Death of a Batty Genius (Stormy Day Mystery #3) (18 page)

She ignored me, and started changing into her pink workout clothes. She offered no further explanation about how Christopher had gone from being a person who made fun of yoga to one who taught it.

She asked, “What are you going to do while I’m at yoga? You’re not going to hide out here alone, are you?”

“I’m not alone. Jeffrey is here, and we have a busy afternoon planned. Next on the agenda is dining on tuna, followed by drinking water from the toilet bowl, even though there are five bowls of perfectly good water spread throughout the room.”

“Come to yoga. We could put some toilet water in a bottle, if you’d like.”

“Send everyone my regards, especially Guru Christopher, but the meditation I’m craving involves quiet time with my email.”

She wished me luck with my email, then left the room.

Unfortunately, I still didn’t have the password for the network. I picked up the room’s phone and pressed zero, not expecting to reach anyone.

Marie answered. “Lunch will be late,” she said. “Around two o’clock.”

“Actually, I just wanted the network password so I can check my business email.”

“We’re not set up for that yet.”

“But I can see the network with my laptop.”

There was a long pause, then she gave me the alphanumeric code. “Don’t give that password to the others,” she said. “I think it’s the access to the whole network.”

“You’re the best,” I said, then settled in to do some work. There was nothing new from Logan, but my inbox held some tasks that needed attention, so I got busy.

I was deep in the flow of things when someone knocked on the door.

I checked the peephole, just in case it was Della in a punching mood or Butch with a flashlight.

It was Marie Fairchild, in another drab gray dress, paired with her red clogs.

When I opened the door, she was wringing her hands.

“The password worked,” I said.

She pushed her glasses up her nose and looked around me, into the room, before asking, “Stormy, would you say you’re a
good
detective?”

Chapter 19
 

Was I a good detective?

Marie wanted to know, and since she’d asked me so directly, I felt she deserved an honest answer.

“I’m the best detective on this mountaintop,” I said.

She didn’t laugh. “I need to hire you.”

“How about a lawyer? Sometimes people think they want a detective, but what they really want is a lawyer.”

“Why would I need a lawyer?”

As I sometimes do with difficult questions, I answered with a question of my own. “Why do you need a detective?”

She took that as an invitation to enter my room. She had a gray handbag with her, and she pulled out a matching gray checkbook. “What do you charge? And will you take a post-dated check? I promise it should clear in a few days.”

“Marie, I can’t take your money.”

She slumped against the room’s dresser, looking fragile.

I quickly added, “Because you’re practically family. I can’t take your money because I won’t charge you.”

I cleared the clothes off the room’s chair. “Have a seat and tell me what I can do for you.”

She took a seat and crossed her legs primly. “Butch is up to something.”

I sat on the bed and leaned forward in anticipation, but then corrected myself and leaned back again. If I was going to be her detective, I couldn’t be her gossip-seeking girlfriend. As a professional, I’ve learned that the best way to keep things moving forward is to remain neutral.

“What exactly makes you think Butch is up to something?”

She pushed her glasses up and blinked three times before saying, “He called our insurance company this morning, several hours before we knew about the broken door in Franco’s room.”

“And?”

“That’s it. Why? Have you noticed anything else?”

I deflected her question by inviting her to tell me why it was suspicious that he’d talked to their insurance company.

While she spoke, I took notes using the lodge’s stationery. She explained that he told her about the patio door shortly after we discovered the mess in Franco’s room. They’d argued over money—an ugly fight—and he told her that she could deal with the insurance company, since opening the lodge was all her idea.

“When things aren’t going well, this place becomes
my
lodge,” she said, shaking her head. “He tossed me his phone to call them, and when I did, I saw he’d already called them once today.”

“And why’s that suspicious?”

“He hates dealing with the insurance company. He
always
gets me to call. I was surprised he even had the number in his phone. The call he made this morning lasted twenty-two minutes. He’s hiding something, and he doesn’t want me to know. I have a bad feeling about this. What should I do now?”

“This one’s easy,” I said. “You just want to know what he was calling about?”

She nodded vehemently.

I held out my hand and asked to borrow the phone.

Private investigators, licensed or otherwise, have rules governing their fact-gathering methods. We’re not allowed to pose as police officers, for example. However, we can and do get creative.

I have two secrets to getting information on the phone.

First, people are rarely listening closely, and they’ll blank out the first part of what you’re saying, such as your fake name, and focus on the words you end with, which should be a simple request—something that’s easy to say
yes
to.

Second, if you sound bored enough, people assume you’re just doing your job.

When the Fairchilds’ insurance agent answered, I said, “This is Susan Squirrel, calling on behalf of Mr. Butch Fairchild. I’m sorry to bore you with this, but my boss has misplaced his notes. The darn guy would lose his head if it wasn’t attached. Would you mind repeating back to me what you told Mr. Fairchild this morning, during your conversation?”

There was a pause, and I worried that my brazen use of the name
Susan Squirrel
was too showy, but then the man on the other end of the call started talking. Talking and talking. About risk management, appurtenances, and liability.

