A Sleuth Is Born Read online

  Absently, he ran his fingers around the rim of his unexpected bonus prize: his bodacious mistletoe belt buckle, which he’d jury-rigged onto the waistband of his jeans. He didn’t feel bad about stealing it. It was obvious the guy wasn’t gonna need it anymore.

  Someday, he thought, he’d upgrade his pathetic scooter to a righteous hog. It’s damn hard to make a hasty getaway when your ride barely breaks 40 miles an hour. One day he’d have a real paint-shaker, with big chrome pipes and ape-hangers. When that day came, the belt buckle would be the first piece of a boss holiday look! He’d get himself an awesome pair of chaps, too.

  Picturing himself tearing up the pavement on that hulking bike he coveted—instead of put-putting around on that weak-ass scooter—was one of his favorite fantasies. But lately, it always ended the same way, with a storm cloud invading his reverie.

  Of course, it was all her fault. If Betty Snickerdoodle hadn’t turned out to be such a crafty old witch, he’d have that sweet ride he deserved already. Instead, he was looking at prison. And he still had no clue how he would pay back that money he borrowed for his bail bond and his lawyer, either.

  That’s why he had to make Betty pay. He’d put that hag in her place. She’s so full of herself, with her fans and her millions and that loyal babe Angela by her side all the time. Now she’s even got that stupid hotel! Stupid fans. Time for them to see the truth. He laughed, thinking about how he’d turn them against Betty. Who’s smarter than I am? Nobody! Certainly not that old bag of bones.

  He stared at the peeling ceiling, replaying in his mind the excitement of the night before. Lucky for me I’m a quick thinker, he thought, his normal state of grandiose self-love returning. And lucky for me hay bales have sturdy twine. That rope sure was a brilliant idea. Got a few blisters on my hands, but they’ll heal. If I’d called for help getting out of that loft, I’d be back in jail with another trespassing charge on my rap sheet. Hell, they might even call it breaking and entering. Another of those on my record would definitely not be a plus for my trial.

  He rolled off the bed with a groan. Those few hours of sleep weren’t enough. Revenge was frickin’ exhausting.

  Stretching and yawning, he walked the few steps to the sole window of his grim studio. He drew up the narrow, tea-stained shade. A sliver of light streamed in from the alley. I guess it’s still morning, he thought. Sunshine was piercing the light winter fog, and the trash haulers were doing their noisy thing a few floors below.

  He splashed a little water on his face and examined his stubble and dark circles in the grimy mirror. Man, I need coffee. Now.

  At least I made a good haul before my night’s work was short-circuited. But it’s not gonna take much longer now, anyway. The plan’s gonna start working soon, and Betty will feel the pain. Last night was the best bunch of pictures yet—bet I won’t even need any more. Maybe I’ll copy them onto my laptop now, before I go grab a cup. It’ll be a lot easier to pick and choose the pix on a larger screen.

  He set his laptop on the kitchen table and attached a cable to the side, then hit the power button. The hoodie he’d worn the night before was draped over the back of a beat-up old kitchen chair. He grabbed it. Odd. It felt too light. He stuck his hand into the large pocket to retrieve his phone… nothing. Noooooo! He frantically patted his jeans pockets and his shirt.

  Nooooooo!

  His phone was gone. Did it fell out of his pocket as he slid down that rope? Or while he bent down to pick up the belt buckle? He looked at his trophy again. What was he thinking? It was just a stupid piece of metal.

  Now what? He paced the floor and tried to think. Think!

  Then he remembered something—something useful. Wasn’t there software on the phone—an app to let him find it if he lost it?

  He sat down in front of his open laptop and looked. Yes, he’d registered the phone. Of course he did, because he was so smart! What a relief. Now he could find the phone—he just had to click open the map….

  There it was. The pin on the map showed its location, right smack in the middle of Betty Snickerdoodle’s Christmas Inn & Ranch. Just need to go back to wine country and get it.

  But how could he do that now? In broad daylight? If Betty or anyone in her entourage of losers saw him, they’d call the cops, and he’d be back in jail. He’d have to wait until it was dark again. He’d have to wait until the middle of the night, when no one would notice him, like they hadn’t noticed him the past two nights in a row.

