Cozy (Stanley Hastings Mystery, #14) Page 5

  “Anyone in the TV room?” I said.

  His slight pause told me what a stupid question that was. He smiled coldly, said, “I have no idea.”

  I mumbled something about checking it out, gave him up as a lost cause, and went inside.

  The dining room was just closing. I saw the young man who had served us our drinks go by with a tray of dishes. So he wasn’t the bartender, just the busboy, which certainly made more sense. Unless he was the bartender, and in an establishment this small everyone helped with everything.

  “He’s my son,” Louise said, startling me both by her presence and by reading my mind. “It’s a family affair, and we all pitch in.”

  “Oh, really?” I said.

  “Yes,” she said. “We’ve only been open for two years, but we’re doing very well. The dining room’s the key. You run a good dining room, the rest takes care of itself.”

  And there I was, suddenly stuck in the dreaded bed-and-breakfast personal account of “how I came to buy the place.” The crowning blow. The last straw.

  Still, I couldn’t be out-and-out rude. Something was called for. “That’s very interesting,” I said. “Who’s your chef?”

  Louise’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”

  I blinked. Because I’m inept in social situations, and I’m trying to make polite conversation was the actual point in fact, but probably wasn’t about to charm her. “Because the food was so good,” I said.

  “Oh? What did you have?”

  “I had the prime rib, and my wife had the shark.”

  “You must try the barbecued ribs,” she said. “They’re famous. Excuse me, I have to help out.”

  And she disappeared through the door of the dining room.

  I stood there, somewhat bemused. On the one hand, I was pleased to have missed the how-we-came-to-buy-the-place lecture. On the other, it occurred to me the woman had avoided discussing the chef.

  I shook my head. Good god, Alice was right. I was getting a little stir crazy, making mysteries out of everything. It occurred to me I’d better find myself something to do.

  I checked out the TV room. The six-year-old girl wasn’t there, but the middle-aged couple I’d observed earlier having drinks on the porch was. They were watching a TV movie of a fairly predictable variety—just a few minutes were enough to assure me it either had something to do with date rape, incest, or sexual harassment, or else someone’s wife, mother, or daughter would turn out to be a call girl.

  “Care to join us?” the woman on the couch asked, when the exciting drama paused for a commercial.

  “Just checking out the room,” I said. “My wife’s watching Bridges of Madison County.”

  “Seen it twice,” the woman said. “I could see it again, but Johnny thought twice was enough.”

  Johnny, who was somewhat pudgy faced, smiled what I took to be a rather long-suffering smile. I must say, my heart went out to him—not being able to stand the movie a third time, he’d been paid back with this.

  “Yeah, well I’m just looking around,” I said. “Tell me, are there any other things here that aren’t in the guidebook?”

  “Guidebook?”

  “I don’t mean guidebook. You know, that little brochure about the inn. It listed the swimming pool and this TV room, but it didn’t say anything about the game room. You know, where they’re showing the movie. So I’m wondering if there’s anything else at Blue Frog Ponds the brochure neglected to mention.”

  “Can’t think of anything,” the woman said.

  “There’s the pond,” Johnny offered.

  Johnny’s wife was rather small and thin compared to him. Still, there was little doubt as to the pecking order. She turned on Johnny now. “The pond, for goodness’ sake?” she said. “That’s not what the man means. The man doesn’t mean the pond.”

  “Well, now, how do you know what he means?” Johnny said.

  “Well, didn’t he just say so? The brochure didn’t mention the game room, what else did it leave out? The man is talking about features of the inn.”

  “The pond’s not a feature?”

  “The pond’s not even on the property. And what do you think about that?” the woman said. “They call the place the Blue Frog Ponds, and the pond’s not even theirs.”

  “Where is the pond?”

  Johnny jerked his thumb. “On the other side of the road. The stream widens out, forms a little pond. There’s a path down to it from the parking lot. You can’t miss it.”

  “Hush, now,” Johnny’s wife said. “It’s starting again.”

  If that wasn’t an exit cue, I never heard one. The movie was indeed starting again, and I didn’t want to see it. I beat a hasty retreat outside.

  The cranky young man was gone, and the front porch was deserted. I stood in front of the Blue Frog Ponds and looked around. The sun had just gone down, and there was an orange glow over the top of the mountains in the west. Farther east, you could see the crescent of the moon in the sky, and the stars starting to come out.

  I enjoyed looking at the sky, which I guess labeled me as a tourist—if you live in New York City, it’s a big deal to look at the sky.

  I looked at the parking lot across the road where we’d left our Toyota. Johnny’d said there was a path leading from it. I crossed the road and took a closer look.

  There it was, down by the far end. A dirt path leading off through the trees. It didn’t appear to be overgrown, and it wasn’t really that dark. And the stream couldn’t be that far away. In fact, I could hear the sound of running water. So I figured, what the heck, it’s an adventure, and set off down the path.

