Read Murder at the Mansion Online
Authors: Janet Finsilver
Murder at the Mansion (3 page)
I looked around the room. Lustrous pearls rested on cashmere sweaters. The diamond on one woman's hand competed in size with the crystal finial hanging from the center of the chandelier. The gentle orchestral strains of “Moon River” accompanied the conversation in the room.
These weren't the fleece-and-denim Redwood Cove visitors I had gotten to know. I straightened my jacket and ran my hand through my fog-frizzed hair.
A young woman offered some of Helen's appetizers to a guest. As she reached for one, a shrill scream ripped through the room, shattering the tranquil moment.
Chapter 3
T
he room went quiet, except for the music. People began to stand. Daniel and I rushed across the room.
he room went quiet, except for the music. People began to stand. Daniel and I rushed across the room.
“Please, everyone, remain seated,” I said. “Let us see what's happened.”
People sank back into their chairs.
I flung open the parlor door. The registration area was off to my left. A steep, wide staircase dominated the area ahead of me. A woman lay sobbing at the bottom of it in a crumpled heap.
I knelt beside her, and Daniel joined me. Tears had washed her artfully applied eyeliner down her cheeks, creating black rivulets through the powdered blush.
“Are you hurt?”
“I'm not sure,” she said in a tremulous voice. “Someone . . . someone pushed me.” She sat up and ran her fingers through her carefully coiffed blond hair, causing furrows in the heavily sprayed hairdo.
Daniel and I scanned the open landing above and saw no one.
“I'm Kelly Jackson, and this is Daniel Stevens. We work for Resorts International. Are you injured? Do we need to call a doctor?” I asked.
The woman slowly extended her arms, flexed her fingers, and then stretched each leg. “I feel sore, but I don't think anything is broken.”
“I'm so glad to hear it,” I said.
“I'm Sylvia Porter.” The woman's voice quavered. She cast a frightened glance at the row of rooms above, then looked at us, her eyes wide with fear. “I could've been killed! You need to search and find who did it. They're hiding up there.”
Daniel and I looked at each other.
Sylvia grabbed my arm. “Please, promise you'll search . . . that you'll find the person.” Her nails dug into my flesh.
I put my hand on hers. “We'll do our best.”
Daniel nodded in agreement.
A pair of very pointed black patent shoe tips appeared in my peripheral vision. I turned, and my gaze traveled up finely tailored women's black slacks and over a suit jacket. The woman's expression appeared more tolerant than concerned. Her short black hair completed the picture.
“Mrs. Porter, what's happened? Are you okay?” The woman bent over and patted Sylvia's shoulder. “There, there, dear. It looks like you've slipped and had a nasty fall.”
“I didn't slip, Mrs. Hensley.” A belligerent tone crept into Sylvia's voice. “I was pushed.”
So this is the manager and the source of the exchanged looks between Helen and Daniel.
Sylvia looked at Daniel and me. “You believe me, don't you? I know the difference between slipping and being shoved.” She threw a defiant glance at the woman bending over her.
“Do you think you can stand?” Daniel asked. “I'll help you.”
Sylvia grabbed the ends of the staircase railing. Daniel put his hand under her arm and helped her slowly to stand. The sobs reduced to sniffles.
“Did you see who . . . pushed you?” the woman next to me asked.
“No, Mrs. Hensley. If I had, I would've told you.” She glared at the manager.
“I'll let the guests know what's happened,” Mrs. Hensley said, “and I'll have Tina go upstairs with you and see that you're comfortably settled in your room. She'll be happy to prepare a tray for you from the parlor.”
“That would be nice.” Sylvia took a tissue out of her pocket and dabbed under her eyes.
“And I'd like to offer you a complimentary bottle of wine for your stay here.”
Sylvia shot a quick glance at the manager. “Well, I really enjoyed the Oak Tree merlot we had yesterday afternoon.”
“Of course, Mrs. Porter.” Hensley's eyelids dropped a fraction and her eyes narrowed. “You have excellent taste. I'll have it delivered to your room.”
The manager disappeared into the parlor.
Sylvia looked at Daniel and then me. “You said you were going to search. You're going to do that, right?” Tears began to well up again.
