We’ll leave the light on for you.
—Tom Bodett
THE COMFY-TIME MOTEL was located up on the highway, past the McDonald’s and a hamburger’s throw from the Gentleman’s Oasis—a “girlie bar” with cheap beer, backroom poker games, pole-dancing entertainment, and a notorious reputation.
The roadside motel where I was heading wasn’t notorious. But the economy lodgings were no great shakes, either, and the absolute antithesis of the charming, meticulously cared-for Queen Anne mansion that served our town as the Finch Inn.
These days the Comfy-Time was showing serious signs of wear. Its paint had faded under the relentless New England winters, and no matter the season, the swimming pool was always covered with canvas and a layer of dead leaves.
I pulled into a spot near the office, grabbed my purse, and dodged raindrops until I pushed through the glass doors.
Behind the Day-Glo orange desk, a young clerk looked up.
“Do you need a room?” she chirped on the uptick. “We’re nearly full, so it will have to be on the ground floor.”
“Actually, I’m looking for one of your guests, although he might have checked out. His name is Clifford Conway—”
Her smile revealed nearly invisible braces. “Mr. Conway has taken our executive suite for the rest of the week. He’s there now.”
“How do you know?”
“A little while ago he complained that his suite was too warm and asked me to turn down the heat. I told him I didn’t know how, but the night manager would be here soon, and he would fix the problem.”
“Where exactly can I find Mr. Conway?”
“Room 224, the corner suite on the second floor. Take the guest staircase, turn right at the top, and follow the veranda. It’s the very last door before you hit the metal service stairs to the dumpsters out back.”
I texted Seymour the info. After a few minutes of waiting, I got antsy and decided to stretch my legs—in the direction of Conway’s room.
Outside again, I walked by the ice machine and drink dispenser. As I crossed the outdoor veranda, wind whipped the occasional blast of rain in my face (always a special treat). The spray was accompanied by the overpowering aroma of sizzling burgers and French fries from the nearby McDonald’s—which only served to remind me that I hadn’t eaten more than a few bites of food all day.
Through my streaky glasses, I saw that Room 224 was the last in the row, before the service stairs at the end of the veranda, just like the clerk had said. The light from that suite was reflecting strongly on the wet concrete floor. It didn’t take a seasoned private eye to figure out Conway’s door was ajar.
“Great.” I stopped, still ten feet away. “Another open door.”
Don’t give yourself heartburn, sweetheart. This is a public motel, not a private home. It’s no ghost town, either. The clerk already told you the place is packed. Give a shout and you’ll have company fast. And don’t forget the upside.
Upside?
Someone left the light on for you.
I was going to back off and wait right here for Seymour when a sudden wind blast tossed more drizzling rain across the balcony and into my face. I shivered.
“Okay, this is silly. There’s no reason for me to just stand here getting wet. I’m going back to the office to call Seymour for an ETA—”
I was about to do just that when I heard a loud door slam, and I could swear the sound came from inside Conway’s suite.
“Mr. Conway?” I called out. “Are you in there?”
No response. Not from Conway. My ghost, on the other hand, had plenty to say—
How long are you going to stand here treading water like an Alvin before you go in already?
I swiped at a raindrop dangling off the end of my nose and lightly pushed at the open door. As it swung wider, I saw an upholstered chair with Conway’s fancy camera equipment piled on it. Beside the chair sat a cheap motel couch, a standing lamp, and a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall next to a Comfy-Time clock.
Next came a wave of air so warm it fogged the edges of my wet glasses. No wonder Conway had complained! There was a sweet smell with it, though the McDonald’s odors were so strong, I couldn’t trace it. My guess was that fresh flowers, maybe roses, had been in this room, though I didn’t see any now—
Maybe Conway carried them into the bedroom, Jack cracked, to combat the unsinkable scent of fast food.
And then, through the haze, I noticed the glass-topped coffee table in front of the couch held two water tumblers with the Comfy-Time logo. Beside them sat a bottle of champagne—uncorked.
