Reservations for Murder (5 page)

He carefully pulled the card out of the
drawer by its edges and read the note printed in block letters
nearly pressed through the paper: “MEET ME AT NEW BUILDING SITE
TONIGHT. URGENT.”

With a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of
his stomach, Alex realized that he was probably holding the lure
that had been used to lead Jefferson Lee to his death.

“Alex, you shouldn’t have touched that; it’s
evidence,” Elise said.

“I was careful, I picked it up by its edges.
Elise, you always put fresh postcards in the rooms, don’t you?”

“Every day, without fail. That card was meant
for Jefferson Lee. Alex, you know you can’t keep it. It’s
evidence.”

Alex started to slip it back into the drawer,
then decided to leave it out in the open, just to be certain
Armstrong would see it. “I’m not about to take it. I’m not sure it
will do anybody any good; block lettering is almost impossible to
trace. Anybody could have gotten the postcard; the inn’s full of
them. I’ve even got a ton of them in the lobby and in town for
people to take.”

“At least we know the murder was
premeditated,” Elise said softly.

Alex answered, “I’m not sure Armstrong’s
going to see it that way. To him, this could mean anything. It
could have been about a lover’s rendezvous or even an appointment
for a business meeting.”

Elise shook her head. “I don’t think so, and
you don’t, either. Why would somebody print in block letters if
their intent was innocent?”

“Hey, I agree with you. I think the killer
wrote it, too.” He studied the card another moment, then said, “You
know, I’d really like a copy of this. Do you think I’d be risking
too much taking it downstairs and making a photocopy?”

“Alex, I wouldn’t try it,” Elise said
gravely.

“It might come in handy,” he said stubbornly,
pulling out his handkerchief and picking the card up carefully by
the edges. “I’ll have it back here before anyone knows it was ever
gone.”

Elise looked doubtful, but Alex was
determined not to let the clue, or at least a copy of it, get away
from him.

As they hurried down the stairs to the
office, Craig Monroe, one of the potters, met them halfway up.

Monroe said, “We need some old towels if
you’ve got them. Somebody’s walked off with some of ours, if you
can believe it.”

Alex hid the postcard behind his back as
Elise said, “Why don’t you come with me to the storage closet, and
I’ll see what we’ve got.”

As Elise slipped past Alex, their eyes met
for an instant. The warning in her glance was clear.

Alex carefully closed the door to his office
and made three copies of the note, blowing one up to twice its
normal size, just in case there was something he’d missed. The
first copy he made was skewed, with part of the “URGENT” cut off,
and Alex chucked it into the trash can after adjusting the card
properly on the copier glass.

He had a horrible time finally getting the
card off the glass of the copier without smudging any fingerprints
that might be there, but it finally lifted off.

Alex’s foot was on the top stair when he
noticed that the door to Jefferson Lee’s room was standing ajar. He
knew he’d locked it carefully behind him a few minutes before.

It looked like Alex wasn’t the only one
conducting an investigation.

Chapter 6

Alex nearly dropped the postcard when he saw
Sheriff Armstrong standing at Jefferson Lee’s writing desk, Elise a
step behind him.

He tried to slip the card back onto the
dresser when Armstrong swung around.

“What the devil’s going on here, Alex?” the
sheriff asked.

“What are you talking about?” Alex replied,
slipping the card behind his back before the sheriff had a chance
to spot it.

“You know full well what I’m talking about.”
Armstrong glared silently at him, and for a moment, Alex almost
started to bring the postcard from behind his back when the sheriff
continued, “I can’t believe you put that she-dog on my tail, Alex.
I thought we were friends.”

“We are,” Alex said.

“Well, you have a strange way of showing it,”
Armstrong said. “Sandra Beckett is the toughest bulldog in the
pen.”

“Bill Yadkin had to have somebody watching
out for him, Sheriff. You know that as well as I do.”

Armstrong replied, “Does it have to be
Sandra? That woman is one purely vile thorn in my tail.” He turned
to Elise and said, “Pardon me for my language, Elise.”

She smiled broadly at him. “Don’t hold back
on my account.”

Alex said, “If you two will excuse me, I’ve
got an inn to run.” Now what was he going to do with that blasted
postcard?

