Murder Most Maine (22 page)

My heart pounded as
I walked back into the inn, struggling to breathe.
They’d just arrested John.
What was I supposed to do now? Did he have an attorney?

And why had they arrested him?

Marge wasn’t in the living room—I assumed that meant she had gained access to the guest rooms—but most of the guests were there, attended by a stolid-looking officer in a too-tight polyester uniform. Conversation, as you might imagine, wasn’t particularly bright; in fact, the silence was oppressive.

“Can I get anybody some coffee?” I asked, trying to act as if everything was normal, when in truth things were about as far from normal as possible. “There’s tea over here, too,” I said, feeling like a robot.

The dieters shook their heads—almost everyone was in the room, reading or staring out the window, including Elizabeth, who, uncharacteristically, was nose-deep in a rather dry-looking paperback, which must have been why she didn’t notice them arresting my neighbor.

Sarah and Cat were sitting beside each other wordlessly, still looking stunned, while Bethany wore the same depressed look she’d had for days. Only Megan and Greg looked content in their seats by the corner, holding hands.

What was I going to do about John?
Elizabeth’s busy
, I thought.
Why don’t you go see what you can find in her room?

“Let me know if I can get you anything,” I sang out, then raced to the front desk and grabbed the second skeleton key.

I was halfway up the stairs before I realized that it might be a good idea to have something with me when I went into Elizabeth’s room—like cleaning supplies. Since the police were gathered right down the hall and all.

I retraced my steps, tossing a couple of spray bottles and a sponge into a bucket, and headed back upstairs, almost running into Marge as I turned the corner at the top.

“What’s that for?” she asked.

“Oh,” I said, glancing at the officer outside Boots’ door, “I thought I’d take care of some of the rooms, to help out.”

“I’ve already done them two,” she said, pointing to Elizabeth’s and Vanessa’s.

“Great,” I lied.

“And you got the wrong stuff,” she said, jabbing at the two bottles of window cleaner in my bucket.

“You’re right,” I said woodenly. “Silly me.”

The officer down the hall was watching us, I realized, so I turned and greeted him. “Can I get you officers anything?” I called down to him, trying to sound relaxed, even though I felt so tense I might shatter at any moment. “Maybe a drink of water, or some tea?”

“I wouldn’t object to a pot of tea, if you’re offering,” the red-haired man said with a smile.

“Let me just take care of a few things and I’ll bring a pot right up,” I said. “How many cups?”

“Three would be good,” he said. “Thanks for offering.” Marge gave me a dubious look as I turned back to her. She knew I was up to something. “I’ll just go over the mirrors and windows up here, okay?” I said, feeling sweat spring up on my brow.

Marge gave me a slightly affronted look and harrumphed as she let herself into Sarah’s room. I, on the other hand, walked as casually as I could to the end of the hall and unlocked the door to Elizabeth’s room.

Once the door was locked behind me again, I made a beeline for the desk.

The stack of files had moved from the bottom drawer to the desktop, which made things very convenient for me. I tore through them all again, to see if there was anything new. Unfortunately, there wasn’t—until I got to the last page of the press file.

The articles hadn’t changed, but as I scanned the last one—the manslaughter case in Boulder, Colorado, I noticed several places where the name of the coach accused of the crime had been underlined.
Dereck Crenshaw
. I suddenly remembered the name Marge had told me Elizabeth was asking about on the phone the other day:
Eric Kershaw
.

Could Marge have misheard the name?

My eyes scanned the article again. Something else stuck out at me:
Mickelson
. I knew I’d heard someone mention that name before. But who?

I stared at the clipping one last time, and then, in a split second, everything clicked.

When I let myself out of Elizabeth’s room a moment later, the policeman was no longer stationed outside Dirk’s room, and Marge was nowhere to be seen. Should I go find the officer and share my suspicions?

No, I decided. First I’d confirm it.

I walked a short way down the hall and knocked at another door. When nobody answered, I put down my bucket of supplies and unlocked it, slipping into the room and locking it behind me.

The desk was my first stop, and my hands shook with excitement—and fear—as I pulled the drawers open one by one. But they were all empty.

Frustration mounting, I yanked open the nightstand drawers, again coming up empty. It wasn’t until I got to the makeup kit in the bathroom that I found what I was looking for.

It was in the bottom of a makeup kit, and if I hadn’t been looking for it, I never would have found it.

It was just a scrap of paper adhered to plastic—the remnants of a blister pack that had evidently been thrown away. But the letters ‘edrine’ were printed on it.

I set down the makeup bag and headed for the door, ready to tell the police what I knew. But just as I left the bathroom, the doorknob jiggled—and Cat walked into her room.

She narrowed her eyes at me.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, closing the door softly behind her.

“Just cleaning up a little,” I said.

“You left your cleaning supplies outside,” she said.

“I just realized that,” I lied. “I was heading out to get them. Sorry to disturb you.”

Her eyes flicked from me to the picture on her bureau, and mine followed involuntarily. It was of a teenaged girl, her eyes the same color as her mother’s.

I dragged my eyes away a second too late.

“What are you doing in my room?” Cat asked again, her voice deadly quiet. Her face was eerily blank; it sent a chill down my spine.

“I told you. I was just cleaning.”

“What were you looking for?”

