“All I can say is I’d rather not disclose that information. It could be misinterpreted. I wouldn’t want to be the cause of any wrong impression, you understand?”
“But you do know for sure what was specified in the altered will?”
“The Gall family has relied on me, and continues to rely on me, in many ways. Because of that trust, I know a lot. That’s all I can say.”
Gurney thought it best not to pursue the point. There’d be other ways to get the information. In the meantime, he had more questions.
“Wenzel, Balzac, Pardosa—how well do you remember them?”
Steckle shrugged. “In what way?”
“When you hear each name, what comes to mind?”
“The face. The voice. Clothes. Things like that. What do you want to know?”
“Had any of them been to the lodge before?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“That’s something I’d be aware of.”
“How did they know about Richard Hammond?”
“He’s famous, right? People know about him.”
“Did they strike you as the kind of people who normally come to Wolf Lake Lodge?”
“We get all kinds of people.”
“Not many people of limited financial means visit thousand-dollar-a-day resorts.”
“I don’t think Mr. Wenzel’s means were that limited.”
“How do you know that?”
“I read about him in the paper—you know, afterward—something about a million-dollar condo in Florida.”
“What about the other two?”
“Our guests’ private finances are none of my business. They could have money without looking like it. It’s not something I ask about.”
“What if they can’t pay you?”
“We run their credit cards when they arrive. We make sure the full amount is approved. If not, they’re required to pay cash up front.”
“Did Wenzel, Balzac, and Pardosa pay by cash or credit card?”
“I have no memory of that kind of detail.”
“Easy enough to check.”
“Now?”
“It could be very helpful.”
Steckle appeared to be considering just how cooperative he wanted to be. He turned his chair around to face a computer on a second desk against the wall. After a minute or two he turned back to Gurney looking like he had a bad taste in his mouth. “Wenzel paid with Amex. Balzac paid with a debit card. Pardosa paid cash.”
“How unusual is it for someone to pay cash?”
“Cash is unusual, but no big deal. I mean, some people don’t like plastic.”
Or the trail it leaves, thought Gurney. “How long did they stay?”
With noticeable impatience Steckle consulted his computer again. “Wenzel, two nights. Balzac, one night. Pardosa, one night.”
“And Hammond’s stop-smoking treatment consisted of just one session?”
“Right. An intensive three-hour session.” He pulled back his neatly pressed flannel cuff and frowned at his Rolex. “Are we done?”
“Yes . . . unless you know of anything that happened here that could have resulted in those four deaths.”
Steckle shook his head slowly and turned up his empty palms. “I wish I could be more helpful, but . . .” He fell silent, still shaking his head.
“Actually, you’ve been very helpful.” Gurney stood up to leave. “One last thing. Kind of a crazy question. Did any of them make any negative remarks about homosexuals, or gay marriage, or anything like that?”
Steckle looked bewildered and annoyed. “What the hell are you getting at?”
“Just a crazy angle on the case. Probably doesn’t mean anything. Thanks for your time. I appreciate it.”
CHAPTER 23
Gurney went upstairs, hoping to find a note from Madeleine explaining the nature of her sightseeing excursion—perhaps its route and when he could expect her back.
There was no note.
Although he guessed she’d be somewhere in the large dead zone outside the immediate area of Wolf Lake, he tried calling her anyway.
He was surprised to hear her phone ringing seconds later right there in the suite. He looked around and spotted it on the small table next to the couch.
It wasn’t like Madeleine to go out without it, especially if she was driving. Had she been in such a hurry or so preoccupied that she forgot it? But that state of mind was hardly consistent with a sightseeing excursion.
He tried to construct a hypothesis that would explain these facts, as well as her secretive demeanor for the past forty-eight hours, but he couldn’t seem to apply the same logical analysis to Madeleine’s behavior as he could to a stranger’s.
He found himself pacing slowly around the room, a movement that often helped him organize his thoughts. It occurred to him to check for any calls or text messages she might have received before leaving. As he was trying to navigate through the functions of her phone, there was a knock at the door.
It was a louder-than-necessary knock of a type familiar to Gurney. He crossed the room, opened the door, and recognized the flat-faced, heavy-shouldered man standing in front of him as the Jimmy Hoffa look-alike from the press conference video. There was an American flag lapel pin on his ill-fitting sport jacket. He held up his state police credentials.
“Senior Investigator Fenton, BCI. Are you David Gurney?”
“Yes.” For a moment he had a terrible thought. “Has something happened to my wife?”
“I don’t know anything about your wife. Can I come in?”
Gurney nodded, his anxiety replaced by curiosity. He stepped back from the doorway.
Fenton entered with a cop’s watchfulness, glancing around to take everything in, moving to a position from which he could see into the bedroom alcove as well as the bathroom. His gaze lingered for a while on the Warren Harding portrait.
“Very nice,” he said in a sour way that implied the opposite. “The Presidential Suite.”
“What can I do for you?”
“You like being retired?”
“How do you know I’m retired?”
Fenton produced a smile that was less than friendly. “If someone took an aggressive interest in a major case of yours, showed up on your turf, spent time with a prime suspect, you’d get to know something about them, right?”
Gurney answered with his own question. “To have a prime suspect you must have a definable crime, right?”
“A definable crime. Nice term. Plus means, motive, and opportunity. Right out of the textbook.” The man walked over to the balcony door and stood with his back to Gurney. “That’s why I’m here. Somehow you got yourself pulled into this thing. So we’d like to fill you in on some facts, as a simple courtesy, since you clearly don’t know what it is you got yourself pulled into.”
“That’s very accommodating.”
“There’s nothing like the facts to get everyone on the same page. Simple courtesy.”
“Can’t argue with that. But since when do BCI senior investigators fill in outsiders as a simple courtesy?”
Fenton turned back from the window and gave Gurney an appraising look. “You’re not just any outsider, are you? You have a reputation. Big one. Very positive career history. Lot of success. So we figured you deserved the courtesy of being fully informed. Could save you time and trouble.” He flashed a cold smile.
“What kind of trouble will it save me?”
“The trouble that comes from being on the wrong side of a situation.”
“How do you know which side I’m on?”
“An educated guess.”
“Based on what?”
There was a tiny twitch at the corner of the man’s thin-lipped mouth. “Based on what we know from various sources. What I’m telling you is that this is a serious situation. Involving serious people with serious resources.” He paused. “Look, I’m trying to do you a favor here. Put our cards on the table. You got a problem with that?”