An Ancient Roman law states that if an item is abandoned, it can be legally snatched up by a new owner, hence the expression “finders, keepers.” It’s also a nautical idiom, referring to shipwrecks and their lost (then found) treasure. Once recovered, the treasure belongs to the finder.
The footage urged me to find more answers. It was after 11:00 when I pulled into the quiet lot of the Peacock. But, a hotel’s lobby is always open. I approached the front desk, mentally composing an excuse for snooping, when Hugh Huntley waved to me from the corner of the bar. Smiling, I headed to him instead.
“Ms. Duffy, what a pleasant surprise,” he greeted. “I was just closing up, but I’d be glad to offer you a nightcap.”
“Oh, no thank you, Mr. Huntley,” I replied.
“What brings you out this evening?”
“Curiosity. Can I take a look at the room on the corner?” I pointed toward the left of the building.
Hugh Huntley pinched his bushy, gray eyebrows together. “Do you mean the study?”
I nodded. Mr. Huntley smiled and tossed his cleaning towel on the counter.
“Yes, let me escort you,” he said, coming around the bar. “I expect it’s vacant at this time of night.”
“I know it’s strange,” I admitted as we walked toward the back hallway, “but I was just thinking about the party, and the woman, and all the possibilities.”
“Ms. Duffy, strange is absent from our vocabulary here at the Peacock,” Hugh Huntley smiled, “as true hospitality is serving without questions or judgments.” He opened the closed door at the end of the hallway, and switched on the light. A Hemingway-style study, with bookcases that reached floor to ceiling, was a feast for my eyes. A dark leather couch and matching chairs occupied the middle of the room, mahogany tables filled in the spaces in between. The back corner of the room was all windows, braced by a window seat, and it afforded a wide-open view of the outside that was obstructed by the glare from the lights.
“Indulge me, Mr. Huntley,” I said, flipping the light back off. I let the darkness settle, and then moved across the room to the window. I banged my leg against a side table, but bit my tongue so I wouldn’t cry out like a sissy girl. With the light off and the glare absent, I could see the deck that wrapped around the house, the stairs I had stumbled down, and out onto the backyard where patches of grass gave way to shrubbery, then thickets and trees.
“Might I ask, what you are looking for?” Mr. Huntley said as we stood in the darkness.
I sighed. “I am trying to determine if a very awkward conversation is in order. With the lights off, you can see quite clearly.”
“Yes, but there shouldn’t have been anyone in this room during the party,” he replied. “Quite honestly, no one really uses this room. Mrs. Kayne wanted a quiet reading lounge for guests and designed it herself.”
“It’s lovely.” I made my way back to the door and turned the light back on.
“She enjoyed it,” he noted.
“How long have you worked here?”
“Ah, one loses count,” he replied with a soft chuckle, “twenty-two years.”
“You must know the family very well,” I urged. Bruce Wayne’s loyal butler and secret-keeper, Alfred, came to mind.
“As much as one could, I suppose, in my position,” he agreed.
“The night of the party, I saw how Mr. Kayne snapped at you because of the wine,” I told him. “Is he usually so curt?”
Mr. Huntley paused, and said, “Did Mr. Kayne behave curtly? I don’t recall.”
I smiled. “And Chris? You’ve been here since before he was born. I bet you have fond memories of his childhood.”
“Mr. Chris has always been a joy,” he said, almost too robotically. “He used to come behind the bar and perform experiments with the seltzer water.” While Mr. Huntley spoke about young, master Chris, I toured the room, picking up picture frames and knick knacks, eyeballing the books, taking it all in.
“What about that guy Wake? He seems like an odd sort to work here.”
Mr. Huntley nodded. “Quite.”
“Has he been here as long as you?”
“Not as long,” he explained, standing very upright at the door. He was so accommodating that I was pretty sure I could ask him to fetch me the paper and some cookies and he would, with a smile as if thankful to have a wish to grant. “I admit, the man isn’t very conversational, but he keeps the grounds and takes care of odds and ends for Mr. Kayne. I don’t think we’ve exchanged more than ten words over the last ten years.”
A silver picture frame on a high shelf caught my eye. I had to reach up on my tiptoes to get it. Though it wasn’t very old, the picture was black and white.
I chuckled. “This is really cute.” Two boys around the age of eight dressed in costumes. A young Chris Kayne wore a floppy suit and a scowling expression. He held a cane and hunched over like an old man. A glob of light clay had been slathered on his nose, making it stick out like a beak.
The other boy also wore a suit, with a neatly tied bow tie and a pocket watch chain drooping across his midsection, but stood erect, holding a book and a test tube. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, completing his studious look.
“Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” I breathed out, amused. “Chris wasn’t kidding when he said it was one of his favorite books.”
“Mr. Chris enjoyed acting out scenes with his playmates,” Hugh Huntley returned. “Mrs. Kayne loved that picture, and insisted that it be here in the study as an encourager to read good books.”
I smiled. “I like her style.” I returned the frame, and then plopped down on the couch, running my fingers along the leather admiringly. One day, maybe I could have nice things like this, I mused. I had better start investing in the lottery. My hand fell on soft fabric. I grabbed it, and pulled it from behind me. A tie, dark blue, silk.
“Finders, keepers,” I told Mr. Huntley.