In Between (7 page)

Sam grabbed her arm and headed toward windows where he had seen uniformed men passing back and forth. “Come on, I want to see what's going on out there. Crime scene or something.”

“Just a second,” she said, pulling back. She looked at the man who was speaking, the one she had named Colonel.

He was talking in a hard, every-word-significant kind of a way. “Just make sure the stories stick. Has anyone gotten to Marilyn yet?”

“No,” Fats said. “They're still in the suite.”

“Alex, too?”

“Sure. Look, Greg, we all watched the movie, had a couple of drinks and went to our rooms and stayed there. There's no ‘story' to it. Just the plain simple truth. Except for Alex.”

“Right. Except for Alex.” Colonel poured more coffee for himself and scowled at the carafe. “God, this is a catastrophe, coming now. Avery is in touch with the governor. We've got to put the cork in this mess fast.”

“Okay,” Lori said. “They've got their stories straight, and I guess the wives are over there honing their lines or something. On to the crime scene.”

They went out to a wide, covered walkway that surrounded the entire building. Overhead was another one just like it. Every guestroom in the complex opened to the walkway, with chairs and tables placed outside each sliding door to the rooms, a place to park snow-covered gear, Sam had learned on his visits here. The walkway was six or eight feet high above the ground, although at his last visit snow had come up to the flooring. Two men were at the end of the building, one of them talking on a cell phone. The other was holding a medical bag.

“Sheriff, Coroner,” Lori said, passing them to observe a body sprawled on its back near the rail. A man in a white shirt, dark trousers, and a lot of blood. She looked around, then called out, “Malcolm! Malcolm Vicente! Are you here?”

Sam shook her arm. “Stop that! What are you doing?”

“Maybe he's hanging around, like us. He can simply tell us who shot him and be done with it.”

“Jesus,” he said. “Listen.”

He stepped closer to the sheriff and heard him say, “Yeah, yeah, I get it. Sure, fine by me.” The sheriff pocketed the phone and gave the coroner a dour look. “Lieutenant governor's on it. They're sending in state investigators to take over. They said to leave him until Captain Conkling gets here with his crew.” He walked past the dead man and yelled to a deputy out on the lawn. “Come on in, Bud. Let the staties have fun searching.”

A deputy, who had been leaning over, inching his way along, straightened, nodded, and walked to the veranda and up the stairs.

“State's taking over,” the sheriff told him as he approached. “Go get that manager and start a count of the guns, find out if any's missing.” He eyed the corpse, shook his head, and pulled a piece of chewing gum from his pocket, unwrapped it and carefully put the paper in his pocket, the gum in his mouth. The deputy nodded and left. “You want some coffee, Doc?” the sheriff asked. “While you wait?”

“Not waiting,” the coroner said. “My daughter's here visiting with her three kids. I told them we'd go fishing, and I aim to do that. I'll get to the autopsy on Monday.” He hefted his medical bag, descended stairs to the ground, and walked to a convertible in the driveway. He got inside, waved to the sheriff, and drove away.

“We'll catch up on what's been going on when the sheriff reports to the captain,” Sam said. “I want to find Alex and see how he's doing.”

“What guns?” Lori asked. “What does that mean?”

“They do skeet shooting, target practice, hunt in season. It's a regular arsenal. Let's go find Alex.”

They passed through the glass door to the lobby, a mammoth space with an oversized fireplace on one wall that was faced with multicolored granite stones. A uniformed deputy stood at a corridor entrance, another at the front entrance to the lobby.

“Registration book,” Lori said, spotting it on a counter. She hurried over to it. “Malcolm and Marilyn Vicente, room 101,” she called to Sam. “Alex is in 213. He's probably with his mother, don't you think?”

“This way,” Sam said, heading toward the corridor being guarded by a deputy.

Room 101 was the first suite in the corridor. When they entered, Marilyn Vicente was sitting bolt upright on a sofa staring into space. She was a round little woman with blonde hair streaked with reddish brown. That morning she had no makeup on except for poorly applied lipstick that looked garish on her white face.

“Harmon will know,” she was saying in a low monotone. “He always knows what to do.”

