For Better or Hearse (12 page)

“You don't look so good, dearie.” Leatrice watched me collapse onto my couch. “Maybe you need something cool to drink.”

“I'll check out the refrigerator,” Richard called over his shoulder as he walked from my living room to the kitchen. He pulled open the wooden shutters that created a window between the two rooms. “Make sure she doesn't faint.”

“I'm fine,” I lied. Richard had threatened to throw Leatrice's hat into traffic if she sang again, so the ride home from the police station had been mercifully quiet, but my head still throbbed. It was hard to believe that we'd spoken to Gunter only a couple of hours ago and now he was dead. I couldn't help thinking that my meddling was the reason.

“You didn't get this upset when you saw Henri's body.” Kate tossed her shoes off and perched on the arm of the couch. “What gives?”

“What if we're the reason he's dead?” I asked, my
throat dry. “Obviously he was killed so he couldn't talk, and we're the ones trying to get people to talk.”

“You can't blame yourself for this.” Kate shook her head. “Maybe it was an accident.”

“Too coincidental,” I said firmly. “I'm starting to think Richard is right about my car, too. Maybe the real killer is sending us some warnings to back off.”

“Did I hear you say that I'm right? Will wonders never cease?” Richard bounced out of the kitchen carrying a glass of something brown. He handed it to me. “It's slightly flat Coke, but in this case it'll be good for you.”

I took a drink. Sad to say, I was getting used to flat soda. “Poor Gunter. Now we'll never know what he was hiding.”

“But we can be pretty sure he saw something that someone didn't want him to share with you or the police,” Leatrice said. “You must have struck a nerve with your questioning.”

“That's right, Annabelle,” Kate agreed. “We must have been on the right track or the real killer wouldn't have felt threatened enough to murder again.”

“Is that supposed to be comforting?” Richard shuddered. “You girls are lucky you got out of there alive.”

“I don't think
we're
in danger,” I said, dismissing Richard's concern.

“Oh really?” Richard began pacing in front of my windows. “A smart killer would go straight to the source. Why not get rid of the two people who are poking around and stirring up trouble? The police aren't looking for more suspects, so the murderer is home free as long as you two don't mess everything up.”

I opened my mouth to argue and then stopped. He had a point. Maybe our harmless investigation wasn't
so harmless after all. “But who's the most likely killer out of the people who knew we were asking questions about Henri's death?”

“I don't think we can assume that only the people we talked to knew we were there,” Kate said. “Word travels fast.”

“Why don't we write down all the suspects?” Leatrice began searching for some blank paper on my coffee table. She produced a legal pad from under a pile of magazines and pulled a miniature pencil from her pocket.

Richard let out a long breath. “This seems rather pointless since you're officially retired from your investigation, right?”

“It can't hurt to talk about the case.” I shifted in my seat and avoided his eyes.

“There's Mr. Elliott, the hotel's general manager,” Kate began. “Nobody likes him, and he wanted to get rid of both Georgia and Henri. He got everyone out of the room where the murder took place under false pretense, too.”

Leatrice scratched feverishly in the pad. “That's good. Motive and opportunity. Who's next?”

“I guess the remaining chefs we spoke to. Jean and Emilio. Neither of them were too fond of their boss, and both were in the room prior to the murder. But they have alibis.” I downed the last of the flat soda and put the glass on the floor. “Jean is a bit of a prima donna, and Emilio is the in-house Casanova.”

“Is he still chasing skirts?” Richard smirked. “He worked for me a few years back. I was always afraid I'd open a kitchen door and find him romancing a prep cook on the counter.”

Leatrice's eyebrows popped up. “That doesn't sound very sanitary.”

“I doubt Emilio's love life has anything to do with the murder.” I tried to change the subject before Leatrice asked for more details. “I would normally list the banquet captain, Reg, as a suspect but I think he's too in love with Georgia to frame her for murder.”

“He could have committed the crime without meaning for Georgia to get arrested for it,” Kate suggested.

“Good point.” I nodded. “That would explain why he's so distraught over her arrest. Maybe he killed Henri to help Georgia, then his plan backfired.”

“But do you really think Reg could have murdered someone?” Kate asked me. “He can barely get two sentences out without tripping over his words.”

“I know, but if we eliminate everyone we think is too nice to be a killer, our list will only have one name—Mr. Elliott. And Darcy and Hugh swear that he's too spineless to do it.”

“Who are Darcy and Hugh?” Leatrice started to write their names down.

“Darcy has been Georgia's assistant for the past three years and Hugh is the head concierge,” Kate explained.

“Talk about people who are too mild mannered to kill someone, unless Hugh could get first row Kennedy Center tickets out of it.” I grinned. “Neither of them have motives, either.”

Leatrice frowned and tapped the notepad with her pencil. “I'll leave them on the list, anyway. Do you have any suspects who don't work in the hotel? It sounds like your victim might have had enemies all over town.”

I avoided Richard's gaze. “There is another chef who hated Henri enough to kill him.”

“There is no way Marcello could have had anything to do with Henri's death,” Richard insisted. “I was with him setting up for a wedding at Dumbarton House at the precise time Henri was murdered.”

