Amy J. - Under His Protection

Nash suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. “Take that up with forensics.” He handed him a card.

Baylor snatched it as if snatching the quilt, then looked around at his eighteenth-century-decorated suite. Nash saw him droop with disappointment.

“I’m not going to be able to rent this room for a while,” he said disparagingly.

“We’ll let you know when we’re done with it.”

“That’s not what I mean. Who’d want to stay here?”

“People die every day.”

Boarding-school posture gripped Baylor’s spine. “Not in my inn.”

Death was tough for most people. For Nash, it was his career. He spoke for the dead, investigated for them. And he had compassion for the people left behind. But Baylor was more concerned with hotel profits than the fact of a guest’s death. Takes all kinds, Nash thought.

“I need a list of who had access to this room. Everyone who has a master key to both doors and who was on duty for the past week.”

Baylor nodded.

Nash stared. “Today.”

Baylor’s expression held more than one man’s share of exasperation.

Nash added to it. “I’d like to speak to the staff, too.”

“Now? They’re busy with guests.”

Nash kept writing in his notepad, not looking up. “You know, Mr. Baylor, I’m getting the sense that you don’t want us to find out what happened.”

“Of course I do. It could have been an accident— maybe he banged his head in the tub or something.”

Nash’s brows drew together. How did this man know the victim was found wearing only a towel and the bathtub was full of water? Or was he just worried that if that was the case, the family would sue? “Where were you between 5:00 p.m. yesterday and this morning, Mr. Baylor?”

If the victim had been dead nine hours, then Nash had to narrow the suspect list.

Baylor gave Nash a look that said he thought himself beyond reproach. “I’ll give you my schedule. Follow me, and I’ll introduce you to the concierge.”

THE CONCIERGE, John Chartres, was a tall, narrow man with equally confined features, and for someone living in a southern seaboard town, he was as pale as the white shirt beneath his tailored suit. His black hair was swept back with a severity that sharpened his face and made his eyes and lips look vibrant against his skin. He wore disdain like a tie, and he rose from behind the delicate desk like a king from his throne. Oh, yeah, that says welcome to the Baylor real well, Nash thought cynically.

Then the man spoke and the New York accent, however he tried to hide it, hurt Nash’s ears.

“I didn’t see anyone go to his suite specifically. Perhaps you should question the housekeeping staff. I’m usually in my office.”

“Isn’t it your job to know all the guests? To see that their stay is perfect?”

“I delegate well.”

I’ll bet. And actually working your job was for the little people, Nash thought. “Did you know Mr. Winfield?”

“Other than his face and name, no. He was only a guest.”

Nash kept his features relaxed, but that the man kept shuffling through papers and not looking him in the eye said he was hiding something. Nash would have to dig a little with this one.

“You have a key to the door to the back staircase?”

“I have a key to every door in this hotel.”

“I’ll need a list of which keys each employee carries and where they are kept.”

Chartres gestured and Nash followed the man into the reception area and behind the counter.

Nash’s gaze swept the rows of keys. “You’re kidding, right? Anyone could take these.” The keys weren’t the computer-card type but old-fashioned brass, which he was sure added the same sort of ambiance as the antique quilt.

“Each room has inside locks, as well, and though they look old, they aren’t.” Chartres handed a key over.

It was chiseled like a house key, but the tab was brass with Victorian scroll.

“The balcony doors have no outside handles,” Chartres said, then explained, “The staff doesn’t use it. Though it’s sturdy, in keeping with the historical accuracy, the staircase remains steep and narrow. We discourage guests from opening the doors unless they are in residence. There is a push latch in case the door closes, but the inside lock must be disengaged.”

So, Nash thought, if anyone came into the room from that direction, the guest had to be expecting them and the locks had to be disengaged. The balcony doors had been locked from the inside when the police had arrived. Had Winfield opened them for his killer? Or his ex-wife? Even as the thought careened through his head, Nash hated himself for it. Lisa was not capable of murder. Not the Lisa he once knew.

“You said you were on duty?” Nash asked.

“Yes. And if you don’t mind, can we take this back into my office?”

As they headed in that direction, Chartres lagged behind, smiling at an elderly couple approaching the reception area. He slipped behind the gleaming counter to retrieve a few slips of paper, handing them to the couple. “Your phone messages,” Chartres said to them. “And your 7:00 p.m. reservations at Emily’s are set.”

Nash had to admit that when Chartres was talking with the hotel patrons, he was all smiles and warmth. The couple inquired about the police cars and ambulance, and Chartres explained that a guest had passed away during the night and for them not to worry. But then Nash shouldered his way past, introduced himself and questioned the elderly couple. It gained him nothing. Though their rooms were on the floor below, they insisted they were sound sleepers.

Chartres gestured to the office. “That was rude, Detective.”

“A policeman’s job is often rude. Everyone is a potential witness.” Nash’s look said the concierge was on that list, and Chartres stiffened, affronted. “At what time did you leave your post?” Nash asked once they were in the small office.

“I didn’t.”

“Not to eat, not to use the bathroom?”

“No. Meals are brought here, if I want. And I didn’t.”

“You didn’t make the rounds during the cocktail and dinner hour?”

“No.”

Then who’s to say he was even in the office? Nash thought. “You have a popular restaurant in this hotel, Mr. Chartres. You didn’t leave your office and stroll through, introducing yourself?”

“It was a quiet night.”

“Quiet enough not to notice someone heading up to Mr. Winfield’s room?”

“Apparently. This hotel is more like a home, the atmosphere unobstructed. It’s why we do so well. Not all the suites are occupied, anyway. We don’t check on the comings and goings of guests, only that while they’re here, they’re happy.”

“You had a delivery to a room, yet no one seems to recall receiving it.”

“What delivery?

“A basket from Enchanted Garden.”

“It may have been a gift from someone. All deliveries are signed for and recorded.” Chartres swiveled his chair toward a computer screen and tapped the keys. He peered. “The only deliveries were the daily flowers for the rooms, a guest’s dry cleaning and a package from High Cotton for the elderly couple you saw, which was placed in their room.”

That high-school class in shorthand came in handy sometimes, Nash thought as Chartres tried to sneak peeks at his notes. After a few more questions, Chartres printed out a list of the staff and phone numbers and a schedule roster. Nash folded it into his leather notebook, then stood, offering his hand. Chartres’s palm was smooth and dry, his grip firm.

Nash left, heading back upstairs again to check the outer doors. Officers were almost finished with the room and had double-checked outside for footprints. Nash opened the door and studied the deck, the path down to the first and second floors. He wondered if Baylor had the floor plans to this place and walked across the balcony and down the stairs. A private home was tucked only yards away, beside the hotel, and a privacy fence carved a smart line between the properties. The inn dining room was to the rear, a sizable portion of seating outdoors on a stone patio surrounded by exotic flowering shrubs and shaded with umbrellas. It was empty now.