Frogskin and Muttonfat (A Thea Barlow Mystery, Book Two) Page 8

  “I’ll go get—”

  “No!” Her eyes flew open, wild with terror. “No one else. Help me to my room. Don’t want…don’t want anyone…see me.”

  “Can you stand? What happened, Phoebe?”

  “Oh ugh. Be…careful. Shit. I’m smashed. Too much to drink,” she said needlessly. “I…help me stand.”

  It was a struggle, but I finally got her to her feet. She swayed a bit, clutching at the air, trying to get some balance. I just hoped she wasn’t going to throw up on me. She looked like hell.

  “Don’t want them to see me.”

  “Who?”

  “Anyone. Don’t want anyone in there…”

  I didn’t know how I could keep anyone from seeing her if they were at all interested. There was probably a back entrance, and another way upstairs, but I didn’t know where it was. I figured I’d be lucky to get her in this door and up to her room, much less attempt stumbling around in the dark looking for another way in.

  She clung to me and we made it to the front door. Her legs seemed to gain a bit of starch with each step. I opened the door quietly and peered into the vestibule. The dining room was dark, but light spilled into the hall from the sitting room along with soft sounds of conversation and ice swirling in glasses.

  “Whoever’s still here is in the sitting room,” I whispered in Phoebe’s ear. “I’ll walk on your left and block their view. We’ll go fast and head right up the stairs. Okay?”

  She nodded and I felt her stiffen, trying to regain control of her body.

  “Ready?” I asked. “Here we go.” I took a tight grip around her waist, turning a bit toward her as if we were talking, to shield her from view as best as I could. I led her at a fast clip through the vestibule and up the stairs, not stopping until we turned out of sight on the first landing. She sagged against my arm and we paused a minute to catch our breath, then went up the last steps, and to her room.

  “Where’s your key?” I asked.

  She looked at me blankly.

  “Key to your room?” I repeated impatiently, automatically trying the knob, which of course didn’t give. She twisted around looking at her hip area as if expecting a purse to appear like magic, hanging from her shoulder.

  “My purse is gone,” she said.

  “That little purple thing? Where is it? Down on the porch?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” Her voice was disintegrating into threads and her legs wobbled unsteadily.

  “Come on,” I said rather ungraciously, fishing out my own key. I led her to my room, propped her against the wall while I opened the door and flicked on the light. We staggered in and she collapsed on the bed with a moan of relief. For the first time I got a good look at her. Her forehead, above the right eye, looked red and swollen with scrape marks running into the hairline. There was a big tear in her skirt along the seam. Had she fallen?

  “You sure you’re okay?” I asked.

  “Sleep. Just need…sleep.”

  “Well, don’t get too comfortable,” I said caustically. “I’m going to look for your purse. If I can’t find it I’ll get another key from Florie. Then you can get in your own bed.” I wasn’t about to give up mine.

  “Thanks,” she mumbled, her voice turning mushy. When I started out she lifted her head and said with more energy, “Mavis, we need…gotta talk…don’t listen…The Kid…” Then she gave it up, dropped her face and snuggled into the pillow.

  How in hell do I get into these things? I ran down the stairs and out to the porch, nodding to Rocky, who was tending a handful of people, a carafe of coffee in one hand, a brandy snifter in the other.

  The porch was dark, but I could see well enough by the cast of the moon and street lights. The purse wasn’t on the floor where I’d found Phoebe, or anywhere else, and I wasted time pawing through all the craft items, thinking it might have been dropped among them. Nothing.

  Frustrated, I went inside. Rocky hovered over an elderly couple, idly chatting with them while keeping his eye on a larger group in the corner and Buster Brocheck and Garland Caldwell, who once more occupied the two large armchairs in the corner.

  I didn’t want to get sucked into any conversations, so decided to look for Florie rather than try to distract Rocky. Going through the door at the far end of the dining room, I found several more small rooms stuck in odd nooks and crannies set up for eating.

