Hazard and Somerset Off Duty Read online

  “That’s really not my thing.”

  “Oh.” She sized him up, nodding sympathetically. Then she looked at Somers. “He’s the one, then.”

  Reaching over the chafing dish, Hazard snagged the tongs from her and began loading bacon onto his plate.

  “He’s the—” Her voice dropped marginally again. “The woman? Well, you know what I mean.”

  Hazard stopped, a piece of bacon dangling from the tongs.

  “I’ve seen on TV that’s how it is. I’m not being rude, am I? Oh, look, it’s Brenda, Brenda Meehan. And there’s Doug. Oh, yes, dears! Good morning! Here I am! Yes, yes, I know!” She was nodding significantly in Hazard’s direction. “Yes, I’ll tell you all about them. They’re helping me with my closets!”

  To hell with it, Hazard thought, scooping up the rest of the bacon and piling it on his plate. He caught a glimpse of the Meehans, who looked old enough to have retreated with General Grant himself.

  “Where’s everyone else?”

  “What?” Barbara was still trying to mouth a secret to Brenda Meehan from across the room.

  “The other guests.”

  “This is it, dear. Grant House only has five rooms, and only four are let out right now.” She batted overextended lashes and turned her attention to Somers. “He’s really so pretty. And so young.”

  “We’re the same age,” Hazard said, and the chafing dish cover clanged down maybe a bit harder than necessary.

  “Of course you are,” Barbara said, although the way she lined her pink claws along her lips made it seem like she didn’t really believe what she was saying. “You’re a lucky man. You’re the—” Her voice dipped. “The daddy?”

  Fucking hell. Hazard turned, and he saw Somers doubled over with laughter.

  “Closets?” Hazard said.

  “Yes.” Barbara bobbed with excitement. “Yes, you see, I know all about the shoe racks, but I just can’t for the life of me—”

  “He’s a whiz at closets. He was on TV, you know. With . . .” Hazard didn’t know the name of a single gay TV designer, but he let his voice carry a hint of suggestion.

  “No,” Barbara breathed, the pink tips of her curls fluttery now with her excitement. “With Nate?”

  Hazard nodded solemnly.

  “Nate Berkus?”

  Another nod. “Show him those pictures. All of them, so he really gets the full effect. He’ll know what to do.”

  Squealing, Barbara launched towards Richard, who was still bobbling inside his down jacket. While Barbara tore through her purse, Hazard carried his plate towards Somers.

  “Hi, Daddy.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “I can’t believe you’d talk to me that way. I’m your young, hot trophy husband.”

  Hazard narrowed his eyes.

  “You have the money. I have the body.”

  “You’re really enjoying this.”

  “You wouldn’t understand. It’s a generational thing; you’re just too old.”

  “You are almost six months older than me.”

  Those tropical blue eyes widened in mock hurt. “Daddy, don’t yell at me. I promise I can make you really happy.”

  With a squeak of triumph, Barbara produced a pink phone with fake rhinestones and began squirming between tables to reach them.

  Hazard bent and pecked Somers’s on the lips. “Bye, baby. Daddy wants you to have a really, really good time.”

  Somers knitted his brows together, and Hazard drifted past him, carrying the plate of bacon. As he moved out of earshot, Barbara shrieked, “Oh my God, I hope you don’t mind, but he told me you knew Nate and I just had to show you the pictures of the double-hang.”

  That would serve the cocky motherfucker just right.

  Folding another piece of bacon, Hazard studied the Grant’s Retreat dining room as he left. Nothing really drew his attention, but he couldn’t avoid the nagging feeling that he was missing something. Flatware that looked like it had been purchased in bulk—stainless steel and a lot of chrome, probably—and yellowing table linens, dust on chair legs, a few sticky spots on the carpet. Nothing different from any other budget accommodation. But something made Hazard drag his steps, and he stopped at the door and gave the room a last considering look. Barbara was showing Somers her phone, and Somers was darting helpless, furious glances at Hazard. Richard Keminsky, puffed up inside his down jacket, was about to slide right off that pink all-terrain scooter. Brenda Meehan and husband, with a pair of oxygen tanks between them, basked in a silver-dollar of March sunlight. And George and Lorraine Willis had produced a backgammon board and looked like they might honestly be trying for the world’s most boring couple.

