Under His Protection. Amy J. Fetzer
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don’t question our guests so personally. We pride ourselves on privacy, relaxation and discretion.”
Nash’s gaze narrowed dangerously, and the owner folded.
“Not that I know of. But I’m not here twenty-four seven. With the exception of lunch yesterday, I believe he dined in his suite.”
For a man here on business, Winfield didn’t do much, Nash thought. Except meet with Lisa. Winfield’s PalmPilot indicated he had three meetings but gave no names or times, only dates, and though the victim’s laptop was found in the room, they needed a password to access the data.
“How did they get in? Was it someone he knew?” Baylor moved to a set of French doors, but Nash stopped him from opening them, wiggling his own gloved fingers.
“Prints.”
Baylor glanced at the officer still kneeling by the chest of drawers. “Oh, yes, of course. This balcony leads to a separate entrance for this room and the one next door. There’s a staircase, very narrow and steep, leading to the lower floors outside the kitchen and a path to the patio. It was once the servants’ staircase.”
The door had an old-fashioned brass latch, one that you had to wrap your hand around to open. With a pen, Nash tried pushing it. It was locked from the inside. But that didn’t mean someone couldn’t have come up here and left this way. Checking that it had been already dusted, Nash opened it, careful not to step on the porch. Earlier, officers had canvassed the area, and it was going to take some manpower to see if anyone had noticed someone entering the suite through this door. He looked down, then squatted. They hadn’t had rain in a while, and the dust level was high. There were several shoe prints in the dust outside the door, and although they’d been lifted and logged already, there were two smaller sets. A woman’s?
Nash rubbed his face and straightened. “Who sent the basket?”
The owner frowned and Nash produced the sweet-grass basket with Lisa’s logo on the rim.
“I don’t know. It’s not something we ordered. We provide toiletries for our guests and we have better taste than to offer homemade items.” Baylor made a face at the basket. “We do seasonal fruit and flavored coffees, too.” He pointed to the silver tray on a stand near the windows. An officer was collecting it.
Nash stared at the basket. Most of it wasn’t homemade, and he wondered again about the teabag-shaped thing dangling from the bathtub faucet.
Another officer stripped the fitted sheet and quilt from the bed.
“No, no, no, that quilt is mine,” Baylor said.
Nash touched his arm. “It’s evidence. It’ll be returned to you.”
“It’s a hundred years old and in perfect condition, and it had better come back to me that way.” The odors hit Baylor and he blanched a bit. Death hung in the air like a vapor.
“If it’s so precious, why is it displayed on a bed?”
Baylor sniffed. “Ambiance.”
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