All Mortal Flesh

“He’s supposed to be back this afternoon,” Barbara said.

“The foreman?”

“Mr. Opperman.”

“Here?” he said. “I thought the business was based in Baltimore.”

“He’s found it more… feasible to live here during the rebuilding. He’s been away in New York City for a few days. He was going to drive up today, but I’m not sure if he’ll make it, with the storm coming on.”

Away for a few days? Oh, God, could it be that simple? “Was he alone in New York? Could Linda have been with him?”

Now he could make out what was behind her eyes. Pity. “As far as I know, he was alone. He’s been meeting with travel companies about promoting the Algonquin. I can’t vouch for his off-hours, but he’s been in touch with me every day, either by phone or by fax.”

“But you don’t know for sure, do you? Is there any way to find out? If she’s there?”

You really have been left behind like a three-legged dog, her expression said. She crossed her arms over her chest and bent her head. Russ sat, literally on the edge of his seat, afraid to breathe for fear of making her jump the wrong way. Come on, come on.

“Let me try something.” She stood up and went around to her side of the desk. She picked up her phone and punched in a shortcut number.

“Hello,” she said. “This is Barbara LeBlanc of the Algonquin Waters Spa and Resort. May I speak to Mr. Sacramone?” There was a pause. Then: “Fine, thanks. And you?” She smiled. “You flatterer. Watch out, one of these days I’m going to take you up on your offer.” The flattering Mr. Sacramone went on for a half minute or so. “He has?” She looked at Russ. “He said he’d try to get back today. He can always stop in Albany if the weather gets too bad.” A pause. She laughed. “Yes, I’m sure I’ll be the one booking him a room in a snowstorm.”

More unheard talking from Mr. Sacramone. “That’s more or less the reason I’m calling,” Barbara said. “Mr. Opperman told me to order flowers for the lady with whom he was staying. He wants them to be there when she gets home, you understand. But I don’t have her address. Do you have it for me, by any chance? So I can keep looking like a miracle worker?”

Russ’s stomach clenched. Barbara’s eyebrows went up. “No? Huh. My mistake, then. I’ll have to ask him to clarify for me when he gets in touch next.” She looked at Russ, shook her head. “You, too, Emilio. Ciao, bello.” She hung up.

“The concierge at Mr. Opperman’s hotel says he was alone his whole stay. Which doesn’t surprise me. Mr. Opperman is very focused on the business.”

He had enough of a sense of humor left to be amused by the fact that he was crushed because his wife hadn’t gone off with the owner of the Algonquin. “Thanks anyway,” he said. “I appreciate you trying.”

“Let’s go find Ray,” Barbara said, her tone professionally upbeat. “Maybe he’ll know something.”

Russ followed her out of the office.

“They’re working downstairs, in the spa facilities,” she said. “The fire didn’t spread that far, but we had extensive water damage. Lots of rewiring and retiling.”

Broad stairs led down from the lobby to the spa. Once they were below the ground floor, Russ could hear the high-pitched grind of a Skil saw and someone cursing a stubborn coupling wire.

“Ray?” Barbara called. She picked her way past sawhorses and coils of insulated cable. “Ray?”

They entered the work area. Russ could see it had once probably been the fanciest place to soak your feet or get covered with mud between New York and Montreal. Now it was a god-awful mess, like a beautiful woman with a bad hangover and ratty hair. A man in a flannel shirt and suspenders unbent from where he was studying a blueprint. “Whitey! Matt! Knock it off a minute.” The Skil saw died away. The big guy crossed the work space toward them. He was as tall as Russ and a good fifty pounds heavier, with the open face of a man who viewed the world as his friend until proven otherwise.

“Hey, Ms. LeBlanc. What can I do you for?”

“This is Ray Yardhaas, our foreman. Ray, this is the Millers Kill chief of police, Russ Van Alstyne.”

Ray shook his hand. “We met before. Two summers ago, when we were building this place the first time.” He grinned. “First time I ever met someone investigating a real live murder. Impressed the hell out of my wife.”

“Ray, we’re looking for someone who might have been helping Mrs. Van Alstyne with the curtain installations.”

“Mrs. Van Alstyne?” He glanced at Russ. “You mean the curtain lady? Yeah, that’d mostly be Charlie. Why? Has he been bothering her?”

Leblanc frowned. “Is that a concern?”

“Aw, his heart’s in the right place, I guess. It’s just his mouth’s usually in third gear while his brain’s still easing off the brake. He’s got little hands, though. Good for doing that fiddly sort of work.”

“Can I talk to him?” Russ asked.

“He’s taking a break.” Ray mimed puffing on a cigarette. “He’s my crew, though. If he’s been up to something he shouldn’t, I want to know about it.”

Ross shook his head. “I’m just looking for some information.” He considered how much to share. “My wife-”

Ray pointed over his shoulder. “Here he is.”

Russ turned around.

And saw Dennie Shambaugh walking toward him.

FORTY-ONE

Russ was on Shambaugh in two long strides, his knuckles twisting in the neck of the man’s shirt, choking off his air and forcing him to his knees. Barbara LeBlanc was yelling something, but he couldn’t make it out over the pounding in his ears.

“Where is she, you bastard?” Russ’s grip tightened as his voice rose to a howl. “Where’s my wife?”

He was jerked back by a pair of oven-mitt-sized hands wrapped around his arms. “Slow down there, Chief.” Ray didn’t have to raise his voice to boom. “I thought you just wanted to ask him some questions.”

Russ twisted out of Yardhaas’s grasp. “That man is under arrest,” he said, pointing at the quivering, hacking heap of flannel and denim on the floor. His hand shook. “For information fraud, suspicion of murder, and the disappearance of Linda Van Alstyne.” He lunged toward Shambaugh. “Where’s my wife?” he shouted.

The man threw up his hands. “I don’t know nothing! I don’t know nothing!” He peeked through his forearms at Russ, bracing for the blow to fall.

Russ stared.

He grabbed the man’s wrists and forced them down.

“Don’t hurt me,” the man whimpered. “Ray, don’t let him hurt me.”

It wasn’t Dennie Shambaugh.

“Shit,” Russ said, releasing his hold. He turned away, struggling to get control of himself. “Christ almighty.” He turned back. “I’m sorry.” He looked at the man cowering on the floor, at Yardhaas, at Barbara, who was staring at him with dismay. “I’m sorry. We’re looking for a man named Dennis Shambaugh. I thought you were him. I’m sorry.”

Ray held out a meaty hand and helped his crewman up. “This here’s Charlie Shambaugh.”

The smaller man shuffled behind Ray. “Dennie’s my brother,” he said.

Russ removed his glasses and scrubbed his face with one hand. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You look a lot alike.”

“Yeah, we all do.” Charlie Shambaugh’s voice was shaky.

“Have you heard from your brother recently?”

“Maybe a month ago. He’s in trouble again, huh?”

“Wait a minute.” Ray twisted around to look at Charlie. “Was this the brother you brought around when we was rehiring in November?”

Charlie nodded.

“You didn’t tell me he was a con.”