Saturday. “Hey-congratulations. Thanks for finding the little girl!”
“Just doing our job.”
“All set?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Fruit and cereal?”
“No. This morning I'd like to try your Lumberjack Special.”
“Really?”
“Yes, ma'am. I figure it's time I ventured over to the second page of your marvelous menu.”
Damn, he's chipper.
“All righty. How would you like those eggs?”
“Sunnyside up, of course.” Ceepak winks at her.
The waitress writes up the order and walks away with a cute little bounce in her step. Damn. Everybody's got their sunny side up this morning. Everybody except me.
“Your buddy Joey T. is quite disciplined,” Ceepak says while he mindlessly shuffles the sugar and Sweet ’n’ Low and Equal packages into orderly, color-coded stacks in the table tray.
“Really?”
“It's not every young man who's willing to start work at five in the morning.”
I slurp my coffee to let him know he's absolutely right on that one.
“I believe Mr. Thalken is a Virgo. He possesses tremendous organizational skills and, as I said, self- discipline.”
“Right.”
“Seems he cleans out the hopper each morning prior to sweeping the beach. He says he is better able to concentrate on the task at hand if he's not pre-occupied with racing back to the municipal yard to unload at the end of his shift.”
“I see. So?”
“Saturday's sweep? The debris was still in the hopper. You see, to achieve a well-manicured beach, the Surf Rake's moldboard levels uneven areas while stainless steel tines on a moving conveyor belt rake debris toward an adjustable deflector plate….”
Sounds like Joey T. and Ceepak really hit it off. They discussed this crap before the sun was even up.
Ceepak keeps going.
“The non-sand objects are then transported to a hopper which can be hydraulically dumped.”
“Wow. Great. What'd you do? Climb in and go on a treasure hunt?”
“In fact, that is correct.”
“Find anything interesting?”
The waitress brings a platter loaded down with eggs, pancakes, sausage, bacon, and butter tubs.
“This'll work,” Ceepak says. He rubs his knife against his fork tines and looks over to me. “You sure you're not hungry?”
“No, thanks.”
In fact, the smell is causing the remains of the six beers in my belly to slide down to my intestines where they can make loud, rumbling noises.
Ceepak checks his watch.
We must be on a schedule, even though I figure our big case closed around midnight last night.
He digs in, letting the egg yolk ooze across the pancakes with the melting butter and warm syrup.
I think he's purposely trying to make me hurl.
And he never says whether he found anything-because it's not polite to talk with a mouth full of eggs.
Ceepak devours his Lumberjack Special and downs several quick cups of coffee. He hasn't actually been to bed since I dropped him off at the police station last night.
He says he was “working on a few things” while I was home drinking and passing out. Now he's raring to go.
We walk to the car.
“Standard patrol, sir?”
“No, Danny. Let's swing down to Beach Crest Heights. I'd like to talk to Betty Bell.”
“Why? The case is closed.”
“Loose ends.” Ceepak says. Then he starts humming because, of course, Springsteen has this whole song called “Loose Ends” and Ceepak can't resist.
“They have returned to the city,” the butler says.
“Do you work for Miss Bell?” Ceepak asks.
“I am attached to the house in a management capacity.”
I think that means he's like a live-in maid with attitude.
“I see,” Ceepak says. “So you also worked for Mr. Hart? Whenever he came out here?”
“Certainly. However, he was rarely in residence.”
“Mind if we come in?”
The butler does a sniff that lets us know he does mind but he steps to the side and gestures for us to come in if we must.
I have no idea what the hell we're doing here, but we walk into the sunroom.
“I need to ask you a few questions.”
“Me?” The butler does a good shocked. He even flutters his hand near his heart like he might faint. “I thought the unfortunate situation had been resolved.”
“Indeed. The kidnapping? That's done. When did Ashley and her mother head back to the city?”
“Before dawn.”
“Well, we're just tying up some loose ends. Investigating the arson up at The Palace Hotel.”
The butler scrunches his face. “Nasty business, that. I understand the kidnapper, this Squeegee fellow, I understand he perished in the blaze?”
“So it seems,” Ceepak says. “Did you know that Mr. Hart owned that hotel?”
“No. I am not often privy to the details of Mr. Hart's real-estate holdings.”
“Of course not. Ms. Stone, however, was?”
“I wouldn't know.”
“When she stayed here with him, was it all business?”
“How do you mean?”
“Was there anything romantic? Between Ms. Stone and Mr. Hart?”
“However would I know? I was not their confidante.”
“They didn't sleep together?” Ceepak presses him.
“Of course not. Ms. Stone stayed in the guest cottage. Out beyond the pool.”
“Is that where she spent Thursday and Friday night?”
“Yes.”
“Are you certain?”
“It's where all her things were. When Ms. Bell told me to remove Ms. Stone's luggage, I went into the cottage to retrieve it. I had to pick up a few loose articles of clothing off the floor. I suppose Ms. Stone assumed she would be returning here on Saturday.”
“Was there a great deal of lingerie?”
“No. None. I believe she slept in very long T-shirts.”
“Really?”
The butler blushes, realizing that maybe he knows a little too much about Ms. Stone's sleeping attire.
“I found one such nightshirt hanging on a hook in the bathroom. It featured a large canary on the front.”
“Tweety?” I say.
“Perhaps.” The butler doesn't know from Tweety Bird.