  And then Hazard realized what was missing. A baby.

  V

  MARCH 17

  SATURDAY

  10:06 AM

  GRANT’S RETREAT had a six-car garage. It had, in fact, quite a bit that Hazard hadn’t expected, and his explorations over the last half hour had turned up a fair amount. But it was the six-car that was holding his attention the longest. Four of the bays were empty. One held a Ford Pinto chewed through by rust and salt and time. And the sixth had a black-and-silver Ducati under a dust cover, the kind of motorcycle that gives boys under eighteen wet dreams.

  As Hazard crossed towards the final bay, he drew a mental map of the building from an eagle’s eye view: an L, with the longer part devoted to the business of the bed-and-breakfast and the garage at the end of the shorter part. That accounted for some of the space, but not all of it. It had, according to Somers, at one point been a school. A small, elite preparatory school, Hazard imagined. But if that were the case, why were only five rooms dedicated to guests? What was the rest of the building being used for? Sure, part of the space might have been given up for administrative space, facility work, janitorial closets. But at full capacity, Grant’s Retreat should have been able to host forty people. Maybe fifty, depending on choices. Instead, it had eight guests, and it was almost at full capacity.

  That didn’t make any sense.

  Hazard pulled back the cover, blinked at the Ducati’s mirror-polished finish, and lowered the cloth back into place. He moved to the bike’s rear and reached for the cloth again.

  “What are you doing?”

  “It took you long enough,” Hazard said to his partner. “Come look at this.”

  Peeling back the cotton cover, Hazard gestured.

  “So the creepy guy with the bad hair owns a Duck.”

  “Don’t call them that.”

  A smile crooked across Somers’s lips. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “You sound like a douche.”

  “No, what’s wrong with creepy Norwood owning a Duck?”

  “Well, he has an enormous building here. It used to be a school.”

  “All right.”

  “And he rents out five rooms.”

  “Ok.”

  “Why?”

  “He hasn’t got enough money to refinish the rest of the building.”

  “He had enough money for a Duck. Damn it. A Ducati.”

  The crooked smile grew, but all Somers said was, “Maybe that’s why he doesn’t have enough money to restore the rest of the building.”

  “Or he’s got an illegal business going here. This is a front for money laundering. Drugs, most likely.”

  “Drugs? Money laundering?”

  Hazard met his gaze.

  “We’re supposed to be on vacation.”

  “I am on vacation.”

  “No, you’re trespassing in a bed-and-breakfast garage and coming up with conspiracies. That might be a vacation for you, but it’s not a vacation for me.”

  “You think I’m blowing things out of proportion?”

  “Ree, it’s a motorcycle. And it’s a bed-and-breakfast in rural Missouri.”

  “What about the baby?”

  “Ok, I know I played that joke too far, but you know I don’t really think you look old. And it was not cool to sic that old lady on me when I was just—”

  “No. Last night. The baby that was crying.”

  “I didn’t hear a baby crying.”

  “When I got up in the middle of the night.”

  “When you stubbed your toe.”

  “I didn’t stub my toe. I ran into the damn lamp. When I got up in the middle of the night, it was because there was a baby crying. You didn’t hear it?”

  Somers shook his head.

  “When you came out to the hall—”

  “Naked.”

  “When you came out there, you didn’t hear anything?”

  A hint of a blush darkened Somers’s golden skin. “I was focused on something else.”

  “It was loud as hell. It didn’t wake you up?”

  “Evie.”

  “You slept through your own daughter’s crying?”

  “Don’t look at me like that. Cora and I took turns. But I did learn how to roll over and keep sleeping when it wasn’t my night.”

  “And you don’t remember the crying?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, there was a baby crying somewhere.”

