Twenty-five minutes later, Sara-having treated herself to a quick hot shower and a mug of hot chocolate, courtesy of the coffee machine in her room-felt like a new woman (or anyway, a thawed one) and ready to begin their investigation anew. She pulled on a brown long-sleeved crewneck tee shirt and tugged on tan chinos. Over the tee, she climbed into a tan-and-brown wool sweater. Then she bopped down to Grissom's room and knocked on the door.
Again she waited, but nothing happened. She knocked harder, and this time Grissom opened the door and stepped into the hall, his gloves in one hand and a stocking cap in the other.
'Cormier donated this to me,' he said, by way of greeting, holding up the cap.
'You'll need it,' she said. 'You smell good-what cologne is that?'
His eyes tightened as he processed the question. Then he said, 'Thanks…it's aftershave,' and pulled the door shut.
In the elevator, Grissom said, 'Cormier seems fine, but be discreet around him.'
'Sure. If the victim turns out to be local, that makes him a prime suspect.'
'Constable Maher's on the suspect list, too.'
Sara studied Grissom's profile, but nothing was to be learned there. She said, 'But what motive would a CSI from Canada have to kill somebody in upper New York State?'
He turned and gave her that maddening smile. 'We discover two sets of tracks, Sara, moving away from the murder victim…and we hear shots. Soon after, we find a burned body with a fatal bullet wound…and shortly after that, two men walk out of the woods…one with a firearm.'
'I still don't see what possible motive a Canadian constable would-'
'Everything we know about Maher, either Cormier or Maher himself told us. That his name is Maher, that he's a constable, that he's from Canada and so on. They could be in this together.'
For a moment, it was as if Grissom had punched her in the stomach. Then she managed, 'Where does that leave us?'
His smile turned angelic. 'Well, for one thing, we're left with photos of the crime scene that neither suspect knows about.'
A high-ceilinged chamber of dark carved wood in the Victorian manner, the lobby had an elegant old world feeling with the expected lodge ambience. The far wall was mostly a picture window that looked out at the snow falling on the frozen lake, beyond which rose rocky ledges and towering evergreens, surreally semivisible in the blend of blizzard and night; it was partly blocked by a tall, narrow, well-trimmed Christmas tree. Five people-Herb Cormier and four individuals Sara assumed to be among the guests-stood before the picture-postcard-like vista, watching the lovely, terrible storm.
To Sara's left stretched the front desk, attended by Jenny, the busty, redheaded female clerk who'd assured her the snow would let up soon. The desk clerk smiled and waved. Clearly perplexed by this gesture, Grissom raised a hand waist-high in response, much the way a Roman emperor might reluctantly acknowledge a subject; Sara, who would like to have throttled the woman, forced a smile.
The wall at right was dominated by a massive wood-and-brick roaring fireplace; above a mantel decorated with pine tree boughs hung a large framed oil painting of Mumford Mountain House in the summer season. Spread out before the fire on an oriental carpet were various velvet-covered settees, overstuffed couches and leather chairs, crouching between tables covered with well-thumbed magazines and vintage books. Three more guests sat reading by the soft yellowish light of tabletop lamps.
Herm Cormier-in a rust-colored corduroy jacket over a buttoned-to-the-neck white shirt, blue jeans and boots-caught their reflection in the picture window, turned and came quickly over to them, meeting them at the edge of the chairs and sofas.
In a voice barely above a whisper, he said, 'Lookin' out that window, the world's so peaceful, so pretty-can't hardly believe what happened.'
Not interested in such ruminations, Grissom asked, 'Who else is here from the forensics conference?'
'Just you two and the constable…. Everybody else couldn't get into the airport in Newburgh, and of course some folks weren't comin' in till tomorrow, anyway. The phones've been out for a good hour, now, so we're not sure exactly what's what, in a lot of cases.'
'Have you arranged for that waitress, Amy Barlow, to wait on us?'
'I've told my wife Pearl, she's the hostess. Amy's the only waitress made it in, though we do have a waiter workin'.' Cormier looked Grissom over. 'You're dressed warmer, I see-you look like you can survive a few hours out there…. I'll get my things and meet you in five or ten minutes. Here in the lobby?'
'No,' Grissom said. 'I'll be with Sara in the dining room.'
'Fine with me,' Cormier said, and took off toward the check-in counter, disappearing behind it, through a door marked HOTEL MANAGER-PRIVATE.
Sara and Grissom followed the arrowed DINING ROOM signs past the lobby down a hallway lined with framed photos of Mumford Mountain Hotel staff and management dating to roughly the beginning of time. At the end of the hall, to the left, was a wide stairway to the dining room.
The Victorian theme continued in the expansive restaurant, with its open-beamed two-story ceiling and scores of tables with white linen cloths and hard-wood chairs, the quiet elegance of a bygone era reflected in the 'M'-engraved sterling flatware and green monogrammed china. With only a handful of diners, the hall seemed absurdly large, the chandeliers bathing the all-but-empty chamber in soft yellow light, as if Sara and Grissom had wandered into an abandoned movie set on some vast soundstage.
They waited as the hostess showed another couple to a table. Heavyset, in her early sixties, her gray hair in a short shag, the hostess wore a midcalf gray knit dress dressed up by a white-and-red corsage, and sensible black shoes.
She trundled their way, greeting them with a big, wide smile, bifocals on a cord draped around her neck. 'Good evening, folks,' she said, hands folded before her; she looked like a fifth-grade schoolteacher scrutinizing her new pupils.
Grissom just stood there, as if the woman had been speaking esperanto.
'I think you should have a reservation for us,' Sara said. 'Either under Grissom or Sidle.'
The woman's only jewelry, Sara noted, was a watch and a wedding ring with a good-size diamond.
'You must be the folks Herm told me about,' she said, extending her hand. 'I'm Pearl Cormier-Herm's wife.'
Grissom shook the woman's hand and said, 'I won't be dining with you this evening, but I will have a cup of coffee with Ms. Sidle.'
'Right this way,' she said. She steered them to a table not too close to the other couple (the only other diners at the moment), and they sat down.
'We serve family-style,' Pearl told Sara. 'Your choice of meats tonight is fried chicken or medium-rare roast beef.' With a knowing nod and a wink, she added, 'Amy will be right with you.'
They had expected Mrs. Cormier to know they wanted to talk to Amy; nonetheless, Sara glanced at Grissom, who also seemed to be wondering what else Herm had told the missus.
Sara sat with her back to the kitchen, Grissom on her right, the varsity jacket slung over his chair, the CSI windbreaker exposed. Sara had barely gotten her menu open before a cheerful voice chimed, 'Hi, I'm Amy. I'll be your server tonight.'
They smiled up at her.
Amy smiled back and said, 'Frankly, I'm just about everybody's server tonight.'
Sara laughed politely and, after a beat, so did Grissom.
Their prospective witness was tall and thin, in her late twenties, her dark hair tied into a loose ponytail that ran halfway down her back. Amy Barlow's smile revealed wide teeth stained yellow, probably by cigarettes. She wore black slacks and a black bow tie over a white blouse whose buttons were tested by an ample bosom. A gauze bandage encircled her left hand.
'Start you folks off with a drink?' she asked.
Pleasantly, Grissom asked, 'What happened to your hand, Amy?'
She shook the hand like it still hurt. 'Cut myself cutting up an onion-they're short in the kitchen tonight.'
'You all right?'
She nodded. 'It don't need stitches-but boy, it…Listen, you're sweet to ask, only there are better subjects to