Leatrice shook her head. “That doesn't make him a very good suspect, then.”

“No, it does put a wrinkle in things,” I admitted.

Leatrice looked at her notes and then looked up at us. “Someone isn't what they seem to be.”

I snapped my fingers. “She's right. What do we really know about these people? We need to research our suspects. Find out about their pasts. Where else they worked in town, their reputations, their personal lives. Maybe that will give us the clues we need to piece it all together.”

Richard glared at me. “Might I remind you that you swore off meddling only an hour ago?”

“Annabelle doesn't have to do it.” Kate hopped up. “I've got lots of contacts in hotels.”

“Do you mean contacts or ex-boyfriends?” Richard batted his eyelashes at her.

Kate stuck her tongue out at him. “Jealous?”

“Hardly.” Richard snatched my empty glass from the floor and flounced off to the kitchen.

“Listen.” Kate lowered her voice. “I have to run a few errands tomorrow, so why don't I pop by some of the hotels and see what I can dig up?”

“Alone?” I asked. “After what happened today, are you sure that's safe?”

“I could go with you,” Leatrice offered.

“No,” Kate said forcefully, and then relaxed into a smile. “I'll be fine. None of the other hotels have murderers on the loose, remember?”

“I should stay in the office and get some paperwork done. And it'll keep Richard off my back about meddling.” I shook a finger at her. “As long as you promise to call me as soon as you find out anything.”

“I'll come back with a full report,” Kate assured me.

Richard emerged from the kitchen with his hands on his hips. “I would like to lodge a formal protest against this harebrained idea.”

“What harebrained idea?” I gave him my most innocent look. “Kate is perfectly capable of gathering information.”

“If she comes back with anything more than a stack of men's phone numbers, I'll die of shock.”

Kate stood up and slipped her feet into her shoes. “You wait and see what I find out.” She grabbed her purse from the floor and marched over to the door. “Sticks and scones may break my bones…”

Richard watched as Kate slammed the door behind her and he shook his head slowly. “I rest my case.”

“Have you heard anything from Kate yet?” Leatrice caught me as I tried to stealthily open my mailbox in the building foyer.

“It's barely afternoon.” I sighed, looking at my watch. I scooped my mail out of the metal mailbox and snapped the door shut. “She's probably still getting started.” Truth be told, she probably just rolled out of bed. Not that I was one to talk. I aspired to make it out of my yoga pants by afternoon. Not that I'd actually made it to yoga class, but I figured getting dressed for it was a step in the right direction. Tomorrow I'd actually attempt a sun salutation.

Leatrice followed me back upstairs. “I've been thinking about the murders. I think we're missing something.”

“Like the killer,” I replied absentmindedly as I padded up the stairs in my sock feet. I'd spent the morning printing updated “to-do” lists for clients and returning phone calls. For once my mind was focused on marriage, not murder.

As I reached my landing, I heard my business line ringing. It figured the second I left my desk, the phone would ring. I opened the door and rushed down the hall to get the call in time. I snatched the phone off my desk and steadied my voice. “Wedding Belles. This is Annabelle.”

Crap. Nothing but dial tone.

“Did you miss an important call?” Leatrice stood in the hallway behind me, slightly out of breath.

I looked at the caller ID. The Fairmont Hotel. I wondered who could be calling me from there. Hugh the concierge with some juicy gossip? Darcy on the verge of a nervous breakdown? I punched in my voice-mail code.

“Well?” Leatrice rocked back and forth on her heels, making her gold jingle bell necklace ring.

“Isn't that a Christmas necklace?” I asked as I listened to the message.

She gave me a look like I was a simpleton. “On the Style channel they say you should have a signature piece of jewelry, and this is mine.”

Somehow I didn't think that was what the Style channel had in mind.

I hung up the phone and put it back on my desk. “They found my car. But it's been scraped up. I'd better grab a cab to the hotel. No way am I calling Richard and having him say ‘I told you so' the entire ride there.”

“Don't be silly, dear. We can take my car.”

I stared at Leatrice for a few seconds. “You have a car?”

“Of course I have a car. I don't drive it much, of course. Not much need when you have everything within walking distance.”

“Do you have a license?” I hesitated to ask.

Leatrice gave me a curious look. “Of course. You're not supposed to drive without one, you know.”

I didn't dare ask if she'd updated it since the Carter administration. “Okay. Give me a second to get dressed and we can go.”

“Perfect.” Leatrice clapped her hands. “I'll go warm her up and meet you out front.”

I ran into my bedroom as I heard Leatrice close the front door. I tugged on a pair of black pants that I salvaged from the top of the hamper and pulled the plastic dry cleaning bag off a blue silk sweater. I figured the recently cleaned sweater would make up for the not-so-fresh pants. I threw my hair into a ponytail, snatched my black purse from the floor, and headed out the door.

Although the yellow Ford circa 1980 only had four doors, it took up almost as much space as a small stretch limo as it idled loudly in the middle of the street. I didn't see Leatrice at first glance, but I had little doubt that this was her car. They didn't make cars like this anymore. For a reason. I couldn't imagine where in Georgetown she could find a parking space large enough for this monstrosity.