  A narrow hall seemed likely to lead to the back of the house. I followed it, turned a corner and saw The Kid shuffling toward me, oxygen intact, his cane thumping lightly with his steps. I would have thought it past his bedtime. Probably coming back from one last smoke. The man was going to kill himself; how ludicrous to puff away at cigarettes at every opportunity, then suck in oxygen between times.

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m looking for Florie. Have you seen her?”

  He shrugged. “Probably in the kitchen somewhere,” he said, wheezing a bit.

  “And where is that?”

  He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, removed the oxygen nosepiece, blew his nose, then replaced it again. “Right down there.” He jerked his thumb behind his shoulder, and moved on.

  He seemed very old, moving with difficulty. I reached out to take his arm, wanting to help him, but held back, afraid he might take it as an insult. I didn’t want to damage his pride. He had little enough of that left, as it was. I watched his slow progress for a second, then went to the kitchen.

  Three high school kids were cleaning up; a couple of girls were washing dishes and a boy was happily goofing off, snapping a dish towel at their bare legs.

  “Hi,” I said. “Is Florie around?”

  “I dunno,” one of the girls answered with a giggle. “She was here awhile ago. Try the pantry.”

  I looked in that room, and several others, but she wasn’t there. I was getting no place fast. “Thanks,” I said distractedly. As I crossed the hall again, I noticed that the Kid had made it to his room. I hurried back the way I came.

  I’d just have to get a key from Rocky. I’d already been gone too long; Phoebe was probably dead asleep, or passed out by now and I was going to have a hell of a time moving her.

  When I reached the vestibule, I said, “Rocky, I need to speak to you.” At the sight of me, Buster rose and stepped forward. I turned my back on him, grabbed Rocky’s arm and drew him towards the registration table.

  “I need a key to Phoebe Zimmerman’s room. We came in together, but it seems she’s lost her purse. She’s in my room. I offered to get a key for her.”

  “We’re not supposed to.”

  “She’s had a bit too much to drink,” I said with one of those grimaces you hope speaks a thousand words.

  “Oh, well.” He went behind the registration desk to the antique key cupboard that hung on the stairwell wall. “She’s in Hard-Nosed Lu, isn’t she?” He opened the cupboard’s door and ran his finger over the keys hanging there. “The other key isn’t here. She must have both of them.” He scratched his head. “Oh, wait a minute.” He fumbled around in a drawer under the rack, peering at tags. “Here’s one.” He handed it to me. “Just have her check in with Florie tomorrow and tell her she has extra keys, okay?”

  “Sure.” I turned for the stairs, but Buster Brocheck stood in my way, a big grin on his face.

  “Hey, there,” he said. “I understand you’re Max Holman’s girl. I just wanted to say howdy. That Max is a right nice young man.”

  I smiled weakly, so tired and frustrated I wanted to scream, “Out of my way, you blithering fool!” But of course I didn’t. It wasn’t his fault that I found myself serving as an extremely reluctant Good Samaritan to a drunken woman I didn’t like very much. Besides, I didn’t want to alienate him, though I couldn’t remember exactly what it was I wanted to talk to him about. Unfortunately, drink seemed to make him effusive.

  “Max spends a fair bit of time out to our place,” he said, “and I want to tell you you’re welcome, too. The little woman would love to see you.” He chuckled
, and poked me playfully in the ribs. “But you’re gonna have to watch out for her. She’s got a soft spot herself for Holman.”

  “I’d be glad to meet her,” I said, inching up the first stair, “but right now…”

  “Come on now, young lady, it’s too early to be going to bed. Join us for a drink. I want you to meet my friend.” He laid his big ham hand on my elbow. I hung onto the stair rail.

  Rescue came from a unexpected quarter. “Last drink, Buster,” Garland Caldwell called, holding his glass in the air. He cast me a sympathetic look. “Rocky’s getting ready to close up. I’m going to finish this and be on my way.”

  Buster loosened his grip on my elbow. “Go ahead,” I said, easing away from him. “Join your friend. We’ll have a chance to talk later.” I dashed up the stairs, not at all happy that I now owed one to Garland Caldwell.

