Page 22 of Death By Llama (Friendship Harbor Mysteries #7)

FIFTEEN

“What are you doing up here?” I asked Oliver, sidestepping his question as to why I had appeared at the inn. “Do you have to stay up here most evenings like this?”

Oliver shook his head, a tired smile flickering across his face.

“No. Normally, I leave a sign with my cell number on the desk. That way, if someone comes in late, they can just contact me.” He exhaled deeply, the weight of the day visible in his posture.

“But tonight? I’ve got a feeling I’m not going to sleep at all. ”

He paused and ran a hand through his hair before continuing.

“The actors were already needy guests before today. I can only imagine how much worse they’ll be tonight.

” He leaned back slightly, his voice dropping with frustration.

“Most of them aren’t exactly thrilled about having to stay here until Justin gives them the all-clear to leave.

And I’m not thrilled to be here alone with them, period. ”

“Alone? Where are Cameron and Henry?”

“They left for Boston about an hour ago. Your boy has already set up a meeting with his lawyer about the situation here. And of course, Henry wasn’t going to stay with me, given how things ended between us. So, I’m here alone, feeling like Shelley Duval.”

I frowned at him, not following.

“Shelley Duvall—when she was in The Shining,” he prompted. “Alone in a spooky hotel. Jack Nicholson wielding an axe.”

“Oh, gotcha.” Although I did think that was a bit of an extreme comparison to his current situation. Then again, I wasn’t staying here alone in an old inn with a potential killer.

“What if I told you that I could calm your nerves and you’d be able to go to bed and sleep like a baby?”

“I gave up the devil’s lettuce years ago. Besides, if you found it in your grandmother’s stuff, it’s probably no good anymore anyway.”

It was true—my grandmother didn’t shy away from indulging in a little marijuana every now and then—or at least that’s what I’d heard from some of the locals.

But I wasn’t offering Oliver chemical relaxation.

No, what I had in mind was something entirely different.

Of course, I couldn’t guarantee that he’d be on board with my plan.

Truth be told, I wasn’t even a hundred percent sure it was legal.

Actually, scratch that—I was pretty sure it wasn’t.

But that wasn’t going to stop me from using every angle I could think of to get him to agree.

“No. I don’t have anything like that,” I admitted, prefacing my idea with some context. “But I do know that none of our potential suspects are at the inn right now. Because every one of them is over at Steamy’s Pub.”

“Yeah. That does make me feel a little better,” Oliver admitted, picking up his coffee mug—the one with the words I’d rather be quilting in colorful patchwork lettering on the side. He took a slow sip, then sighed. “But they will be back and I will be up all night looking over my shoulder.”

“Or,” I countered, leaning slightly across the table. “We could catch a killer.”

Oliver narrowed his eyes, taking another sip of coffee before setting the mug back down. “What exactly are you thinking?”

“Well,” I replied, a sly smile creeping across my face. “I’m thinking this might just be the perfect opportunity to take a look around their rooms.”

I fully expected him to veto the idea, so I was shocked when he took a final sip of his coffee and stood. “Sure. Let’s do it.”

I frowned, feeling oddly disappointed. “Really? I was sure I was going to have to coax you into it.”

He shrugged. “Well, I work here. I can go into their rooms. Maybe you’re not supposed to go in their rooms, but why would I care? I’m probably not going to have this job much longer if I have any say in it. What’s Cameron going to do? Fire me?”

I followed him as we headed toward the staircase. “So, did you find out what Cameron’s plan is for the inn?”

He shook his head. “No. But if I were him I’d try to unload this place right away—it hasn’t really worked out like any of us imagined.”

Even though he was in front of me and couldn’t see my reaction, I nodded. He glanced over his shoulder as he climbed. “If he does sell, I think this is my shortest length of employment.”

“What about that time you worked at that kids’ pizza and game place when you had to wear the pig suit?” I smirked.

Oliver stopped at the top of the stairs and shuddered. “Oh gosh, Porky’s Pizza. Yeah, you’re right. I worked less time there. I hated that job.”

