Crowbones

CHAPTER 32

Vicki

Firesday, Novembros 2

Professional innkeepers are not the morality police and should not whine about guests since they need the income that comes from every guest.

I told myself that three times before I whined at Grimshaw and Ilya, “Why do I have to let the Cornleys come back and stay? Couldn’t Ineke and I play swap the guests?”

“No,” Ilya said.

An implacable something in his voice warned me that he wasn’t going to change his mind or explain the whys or wherefores of that decision. Which made me wonder if he was the one who had made that decision.

I glanced at Natasha, who seemed equally puzzled by her mate’s tone.

“However,” Ilya continued, sounding more like himself, “I have explained to the faux newlyweds that they will be courteous to you and the staff at all times, they will keep their room tidy, and they will assist with chores in the common rooms. If they give you any trouble, Conan or Cougar will give them a swat, and the likely result of that will be that one or both of them will end up with a broken neck, so they should provide the police with the name and location of their next of kin while they still can.”

Okay, so maybe Ilya was a wee bit stressed-out from the realization that everyone in Sproing was playing fish in a barrel, and the Sanguinati were among the fish this time, and he had four fosterlings under his care whom he couldn’t send away to someplace safe—which was another one of those things he wasn’t explaining to anyone wearing a “Hi! I’m a Human!” button.

“Did the Cornleys provide information on their next of kin?” What would I have said if I’d received a call like that about Yorick before I became the ex–Mrs. Dane?

“Not exactly.” Ilya paid a lot of attention to adjusting an already perfect shirt cuff. “Two of the Sanguinati from Silence Lodge found a way into the car Mr. Cornley was driving and examined the car’s registration card, making special note of the name and address of the person who owned the vehicle—a name and address that didn’t match anything Fred Cornley provided to you.”

This is why I’m grateful that Ilya is my attorney. He has a mean streak beneath those polished manners. Not to mention fangs. “You called the person listed on the registration?”

“I did,” Grimshaw said. “Official police inquiry regarding a vehicle that wasn’t registered to either Fred or Wilma Cornley, the people who were in the vehicle at the time of the incident. I asked the woman who answered the phone if the vehicle was borrowed by a friend or had been reported stolen recently.”

Three of us waited, breathless for the answer.

Well, I was breathless. Natasha looked curious, and I had the impression that Grimshaw rose a little in Ilya’s estimation because our chief of police had a mean streak equal to his own.

Grimshaw shrugged. “The response wasn’t articulated in any way I could put in a report, but I did manage to tell the woman that the village was under quarantine and no one would be leaving for at least a day or two.”

“Sufficient time to move liquid assets,” Natasha said. Then she gave us all a mischievous smile.

I really wish I’d known Natasha and Ilya when I was getting my divorce. They took bloodsucking to a whole different level.

“Fine,” I said, feeling more cheerful. “I’ll put up with the Cornleys.”

“Thank you.” Ilya exchanged a look with Natasha. “And now we would like to ask for a personal favor.”

Ben Malacki and David Shuman weren’t in Ilya’s good books for some reason, and I didn’t like the way they eyed Kira when she showed up to be my new helper and learn some of the ins and outs of running a place that provided rustic accommodations for humans who wanted to plunk themselves in the middle of a terra indigene settlement.

I’d sent Kira and Aggie to freshen up the Cornleys’ room in advance of their return. Jozi and Eddie were taking care of housekeeping chores in the cabins. I didn’t know where Conan and Cougar were, so I was on my own at the reception desk when Officer Osgood dropped off the Cornleys and then skedaddled.

I didn’t ask where they had spent the night. Fred Cornley looked ready to pop a blood vessel or three, and Wilma no longer looked like she thought her “precious sausage”—she really said that out loud the other day, in front of other people—was all that precious. But unless she wanted to sleep on the floor in one of the common rooms, she was stuck with Fred for the next few days.

Then again, I was stuck with both of them, so my sympathy for both of them was down to a half thimbleful.

Kira returned to report that their room was ready, and Aggie escorted them up to the suite, mostly to confirm that they didn’t go anywhere else.

The phone rang in my office, and I hustled to catch the call before it went to voice mail. The caller didn’t identify himself, but I recognized him as the panicked Sanguinati I’d talked to the other day. He calmly informed me that they—he was vague about who “they” were—had managed to open the trunk of the glacier-wrapped car and extract the Cornleys’ luggage. Boris would pick up the luggage and bring it to The Jumble.

I thanked him for the information and hurried back to the reception desk. I wasn’t sure which twitched my anxiety more—Ben Malacki leaning on the desk and smiling at Kira in a way that made me want to fetch some soap and give him a scrubbing or David Shuman looking at her as if she was a specimen he could break open and study.

Or Kira, who seemed to be playing to their predatory instincts for reasons of her own.

Then she looked at me as if needing help, and I wondered why there were moments when I entertained a negative opinion of her.

“Need help with something?” I said as I joined Kira behind the desk. “Should I give Conan or Cougar a shout?”

“How long is this quarantine going to be in place?” Shuman asked.

“Don’t know. I’m sure the authorities are working as fast as they can to get things resolved.” I looked toward the front door. “It’s crisp out but sunny. Maybe you’d enjoy a walk. There are plenty of paths through The Jumble.”

“How many of your guests come back from taking a walk?” Malacki asked.

“Most of them.” I paused as if thinking. “Almost all of them.” Another pause. “It depends.”

Malacki stepped away from the desk. “Okay if we play pool?”

“Sure.”

Kira and I watched them walk to the room Ilya had transformed into a private pool hall as an added incentive for Grimshaw to take the job of chief of police.

I took a deep breath and found a little bit of my sand. “I don’t think anyone will misbehave, but did Ilya tell you what to do if one of the guests tries to . . . persuade . . . you to do something you don’t want to do?”

Kira nodded. “He told me to go for the jugular.”

Okeydokey.