DI Steele spun her wheels as she backed out of the parking area. “Gupta came straight from the airport last night, right? So he wasn’t here when Quinn died.”
Alexa fastened her seat belt. If Bruce had taught her anything, it was to never make assumptions. “Better check it out.”
The DI’s phone rang. She zagged on the narrow lane as she fished it out. “Hi, love.”
They passed under the fake surveillance cameras. Why would a high-tech bazillionaire not pay for real cameras?
“I can’t. I’m going flat-out today,” DI Steele said into the phone. She tapped impatiently on the steering wheel. “Does he need a doctor?”
Alexa hoped they wouldn’t meet a car coming at them.
“Tell him it’s his last chance,” DI Steele said and hung up.
They drove in silence, the DI worrying about her kid, Alexa guessed. She saw the turn to The Retreat coming up. “Should we stop and talk to the manager now? About the picnic basket?”
“What about your fingertip?” DI Steele asked.
“It will be okay for a couple hours.”
The Retreat lobby was quiet as a church. They checked the restaurant. One couple lingered over coffee. A yeasty aroma made Alexa’s stomach growl.
Blair, the young woman who had waited on Alexa and Lynn, discreetly checked her watch and slid out from behind a bar to greet them. “Good afternoon. Were you here for lunch? We’re closing up; I’m sorry.”
“We’re here to speak with the manager,” DI Steele said.
Blair’s eyes flickered to the lingering diners. “Just a moment, please. Why don’t you wait in the lobby?”
Alexa inhaled the yeasty nirvana and returned to the lobby. She had been curious about how much it cost to stay at The Retreat and poked around its website before Bruce had shown up last night. She’d almost choked on her Apple Motor Lodge complimentary biscuit. All meals included, it was 1,800 U.S. dollars a night. She inspected the fresh vase of flowers on the grand round table—orange again and more delicate than the pom poms.
“Those are poppies,” DI Steele said. “I should order some for Kersten.”
“Her birthday?” Alexa asked.
“She’s borne the brunt of Joe. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
Alexa thought of Bruce. Were hard times easier when shared?
The manager, alluring in a knee-length green skirt and silky blouse, strode toward them. “Kia ora. I’m Katrina Flores.” Her eyes skipped from DI Steele’s to Alexa’s. “Welcome back. I believe you dined with us Friday night?”
“Yes. It was delicious.”
“How can I help you?”
DI Steele introduced herself. “We’re investigating the death of Harlan Quinn, the man who owned Black Reef.”
Ms. Flores’s eyes, the same color as Alexa’s greenstone pendant, widened. “I’ve heard about it. We are most upset. What happened to him?”
“We’re working to find out,” DI Steele said. “Where can we talk?”
Furrows formed between Ms. Flores’s brows. She beckoned for Blair. “We’ll take three waters in my office, please.”
They followed Ms. Flores down a hallway. Her office was a stark contrast to the elegant lobby: a metal desk, a couple of chairs, a printer, and a filing cabinet. A bulletin board hung behind the desk. Alexa squinted. It displayed work schedules. A map of the grounds was tacked above it.
Ms. Flores stood in front of her desk and didn’t offer them seats. DI Steele sat anyway and took out her phone. “I’ll just record our convo, eh?”
“I don’t give you permission.”
“Why is that?” the DI asked.
Ms. Flores tucked an errant lock of hair back into her bun. Alexa realized the manager was younger than her hairstyle and demeanor suggested. Mid to late twenties, she guessed.
“Mr. V says it’s our duty to protect the reputation of The Retreat and its clientele.”
“I hardly see how answering questions would besmirch a reputation.” DI Steele pocketed her phone and dug a pad and pen out of her pocket. She looked up at Katrina. “Who is Mr. V?”
“Mr. Kyle Vanderveer owns The Retreat and several other luxury accommodations.”
“Lives in New Zealand, does he?”
Ms. Flores eyed Alexa. “Mr. Vanderveer is American.”
“We’ve got a theme going,” DI Steele said. “Rich Americans, buying up Kiwi land, jacking up the prices for the locals.”
