Open Season for Murder (A Mac Faraday Mystery Book 10) (3 page)

Chapter Two

“Ashton?” Archie Monday stared into her coffee cup while quietly repeating the name over and over again. Each time she said it her voice became softer to the point of barely audible.

Finally, she declared in a clear tone, “Nope. I have no idea who Ashton could be.” She stood up to carry the plate, which had been home to her cinnamon roll, from the back deck into the kitchen on the other side of the French doors. “Seriously, Mac; it had to have been a wrong number.”

In spite of his one hundred pounds of muscle, fur, and teeth, Gnarly pranced at Archie’s heels with the grace of a butterfly in hopes of snatching a crumb.

Archie Monday had held the coveted job of editor and assistant to best-selling mystery writer Robin Spencer for over a decade before the writer’s sudden death from a brain aneurism.

Thanks to a trust fund left to the author’s Girl Friday, Mac Faraday was blessed by the companionship of the green-eyed blonde living in the cozy guest cottage at the end of his back deck overlooking an inlet on Deep Creek Lake. He thanked his late birth mother every time he saw the charming emerald-eyed blonde sunning herself on his deck. He especially thanked her when Archie married him.

They were still newlyweds.

It had been two years since Mac’s half-brother, Police Chief David O’Callaghan moved into the guest cottage while renovating his childhood home to sell.

Spencer Manor was one of the most expensive pieces of real estate on Deep Creek Lake. It rested at the tip of a boulder-lined peninsula that was home to half a dozen luxury homes. Boasting of lakefront views on three sides, the log and stone home was the largest on Spencer Point.

The late author’s love for gardens contributed to a wide array of floral majesty, which the mistress of the manor now tended. Archie insisted that it was a loving touch, not a special fertilizer, that made the gardens one of the most splendid along the shores of Deep Creek Lake. Vacationers snapping pictures from the lake of Robin Spencer’s birthplace and legendary gardens was not an uncommon occurrence.

Another inheritance from his mother, Gnarly ran out onto the deck with a treat-filled bone clenched in his teeth. He took the goodie down from one level of the deck to another until he came to a sunny spot on the dock next to the jet skis. There, he plopped down to chew on the bone as if to show it off to the flock of ducklings that Archie had fed before breakfast.

“She asked for Robin,” Mac told Archie when she returned. She leaned down to kiss him softly on the lips before refilling his mug of coffee from a carafe that she had brought out from the kitchen.

Wondering if his waistline could stand a second one, he reached out to the plate of fresh cinnamon rolls she had also brought with her. They were still warm from the oven. Archie had risen early to make them from scratch. At his last physical, he was informed he had gained close to twenty pounds since his inheritance. He had visions of becoming one of those old, fat, rich guys he used to go up against when he had been a homicide detective. Not liking what his life of leisure was doing to his body, he withdrew from the cinnamon roll.

The warmth of the sun and scent of the flowers sprouting in the gardens reminded him that Memorial Day was less than a month away.

“Your birth mother was not the only Robin in the world.” Archie pointed out while slipping into the chair next to his.

“The caller called my cell, at a phone number that I didn’t have back before I moved out here, and asked for Robin.”

“Which I believe goes to prove her asking for Robin was just a coincidence. This Ashton did not mean Robin Spencer.” She shot him a smile. “You’re putting too much thought into this. Why don’t you help me with the menu for the Diablo Ball? That will take your mind off this
mysterious—
” She held up her fingers in quotation marks, “Ashton.”

The Diablo Ball was Archie’s first major social event since officially entering high society by marrying Robin Spencer’s son.

Every May, Robin Spencer had kicked off the summer season by hosting the Diablo Ball at the Spencer Inn. Named after the four-legged sidekick in her Mickey Forsythe mystery series, the formal charity event had been to benefit the Humane Society of America. Attendance was by invitation only to the two thousand dollar a plate dinner and dance the last Saturday in May. The annual event had ceased with Robin Spencer’s death. This year, Robin Spencer’s daughter-in-law was resurrecting it.

What had started out as an exciting, massive social event had turned into a headache for Mac. While he had heard about the Diablo Ball since his inheritance and move to Spencer, he had never realized the social importance attached to receiving a gold-engraved invitation to the event. Suddenly, he and Archie were on the receiving end of pleas from socially-conscious friends and acquaintances begging not to be forgotten. Those pleas were not as shocking as the calls and emails from famous socialites whom he had never met or spoken to, not asking but insisting, some even demanding, an invitation.