  Going directly to Phoebe’s room, I unlocked the door and turned on the light. The room was similar to mine, simply furnished, but without a bathroom. The bed covers were turned back as mine had been and a candy rose placed on the pillow. I grabbed the rose and jerked back the covers, so I could just dump Phoebe on the bed.

  Tossing the candy on the dresser, I noticed a Tarot card stuck in the mirror. The Knight of Wands; a young man in full armor riding a prancing steed, and holding a rather ridiculous-looking wooden club with sprouts growing out of it. It meant nothing to me, but at least answered one question: the cards must be in every room. I didn’t give it another thought.

  Leaving the light on and the door open, I crossed to my room, which I hadn’t bothered to lock. The door opened to darkness and the stale reek of unpleasant odors. Phoebe must have roused enough to turn the light off. I flicked on the switch.

  Phoebe lay on the bed as I’d left her, her impossibly bright hair a splash of color on the pillow. A knife—a large kitchen knife—protruded from her back.

  Ten

  “Phoebe,” I cried, dropping to my knees beside the bed. My hand instinctively grabbed the knife, wanting to pull the ghastly thing out, but the instant my fingers touched it, I knew I shouldn’t. My hand recoiled off the handle and dropped to her neck, searching futilely for a pulse. Nothing.

  Be calm, be calm, I told myself, but all I could do was stare at the one open eye I could see, and the faint stain of pink-tinged drool that crawled across the pillow.

  I stumbled to my feet, retching, trying to release the scream that seemed stuck in my throat. I ran out of the room and careened down the stairs.

  “Rocky!” I croaked, still unable to produce a proper sound. “Call the police. Phoebe. Phoebe’s dead!”

  “What?” Rocky gasped, stopped in the process of urging the last customers toward the door. Everyone gaped at me, unsure of what was happening.

  “What did she say?” someone asked.

  “Who?” from another.

  My legs collapsed and I sat down hard on one of the steps.

  With a look of incredulity, Rocky pushed past me and ran up the steep flight. Some of the others who stood closest to him would have followed, but my presence on the stairs stopped them.

  I sat in a state of shock, unable to move, or speak. I watched, heard the confusion, but couldn’t take it in. All I could think about was the feel of the knife when my fingers wrapped around the handle, the awful sensation of outraged flesh clutching fast to the blade. My stomach churned.

  Buster Brocheck and Garland Caldwell stood close to the front door, too far away to have heard my feeble croak.

  “What’s going on?” Buster asked, his great head swinging from side to side like a confused bull. “What’s happened?”

  Garland shrugged, one hand on the doorknob, his alert, inquisitive eyes skittering around like a buck deer trying to decide whether to run or not.

  “Someone’s dead.”

  Rocky clattered down the stairs behind me, muttering, “Shit, shit, shit.”

  He seemed surprised to see people still hanging around downstairs, waiting for answers. “Come on, guys,” he said. Garland had already disappeared out the door, but Buster stood there, blocking the way.

  “Get a move on. We’re closed,” Rocky said. With impatient shooing motions, he herded everyone out the door like a bunch of chickens, then headed for the phone.

  Florie came in from the dining area, took one look at me and asked, “What happened?”

  “Phoebe,” I mumbled, rather incoherently. “Phoebe Zimmerman. She’s dead.” At least my voice had come back.

  Florie’s hand flew to her mouth and she went to Rocky, who was still talking into the phone. She listened a minute, then she too dashed upstairs, pushing past me much as Rocky had. She returned almost immediately, her face contorted and her fair skin tinged a faint green.

  Rocky covered the phone’s receiver with his hand, mouthed something at her, jerking his head toward the back of the house. She stared at him blankly for a moment then, with a strange look of panic, pushed behind the registration desk, knocking it askew, and rushed through the door at the end of the hall.

  She had gained some measure of composure when she came back to stand beside Rocky again.

  “They’ll be right here,” he told her, hanging up the phone.

  She nodded. “He’s asleep.” They spoke in low voices which nevertheless carried plainly to my ears.

  “I’ll wait upstairs,” Rocky said. “You watch her. Don’t let her get away.” They turned in unison to stare at me hard-eyed and fearfully, as if I were some kind of alien lowlife.