  “Ok.”

  “And there’s no baby here.”

  Somers frowned. Then he grinned and slugged Hazard in the arm. “It’s the ghost.”

  “You are the stupidest person I’ve ever met.”

  “Ree, you know what creepy Norwood told us. You heard the ghost.”

  “He was talking about Confederate soldiers, not a baby.”

  “He said the last one was a local boy. He didn’t say how old the boy was.”

  “A boy isn’t an infant. He would have said baby.” Then, giving himself a shake, Hazard sai
d, “And there’s no fucking ghost, so just drop it.”

  “Maybe you’re psychic.”

  Hazard pushed past his boyfriend and moved towards the garage’s inner door, which led into the portion of Grant’s Retreat that was closed off. Jiggling the handle, he found it locked.

  “Maybe you’re sensitive to the spirit world.”

  Drawing out his set of bump keys, Hazard began trying them on the door.

  “This is breaking and entering,” Somers said, then added, “Maybe you’re a medium like on that TV show.”

  With a pop, the lock twisted, and the door swung open.

  “That would really help with solving crimes.”

  “Would you shut up for five seconds?”

  To Hazard’s relief, Somers did shut up, although he wasn’t sure if it was because they had stepped inside Grant’s Retreat or if Somers had run out of jokes. Hazard had a sinking feeling that it wasn’t the latter.

  The shorter wing of Grant’s Retreat had been completely renovated—and, from the looks of it, never used. Plaster had been ripped out and replaced with drywall, light fixtures had been updated, guest rooms had the look of something staged for a magazine shoot.

  “Why aren’t they renting these rooms out?” Hazard asked.

  “Because they obviously just finished working on them.” Somers plucked at his shamrock-covered sweatshirt. “And it’s not exactly the height of vacation season.”

  “But they’re heating this space. It’s not like they’ve closed it off for the winter. It looks good if there’s an inspection. Or maybe they had to do it to get a license. But they’re not using them. I don’t think they’re ever going to use them.”

  “Because this is all a money-laundering front.”

  Hazard glanced at him, but Somers sounded serious, and his perfect features were drawn in thought as he studied the space around them.

  “What?”

  Somers ran a hand along the top of the closest doorway and displayed a dusty fingertip. “And that.” He pointed to the upper corner at the end of the hallway, where settling had cracked the paint and plaster. With a gesture for Hazard to wait, Somers ducked into the closest guest room. He moved directly to the window, examined it, and then passed to the next room. There, he repeated the same routine, and in the next room, and the next. Then he let out a soft noise of satisfaction and returned to the hallway, displaying a piece of paper with a strip of blue tape at the top.

  Accepting the document, Hazard scanned it. It was a work permit.

  “From 2015,” Somers said, tapping the page. “These rooms have been finished and ignored for almost three years. They don’t clean in here. They don’t even patch up stuff that might scare a guest. Sure, that crack isn’t structural, but if somebody starts posting reviews about cracks in the walls, their business is done.”

  “I thought you were just a pretty face,” Hazard grumbled, folding the permit and sliding it into an envelope.

  “I am a pretty face. And I’m the brains. I told you: the whole package. What’s more concerning is that you’re carrying evidence bags on vacation.”

  “I like to be prepared.”

  Somers, shaking his head, just sighed. “Your ghost baby wasn’t here last night, by the way.” Then, with a chipper note, Somers added, “Not unless he really was a ghost.”

  Hazard studied the empty wing of Grant’s Retreat and then blew out a frustrated breath. “The doors.”

  He walked the length of the hall and studied the door that passed into the rest of Grant’s Retreat. Somers had already shown him the dust that had settled along the frame. But now, under closer inspection, Hazard saw that a sifting of the same dust covered the doorknob and latch. He inspected the door that led to the garage—from the inside it was marked Emergency Exit Only—and found the same thing. “For fuck’s sake, you could have pointed that out at the beginning.”

  “I thought you noticed it. Besides, I wanted to show off.”

  “Satisfied?”