I swallowed. “Nothing.” She took a step toward me. “The police are right down the hall,” I said, trying to forestall her from trying anything.

“No they’re not,” she said with a smile. “I just saw them heading downstairs.”

“I’d better go get them tea, then,” I said, walking toward the door and trying to pretend I didn’t know she was a murderer.

“You’re going to tell them, aren’t you?” she asked in a dreamy voice.

“Tell them what?” I said, heart pounding in my chest. The air in the room had changed, and there was no doubt that I was dealing with a severely unhinged woman.

“He deserved it, you know. He killed my daughter, and never paid the price. If I didn’t stop him, he would have killed again.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lied.

“Yes, you do. You know. And then when Boots made the connection, I had to make her go away, too. She would have spoiled it all. Fortunately, the police believed me when I told them I saw your boyfriend leaving her room last night. And I sprinkled a tiny bit of sawdust in her room, just to be sure.”

She was the reason they’d arrested him, I realized
.
Rage bubbled up alongside the fear inside me. “What connection did she make?” I asked, surreptitiously scanning the room for something I could use as a weapon. Now that she’d confessed, she’d never let me out of here alive—not if she could help it, anyway.

“My daughter’s death,” she said. “He poisoned my little girl, you know. Poisoned her, and walked away scot-free.”

“How awful,” I said consolingly, eyeing the door behind her. Could I get past her and raise the alarm?

“And the supplements,” Cat went on. “She started making the connection after Dirk died. Something I said tipped her off—she came to ask me about it, last night. I had to drag her all the way back to her room, you know. I don’t look strong,” she said, her large eyes unfocused, “but a mother will do anything for her child.
Anything
,” she whispered, stepping toward me.

“You changed your name,” I said.

“That’s right,” she said. “After the divorce, I went back to my maiden name. Never liked Mickelson anyway. And it made it so much easier when I signed up for the retreat. The jerk didn’t even recognize me—and he’d killed my child!” She was revving up again—her eyes burned in her pale face.

“How did you get Dirk to take the ephedrine?” I asked, stalling for time.
The lamp on the nightstand.
I took a step backwards, edging toward it. She didn’t have a weapon that I could see—but she’d managed to kill Boots without one. If I grabbed it and hit her over the head …

“It was a problem, I’ll admit,” she said. “I needed to get him to take a lot of them. But he took all those supplements, you see, so I just ground up all those pills and stuffed his little capsules with them.” She smiled at me—an awful, empty smile. “You made it so easy, leaving those keys down there where anyone could get to them. I did it while you were downstairs talking with your neighbor friend, and Vanessa.” She paused. “She really should thank me, you know. If I didn’t stop him, he would have killed again—and she would have been an accessory.”

She’d poisoned him that first night, I realized.

“What did he do to your daughter?” I asked, hoping to jolt her out of her daze.

“She was so beautiful,” Cat said. “She was the light of our lives. We were so proud of her when she joined the varsity team. And Dirk was her coach … only he had a different name then. Dereck. Dereck Crenshaw.”

The
Eric Kershaw
Marge had heard Elizabeth asking about on the phone the other day. Elizabeth had been onto him, too.

“So he gave your daughter too much of something?”

Cat nodded, the same haunted look on her face I’d seen the other day—and subconsciously recognized from the article I’d found in Elizabeth’s room. “The same thing he died from. It was to help her win a race. Only she never crossed the finish line. She had a heart attack fifty yards in.” Her face was stricken. “Her last race.”

“So you were afraid he’d strike again,” I said. “Why wait so long, though?”

“He changed his name,” she said. “I didn’t know where to find him—he disappeared after they dropped the charges.”

“They dropped the charges?”

“No evidence,” she said, her voice hard. “But I knew. I knew.”

“How did you find him again?” I asked.

“I saw his picture in a magazine, and I recognized him immediately. He was back to his old tricks, killing again—and he never paid for what he did to my darling.” Her eyes drifted to the photo of the bright-eyed girl on her dresser. “I signed up for this retreat and planned what I was going to do. And it would have worked, too.” She seemed to remember suddenly that I was still in the room with her. “Still will.”

She stepped toward me.

“Don’t be stupid, Caterina. The police are right downstairs. They’ll hear you—and besides, we’re in your room.”

“They’ll never know,” she said dreamily. “They won’t hear, and I’ll be sure to relocate your body when it’s over. No one heard Boots with the pillow over her face. I hated to do it, but I had no choice.” She advanced toward me, grabbing a pillow from the bed. I backed up, stumbling over a hitch in the rug. She darted forward, her hand closing on my arm just as I grasped the solid brass lamp.

I swung it at her, but she ducked. The shade glanced off her shoulder and tumbled to the floor. I swung again wildly, but missed. Then, with a strength that amazed me, Caterina shoved me onto the bed. I got one look at her wild eyes; there was nothing human left in her. Then she smashed the pillow into my face, throwing her body on top of it.

I struggled, thrashing against her, scratching at her arms, pulling at her shirt, trying to get her off me. But the pillow just came down harder.

My lungs burned, and I sucked in a deep breath—but there was no air. Nothing. A wave of dizziness overtook me—and the sudden, savage urge to live. I flailed at my assailant, but she was made of iron—unflinching, unmoving. Finally, I gathered all I had and pulled my right arm back, balled my hand into a fist, and swung with all my strength.