Линкольн Чайлд - Bloodless

“But, ma’am,” said the younger, “there’ll be trouble if Mr. Drinkman—”

“If he should come in, there won’t be any trouble once I’ve spoken to him.”

The younger one’s eyes brightened. “Oh, so you’re a VIP guest?”

Constance smiled and waved a dismissive hand, saying nothing but implying everything. As the conversation continued, after a bit of shrewd name dropping, thanks to the crossword puzzle, Constance had both of them on an informal basis — Helen and Joan.

“I won’t keep you,” Constance said after the cleanup was finished. “I know how busy you must be, with Pat Ellerby drowned... not to mention the shock of it all. And everyone being questioned by the police.”

“Now, that’s the situation and the box it came in,” said Helen, nodding vigorously.

“Just between the three of us, do you think Mr. Drinkman is up to the task?” Constance said. “Pat never said much about him.”

“So you knew Mr. Ellerby?” Joan, the younger waitress, asked.

Constance nodded with a sorrowful look.

“Mr. Drinkman is trying hard,” Joan said. “But he’s got his work cut out for him, getting up to speed. Mr. Ellerby kept to himself, didn’t explain much about how things worked around here. Especially when it came to her .”

“Her?”

Joan cast her eyes up. “Miss Frost. He was very... protective of her.”

“More like she was very possessive of him .” Helen poured more water on a napkin and made a final dab at her sleeve. “It’s been a hot mess, I can tell you. Some guests got so spooked they left. Others have come running like ants to a picnic, especially with that vampire talk starting up again.” The waitresses exchanged a significant look. “And here’s Mr. Drinkman, busier than a one-legged man at an ass-kicking contest. You’ll excuse me, ma’am.”

“I heard Pat Ellerby was missing for a day before they found his body,” Constance said.

Both waitresses nodded. “He took his cigarette breaks in the square, but never at a set time. Often he’d disappear, just like that.” Helen snapped her fingers. “One minute he’d be reading the financial pages of the paper, and the next he’d have run off and shut himself up in that room of his.”

“What room?” Constance asked.

“He has a room at the foot of the basement stairs he keeps to himself,” said Joan. “Uses it for stock trading and that sort of thing. ‘Playing the market’ is what he called it. It was his passion, that’s for sure. And...” She paused a second. “Well, I think he was starting to get awful good at it.”

“How do you know?” Constance asked.

“These last few months, he’s bought himself some things. A new truck — a King Ranch, no less. And a fancy watch.”

“Joan!” Helen said reprovingly.

“How do you know they weren’t gifts from Miss Frost?”

“She isn’t the kind to pass out gifts,” Helen said.

“But Ellerby was one of her favorites?” Constance asked.

“He was the favorite,” Joan said. “But that didn’t make him an exception to her temper. Why, just a few nights back, she appeared out of nowhere, in the lobby — first time I’d seen her out in public in a year or two at least — and she headed on down to Ellerby’s basement office when he was out. So much for her being so weak and frail she can’t even leave her rooms! And, Lord sakes, you should have heard the argument upstairs later, when he came back! It sounded like an entire warehouse full of china was being smashed.”

The waitresses’ eyes sparkled at this schadenfreude-laced memory.

“When was this?” Constance asked casually.

“Let’s see...” Joan thought a moment. “That was the night before Mr. Ellerby disappeared. No... two nights before.”

Constance wondered if Frost was angry because she’d caught Ellerby skimming from hotel profits. “But until you saw her in the lobby, you thought she was too weak to leave her rooms?”

The two waitresses exchanged glances again. “Well, that’s what we’ve been told ,” Helen said. Despite her volubility, Constance noticed that something about this question made her choose her words more carefully. “Especially these last couple of years.”

“Is she ill?”

“She’s... eccentric, like. And the older she got, the more she depended on Mr. Ellerby. He arranged all her meals, her cleaning and linens, doctor’s visits. He would go up there and read her poetry and listen to her play the piano. Classical.”

“Despite the recent argument,” Constance said.

“It might be you could chalk that up to a, well, lovers’ quarrel.” Joan lowered her voice. “Some folks around here had some queer ideas about the two of them. Now that he’s dead, she’s just stricken.”

“Meals have to be left just outside her door,” Helen added. “She won’t let anybody in. And nobody else has the key to her back stairs.”

Before Constance could ask about this, Joan added, voice still low: “Nobody wants to go in, either. It could be... dangerous.”

Assuming this to be a joke, Constance tittered politely. She let the titter die into a slight cough behind her napkin as she saw neither of the women were smiling.

The conversation abruptly ceased at the appearance of Drinkman in the doorway. The waitresses scrambled to their feet, gathering up the soiled napkins and clearing the crockery from her table. Constance watched as they bustled out a back door and into the kitchen. Then her gaze turned back to Chatham Square, and her violet eyes — enigmatic at the best of times — closed partway, like a cat’s, blinking at long intervals as she sat perfectly still in the late-morning sunlight.

“And this,” said the proprietor in a sonorous voice, “is where she was hanged.” His name was Grooms, and he pointed a trembling finger at a dark wooden beam in the attic hallway. “The coachman tightened the noose around the poor maid’s neck, threw it over the beam, and pulled her up while she struggled and twisted.” He paused, his cadaverous face taking on a ghastly expression. “You can still see the rope burns in the wood.”

Wendy Gannon, watching her two camera operators shooting the man’s little act through the two screens on her console, had to admit Grooms was an ideal subject for the documentary. He had the perfect look as a guide to the supernatural, and no doubt he took pains with his appearance: the threadbare suit one size too large for his gaunt frame, his six-foot-six-inch height, the stringy gray hair and sunken eyes. She suspected a judicious touch of makeup here and there added to the Lurch effect. And he knew enough about creating atmosphere to protest while the gaffer set up camera lights in the building’s dim interior. Gannon could see why the haunted Montgomerie House was one of Savannah’s biggest tourist attractions.

As the guide pointed his spidery finger at the beam, Gannon murmured for the second camera to zoom in on where she could indeed see abrasions in the wood.

She glanced over at Moller, listening with his head tilted, the expression on his face unreadable, as the guide told the story of the murder: two hundred years ago, the coachman of the house became engaged to one of the servants. All was well until the coachman, who was a nasty sort, fancied that she was cheating on him and, in a fit of jealous rage, forced his way into her bedroom in the attic of the house, threw a noose around her neck, dragged her out into the hall, and hanged her from an exposed beam. He then went back to his own quarters, lay down on the bed, and cut his own throat — not just once, but twice.

“And,” the man concluded, “ever since then, at the stroke of midnight, it happens.”