To not be invited was on par with being marked as a social outcast.

The whole event was leaving a bad taste in Mac’s mouth.

“You’ll be happy to know that the invitations are going out today. Catherine is sending out the printed and email copies.”

“Now we can get the calls and emails from the insecure and broken hearted,” Mac groaned.

Archie agreed. “I have been getting daily emails from Vincent Van Dyke begging for an invitation for him and his daughter, Kassandra.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Call me a social misfit but, if it’s so important to this guy and his daughter, and the purpose of the party is to collect money for charity, then why not let them come and write us a big check to protect the Robin’s Pets?”

Gnarly had picked that time to gallop up onto the deck, climb into the chair, and wipe his mouth on Mac’s chest. As if to bring home his point, Mac wrapped his arms around the shepherd’s big head in a hug. The two of them looked imploringly at Archie.

Fighting the grin working its way to her lips, Archie explained, “I had the same attitude when I first started working with Robin on this. Believe me, she’d sworn that she did not originally set out for the Diablo Ball to be some snooty, hoity-toity, fancy dress ball.
They
made it that way. Not her.”

“They being who?” Mac released Gnarly, who refused to remove the front half of his body from his master’s lap.

“The High-And-Mighty.” Archie took a sip of her coffee. “Robin had this bright idea after her second or third book had come out. She’d throw a fancy, formal party at her daddy’s Inn on top of Spencer Mountain to benefit the local Humane Society, which was about ready to close due to lack of funds. Of course, in order to make it worthwhile, the well-heeled guests had to write big checks for Robin’s Pets. Poor people can’t write very big checks. So she’d invited all of her rich friends, both those who lived in Spencer, and the literary crowd that she had come to know. It worked and word got out about the big shindig. So, then, the next year, Robin had invited more rich friends, many being from the movie crowd since she had sold her first book to Hollywood. Richer friends. Then the year after that she’d won the Pulitzer and those folks came out. Since they would get all dressed up, she called it the Diablo Ball. Diablo, after Mickey Forsythe’s sidekick, the ass-kicking German shepherd. To her, it was almost a joke. Before she knew it, the rich folks Robin had invited were saying among themselves that only the cream of the social crop would be invited to the Diablo Ball.
They
had declared that if you hadn’t received an invite that you had been dropped from the A-list. Robin realized that since they were paying big money for this exclusive event, if anyone deemed less-than-worthy got invited then it threatened the exclusivity of the event. If these snooty folks, who had made this event a success, sensed that just anyone could come, then it would directly impact the success of her cause.”

Mac shook his head. From what he had read and learned about his birth mother, snobbery had not been one of her traits. She had a lot of close friends who were not blue bloods.

Archie sensed the source of his head shaking. The corner of her lips curled. “But if you’re really lucky, you make the I-list.”

“I-list?”

“It stands for ‘icky.’ Those were the people who were of no social use to Robin except for personal enjoyment. People on the A-list would not be caught dead shaking hands with those on the I-List. The I-list folks don’t have to pay. They are invited both to the ball and the exclusive party at the Spencer Manor beforehand. That is the short list. David and Chelsea, Deputy Police Chief Art Bogart, aka Bogie, and Doc, Tonya and the whole Spencer Police Department, and Sheriff Chris Turow and his son.”

“Were the Van Dykes on either of these lists?”

“No,” Archie said. “Of course, I’m not a Vincent Van Dyke fan. He was a little before my time.”

“Ouch,” Mac cringed. “Now I remember where I know the name. He was a sex symbol back in my day. Flashy clothes. Hot car. Gun blazing on television every Friday night. Then, I graduated from the police academy and found out the hard way what real police work was all about. I didn’t get the hot car and flashy clothes until I retired.”

Archie paused to look Mac’s tennis whites up and down. His golden tan stood out against the bright white. “Well, their persistent e-mails caused me to look up where Vincent Van Dyke is now. After walking out on his hit cop show to become a movie star, Vincent’s fans had scattered to the four winds. After a couple of forgettable movies, he went back to television, which didn’t seem to want him either. Lucky for him, Delia Kaye did.”