  That might be too late. What if somebody found it in the meantime?

  A pop-up window opened. “Is your phone missing?” it asked. “Would you like to lock it?”

  Oh, yes, he thought. Yes, yes I would love to lock it! It was like this website was reading my mind. I’ll just lock the phone. Now if one of Betty’s eager-beaver minions finds it, they’ll get a whole lotta nothing off of it.

  “Enter a message so that someone who finds your phone knows what to do.”

  Hehehe. Time for a little fun.

  He thought a minute, then began to type.

  Chapter 20

  Angela followed unnoticed behind Connie and Foxy as they walked back to the lobby doors. She was deliberately hanging back. Foxy was acting like the perfect gentleman—like a different, reserved, mannerly Foxy. Huh. Maybe Bea’s right, Angela thought. The guy’s a puzzle.

  As Connie and Foxy made their way in through the lobby, Angela watched them part ways. Connie headed down the hall towards the guest rooms, and, to Angela’s surprise, Foxy didn’t escort her. He offered a friendly wave, then headed in the opposite direction—towards the kitchen. What was he up to?

  As Foxy rounded the bend and moved out of sight, Angela skipped across the driveway to catch up a bit. She caught a glimpse of his sleek purple shirt as he slipped into the kitchen. She hustled up behind him and peered through the small window of one of the swinging doors. Silently, she watched Foxy open the door of the walk-in cooler, then look back, scanning to make sure no one had spotted him. Angela ducked, hoping he hadn’t noticed her. She rose back up slowly and peeped through the window again.

  Foxy had pulled the big box with Lee’s provisions out of cooler and set them on the prep table. He was rifling through them, scanning labels and examining the prepped ingredients Chef Ming had left behind.

  “Ahem,” Angela said, clearing her throat as she entered the kitchen. “Hi Foxy.”

  “Angela! I… I didn’t see you. What are you doing here?” Foxy was uncharacteristically flustered. “I was just… I guess I just wanted a snack. Thought maybe I’d whip something up.”

  Angela stared him down, trying to figure him out. Did he expect her to believe this story? The sad part was, she wanted to.

  A little monologue played in her head. Angela Maria Elena! she hounded herself, it’s time to act like a manager. It’s time to deal with things as they are—not as you wish them to be.

  She took a breath. “Foxy, I’m sure it’s obvious guests shouldn’t be in a commercial kitchen. Especially when someone recently died after eating food prepared here.”

  Foxy took a step back. “I suppose you’re right. Of course, I didn’t mean any harm—”

  “It’s completely inappropriate. You can’t cook in here, anyway. Our insurance policy would never permit that,” Angela continued. “I must ask you to leave. And I intend to report this incident to the police—and to Mrs. Glastonbury.”

  “That’s not necessary, is it?” Foxy said. “She’ll just get upset over nothing.” He was maneuvering towards Angela, attempting to ply her with the charms that had worked so flawlessly over the past few days.

  “I’ll think about it,” said Angela firmly. This time, she wasn’t taking the bait. She walked towards the door and reached into the box of leftover breakfast pastries on the shelf next to it.

  “Here’s a snack,” she said, reaching into the box for a muffin. “Please take it and go.” She backed up against the door to hold it open for him.

  “I’m really sor
ry, Angela. You know I meant no harm, right?” Foxy smiled weakly, his bravado evaporating. “There’s no need to tell Lee I was here, just like I don’t need to tell her about the liquor license thing with McGregor, right?”

  Was that a threat? thought Angela? Sounded like a threat. She looked at him coolly. How could she have been sucked in by his ridiculous charm? Even his designer duds looked smarmy to her now.

  “Just go, Foxy.”

  Foxy pressed on. “Speaking of Officer McGregor, I don’t suppose he’d be interested in knowing you’re hosting an illegal poker tournament here now, would he?”

  “Illegal?” croaked Angela.

  “Surely you… surely you knew that?”

  “Why would I want to host an illegal tournament? And why would you want to be part of one?”

  “Law-breaking can be a bit of a thrill I suppose, right?” said Foxy.

