Chapter 18

EIGHTEEN

Alan came back with mugs, a coffee carafe, sweetener and cream, and loaded with pastries. He didn't come back with any usable information. I hated to see him go. So did Rebecca.

"That leaves us with the night manager and his assistant," I say as I see the last of Alan.

"Her," Rebecca corrects. "The night manager is a woman."

As if on cue, a striking young woman, twenties, slender, with dark skin and the largest brown eyes I have ever seen, comes in. The writer stares at her until I give him the glare of death. I tell the newcomer to have a seat, and I go to the writer.

"We're here on police business," I say. It's not a lie. We're just not the police here. "Do you mind working in the lobby?" Or anywhere away from here will do.

"And just when it's getting interesting," he says. He gets his crap together and leaves, looking back at our new arrival until he trips and almost face plants.

I sit and ask the woman, "You are?"

"Missy. I'm the night manager. Beverly is the real night manager but she's home with a sick daughter. I'm covering for her."

She seems bright and open and friendly and not the least bit curious as to why she's here. "Missy, do you know Victoria Marsh?"

"Yes. She's your mom," she says to Rebecca. "Roger—Mr. Whiting—checked you and your mom in but I had a bottle of champagne delivered to your mom's room late that evening. Rog…Mr. Whiting said she has been reported missing and I was to cooperate with you. Have you found her? Is she okay? I really like your mom, Miss Marsh."

"Call me Rebecca. This is Detective Megan Carpenter. My mom loves this place. Is Roger a good boss?"

The question takes her by surprise. "Well. Yes." Any time someone starts a response with "well," it means they have to think about it. In this case it was an easy answer. Yes or no. She's young enough to be Roger's daughter, or granddaughter, but when she called him by his first name and not by his title, there was a sense of familiarity. Maybe he has been making passes at her. Or the other way around.

"You're a detective?" she asks me.

"Yes, but I'm just consulting," I say to keep this above board.

"I wasn't aware it was serious enough for the police to be involved."

"I'm not the police, Missy. I'm a friend of the family."

She nods but doesn't look convinced.

"Did you talk to Connie?" I ask.

"Yes. I'm her supervisor. I wanted to know why you were talking to her."

She works nights so she's not Connie's direct supervisor, but I let it pass. "No problem. I just wondered who delivered the champagne to the room? You?"

"No. Hold on. Yes. I was going to have one of our night staff, but no one was around so I decided to do it myself."

I pause a long time and she doesn't take her eyes away from mine. "What time did you take the champagne to her room?"

"Ten thirty. Eleven. Maybe a little later. Why? You don't suspect a crime has been committed, do you?"

"Just covering all the bases." Bitch. "Did you hand it to her?"

"She was in the shower."

"How do you know that?"

"I assumed. I heard the shower running. I left the bottle on the table in the suite."

"Did Mrs. Marsh order the champagne?"

"She always…Excuse me, Miss Marsh, but I have to explain myself. Mrs. Marsh always has a bottle sent up when she visits. She generally likes it late in the evening."

I see the look Rebecca is giving Missy and put my hand on hers to be still. "Does she get one glass or two?"

"One. Sometimes two. I only took her one bottle on Thursday night. Was there something wrong with the champagne? Am I in trouble?"

"Was the champagne chilled?" I ask, and Missy's inscrutable fa?ade slips just slightly.

I'm not disappointed when she says, "Should I have an attorney?"

"You're not a suspect, Missy, so no, you don't need an attorney." Yet. Neither Connie nor Rebecca have said anything about a champagne bucket. "We don't know if there was anything wrong with the champagne. Was there another bottle in the room? An empty bottle."

"Of champagne? Yes. I took it. I didn't want the day maid to think your mom was a…you know."

Rebecca can't stop herself from saying, "No. I don't know. If you know something about my mom, you'd better tell me."

The smug look on Missy's face tells me she's enjoying punching Rebecca's buttons. I don't have a clue why that would be. Rebecca gets up and goes to the windows and stands, arms across her chest.

"How long have you worked here?" I ask, knowing it may not be much longer.

"A year now. Roger said I had potential and promoted me. I've been a part-time night manager for six months."

Roger? I want to ask if she and Roger are a thing but I don't want her to tell him I asked.

"Were you the one that found the note under Mrs. Marsh's door?"

