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They walked around a brick buttress that served as a way to keep the adjacent patio separate and private. The doors into the suite were open and he could see a body inside. Thorn pulled on gloves and was pleased to see the cop do the same. Pausing for a moment, he examined the lock on the French doors. It didn’t show any scratching or other telltale signs of having been forcibly or illicitly opened.
Standing at the entrance to the room, he turned to look back out to the sea. The wind was blowing, and from here he couldn’t see any footprints. Most likely any evidence of someone having come or gone had been hidden away by Mother Nature.
“Take your best guy and send him out to look for evidence. Tell him to stay off the main path and to tread lightly. I don’t know that we’ll find anything, but we might get lucky. I noticed there were a lot of footprints between here and the lobby’s French doors. I doubt there’s any way to eliminate any of them. Sand is notoriously difficult, especially in the wind.”
The cop nodded, speaking into his radio and sending one of the other cops with specific instructions. Inside, Thorn glanced briefly at the body—male, fifty-ish, and no signs of obvious violence.
“We didn’t touch the body other than to check for a pulse, and I had on gloves. What do you think killed him?”
“I don’t see any signs of an obvious cause of death, so most likely if it’s murder, it’s poison or some other covert method. What made you think it was a homicide?”
“It just seemed off. When I saw him just lying there, it didn’t seem right.”
“Do we have a confirmed ID?”
“Pretty much everybody knows who Mr. Thompson—Gregory Thompson—is. He’s a local real estate developer. Jessica Murdoch—the mystery writer—was staying here… in this room. I don’t know if she knew him, but she certainly knew who he was.”
Jessica is staying at the B&B? Why? She lives here—that makes no sense.
Thorn walked slowly around the body. There was what appeared to be a white sticky note lying face down next to the victim’s hand. Perhaps he had been holding it.
“Did you move that piece of paper—even to look at it?” asked Thorn.
“No, sir. Our photographer took all kinds of pictures and we have it documented that it’s there, but we didn’t want to move anything.”
“Do you guys have any kind of plastic tenting or sheeting that we can set up to seal off this entrance? If we can keep the wind and damp from coming in and leave the doors open that would be ideal. The hospital might have something if you don’t.”
“Damn. Why didn’t we think of that? I guess that’s why you’re the homicide detective. And yes, we have one of those plastic barriers with the zipper. When COVID hit, the hospital wanted them in case of emergency.”
That was one good thing the pandemic had done; it had helped a lot of small towns and villages see the need for preparation.
“That would work perfectly. Don’t beat yourself up. You guys did a great job securing the scene. It’s a lot easier coming in after the fact and finding the little things you missed. But as long as you didn’t move the paper, I’m going to leave it where it is while I look around. I want to get more of a big picture, and I want to talk to the B&B’s owner.”
“That would be Delores Hicks. She’s the one who got the town to lease her the lighthouse and built the B&B. She’s usually full but had a cancellation.”
“So, no one was supposed to be in here?”
“No. Ms. Murdoch called and wanted to know if she had anything open. DeeDee—that’s what everyone calls her—rented her the room for a week.”
“Isn’t that a little odd? I understand Jessica Murdoch lives in Badger’s Drift.”
“Yes, sir, born and raised,” the cop said with pride. “She’s kind of a big deal and not just here in Badger’s Drift, but she never tries to lord it over anybody. But to answer your question, it’s not that unusual. Some of our more well-heeled residents come up and rent a room for a night or two just to get away for a romantic weekend or something like that.”
Thorn couldn’t believe the level of jealousy that rose like bile in his throat. “Ms. Murdoch was expecting a lover to meet her?”
“I doubt it. Jessica really keeps to herself. I kind of think if she wanted a romantic weekend—unless she wanted it all over town—she’d go someplace else. Small-town gossips, if you know what I mean.”
“I do, indeed,” said Thorn as his testosterone level simmered back down. He didn’t even want to think about how the very thought of her being with someone else had made every alpha male tendency in his body and psyche rise up roaring and wanting to claim her as his own, which was incredibly stupid. “Get one of your people back here to stand guard. From this point onward until forensics is done, I want to make sure nobody comes or goes without our knowing.” The cop nodded and called for another officer. Once he was in place, Thorn said, “Let’s go talk to DeeDee. I’m assuming you’ve told anyone who was here when you got here, that they needed to stay.”
“Yep. Some of them complained about food, but DeeDee fixed sandwiches, soup, and other sides and they settled down. She made enough for all of us, as well. She’s a really good cook.”
Thorn smiled. “I may see if I can’t get something for myself. Let’s go back out the way we came.”
The cop led him back to the lobby, and he shook his head as imperceptibly as he could when Jessica started to approach. The owner of the B&B came out from behind an old front desk that looked to be a real antique.
“DeeDee? This is Detective Wilder from the state’s major crimes unit. He’s the one who solved the murder of that writer up in Kennebunkport several months ago.”
“Oh, right,” said DeeDee, who was probably more attractive when she didn’t look so stressed and whose hair hadn’t come partially out of a hastily put-up bun.