  “Oh, definitely.”

  “And you agree something strange is happening here.”

  “Strange? Yes. Illegal?” He shrugged. “You heard a baby crying. There’s no baby here today. Maybe they checked out early. Maybe they left in the middle of the night.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Maybe you have a previously unexplored connection to the spirit world.”

  Hazard opened the door to the garage and left, walking fast enough that Somers had to trot along to keep up.

  “You’re being very closed-minded about this.”

  The day had brightened; the sun was high, the sky crisply blue. In spite of all this, the cold bit at Hazard’s cheeks, and the branches remained bare. Winter had a death grip this year, and it wasn’t letting go any time soon.

  “Maybe you should see if you can read my mind,” Somers said. “If you can tell me what I’m thinking, then maybe you really did hear a ghost.”

  As Hazard pushed his way into the lobby at Grant’s Retreat, he threw his partner a glance. The cold had drawn a flush into Somers’s cheeks, and he was biting his lower lip, and his eyes had a sheen on them, like the hottest tropical sun glinting on spindrift.

  “You’re thinking what you’re always thinking,” Hazard muttered. “And it’s filthy, by the way.”

  Somers just laughed and gave him a shove.

  At the front desk, Norwood Grant looked miserable: he was huddled in an enormous, sagging sweater, and his eyes drooped inside huge pouches. He ignored them until Hazard coughed.

  “What?” he snapped.

  “Last night—” Hazard began, and then, “Ow!”

  He twisted away from Somers, who had pinched him on the ribs. “Not wearing green,” Somers said with a smile.

  “What the fuck?”

  “It’s St. Patrick’s Day. By the way, Mr. Grant, you’re not wearing green either.”

  Rubbing his side, Hazard looked at Norwood Grant. “I was going to—Jesus fucking Christ, Somers, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

  “I told you to pack green. I told him. I really did. But he never listens to me. It’s like he wants things to go wrong.”

  That last pinch had really hurt, and Hazard massaged his ribs.

  “We found a wallet this morning,” Somers said, displaying his own wallet. “We asked the other guests at breakfast, and they said it wasn’t theirs. Maybe it was the other family? The one that checked out early?”

  Norwood Grant straightened in his chair like someone had gotten a hot poker right up his pucker. He snatched at the wallet, but Somers was faster, pulling the leather fold out of reach.

  “That’s—let me see that. That belongs to a hotel guest, and I—you should let me have it right now. So there aren’t any misunderstandings.”

  “You know, I’d really rather give it to them myself. Could you call them for me? I’d like to talk to them.”

  “There isn’t anyone—give me that. I really think you should give me that. Yes. That would be for the best. Just—if you could—” Grant had unfolded from his huddle, and now he was on his feet, not quite reaching across the desk, but looking like he wanted to very much. “That’s hotel property now. If you don’t, if you don’t give it to me, I’ll call the police.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Hazard said. “Why don’t you go ahead and call the cops?”

  “No, don’t be silly,” Somers said, patting Hazard’s arm with affected concern. “He gets so worked up sometimes. You’re right, Mr. Grant. You should have this. You hold onto it.”

  Norwood Grant snatched the wallet and sank back into his chair, his shoulders melting inside his sweater, like a marionette with his wires cut. He was staring at the wallet, ignoring them, until Somers cleared his throat. Then his head ratcheted back and his watery, drooping eyes took in both of them. “Oh, yes. Thank you. Thank you very much for doing the right thing. We have a reputation, you know, and I wouldn’t want anyone thinking—well, I’ll make sure this gets back to the right person.”

  “Come on,” Somers said, letting a hint of camp creep into his voice as he hooked Hazard around the waist and tugged him to the hall. “You promised you’d scrub my back.”

  Hazard allowed himself to be dragged until Norwood was out of sight and then elbowed free of Somers. “Just what the hell was that?”

  “Well, you didn’t promise. But it would be nice.”

  “I’m talking about that whole scene you just pulled. The pinching. All of that shit.”