“Yes, we gave you our word. We'll look,” I replied.
Mrs. Hensley returned as Sylvia sagged against Daniel at our response. A young woman with short, brown curly hair came back with the manager.
“Mrs. Porter,” the girl said, “I'm sorry you had a fall. Let me help.” She supported Sylvia on one side, and Daniel supported on the other, and the group started a slow ascent up the wide staircase and into the woman's room.
I turned to the woman in black and held out my hand. “Kelly Jackson, manager at Redwood Cove Bed-and-Breakfast.”
“Margaret Hensley.” Her cold hand barely touched my palm.
I looked at the row of rooms above us through the second-floor railing. I counted six. “I think Daniel and I can do the search pretty quickly.”
“There's no need. The woman tripped and fell. Plain and simple.”
My shoulders tensed. “There is a need. We gave our word.”
“It'll be a complete waste of time.”
“Keeping one's word is never a waste of time.” The heat of a blush started, an angry one. My mental mirror reflected my red-and-white-splotched face.
Our verbal swords were drawn and poised for battle.
After a short pause that seemed like an eternity, she said, “Fine.” The word seemed to struggle to escape her clenched teeth. “Come with me.”
She turned, and I followed. We entered a massive office with dark oak paneling. Hensley marched over to the wooden cupboard, pulled a key from her pocket, and opened it. Skeleton keys lined the back, each on a numbered peg. A large metal ring at the bottom held numerous keys.
The manager grabbed it and turned to me, thrusting the keys in my direction. “You'll find no one. The Porter woman has been a pain since the day she arrived. A first-class drama queen.”
I took the keys. “Thank you.” I turned and left, determined to engage as little as possible with the angry manager.
I met Daniel on the landing. “I think if we say we're housekeeping, that will be the easiest way to announce ourselves to see if there's a guest in the room.”
“Good idea.”
I knocked on the first door. “Housekeeping.” I waited a moment, knocked again, and said, “Housekeeping.”
When no one answered, I inserted the room key. The large metal keys were heavy and cumbersome. It took some jiggling to make the lock turn. I opened the door, and Daniel searched the closet, while I looked under the bed and behind a large, high-backed chair in a corner.
We didn't find anyone and left the room. It took a bit of work to lock the door. The authenticity of the metal key was nice, but right now a more modern system would be nice. I went to the next room.
“Daniel,” I said, as I struggled with another recalcitrant lock and key, “why don't you search, and I'll go unlock the next room. When you come out, I'll lock it up. I think we can go faster that way.”
“Sounds like a good plan.”
With our new system, we made short work of the rest of the rooms.
The heavy keys dangled from my fingers. “I'll return these to Hensley.”
“Okay. I'll meet you in the kitchen.”
The office door was open. I knocked on the frame and walked in.
Hensley looked up from behind a large oak desk. “Did you find anyone?”
“No.” I handed her the keys.
“Like I said, a waste of time.” She put the keys in the cabinet and turned and looked at me. “Michael Corrigan informed me he assigned you to work here.”
She didn't lose a beat as she shifted the subject. No matter. I'd had horses change their gait on me like this, and I'd been able to stay on for the ride.
“He asked me to do an inventory.”
Not be your employee.
Not be your employee.
Our eyes locked. Neither of us blinked. I was a champ at this. My brother James and I used to spar like this all the time.
The phone rang, ending the silent standoff.
Hensley answered it. “Of course, Mrs. Carter. I'd be happy to meet you and discuss dining options.” She put the phone down and stood. “The guests finish breakfast at about eight. I like to mingle with them.” The manager grabbed a leather-bound notebook off of her desk. “Will nine tomorrow work for you to begin?”
For some reason it didn't sound like she was asking. “Fine.”
“Tomorrow then,” she said over her shoulder as she left.
I took a deep breath as I walked down the hallway. Now I knew what the other look meant between Helen and Daniel when they'd mentioned her name.
Daniel and the young woman from earlier stood next to the kitchen sink, talking. They stopped when I entered.
“Kelly, I'd like you to meet Tina.”
She gave a little wave. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”
“Same here.”
