5 The Murders at Astaire Castle Page 10

  “Now, all I want to do is give my new bride here something that she has always wanted—a castle—a haunted castle—Astaire Castle.” Stan softened his tone to reach over to caress Lacey’s face.

  Her eyes fell.

  In the flash of a second, Mac caught what appeared to be repulsion by the touch. Oh, yes, she’s a classic gold-digger all right. How long will she stay married to him before taking him for all she can get? His mind flashed back to her checking David out.

  The billionaire’s tantrum continued. “I would like to get this business taken care of now so that we can renovate the castle in time for our Halloween night a gala.”

  “Halloween is days away,” Mac said.

  Stan Gould chuckled. “When you have the resources I have, Mr. Faraday, anything can happen. We’re going to have to build a helipad in order to have my friends flown in for what will be the biggest party that this burg has ever seen.”

  “Ain’t happening,” Mac said.

  “Yes, it is,” Stan said.

  “No, it’s not, because I’m not selling Astaire Castle to you.”

  “Oh, I get it.” A wide grin crossed Stan Gould’s face. He dropped Lacey’s hand. Now it was serious business. “Listen, Mr. Faraday, I have played hard ball with the biggest balls busters in New York, Washington, and LA. Bring it on. What has to happen in order for you to sell that castle to me?”

  Mac stepped forward. He glared down into the little man’s face. Gould resembled a creature that he had seen in The Lord of the Rings movies. “No.”

  Stan Gould’s entourage stood with their jaws dropped open. Mac guessed no one had ever said, “No,” to the mogul before.

  Laughing out loud, Hector slapped Jeff Ingles on the shoulder. The manager had come over to welcome the distinguished guest, only to see the Inn’s owner enrage him. All color drained from Jeff’s face.

  His eyes still on Mac, Stan Gould stomped his feet. “Kyle! Call The Wisp. Tell them I want to book the whole hotel!” He scoffed at Mac. “No way in hell am I ever giving even a penny to the Spencer Inn again. You just wait. Within the next fifteen minutes, my people will spread this atrocious treatment all over the Internet.” He pointed a finger at Mac so hard that it threatened to poke him in the face.

  Gnarly reminded everyone of his presence with a loud bark and growl, and Stan Gould and his entire entourage jumped back a full three feet.

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to teach you a lesson the hard way about messing with me,” Gould said. “You mess with the big dogs and you’re liable to get bit—hard!”

  “If you want to compare dog bites, bring it on,” Mac said with a laugh while stroking Gnarly’s head.

  “You’re going to be surprised by how far I can reach and how much I can take from you—things you really care about.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Yes.”

  Mac laughed. “Take your business elsewhere, Mr. Gould. I don’t want you and your type here. It’s contaminating our atmosphere of hospitality.”

  With a wave of his arm, not unlike that of a monarch, Stan Gould ordered his entourage to turn around and leave as a single unit.

  “Mac, what have you done?” Jeff came running over to him. “Do you have any idea what you did?”

  “Mac just told Gould and his group to take their business elsewhere.” Hector sauntered over. “I think he was great. Robin Spencer would have done exactly the same thing.”

  “Mac?” Jeff gasped out. “Stan Gould is big.”

  “No one is too big to have basic manners,” Mac said.

  Jeff glared at Mac. His eyes dropped down to Gnarly. “You’ve been hanging around Gnarly too long.”

  “Gnarly didn’t do anything this time,” Mac said.

  “Actually, Mac did everyone here a favor,” Hector said. “Stan Gould is a demanding, arrogant, cheap jerk. He quibbles over everything, including the bill, and is the cheapest tipper on record—anywhere. It’s all over the Internet. There are nasty postings about him from hotel and restaurant employees everywhere he goes. Everyone in that entourage is an employee of his because he has no friends. He even has to pay hangers-on to make him look like a big wheel. I’m glad Mac threw him out. He’s a twerp.”

  “He’s a rich and influential twerp,” Jeff said.

  “Which goes to prove what I’ve always thought,” Mac said.

  Disgusted with the exit of his most wealthy guest, Jeff asked, “What is that?”

  “Money,” Mac said, “and I’m talking about extreme wealth, doesn’t really change who you are. It only makes who you really are more extreme.”