“Delia Kaye of Kaye Cosmetics?”

“Sole heir to the Kaye fortune,” Archie said. “He retired to marry her. They had Kassandra and lived fat and happy with the blue bloods until Delia passed away a few years ago. He took his daughter back to Hollywood and he tried to make a comeback, but failed. So, he’s turned his attention to his lovely daughter’s career.” She lowered her voice to a hiss. “He actually managed to make her Playboy’s Playmate of the Year last year. Now, he’s trying to use that as a taking off point to make her a reality star with her has-been daddy and her Hollywood lifestyle.”

“I guess once you get a taste of fame and fortune,” Mac said, “you get so hooked on it that it’s hard to give it up.”

“Do you have any questions, Mr. Faraday?” Jeff Ingle startled Mac out of his daydream of being outside on the tennis court instead of in the Spencer Inn manager’s office looking out.

Gnarly seemed to share Mac’s fantasy. He sat at the window with his nose pressed against the glass.

In contrast to Jeff’s tailored suit and tie, which he wore like a uniform for running the Spencer Inn, one of the country’s most luxurious mountaintop resorts, Mac was still dressed in tennis whites and had his athletic bag resting next to his chair. He planned to hit the court right after blessing the hiring of a summer intern. As the Inn’s owner, Mac didn’t feel he was needed except to rubber stamp Jeff’s new assistant.

Dressed as properly as the Inn’s manager, Brian Gallagher sat up straight in his chair. Having completed his junior year of college, the intern applicant had driven in from Chicago the day before.

Mac could see that he was clean. He struck Mac as a little on the thin side. His red hair was short and neatly combed. A splattering of freckles across his nose and both cheeks gave him a boyish appearance. Still, he looked older than most college students. Mac learned during the interview that he had started college late—after spending two years tending to his dying mother.

“Where are you going to stay this summer, Brian?” Mac asked.

“A friend of mine is lending me his condo right here next to the Inn,” the young man responded. “It’s within walking distance.”

“Good friend.” Jeff looked questioningly at Mac for his seal of approval. “I was planning to have Brian assist the event coordinator with the Diablo Ball.”

“Archie is handling that on our end,” Mac said. “She used to help my mother with it. I guess they had a system. Senator Catherine Fleming is helping Archie.”

“Senator Fleming?” Brian uttered a gasp before getting hold of himself.

“The Flemings have been lifelong members of the Spencer Inn’s club,” Jeff explained. “County Prosecutor Ben Fleming uses the sporting facilities almost daily.”

“Catherine was good friends with my late mother and is my wife’s best friend,” Mac explained. “She’s a compassionate and lovely person. You have no reason to be afraid of her.”

“Well, Brian will be the Inn’s liaison with Archie and Senator Fleming,” Jeff told him. “Speaking of the ball, we have been inundated with calls from people asking for invitations.” He referred to a list on his desk.

“Archie assured me that the invitations are going out today,” Mac said with a shake of his head. “Why anyone would want to be invited to a party where you have to pay thousands of dollars a plate to get in is beyond me.”

“It’s a matter of social status,” Jeff explained. “For many people who live here in Spencer, it would be a slap in the face if they weren’t invited. Those on the boundary of the A-list get very nervous about finding out if they get in or not.” He chuckled. “Based on the calls and emails I’ve been getting, I think some folks would kill to get an invitation to the Diablo Ball.”

“Mac!” Garrett Country Prosecutor Ben Fleming called to Mac from across the Inn’s lobby.

Seemingly at the same time, the clerk behind the registration desk called out, “Mr. Faraday, someone left an envelope for you.”

Torn in two directions, Mac decided to go for the envelope while Gnarly went to Ben. As Mac had hoped, the county prosecutor followed him with Gnarly at his side. The clerk handed the inn owner a square crisp white envelope with Mac’s name printed in blood-red ink on the front.

“Ah,” Ben said when he saw it, “It appears you’re on the A-List.”

“I’m sure it’s only temporary,” Mac said with disgust. “Just wait until I break social protocol by accusing the wrong person of murder.”

He tore open the envelope to reveal a greeting card. The front and inside were both printed in the same blood-red ink. “Thinking of You,” was the greeting on the front page, while inside it read:

It’s the season of

Hide & Seek.

