A Crossworder's Delight (9 page)

Rosco gave the boy a pat on the back. “It's a theory, E.T., but I'm not certain it holds water. Mr. Morgan is just as worried about the theft as his brother.”

E.T. frowned as if he wasn't certain this were the case.

“Besides,” Rosco continued, “people don't generally steal from themselves … at least, not any I've found.” Then he added a conciliatory “On the other hand, Mr. Morgan's absence will provide plenty of opportunity to question the guests. Mr. Mitchell's gathering them in the parlor for me.”

Belle looked at her watch. “Mitchell figured that most of the overnighters would be ready for some refreshments right about now.”

“Good thinking,” E.T. agreed, giving Belle a thumbs-up signal. “This is when Joy sets up the cocoa and cookies and stuff.” He snapped his fingers. “She's another one we should be wary of. I've seen her dusting the poem, and spending a long time doing it, too. Very—and I mean
very
—suspicious. She may have only been trying to figure out how to get it off the wall.” Then he jammed his hat back on his head and pulled down the ear-flaps. “Well, I've got more shoveling to do.… Call me if you need me.”

“Roger,” was Rosco's mock-serious reply as he and Belle shared an amused look and entered the inn.

The first thing that struck them as they stepped into the space was its lack of animation. The day before, all had been noise, excitement, and motion; now silence reigned supreme. The utter stillness made the old building seem strangely eerie and forbidding.

“I've asked the guests to assemble in the front parlor, Rosco.” Mitchell's voice preceded him, as did the echoing sound of his footfall as he approached the couple. “I encouraged the decorating clubs to leave a short while ago. I hope that's acceptable. I felt that since we knew the participants fairly well, there was no sense in having someone risk a fender-bender or worse simply to answer questions.…” Then his habitual ambivalence and insecurity got the better of him. “The decorators will return tomorrow, however, after the snow plows have done their work. I'm sure f-f-folks will be happy to talk to you then.…”

“That's fine, Mitch.” Rosco's assured tone seemed to relieve Mitchell Marz, and he also assumed a purposeful air, quickly explaining that only five of the inn's ten rooms were booked, and that because of the inclement weather, the three couples and two single guests had remained and were available for questioning. “They're as shocked about this situation as Morgan and I are,” he concluded. “I can't imagine any of them had anything to do with the theft.”

“What about employees?” Rosco asked.

“Except for Joy Allman, everyone has been with us for well over five years; and Joy's been here three.”

“While we're waiting for your guests to assemble, Mitch, why don't you run through your list of employees. Would you suspect any of them at all?”

Mitchell shook his head. “First off, we have to look at opportunity. There was hardly anyone on duty when the poem disappeared—which was put at between midnight and nine—or rather 8:56—this morning when E.T. made his discovery. There's Chef; he's live-in; he has a one-bedroom above the current garage. And Joy was in early to set up breakfast.”

“That's it?” Belle asked.

“For early morning staff, yes. Morgan has a separate apartment with a separate entrance at the building's rear. I live in a small converted spring house on the premises. We can be easily summoned if there's a need, but no one else had arrived. We do a brisk lunch and dinner business, but the dishwashers and waitstaff don't start work until ten thirty or eleven. Our pastry cook generally begins around nine thirty.”

“Do any of them have keys to the inn?” Rosco asked.

“No … just Chef and Joy.… And of course the hotel guests have a key to the front door.”

“And, naturally, any former guest could have made a copy of the front door key,” Rosco pondered aloud while Belle excused herself. By prior arrangement, she and Rosco had decided that she would do some quiet snooping while Rosco queried the guests.

As she walked away she almost ran smack-dab into a short but determined older woman who sported a gray helmet of hair that looked as hard and unforgiving as steel. “Hatchet-faced” would have best described her less-than-sunny countenance. “Are you trying to roll right over me, tootsie? Watch where you're going,” she barked at Belle while Mitchell cooed a pleasant, “Ah, Miss Cadburrie, so nice of you to join us.”

