Grace Sees Red (26 page)

Outside, it took all my willpower to not look back through the restaurant's windows to see if Dan and Debbie were watching. I had no doubt they were, but I couldn't let them know I'd seen them. With pained nonchalance, I climbed into the driver's seat. Frances continued to grumble about not knowing what was going on. “I thought you were hungry,” she said.

I threw the car into reverse and pulled away slowly, trying not to look anything but casual and unconcerned. If the waitresses told them of our behavior, Frances and I could be in trouble. I hoped they wouldn't.

Right now all I wanted to do was put as much space between us and them as possible. “Who knows what hotel you stay at when you visit Percy?” I asked.

“What do you mean ‘Who knows?' I don't understand.”

“I mean, is your hotel choice common knowledge? If Indwell had to get in touch with you over the weekend, would they know where you were staying?”

She shook her head. “I don't always stay at the same place. But even if I did, there's no reason for anyone to know which hotel I'm at. If they need to call, they can get me on my cell phone.”

“And you're sure you never mentioned your hotel casually?” I asked. “To anyone?”

“Yes, I'm sure. It's nobody's business where I stay, is it?”

“Okay, good.” I strove to get my heart rate down to a manageable level. “But before we head out there, let's drive around a little bit.”

She noticed me checking the rearview mirror. “You think we're being followed? What happened back at the restaurant?”

I told Frances what I'd observed. “I'm sure I'm overreacting,” I said as I took a circuitous route around Rosette, studying every car that followed us for more than a block or two.

“You think those two are in cahoots?” she asked.

“I don't know. I don't know what to think.” I pulled off the road when I spied a fast-food drive-thru. “Let's grab something fast and get to the hotel. We have a few more phone calls ahead of us.”

Frances's hotel—the Sunset View—turned out to be one of those single-story, sprawling structures on the outskirts of town, constructed back when the word
motel
conjured up visions of happy families traversing the country in wood-paneled station wagons.

Although our dinner delay and time spent driving around to shake an imaginary tail meant that we'd already missed the inn's titular view this evening, there was enough waning light to appreciate the motor court's tidy appearance.

Horseshoe-shaped, red-bricked, and gray-roofed, the Sunset View seemed to be striving for an early-American motif. Fifteen identical picture windows trimmed in colonial blue, and fifteen identical white six-panel doors were arranged in precise intervals around the central parking lot.

We parked in front of the glass-enclosed main office, which sat to the structure's far right. An illuminated yellow sign blinked O
FFICE
, in case there was any doubt. With potted indoor greenery lining its perimeter and one bright spot of orange moving about inside, it reminded me of a fish tank with a sole occupant.

When I opened the bell-jangling glass door, the musty
motel scent hit me with a wave of vacation nostalgia, making me remember my parents and their attempts to show us the country. A hunched-over older man in a bright orange shirt glanced up expectantly.

Frances stepped to the desk. “We have reservations for two rooms.”

The bowed man on the other side of the counter blinked at us from behind round, rimless glasses. I would bet he was the motel's original owner and had lived here nonstop ever since. “Sliwa?” he asked in a voice so vigorous I couldn't believe it had come from such a frail, bent form. “And Wheaton? That you?”

“That's us.”

The old man's face crushed in on itself as he squinted at Frances. “You been here before, haven'tcha?”

“Once or twice,” she said.

He nodded, satisfied. “We appreciate your business.” Turning to me, he said, “First time at the Sunset View?”

“Yes.”

After we hand-printed our personal information on oversized index cards, he pulled out two keys—real keys, not the credit card–sized swipe kind that most hotels use nowadays—and handed them to us across the Formica countertop. Both keys were attached to old-fashioned hard plastic fobs that featured the motel's name and our room numbers embossed in gold.

“I put you two next to one another,” he said. “Rooms seven and eight. They're right in the middle.” He pointed a gnarled finger. “Nicest views of the sunset. Course, you missed it tonight.”

“Thank you,” I said. “If anyone should happen to come looking for us—”

“We don't allow parties here. We run a quiet place.”

“No parties,” I assured him. “But if anyone should come by and ask if we've checked in here, could you please tell them we haven't.”

“You mean lie?”

“It's important,” I said.

