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13
Wilde laughed and looked at Pippa more closely. “Now, there’s a visual. It’s off-season, and we haven’t met. Does that mean you’re here visiting relatives, or did you come for our famous drunken Halloween bash?”
“Actually, I’m here to take a break from the big bad city. A Halloween party at Leveler’s is an overdue treat.” She pointed to the punch bowl. “I wonder how much vodka is swimming around in that orange punch?”
“I’ve already seen at least half a dozen vodka dumps. The noise should increase exponentially as the evening goes on. So, what do you think of Mrs. Trumbo?”
“She’s been nice, she makes marvelous oatmeal cookies, but I wouldn’t want to mess with her. She’s built like a tank. I’ll bet the late Major Trumbo didn’t mess with her, either.”
“She’s a pussycat when you get her talking about her son, Ronald, a textile artist in Baltimore. But you’re right, I wouldn’t want to tangle with her, either.”
“I made plans at the last minute and ended up in the only room available—the honeymoon suite. She was pleased to get a customer, but I could tell she was disappointed I was alone. She hoped to get a groom on the premises to liven things up.”
“I’ve never seen the honeymoon suite. I’m picturing a big waterbed, a mirror in the ceiling, and bordello-red towels in the bathroom.”
“Sorry, no water in the bed, no ceiling mirror. There are, however, red draperies, and the Jacuzzi in the bathroom could host a party.”
“Is this your first visit to St. Lumis, Ms. Cinelli?”
“Actually, I lived here years ago, before my folks moved to Boston. I remember there was another police chief. What was his name?”
“Barnabas Cosby, a fine man with a firm grip. He and his wife took off for Montana. Not to hunt or raise buffalo, he told me. He’s a big skier. His wife isn’t so much, but luckily she likes to shoot snakes and make belts out of them.”
She stared at him. “You made that up.”
He put his palm over his chest. “No, I swear. Evidently there are lots of snakes in Montana, slithery ones and, of course, the all-too-common two-legged ones, I’m sure. Do you ski?”
She nodded. “Colorado. Vail, Aspen, my two favorite places. Snow’s like fine powder. And you?”
“Last time I skied was in Switzerland. Good skiing, good fun, until I got plowed into by a kid, another American, who nearly sent me flying off a thousand-foot cliff. An older woman, gray hair flying all over her head, saw it all. Quick as a flash, she was right there, planted her pole and rammed me sideways, saved me from a swan dive into eternity. I asked her to marry me, but alas, she was already married, although she thought I was a cutie. At least I think that’s what she said. A lot of this is supposition since her English was nearly as bad as my French.” He grinned really big as he spoke. “I think her name was Yvette.”
Pippa decided she liked him. “Good story. I wonder if it’s true?”
He crossed his heart.
Pippa waved at the punch bowl. “The vodka-laced punch tastes too good. I’ve got to be careful, or I’ll be out there on the dance floor trying to do the rumba, clothing optional.”
A dark eyebrow went up, then a flash of a smile. “That image just neon-lit my brain. If I weren’t the chief of police, I’d offer you another cup and ask you to dance with me.”
Pippa took another tiny sip and made herself set down her cup. “Best not slug down any more of that very fine liquid sin. I remember St. Lumis was pretty peaceful, no real crime, just minor stuff. People locked their doors only in the summer when the tourists invaded, if at all. Maybe that was because of Chief Cosby’s firm grip? I’m wondering why you came here.”
Too much too fast. Well, she couldn’t take it back, so she waited, acted nonchalant, and looked out over the crowded room, listening to the laughter. The band was playing a waltz now, and a good three dozen couples were whirling around the dance floor. Or trying.