“I remember being so jealous of you. You were, what, fifteen? And it was what I considered an acting gig.”

He grinned at me. “Yeah, you’re right. I considered it an acting gig at the time too. Unfortunately, I couldn’t stop thinking about all the other people who wore that suit. That thing smelled so bad. I couldn’t hang with it.”

I couldn’t blame him. That was pretty gross. He stopped in front of a door labeled The Harbor View Room.

“Whose room is this?” I asked.

“Daphne’s,” he said.

I nodded. “Alright. Let’s start here.”

He pulled a key out of his pocket, and I assumed it was his master key. It dangled from a small, adorable owl keychain made of yarn.

“That keychain’s totally cute,” I said.

He held it up and let it sway in the air. “Millie made it for me.”

“She could sell those.”

“Right? She has a real talent.”

“She does.”

It took us a moment to realize we were wasting valuable investigation time admiring Oliver’s elderly friend’s handiwork. He shook his head slightly and focused back on the door, sliding the key into the lock. Seconds later, we were inside the room.

“Whoa,” I said, taking in the chaotic mess.

Daphne clearly wasn’t packed and ready to leave any time soon. Clothes were strewn everywhere—on the floor, on the bed. A damp towel dangled off the closet door knob.

“Wow. She’s living like a rock star,” I muttered. “I don’t think she’ll notice if we go through her stuff.”

Oliver made a face as he picked up a silk and lace top with his forefinger and thumb that had been draped over one of the lampshades.

“Okay,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “You start on that side of the room, and I’ll take this side. Do you even know what we’re looking for?”

I shrugged. “Not really. I mean, we don’t exactly have a murder weapon or anything. I’m just hoping there’s something… incriminating.”

We began picking our way through the disaster.

“Did she think she was coming here for, like, a month?” Oliver asked as he sifted through a massive pile of clothes near the bed. “I swear, she has more clothes in here than I own.”

I knew that wasn’t true. Oliver was a clotheshorse. He had an outfit for every possible occasion.

“Whoa. Whoa, wait. I think I found something,” Oliver said, waving me over to his side of the bed. “I don’t want to pick it up in case it has, like, DNA on it or something.” He poked at the clothing sprawled across the floor, separating it with the tip of his shoe.

I leaned forward, squinting. “Is that a letter opener? Why would she bring a letter opener with her?”

We both hunched closer to inspect it without laying a finger on it. I glanced sideways at him. “I mean, it might be something, but no one’s been killed with a letter opener, right?”

Oliver tilted his head, studying the object. “Wait… I think that was already in this room.”

Straightening up, I frowned at him. “You have a letter opener in one of the guest rooms?”

“Yeah. It’s like an antique thing. A decoration. No one uses letter openers.”

I grimaced. “I don’t know. A letter opener doesn’t seem like a great idea in a hotel room—in a town that seems to have a knack for random murders.”

Oliver considered my words, then nodded. “Why would that occur to Cameron or me or anyone else? Every object in this room could be a potential murder weapon, including the soap bar.”

“How could you kill someone with a bar of soap?”

Oliver’s jaw dropped. “Have you never seen a single prison movie or TV show? They put it in a sock and swing.” He used a hand gesture to demonstrate, which was disturbing.

“Okay, okay, you’re right. Everything is a weapon in the wrong hands.”

“I seriously don’t think the letter opener is a clue.” He nudged the pile of clothes back over the supposed antique decoration, covering it again.

I moved back to my side of the bed, going through more piles of clothing with deliberate care. My hand froze when I came across men’s boxers covered in vibrant prints of hot sauce bottles.

“Hey. These might be a legit clue. They might even have actual DNA on them,” I said with a small triumphant grin. Pinching the waistband, I lifted the boxers with the utmost care, mimicking Oliver’s earlier technique with the camisole.

Oliver wrinkled his nose. “Oh, those are definitely Nick’s boxers.”

I nodded, eyeing the gaudy material. “Yeah. He looked like the type to wear kitschy boxers, though I’m not sure why I think that.” Looking around the room, I frowned. “Maybe we should put them in a bag or something.”