You’re It.

Find me if you can.

Ashton

Ben frowned when he saw the puzzled expression on his face. “What is it? A bill?”

“Mr. Faraday …”

While handing off the card to Ben, Mac heard someone call in a timid voice. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a young man he recognized as an employee in the Inn’s marketing department. Mac wished he could remember his name.
This guy works for me and I don’t know his name. How weird is that?

“Who’s Ashton?” Ben interrupted Mac’s thoughts to ask.

“I have no idea,” Mac said. “Last night a woman called me on my cell phone … a phone number I don’t give out. She asked for Robin and said her name was Ashton. Archie swore it had to be a wrong number. I was starting to believe her until I got this.”

Ben read the front of the envelope. “This is addressed to you.”

“I know,” Mac said. “Someone is trying to send me a message.”

“Mac, when are you going to stop thinking like a cop?”

“It’s because I think this way that I became a cop in the first place. Don’t you find this suspicious?”

”Yes, I do,” Ben replied.

“You knew Robin,” Mac said. “What Ashton could this be about?”

“I’ll ask Catherine,” Ben referred to his wife. “She kept up on everything that Robin Spencer was into. If Robin knew an Ashton, then Catherine will know.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Faraday.” The slightly built young man in ill-fitting slacks and a sports jacket with the Spencer Inn insignia embroidered on the breast pocket approached them from the corner of the reception desk. Mac had seen him clutching some sheets of paper in his sweaty hands while waiting for a break in the conversation to interrupt. “I wrote a press release for the Diablo Ball. I was wondering if you could approve it before I send it out to the media.” He thrust the papers in Mac’s direction.

“Sure.” With an embarrassed grin, Mac paused in hopes that the young man would offer up his name.

“Rudy, sir.” His thin face was pale. A weak chin gave him an almost feminine appearance. “Rudy Crowe.” He gestured at the papers in Mac’s hands. “I write the resort’s press releases. I thought it best to have it approved, either by you or maybe since Mrs. Faraday is chairing the ball, she should approve it before I send it out.”

The name reference brought an image of Mac’s late adopted mother to his mind. “Mrs?”

With a grin, Ben nudged him. “He means Archie.”

“Oh,” Mac chuckled before explaining to Rudy, “My wife kept her maiden name. I never hear anyone refer to her as Mrs. Faraday.” He folded the press release in half and tucked it into his athletic bag. “I’ll have her take a look at this.”

Their conversation was cut short by a scream from across the lobby. Mac was startled to see Gnarly running in their direction with a clutch bag in his jaws. A woman wearing large sun glasses that covered most of her face clasped her red sun hat on top of her head while chasing after the dog.

“Gnarly! You thief! I’m going to kill you!” Mac yelled.

In spite of the threat, Gnarly shoved the handbag into Mac’s waiting palm before taking cover behind his legs.

“That dog is a purse snatcher!” The woman pointed an accusing finger at Mac.

Ben burst out laughing at the scene.

Mac apologized. “Gnarly gets bored and—”

“He stole my purse!” the guest screamed. “I set it down to fill in my registration and he snatched it right off the counter.”

“Here!”

As if in protest, Gnarly barked when Mac held it out to her.

“Shut up!”

“Well, I never!” She slapped Mac across the face. “First, your dog steals my purse. Then,
you
tell
me
to shut up?”

Ben covered his face to conceal his amusement.

Rudy’s eyes were as wide and round as humanly possible.

Clutching his cheek still stinging from the attack, Mac explained, “I was talking to the canine kleptomaniac!” Realizing that the handbag was covered in dog droll, he took the bag back before she could take possession of it and wiped it off with a sweat towel from his athletic bag. “I don’t think he put any teeth marks in it.”

“Can I just please have my purse back?” she ordered rather than asked.

“I am terribly sorry,” Mac continued to apologize. “Listen, I’m Mac Faraday. I own the Spencer Inn. If I can make this up to you, I would be glad to offer you a free dinner in the lounge.”

“All I want is my purse back!”

“Believe me—” Before Mac could offer any further apologies, his hands felt a familiar shape inside the handbag. It was not the square shape of a wallet, or round like a compact. Or tubular like a lipstick. Rather, his fingers felt a form that sent shockwaves to his brain. “Ma’am?” He held the bag back out of her grasp.