I scribbled notes as quickly as I could, pausing only when the man said, “Unfortunately, accidental death or dismemberment on the premises could exceed your coverage.”

Every fiber of my body tensed. My mouth went dry.
Accidental death or dismemberment?
Was there a dead body somewhere on the premises, waiting for me to stumble over it? I glanced out the window, past the patio, where every lump and bump of snow could be hiding something sinister. Why couldn’t spring come faster?

“And that’s why you need those signs,” the man concluded.

“Signs?”

“You tell your boss, Mr. Fairchild, that no matter how ugly his wife finds the warning signs about medical conditions, they’re very important. When I come up there for the grand opening, I want to see those signs on all the doors leading to those crazy things you have, those
float tanks
. We can’t prevent people from expiring on the premises, but we can reduce our exposure to litigation and investigation.”

I thanked him, ended the call, and relayed my findings to Marie.

She let out a long sigh of relief. “That’s all? He wants us to put up those ugly warning signs? I can do that.” She took back the phone and got up to leave. “Please don’t tell Butch about this, will you? I feel so paranoid, with these crazy suspicions popping into my head.”

“I know the feeling. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Here’s hoping I won’t.” She stopped to give Jeffrey a chin scratch. “There’s probably another perfectly good explanation for why Butch was reviewing the security camera footage from the hallway, so I won’t waste your time with that.”

She thanked me again as I walked her out. When I glanced up at the hallway ceiling, I spotted the dome for the security camera immediately.

Back in the room, I pulled Jeffrey onto my lap and mulled over the facts.

Butch’s call to the insurance company could have been nothing, but the timing seemed odd. Why ask about accidental deaths on the premises now? Had something happened recently? Or was something going to happen?

Where was Franco, anyway? Butch had seemed so certain he would find him in the trashed room, in or under the bed.

Had Franco gotten ill during his stay? From the food, or something in the lodge? And if Butch knew, was he trying to sweep it under the carpet? I’d seen him get upset over the threat of people spreading rumors about the lodge.

And what had the security camera captured in the hallway?

Marie had quickly lost interest in the footage, but I hadn’t.

Getting the footage was something I could do on my own. I’d already been inside the building’s electrical room once that day, and I’d seen the brand-new sticker from a security system manufacturer. I just had to pop into the room again, get the name of the maintenance company, then call customer support to help me access the camera footage.

When Marie gave me the password so I could get on the internet, she inadvertently gave me access to the entire computer system.

She probably thought I was through helping her, finished as of that one phone call. Little did she know that when you hire Stormy Day to investigate a mystery, the job doesn’t stop until everything’s uncovered and somebody’s in trouble.

I left my room and started toward the stairwell, then stopped. I could feel the security camera on me, recording my hesitation.

Something about my meeting with Marie smelled fishier than the seared tuna steaks Jeffrey had been feasting on.

I’d learned a bit about Marie and her three childhood friends over dinner. They’d called themselves geniuses because they’d all scored high on conventional intelligence tests. That didn’t guarantee they were smart in all aspects of life, but it meant I shouldn’t underestimate any of them.

Why would she be so concerned about a twenty-two-minute phone call to an insurance agent, but lose interest in the more suspicious behavior of her husband reviewing camera footage of their friends?

It was almost as if she’d wanted me to hear that specific information from the insurance agent. And right after she’d given me full access to the resort’s computer system.

Was I being set up?

My gut was trying to tell me something.

Who was being paranoid now?

I needed somewhere quiet to think, so I turned and crossed to the opposite end of the hallway, to the doors for the spa.

Inside the in-house spa, the air had a refreshing aroma—like the scent of my gift shop, but simpler. Huge pillars of white scented candles placed throughout the space smelled of tea tree oil and mint.

The construction crew hadn’t finished, so the walls had only a patchy coat of chocolate-milk-colored paint. Overhead was a tangle of exposed electrical and plumbing, not yet hidden by a drop ceiling.

I found the perfect place to think, in a reclining leather pedicure chair, positioned to take in the view. The spa was directly below the dining room, with the same outlook.

Off in the distance, gray storm clouds were gathering.

I squirmed in the leather chair. I puzzled over my meeting with Marie, and all the layers of what she might have meant, but I kept thinking the same pesky thought: I really didn’t like pedicures.

Just sitting in the chair made me twitch. Over the years, I’d been talked into getting a few pedicures. Every time, I’d been excited about the “treat,” only to dread every minute of the foot-tickling torture, gritting my teeth to keep from jerking my foot and kicking some well-meaning spa attendant in the face.

That was all I had? Just my gut telling me not to get any more pedicures?

I slid out of the chair, my thinking session over. I would go upstairs, get the name of the security company, then satisfy my curiosity about the hallway footage, even if I was falling into some devious genius trap devised by Marie.

Something nearby made a whooshing noise. It sounded like an office chair having its height adjusted—a hydraulic whoosh.

I heard someone cough, and then the whoosh again.

My skin prickled.

I wasn’t the only one in the spa.