The Butler Didn't Do It (A Maddox Storm Mystery Book 2) (15 page)

“I’ll be fine.”

“Don’t go off on your own, okay? Make sure you stay public, and with people you know, until I get back.”

I flicked a salute at him. “Yessir.”

“Maddox?” His eyes creased into me with serious concern. “I mean it.”

“I won’t do anything stupid,” I promised.

THIRTEEN

Left to my own devices, I went to join a friendly table, aka Joe, Burns and Miss Crawley. I did stop to scoop up a handful of fortune cookies along the way, and saw there was enough food left to feed us for a week. I wondered if anyone would balk at Egg Foo Yung for breakfast in the morning. Egg was egg, right?

I tossed the fortune cookies onto the table and pulled up a chair between Miss Crawley and Joe.

Joe selected a cookie, sending me an uncertain smile as he fiddled with the cellophane wrapper.

“We’re supposed to babysit each other until Detective Bishop gets back,” I told him, just in case he got some funny ideas about me forgiving and forgetting.

“He left?” Joe’s smile firmed. “Did he say where?”

I looked Burns in the eye and grinned. “I’m sure I couldn’t say.”

“Something to do with Paul Fieldman, I’d imagine,” Miss Crawley answered Joe for me.

My mouth dropped open. “How could you possibly know that?”

Nate hadn’t even known Lydia’s husband was in the country until he’d gotten the call.

“Mr Fieldman called Julie earlier,” Miss Crawley said, dabbing delicately at the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “I believe he wanted to meet, which means he’s returned from Turkey and is in the area.”

Burns swallowed a satisfied grunt and stood to clear the empty cartons from the table.

So much for trying to mimic his mystique.

“Before I forget…” I pulled Mom’s recipe out and passed it to Burns with a short explanation. “But don’t feel obliged to go to any effort.”

“Someone has to, Ms Storm,” he murmured.

I snatched a fortune cookie and slumped in my seat, watching Burns depart with the mess. “Why does he always have to be so efficient?”

“He’s a butler,” Miss Crawley explained, as if I didn’t know.

Joe sipped on his cocktail and studied his fortune.

Why not? Maybe something good was coming my way.

I cracked my cookie open and unrolled the scrap of paper, reading aloud, “You will die alone without shoes.”
Seriously?

“That’s probably meant for me.” Joe held his fortune up for me to see.
Your fortune lies within another cookie.

“You’re welcome to it.” I tossed him my fortune. “Your feet are prettier, anyway.”

Joe laughed, a warm, rich sound I hadn’t heard in a while. “I’ll take any compliment I can get.”

I shook my head, but some of my grumpiness flitted away and I felt the tension unwind in me.

He pushed to his feet and leant in. “Can I get you a drink?”

“I’d love one.”

“Miss Crawley?”

Miss Crawley declined the offer of alcohol. “I think I’ll take a cup of tea up to my room,” she said as Joe walked off. “I’ve got quite a bit of work to get done before morning.”

My stomach clenched. Miss Crawley’s main job was to spread gossip and stir up mischief. And tomorrow was Sunday, which meant she had a digest edition to get out. Unless Mom had set her straight, I’d probably be headlining that with my sordid affair and Nate’s babies.

“Um…” I wet my lips. “You didn’t happen to speak to my mom today, did you?”

“As a matter of fact, Marge did call just before we sat down to supper.” Miss Crawley tipped closer and lowered her voice, her lips pursed in disappointment. “You failed to mention that Lydia was hung with the prop rope taken from your party wicker basket.”

“That’s supposed to confidential.”

“Yes, well, this new angle does pose a challenge and now I don’t have much time to find a way around it.”

I looked at her in confusion. “What precisely are you working on, Miss Crawley?”

“My hypothesis for the big reveal at Sunday lunch tomorrow,” she declared.

We were still doing that?

“And by the way,” she added with a
tut
of disapproval. “I couldn’t find any envelopes in my stationery drawer.”

