. He was dead serious.”
She emphasized the word “dead,” making me wonder again just how far Mitchell had pushed her.
Why the demands? Mitchell wasn’t well-known, at least around here, and he was narrating a documentary. Had he been overcompensating for something? Or was he just an ass, like Lisa claimed?
We arrived at the rental property. It was the largest on the street—three stories, with dark walnut trim and balconies on each level. A set of stairs led to a landing on the ground floor where a deck split, taking guests inside through an arched doorway or around to the back side of the cabin. I peeked onto the deck while Lisa flipped through her key chain. The twenty-foot deck stretched the length of the cabin and offered a sweeping view of the Wenatchee River below. Lisa hadn’t exaggerated about the property. It was a private oasis.
She opened the door and let out a gasp. “Oh my God, Sloan, get over here!”
“What is it?” I ran to the archway.
Lisa dropped the keys and pointed inside.
The cabin looked as if it had been hit by a tornado. Garbage—black and slimy banana peels, candy wrappers, used tissues, and something that looked and smelled suspiciously like old fish were piled on the hardwood floors and on bookshelves and windowsills. Every couch cushion and pillow had been ripped open, and the stuffing torn out. The furniture had been overturned.
I threw my hand over my mouth and nose to block the overpowering smell.
“What did he do? He destroyed my property!” Lisa shouted, looking at me in disbelief.