  Angela’s face froze as she tried to conceal her astonishment. She was most definitely not the kind of person who finds thrills in breaking the law.

  “Just. Get. Out. Foxy.”

  He complied, and she watched him leave, wishing the door weren’t a swinging one so she could give it a good slam.

  She wondered what to make of his (empty?) threats, and of the fact she had just caught him fiddling with the dinner ingredients. Angela stared at the box on the prep table. Was he looking for something? Or hiding something? He might have been tampering with the ingredients, she thought—despite his protestations. But how would one tell? Nervous about the possibilities, she pulled out her cell phone and called her mother.

  “Angela? Everything set for tonight? I was about to hit the road. It will take me at least an hour to drive to the Inn, and I’d like some extra time to get comfortable in your kitchen.”

  “I’ve got another big favor to ask,” Angela began. “Is there any way you could bring your own ingredients for tonight?” Then she explained some critical bits she’d left out before—like how a man had died as a result of an allergic reaction.

  “So here’s the thing. I just found one of the guests in the kitchen, fiddling with the ingredients. Maybe I’m just overly cautious, but what if he put something in the ingredients that caused the other guest’s death? And what if he was messing with the ingredients for tonight for similar mischief?”

  “Mija… you’re making me nervous. Is it safe to even be there?”

  “I’m sorry to make you nervous, Mom. I’m sure it’s just an abundance of caution on my part. Isn’t taking precautions just what a hotel manager is supposed to do?” The fact that the nosy guest also happened to be wearing a gun popped into her head, but Angela knew better than to share that particular detail.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll think of something. Do you mind if I change the menu? I’m thinking prepared salads from a store I love could save time. Can we serve dinner a half hour later?”

  “It should be fine. Thank you, Mamá—love you.”

  “Anything for you, Angelita.”

  That was the easy part, thought Angela after hanging up. Now I need to tell Mrs. Glastonbury about the change of dinner plans. She girded herself—then scolded herself for being so nervous in the first place. She was managing. Taking responsibility for her guests’ safety. Mrs. Glastonbury should be glad of it, even if things weren’t going precisely as she’d expected.

  But what to do about Foxy? Could he actually have meant to harm one of the other players—even deliberately killed him? Her instincts said—shouted—no. She hoped her instincts weren’t clouded by Foxy’s relentless charm.

  Angela decided she knew what to do. She hoped it was the right thing—and for the right reasons. She tapped a number into her cell.

  “Mrs. Glastonbury—er, Lee,” Angela said. “I’ve made an adjustment to tonight’s dinner. Our new chef is bringing her own ingredients. Yes, I realize it’s not what we agreed upon, but I found evidence that the ingredients were tampered with—no, I can’t say by whom. But for safety’s sake, we’re starting fresh. I’m sure you understand.”

  §

  Foxy slumped against the wall around the corner from the kitchen doors. Good grief. How many more ways could he screw this thing up? At least he felt sure now that Angela had no idea that the poker they were playing could be illegal. That was information he was glad to have.

  He walked back out to the lobby and sat in a chair next to the beautifully decorated tree. It reminded him that the second Christmas since he’d concocted his plan was two days away. Two years of painstaking groundwork could be heading down the drain—just when the big prize was in sight. He put his face in his hands and massaged his temples. Get a grip, man.

  As he contemplated his next move, Walter walked into the lobby and up to the front desk. Jackson was just hanging up the phone.

  “Hi Jackson.”

  “Hi—Mr. Wells, isn’t it? What can I do for you?”

  “Yes, Walter Wells. Can you tell me, is there a business center in the Inn? You know, a place with a printer I can use? Hopefully, an inkjet? I realize it’s a weird request, but I was hoping to print something in color—don’t worry, I brought my own ink.”

  “It’s around far side of the ballroom, near the workout room. If you can wait a few minutes, I’ll lead the way. I need to help Ms. Garcia move a heavy box.” As he said it, he retrieved a shiny folded dolly from the artfully concealed closet next to the reception desk. The souped-up cart had wheels like small rubber balloons and a handle luxuriously cushioned with suede.