This looks pretty cozy, Jack.
Yeah, so did the Ardennes around Christmas 1944.
I mean it looks like Conway had an intimate party.
In ’44 we called our intimate get-together the Battle of the Bulge.
“Mr. Conway?” I called again from the doorway. “It’s Penelope McClure. Are you in there? We need to talk!”
I finally stepped over the threshold and sank in pile as deep as the Mariana Trench. Beyond the suite’s rectangular living room setup, I counted three doors, all closed. They formed a little cul-de-sac.
Was it one of those doors I’d heard slam?
We’re this far in, Penny. Let’s make the most of it and do a little snooping.
I don’t know, Jack. Maybe we shouldn’t—
Stop wasting time bellyaching and LOOK AROUND! Do it while you have the chance!
Okay, okay!
On a writing table at the side of the room, I noticed a laptop glowing with a cc communications screen saver. Beside it, an appointment book was opened to today’s date. Only one notation was scribbled on the page.
Barney Finch, 7:30 p.m.
“Barney? What business does Barney have with a shady character like Clifford Conway?”
The wall clock read 8:55 p.m., which meant Conway’s scheduled “appointment” with our good friend Barney Finch, owner of the Finch Inn, had taken place more than an hour ago.
I reached for the appointment book, hoping to learn more—and bumped the laptop enough to wake it. The screen saver vanished, and twin images took its place. On the right side of the screen, the art page from the Conway Communications website was displayed. My blood ran cold as soon as I glanced at the selection.
Are you seeing this, Jack?
I see some pretty pictures right out of Old Walt’s library.
The ghost was right. I counted four paintings from Walt’s collection. Some were photoshopped with different backgrounds, and graphics and dramatic framing made them seem a little different, but they were recognizable nonetheless. One of them was even part of our exhibit at the bookshop—Nathan Brock’s painting of Ruby Tyler.
For several mesmerized seconds I stared at Ruby’s beautiful blue-eyed image and that frightening pockmarked killer behind her. Finally, Jack shook me out of my stupor with a blast of cold air that cut right through the uncomfortable warmth of the motel room, if not the all-pervasive scent of McDonald’s French fries.
When I shook my head clear and focused on the other side of the screen, it took me a moment to realize I was looking at a close-up of the leaping fish on Harriet McClure’s painting. Under digital magnification, the spidery text on its flanks was legible:
Stars like dots in the sky
What does it mean, Jack? Is that from a poem?
Hmm, let’s see. “Hickory dickory dock. The mouse went up the clock.” Nope, doesn’t ring a bell.
Is it Shakespeare? I don’t recall a phrase like that. Could it be from the Bible?
I reckon that quote is a Harriet original. After all, she had stars in her eyes and was dotty as the day is long.
You’re not helping.
If you want to know what it means, knock on Conway’s door and ask him.
Too dangerous. I shook my head. Obviously, Walt licensed works to Conway, which means there’s a connection between the two. It could be completely innocent, and Conway’s reactions to the Harriet painting could have been a coincidence. But this focus on an obscure detail in the painting tells me there’s much more going on here, certainly more than a “madwoman’s” scribblings.
After what I’d seen, the gumshoe in me hated to leave.
If we just look around some more, Penny, we might find Walt’s notebooks, which means right here and now, we could crack that case.
Jack’s argument was tempting. Calling Sheriff Taft to turn Conway over as a prime suspect would certainly solve my legal problem—not just Walt’s murder. But it was too risky to stay even one minute longer. If Clifford Conway did kill Walt and attack my friend in his own home, who knew what he’d do to me if he found me snooping among his things.
I’ll tell Sheriff Taft my suspicions, but right now I’m going to wait for Seymour in the motel office.
With urgency, I headed for the front door. I was only a few steps away when I sensed a rushing movement behind me. Jack did, too.
Look out, Penny!
Before I could even turn my head, I was slammed with such force that I fell forward. As I did, a hand on the back of my head made sure I connected with the doorjamb.
After that, it was lights out.