It's Murder, My Son (A Mac Faraday Mystery) (7 page)

“Thank you, Jeff.”

Antonio and a server wearing a cork screw on a band around his neck returned to the table. The wine steward carried an ice bucket containing a dark bottle with a white label and two champagne flutes.

“Le Montrachet, Grand Cru,” the steward showed the bottle to Mac. “From our—your—private reserve.” He extended the bottle toward Archie, who took her time to examine the label before nodding her consent.

While the steward opened the bottle, Jeff explained that it had come from Robin Spencer’s private collection. It was reserved only for her and her guests. “We always make sure that we have a case of Le Montrachet on hand,” Jeff finished while the steward poured a taste for Mac’s approval. “It was one of Robin’s favorites.”

Mac handed the glass to Archie. “You’re the expert.”

She sniffed and tasted it. “Wonderful, as always.” The champagne approved, the steward poured it into their glasses and left with Antonio.

“Mr. Faraday, any time you’re ready to take a tour of the Inn simply give me a call.” Straightening his tie, Jeff hurried away to supervise a busboy who didn’t appear to be clearing a table quickly enough.

“Nervous, don’t you think?” Mac observed the servers. Their manner was formal to the point of bowing their heads before leaving the tables. Only after he had become a multi-millionaire and taken his children to the most expensive restaurant in Washington did he know the meaning of five-star service. From what he saw, the Spencer Inn was in, if not above, that same league.

“Considering that he’s had free rein running this place and you’re the man with the power to end it all, he should be.” Archie explained, “Robin only cared about her writing, but she wasn’t stupid. She didn’t know about managing a hotel, so she hired Jeff and paid him very well. But she was around enough to keep him in line. If she’d ever caught him in a lie, or cheat, even once, then she’d have buried him. Considering all the people she’s killed on paper, Jeff knew that if anyone knew how to bury someone so that no one would find his body, it was Robin Spencer.” She studied the champagne in her glass with a smile. “Ed ordered a complete audit after Robin died. The Inn came in as being ten cents off in your favor.”

“That’s pretty good,” Mac said.

“Damn good considering the amount of money that flows in and out of here.” She held up her glass. “How do you like it?”

Mac took a sip. Admitting that he didn’t know a lot about champagne, he guessed it was one of the best he had ever tasted.

“Should. It costs five hundred dollars a bottle. ” She grinned. “It isn’t like they’re going to hand you the check after we’re done eating.”

Carefully setting down the glass for fear of spilling one expensive drop, he asked her, “Why does everyone think I’m Mickey Forsythe?”

“Robin Spencer wrote over sixty books about Mickey. She described him as tall, slender, dark haired, blue eyed, and with a fair complexion. He was a cop who had inherited a fortune and now spends his time as a private eye helping people.” Archie looked at him. “Don’t you get it? You saw her portrait. Robin described you.”

“The fact that I look like Mickey is nothing more than a coincidence. I’m nothing like him.”

Across the dining room, David followed Antonio, who was pushing a wheelchair carrying a white-haired, frail looking woman clutching a wooden cane. When Mac stood to remove a chair from their table to make room for the wheelchair, two busboys appeared to direct him back to his seat.

“So you’re Robin’s bastard boy,” the elderly woman cackled when David introduced him. “Proves I was right about her.” With a wicked grin, she added in a low voice, “Tramp.”

“Mom, behave,” David ordered. “Mac invited us here as his guests.”

“He may be a bastard, but now he’s a rich bastard.” Amused by her own wit, she cackled again. When their server arrived with menus, she ordered a vodka martini, shaken, not stirred. “And don’t forget the olive.”

David leaned over to whisper to Mac, “Now you see why I don’t go out much.”

After the server went to fetch their cocktails, Mac cleared his throat. “David, I was wondering, why would Lee Dorcas shoot himself?”

“We still don’t know that the body is Dorcas,” he answered. “The only possible motive is insanity. I questioned him once. He was angry with Katrina, but sane. Not only was he sane, but he had strong alibis.”

“Which eliminated him as a suspect.”

“But Dorcas disappeared the week of Katrina’s murder,” David reminded him. “His band said he was meeting a big-time promoter. No one has seen him since, nor do they have any information about this promoter.”

Archie said, “Sounds like a set up to me.”

David agreed. “I thought the petty thefts were connected to this case. But if that was Dorcas’s body in that cave, then I was wrong. That body has been dead longer than a couple of weeks.”

“Maybe the petty thief is the same perp that shot him in the head and took his wallet,” Mac suggested.

“You’re not buying the suicide scenario,” said David.

“Katrina’s murderer beat Gnarly halfway to death,” Mac said. “Assuming that Lee Dorcas is Pay Back, and he beat Gnarly in self-defense, why’d he go all the way up to the Spencer Mine to blow his brains out? Why not just let Gnarly rip his throat out if he wanted to die?”

With a raised eyebrow, Archie suggested, “Because a bullet through the brain would be less painful than having your throat ripped out.”

“The body in that mine wasn’t wearing that jacket when Gnarly attacked it,” David said.

Mac smirked. “You saw that, too.”

“Saw what?” Archie asked.

David explained, “Except for decomposition and attacks by scavengers, the clothes underneath the jacket were intact.”