“Mother, snap out of it. Please, look at me.” A younger woman was kneeling before Marilyn, waving her hand before her face.

“Daughter,” Sam said. “Louise. Alex called her Cruella.” He nodded toward the sliding door where a man was standing, leaning against the frame, with his head pressed on the glass, his back to the room. “Alex.”

“And that one?” Lori asked, pointing to a second man seated at a table glowering at Louise and Marilyn.

“Must be Royce Stossel,” Sam said. “Louise's husband. I never met him.”

“Mother, pay attention to me,” Louise said. She had a high pitched voice. “They'll come to ask questions any minute. All you have to do is tell them you came to your room and took a sleeping pill and went to bed. That's all you have to say. Are you listening to me?”

“I told you. I looked for him,” Marilyn said. “When I went to get a glass of milk, but he wasn't there. I told you.”

“Good God!” Royce Stossel said and jumped to his feet. “Marilyn! You came to your room and went to bed! Period!” He pulled Louise away and took Marilyn's arm, shook her slightly.

“He wasn't where he said he would be. He does that, you know. That's why I always call Harmon. He knows what it's like. He'll take care of it.”

“For God's sake, Marilyn! Do you have anything you can take, a tranquilizer?”

Alex spun around to face the room. “Back off, Royce. Leave her alone. She's in shock.”

“She doesn't have a clue about what's going on,” Louise said angrily. “She has to snap out of it before they come.”

“When did you look for him?” Royce demanded.

“I said to back off!” Alex took a step into the room with his fists clenched.

“You'd better be thinking about what you're going to tell them! I heard you walking around all night!”

“You going to tell them you were up listening to footsteps all night?”

“We can't let her tell them she was wandering around looking for him!” Louise cried over the two men yelling over each other.

Lori was watching them all, Alex advancing toward Royce, Marilyn sitting like a statue, Louise scowling at her mother, her husband turning a furious face toward Alex. Louise was tall and thin with sharp features, a narrow mouth and eyes that looked a little too small for her face. Big sister bully, Lori decided. She looked like a Cruella, ready to throttle anyone within reach.

Royce was red-faced, tall and muscular with thick black hair and an incipient black beard. He had the start of male pattern baldness on the back of his head. Beside him, Alex appeared almost thin, when she knew he was wiry, lean and athletic. He had to be strong since he had practically carried Sam through deep snow. Also, he was good looking, with wavy dark hair and deep-set, dark blue eyes, a good tan. At the moment he looked furious, ready to take on Royce. Everyone was talking at once, no one listening.

Ignoring the others, all speaking or yelling at the same time, Marilyn spoke again. “It was after you and Cal went to the bar,” she said in that same monotone, facing Louise. “You and Cal were having a drink, or maybe not. I passed you.”

There was silence for a few seconds. Then Louise said, “I went down for a nightcap and he was just coming out of the bar. We talked a minute or two.” She didn't glance at Royce as she said this. “I thought I might find you there,” she added, and gave him a sidelong look.

“I was going over the schedule with Stuart,” Royce said.

“Colonel Mustard in the library with a sledge hammer,” Lori said, in disgust. “It sounds as if they were all up and wandering about most of the night. Is that a helicopter coming in?”

She and Sam hurried to and through the sliding door as Royce and Alex both went out to the walkway to watch a helicopter land on the lawn before the building.

“The staties have arrived,” Sam said. “Let's go hear what the sheriff has to tell them.”

They flitted out to the walkway where the sheriff was waiting for the state police captain at the top of the stairs. The captain was taking his time getting from the helicopter to the resort, talking with a man at his side as he approached. They and several others who trailed after them were all in jeans, with cowboy hats or baseball caps, boots, and only the captain had a sport coat on, the others were in shirt sleeves.

Captain Conkling was as brown as tobacco and as wrinkled as a pecan. Lean above the waist, and long legged, thin faced, but with a big belly, he made Lori think of a caricature, a cartoon officer with parts that didn't quite fit together.

“Lo, Mike,” the sheriff said as the captain mounted the stairs.

