Hounded to Death (9 page)

Wayne looked faintly amused. “That's what the three of you are drinking? Hot tea?”

“Actually we don't seem to have gotten much of anything down,” Bertie said. “That's why there's still plenty left for you.”

He gazed around the table. “I understand one of you is pregnant?”

“That would be me.”

“Are you feeling all right? Do you need me to get anything for you? We still have medical personnel outside if you'd like to check in with someone.”

“No,” I said quietly. “I'm fine.” But I appreciated the thought.

“Right. Let me know if that changes.”

“I will.”

Wayne nodded. “Now then, which one of you would like to tell me what happened?”

“Aren't you going to question us separately?” Aunt Peg asked. “That's how they do it on TV.”

Once again, a small smile played about his lips. “Any particular reason you think I should do that here? Right now, all we're trying to do is gather information and find out what went wrong.”

“Is Charles dead?” I asked.

“I'm afraid so.” The detective's tone was somber. “He didn't respond to efforts to revive him.”

So the trained professionals hadn't been able to accomplish any more than we had. I sighed softly. Even though I'd suspected as much, it was hard to hear the words.

“The three of you knew the victim, then?”

“His name was Charles Evans,” Aunt Peg said. “He was a highly respected dog show judge.”

“I take it he was a guest here at the inn?”

“There's a judges' symposium going on here this week,” said Bertie. “Charles was one of the participants.”

“And the same would be true of you three as well?”

“That's right,” I said. “People have come from all over the country to take part.”

Detective Wayne nodded slowly, considering that information. Perhaps it was just occurring to him that there was a time limit to how long he'd have to investigate Charles's death. Within a few days' time, most of the likely suspects would be gone.

“About Charles…” I said. “Was his death an accident?”

“I'm afraid I don't have the answer to that yet. We'll know more once the medical examiner has done his job. In the meantime, I'm trying to learn what I can by talking to witnesses.”

“Unfortunately,” said Aunt Peg, “we didn't witness anything. By the time we arrived on the scene, Charles was already dead.”

“Yes, ma'am. How did the three of you happen to be walking back there this time of night?”

“We were looking for a dog,” said Bertie.

“A dog,” Detective Wayne repeated.

His tone implied that this might be one of the least likely excuses he'd ever heard.

“A stray German Shepherd,” I explained. “I had seen him earlier and we were hoping to be able to help him.”

“And you were expecting to find this dog in the hot tub?”

See? This is why I don't like talking to the police. They tend to take the most innocent assertions, turn them around, and make them sound like something incriminating. Or something stupid.

“Yes,” I said. “We thought he might be going for a moonlight swim.”

Aunt Peg kicked me under the table. Hard. “Don't mind Melanie. She's—”

“Yes, I know,” said Detective Wayne. “Pregnant.”

He reached for the pot of tea and poured himself a cup. Then he took his time adding two sugars and stirring the brew. When he was finished, he didn't bother to drink. The ritual seemed less a matter of thirst on his part than a conscious decision to take a time-out.

“Let's start over,” he said. “And let's try and remember that we're all on the same team here. Tell me what you saw.”

S
o we did.

Between the three of us—a trio of women all talking at once, finishing each other's sentences, and adding both random and pertinent facts when they occurred to us—we probably managed to tell Detective Wayne a great deal more than he was looking to find out.

We told him about the symposium, what it was, and why we were there. Then we gave him a brief overview of the speech Charles had delivered that afternoon, a description that was interspersed with editorial commentary from Aunt Peg explaining why such views would have proven to be so unpopular with this particular audience.

We told him what little we knew about the stray German Shepherd, and that segued into a lecture from Aunt Peg on the importance of caring dog owners stepping forward and acting responsibly when the need arose. Bertie even took time out to tell him about her spa experience that morning, and how much she'd enjoyed her time in the hot tub.

If the detective spent even one, brief, uncensored moment imagining what the redhead would have looked like in a bathing suit, he was careful to not let it show. I had to give him points for that. Having Bertie as a friend can be a hazard at times; lesser men have fallen to their knees on her account.

By the time we'd finished outlining all of that, we'd drunk the first large pot of tea and requested another. I had also been to the bathroom. Twice.

When I returned for the second time, it looked as though we were finally getting ready to wrap things up. All we had left to do was walk Detective Wayne through the events that had transpired earlier that evening.

Which, to be fair, was the only thing he'd asked about in the first place.

