Page 16 of Dead & Breakfast
As they walked into the lobby, Arthur closed his umbrella and did his best to straighten his windswept hair and horrifyingly rumpled suit jacket. Two deputies flanked the front desk. One stood and waved them forward while the other jumped and poured coffee down their uniform. Arthur didn’t have eyes for anyone but Salvatore, who lurked in one of the cells at the back of the room. Somehow he’d gotten his hands on a harmonica and was playing a mournful tune reminiscent of another era. Arthur was only surprised it wasn’t a tiny violin.
Sheriff McMartin emerged from the back office, eliciting another ripple of attention from his deputies, a pile of manila envelopes the unwitting victim of the other’s coffee spillage this time. “Hey,” he barked at the cell. “I told you to shut up.”
“Sheriff,” Nora said in a bright voice. “Good morning. Have you charged Salvatore with a crime?”
A long moment passed as the sheriff stood straighter and hooked his thumbs through his belt loops. “Not yet, but we’re holding him for twenty-four hours. He’s a person of interest.”
“Of course I’m interesting,” Salvatore said, finally giving up his song. “Can you imagine surviving hundreds of years with a personality as dull as, say, yours, Sheriff? I may be cursed with eternity, but at least I’m blessed with charm and wit.”
Arthur was halfway across the room by the end of Salvatore’s sentence. “Are you all right?” He bent his head low, peering at Salvatore through the bars to check for any bumps or bruises. Salvatore looked unbothered, not a single ruffle askew.
“It’s awful in here. They’ve tried to poison me with decaf coffee, but I was too wily to fall for it.” Salvatore stood and wrapped his fingers around the bars, a pitiful expression playing a mercilessgame of croquet across his face. “Will you wait for me, darling? I know it will be hard, but wedohave an eternity…”
“It’s twenty-four hours,” Arthur deadpanned. “I think I can manage to honor our wedding vows for that long.”
“I knew I could count on you.” Sal grinned at him, fangs dipping into view.
The problem with Salvatore was he’d been through too many spots of trouble like this before. Each time he escaped, it reinforced his pervasive idea that life was more or less a joke, and he’d never be the punch line.
Arthur had been the punch line enough to know better.
“Hey now,” the sheriff said, stepping between Arthur and Salvatore, forcing Arthur back. “No more talking with the suspect.”
“You called him a person of interest before,” Nora said. “Which is he?”
Arthur swallowed with difficulty, eyes darting back to where Sal was leaning with his face smooshed against the bars. As usual, it would be up to Arthur alone to take this seriously. “What evidence do you have? You can’t hold him without reason,” he said, turning to the sheriff. At the very least, it would help to have a better idea of what they were up against. Clearing Sal’s name would be a simple matter once Arthur knew the facts of the case, assuming he hadn’t actually killed the mayor.
“Can’t discuss the details.” McMartin wouldn’t make eye contact, focusing on shuffling papers that didn’t appear to have anything written on them.
Nora pursed her lips. “Do you have a lawyer?”
Arthur shook his head. Since leaving his job in advertising back in 1959, he’d done his best to avoid all types of corporate professionals. It wasn’t that he didn’t respect them, just that it reminded him too much of a time when he was profoundly unhappy. He’d neverenjoyed the boys’ club that was his advertising firm, nor had he particularly relished returning home to his wife, who was no more enthused by their marriage than he was.
Gladys had been as good a spouse as he could have asked for, all things considered. They’d married with the joint goal of assuaging the meddling of tiresome parents and avoiding the aggressively heterosexual masses, but found, if not romantic love, then another sort that carried them through the years. There was no awkward dancing around the question of separate bedrooms or the making of children, with their proclivities as they were. They’d lived in quiet partnership, suffering through the ill-conceived notion of gelatin-based salads in relative harmony. That was, until Arthur walked into the paranormal club on that fateful winter night and left with a little more than he’d bargained for.
“You might want to get one,” Nora said, unease in her voice. Rumble poked her head out of the purse and seemed to take in the room, then vanished back into the shadows. “A lawyer could help get Sal released sooner.”
“That would be best.” Salvatore’s countenance darkened. “Because if I stay caged any longer, my thirst might get the better of me. I don’t think the sheriff and his deputies will enjoy what comes after.”
Arthur’s stomach did something twisty. Asking Sal to take this situation seriously would be like asking Arthur to perform stand-up comedy, but still he wished Sal would tone things down. Arthur’s nerves were fraying like the hem of an old sweater, and Sal’s flippant attitude wasn’t helping. “Don’t joke about that,” he hissed. “He’s just kidding around, Sheriff.”
McMartin puffed out his chest. “Well, he’d beststopkidding around. Could be considered threatening an officer of the law.”
Salvatore didn’t seem remotely curbed by the sheriff’s words,continuing to whine as though the situation wasn’t dire. “If you brought me some real coffee, perhaps that would slake my craving.”
Suppressing a sigh, Arthur muttered in an undertone, “Caffeine addict.”
“I saw a coffee shop around the corner,” Nora began, but just then, Rumble gave an uncharacteristic yowl and leaped out of the purse. “What—oh, it’s my phone.” She pulled a vibrating mobile from the bag and glanced at the screen. She let out a groan and wrinkled her face. “Quinn’s on her way over. I guess someone told her.”
“Mr.Miller,” Sheriff McMartin said, “you should go. We need to continue our questioning.”
“I don’t believe you can legally do that without his attorney present.” Arthur had watched a lot of crime dramas, and they were all very clear on the subject.
“He consented to it,” McMartin shot back.
At Arthur’s pained look of betrayal, Salvatore shrugged. “You know I can’t resist talking about myself. Don’t worry, darling, I’ll stop him if he gets too rough.”
Rumble stretched and slunk forward to investigate the sheriff’s ankles. McMartin flinched away from her. “Would one of you get this cat away from me?”