Now I was both confused and impressed. “The rooms have a stationery drawer?”

“In the bedside table, my dear,” she said, rising from the table. “There’s a lovely embossed pad with the Hollow House stationary head, but not a single envelope. I had to drive into town this afternoon to purchase a pack, and I took the liberty of handing them out to everyone.” She paused for dramatic effect (or maybe she was waiting for me to apologize for my poor organizational skills.) “If all goes well, we’ll find a murderer tomorrow.”

“Stranger things have happened,” I supposed.

“Indeed they have,” Miss Crawley said, and she was gone before I realized I still had no idea whether I would be the main feature in her digest email.

Joe returned with a bright pink cocktail for himself and a Pina Colada for me. He saw it was just the two of us left and drew his own conclusions about my grumpy face. “You don’t have to keep me company if you’d rather be somewhere else.”

“Actually, I do.” I drew the Pina Colada closer, not my favorite drink, but the exotic pineapple shell and the cute paper umbrella made up for the taste. “I promised Nate.”

“Well, if you promised Nate,” Joe said in a voice that belonged in a kindergarten playground.

I rolled my eyes. “He’s concerned about all of us.”

“Sure, that’s why he insisted on sleeping with you last night.”

There were so many ways I could use this. But for some weird reason, I wasn’t in the mood for snarky payback. Maybe I was done with wanting Joe to hurt as much as he’d hurt me. That’s what I truly wanted, to just be done, period.

“You know we didn’t sleep together, right?” I picked the umbrella out of my drink and sucked on the soaked cherry pricked on the end.

Joe lifted his glass to his mouth, nearly draining it in one go. “I still don’t like it.”

“You don’t like what?”

“Another man sleeping in your room, Maddie.”

“You don’t get a say anymore,” I said softly. “Remember?”

Joe looked at me, those soulful brown eyes cutting through to the heart of me. It wasn’t enough, though. The crust was too thick. Maybe if we’d done this three weeks ago, maybe I could have given us another chance. But I’d already mourned us. I’d already taken those first steps toward moving on. I’d already done all the hard parts and the thought of going back and perhaps having to do this all over again was simply too exhausting.

“So, that’s it,” Joe said.

“I’m sorry.” There I went again, apologizing, but I figured this one really was on me. Everyone deserved a second chance, even Joe. Especially Joe.

“You have nothing to be sorry about,” he said.

He had a slightly dazed look on his face, so I don’t think he deliberately meant to walk off and leave me alone on the terrace with the GRIMMS (and a potential murderer.)

I could have called Joe back, but the whole babysitting thing was starting to feel like a massive overreaction. Besides, we’d ended our conversation on a somewhat finite note, the only place to go from there was awkward silence.

I moved chairs so I was facing the lake, my sole intention to sip Pina Colada through a straw and think of as little as humanly possible.

The night had settled in, wispy cloud cover dimming the stars and casting a smudged halo around the moon. The
Lazy Lady
, the
Lakeview Spa Retreat’s
iconic paddle steamer, was docked on the far shore to load up passengers for the supper cruise.

Their guests would be wined and dined in style, while I’d fed mine cheap Chinese takeout out of cardboard boxes. Murder aside, I probably should have done better. Maybe I wasn’t cut out for this hotelier business.

I brought my gaze in from the distant shore. The GRIMMS had divided into two distinct camps. Jonas sat with the Parkers. They’d kidnapped one of the cocktail jugs for their table, and they each had two pineapples in front of them. There wasn’t much evidence of any food consumed, but then again Burns had already done a couple of sweeps of the terrace, gathering and disposing.

Jonas caught my roving eye. I glanced away, but I felt his stare continue to prick. When I looked again, he was still staring.

I shifted uncomfortably and checked my watch. Nate had been gone just under an hour. He couldn’t be much longer, could he? I hoped not. I was eager to hear what he’d discovered on Mr Fieldman’s smuggling business and any related hitman activities.