But before he could introduce this problematic person to Rosco, several other guests appeared. Within a moment, all eight were gathered in the parlor: the three couples, Miss Cadburrie, and a single gentleman by the name of Barry Heath. He was clearly the most ill at ease of the group. A tall, hulking man with close-cropped hair and a bushy mustache that was obviously an object of much veneration, his hands shook as if he had a permanent chill while his walrus-sized mustache danced with a nervous tic.

Where to start?
Rosco wondered as he watched the assembled guests help themselves to cocoa, tea, or coffee.
How about a lie …? It's as good a place as any to begin
.… “Let me first state,” he said as seats were taken and cups and saucers placed nearby, “that none of you is a suspect in the theft. I'm simply asking for your suggestions and observations. You've had almost a full day to absorb the situation, and I was hoping one or more of you might have noticed something odd—either the behavior of the staff, or perhaps of the locals decorating the inn. I gather you've all stayed at the inn many times in the past?”

“Well, no,” Mitchell interrupted. “Mr. and Mrs. Towbler are here for the first time, as is Mr. Heath. The Yorkes are with us for their second stay.”

“I never arise before ten
A.M.
,” Barry Heath interjected, “I didn't see anything, and the crisis was over by the time I came down for breakfast. My comings and goings have been witnessed by all.”

The Towblers sat straighter in their chairs, sensing that being “first-timers” at the inn placed them outside the trusted loop. “I must say,” Mr. Towbler began with a clipped, old-school British accent, “that my wife and I are as disappointed with this tragic scenario as anyone could be. As Mr. Marz can attest, we arrived here late last night, and like Mr. Heath, we awakened to find the poem had already gone missing. Neither one of us had an opportunity to even view it.”

“And to be quite honest,” his wife added, “that was one of the reasons we'd chosen the Revere Inn.” She spoke with the same cultured accent as her husband. Like him, she also appeared to be in her mid fifties and was dressed in similarly conservative—and expensive—London tweeds.

“May I ask what you do for a living, Mr. Towbler?” Rosco said.

“Do?” was his irked reply.

“Yes … I was wondering what field you might be in.”

Towbler cleared his throat, but it was his wife who answered. “We are fortunate enough to be independently wealthy, Mr. Polycrates. What we
do
is travel. We reside not far from Craigie House in Cambridge, England … where I'm sure you're aware Mr. Longfellow spent his final years. It has long been our desire to visit the spots that the poet most stirringly evoked.… We residents from ‘across the pond' believe in lauding our noble
artistes
.” She graced the gathering with a smile that expressed her sympathy for the poor, uncultured colonials who didn't support the arts.

“I see.” Rosco turned his attention to another couple who were closer to his own age. They had the wholesomeness of avid sports enthusiasts, and they looked almost disturbingly similar: two round-faced blonds with pink cheeks and eyes as pale as snow. “How about you, Mr. and Mrs. Yorke? Has anything struck you as out of the ordinary? Either today or yesterday? Plainly, a theft such as this took planning.”

The husband finished what was left of his cocoa and set the cup on the Queen Anne table beside him. Of the assembled group, he seemed the most relaxed and confident. “Our room is directly above this one.” He pointed toward the ceiling. “And yes, I did hear an odd noise last night. I'd venture to say that was when the poem was stolen, but I never put two and two together. I'm embarrassed to say I didn't notice the time.”

“Can you ballpark it?” Rosco asked. “Would it have been closer to midnight … or early in the morning?”

“I got up at four
A.M.
to take a look at the Milky Way. It was incredibly well-defined.… The noise from downstairs definitely came after that point, and I was awake at seven, so I feel safe in saying it was stolen between those hours. But as far as suspicious behavior …” He shrugged and looked at his wife. “How about you, Patty?” She shook her head, but made no other comment.

Rosco glanced at Miss Cadburrie, then asked, “And you, Mr. Heath?” without looking in that guest's direction.

“What? What about me? I didn't take it.”

Rosco gave him a level gaze. “I didn't say you had. I was just wondering if you noticed any of the staff behaving oddly.”

“Maybe you should be grilling them, and leaving the paying guests alone.” Barry Heath's voice was hard but also unexpectedly brittle, as if his tense demeanor were about to break apart.

