‘Until the police do get here,’ the attorney says, ‘we have to treat it as a possible crime scene.’
‘But—’ Beverly begins and stops, as all eyes turn her way and she flushes. She says, pointing out the obvious, ‘We’ll have to step past her body every time we go up or down the stairs. We’ll see her lying there whenever we sit in the lobby.’
And then she thinks of that poor young man up in his room, waiting for the police. And whether she ought to say something about what she heard.
Chapter Ten
Saturday, 7:45 AM
CANDICE LINGERS IN the dining room with the others after breakfast. It seems like nobody knows what to do; they are all at loose ends now – with the exception of the lawyer, who leaves the dining room after breakfast with a subdued but purposeful air. Candice notices the dark-haired woman, whose name she’s learned is Gwen, watching him go.
She can’t have any idea who he is.
Candice would love to follow the notorious David Paley up the stairs. She’d bet dollars to donuts he’s on his way to see Matthew Hutchinson, and she wishes more than anything that she could be there to hear what is said. Then she reminds herself not to be despicable, that the man has just lost the woman he was to marry.
This is something she has had to work on, not letting her curiosity trump her compassion. That’s why she got out of journalism, after all, and started writing books instead. Long-form non-fiction had saved her from that at least. When she writes a book, she finds she can still feel for her subject, still find her sense of decency. Journalism can ruin you.
She glances at Riley, whom she recognized the night before as a war correspondent for the New York Times. She’s got the look. Not the look of the hardened journalist who has necessarily grown a thick, protective skin. She’s at the other end of the scale – she’s broken wide open, raw. She wonders if Riley will ever be put back together again. She can recognize PTSD when she sees it; she’s seen it before.
She’s glad she’s no longer a journalist. Still, there’s a body lying at the foot of the stairs, and no one knows how it got there. She can read people pretty well, and she’s not stupid – the attorney looks as if he suspects it was more than an accident. She’s tempted to slip upstairs and listen outside Matthew’s door. But she restrains herself.
‘We can’t go out in this,’ Henry says gloomily, interrupting her thoughts. He’s scowling outside at the ice.
The dining-room windows give on to the forest on the east side of the hotel. Everything is covered in sparkling ice. It’s beautiful, as if the world is coated in diamonds. Long, pointy icicles hang from the eaves in front of the windows. They look rather deadly. If you were walking under one of those and it fell on you, it might kill you, Candice thinks.
The storm has made it too dangerous for walking, or skiing, or snowshoeing, or anything but taking your life in your hands. The best place to be during a major ice storm is safely inside where you can’t get hit by falling branches or pierced through with icicles, or electrocuted by fallen power lines. Not to mention the risk of slipping and cracking your head open on the ice.
No, thank you, Candice thinks. She’s going to stay inside like everybody else.
David knocks on the door of Matthew’s room. When there’s no answer, he tries again, more loudly this time. Finally, with nervous hands he fumbles for the key he obtained from James and opens the door himself, afraid that Matthew might have done something drastic. He’s seen it before. He pushes the door open quickly and spies Matthew sitting immobile in a chair in front of the fireplace. David’s immediate relief shifts to uneasiness. Even though James had started a fire earlier, the room is chilly. David steps further into the room. No wonder; Matthew has let the fire almost go out.
David approaches and studies Matthew carefully. He’s obviously been weeping. His eyes and face are puffy. He looks almost catatonic. ‘Matthew,’ David says. The other man does not respond. It’s hard to tell if he’s swamped with grief or guilt, or quite possibly, both at once.
Quietly, David moves over to the fireplace and sets the fireguard aside. He chooses another log and carefully adds it to the fire, poking and prodding to make it catch. It’s good to have something like this to do while he thinks about what to say. He wishes he could just keep poking and prodding the fire for ever, staring into the flames, and not have to do what he’s about to do. But he’s worried about this young man. He feels a responsibility. He would like to help if he can. Even though there is not much to be done; you can’t go back in time and change things. He’s just cleanup crew, really.
Finally, he sets the poker aside, replaces the fireguard, and takes the other chair beside Matthew. He pauses while he decides how to begin.
‘The police will get here eventually,’ he says at last in a low voice. ‘If not today, then tomorrow. They will investigate. There will be an inquest into the cause of death.’ He pauses. He knows to speak slowly; the mind in shock has trouble taking things in. ‘It is my belief that they will not find the cause of death to be an accidental fall.’ He waits. Matthew doesn’t stir, doesn’t even show surprise. Which is troubling. ‘It appears to me that the injury to the head, which was most likely the cause of death, is not one that would naturally occur in a fall. It looks like it was caused by being pushed into the edge of the stair from the front and above.’ He can’t help himself; the cynicism takes over. ‘If you’re trying to make a murder look like an accident in a fall down the stairs, far better to push the head into the newel post in the direction of the fall.’ That gets his attention.
‘What did you say?’ Matthew asks, lifting his head and looking at him for the first time.
David looks into his eyes. ‘I said it doesn’t look like an accident. It looks like your fiancée was murdered.’
‘What?’
‘I believe Dana was murdered.’
Matthew looks back at him as if it’s finally dawning on him. ‘Oh, God. No.’
‘I believe so, yes.’
A long moment passes, and then Matthew says, ‘You think I did it.’
‘I don’t know and I don’t want to know. But I am a criminal defence attorney and I am here to offer you some free advice until you can retain an attorney of your own.’
‘I didn’t kill her!’
‘Okay.’
‘I was asleep, I swear! I didn’t even know she’d left the room! Why would she do that? She’s never left our hotel room before. The bathroom is right here. She’s not a sleepwalker.’
And that’s just it. Why would she leave the room, David thinks – unless she’d argued with her fiancé? And then perhaps he followed her, in a rage. Lost control for a fatal moment. He doesn’t want to ask – he doesn’t want to get involved – but he does. ‘Did you two have an argument last night?’
‘What? No! Of course not. I love her! I could never hurt her!’ His voice has risen and he lowers it again. ‘There must be some reason she left. Maybe she heard something out in the hall. I don’t know. All I know is that I slept through all of it.’
‘You had no disagreements about anything, about … money? A pre-nup, perhaps?’
Matthew shakes his head dismissively. ‘No. Neither of us wanted, or needed, a pre-nup. We were in love – that’s the truth.’ He asks desperately, ‘Do you really think someone killed her?’
‘It looks that way to me,’ David says.