Free Edited for Death by Michele Drier Page B

tacked floor-to-ceiling the length of the room. The same baby spots as the dining room are placed down the length of the bar itself and scattered in the rest of the room’s ceiling. Despite the plastic, it has a warm and welcoming feel. Royce has good instincts.
    As we come back into the hall, a man appears on the stairs.
    “Oh, here’s Stewart,” Royce says cheerily.
    Stewart is an older, fuzzier version of Royce, but underneath the layers of life’s bad choices I can see the Calvert outlines in the bones. As Royce introduces Clarice and me, I’m watching Stewart’s eyes. They’re like an old dog who’s been mistreated but is still trying to please.
    “It’s nice to meet you,” he says. “Are you going to be running a story on the hotel? Royce is doing an excellent job on restoring this place. Probably beyond its former glory.” His laugh is deprecating.
    “Maybe. I understand that you’re a historian, like your father,” I say, steering away from any promises. “I spent some time at the library reading up on you family.”
    It’s a small bone, but Stewart jumps at it. “You might be interested in some of the family things I’ve found in the attics,” he says. “I’ve even found several generations of diaries. I’m researching to write a book about the Senator.”
    There it is again, this family in the third person.
    “I might. I don’t have time today, but if I come up again, I’ll call first and set up some time to spend with you.”
    I turn to Clarice who’s looking over the memorabilia. “We need to go. I have a bunch of copy to read and you need to finish your story.”
    She gives me the fisheye again and starts to argue then realizes I’m trying to get us out of here. “OK, I have all I need,” she says.
    Once in the car, Clarice says, “Well, did I tell you something’s fishy, or what? It’s just kinda creepy—all the drapes closed, a live-in alcoholic, everybody living off the past.” She gives a shudder.
    “You’re partially right,” I say, but I’m not giving in to the ghost stories. “One of the things I’m wondering about is Joe Baldwin.”
    “You’re the one who told me not to put too much into him,” Clarice says. “To quote you, ‘It’s sad when a no-body dies,’ blah, blah, blah...”
    “It’s not that he dies, it’s where they found his body,” I say.
    “They found it in the bar, where else would a drunk be?”
    “But that’s the point,” I’m patient, waiting for her to catch up. “Royce just said he slept in the lobby. Besides, if he was a well-known drunk...”
    “They would have locked the bar!” Clarice says, her eyes growing round. “Royce sure wouldn’t have left the door to the bar open for a drunk, not to mention keeping Stewart out at night. So, where was he killed? I need to talk to Dodson more.”
    “Royce has a plausible explanation for everything but there are ghosts there. I wonder if he hasn’t finished the bar because Stewart’s an alcoholic and it’s too much temptation. And did you notice the ‘attics?’ Most places have only one.”
    “That didn’t bother me,” Clarice says, buckling herself in as though I’m driving a Grand Prix course. “That building has so many additions and redos that there are probably attics on top of attics. I think Royce is deluding himself with his vast plans. I sure wouldn’t come up to spend time at the Marshalltown Hotel.”
    I’m quiet. Maybe Clarice has something. I’m planning to see Phil this weekend. If things go well, maybe I’ll invite him up to the hotel for a payback weekend and get his impressions of the Royce/Stewart/Senator/hotel muddle.

 
     
    CHAPTER SIXTEEN
     
    “It just doesn’t feel right, Phil. There’s nothing solid, no facts, but the hair on the back of my neck stands up when I think about it.”
    “I don’t doubt your intuition, Amy, I just haven’t come up with much on the Calverts you don’t have. My offer still stands. A weekend in San Francisco