Under His Protection. Amy Fetzer J.
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.
Nash climbed back up the stairs to look around the suite once more. Was the scarf the murder weapon? If not, Winfield could have died from anything, food poisoning or heart trouble. Until he had an autopsy, Nash was finished here. He’d collect reports from the other officers, run a check on Winfield, and then he’d know where to go from there. At the moment there was too little evidence to point him in any direction.
Except at Lisa.
He was done for now, anyway, he reasoned and returned to his office, dropping into his chair and tossing his notebook on the desk. He dug the heels of his palms into his eyes, then sagged back into the chair. A bag of clothing marked “Lisa Bracket Winfield” was sealed and on his desk. A note from the sheriff said she’d offered prints before they’d asked. Her angry expression flashed like lightning in his mind. He could have handled that confrontation better, he thought. He knew he hadn’t accused her of the crime, but the questions always made people defensive. But what the hell was she hiding?
Winfield had been pushed to his death, but his instincts told Nash there was more than a silk scarf connecting this to Lisa. And he never ignored his instincts.
The phone shrilled and before it reached a second ring he snatched it up. “Couviyon.”
“Detective, this is Kathy Boon. I’m a housekeeper at the Baylor Inn. They, I mean my boss, wanted me to call you to tell you that I saw a woman go into Mr. Winfield’s room.”
“Describe her please.”
“Red hair, long, in a ponytail tied with a scarf. Killer outfit. Lime-green skirt, same color top but it had polka dots on it. She was about five-eight, I’d guess. Pretty. I noticed her because her handbag and shoes matched her skirt and not too many people can get away with wearing that color.”
Nash allowed himself a smile, then glanced at the shopping bag of clothes Lisa had turned in. “What time was it when you saw this woman?”
“About eight-thirtyish, maybe quarter to nine. I work till midnight, then come in at five, so that’s why I wasn’t around this morning.”
“Did you see her leave?”
“No, I didn’t, but that doesn’t mean anything. I go from the laundry to the rooms about a dozen times a night.”
“Did you see anyone else enter Mr. Winfield’s room?”
“Room service at about six.”
Winfield had been alive at six. The attendant had already confirmed delivering the meal around then. “Did you hear anything coming from Mr. Winfield’s room?”
She was quiet.
“Ma’am?”
“I’m thinking. No…well, I’m not sure. I heard arguing at a little past nine, but not enough to call the cops or anything. Oh, God, maybe I should have.”
“You couldn’t have known, ma’am.”
As she spoke, Nash checked the employee roster and found her name, marking beside it. His head was swimming, mostly with images of Lisa and the absolute fury she’d thrown at him.
“If I have any more questions, I’ll call you.”
“Yeah, sure, and if I think of anything more, I’ll let you know.”
He hung up and leaned back in his chair. Lisa had definitely been there. He hoped the coroner came back with something soon. Lisa wasn’t capable of hurting anyone. At least not physically. And as he remembered their conversation, he recognized his own bitterness, as well as hers.
What would have happened, he wondered, if he’d fought for her all those years ago? If he’d gone to her and said…what? That he loved her? Unfortunately he hadn’t realized he loved her until she was walking down the aisle with someone else and he was miles away regretting it.
The phone shrilled, jerking him from unhappy musing. He grabbed the receiver and punched line one. “Detective Couviyon.”
“Hey, Nash, this is your favorite lab rat.”
Nash smiled. The coroner, Quinn Kilpatrick. “Tell me you have something for me, good buddy.”
“The deceased died between ten and midnight. I’ll have more specific analysis in a few hours, a day max.”
“Cause of death?”
“Toxic poisoning.”
“What about the scarf?”
“That was after the fact. Poisoning looks like an overdose of digitalis, near as I can tell, but if you quote me right now, I’ll deny it.”
“How did he get it?”
“An injection, in a drink, food—a number of ways.”
“Could he have overdosed accidentally?”
“I don’t know. It’s hard to nail this element, and I’m waiting on his med records to see if he was being treated for anything. Be patient.”
Nash didn’t