Silent Victim - C. E. Lawrence [30]
The Black Bass, built in 1745, had a very different history than its New Jersey cousin, the Swan. It was a renowned Tory stronghold during the Revolution, and the dusty Union Jack over the bar was supposedly from that era—though it was admittedly hard to separate legend from reality in some of the claims that were made about the hotel. There were glass cases displaying scores of objects and artifacts, allegedly from the British Royal Family, all the way from Queen Victoria to the present.
Lee had worked there one summer as a teenager and remembered the owner well. His name was Mr. Shelton, and he was an odd, elderly gentleman with a halo of white hair, a pink face, and an alarming way of biting off his consonants when he spoke. He was inordinately fond of Boston bull terriers, and when Lee knew him, he kept three of them, the oldest and meanest of which was a female named Samantha—Sam for short—who had a vendetta against children. Lee still remembered the delight the old gentleman took in introducing him to the dogs, and the strange little smile he had when he said, “This is Sam. Sam doesn’t like children.” Even though he had yet to learn about the concept of projection, Lee had an instinctive understanding that the dog was Mr. Shelton’s alter ego.
The front hall was deserted when they entered it. It smelled musty, of damp, ancient wood and slowly growing fungus. The wide floorboards creaked under their feet, and as always Lee had the feeling of being transported to the era when the building was constructed, over 250 years ago. He looked around. Not much had changed since his childhood—the entrance to the bar was still on the right, the narrow wooden stairs leading up to the rooms visible from the front entrance. The little sitting room where Mr. Shelton kept his dogs was on the left, covered by a thick brocade curtain with a blue-on-white design of fat naked angels cavorting, harps and roses in their plump little hands.
They heard a rustling sound from the sitting room and turned just as an exceptionally handsome young man emerged from it. He was of medium height, with thick, curly black hair, an olive complexion, and a face that was almost pretty, with a wide mouth and deep-set almond-shaped eyes. He wore a navy blazer over crisp white shirt and ironed blue jeans. His attitude was friendly but a little suspicious. He regarded them warily, while maintaining a courteous smile.
“I’m sorry, but we’re closed for lunch. Can I help you?” he asked, crossing his arms and tilting his head to one side.
“Yeah, we’re lookin’ for Raymond Santiago,” Butts said, swinging his large head around to peer through the partially opened curtains.
The young man smoothly closed the curtains behind him, and his smile relaxed a bit. “I’m Ray Santiago—can I help you?”
“Mr. Santiago,” Lee said, “maybe you’d like to sit down. I’m afraid we have some bad news.”
“I don’t need to sit down,” he replied. “What is it?”
“It concerns your girlfriend, Ana Watkins,” Butts said, holding up his badge.
Santiago’s face hardened when he saw the shield. “What about her? Is she okay?”
Butts glanced at Lee, so he took over. Once again, he thought it was best to get it over with quickly. As his mother used to say, tearing off a bandage slowly always hurt more than a single quick, firm pull.
Lee took a deep breath. “I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, but she’s dead.”
Santiago’s reaction was unexpected. He stood for a moment staring at them, then abruptly burst out laughing. It was the strangest reaction to bad news Lee had ever seen. He and Butts stood watching uncomfortably as Santiago laughed.
Finally the laughter subsided, and he said, “Okay, you guys, well done—you really had me fooled. Tell Ana that was a good one. I like the whole thing with the badge—for a minute you totally had me.”
“Mr. Santiago, this is not a joke,” Butts said, looking irritated.
Santiago’s eyes twinkled. “No, of course it’s not. Hey, where did she