Free Edited for Death by Michele Drier Page A

was older. He finished college and was an officer. Robert joined after high school. He was a wild kid, nothing serious but petty stuff...drinking, bashed a couple of mailboxes.
    “But he’s the one who ended up a hero.”
    Royce points down the hallway. My eyes are adjusting to the dim light and I see frames and a glass case.
    “Because he was a war hero, my grandfather was a shoo-in for the Senate. After he got elected, his folks sold the hotel. Their other son, William, lived in the Bay Area so no one was left here. When Robert knew he was dying, he insisted that I buy the hotel back.”
    “So you bought it with others in your family?” Clarice pulls out her notebook and pen.
    “I only have one cousin—well second cousin, I guess—living. It’s William’s son, Stewart and he’s here at the hotel. Is this an interview?”
    Royce is looking pale again, and I don’t know if this is anger or something else, so I say, “We just want some background. Is that a problem?”
    “I guess not. You’ll probably find it out anyway. Stewart has a drinking problem. Actually, Stewart is an alcoholic and I agreed to let him live here as part of his probation for a DUI. I bought the hotel myself. I had to sell my house in Cupertino and I still have a mortgage here, plus the bundle it’s costing to renovate it. See why I need the publicity?”
    Royce is looking like he needs to sit down. He has a bucket of worries and is acting like he’s drowning in them. I don’t want to dump anything else on him, but I’m not duty-bound to give him any ink, either.
    “I’m not sure what we might plan for a story on the hotel,” I say. “Can we have a tour?”
    “Sure, sure, I forgot all the stuff the PR class taught me.” He’s rueful now, probably thinking he aired too much of the family’s problems.
    “Over here,” he gestures to a door where I hear silverware clashing, “we’ve finished the dining room. Come on in.”
    Clarice and I follow him through the door and into a large space that updates Victorian opulence. Dark blue carpet and drapes mute the sound and the light. He’s installed small spots overhead that shine a cone of light in the center of each table, a trick that allows plenty of light to read a menu by but not enough to shake the overall gloom.
    “For breakfast and lunch, we open the drapes,” he says. “It’s not much of a view, just the side streets. I’m planning to extend the dining room to the back of the hotel and open up the rear wall to make patios for warm weather. I’m also in the middle of plans to put in a garden back there, maybe some wisteria. This phase is going to have to wait until business picks up, though.”
    I’m impressed by the thought and work he’s put in. “Sheriff Dodson commented on your chef and kitchen staff,” I say.
    “I’m serious when I say that I want this to be a destination,” he says. “We can have year-round guests like the Awhanee Hotel in Yosemite or the Elderberry House in Oakhurst. These are five-star places with accommodations and restaurants.”
    He’s dreaming big.
    “I told you that my grandfather kept pushing to get the hotel back in the family. I know this is what he wanted as a memorial.”
    “So where’s the bar?” Clarice asks, craning around. “Isn’t that where the Baldwin guy’s body was found?”
    Clarice knows how to puncture Royce’s balloon and bring him here-and-now.
    “It’s across the hall. Joe Baldwin’s body was found just behind the bar, yes,” says Royce. “The lounge isn’t quite finished yet. We’ve got the bar in, and tables and chairs, but the back bar is still covered by plastic sheeting. I’m trying to decide about mirrors and how I want the liquor displayed. Bars and drinks are making a comeback and I’d like to be on the leading edge. Might even call the bartender a ‘cocktailian’,” he says with a grin.
    He’s right, the bar has an uncompleted feel. Probably because an opaque sheet of plastic is