Authors: Michele Drier
Just before bed, I log on to check my email and find a note from Phil setting up tomorrow’s meeting.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Phil shows up at my office just after 6 p.m. I am so stunned to see him out of context that I bobble the introductions. Most of the staff gets the fact that Phil works for the
San Francisco Times
, with a copy editor or two under the impression that he is still from Southern California.
“I thought we were meeting at my house,” I say in my office after the light-speed tour of the newsroom. “If I’d known you were coming earlier, I’d of pushed the deadlines harder.”
Phil grins. It is difficult having a private conversation in offices with glass walls, so he doesn’t even try for an air kiss.
“I wrapped things up early. I managed to get out of the city before 4,” he says. “I still hit more traffic than I thought—I figured I’d be here about 5:30—but I took a chance that you’d be able to leave a little early, too.”
I glance through the local budget and calculate, fast. There are three more stories to come in. The reporters are already half an hour past their deadlines so I send a fast “NOW” email.
“We should be able to leave here in half an hour” I say. “It won’t take long at the house. You can drop your car. I already packed. Clarice will come by later and feed Mac.”
“I thought we could take my car,” Phil says, giving me an odd look. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a chance to get on some good mountain roads.”
I start to open my mouth to argue—this weekend getaway is my idea, this area is my turf, this is where I like to drive, my car has air-conditioning—and stifle the words so hard and fast my eyes water slightly. Compromising, going along with Phil’s needs and suggestions, doesn’t have to be the first step towards losing myself. Phil is the first man I’ve spent any time with since Brandon left and I’ll have to keep on top of the emotions a man’s voice churns up. With Brandon, I’d let things slide, gone along, acquiesced because I wanted to care and be taken care of. If I loved him hard enough, and agreed with him often enough, surely he’d love me back. Well, that hadn’t happened. But Phil isn’t Brandon.
What I say is, “Sure. It would be nice to have someone else drive.”
Besides, somebody left a threat on my windshield yesterday when we were in Marshalltown. Today I’ll be incognito.
At home it takes me less than 10 minutes to let Mac out, introduce him to Phil, change my shoes, close up my bag and meet Phil in the foyer.
“This is nice,” Phil says. His voice is a little quiet and has lost its slightly mocking tone. “I forget you’ve had a whole life in Monroe that I know nothing about.”
I’m surprised. The past few years I’d been so busy. First with Brandon and the new promises he brought, then being forced to face my fears and make a new life for myself and Heather, and then, the last couple of years, relearning to live alone. I’d put so much energy into making my job work that I’d forgotten my past. I was a different person from the woman in Southern California who worked with and flirted with Phil. At Phil’s comment, I look around.
I have done a lot. I’d moved into the house when Brandon and I got married. In the past couple of years I’d made it my home. A new chair, some pillows, a wall of pictures of Heather. I took out the sliding glass doors and formal drapes and put in French doors. It isn’t just the furnishings, though. I think the room reflects my sense of self-worth, of independence.
“Thank you. You know, if the summer fog in San Francisco gets to you, and you’d like a little sun, some G and Ts by the pool, I’d love to have you over for a weekend,” I say.
Oh God, what if he says no?
“I’d like that,” he says, instead. “But we should probably go now or we won’t get any dinner.”
“You’re right.”
Phil stows my bag, starts the Porsche and heads out of town. The vintage car is noisy, so I jump a little when Phil says, “How did yesterday go? I read Clarice’s story and there was a short piece on the evening news, but they still didn’t say the M word. Have they finished the coroner’s report? Was he murdered?”
“Was he murdered...well all things look like it,” I say turning toward him. “The coroner hasn’t released official findings yet, but the crime scene investigators spent hours going through the hotel attics and windows. They found some marks in the dust under the window that could have been made by a scuffle and there’s a partial palm print on the left window sill. I think the print examiners should have an analysis finished today. They were still printing all the hotel staff and guests when we left yesterday.
“It’s still a little tricky. None of the staff saw him in the bar in the morning, and the toxicology reports aren’t back yet, but they took a glass from the bar with the remains of a Scotch in it to the crime lab.”
