The Chosen

“And one more thing,” Vera began. Then she paused partly in reluctance and partly in amusement. Mafioso, she thought. Drug financiers. That’s what Chief Mulligan had implied The Inn actually catered to. But how should she bring the matter up?

Fortunately, after Feldspar poured the champagne, she wouldn’t have to. “And I feel absolutely dreadful about the business this morning with the police,” he owned up. “Kyle reported it to me.”

“It’s nothing to feel dreadful about,” Vera told him. “If you want to know the truth, it was kind of funny. I’m still not quite sure what the man was digging for.”

Feldspar leaned forward slightly, looking at her. “What do you suppose he was looking for?”

Vera nearly sighed. Go for it, she thought. “It’s my impression that Chief Mulligan is suspicious of The Inn’s location and is therefore suspicious of The Inn’s clientele.”

She expected Feldspar to scoff, or laugh. But he didn’t. He just looked at her.

“Why?” he asked.

Vera shrugged. “I’m not sure. He just thinks it’s odd that a place like The Inn, very upscale, could turn a profit in an area like this.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“The same thing you told me from the start. That The Inn caters to a very upscale and very private clientele.”

“A select clientele.”

“Yes. And I think that’s why he’s suspicious,” Vera went on, hoping she wasn’t saying too much, or exaggerating what Mulligan had seemed to imply. But Feldspar had asked for her opinion. So I’m going to give it to him. “I think he believes, in other words, that our ‘select’ clientele aren’t legitimate businessmen but white-collar criminals. Mafia. Organized crime. Drug distribution. That sort of thing. He’s also very suspicious that Magwyth Enterprises is a holding company. For instance, he knows that you wired several million dollars into the bank in town, and in addition to that, he wasn’t able to find out anything about Magwyth Enterprises itself. It’s pretty clear to me that he’s challenging the legitimacy of your company. He seems to think it’s a money-laundering outfit, and that you’re the honcho behind it.”

“Preposterous,” Feldspar said. Yet he seemed off kilter at once, even slightly perturbed, and it was obvious. Is it my imagination, Vera wondered, or is he hiding something? “Yeah, preposterous,” she went along with him. “What I don’t get are his motives. It’s one thing to make implications like that. But what are his grounds?”

Feldspar made no immediate reply; instead he refilled their champagne flutes and set the towel-cloaked bottle back into its ice bucket. “Small town police chief, big ideas, I suspect. Who knows, really? Nevertheless, whatever his motives, I can assure you, Ms. Abbot, The Inn is quite legitimate in its services to its guests, and its guests are equally legitimate.”

“Of course,” Vera said.

They dined first on an array of appetizers: Equadoran Shrimp Cocktail, Lasagnettas with Roasted Peppers, and Dan B.’s famous Minted Pea Salad in Radicchio Leaves. Vera ordered Crayfish Brittany as her main course, and Feldspar the Fillet of Charollais Beef in a truffle gravy. Even Vera was astounded by Dan B.’s skills tonight; everything was state-of-the-art, yet Feldspar scarcely made comment during the meal. Instead, he spoke off and on of business in general, some upcoming banquets, etc., nothing of note, and nothing really of himself. Vera had no choice but to deduce that her revelations regarding Chief Mulligan’s visit had put