To his credit, Wayne didn't show the slightest bit of impatience with the colorful and circuitous route that had taken him on a conversational merry-go-round before finally bringing him back to his original question. Maybe he was enjoying our company. Or perhaps he just had a thing for hot tea.

“So the three of you were walking on the path that leads around the side of the building…by the way, did you ever see the dog?”

“No,” I said. “We were planning to check out the garbage cans by the kitchen, but we never made it that far. Aunt Peg wanted to see the hot tub and we detoured that way.”

“And that's when you discovered Mr. Evans?”

“That's right.” Peg took up the story. “He was floating face down in the water. We immediately jumped up onto the platform and pulled him out.”

“The three of you together?”

“I called 911 first,” I said. “Aunt Peg didn't want me to help.”

No point in repeating the reason for that. We all knew what it was.

“But he was too heavy,” said Bertie. “It took all three of us to get him out.”

Wayne looked her way. “You climbed into the tub with him.”

“Someone had to.”

“There are several benches around the perimeter of the platform. One of them was pulled over next to the hot tub.”

“We did that,” said Aunt Peg. “I needed more height to get enough leverage. Then Bertie used the bench to get over the side.”

Wayne processed that. “It didn't occur to you to use the steps around the back?”

Well…no. Now that he mentioned it, it did make sense that there would have been an easier way to access the hot tub. But none of us had stopped to think about that.

“Next time we'll try to do better,” Aunt Peg said tartly.

“I'm not criticizing your rescue efforts, I'm just trying to imagine the scene. I saw that the bench had been moved from its normal spot and I was wondering why, that's all.”

Detective Wayne turned to me. “So the three of you were approaching the hot tub. Tell me what you saw.”

“Nothing at first. As you know, it's on a raised platform. So we couldn't see inside it. We just thought it was empty.”

“Then what happened?”

“Then we got closer and saw there was a towel thrown over one of the benches. That's when we realized that we probably weren't the only ones out there.”

“On your way around the side of the inn, had you seen or heard anyone else in the vicinity?”

All three of us stopped and thought about that. Then we all answered in the negative.

“Then you saw Mr. Evans in the hot tub…”

“We didn't know who it was then,” said Aunt Peg. “We didn't find that out until I reached in and turned him over.”

Detective Wayne walked us slowly through each of the remaining steps we'd taken. Unfortunately the rest was fairly straightforward; none of us had any brilliant insights to add.

“You'll probably want to talk to Margo Deline,” Aunt Peg said at the end. “She's the director of the event. And of course Caroline, Charles's wife.”

“Already being attended to,” the detective said. He pushed back his chair and stood. “Ladies, thank you for your time.”

Detective Wayne left the bar. We prepared to do the same.

“Maybe Charles had a heart attack,” I said hopefully as Bertie nabbed the check and charged it to our room.

“Maybe he slipped and hit his head,” she suggested, scribbling a signature on the bill.

Aunt Peg was ever the realist.

“Maybe someone wanted to shut him up,” she said.

 

The next morning at breakfast, the only thing anyone wanted to talk about was what had happened to Charles. And since Bertie, Aunt Peg, and I had had a ringside seat for the proceedings, we were the most popular people in the dining room.

The first person who stopped by to see us was Richard. He slipped into the empty chair at our table for four and took Aunt Peg's hand in his.

“I'm so sorry I wasn't there to help in your time of need,” he said. “Mother and I were dining in our room. So it wasn't until this morning that we even heard about what had happened. Why didn't you call me? You know I would have come to your aid.”

The notion of Aunt Peg calling a man to help her cope with a problem seemed like an utterly foreign concept to me. So I was curious to see how she would respond to Richard's solicitude. And just in case things weren't already interesting enough, Florence was wending her way toward us through the roomful of tightly packed tables.

The woman's large purse was tucked in its customary position beneath her arm, with Button's head poked forward out of the top like the figurehead on the prow of a ship. The little Chihuahua looked around as his mistress navigated in our direction. He seemed to be enjoying the ride.

“Thank you for your offer of assistance,” Peg replied. “But I wouldn't have dreamt of disturbing you.”

“Don't be silly,” Richard chided her. “Mother would have completely understood the need to cut our evening short.”

Maybe it was just me, but it had been my impression that Mother was not necessarily the understanding sort. Nevertheless, I was sure we would hear her take on the situation shortly, as Florence was fast approaching.

“Incoming,” Bertie muttered under her breath.

I was seized with the sudden impulse to duck.

“Good morning, everyone,” Florence chirped.

Her purse bobbled beneath her arm. Button lifted a lip and sneered.