“Don’t tell me,” Phil says, “his fingerprints were there, too.”
“Uh huh. All around the glass, like he’d grabbed it and tossed a slug down. Of course, there’s no way of telling how much was in the glass.”
“Why would he have been drinking? I thought he’d given it up and was trying to stay sober.”
“I think he found something in the attics that really shook him. He was a messy researcher so the trunks and boxes were always spread out all over, but yesterday it looked like he’d just left things in a hurry. There’s no way of knowing if anything’s missing because no one knows what was there to begin with.”
I sigh and wrinkle my nose in frustration. If Stewart was killed, if some one pushed him through the window, or if some one killed him and then pushed his body through the window, something malevolent was happening at the hotel. The first death of Joe Baldwin can very well have been an aberration. Drug dealers, drunks, homeless people, end up in situations that leave them dead. Baldwin was known as the town derelict; anyone coming across him sleeping behind the bar as they were trying to rob the place could have whacked him.
Janet Boxer is less clear-cut. It is true that Jim Dodson and the coroner have ruled her death a homicide. Her car was tampered with. There were no suspects and the only slim thing that tied her to the hotel was her real estate dealings with the Calverts, specifically Royce.
The sticking point is that all three bodies, most likely murders, happened in Marshalltown.
With the sun dropping behind us, the light softens the grasslands and limns the top of the scattered oaks. As we gain altitude, the landscape shifts to more conifers, all diffused in a golden tone. I love this time of the early evening, but seldom have a chance to enjoy it
Tonight promises a spectacular sunset as a hot summer day fades into a warm summer evening. Wispy clouds formed in the late afternoon now turn pink, salmon and melon with the setting sun, pinned against an aqua sky. Tomorrow I plan on dinner at the River Run, a restaurant on the banks of Black Bart Creek. With the summer’s warmth and a peach sunset, I hope the scene will be set. I’m just not sure for what.
In the hotel lobby, Phil looks around appreciatively. “This is really nice, Amy. They’ve done a good restoration job,”
He whirls around as I say, “Royce. Hi. We’re a few minutes early. This is Phillipe Etange. Phil, this is Royce Calvert, Senator Calvert’s grandson and our host.”
“Glad to meet you Phillipe. I have your room ready.”
“Please, call me Phil, Phillipe sounds just too formal. Amy’s told me a lot about you and your family.”
I’m silently signaling Phil to cool it on the mystery talk and say to Royce, “I hope we haven’t kept you and your staff waiting.”
“You’re fine. We usually shut the kitchen at 9:30,” Royce says, “but tonight we’re keeping it open. We actually have some guests who showed up, even with the news.”
He turns to Phil. “We have most of the conveniences, but we’re a little short on some amenities. The room I’ve put you in is on the second floor. We don’t have elevators, so the only two rooms on the ground floor are for disabled guests. I hope you don’t mind.”
Phil looks over at the staircase with its dark blue carpeting and shining brass. “Not a bit. I’ve toted my suitcase up a lot more flights than this in a lot of places not nearly so nice.”
“Thanks, Royce,” I say, glad that introductions went well. “We’ll be right down.”
In our room, Phil puts down his bag, takes my things and wraps his arms around me. “Now, here’s something I couldn’t do earlier,” he says as his mouth closes on mine.
For a heartbeat, I freeze then I kiss him back with force. He pulls away and looks at me sardonically. “Did you miss me?” he smiles then kisses me again.
I nod. Phil’s tongue gently pushes my lips open and I feel a rush down my back.
“We probably need to get freshened up and down to dinner. Assuming you want to eat?” he says, his grin making his eyes crinkle.
I nod again then take a breath. “I do need to eat. I just grabbed part of a sandwich for lunch,” I say. “I’m going to put some things out in the, bathroom, OK?”
As I get out my bathroom paraphernalia, Phil unzips his carryall, unloads his laptop and sits it on the small table under the window.
“Are you planning to work this weekend?” I ask, twisting the top of my hairspray so much it hisses onto the bathroom mirror..