  After a couple of minutes I came to the stream. It was a narrow stream, not more than ten to twenty feet wide, which came twisting and turning down the hill through a series of rocks. In spring it might have been a raging torrent, but it was quite tame now. It looked shallow enough to wade across, if one had a mind. I wasn’t about to get my feet wet. I set off downstream, looking for the pond.

  It didn’t take long. It was right around the first bend. I came through the trees, and there it was. An actual pond, no doubt about it, a good forty to fifty feet wide, just off the far side of the stream.

  When the stream was high it probably fed the pond. At the moment it was separated by a little bank of mud and rocks. It was just dark enough that the moonlight reflected off the pond made the little grove in which it stood seem like an entirely romantic setting.

  Or maybe it was the young couple embracing in the shadow of the pine trees beside the stream. I didn’t see them at first, and they clearly didn’t see me, because they went on about their business as if I wasn’t there. But some movement or other caught my eye, and suddenly there they were, necking to beat the band.

  I couldn’t see them clearly, and I had no idea who they were. Nor did I care. All I wanted to do was get out of there as quickly as possible, before I embarrassed them by my presence.

  Then they turned slightly, and moonlight fell on the young woman’s hair.

  It was blond.

  A blond page-boy cut.

  Just my luck. And what did I do to deserve it? Here I am, minding my own business, and I happen to stumble over the Swedish hiking couple and wind up spying on their love life. What was Alice going to make of that?

  I’d just had that thought when the young couple swung around sideways and light fell on their faces.

  It was indeed the Swedish hiking beauty, she of the infinitesimal swimsuit.

  But the young man kissing her didn’t have blond hair.

  His hair was dark.

  Uh-oh.

  He was the young man who had brought us our drinks.

  The busboy.

  Louise’s son.

  8.

  I DREAMED SOMETHING was treading on my chest. It was one of those dreams where you’re afraid you’re going to wake up and find out it’s true.

  I opened my eyes.

  Blinked.

  A large, orange, striped c
at was kneading up and down on my chest with its paws, clearly tromping down a spot on which to lie. While I gawked at it in amazement, the cat completed its task, made a 360-degree turn as if screwing itself in, and plopped down on my chest and proceeded to purr.

  The door opened, and Alice came in.

  “You have a cat on your chest,” she said.

  “I see that.”

  “Why do you have a cat on your chest?”

  “I’m not entirely sure. I guess I left the door unlatched. Was it open just now?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “Then I must not have closed it all the way. Either that, or this cat has mastered doorknobs.”

  “How long has he been there?”

  “I woke up, and he was tromping on my chest. He lay down, and you came in.”

  “You look adorable.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. How was the movie?”

  “You wouldn’t have liked it.”

  “Yeah, I know. Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “Not making me see it. Johnny’s wife made him sit through it twice.”

  “Who’s Johnny?”

  “The couple having drinks on the porch. They didn’t go to the movie because they’d already seen it twice.”

  “Really?” Alice said. “You actually introduced yourself to them?”

  “Not really. I just went in the TV room, and they were there. Watching some god-awful movie of the week.”

  “You watched with them?”

  “Not if you paid me. I’d have rather watched your movie. Boy, is this strange.”

  “What?”

  “You ever try talking with a cat on your chest?”

  “Not that I recollect.”

  “Well, he’s vibrating with my voice box, and the effect is a little weird. Anyway, that’s not what I did tonight.”

  “What did you do?”

  I told Alice about my adventure finding the pond. It was not easy with the cat on my chest, but I did my best.

  “You found her necking?” Alice said. “Stanley, what is it with you and this girl? Are you following her around?”

  “Don’t be silly. I had no idea she was there.”

  “And yet she turns up everywhere you go.”

  “I wasn’t the one necking with her, Alice.”

  “So who was?”

  “The busboy,” I said. It was my trump card, and I played it casually. “Louise’s son.”

  Alice’s eyes widened. “Randy?” she said. “She was making out with Randy?”

  So much for my victory. I gave Alice a pained look. “His name’s Randy?” I said. “How do you know that?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Alice said. “Louise’s son is named Randy. He went to Dartmouth two years, dropped out for a year, and bummed around, but he’s going back in the fall. In the meantime he’s living at home, helping out at the inn.”

  I snorted in disgust. The cat raised its head, gave me a dirty look, then got to its feet and stretched and yawned, digging its claws into my chest. It was not painful, just annoying. I cocked my head at the cat, said, “Is that really necessary?”

  In answer, the cat swung a one eighty and managed to smack me in the face with its tail, in the process of going through the whole stretching routine again. Then, thoroughly satisfied with itself, it climbed down off me, curled up in a ball next to me, and began purring loudly.

  “You have such a way with animals,” Alice said.

  “I didn’t do anything,” I said. “I’m just lying here. Would you mind telling me how you know all about Louise’s son?”

  “Everyone knows about Louise’s son,” Alice said. “Jean and Joan told me, but Florence knew it too.”

  “Jean and Joan?”

  “Yes. The two women who came in together. To the movie.”

  “What two women who came in together?”

  “Stanley, we were shooting pool, and Florence came in with those other women. That was Jean and Joan.”

  “Oh?”

  “You didn’t notice the women who came in?”

