"Don't panic. They might have had us staked out for a very good reason."
"Like what?"
"They probably just want to ask us a few more questions about Eileen's death. There's nothing to worry about," I reassured her.
I obeyed all the traffic laws. My shadow stuck to us like glue.
I pulled into the Sugar Maple's drive and saw two more police cars. Richard waited by the Buick, his expression grim. I'd had a feeling something was going to break in the case. I just didn't know the break was going to be me.
Richard hurried to my car. "Scuttlebutt is the ME has ruled Eileen Marshall was murdered," he said tightly. "They've searched the place and found an empty scotch bottle in your room. Don't say anything until I get you a lawyer."
"Rich, I didn't do anything. I only found the body. I didn't kill her."
Sgt. Beach shot out the front door, heading straight for us. I turned to Maggie. "They'll split us up. Don't tell them anything. Let me do the talking?" She nodded, her eyes mirroring her growing fear.
I got out of the car and leaned against it, my hands plainly visible. I was probably being overly cautious, but I didn't want to give the cops a reason to get rough with me.
"Sir, we have some questions we'd like to ask," Beach said.
"Ask away."
"Sir, we'd like to ask you these questions at the village police station. We'd like you to come along, too, ma'am."
"I don't have a lawyer," Maggie said uncertainly.
"You don't need one, ma'am."
My gaze darted to Richard. His eyes flashed, but he kept silent, unsure if he should leap to my defense. I shook my head slightly and he looked away.
"Sure, we'll go with you."
The sergeant escorted us to his patrol car. We climbed into the back seat and the door closed behind us.
There were no handles on the doors, which made me feel like a trapped animal.
Maggie plastered herself against me, clutching my hand like a lifeline. I gave her a smile. "It's okay, Maggs. Everything will be okay.”
To say she looked skeptical was a definite understatement. I only hoped my assurances weren't blatant lies.
Chapter 12
As predicted, upon arriving at the brick police station, they immediately separated Maggie and me, taking me to an interrogation room. Police Chief John McFadden himself and Sgt. Mark Beach did the honors. More than once they stressed it was just an informal meeting. I wasn't being charged with anything. Still, the word "yet" seemed to hang in the air.
McFadden sat across from me at a gray steel-and-Formica table, while Beach hovered nearby. The metal chair was cold, the room drab. I folded my hands on the table, trying to look the epitome of composure. I didn't succeed.
"I take it the medical examiner ruled Eileen Marshall's death a homicide." I didn't bother to phrase it as a question.
"No determination has yet been made. It's officially classed as undetermined," McFadden answered. Not according to Richard. "We're very interested in you since you were apparently the last person to see the victim alive, and you also found the body."
"That guy Adam
and
I found the body."
"You said Ms. Marshall was drinking scotch. That was corroborated by other guests at the inn. We found an empty plastic scotch bottle in your room. It was identified by several guests as the bottle Ms. Marshall had on Friday evening."
"Where was it found?" I asked.
"In one of the photographic trunks in your room. Wiped clean, no fingerprints. We'd like to know how it got there," Beach said.
"It had to be a plant."
"Why do you think that?" McFadden said. If he was trying not to be patronizing, he was failing miserably.
"Because somebody pushed me down a flight of stairs last night."
"We heard you fell," Beach said.
"I was pushed. Either I interrupted someone planting the evidence, or I messed up their escape."
"Or it could've been a clever ploy to divert suspicion."
I looked at Beach in disbelief. "Ask the doctor who checked me out. He can tell you I was knocked out—totally unconscious—from the fall. I have a lump on the back of my head to prove it."
"So maybe you're a good actor."
I took a breath to steady my nerves. They were trying to get to me, and in only a few short minutes they'd succeeded. Maybe I did need a lawyer.
"Am I going to be charged with murder?"
"Not at this time."
Great. Were they going to hold off until tomorrow?
"Let's go over your story again," Beach said.
We did.
In detail.
Twice.
When I'd finished, McFadden was glaring at me. "Your story hasn't changed in all the tellings. Like you rehearsed it."
"I've done my best to keep it the same."
McFadden's intense gaze betrayed his growing anger.
"Listen, Chief, I used to be an insurance investigator. I know what I saw, and I know how to tell my story in exactly the way the police need to hear it."