"I did rounds at midnight and found it. It wasn't there when I delivered the champagne earlier and I didn't see anyone in the elevator or in the hallway, so I can't tell you who left it. The note was right up against her door so I knew it was for her. I knocked but there was no answer. I pushed it partially under her door for when she was, uh, able to read it."

I throw Rebecca a cautioning look to let it go.

"I guess I shouldn't have touched it but I was afraid someone would find it and throw it away. In hindsight, I should have been the one to bring it to the front desk."

"How could you have known to do that? You couldn't. Right? So when did you give the note to Roger? Mr. Whiting. Your boss?"

"I didn't bring it to the desk."

"You didn't read it?"

"I told you I didn't."

"Back to Thursday night, Friday morning. Did anything unusual happen during your shift?"

"What do you mean by unusual?"

"Something not usual, Missy. Attention getting."

Her lips tighten and she cocks her head. "There was one thing."

"Okay."

"I went up to make sure Mrs. Marsh was okay. This was before I made rounds so it must have been after eleven o'clock."

"Why was that necessary?"

"Well—and you're going to be mad about this too, but I swear it's the truth." Rebecca has turned from the window and is staring daggers at Missy, and Missy seems to be fighting back a smile. "Mrs. Marsh sometimes leaves her room and sits on a bench at the end of the hall. I've found her asleep a few times and helped her to her room."

"What are you trying to say? That my mom is an alcoholic? That's bullshit and you know it."

Missy feigns being chastised. "I'm sorry. I told you it might be upsetting."

"Did you have to help her Thursday night?" I ask.

"No. I wasn't sure she was okay. Just a feeling. So I knocked and didn't get an answer. I knocked when I found the note during my rounds. I guess the note was left between those times. Anyway, when she didn't answer my knock I thought she might be asleep. I finished making rounds and went back to the office. I only wish now that I had let myself in. I'm sorry, Miss Marsh."

"Is that everything, Missy?" I ask.

"That's it."

I pause for a moment. "What about the couple you and Connie saw that night?"

Her brow wrinkles in confusion. "What couple?"

I tell her about the pair Connie told me about: the guy with acne and the drunk woman who might have been Victoria Marsh.

"Oh, that," Missy says airily, like she forgot to put the milk back in the fridge. "Yeah, that was just a couple of drunks. I don't think that's anything to do with this. I didn't really get that good a look at them."

"Connie said the man had a lot of acne, do you remember that?"

She shrugs. "Didn't get a good look at his face."

"Can you remember anything at all? Clothing? Shoes? Anything else?"

She frowns, to show me she's thinking Really Hard. "He had some kind of jacket with a hood. I can't tell you anything more than that."

"What about the woman?"

She shakes her head. "Just drunk. Light-colored hair. I had the impression she was white. I can't tell you how old or anything. I just caught a glimpse."

"Could the woman have been Mrs. Marsh?" I ask.

She answers quickly. "I didn't get a good look, like I said. I just kind of glanced at them because he was almost carrying her out." She gives Rebecca an odd look and once again I wonder what Rebecca has done to earn her dislike. "Sorry I couldn't be more help."

She doesn't look sorry. "Thanks, Missy," I give her a card and get her contact information. "Can you tell Mr. Whiting to send someone else back?"

"There's no one else, but I'll tell Roger." Missy leaves, and Rebecca sits again but she's still fuming.

"I've never liked her and now I remember why."

"Why is that?" I ask.

"She's one of those people who hates people she thinks are rich. I don't for one minute believe what she said about my mom. And why wouldn't she tell us about the man and woman going out of the back door in the first place?" Good question. "Part of her job is to keep the guests safe and report anything or anyone that might be a problem. This is a nice resort. I don't care what she says that kind of behavior doesn't happen here."

"Connie saw them too," I point out. "Did you see anyone matching their description while you were here?"

She thinks for a moment. "No. Not from the resort. But I may have seen someone like that man somewhere else. Let me think a moment." She sits quietly and runs a finger around the mouth of her coffee mug and then looks up. "It was in Blaine. No, Birch Bay. Yes, it was at a little tourist shop. Mom and I stopped there before we came here. She never buys anything but she likes to look. I bought a water and this man came up behind me at the register. Mom was by the entrance. He winked at me and smiled at Mom and then left. I'd caught him looking at us several times while we were in there. He was creepy."

"What makes you think it's the same guy?"

"I mostly remember the acne. Except his were scars. When Ronnie and I were in high school, one of the boys had bad acne and the kids called him pizza face."

"Okay. Let's find Ronnie."