  “Not particularly. Was there any reason that I should?”

  “Absolutely not,” Alice said. “None of them were young and attractive and practically naked. So there was no reason for you to notice them at all.”

  “Give me a break.”

  “So Randy was making out with Christine. How interesting.”

  “Her name’s Christine?”

  “You didn’t know that? Yes, her name’s Christine, and her boyfriend is Lars.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “More than likely. Of course some married women retain their last names. But they’re registered as Lars Heinrick and Christine Cobb.”

  I blinked. “How in the world do you know all this?”

  “Are you kidding?” Alice said. “An attractive young couple like that, you think people aren’t going to notice them?”

  I opened my mouth, closed it again. After all the grief I’d been getting for noticing them, what could I possibly say to that?

  “Anyway,” Alice said, “Jean snuck a peek at the registration book—Jean’s the nosier of the two, even before I knew she did that, you could just tell—and that’s how they’re registered.” Alice cocked her head. “Would you like their room number?”

  “I’d prefer their frog.”

  Alice frowned. “I don’t know their frog. It’s not listed that way in the register. I think to find out, you’d have to go and see. Anyway, their room’s in the main building. Room four.”

  “I’d go look, but I don’t want to disturb the cat.”

  “Of course not.”

  “You wouldn’t know its name, would you?”

  “I didn’t even know there was a cat.”

  “I’m surprised. What about the chef?”

  “What about him?”

  “You happen to know who he is?”

  “That’s rather sexist.”

  “What?”

  “Assuming the chef is a man.”

  I blinked. “Alice. You said, ‘What about him?’”

  “So?”

  “You assumed he’s a man.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t assume he’s a man. I know he’s a man. It’s not sexist to call the chef a man if you know he’s a man.”

  “You know who the chef is?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Why am I surprised?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t even know why you were asking.”

  “Because I asked Louise about the chef, and she changed the subject.”

  “You asked Louise about the chef?”

  “I wasn’t prying. She asked me about dinner. I had to say something. I asked who the chef was, she didn’t answer and excused herself.”

  “He’s her husband.”

  “Oh?”

  “They’re not getting along. That’s why she didn’t want to talk about him.”

  “Alice.”

  “Well, it’s common knowledge. You can tell just to look at her, that is not a woman in a happy relationship. Anyway, Charlie’s the cook.”

  “Her husband’s named Charlie?”

  “Didn’t I just say that? And there’s no way she’d divorce him, because his recipes are to die for.”

  I sat up a little too quickly for the cat, which sprang to its feet and arched its back, its tail lashing furiously.

  “Alice,” I said. “How could you say something like that?”

  “Well, it’s true. The only reason they’re making a go of it is the dining room. Without that, the whole place goes under.”

  “You’re suggesting Louise stay with a husband she doesn’t love just to keep a business venture afloat?”

  “You think she should divorce her husband?”

  “I don’t think anything of the sort.”

  “Then what are you talking about?”

  “About what you said.”

  “I didn’t
say anything.”

  “Yes, you did. You said she couldn’t divorce her husband.”

  “So?”

  “What do you mean, so? That’s the whole point. You’re the one who brought up divorce.”

  “I didn’t bring it up. I said it was out of the question.”

  “For financial reasons?”

  “Of course.”

  “Alice, you can’t admit that. That’s the whole argument.”

  “What argument?”

  I had no idea. My mind was mush, and I couldn’t keep anything straight in my head. Which usually happens when I try to argue with Alice. After years of marriage, you’d think I’d know better.

  I sighed, scratched the cat under the chin. It regarded me suspiciously a moment, then, mollified, lay down, and curled up again.

  I looked at Alice. “So,” I said, “here we are, once again, in our TV-less room with nothing to do.”

  “I’m going to bed,” Alice said.

  “My thought, exactly.”

  “I’m going to sleep. We have to be up early in the morning.”

  “Why?”

  “We have a seven-thirty breakfast reservation.”

  “Seven-thirty?”

  “Sure. We don’t want to sleep all day. It’s not like in the city. We’re in the country. When the light comes in the window, you’re going to want to get up.”

  “I’ll get up,” I said. “I promise you, I’ll have no problem getting up. Whether I go to sleep right now, or just a little bit later.”

  Alice smiled and slipped out of her hiking shorts, which I thought was a promising sign.

  It wasn’t.

  She went in the bathroom, emerging minutes later in her flannel pajamas.

  “Good night,” she said, getting into bed.

  I made one last feeble attempt, which earned me nothing but a reminder that the walls were paper-thin, after which Alice rolled over and went right to sleep.

  It’s amazing how she can do that. I have trouble falling asleep. Usually, what helps me go to sleep is watching television.

  I sighed, got up, trying not to disturb the cat, and rummaged through the suitcase for my book. It was a murder mystery I’d brought along at Alice’s urging—when we were packing she said, “Bring a book,” so I’d brought a book. But I hadn’t expected to read it, so I’d just plucked it off the shelf almost at random. It was an Agatha Christie that I’d probably read before, but didn’t really remember the title.