"Which leads me to believe you're lying."
"What reason do I have to lie? What motive would I have to kill a complete stranger?"
"You tell me. "
I exhaled loudly, desperate to keep my own rising anger in check. I spoke slowly, distinctly. "I don't have any reason to lie. Until three days ago, I didn't even know Eileen Marshall. I didn't know any of the people at the inn. I came to Stowe to take pictures of the inn for a magazine article. That's all."
"Then why did we find that scotch bottle in your room?"
"Obviously someone put it there to frame me. The locks on those guest room doors are as sophisticated as latches. You can open them with a hairpin."
"How would you know that?" McFadden asked.
I didn't answer.
McFadden shifted in his seat. "What's going on with you and this Dr. Alpert—the one who says you were knocked out last night."
"Can't you tell?"
His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Look, if you want to be a wiseass, you can rot in a cell in St. Johnsbury for obstruction of justice. It's your choice."
I bristled at his tone. Cops are notoriously humorless. It was in my best interest not to make him angry.
"Now," he continued, "we happen to know you spent a good deal of time with this so-called doctor today. You were seen in Waterbury by two of the other guests. What's your connection to him?"
I hesitated. There was no point keeping this truth to myself.
"We're brothers. Half-brothers. And he really is a doctor."
"What's he doing here?"
"I asked him to come."
"I thought you were here with your girlfriend."
"I am."
"So what's he doing here?"
"He's here because I asked him to come," I repeated.
The cop spoke slowly, as though I was dim-witted. "
Why
did you ask him to come to Stowe?"
I answered in kind. "Because I wanted him to be here."
He exhaled loudly. "So, your brother drops everything, travels from where—Buffalo?—just because you asked him to?"
I nodded.
McFadden's patience snapped. "Listen, Resnick, you know more than you're telling me. "
I would've been more than happy to agree, but I was already in enough trouble.
"Are you going to tell me what you know?" he demanded.
I could ... but they weren't going to believe me. What I needed was instant credibility.
"Maybe. But I'm not saying a word until—"
"I don't make deals.
"You haven't heard it yet." The edge to my voice took some of the steam out of him.
"What do you want?"
"Call Detective Carl Hayden of the Orchard Park, New York, Police Department."
"Why?"
"Just ask him about me."
"And?"
"Then I might tell you everything I know." I couldn't keep the belligerence out of my voice.
McFadden's glare could blister paint. "What's the number?"
"Call directory assistance. The area code is 716."
He dialed, wrote down the number then punched it in. Of course Detective Hayden wasn't there—it was, after all, a holiday weekend. McFadden gave them the number and asked them to pass on a message, agreeing to accept a collect call.
Beach went in search of coffee, and McFadden and I were left to stare at each other in uncomfortable silence. I wondered how much slack he'd cut me. An hour—less?—before he threw me in a cell. Lucky for me, Detective Hayden called back within five minutes. I owed him one for that.
The Chief introduced himself. "I have a man in custody who's either a suspect or a material witness in a murder investigation. Name's Jeffrey Resnick, of LeBrun Road in—"
McFadden listened for a few moments, then turned his skeptical gaze on me. "He's a what?"
I shrugged, sat back in my chair, listening to the one-sided dialogue. Beach returned half way through the conversation with only two cups. He set one in front of McFadden and sipped the other.
"And how about Richard Alpert? Uh-huh. You're sure?" McFadden paused, listening for a couple of minutes. I could just about hear the voice on the other end of the line, but I couldn't make out what was being said.
"Yes. I see. Thank you. Good-bye." He replaced the receiver, keeping his laser-like glare fixed on me.
"So, you're a psychic."
Beach spewed his coffee.
"That's what Detective Hayden calls it. I call it knowing some things about some people ... sometimes." No way did I want to label myself all-knowing.
"Just what do you know?"
"About this murder?" I thought about it for a moment, wondering how I could begin to explain it. "Sometimes I know things. Sometimes something trivial will trigger a flash of insight. Something like shaking hands when meeting someone."
They weren't buying it. I cleared my throat and decided to just tell them everything. If it already confirmed what they knew, so much the better.
"I shook hands with Eileen Marshall and I knew she was sick—probably deathly ill. She came to Stowe to see her married lover. I don't know why. I kind of thought there'd be a confrontation."