  That shocked me out of my stupor. I jumped up. “Wait a minute. You can’t think I killed her.”

  Rocky eyed me skeptically, holding up his hands in a pacifying manner. “Just sit down. The police will be here in a minute.” He took a wide berth around me and went back up the stairs.

  Now that I was on my feet, it didn’t seem possible to sit again; the shock was gone. From the look on Florie’s face I knew it would be impossible to try to talk to her. So we just stood and looked helplessly at each other until the sound of a car screeching to a halt outside and feet pounding up the front stairs propelled me to the door.

  “Come in,” I said to the uniformed man, for all the world like a society matron greeting her guests.

  There were two of them. A beefy, unsmiling man seemed to be in charge. The other, younger man, carried a duffel bag and kept a few steps behind his boss with the uncertainty of a new puppy. Rocky appeared at the top of the stairs.

  “Hi, Dwayne,” he said. “Where’s the sheriff?”

  “Out of town,” the officer named Dwayne answered shortly, as if his competence had been questioned.

  Rocky shrugged. “Up here.”

  The two men trooped up the stairs. Not knowing what else to do, I followed, as did Florie.

  The three of them went in my room and eyed the body. Florie and I hovered awkwardly in the doorway.

  “Who is it?” Dwayne asked.

  Rocky said, “Her name’s Phoebe Zimmerman. She rented a room this morning.” Rocky jerked his head my way. “She found the body.”

  Dwayne glanced at me briefly, then looked around the room. “Anybody else been in here?”

  Rocky shook his head. “No. I came up after she told me about it, then called you right away.”

  I looked at Florie, expecting her to say she had gone upstairs, too. But she remained silent, her eyes on Phoebe. My mouth dried and I averted my eyes. Florie said nothing.

  Both of the officers had taken out notebooks and were jotting things down, then the younger one unzipped the duffel bag and took out a camera.

  “Get some ID first, Buck,” Dwayne told him, pointing to my purse on the dresser.

  “That’s my purse,” I said, going to the dresser. Buck stopped me when I reached for it.

  “Your purse?” the officer named Dwayne asked, turning his full attention to me.

  “Yes,” I said. “This is my room.”

  “Your room?” Hard-faced, he eyed me with a raised eyebrow.

&
nbsp; I nodded miserably, suddenly realizing how tangled I was in this, and how strange my explanations were going to sound.

  “Phoebe’s room is across the hall,” I offered. The officers shouldered past me. Following close on their heels, I stopped abruptly at the sight of the darkened room.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “I left the light on in her room and the door wide open.” The door was open now, but only ajar. “Did you turn the light off when you came up?” I asked Rocky.

  “No. I didn’t even go in there.”

  “Was the light on?” Dwayne asked him, carefully flipping on the switch with the end of his pen.

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I don’t think I noticed one way or the other.”

  “You came up here,” I said pointedly to Florie. “Was the light on then?”

  “Of course it wasn’t, or I would have noticed,” she said angrily, as if she thought I was lying. Why would I lie about such a stupid thing as that?

  “Then is there another way up here?” I insisted. “Someone had to turn the light off.”

  Neither Rocky nor Florie answered, as if my questions didn’t matter. We stood in Phoebe’s room, peering around as if something was going to jump out of thin air to explain everything away.

  Dwayne opened the closet door. “Well, is there?” he asked, poking Phoebe’s luggage with his foot. When no one answered, he turned and glared at Rocky.

  “What?” Rocky asked nervously.

  “Is there another way up here? Any backstairs?”

  “Well, yes,” he said uncertainly, gesturing in the direction of the hallway.

  I looked over my shoulder, then went to the archway I’d noticed earlier. Four steps up led to a short hallway and a door named Madame Juju. Two other doors were unnamed, closets or storerooms, maybe. At the end of the corridor, a narrow flight of stairs descended to the lower floors. I turned back to see the others crowded behind me.

  “Madame Juju?” Dwayne asked.

  “Honeymoon suite,” Rocky said, leading the way back down the four little stairs.

  We formed an uneasy cluster in the hall, both officers writing in their notebooks.