Mac said, “If Gnarly attacked that body, it would have had defense wounds. The clothes under the jacket would have been bloody and shredded. Someone else wore that army jacket when Gnarly attacked it. Who?”

“I’ve been thinking about that ever since I saw that body,” David said.

“Besides the army fatigue jacket, did our victim look like Pay Back?”

Archie answered, “No one except Katrina got close to him.”

David shrugged his shoulders while shaking his head. “Same approximate height and weight. His hair had the long dreadlocks. The jacket and the writing on the label read ‘Pay Back’ like Katrina stated in her complaints.”

Violet craned her neck to look around the dining room. “Where is that waiter with our drinks?”

“We’re in no hurry.” Discreetly, Archie signaled to a passing server.

In the lounge, she spied a woman sitting at the bar. A glass of wine rested next to her writing tablet. In an establishment that catered to the rich and beautiful of Deep Creek Lake, she stood out in shabby clothes that lacked both color and style, worn to conceal herself and her obesity. Between scribbles in the notepad, she brushed her untamed mane out of her face.

“Betsy’s here,” Archie announced.

“Who’s Betsy?” Mac turned around in his chair to peer into the lounge.

“Travis Turner’s assistant,” she explained. “Betsy Weaver. Robin used to keep me busy, but not as busy as Travis keeps her. I think she enjoys it though. Look at that. She has the evening off, but she’s working away there in that notebook of hers. She’s probably editing Travis’s latest book. He puts out one a year.”

Violet, who had been searching for their server, snapped at Mac, “If you’re the owner, then I guess it’s you that I complain to about getting some service.”

“Mom!” David hissed. “Settle!”

Violet’s face brightened when their drinks arrived. “Can I get you anything else?” the waiter inquired before leaving with their dinner orders.

“How about some service?” Violet snapped at him.

David ordered, “Stop it, Mother. You’re not going to ruin our evening.”

Clutching her drink, she sank into her chair in a pout.

Mac suggested, “You know, if that body was a decoy to make the police close Katrina’s case because they believed the killer was already dead—”

“Which is exactly what Phillips intends to do,” David said.

“—then the killer might not be a disgruntled client.”

“Whoever he is we have his DNA.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Cost me a written reprimand and three days’ pay, but we got it.” David smiled. “When I left the crime scene to take Gnarly to the vet, I had a state crime scene investigator meet me at the animal hospital to take samples of the blood that had frozen onto his fur. I was right. Not all of the blood on Gnarly was his. His fur had human blood and tissue on it, and it didn’t belong to Katrina. They got enough to get the killer’s DNA.”

Mac wanted to know, “If you got the perp’s DNA, why’d you get a written reprimand and docked three days’ pay?”

“Because I left the crime scene. I left one of my patrolmen there, but Phillips claimed I was negligent to leave it to save a dog, even if he was evidence and a potential witness.” David muttered, “Doesn’t matter. We have his DNA. Now all we need is someone to compare it to.”

“We do have someone to compare it to,” Mac said. “That body in the mine. If it doesn’t match with what you collected from Gnarly, then that will be enough to force Phillips to reopen the case.”

“Ben, have you met Mickey Forsythe yet?”

Mac was so enthralled in their conversation that he jumped in his seat when he heard Travis Turner’s voice behind his back.

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” A hand slipped in between Mac and Archie to request a shake. “Mr. Forsythe?” Mac turned around in his chair.

An attractive blond couple dressed in matching tennis togs peered at Mac with curiosity. “It’s him,” the woman breathed with excitement in her tone. “It’s Robin’s son.”

“Mic—”

“Mac,” Mac interrupted before grasping the hand offered by the male half of the pair. “Mac Faraday. Mickey was a fictional character in my mother’s books.”

“Pardon me,” Travis apologized. “We were having some drinks before dinner and ran into the Flemings.” He wore the same white slacks and red sweater that he had been wearing earlier.

Up close, Mac recognized his wife, Sophia Hainsworth-Turner. He had seen her in a series of commercials promoting beauty products. She wore her long straight black hair down to her waist. Her flawless golden skin suggested that she spent most of her time in the sun or tanning booth. She displayed her taut slender figure in a black sleeveless and backless dress. 

“I saw you on Larry King,” Sophia said to him through thick lips dressed in dark red lipstick. “Welcome to Spencer.” She released Travis’s elbow to grasp Mac’s palm. The enormous diamond she wore on her wedding finger made for a clumsy handshake. As soon as he released them, she placed her fingers back on Travis’s elbow as if he’d get away.

In the lounge beyond them, Mac saw Betsy pause to divert her attention from her notebook to them. When she brushed her unruly hair out of her face, he saw that she wore glasses with lenses so thick that her eyeballs seemed to bulge from their sockets behind them.

“You look just like I imagined,” the blond-haired woman gushed at meeting Robin Spencer’s son.

Her husband introduced himself. “I’m Ben Fleming, Garrett County’s prosecuting attorney. I knew your mother. This is my wife, Catherine.” He acknowledged Mac’s companions. “Nice to see you again, Archie, David, and Violet.”

“I’ve read all of your mother’s books,” Catherine interjected while reaching out to caress Mac’s fingers as if his touch beheld a magical element for her to treasure. “She was my favorite writer.” In her excitement, she failed to notice her insult to the famed author in their midst.