Elise saw that Alex was in a dilemma about
the evidence he was concealing. She moved to the window and said,
“Sheriff, what’s going on out there?”

Armstrong joined her there, and Alex made his
move. In less than two seconds, he had the postcard back into the
drawer and had joined them at the window.

Armstrong blustered, “I don’t see anything,”
as he looked out at the mass of people milling around the fair.

“I must have been mistaken. I thought I saw
somebody fighting in the crowd. I guess I’m a little jumpy, with
the murder and all.”

The sheriff patted her shoulder. “Elise, it’s
perfectly understandable.” He turned back to the desk and said,
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get back to work.”

“Where’s Irene? Shouldn’t she be dusting for
prints?” Alex asked.

“She’s up to her hips in some woman’s perm.
Who knows how long that can take. Irene promised me she’d be out
directly. In the meantime, I’m having a look around on my own.”

Armstrong took out his handkerchief and
opened the desk drawer. “What have we here?” he asked as he studied
the card Alex had just replaced, holding it carefully by its
edges.

Alex looked over his shoulder. “It looks like
a note to Jefferson Lee,” he said.

“Now, Alex, there you go jumping to
conclusions again. How do you know Jefferson didn’t write this
himself? He could have been planning a little late-night rendezvous
and never got a chance to deliver it.”

Elise said, “But if that’s true, how did
whoever he was meeting know to show up?”

Armstrong said, “There’s all kinds of ways.
Jefferson could have changed his mind about doing it in writing and
told the killer face-to-face. Heck, he could have called him up on
the phone.”

“But you agree it’s an important clue,” Elise
said.

Armstrong nodded. “You bet I do. I’ll have
Irene check it for fingerprints as soon as she gets here. You know,
it could still help, even if it’s been wiped clean. When I catch
whoever killed Jefferson Lee, this could prove it was
premeditated.” Armstrong added, “I thought you two had an inn to
run. I need to finish this in peace.”

Alex left reluctantly, with Elise close
behind. Once they were out in the hallway, Elise said, “I still
can’t believe Jefferson wrote that note himself.”

“Fingerprints should prove it one way or
another,” Alex said.

“And if there aren’t any?”

Alex said, “Then we’re no worse off than we
were before.”

Alex was relieved to find Evans Graile downstairs, nursing a tall
glass of iced tea. He had to admit that a part of him had been
afraid to go in search of the man, nervous about what he might
find.

One thing was certain: Evans was positively
addicted to his own personal brew of tea. Before he’d been willing
to relocate to the inn during his home’s renovation, he’d insisted
on two things: around-the-clock access to the stove and a portable
refrigerator to store his tea in for nighttime. Evans was of the
old school when it came to making iced tea. He wasn’t interested in
microwaves, solar energy, or any other process used to heat the
water besides an old-fashioned copper kettle purring away on the
range top.

“Alex, care for a glass of tea? It’s going to
be a brutal day out later.”

Alex wondered why the man cared. He had
barely moved one foot outside of the inn since he’d arrived.

Alex almost brushed the older man off. He had
too much to do to stop and chat. But, he reminded himself, he
surely wasn’t in the innkeeping business for the money. It was the
vast array of people who passed through his door that kept Alex
enthused about Hatteras West.

“Maybe just a short one,” Alex said as he
took a rocker beside the older man.

“Why, that’s delightful,” Evans said as he
reached into the cooler that was always beside him. He pulled out a
chilled glass, carefully transferred a few pristine ice cubes into
it, then poured Alex a liberal portion of steaming tea from his
thermos into the glass.

Alex could hear the ice crack as he took the
glass. “That’s the key,” Evans said solemnly. “The tea must remain
hot until the last possible moment. When that rich steaming liquid
meets the ice, ah, ambrosia.”

Alex took a sip and had to admit it was the
best iced tea he’d ever had. It should be, after all the work the
man put into his brew.

“Is this ConTea?” Alex asked, trying to hide
his smile as he mentioned the brand name.

Evans looked so offended he nearly fell off
his chair. “My good sir, I would never use a store-bought blend.
Why, I have my tea carefully selected from only the finest...” His
words trailed off as he saw the grin on Alex’s face. Evans chuckled
softly. “You’re joshing me, of course. Alex, you’re a bigger rascal
than your father was, if that’s possible.”