“Helen walked back to get dinner started for her and Tommy. The trays are in the van,” Tina said. She handed me a brochure. “This gives some of the history of Redwood Heights. I thought you might enjoy reading about it.”
I took the pamphlet. “Thanks.”
We took our leave. I sank back into the passenger seat, waves of tiredness threatening to drown me.
“Quite the end to a full day,” Daniel said.
“Yes, and there's still the evening to go.” I had told my boss I would call.
“Tina said all the guests were in the parlor when Mrs. Porter fell.”
“Good to know. We did what we could. I doubt if we'll ever really know what happened.”
We unloaded after the short drive to the inn. Daniel got Allie from where she was doing homework with Tommy, and they headed home. I walked into the workroom and relished its warmth after the cool ocean air.
Helen pulled a pan from the oven. “You must be exhausted.”
“Yes, I am.”
“I remembered how much you liked the first dinner I made for you, so I prepared the same one again.”
Two pieces of oven-baked chicken covered with fresh chopped herbs sat next to bright green broccoli with a light covering of Parmesan. A mixture of brown rice and sautéed mushrooms completed the dinner. I knew most, if not all of it, was organicâand it smelled wonderful.
“Helen, that's very thoughtful of you.” But not surprising, from what I knew about her. “I really appreciate it.”
I carried the tray to my room and put it on the table in front of the window seat. I didn't want it to get cold, but I needed to call Corrigan.
His hearty voice always gave me a shot of energy.
“Hey, Kelly, good to hear from you. I assume this means you made it okay.”
“Yep. I've already reconnected with the Silver Sentinels and made it over to Redwood Heights. Quite the place.”
“It's not the usual kind of place I purchase, but I heard some foreign investors were going to buy it and modernize it. I couldn't let that happen. Too much history there.”
“I met Margaret Hensley.” I stopped and waited for his response.
After a couple of seconds, he said, “She's an old friend of mine. The manager at the Heights asked for a leave of absence. Margaret wanted to get away for a while. She's dealing with . . . some problems.”
I wondered what kind of problems. Something that made her especially curt?
“New York City to Mendocino might have been a bit too much of a planetary leap for her,” Corrigan said.
That helped to explain the alienating attitude.
“I'll begin the inventory tomorrow.”
“There's something else you need to know.” Corrigan's deep sigh carried over the phone. “We've had a few pieces of jewelry stolen from some of the guest rooms.”
“Oh, my gosh. Do you have any idea how the thief got in?”
“We're not sure. We called the police in, of course, but they found nothing. It hasn't been going on for very long and happens during the day. I want you to keep your eyes and ears open for anything unusual.”
“Of course.”
We talked about a few business details and said good night. I had just finished dinner when Helen called.
“Kelly, Deputy Sheriff Stanton's here. He has questions about what happened at the Heights.”
“Okay. I'll be there in a couple of minutes.” I put the dishes on the tray and headed for the multipurpose room.
The deputy, a tall, heavyset man, waited there.
“Deputy Sheriff Stanton,” I said, “nice to see you again.”
“Same here Ms. Jackson. I heard you got back today.”
“What can I do for you, Deputy Sheriff?”
“I need to talk to you about what happened at the Heights today.”
“Before you start, Bill, would you like some coffee?” Helen asked.
“Sure. The usual would be great.”
Easy use of first names and the usual. Interesting.
“Kelly, anything for you?”
I put the tray on the counter. “No, I'm fine after the great meal you fixed.”
The deputy accepted the coffee Helen handed him. “A woman staying at Redwood Heights called and reported an attack. She says someone might have tried to kill her. Said you were there.”
“I was there, but I didn't see what happened.” I filled him in with what I knew.
“Margaret Hensley's convinced Mrs. Porter tripped and fell. But the woman was adamant about feeling two hands at her back and being shoved.”
“She didn't say anything to us about the hands.”
“Okay. Thanks. Good to have you back.”
I left Helen and the deputy sheriff talking and walked back to my room. Sylvia hadn't said anything about feeling someone's hands. Was she embellishing her story? Making it more believable? Or had someone really tried to hurt her . . . or to kill her?
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