“I won't lie to the police.”

“It wouldn't be the police who come looking for us.”

His thick lenses made his watery eyes look especially buggy.

Frances tugged my arm. “No one will come looking for us.”

I ignored her. “Is there anywhere to park my car in the back?”

“Don't want anybody to know you're here, do you?” He gave us a long once-over. “You running away from a bad relationship?” he asked me. “You and your mom?”

Frances huffed.

“Something like that,” I said. “We'd really appreciate it if you don't tell anyone we're here, but if someone does come by, please let us know right away, okay?”

“You mean like call your room?”

“Yes, would you do that?”

He nodded. “I got a rifle in back. Do I need to bring it out here?”

“No, please. No guns.”

He seemed disappointed. “All right. You two in for the night?”

“We're going to go back to Indwell,” Frances said. “Percy's waiting for us.”

“That's the first place they'll look.” I shook my head. “We can't go back yet. Not until we get some answers.” I turned to the man. “Yes, we're in for the night.”

While Frances made her way to room number eight, I parked the car out of sight and trotted back around the front with my overnight bag in one hand and our sack of rapidly cooling fried chicken in the other.

As I juggled my burdens to fit my key in the door, Frances stepped outside of her room. “Let me take that.” She lifted the chicken bag and headed back inside. “We can eat in here if you like.”

“I'll be there in a minute,” I said.

Room number seven smelled like fabric that had been stored too long in a musty old basement. Allowing the door
to slam shut behind me, I crossed the indoor-outdoor carpeted space and dumped my overnight bag and purse on the first of two double beds. My heavy load landed on the bed's blue-and-gold-flowered spread, shooting a rush of stale air up my nostrils.

When I heard liquid sloshing from inside my purse, I remembered the bottle of anisette I'd been carting around. Wrinkling my nose at the thought of sleeping in that smelly bed tonight, I picked up both my purse and bag and gingerly set them instead on the small table in front of the picture window.

When I shut the drapes, I cringed at yet another blast of 1960s air. I'd have to throw everything into the laundry the minute I got home.

From the lamps on the end tables to the tiles on the bathroom floor, it was clear that nothing at the Sunset View had been updated in recent years. The sink boasted a chained drain plug and separate, twisty handles. The tile around the bathtub was old and cracked, but at least the bathroom was clean. The jalousie window had been cranked open in an effort, I assumed, to freshen up the room a little before our arrival today.

An energetic knock pulled me from my observations. I started toward it realizing when the knock came again, that it was emanating not from the outside door, but from the one that connected my room with Frances's. “Food's getting cold,” she shouted from the other side. “You coming over here tonight, or what?”

I drew open my side of the double door to find her standing there, red-faced, hand poised ready to knock again.

“What took you so long?”

“I've been thinking about Dan and Debbie,” I said as I followed her in. Number eight was the mirror image of my room. Frances swung her side of the door as wide as she could, adjusting the placement of the small table and two chairs to allow the door's full arc. She and I emptied the bag of food atop the tiny table before sitting down.

“A little cramped, but at least the place is clean.” When I fidgeted, the back of my chair bumped up against the inside of the wide-open connecting door. “I'm glad you shut the drapes. I did, too.”

“Nobody needs to see inside,” she said. “Not even Mr. Nosy Proprietor.”

As we began to eat, I continued. “Just because Dan and Debbie have a relationship doesn't mean they're guilty of any crime, but the more I think about it, the more it all fits.”

“Sure does,” she said as she took a bite of chicken. “This is cold. I knew it would be.”

I ignored her complaint. “I think the two of them did it and now they're running scared. They're getting sloppy, or at least Debbie is. Why else would she risk following Dan tonight? I don't want to wait for the police to complete DNA tests on the syringe caps to say anything.”

“That will probably take another week.”

“Or longer,” I said. “The only reason Bennett and I got our DNA tests done so quickly was because he had the power to get it done fast.”

“You mean the money.”

“Right. Police departments, especially small ones like Rosette's, have to wait their turn at the testing centers. That could take months.”

“In the meantime, I'm still in the hot seat.”

“Not if we can push for more evidence,” I said. “We know there were no puncture wounds on Gus's body, right?”

“Right,” she said.