“Not necessarily. I’ve just learned it’s better to have it, than to beat yourself up for not bringing it. Do you know if the hotel has internet?”
“I’m sure it does. In fact I know it does because Royce mentioned WiFi.”
Phil leans over and turns the laptop on. A few keystrokes and he says, “Yep. And here we are.”
Coming out of the bathroom, I look over and see the home page of the
San Francisco Times
.
“No work, huh?”
“Hey, this way I can tap into the library, Lexis-Nexis, Google, anything you want in the way or research. Are you ready for dinner?”
For the third time, I nod.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The dining room looks different. I walked through several times yesterday to talk to Royce, but there hadn’t been any diners or wait-staff, just the kitchen prep crew.
Tonight, tables are set with white tablecloths, low arrangements of fresh flowers, and wine glasses, water goblets and place settings gleam. The room is dim and candles light the full tables where most diners are finishing dessert or coffee.
The maitre’d leads us to a quiet table and says, “Royce asked me to look after you this evening. Do you want to start with a drink?” as he hands us menus.
Phil looks at me. “Do you want wine with dinner?”
“I’d like a Dubonnet first,” I say to the maitre’d, who heads to the bar.
“A woman who knows what she wants. I like that,” Phil says.
I force a smile. Have I overstepped some invisible boundary? Does he expect to order for me? I’m so used to making decisions, taking care of myself, watching out for Heather, that I don’t give any thought to dating, to the subtleties of relationships or to flirting.
Seeing my discomfort, Phil says, “Hey, that’s just a statement. I meant it. I’ve always liked that you were decisive. It’s a point in your favor.” Then he grins.
The restaurant is emptying out as we finish. Besides us, only one other person, an older man, is left. He’s finishing a coffee, reading from a book propped up in front of him. He looks up as Royce approaches and the two have a quiet, almost whispered conversation, before Royce comes over to us.
“I know the bar is still a little rough, but I wanted to offer you and one of my other guests a nightcap. Would you mind if we closed the restaurant and had a drink in there?”
We’ve planned a short walk, but Royce’s quasi-secretive conversation and obvious need to have some company win out.
“We’d like that,” I say, and Phil adds “It gives me a chance to ask you about the renovation and your plans for this place without interruption.”
Once seated, Royce starts introductions “Amy Hobbes, Phil Etange, I’d like you to meet Henry Blomberg. Henry has been a guest of ours several times since I bought the hotel. He’s retired, but an amateur historian with an interest in the Gold Rush.
“Henry, Amy is a journalist with the
Monroe Press
and Phil...”
Phil puts his hand out and says, “Hello, Henry, nice to meet you. I’m the art critic for the
San Francisco Times
.” a statement that startles Royce and makes Blomberg’s eyes narrow.
Henry Blomberg looks to be in his late 70s. His hair, once probably a washed-out brown, is a pale nondescript color and thinning. He wears it cut short on the sides and longer on top, neatly parted and combed back, reminiscent of a late 1930s style. Pale blue eyes look out through round, horn-rimmed glasses, weighing us.
Despite the heat and the casual atmosphere of the hotel, he wears an oatmeal-colored linen blazer over a Hunter-green shirt and brown linen trousers. In recognition of the surroundings, instead of a tie he has a brown and green ascot at his throat. I notice he’s getting wattles from age. When he takes Phil’s hand and speaks, his voice is slightly accented, but I can’t place it
“How nice to meet you both. I’ve always admired journalists and also had an interest in art before I retired. Are you on a holiday? I do like this area of the States.”
“We really just came up for the weekend,” I say. “Phil and I ...”
“We’ve known each other for many years,” Phil interjects smoothly. “We try and spend time traveling together when we can. I’m interested in your accent, but I can’t quite place it, it’s too slight.”
“I just never think about it anymore,” Blomberg says with a smile. “I was born in Germany but raised in the States, outside of Chicago, as a matter of fact. I live in Austria most of the time now, but travel extensively. It’s probably a trace of German that you hear.”
“It could even be a little midwestern twang,” Phil says. “I catch myself every so often sounding like a Quebecois.”