The DI’s remark irritated Alexa. Americans bought the land because the Kiwis let them.
Ms. Flores walked behind her desk and sat. “How can I assist you?”
“Tell me about your inn. How many rooms do you have?”
Ms. Flores’s eyes relaxed a tad. “We have guests from all over the world. The Retreat has six spacious suites, each with stunning views and decorated in rustic-luxe…”
DI Steele broke in. “The manager of Black Reef said your chef cooked for Mr. Quinn on the side. Is that true?”
“There was an arrangement.”
DI Steele huffed. “Elaborate, would you?”
“Harlan was a valued guest who dined here when he visited. Sometimes he asked for a private chef on his premises or to have food delivered.” She straightened a stack of brochures. “We accommodated those requests.”
“When did you last see him?”
Ms. Flores’s cheeks colored. “I’m not sure. Every guest is important, but they come and go. Almost every day.”
The DI’s eyes narrowed. “Do you know Lynn Lockhart?”
“Ms. Lockhart occasionally dined with Mr. Quinn.” She gestured toward Alexa. “Ms. Lockhart dined with you.”
“She wasn’t happy you didn’t recognize her,” Alexa said.
Her flush deepened. “I didn’t see her at first. I apologize.”
“A picnic basket was found in the bunker where Mr. Quinn died.” DI peered at Ms. Flores. “It must be missing from your inventory because now it’s in the forensics lab. Who delivered it and when?”
Her green eyes darted back and forth as if looking for escape. “I don’t know.”
Blair tapped at the door. “The waters?”
Ms. Flores nodded as the server handed out three bottles, more melted icebergs like Lynn had at the cottage. Alexa twisted off the cap and sipped.
After the server left, DI Steele said, “You must know who delivered that basket. No doubt you—or your staff—keep records.”
“I’ll check with our solicitor to see if I can provide that information,” Ms. Flores said. “Privacy is important to our guests.”
“Mr. Quinn is past caring about privacy,” DI Steele said.
Ms. Flores’s eyes widened. “Please check back later.”
DI Steele slapped her notebook closed—making Ms. Flores flinch—and set the unopened bottle on the desk. “I’ll expect to hear from you by this evening.”
In the parking area she complained to Alexa. “Got her pretty lips buttoned tight. She makes me suspicious.”
They heard footsteps and turned. Blair, the server, scurried after them. They watched her cross the lot. “I was hoping to catch you.” Her pale blue eyes darted from Alexa’s to DI Steele’s. “I overheard? As I delivered the waters? Ms. Flores wasn’t being honest.”
“What are you talking about?” DI Steele said.
The server’s sandy-colored hair framed her heart-shaped face. “About what Ms. Flores said. In her office. The picnic basket? She delivered it.” The server pulled a key fob from her purse and bleeped it toward a car across the lot. “Mr. Quinn was found dead in his bunker, right? That’s so sad. He was nice.”
“How do you know Ms. Flores delivered the basket?” DI Steele asked.
“Ms. Flores likes riding around in the Can-Ams. She makes the deliveries.”
“Did you see her make that particular delivery?” DI Steele demanded.
“I brought it out of the kitchen, and she drove off with it.”
“When did you last see Mr. Quinn?” Alexa asked.
“In person?” Blair dug her phone out of her bag and checked something on it. “He and his girlfriend dined in the restaurant. He left me an enormous tip, even though his girlfriend told him not to. She’s the lady you were with the other night,” she told Alexa. “She said it wasn’t customary, right in front of me like I wasn’t standing there, but he did anyway. Smiled and put it in my hand. A hundred-dollar bill.”
DI Steele gritted her teeth. “When? What was the date?”
“See I don’t know. Maybe first of the year? Early January? I haven’t seen him since, but it was me who took his recent order for the picnic basket. We call it Romantic Picnic For Two. I recognized his accent. American, like yours,” she said to Alexa.
“What date did he place the order?” DI Steele asked.
She checked her phone. “Last Saturday.” Then she looked toward the inn. Alexa followed her eyes.
Katrina Flores stared at them from the porch.