“Leading us to believe that—if he was murdered—whoever did it used the port on his heparin lock to administer the fatal dose.”

“Your friend Joe came up with that idea.”

I nodded. “You knew Gus. Would he ever have allowed anyone other than a nurse to inject him with anything?”

“Not a chance,” she said. “But they keep saying I could have done it while he was sleeping.”

“Sure, if he went back to sleep after you and Percy left
and after Kyle took off. But I think it's far more likely that one of the nurses came in, took four vials of insulin from Percy's refrigerator, and injected Gus on the pretense of this being a medical necessity.”

“And you believe Debbie is that nurse?”

I sat forward. I'd taken only two bites of chicken and downed a little bit of the cold mashed potatoes, but as my excitement grew, my hunger waned. “She could come and go in Percy's room or Gus's room without anyone giving her a second glance.”

“But why?” Frances asked. “What does she stand to gain by killing Gus? She didn't hate him the way most people did. She went overboard being nice to him, in fact.”

“Dan was out of town when Gus died, remember?” I said. “What if Dan and Debbie were in on this together and they agreed she would make her move when Dan was away to keep him completely above suspicion? She may have killed Gus so that Dan would inherit his father's estate. Or at least half of it. And I'm sure she expected to share Dan's half.”

Frances shook her head. “But Anton told you that the sons don't benefit.”

“They didn't know that, though. And remember how both Dan and Harland complained about how much money Indwell cost? Anton suspects that they wanted to staunch the flow of money out of their father's estate. But Gus loved living at Indwell. They knew he wouldn't have agreed to leave.”

“So they killed him.” She shook her head. “You really think so?”

“What if?” I asked as I put it all into words. “What if Dan schmoozed Debbie into believing that he'd take care of her financially? Or maybe she believed he was in love with her. Maybe he actually is.”

Frances frowned. “Women do stupid things for men sometimes, I'll give you that.”

“My impression is that Dan didn't seem particularly thrilled by Debbie's attentions today,” I said. “And from all reports, he's a player. She must be feeling vulnerable. Santiago raised
the alarm, taking their anticipated natural-death scenario and casting a suspicious light on it.”

“And now the police think it could be murder.”

“Right. She's getting worried Dan has turned his back on her. How better to retaliate than threaten his windfall while also attempting to nullify the murder theory?”

Frances frowned. “Cathy was with Debbie when they found the pamphlet.”

“I know,” I said. “I've been thinking about that.”

“You think Cathy is in on it, too?”

I shook my head. “I don't.” I pulled up my phone and began scrolling. “Tooney sent me basic contact information for everyone involved.”

“Why did he do that?” she asked.

“Because he's thorough.” I found the e-mail he'd sent me. “Here it is. Would you mind writing this down?”

Frances recorded the phone number on one of our spare napkins as I read aloud. “What is that?”

I turned the napkin to face me and dialed. “Cathy's home phone.”

“She was off sick today, remember?”

I'd forgotten. “Thanks.” A moment later, when Cathy answered, I injected as much warmth into my tone as I could. “Hi, how are you? This is Grace Wheaton—Frances's and Percy Sliwa's friend?” I said with a lilt. “I hope I'm not bothering you.”

In the background I could hear dogs yapping. From the sound of it they were little dogs, and I remembered—dachshunds.

“Grace?” she said with obvious puzzlement.

“Are those your dachshunds in the background?” I asked before she could quiz me on how I'd gotten her phone number. “I love dogs.”

I could practically feel her warm up over the phone line. “I have three. They're very energetic.” Away from the phone, she shushed them. “Quiet, boys.”

Surprisingly they listened to her. One whined, but very softly.

“I'm sorry to interrupt your evening; how are you feeling?” I asked. “I heard you were sick today.”

She chuckled. “Don't tell anybody, but it was more a personal-breather day than anything. Debbie and I were talking about how much has gone on at that place in the past few weeks and she thought we both needed time off.”

“I'll bet you do. Speaking of Debbie,” I said grateful for the segue, “the reason I'm calling is to ask you about that brochure the two of you found in Gus's room.”

“Sure, what about it?”

“I know Indwell wanted you to have a look around, but I forgot to ask you what made you start with Gus's bathroom.”