  Hector laughed. “Like you were intolerant of decadent SOBs before you became rich. Now you’re more so.”

  “Now you hurt my feelings, Hector.” Mac frowned. “Because I have the money to do whatever I want to do, I don’t have to compromise my beliefs or feelings by playing political games to stay employed or to move up in the police department anymore. If I don’t like the attitude of some arrogant jerk in this hotel, which I happen to own, then I can throw him out.”

  “Even though he has the resources and power to announce his displeasure to the whole world in less than thirty seconds,” Jeff said with a grumble.

  “You can take a jerk,” Mac said, “dump billions of dollars into his bank account, put him in the longest stretch limo the auto assembly lines can build, put him in a tailored suit, attach a super model to his arm, and surround him with a dozen body guards wearing dark glasses, but in the end, you still have a jerk—just a flashier, louder, and more obnoxious jerk.” For Jeff’s benefit, he added, “And most of those billions of people reading his Internet gripes can see it, too.”

  With a jaunty salute at Jeff and Hector, Mac took Gnarly to search for David and Raymond Hollister.

  Hector asked Jeff, “How many times have you predicted the Spencer Inn would close after Mac, or in a previous life, Robin Spencer, pulled one of their stunts?”

  “I’ve lost count,” Jeff said. “Sometimes it’s weekly. Why?”

  Hector glanced around the lobby at the steady flow of guests coming through the door and the busy reception desk. “And how many times has it shut down?”

  “In every business, there has to be one naysayer.” Jeff mopped his sweaty brow with his handkerchief. “That’s me. Chief Naysayer.” He turned on his heels, and hurried back to his office to fill in their public relations specialist.

  Mac almost collided with a tall, slender, silver-haired man exiting the Inn’s salon and spa through the double doors. After holding the glass doors open for the older man, Mac was closing it when David turned the corner at the end of hall and waved for Mac to stop him. “That’s Hollister.”

  Mac raced through the doors to practically grab him by the elbow. “Mr. Hollister.”

  The man turned to Mac. A puzzled expression crossed his face when he noticed Gnarly sniffing his leg. His small dark eyes shot a glare at both of them. “What is this? A drug-sniffing dog? I assure you I have no drugs on me.”

  “I’m Mac Faraday.” He offered him his hand, which Raymond Hollister ignored. “I’m working with the police department in their investigation of the Wagner murders.”

  David caught up with them. “I’m Police Chief David O”Callaghan, Mr. Hollister. May we have a few minutes of your time?”

  Raymond Hollister regarded David with disdain. His eyes narrowed. “O’Callaghan? Any relation to Patrick O’Callghan?”

  “He was my father.”

  “Your father was like a dog with a bone on that case,” Hollister recalled. “Him and Robin Spencer—”

  “David takes very much after his father,” Mac said.

  David rested his hand on his service weapon as if he was considering using it. “My father didn’t make accusations without reason.” />
  Aware that they were standing in the middle of a busy corridor with guests entering and leaving the salon, Mac suggested that they go to the lobby to sit in front of the fireplace. “We can talk more privately there.”

  Raymond Hollister shot David a look, as if he considered refusing, but instead followed Mac and Gnarly down the hallway. David brought up the rear.

  When they returned to the lobby, Mac noticed that the stretch limo was still out front with some of Gould’s men milling around. “What’s going on?” Mac paused to ask Hector, who was chuckling over something. Everything amused the Australian.

  “Ms. Super Lingerie Model had to go to the head.”

  With a roll of his eyes and shake of his head, Mac led Raymond Hollister over to the sitting area in front of the fireplace, which had a fire ablaze. Mac sat in one of the chairs while Hollister took the sofa facing the lounge and the small corridor down which the rest rooms, phones, and service entrance leading back to the kitchen were located. Sitting at attention, Gnarly faced the subject of their interview.

  David chose to stand over them. “Mr. Hollister, can I assume you didn’t come to Spencer for the spa, but because Damian Wagner’s body was found at the castle yesterday?”

  “That’s exactly why I’m here,” the literary agent said. “Damian Wagner was more than an author, he was my friend.”

  “Not to mention the goose that laid the golden eggs,” Mac said. “Do you have any idea who would have killed Wagner, his daughter, and editor?”

