Mayes, Casey - A Deadly Row

He left me alone in the study, and I wondered if he was stepping away to collect himself. It was clear he was being tortured by my little show-and-tell, but it was at his request, so I wasn’t going to stop unless he asked me to.

When he came back, he was holding an oil painting, and its subject matter startled me. It was the same image as the photograph I’d found, carefully reproduced by someone very good with a paintbrush. “This hangs in my bedroom hallway,” he said. “I never showed it to Cindy.”

“I’m sure she would have liked it,” I said.

“I doubt it,” he said with a smile. “She would have thought I was indulging a whim. That’s why I kept it to myself.”

He leaned the painting against the wall, and then took his seat. I pulled out the jewelry box, and Barton reached for it.

“She made this herself,” he said as he stroked the wood. He opened it, looked through the jewelry, and then set it aside. “I’ll go through it later. Is there anything else?”

I pulled out the last photograph, one clearly taken several years ago. Barton studied it a moment, and then he explained, “This was taken before she came to work for me.” He pointed to the two other girls in the photograph. “This is Samantha, and her name is Kayla.”

“Have you met them?”

“Absolutely. They came to my Christmas party every year. Two delightful young women, I must say.”

“So, the three of them stayed in touch?”

“Yes. In particular, Cindy and Samantha spoke every week, and they often took their vacations together.”

“Where can my husband find Samantha?”

“Do you think she might know something?” he asked, intent on my reply.

“I can’t say, but Zach always says that police work is asking a lot of questions, and then boiling down the answers until something significant occurs to him. It might be nothing, but I’m sure my husband would like to speak with her.”

“I’ll get you her address,” he said.

He picked up the telephone, whispered into it, and after a brief pause, he handed it to me.

“Samantha Riggins can be reached at the following number and address.” It was a local area code, and I knew the address as being in the South End, one of Charlotte’s neighborhoods. At least Zach wouldn’t have to fly across the country to interview her.

I handed the telephone back to Barton, and then looked back into the bag. “Sorry, that’s all that I could find. The police have a few items they’re holding for the investigation, but as I said, the necklace didn’t turn up.”

“Perhaps the cleaning crew will find it.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ll send my best maids to work on her apartment right now. When they’re finished, I’ll go through anything else they might find.”

I frowned at that, and Barton quickly added, “Don’t think what you did tonight didn’t matter. You walked in with me, and when I couldn’t take it, you carried out my wishes. These things you found,” he said as he swept a hand toward the coffee table, “mean more to me than this hotel, or any of my other holdings. You’ve done me a great service tonight. Is there any way I can repay you?”

“You’re already putting us up in your nicest suite,” I said. “That’s thanks enough.”

“Nonsense. That was to aid your husband in helping me, more than anything else. The debt I owe you is personal, Savannah, and I always pay my debts.”

“Then you can be my friend,” I said.

“That’s all you ask?”

“It’s all I want.”

“Then that’s what you shall have, my friend.”

He stood, and I followed suit.

As we walked out of the study, Barton asked, “Have you eaten yet?”

“No, I haven’t had time,” I admitted.

“I expect your husband will be eagerly waiting for you downstairs.”

“The last time we spoke, he told me he’d probably be working half the night.”

“Then may I be so bold to ask you to join me for dinner? I can’t promise much, but I make the best pancakes in the world, and I’d be pleased if you’d join me.”

I laughed. “Pancakes? Really?” I hadn’t meant to sound so incredulous, but I couldn’t help myself. Being in the nicest luxury suite in one of the best hotels in Charlotte with the owner, and having him offer to make me a dinner-breakfast, was just a little too surreal for me.

“My mother couldn’t cook much, but she was an excellent pancake maker, and she passed on her knowledge to me before I left home.”

“That’s funny.”

“Why’s that?”

“We have a pancake dinner tradition in our family, too.”

“It must be a southern thing,” he said lightly. “Would you care to join me?”

“That sounds great.”

We moved into his kitchen, with its cherrywood cabinets and industrial oven. There was a griddle imbedded in the marble-topped island, and stainless steel appliances were everywhere.

As he mixed the batter and began pouring rounds onto the griddle top, I said, “I’ll set the table.”

“Don’t bother. Why don’t we eat here at the island?”

“Sounds good to me,” I said.

“The plates are over there, and the silver is in that drawer.”

I retrieved fine bone china from the cabinet, and sterling silver knives and forks. With the linen napkins he retrieved, I set our places, and added crystal goblets.

“There’s milk and orange juice in the refrigerator,” he said.

“Which would you prefer?”

“I’d like milk myself.”

I poured two glasses, found the butter as well, and turned to see that Barton had the syrup out, in crystal as well.

When the first pancake was finished, he flipped it onto my plate. I waited for him, but he waved his spatula in the air. “Go on, they’re too good to eat when they’re right off the griddle to wait.”

I added a little butter and a tad too much syrup, and then tasted it. He was looking expectantly, so I smiled as I said, “Delicious. These may be the best pancakes I’ve ever had, and that’s saying something.”

“I add a touch of cinnamon to the batter,” he said. “It makes all the difference in the world, in my opinion.”

We alternated eating pancakes after that, and after we were finished, I said, “I’d be glad to do the dishes.”

“Thank you, but I have someone who does that for me.” He stared at me a second, and then asked, “Would you like to see my secret vice?”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to. I was just warming up to the man. “Okay,” I said hesitantly.

He laughed at my reluctance. “It’s nothing like that. We have to go on the roof, though.”

I decided if I told him about my fear of heights, it would ruin the nice evening we’d shared. But there was no way I was going close to the edge. “Lead on.”

To my surprise, we walked out to our common stairwell. “I keep this unlocked,” he explained as we walked up the short flight to the door. “No one has access to it but the top two floors, so you have my blessing to come and go as you please.”

I couldn’t imagine the circumstances that I’d take him up on it, but I kept that to myself.

Once we were on the roof, I changed my mind. The space, lit with gentle illumination, sported some chairs and a table, but what really caught my eye was a raised-bed garden, filled with tomatoes, beans, onions, and potatoes. “It’s great,” I said. “In fact, my uncle has something a lot like this.”

“It’s the only way I can indulge my green thumb without leaving the hotel,” he explained. “There’s something about getting my hands dirty that I’ve never forgotten. It was one of my favorite childhood memories.”

“I can tell that you really love it.”

He smiled. “It’s the most calming thing I have in my life. Coming up here renews me somehow.”