The lobby, bar, and restaurant seemed pretty congested for five P.M. when I returned to the Everheart Resort, and I asked the young man working the desk about it.
“It’s happy hour,” he said. “Plus, there’s a lot of folks looking for a drink or quick meal before heading off to the big meeting. This is a small town, and there aren’t that many places to gather.”
“I get it.”
“You should see the place on Friday nights before the high school football game, and then after the game, too. We always do good.”
“Is Bill Everheart around?”
“I haven’t seen him for a while. I can reach him on his cell.”
“That’s okay. Maybe you can help me?”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“Is there a business, a service, in Arona that specializes in cleaning other people’s cabins, that takes care of the cabins during the off-season when the owners aren’t around?”
“Not really. There are people who do that, especially during the winter. Get paid to keep an eye on a place, plow out the driveways, that sort of thing, but not a business per se.”
“What people? Can you give me some names?”
“Do you want to hire someone?”
“I’m trying to find out who takes care of the Barrington place when the family’s not in residence.”
“You’re talking about Cheryl. Cheryl Turk. Yeah. She looks after Mereshack.”
“Do you know her?”
“She works here.”
“At the resort?”
“She’s one of them that takes care of the rooms. She’s probably taking care of your room.”
“Where can I find her?”
The desk clerk glanced at his watch as if the answer to my question could be found there.
“I don’t know for sure,” he said. “She’s around somewhere. Maybe the laundry.”
“Is it possible you can find her for me? If she has time, I’d like to ask her a few questions.”
“You’re the detective guy, right?”
“Right.”
“Where will you be?”
“In the bar.”
The desk clerk grinned as if I had lived up to his stereotype—where else would a PI be if not the bar?
“I’m on it,” he said.
“Good man.”
* * *
The late Thanksgiving lunch I ate was still with me, so I passed on the happy hour appetizers and ordered bourbon. The waitress told me that all rail drinks were half price.
“We used to advertise ’em at two-for-one, but the MADD people thought we were promoting excessive drinking, so now it’s half price,” she told me. “You can still order two, though.”
I ordered just the one.
I did a quick survey of the premises while the waitress went to get it. From my table, I was able to observe the bar, the restaurant, and much of the lobby. I was the only one sitting alone. That was okay. I admit I sometimes regretted quitting the cops and the sports teams. I’d chastise myself for neglecting to return the phone calls of my friends and refusing their invitations until they stopped issuing them. I’d regret being alone. Not often, though. For the most part, I liked being alone. I liked relying only on myself. It was so much easier.
The waitress returned with my drink, and I entertained myself with some serious people watching. The patrons seemed to separate into two camps. Those opposed to the sand mines gathered in the restaurant area, while supporters congregated in the bar. I amused myself by guessing who belonged where as the individual customers passed through the entrance. Sometimes it was easy. Many of the environmentalists wore T-shirts with slogans printed on them. On the other hand, I didn’t see a single article of clothing that promoted sand mining, although an older, wider woman had the words JOBS JOBS AND MORE JOBS silk-screened onto her sweatshirt. She went with the miners.
Richard Kaufman and Allen Palo belonged with the miners, too, of course, although neither of them seemed to acknowledge their allies. Instead, they seated themselves at a table in the restaurant with a clear view of the front entrance. Palo flagged a waitress while Kaufman buried his head in a menu. I don’t know what he ordered, but it seemed to take him a long time to do it.
“Mr. Taylor?”
I turned my attention to a woman who was dressed as if she had just finished cleaning her basement.
“Mr. Taylor? My name is Cheryl Turk. They said you wanted to see me?”
I stood, shook the woman’s hand, and offered a chair.
“I hope I’m not taking you away from anything,” I said.
“No, no. I was due for a break.”
“Is there anything I can get you?”
“No, please. I’m fine. What is it you need?”
“I was told that you look after the Barrington place.”
“I wouldn’t say look after. It’s not like I’m guarding it or anything. I just, you know, dust and vacuum, wash the windows, sweep the deck, make sure the grass gets cut and the snow gets plowed. It’s a side job. I do the same for a couple of other places, although mostly in the winter. We get a lot of summer people—that’s what we call ’em. They got their cabins, their lake homes, and they visit ’em for a couple of weeks or for three-day weekends, the Fourth of July. The rest of the time, they hire me to, you know, keep the place clean, keep the grass from getting out of hand, make sure the driveway is cleared in case there’s a fire or something.”
“You do this for the Barringtons?”
“Uh-huh, like I said, although they’re year-round. They come down all the time. At least they used to.”
“I was out there earlier this afternoon. You do a very nice job.”
“Thank you, but—no one’s supposed to be out there. Mrs. Barrington doesn’t even want me to bring someone along when I clean the place.”
“She wants to keep it all private.”
“I don’t blame her for that. Do you want people hanging around your place uninvited?”
Good point, I decided.
“Besides, they found some beer cans in the woods this one time above the hot tub. Do you know where the hot tub is?” Cheryl said. “On the back deck?”
“Yes.”
“They found some beer cans, and the family, Mrs. Barrington, they’ve been worried about intruders ever since.”
“When was this?”
“I don’t know. A year ago. Longer.”
“How long have you been working for the Barringtons?” I asked.
“Five years? Six? Even when she was here every other week, Mrs. B would have me come in to keep the place nice. She’s not the kind to do much dusting herself, you know. What is it you want me to tell you, anyway?”