Two loud honks of the car horn made me jump, and I finally noticed Leatrice's jet black hair poking above the steering wheel. “Hop in, dearie.”

I opened the passenger door after a few hard tugs and lowered myself into the car. Leatrice perched on a pile of phone books on the driver's side and wore what appeared to be old-fashioned flight goggles and a flying scarf.

She revved the engine. “I feel the need for speed.”

Great. Mario Andretti with cataracts. “We're not in any rush,” I assured her.

“Don't you want to see what this baby can do? She's in mint condition.” Leatrice rubbed the dashboard. “I only take her out for special occasions, but she corners like she's on rails.”

“Mint condition” was a slight exaggeration. The fabric roof of the car had started to bubble and sag in places, making the interior seem smaller than it actually was, even though from the outside it looked like we were driving a small apartment. I rolled down my window by hand as Leatrice stuck her arm out the window and merged into traffic.

“Did you just give a hand signal?” I glanced nervously behind me at the car that had slammed on its brakes to let us in.

“The turn signals are on the fritz,” Leatrice explained. “Don't worry, though. I know all the hand signals.”

I fumbled for my seat belt and wondered if anyone else in the city knew them. My only consolation was that the Fairmont was less than a mile away. How much damage could we do in less than a mile?

Minutes later I pried my fingers off of the armrest and stepped out of the car in front of the Fairmont. Leatrice was indeed the only person in D.C. who knew or used hand signals. At least the official ones.

“That was fun.” Leatrice hopped out of the car. She handed her keys to a gawking parking valet and strode after me into the hotel, her long scarf fluttering behind her. “Didn't I tell you she handled like a dream?”

I nodded, still steadying my legs. Driving with Leatrice was like riding in a runaway shopping cart. I paused as we walked into the lobby and noticed every person staring at us.

“Don't you want to take off your goggles, Leatrice?”

She pulled them down so they hung around her neck. “Remind me to put them back on when I drive, though. They're prescription.”

“This shouldn't take long. Do you want to wait for me while I talk to the front desk?”

“Wait a second.” Her eyes lit up. “This is where the murder took place, isn't it?”

“Yes, but we're not here about the murder. We're here to get my car back, so wait in the lobby and I'll be right—”

“I can't pass up a chance to see the murder scene.” Leatrice shook her head. “It would be bad investigating.”

“We're not investigating. I promised Richard that I wouldn't poke around and cause any more trouble.” I lowered my voice. “There's a killer in the hotel who wasn't too happy that Kate and I were asking questions yesterday and wouldn't be happy to see me snooping around again.”

“Then you go find out about your car, and I'll do the poking around.” Leatrice headed off across the lobby.

The thought of Leatrice snooping around by herself made me cringe. She was incapable of keeping a low profile, and I feared the mayhem she would create on her own. If I took her, at least I could get her in and out as fast as possible.

I chased after her. “Okay, fine. I'll show you the murder scene, and then we get my car and go.”

“Agreed.” Leatrice skipped after me as I led the way to the Colonnade.

I hurried down the glass hallway and paused outside the room to listen for any voices before walking in. Silence. I craned my neck around the corner and saw that the room was deserted before waving for Leatrice to follow me inside. The Colonnade was set with a hand
ful of round tables and upholstered chairs but was otherwise bare.

Leatrice went up to the raised gazebo. “Where did you find the body?”

“Over there.” I motioned to the far side of the room. “Now let's get out of here.”

“In a minute.” Leatrice walked up the stairs of the gazebo and put a hand against one of the large white columns. “So these blocked the view of the murder on the videotape.”

“I guess.” I walked around to where the ice sculpture had been. “It would be hard to get a clean view across the room with all these columns.”

“So even though the chef was killed in broad daylight in a room with glass walls, it would have been difficult to get a good look unless you were in the room.” Leatrice tapped her foot while she thought. “Even if someone saw something, it would be hard to distinguish much because of the obstructed view.”

“I suppose you're right, but that doesn't tell us anything we don't already know.”

“It tells us that the killer knew the room well enough to know where he would be hidden from view,” Leatrice said. “Which means that this wasn't a crime of passion. The murder was well-planned. Who arranges the setup of the room?”

“You think the room was arranged for the murder?”

Leatrice shrugged. “Or the killer got very lucky that the ice sculpture sat directly behind a column.”

“It must have been a coincidence because Georgia did the room diagram.”

“Your friend who was arrested for the murder?” Leatrice raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure she didn't have anything to do with it?”

“Of course I'm sure,” I said with more confidence than I suddenly felt. “She was in jail when the second murder was committed, remember?” I gave myself a mental kick for doubting Georgia.

“What if there are two killers? Didn't you say that one of your suspects is in love with her? Maybe he was her accomplice.”

“That's ridiculous. We're leaving, Leatrice.” I spun around and my breath caught in my throat. A thin man with sparse dark hair stood in my path. Mr. Elliott.

“You two have some explaining to do,” he said without changing his stern expression. “Perhaps I should call Security.”