“What's the deal?” Conkling said, extending his hand. “Been awhile. How're you doing?”

“Tolerable. Tolerable. Malcolm Vicente, sixty-four yesterday, shot last night through the back, straight through his heart and out. No bullet yet, no shell casing, nothing. Checking now to see if a gun's missing. There's a passel of them in the lodge. Folks had dinner, watched a movie. Vicente went to an office to do some work. Had a fight with his kid at dinner. After the movie they all milled about for a spell, then took off to their rooms and went to bed. All but Vicente. He stayed in the office. Couple of them looked in on him before they went to their rooms. Heard nothing, saw nothing, know nothing. One of the housekeepers found the body this morning at seven fifty. Died between two and four. Doc will know more about that after the autopsy. And that's all we've got so far.”

They walked to the body as the sheriff spoke. There, the captain drew in a long breath. “Sure as hell ain't suicide, or accident either, I reckon.” He turned to the sheriff after surveying the body with a frown. “What time did you boys get here?”

“Quarter to nine.”

“And I bet that the whole kit and caboodle of them came out to have a look-see before that.”

“You'd win that bet. Stossel, Vicente's son-in-law, even turned the body over. He'd been face down.” The sheriff adjusted his big hat. “Now, unless you want us, I'll get my gang together and get out of here. You're welcome to it. Bunch of big shots, big money, with more coming Sunday afternoon and Monday. You're welcome to them.”

“What's the deal up here? No real customers? What's that all about?”

The sheriff had taken a step or two toward the stairs, but now stopped and said, “The company reserves the whole damn place this time of year to hold a pow wow or something. Some of them came here early for the birthday celebration, more coming in Sunday, Monday. Bringing family, some of them. They say fifty or more will be around when they all get here. Company big shots from around the country, around the world maybe. Right now the family's in a suite, the others are in the restaurant. Staff's all in a lounge off the kitchen, except the cook. He's making coffee and putting together some breakfast. And that's all I know. We got pictures if you want them.”

The captain shook his head. “Goddamn mess is what you got. Yeah, turn over your pictures. We'll get more.”

Sam stopped listening and moved closer to Lori, who was standing near the body frowning at the rail.

“Looks like he was just standing here, maybe leaning against the rail when he got shot,” she said, pointing to blood on the railing.

“Maybe just walking, stretching his legs,” Sam said.

She shook her head. “I don't think so. Look, you can see where he was holding onto the rail. Dusty everywhere except for those two places. I don't think he was a moving target.”

Sam glanced over other sections of the rail, all covered with dust except where she was pointing.

The sheriff was now going down the stairs, and the captain was talking to two of his men, giving them instructions in quick staccato phrases. Get statements. Find the shell casing or the bullet. Secure the office where Vicente was working before he got shot. Tell the morgue guys to remove the body as soon as the photographer got through. At that moment the deputy who had been sent to check the arsenal appeared with the manager of the resort.

The deputy looked confused, glancing first at the captain, then at the sheriff, who waved to him and said, “Just tell him, and we're out of here.”

“A Remington pump action 30.06 rifle is missing. Nothing else,” the deputy said.

“A goddamn deer rifle! You're saying someone gunned him down with a deer rifle? On a porch?”

“No sir,” the deputy said. “I'm saying one's missing.” He looked again at the sheriff, then headed for the stairs.

“Jesus!” The captain shook his head, then turned to one of his plainclothes men and continued to give orders. “A fucking deer rifle! Get statements, separate them first, for what good that's going to do. They've had hours to get their stories lined up. I'll go talk to the family.”

The man Lori had called Colonel strode from the restaurant, spied the captain entering the building, and hurried to him.

“Are you in charge?” he asked, drawing close. “I'm Greg Sharon. Look, we're in a disaster mode here. Malcolm Vicente's death has been a catastrophic loss to our company. It's imperative that I get his notes on his laptop, as well as those in a folder he was working on last night. We have people flying in from around the world for a week-long series of meetings that Malcolm was to spearhead. Someone has to take over that function, has to acquaint himself with details that only Malcolm had at his fingertips.”