"Is that it?" he said, his tone indicating I was wasting his time.
"Something is going on between Ted Palmer and Laura Ross. Eileen knew what it was."
"Going on how?"
"You'd have to ask Laura. But whatever their connection is, Eileen Marshall knew about it and may have been in a position to use it against her."
"So who's Marshall's lover?"
"I'm not sure. It could be Fred Andolina, or Zack Dawson, or anyone in Stowe—or even you. I don't know."
"What made you look outside the inn to find Ms. Marshall?"
"I woke up that morning and had a feeling that something was very wrong. I knew someone was dead."
"How did you know?"
"I don't know. I just did."
Beach did a slow circuit around the table. "You say you get this insight by shaking hands?"
I nodded. "Sometimes. Then I'll just know things."
He thrust his hand in my face. "Try me."
"It doesn't work like that. I can't turn it on and off like a faucet."
"Try me," he challenged again.
My fists clamped shut. I hate this kind of crap. What I feared most was looking utterly stupid. Yet I could feel the air around him begin to charge with emotion.
Reluctantly I reached out and clasped his hand, hanging on. I looked him in the eye for a long moment. His brow furrowed and I could feel him draw inward, away from me. I took a sharp breath as his hand clenched convulsively around mine. An image from long ago flashed through my mind. I yanked back my hand, stared at the table for long seconds.
"Well?" he demanded. He sounded less confident than he had moments before. Whatever passed between us, he'd felt it, too.
I took my time before answering. The burst of strong emotion I'd experienced was a little overwhelming.
"Your sister ... is dead. She ... drowned. The two of you were just kids, fishing on a dock. You weren't supposed to be there." I thought about it for a moment, trying to remember exactly what I'd seen. "She ... had on a blue dress. Her shoes were—"
"Shut up!"
Waves of anger and embarrassment radiated from him like heat from a fire. Eileen Marshall's drowning had reignited Beach's grief, shame, and guilt over his sister’s death. My words had reinforced it.
McFadden stared at his subordinate in disbelief.
I let out a shaky breath, trying to distance myself from his distress. "Sorry. But you asked."
He leaned in close, his eyes only inches from mine, his breath hot on my face. "I don't trust you."
I backed away. "Hey, the feeling's mutual."
McFadden cleared his throat. "Mark." He motioned the sergeant to follow him to the door. They spoke in hushed tones for several moments, looked back at me, and then abruptly left.
I sat in self-conscious silence, noticing the mirror on the wall. Was it two way? I really didn't care. I rubbed at my eyes, realizing I had the beginnings of another one of my headaches. The one I'd gotten the night before had never really left me, and invoking this psychic ability only seemed to aggravate it. I grabbed my prescription bottle from my pocket, doled out a pill and let it dissolve under my tongue, wondering how long they'd hold us here.
I'd told Maggie not to say anything to the cops, but what gentle means of persuasion would they use on her? How soon would she crack?
Folding my arms on the table, I rested my head on them. Was there a way to manipulate McFadden, get him to see another viewpoint? Had they established the time of death? The inn provided guests with towels for the pool. Did they leave them out all night? Was the Jacuzzi heated day and night? Were the lights trained on the pool on a timer or did they have to be turned off manually?
Maybe McFadden didn't really suspect me at all. Could this little exercise be a ploy to give the real killer a false sense of security? Anything was possible in a murder investigation.
My eyes squeezed tighter, and I felt a pang of pity for Eileen. Her lover had chosen not to make himself known. She'd lived with the prospect of a fatal disease, and she'd died naked and alone, possibly at the hand of one she'd loved.
I wished Maggie were with me. I wondered what mental acrobatics Richard was putting himself through. Lucky Brenda was home in Buffalo, oblivious to our predicament. She was a kindred spirit. Sometimes she could feel the same things I did. She called it second sight—but her gift wasn't as pronounced as mine. I reached out for her over the miles, but I was too far away.
Six months before I'd been living in Manhattan, truly alone. Since the mugging, my life revolved around those three people—I depended on them. Without them, my world would be pretty empty.
A shudder passed through me, and I felt my tenuous connection with them threatened. I covered my eyes, unsure if that swell of emotion was my own or a remnant from Beach's shaken psyche.