If Nate had even bothered asking. He hadn’t seemed at all interested in what I, or the GRIMMS, had to say on that matter.

I sucked my drink dry, then poked mindlessly at the inside of the pineapple with my straw as I went through the logistics of Jonas as my prime suspect.

How had he known the rope was in a wicker basket under the stairs? How had anyone known? They’re all been gathered in the lounge when Joe had arrived with the envelopes. Had one of them followed me out, watched me crawl into the alcove, overheard me speaking to Mom?

Okay, so Jonas saw me busy under the alcove and he made a split-second decision to use the rope instead of whatever he’d originally planned. Except, no… I saw the flaw at once. A professional hitman wouldn’t improvise like that.

My gaze landed on the other table.

Julie Brown sat with her back to me, hair teased an extra inch or so bigger all around. Her nasal drawl carried from the far end of the terrace, reaching me in a low drone without discernable words. Whatever she was saying, she had the rapt attention of both Charles and Mason.

She was a strong personality, but a murderer? Call me sexist, but I couldn’t see it.

Which left Charles Sitter the Third or Fourth or whatever. He wore a cream and yellow striped suit, topped off with a white satin bowtie, and somehow he managed to make that look sophisticated rather than gaudy.

He had been rather slippery last night, slipping away from the table for a good long while to change his shirt, slipping off early again without dessert, slipping off to his bedroom to fetch a newspaper. But he must have been close to Lydia if she’d confided in him about her husband’s shenanigans.

Plus, Charles was definitely on the wrong side of seventy
and
he suffered from gout. Wasn’t that supposed to be a crippling condition? Why would an old man with a distinguished sense of style go hobbling outside in the middle of the night to murder his dear friend?

He wouldn’t.

I returned my focus to Jonas, took a quick peek to see if he was still staring at me—he wasn’t—and then another peek to check that he really wasn’t. He wasn’t. He was filling up their pineapples with the bright pink cocktail and laughing hard with the Parkers.

What if he wasn’t a professional hitman? What if he was just a shifty accountant who dabbled in murder to keep his books balanced? He saw me busy with the readymade noose and faked that phone call at dinner so he could snatch it when he knew everyone else was in the dining room.

Jonas had gone to bed at ten-thirty.

He was in a garden suite in the north wing that opened directly onto the pine forest.

Plenty of time to sneak out and do his dirty deed before Lydia’s body was found at eleven thirty, especially if he’d already pre-arranged to meet her there. And how had he done that? It wasn’t the type of thing you said face-to-face.
Meet me at the old oak by the lake at ten thirty.
It was the kind of thing you put in a note and slid under the door…

A thrill of excitement tingled down my spine.

This was a long shot, but who travelled with a notebook or scraps of paper? If Jonas had been scrounging for something to write on, and if he’d found the embossed pad in his stationary drawer, I could do that scratchy thing on the underlying page to highlight every guilty word.

I sent a furtive look around the terrace. Jonas was thoroughly engaged with his drinking buddies and Julie was still droning on at the other table. I stood, casual as anything, and made my way toward the French doors with no apparent urgency or agenda.

Once inside, I walked deeper into the lounge, fighting the urge to glance over my shoulder. I pricked my ears. No chairs scraping. No thumping footfalls coming after me. I did hear Burns and Mr Hollow in the foyer. He must have just returned.

I veered toward the bar, putting me out of sight from the terrace, then I backtracked to the passage that led behind the lounge to the garden suites. My pulse had developed a stutter, my palms were sweaty, and I hadn’t even done anything wrong. Yet.

The first suite belonged to Charles. I paused outside his door. In the name of indiscrimination, I should probably check his drawer, too. It would only take a minute. I tried the handle.
Huh.
The door was locked.

Now there was a possibility I’d failed to consider. And I didn’t think Burns kept master keys, either.