Oliver seemed to have the same idea. He grabbed a plastic grocery bag that had been lying on a nearby chair. He circled around the bed, holding it open. I carefully dropped the boxers inside, trying not to touch them any more than necessary.

“I mean, it’s not much, but it could potentially prove she was involved with him,” I said.

Oliver nodded but furrowed his brow in thought. “Yeah, but she’s never actually denied she was involved with him.”

I shrugged. “Well, it’s the best thing we’ve found so far.”

“Even if there’s blood on them it doesn’t prove anything. We’d need a murder weapon with blood that can’t be explained by them being romantically involved.”

I sighed after a moment. “I don’t think we’re going to find anything in here.”

Oliver nodded and grimaced, clearly eager to get out of the messy room. “Let’s check out one of the others.”

We stepped back into the hall, and he locked the door behind us. “The one across the hall is Gemma’s, and the one right next to Daphne’s is…the juggler guy’s.” He paused. “Why did none of us learn the juggler’s name? He was one of the coolest people at the festival.”

“Him and the glassblower. Nick would be so disappointed he wasn’t the star.” I looked back and forth between two new doors. “I don’t think we need to look in their rooms. Let’s check out Vance’s.”

“He’s down the hall,” Oliver said, leading the way.

We crept toward the appropriate door, which was fully unnecessary since we were alone in the building. The brass plaque above on the door read, “The Ebb Tide Room.”

Oliver slipped the key into the lock, and we stepped inside. While Daphne’s space had been in complete chaos, Vance’s room was the picture of military-grade neatness.

“Doesn’t even look like he stayed in here,” I remarked, glancing around.

Oliver nodded. “I haven’t even had to come in here to clean it. He’s had the “Do Not Disturb” sign on his door since he arrived. He must be making his own bed.”

“Weird.” One of the best things about staying at a hotel or inn is not having to clean up after yourself. Although, I like to think I’ve never wrecked a room quite as badly as Daphne. “Alright, let’s do the same thing. You take that side. I’ll take this side.”

We started scanning through the room. The place was so immaculate, there wasn’t even a trace of lint on the carpet. “I don’t think there’s anything in here at all,” I muttered.

Oliver frowned. “Did he even bring luggage?”

I opened the closet door to investigate and pointed to the suitcase stand, where a carry-on sat, zipped closed.

Carefully, I unzipped it and flipped the top open.

Neatly folded button-down shirts and pressed pants greeted me at the top.

I hesitated, reluctant to disturb the orderly setup.

“This guy might actually notice if something’s out of place,” I muttered, gingerly poking at the clothes.

I paused when I caught a glimpse of something beneath a pair of sneakers tucked against the suitcase’s side. My breath caught. A flash of red velvet.

“I think we hit the jackpot.” I shook out the neatly folded cloak—red velvet trimmed in white fur.

“That’s definitely the cloak Nick was wearing at the festival,” Oliver said, his gaze fixed on it.

I held it carefully in front of me, short enough that the bottom of it almost dragged on the floor. “We need to find something to put it in. There could definitely be Nick’s blood or something on it,” I said.

Oliver glanced around the room, but there was nothing in sight to use. “Give me a second,” he said before disappearing into the hallway.

While waiting, I held the cloak up carefully, letting my eyes trace over every inch of it.

I scanned the fabric and the trim for stains, hairs, or anything that might lead us closer to answers.

My fingers brushed against the neckline—right where the hood met the rest of the cloak.

The nap of the velvet material was distinctly flattened in two places, creating shapes that resembled hearts lying sideways rather than upright.

I stared at them, feeling an odd pang of recognition.

Something about the shapes looked…familiar.

Then it dawned on me—I had the answer in an instant.

I knew exactly what made those impressions.

Oliver hurried back into the room, clutching a trash bag. He snapped it open and held it out. “Here,” he said, his tone brisk.

I slid the cloak into the bag, careful not to touch it more than necessary.

“We need to call Justin right now,” I said, digging into my jeans pocket for my cell phone, excitement bubbling up in my voice. “This is going to prove everything.”

Oliver and I grinned at each other.