I retrieved my trusty smartphone, pulled up Emily’s pic, and asked the same question I had asked everyone else.
“Nope,” Cheryl said. “I’ve never seen her before.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Never saw her at the Barrington place?”
“No. Why would I?”
“She used to date Joel Barrington.”
“I don’t know anything about that. I haven’t seen her. I haven’t seen Joel, either, for that matter. Not for a year or more. Not since they, the Barringtons, stopped coming down like they used to.”
“When was that?”
“Like I said. A year or so.”
“I meant specifically.”
“You mean the actual day? How should I know?”
“Was it after Mayor Franson was killed?”
“It had to be after. At least, well, wait. I know they were here for the funeral. Everyone was at the funeral. It was kind of comical. Not him getting killed, what I mean … Everyone was trying to guess who did it, you know? My money was on the wife. Still is. Sleeping with the brother-in-law…” Cheryl shivered as if she found the idea frightening. Yet the word she used was “juicy.”
“The Barringtons went to the funeral?” I asked.
“They wanted to pay their respects, I guess. I know they knew the mayor, can’t say if they were friends or not. Devon, the girl, was there, and so was Joel. I don’t remember Mrs. Barrington, though. I don’t remember seeing her there.”
“You say they knew Mayor Franson?”
“I guess. I’d seen ’em chatting, him and the Barringtons, once in a while.”
“Where?”
“Here. Everybody comes here. It’s the only really good place in town. The mayor, he was always cruisin’ the place.”
“Did he ever hit on you?”
“Sure. Everybody got a turn sooner or later. Wait. I did see him out at their place once.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. Before he was killed. What does it matter?”
“I’m trying to figure out some things.”
“I don’t know what I can tell you. I mean, I don’t live there, at Mereshack. I just clean the place once a week. Although…”
“What?”
“I keep a ledger. Mrs. Barrington is real particular. She doesn’t worry about money so much, she just wants to know what I do and when I do it and how many hours it takes. Sometimes, she’ll tell me to do something or not do something, and then she’ll forget she told me because it’ll be like a month or more without us talking, well, a year now, so I keep track of what she says and the date she says it in my ledger, and when I send her an invoice, I include all that. I could look. I don’t know if it’ll help, though.”
“I’d appreciate it very much.”
“You going to be around tomorrow?”
“In the morning, at least.”
“I’ll go look tonight, then.”
“Thank you.”
Cheryl rose from her chair.
“You really are a detective, aren’t you?” she said.
“I really am.”
“Cool.”
“Sometimes it is.”
* * *
Cheryl gave me a little wave and drifted out of the room. I turned my attention back to Kaufman and Palo. Palo was eating what looked like a Caesar salad from where I sat. Kaufman was attacking the first of two cheeseburgers and a plate of fries. They took turns glancing at their watches and watching the door as if they were expecting someone.
I studied my own watch for a moment. It was after normal business hours, yet I took a chance and made a call. I was relieved when the receptionist at Mrs. Barrington’s office answered.
“This is Holland Taylor,” I told her.
“The private investigator?”
“Yes.”
“No one’s here. I was just about to leave myself.”
“I’m sorry I’m calling so late. I should have called earlier, but I didn’t think of it until now.”
“Think of what?”
“Could you do me one quick favor before you leave?”
She didn’t answer.
“Please,” I said.
“What?”
“You keep Mrs. Barrington’s calendar.”
“Her business calendar. I have no idea what the woman does on her own time.”
“Can you check to see where she was about a year ago?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
I gave her the exact date Mayor Franson was killed.
“I’m going to put you on hold. Just a sec.”
My ear was immediately filled with the sound of Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy.” I watched Kaufman and Palo while I listened. Why they didn’t see me seeing them I couldn’t say. Palo must have seen something he did like, though. He stood abruptly and smiled. Kaufman turned in his chair and saw the same sight as his partner. He stood, too, clutching his napkin to his chest.
And Cynthia Grey walked into the restaurant.
“What the hell?” I said aloud.
The “Ode to Joy” was replaced by the receptionist’s voice.
“Taylor,” she said.
I didn’t answer.
“Mr. Taylor, are you still there?”
I averted my eyes.
“Yes, yes, I’m here,” I said. “Sorry.”
“The date you gave me, Mrs. Barrington wasn’t in the office the entire week, including that day.”
“Where was she?”
“New York. She flew out early Monday morning and didn’t return until Thursday night.”
Mayor Franson was shot late Tuesday evening, I reminded myself.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“As sure as I can be. It’s not like she took me with her.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
I ended the conversation and looked up. Cynthia Grey was sitting now at the table with the two lobbyists. She was smiling. They were grimacing as they spoke earnestly to her, as if they were describing a problem that they expected her to solve. I had the distinct impression the problem was me.
I made another call. This time Freddie answered.
“Have you called the professor yet?” he asked.
“No.”
“What’s keeping you?”
“Dammit, Freddie. Business first.”
“What business?”
I told him that the receptionist in her office building said Mrs. Barrington was in New York when the mayor of Arona, Wisconsin, was shot and killed outside his house.
“What do you want me to do about it?” Freddie asked.
“Prove it.”
“Do you want me to contact David Helin?”
“I don’t give a damn who you call.”
“What’s with you all of a sudden?”
Apparently the boys knew I had been watching them after all, because they directed Cynthia’s attention to my table. She looked me directly in the eye from across the room. And winked.
“You should have my problems, Freddie,” I said. “You really should.”