“I hope you don't feel I'm
grilling
anyone.”

“It's an insult, that's what it is. I won't come to a place and be accused of behaving like a common criminal.” Heath insisted.

“I agree with you, there, sport.” This was Mr. Reasey speaking, and his twangy accent revealed him as a confirmed Down-Easter. He and his wife were seated on a couch at the far corner of the parlor, lumped together like two Maine potatoes. “My wife and I are going to have to excuse ourselves before this meeting becomes any more uncomfortable. We've stayed at the inn numerous times, and we have nothing to add with regard to observations of suspicious behavior. It seems to me you should be questioning the hordes of local people who've been swarming over the place. However, if we think of anything, Mr. Marz, we'll be certain to tell you.” Rosco's name was conspicuously absent from this huffy speech, as if Reasey couldn't abide using a Greek surname. Then he stood, hefting his bulk from the low, antique sofa, and looked down at his equally chunky wife. “Coming, Ruth baby?”
Ruth baby
immediately struggled to her own square feet and waddled out the door after her husband.

The rest of the guests took this as their cue to leave as well. Within a matter of two minutes, Rosco found himself alone in the parlor with Mitchell and Miss Cadburrie. To say she was relishing her moment in the limelight would be an understatement; her eyes positively shone with malicious joy. “I, for one, don't find your line of questioning in the least bit intrusive, Mr. Polycrates. After all, how can one be expected to resolve this enigma if sensible people can't ask sensible questions?” She paused, her point made and handily won. “In my opinion, Mr. Polycrates, the Towbler duo are outright phonies, with their endless chattering about ‘spots of tea' and ‘Lord and Lady Snootypoo'.… I believe a search of their room will settle the predicament once and for all.”

“Thank you, Miss Cadburrie.” Rosco smiled benignly as he spoke. The Miss Cadburries of the world were best handled with caution lest they turn and snap at the people who'd befriended them. “I'll certainly keep your recommendation in mind, but without authority and a proper search warrant, I can't move forward as aggressively as I might want to.”

A dismissive sniff greeted this statement. “You don't look like a person to be cowed by name-dropping and references to
Debrett's Peerage
.… I certainly hope you don't share the same
laissez-faire
approach to those appalling people from Maine. They're as common as dirt. Although, at least there's nothing sham about
their
pose.”

Rosco merely nodded, while Mitch uttered a conciliatory, “Thank you so much for your aid, Miss Cadburrie. You know what a pleasure it is to have you stay with us.”

The cantankerous lady softened, but the transformation only extended to Mitchell. “Well, I wanted to relay my thoughts in private, Mr. Marz, so as to not alert any—”

“Thank you for your help, ma'am,” Rosco interrupted. He shook the lady's cool and papery hand to indicate that the conversation was concluded, then he watched her spin irritably on her heel and march away before he turned his attention to Mitchell. “I'd like to question the two employees who were on the premises when the poem disappeared, if that's convenient.”

“You'll find Chef in the kitchen. But Joy didn't come in until seven this morning, so she's in the clear.” Rosco said nothing, and Mitch added, “Because Yorke heard noises down here before seven, remember?”

“Right. Assuming he has no reason to lie.”

Eleven

“I can recite the whole thing,” E.T. boasted as he trailed behind Belle. With Mitchell ensconced with the guests in the front parlor, and Morgan temporarily out of the picture, E.T. had forsaken his outdoor duties in order to “help” Belle in her private hunt through the inn.

“What ‘thing'?” she said, although she was hardly listening to her chatty escort. For the ten or fifteen minutes E.T. had been with her, she doubted he'd stopped talking for more than a second.

She depressed the antique iron latch of a door under the second-floor stairway and found it locked—the third such discovery she'd made, not including the closed guest bedrooms.
Someone
, Belle thought,
must possess a good many old keys
. “Are these closet doors usually locked?” she asked.

“I don't know, I never come up here. Mr. Morgan likes me to stay outside. I think he's afraid I'll break something.… So, do you want to hear me recite it?”

“Recite what?” Belle walked the length of the hall, then turned and walked down two steps that led to another section of corridor and another part of the building.