whipping like rubber hoses, tongues hanging, mouths drooling. Ron Handler stepped to a curtained door tucked away to the left of a large commercial range. “Gal! Bob! Out!” He opened the door and the Berns galloped out into the sunshine.
“Bob?” Russ said.
“Coffee?” Handler offered, tilting the pot toward Clare.
“Please. So have you found anything new? Do you know what happened last night?”
Obrowski picked up his mug and blew across the steaming surface. “We were just telling the chief. We had a small dinner party last night—just us, Emil, Samuel Marx, and Rick Profitt. Samuel and Rick are staying with us. They’re up from New York City.”
Handler handed Clare a mug. “They own a travel agency. They send us a ton of business.”
“We put it together very spontaneously, because it was a free night in what’s otherwise a pretty busy season for us. I don’t see how anyone who might have been intending to hurt Emil could have known about it.”
Russ shifted his weight. “Your other guests, Marx and Profitt. Did they know Emil beforehand?”
“No,” Obrowski said. “And they both retired before Emil left. They didn’t even realize we had had a drive- by.”
“Maybe Chief Van Alstyne thinks they shimmied down the drainpipe in the rear and went after Emil while we were distracted washing up,” Ron said. “Like in one of those British murder mysteries on PBS.”
Russ ignored this and continued looking at Obrowski. “Anyone else invited who didn’t show? Did you tell any vendors, any delivery people?”
“No. No need. Ron can throw together a five-star meal out of whatever we have in stock.” Stephen Obrowski swept his hand toward the chef, who bowed. “We had invited Paul, of course, and our other guest, Bill Ingraham, but they both had to attend the aldermen’s meeting instead.”
“Bill Ingraham?” Clare said. “The developer?”
“That’s right. He’s been staying with us at least once a month since this winter.” Obrowski pointed at a mullioned window centered over a stainless-steel sink framing a view of the mountains. “The Landry property, where he’s working, starts about a mile west of us. As a matter of fact, this house used to be the Landry mansion. The family made their fortune in logging and real estate speculation. Archibald Landry built his own railroad line into Adirondack Park to transport timber and holidaymakers, but the connecting lines that other developers were supposed to build never came through, so his track just petered out in the wilderness.” Obrowski took a sip of coffee. “Then a son died in World War One. When the stock market collapsed, it took most of the family money with it. They sold this place in the thirties.”
“So this guy Ingraham, he’s the one who’s building the new hotel?”
“Luxury spa,” Obrowski corrected. “Very exciting. It’s going to bring in lots of people, lots of money. Lots of traffic past our door.”
“And he couldn’t make it to your dinner last night.”
“He was definitely at the meeting,” Clare said. “There was quite a to-do about PCBs in the area maybe coming from the old quarry on the Landry property. He stood up and told everyone what a good thing the spa was going to be, but he said that he wouldn’t be building it if the town called in the DEP for another go-round.”
“You’re kidding! That would be a disaster. Let’s hope they don’t jump the gun and call in the DEP prematurely. Lots of people are counting on that resort going forward.”
“Not the least of whom is that Landry woman.” Handler rolled his eyes.
“Oh, cut it out. She’s not that bad.”
“Joan Crawford on hormone-replacement therapy.”
Russ snickered. Clare pressed her lips together, trying not to smile. “How about his partner?” she asked. “Did he stay here, too?”
Handler and Obrowski glanced at each other. “Well…” Obrowski said.
“He used to,” Handler said.
Obrowski sighed. “They had a big blowup here at the end of May. The kind where Ron and I try to disappear into the woodwork for the duration. We haven’t seen him since then.”
Clare put her mug down. “But he was at the meeting last night. Mr. Ingraham introduced him.”
“He did what?” Handler goggled at her.
“Wait. Wait.” Obrowski laughed. “Slightly chunky guy with lots of slicked-back dark hair?”
“Yes, that’s the one. John something.”
“Opperman. John Opperman.” Obrowski grinned at Handler. “She meant his business partner.”
“We thought you were referring to the Queen of Tarts,” Handler said.
“His girlfriend?”
“His boyfriend.”
Russ started. “Ingraham’s gay?”
Handler grinned, showing his pointed eyeteeth. “We’re everywhere. Scary, isn’t it?”
“Cut it out, Ron,” Obrowski said.
Russ’s cheeks grew pink beneath his tan. “Did Ingraham know Emil?”
