It wouldn’t do to have a gargoyle come with me and Max when we went to check on Professor Graves. Blue Sky Teas was on our way to the hotel, so we could drop Dorian off at the café’s back door that led to the kitchen, then stop by the hotel without the gargoyle in tow.
“I am prepared to tell Blue I am ill and cannot bake today,” said Dorian from his hiding spot under a blanket in the car’s back seat. “If there is anything I can do to help track down the miscreant who stole your beloved painting, I wish to help.”
“There’s nothing you can do while we talk to Professor Graves,” I said, “except bring people joy through your pastries.”
Dorian preferred cooking to baking. It was a distinction I’d never thought about before meeting Dorian. But he was nearly as talented a baker as he was a chef. He enjoyed experimenting in the kitchen, and I felt a pang of regret that he never got to see the joyous reactions customers had when they sank their teeth into one of his croissants.
“I have not forgotten it is my responsibility to get your lost painting back. I will never forgive myself—”
“You should never blame yourself for being a victim of a crime,” Max cut in as we pulled into the alley that stretched behind Blue Sky Teas, The Alchemy of Tea, and other neighborhood shops. I caught Max steal a fond glance at the back door to his new shop. He reddened as saw me looking.
“And you,” I said to Max, “shouldn’t feel guilty about having a new shop you love, even if you’re worried about me and my lost painting. We’re here, Dorian. You can come out.”
Dorian emerged from the blanket and scowled at us both. “It is a good thing we arrived when we did, or I may have been smothered by both of your attempts at psychoanalysis. It is my fault Zoe’s painting was stolen. And Max, you should feel guilty for placing your commercial desires above that of Zoe’s revered painting.”
“Ignore him,” I said to Max. “He’s cranky because Blue’s customers haven’t given the best reviews to his pumpkin croissants, so Blue won’t order more pumpkin for him to experiment.”
“I nearly had the recipe figured out!” Dorian cried. “And you are incorrect, Zoe. I am displeased that I cannot do more to assist in your quest at this juncture. Never fear. I will be using my little gray cells as I bake!”
With that, he donned his hooded cape and leaped out of the car.
“Leave him,” I said as Max started to go after Dorian. “He enjoys being a martyr. And he really does have good ideas while he’s baking.”
Gwendolyn’s hotel was only a few minutes farther at this deserted time of night.
The parking lot was illuminated by the soft light of six Victorian-style streetlamps. This was the type of boutique hotel for which charm was as important as convenience. It was a motel style layout, with two stories of rooms with doors facing the parking lot. It probably had been an inexpensive motel in the past, before being upscaled because the other side of the rooms had stunning views of the Willamette River.
I swore as Max parked.
“This is it, isn’t it?”
“She didn’t tell me her room number. How are we going to—”
“I don’t like this.” Max stiffened. He’d spotted something.
“What is it?” I followed his gaze.
“One of the doors is ajar.”
“At four o’clock in the morning?”
“Exactly. Stay here.”
“I’m not staying in the car.”
Before Max could object, I leaped out. My long silver raincoat caught in the wind as I hurried to the door where I could see a sliver of light. Max caught up with me as I reached it.
I should have stayed in the car.
Gwendolyn’s body lay on the bed, fully dressed on top of the covers. She lay face-up, and her eyes were wide open. Unmoving. There was no mistaking it. Gwendolyn Graves was dead.