“A change of pace,” he said at last, his voice almost smooth and easy, but not quite. “It’s a nice town.” He shrugged, looked beyond her shoulder, and nodded hello. “Excuse me, Ms. Cinelli, one of St. Lumis’s prominent citizens is beckoning.” He paused. “Maybe he has an oatmeal cookie to share.” He gave her a smile and walked away. Prominent citizen? She turned to see a man wearing a plain black mask and a black suit. As Wilde got closer, the man lifted the mask, and she stared at Mr. Field Sleeman, owner of Leveler’s Inn. He’d been St. Lumis’s most prominent citizen when she’d lived here, too. She wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Sleeman was one of the richest men in Maryland by now. He owned the local bank, Leveler’s Inn, a half dozen tourist shops, and a dozen other businesses, and that was only in St. Lumis. She watched the two men shake hands, heard Mr. Sleeman laugh. She remembered Sleeman’s house—or mansion, as her parents called it—a huge, sprawling affair clearly announcing he was king of this mountain. Suddenly, a drunk zombie grabbed her arm. Before she could punch him, he grinned and asked her to waltz with him. Why not? He sported hanging rags and a mask right out of The Walking Dead. Turned out he was an insurance salesman and a good dancer. He didn’t recognize her, didn’t recognize her name, but after their dance, he introduced her to a dozen more people. She smiled and chatted, hoping to find out something interesting, but everyone had visited the punch too many times. Pippa wasn’t all that sociable, but she gave it her all. She met as many people as she could. Some remembered her and her family. In her experience, people here loved to talk, particularly to a former local, still considered one of them, but not tonight. Everyone was having too much fun and too much spiked punch. But tomorrow they would remember her. Maybe.
She kept half an eye on Wilde. He’d spoken with Sleeman for only a couple of minutes, then after scanning the room, as if checking to see no one had stabbed anyone, he slipped away. Where was he going? Maybe to trick-or-treat? She saw Sleeman standing silently, staring after him. She’d met Mr. Sleeman several times when she was a teenager, before she went off to NYU to get her law degree to give her the best chance of being accepted by the FBI. She watched another man walk over to Sleeman and pull off his mask. The younger man looked like Sleeman. She remembered he had sons and one daughter. They spoke, then the younger man walked back to a woman, held out his hand to her, and off they went to the dance floor.
She didn’t see the chief again.
She was exhausted when she walked back to Major Trumbo’s B&B after eleven. She found Mrs. Trumbo standing behind the high mahogany reception desk with its orange and black streamers still looped across the wall behind her. She heard conversation coming from the sitting room to her right. Only two oatmeal cookies remained on a plate on the counter.
“Where’s your bag?”
Pippa blinked. “My bag?”
“Your trick-or-treat bag, dear. I was too busy to get out this year. Last year, I dressed up as Little Red Riding Hood and collected candy for the children’s hospital in Annapolis. People were so surprised. I really cleaned up. I didn’t know there were that many Snickers bars in St. Lumis.”
Pippa couldn’t imagine Mrs. Trumbo as Little Red Riding Hood. It boggled the mind. She smiled. “I’d rather have another one of your cookies,” she said, and snagged one. She said good night to Mrs. Trumbo and climbed the two flights of stairs to her honeymoon suite, wondering if Major Trumbo had been as outgoing and friendly as his spouse. Out of habit, she locked the door and slipped on the chain. She double-checked the bathroom. Not a single red towel, only white.
She showered, put on black flannel pajamas covered with red cats, and sat cross-legged on the bed, her tablet on her lap. She read more about Wilde. Three years with the Philadelphia Police Department, married three years, three medals for bravery, divorced. On the fast track until his team member and best friend was murdered and he failed to find the killer. After Wilde had resigned, he dropped out of sight for a few months until he’d become the chief here in St. Lumis.
Pippa read until her eyelids were at half-mast. She turned off her tablet and the lamp beside the big circular bed and lay back, wondering why Wilde’s best friend had been murdered and why he hadn’t found whoever was responsible.
When she slept, she dreamed she was in a jail cell, seated on a bench fastened to a wall, with a beautiful woman with thick dark hair like a mantle around her shoulders seated next to her. There were plates stacked high with Mrs. Trumbo’s oatmeal cookies in front of them. The woman told Pippa she knew it was wrong to eat them, but she had anyway, until she could only lie there, blissfully full. Suddenly Chief Wilde appeared on the other side of the jail cell bars, his eyes on the woman, and he was shaking his head, telling her she shouldn’t have eaten the cookies and look where it got her. She told him he was pathetic because he didn’t know what the cookies meant. The woman laughed at him and was fluffing her hair when Pippa awoke with a start, her heart pounding, sweat dampening her sleep shirt. What in heaven’s name did that weird dream mean? Who was the woman? And why was she dreaming about Chief Wilde? What did Mrs. Trumbo’s oatmeal cookies have to do with anything? Then she remembered. She’d seen that woman when she was looking into Wilde. It was his ex-wife, Serena Wilde.
She huffed. What could she expect except weird dreams after swilling that vodka-laced punch?