  “Posh dolly,” said Walter Wells.

  “No kidding,” laughed Jackson. “The vendor said it’s the Rolls Royce of dollies.”

  “Does it do the heavy lifting, though?” chuckled Foxy, standing up for a closer look.

  “Yep, would you believe they say it carries up to 600 pounds?”

  Foxy and Walter both nodded, impressed.

  Jackson set the dolly on the floor and unfolded the handle. He demonstrated the apparatus by wheeling it about the lobby: “Listen—so quiet, you can’t even hear it!”

  “Men,” said Angela’s voice as rounded the corner. “Are you all fascinated by any sort of mechanical toy?” She was straining to carry a large box. She’d tried to cover it with her sweater, but Foxy noticed it was the box of ingredients Lee Glastonbury had provided—the same box he’d been searching through when Angela caught him in the kitchen.

  Jackson rushed to her side. “Let me help you, Ms. Garcia,” he said. He took the box from her and put it on the bed of the dolly. “Shall we? Mr. Wells, if you can wait here until I return, I’ll show you the way to the business center.”

  “I’ll wait, thank you. I’ll grab a cup of coffee from the breakfast room in the meantime.”

  As Angela and Jackson walked out of sight, Foxy sat back down in his chair. He noticed that instead of getting coffee, Walter took the opportunity for a closer look at the supply closet.

  “Nice craftsmanship, huh?”

  “It’s only a supply closet,” Foxy said. “But I guess since you’re in real estate, you appreciate these things?”

  “Huh? Oh, right, sure,” said Walter absently. “It’s just interesting that you’d never notice the closet was here. I guess that’s why it doesn’t have a lock.”

  “Not too much of value in there. Besides, the front desk is attended most of the time.”

  “Except overnight.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Foxy replied. “Someone could steal a ream of paper or a mop in the middle of the night.”

  “Just sayin’,” said Walter.

  “I’m guessing no one in our crowd is a risk for swiping pens and paper clips in the wee hours.”

  Walter laughed. “I’m sure we’ve all got bigger fish to fry.”

  Chapter 21

  Bea and Pat had a spring in their step as they headed back to their suites to download the rest of the pictures. They were hot on the trail of their troll. Bea was exhilarated.

  “Oh no!” she said suddenly, stopping right in h
er tracks, looking down at the cane she carried, unused, in her left hand. “I can’t be seen marching along like this, Pat. I still want to win tonight’s tourney.” She hastily set the end of her cane back on the ground and leaned theatrically on the handle. “Do you think anyone saw us?”

  “I don’t think so. Can’t hurt to put on a little show, though. Ham it up, girlfriend.”

  “Good idea!” said Bea. “Walk ahead of me a bit.”

  Bea waited a few beats until Pat was several yards away, then staggered. She dropped to the ground and began to wail melodramatically.

  “Oh no, Pat, my trick knee again! It must be my rheumatism!” She was yelling loud enough now that most of Napa County could easily hear her. “Help me, Pat, please! Help me back up!”

  “Hold on, Bea!” Pat said. “I’m coming to help!” Then she loped towards her pupil as if moving in slow motion through an invisible ocean. “There we go, my friend. Let’s get you upright. Steady now.” She was right next to Bea, but yelled as if she was still at least ten yards from her.

  “Oh, thank you, dear, dear Pat,” Bea shouted. She was on her feet again but not quite vertical, hunching over as she leaned on her cane.

  Pat looped Bea’s free hand through her arm. “Let me help you along, Bea,” she announced loudly. “Now let’s make our way very carefully back to your suite.”

  The two limped along at a snail’s pace, the remaining few yards to the Inn’s entrance promising to take an eternity.

  “Good grief, this is tedious,” hissed Bea under her breath. “I’m dying to get a look at those photos. It’s our big detecting breakthrough!”

  “Do you want to win that tourney? Because any of your competitors could be watching—”

  “I know, I know.”

  The two arrived at their adjoining suites. “I need to use the loo, then I’ll be right in to check out the pictures with you.”

  “Sounds like a plan. I need to hit the head, too,” said Pat. “Then I’ll get started on the download.”