Alex’s father had run the inn before him, and
while his dad had joked constantly with his guests and the people
from town, his humor was usually in smaller supply with Alex.

Alex took a sip of tea, then said, “Thanks, I
take that as a compliment. So, what do you think of our little
fair?”

“It’s quite exciting, what with the murder
and all. I feel I’m right in the midst of it all here.” In a
pleased voice, Evans added triumphantly, “Alex, I believe I know
who skewered the blacksmith.”

That certainly got Alex’s attention. “Did you
see something, Evans? You need to tell Sheriff Armstrong; he’s
getting ready to arrest Bill Yadkin!”

Evans took a sip of tea, then said softly,
“Easy, my boy. I have no direct evidence, but I’ve seen the world
from this chair these last few days when no one has realized I’ve
been watching. You’d be amazed by what I’ve witnessed.”

Alex’s hopes for a solution suddenly
deflated. The murder was obviously just a puzzle for the older man
to mull over during his massive blocks of spare time.

“So who’s your chief suspect?” Alex
asked.

“I’d have to say the sheriff is right this
time, Alex.

Young Yadkin and Mr. Lee had a terrible
squabble right in front of the inn yesterday as they set up their
booths. Their tempers were boiling, I tell you.”

“I don’t know, Evans. I just can’t see Bill
Yadkin doing it, but you could be right.”

Evans tapped his glass with a fingernail. “Of
course, everyone else saw that argument, too. It could just be a
clever ruse to frame young Yadkin. The murderer used one of his
pieces to commit the atrocity, didn’t he?”

Alex said, “I’m surprised you’ve already
heard about that.”

Evans laughed. “Alex Winston, you’ve lived in
Elkton Falls your entire life. I thought you’d be used to the kudzu
vine by now. Word spreads faster than the vine itself in
summertime,” Evans said as he took another sip from his glass.

Alex finished off the last of his tea and
handed the glass back to Evans. “Thanks for the drink. It was
excellent, as always.”

“Are you certain you won’t have another sip?
There’s plenty, Alex.”

“I’d love to, but I’ve got work to do.”

Evans shook his head slowly. “The harried
life of the innkeeper, Alex, leaves little time for
reflection.”

Alex patted the man’s shoulder gently as he
stood. “You’re preaching to the choir, Evans, but the work has to
be done.”

Alex went back to his office to retrieve the
copies he’d made of the note he’d found in Jefferson Lee’s
room.

With a sinking feeling in the pit of his
stomach, Alex realized the copies were gone!

Alex knew he’d left them on his desk by the
copier in his rush to return the postcard to Jefferson’s room. Why
hadn’t he tucked them safely away before he’d gone to return the
original? It would have only taken a second or two.

Someone had to have real brass to slip into
his office and take the copies. That meant that whoever had done it
had most likely spotted Alex going into Jefferson Lee’s room
earlier.

Someone at the inn was watching him, and Alex
didn’t like it one bit.

Alex was just about to look for Elise when he
suddenly realized something. He’d ruined the first copy he’d made,
and he’d tossed the skewed sheet into the trash can beside the
copier. Alex hurried to the trash and saw that the thief had missed
one copy after all. The block letters, at least most of them, were
printed firmly on the discarded sheet.

Alex smiled grimly to himself. He still had a
copy of the note after all, one the killer didn’t realize he
had.

Now how in the world was he going to figure
out who had written it? Alex folded the paper carefully in half and
walked out to rejoin Evans Graile.

“Evans, did you happen to see anybody going
into my office in the last twenty minutes?”

“Why, is something missing?” the older man
asked eagerly.

Alex shook his head. “No, I just wanted to
know if anybody was looking for me.”

“Not that I saw, Alex, but I must admit I was
busily brewing my tea until just a few moments before you joined
me.”

“Thanks, anyway,” Alex said as he moved over
to the front desk. He spun the guest book around and studied the
names of everyone who had signed in recently to see if he could
spot any similarities to the handwriting on the note in his hands.
A slight chill swept over him when he saw Jefferson Lee’s name
written in flowing script. Could the man have printed the letter
himself?” Alex just couldn’t bring himself to believe that. As he
studied the sign-in book, it was impossible to match the block
print on his copy with any of the guests’ signatures.