“Do I have to call the police?”

“Do I have to call security?” Mac gauged her to be approaching her mid-thirties. He had a good guess that she was making every effort that money could buy to stop time and put a halt to the aging process. He could see that her large breasts were not natural, as were her face which looked almost like the skin had been stretched across her skull.

“Mac?” Ben asked with a warning tone when he hesitated to hand over the purse.

Before the county prosecutor could stop him, Mac whipped open the bag and reached inside.

“How dare you!” she gasped.

Before Ben could echo her dismay, Mac extracted the handgun from its confines. “This is how I dare.” A quick check showed that the safety was off.

The Inn’s guests, who moments before had been amused by Inn owner’s dog being caught red-pawed in the act of thievery, switched to shock. A cry went up within the lobby.

The lady, who had been indignant, changed her tone to compliant in an instant while begging for understanding. “I’m a woman alone. It’s for protection.”

After identifying himself as the county prosecutor, Ben asked, “Do you have a permit to carry a concealed weapon?”

After she confessed to no permit, Mac asked, “What’s your name?” She didn’t need to answer him. He was already reading the name on the California driver’s license from her wallet, which he had found in her purse. It read Riva Sinclair. The age was listed as twenty-nine years of age. Mac guessed that she was lying.

“Riva Sinclair,” she answered. “My husband, Rock Sinclair, is staying with his mistress in one of your suites.”

“You just said you needed this for protection. Who from? Your runaway husband or the woman he ran away with?” Mac studied the gun in his palm. It was a thirty-two caliber semi-automatic. Nothing fancy, but lethal all the same.

“Mr. Faraday?”

Mac turned around at the sound of his name. Startled, Jeff Ingles threw his arms up as if he had encountered a burglar when his eyes fell on the gun in Mac’s grasp. Brian Gallagher let out a gasp and stepped back and sideways to hide behind his boss.

“Any problems?” Jeff stuttered out.

“That still has yet to be determined,” Mac replied.

Ben asked the guest. “How did you get on the plane with that thing?”

“Do I look stupid to you?” she asked.

“Well, you did just admit that you followed your estranged husband and his mistress here,” Mac said, “and you do have a gun hidden in your purse.”

“Mac,” Jeff whispered, “it is not good customer service to imply that our guests are stupid.”

“It’s not politically correct,” Ben added.

“She’s the one who brought a gun into my hotel,” Mac said. “Why are you making me out to be the bad guy?”

Jeff said, “Because she’s a paying customer and—”

“I only sign your paycheck,” Mac said.

“Actually,” Jeff said, “it’s direct deposit.”

“What?” Mac countered.

“I’m paid with direct deposit,” Jeff explained. “You don’t
sign
anything.”

“Can I have my gun back?” Riva Sinclair interrupted to ask.

“No!” Mac and Ben answered in unison.

“Where did you get this?” Mac asked her.

“None of your business,” she challenged him.

“Excuse me,” Mac replied, “but if the purpose of this gun is to commit murder in my inn, then that makes it my business.” He turned to Jeff. “Lock this in the inn’s safe until we get this matter straightened out.” Carefully, he extracted the clip and placed both the hand gun and clip into the manager’s outstretched palm.

“You have no right!” she exclaimed.

Jeff assured her, “We will give you a receipt, ma’am.”

Ben countered, “Excuse me, Mrs. Sinclair, but he has every right. The gun is not registered and the Inn has rules about firearms. I am afraid we will need to turn this weapon over to the police who will probably be pressing charges against you for carrying a concealed weapon without a permit. It’s a state law.”

With a force grin, Jeff said, “But, ma’am, we’ll be glad to serve you a drink on the house in the lounge to make up for any inconvenience while you’re waiting for the police to come arrest you.”

Uttering a growl from her throat that sounded as threatening as Gnarly’s, she stomped off in the direction of the hotel lounge.

“We’re giving her a drink on the house to make up for the inconvenience of being arrested?” Mac muttered at Jeff.

“Do you think the Spencer Inn’s five-star rating just happens?” With that, Jeff spun on his heels to lead Brian back into the hotel’s office wing.

Exonerated for his thievery, Gnarly pressed his nose against Mac’s leg. With a pat on his head, Mac declared, “Good dog.”