“I understand there was some excitement here last night. And that you…” Florence's gaze scanned the table and came to rest on Aunt Peg. “…seem to have found yourself right in the middle of it.”

“There was an accident outside in the hot tub,” said Bertie. “We just happened to be in the right place at the wrong time.”

“How very unfortunate for you.”

I lifted a brow. “More so for Charles, I should think.”

“Richard.” Florence tapped her son's shoulder smartly. “Go find us another chair, would you?”

“You can have mine,” Peg said smoothly. “We're almost finished anyway.”

Almost finished?
Not even close. We'd just placed our order. Our food had yet to arrive.

“That won't suit,” said Florence. “Since you're the one I want to talk to. Richard?”

“Yes, Mother.” He withdrew his hand from Peg's and rose. “Excuse me, I'll be right back.”

Florence slipped into the chair he'd vacated and Bertie and I shared a look.

This was a fine mess. Somehow we'd lost Richard—whom Aunt Peg presumably wanted to spend time with—and ended up instead with his mother. Whom none of us were anxious to get to know better.

A waiter delivered our three glasses of orange juice.

Florence immediately absconded with Bertie's. She took a sip, leaned across the table, and said to Peg, “Start at the beginning and tell me everything.”

While Bertie ordered more juice, Aunt Peg gave Florence a highly edited version of the previous evening's events. The retelling was over in less than a minute.

“Poor man,” Florence said at the end.

She made a stab at looking mournful, but I wasn't fooled for a moment. If that woman was overcome by grief, I was Deputy Dawg.

“Charles deserved to come to a better end than that,” she said. “What on earth do you suppose he was doing out there?”

“I'm sure I haven't a clue,” answered Peg.

“He didn't say…anything?”

“He was already unconscious,” I said, “when we arrived on the scene.”

“No dying words?”

“No words at all,” I said firmly. That was the second time I'd answered that question. “Were you a close friend of his?”

“I'd known Charles for years,” said Florence. “Even before Caroline. Since he was a youngster almost. I watched him make his own opportunities and build himself an enviable career. Our sport will be a poorer place without him.”

It sounded as though she'd been practicing his eulogy, I thought. And yet, she hadn't actually answered my question.

“Mother?” Richard reappeared. “The dining room is unusually busy this morning. There are no extra chairs, but I've managed to secure a table for two over by the window.”

“As you wish,” said Florence, rising. She looked at Peg. “We'll have to finish our discussion another time.”

Richard hesitated beside Aunt Peg's chair as his mother walked away. “I'm sorry—”

“Go.” She flapped a hand, shooing him away.

“I will see you later, won't I?”

“That's up to you.”

“Good,” he said with a smile. “Then it's a plan.”

I waited until Richard was out of earshot and then said, “
Go
?”

“What would you have had me say? Stay here with us and let your mother go sit by herself? That wouldn't have been very nice.”

“No,” said Bertie. “But it would have been expedient.”

“Never come between a man and his mother,” said Aunt Peg.

“Too bad,” I said, “that his mother doesn't feel as kindly about you.”

Margo appeared next.

Our food had just arrived. I'd been feeling well enough, and hungry enough, to order a bowl of oatmeal. There wasn't even time to sample it before Margo was sliding into the seat Florence had recently vacated. She looked frazzled and cranky and there were dark circles under her eyes that even her artfully applied makeup couldn't quite conceal.

“What does a woman have to do to get a cup of coffee around here?” she demanded.

Aunt Peg lifted a hand and summoned a waiter. If he was surprised to find yet another newcomer at our table, he didn't let on.

In mere seconds he was back with a coffee pot. Maybe the look on Margo's face scared him. I know it worried me.

She left her coffee black and drank most of the first cup in a single gulp. It was a wonder she didn't burn her throat.

The waiter, still hovering and holding the pot, refilled her cup as soon as she set it back on the table. Good man.

“Better?” Aunt Peg inquired as Margo expelled a deep breath and sat back in her seat.

“Not yet. Is Charles still dead?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“Then I'm going to need a hell of a lot more than coffee to get through the rest of this day. What could he have been thinking?”

“Charles?” I asked.

Silly question, I know. But since he'd been the victim presumably his death had not been his idea.

“Of course Charles,” Margo snapped. “Who else are we talking about?”

Aunt Peg's bacon and eggs had arrived with my oatmeal. They were sitting in front of her, untouched and growing cold on the plate. Bertie, meanwhile, had tucked into her French toast like it was the first meal she'd had in a year. She doesn't let anything distract her when there's food in the offing.