  “They say insanity sometimes runs in the genes,” Hollister said. “Anyone who read Damian Wagner’s books—”

  “I’ve read all of them,” Mac said. “Damian Wagner wasn’t insane. He had a brilliant imagination. To say that he was insane is like saying my mother, Robin Spencer, was a homicidal maniac.”

  “Robin Spencer was your mother?” Raymond Hollister turned to look Mac straight in the eye. “Oh, yeah, you’re that Mac Faraday, Robin Spencer’s love child.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I was her agent when she first started out,” Raymond said. “She dumped me as soon as she hit the big leagues. Damian Wagner knew the definition of the word loyalty.”

  “I guess it’s all a matter of perception,” Mac said. “You did petition the courts to have Damian Wagner declared legally dead so that you could inherit his estate.”

  “I know what you’re both thinking.” Raymond Hollister gestured with his finger to point from Mac to David and then back again.

  “Tell us what we’re thinking,” David said.

  “I had the biggest motive for killing Damian Wagner and his daughter,” the agent said. “Yes, we had a legal agreement, a standard legal agreement that a lot of authors have with their literary agents.”

  “I’m not an author,” Mac said. “So fill me in. What was this standard agreement?”

  “I inherited the copyrights for Damian Wagner’s books upon his death,” Raymond Hollister said. “Since his daughter, his only heir, was murdered as well, then there’s no one to make a claim to the rights for his books.”

  “His books are still selling world-wide,” Mac said. “You must be making millions.”

  “Yes, I’ve been doing very well,” Raymond Hollister said with a grin. “And, seeing that you are both very smart men, I won’t pretend. When Wagner’s last book is located, it’s mine. Every publisher in New York will be making bids to publish it—we’re talking millions of dollars. And, with the publishing of that book, sales on Damian Wagner’s previous books will skyrocket.”

  “And you will be even richer,” Mac said.

  “Yes,” Raymond Hollister said. “Did you find Damian Wagner’s book?”

  “No,” David said.

  “That’s bad for me.”

  “Could that be why you killed him and his daughter?” Mac said. “So that you would inherit the rights to his book and get rich off of his work?”

  “I didn’t kill Damian Wagner or his daughter.”

  “You pointed it out yourself,” David said, “with Genie dead, there’s no one to fight you for those rights.”

  “Damian Wagner’s life was a tragedy,” Raymond said. “After his wife was killed in that unfortunate car accident, in which he was driving, he blamed himself and gave up custody of Geneviève, who was fourteen years old at the time. It was a miracle she wasn’t killed. She was in the back seat when he rammed into that utility pole. He wallowed in self-pity for a couple of years and then got sober. By the time he got out of rehab, he read in the media that Geneviève and her grandparents were killed in a ferry boat accident up in Canada. Damian stopped writing and all of his money was gone. His publisher was about to cut him loose because he didn’t believe there was going to be a last book to complete the series. On the off chance that the reports of Genevieve’s death were wrong, I hired a private investigator to find her—and he did. It was a miracle. When Genevieve came back into Damian Wagner’s life, suddenly, he was able to write again.”

  Mac grinned. “Which was good for you because you made how much from his royalties?”

  “Fifteen percent at that time.”

  “Now, you get one-hundred percent,” David said.

  “That’s right,” Raymond said without shame. “Look, I’m not the monster here. I supported Damian for years when he was producing nothing. Bill Jansen was young and hungry. He was just starting to get a reputation as an editor. I got him the job to work for Wagner.”

  “And Wagner’s daughter—” Mac shot a glance in David’s direction. “What about her? You found her and brought her to Spencer to be murdered.”

  “I reunited a family.” Hollister hung his head. “Do I feel responsible—yes, but it wasn’t my fault. None of it was supposed to happen like that.” He looked up at them. “Damian was my friend and I thought that with the right motivation …” He turned to look up at David. “I was only—” He stopped speaking. His eyes grew wide and his face pale. He looked ill.

  “What happened, Mr. Hollister?” David asked him. “What were you only?”

  “It wasn’t my fault,” he said in a low voice.

  “What wasn’t your fault?”

  “If you think—” he stammered. “All these years … I know who you are. I know what you did and you aren’t going to get away with it.”

  “Get away with what?” Mac asked.

  Hollister raised his voice. “If you think for one minute I’m going to take the fall for what you did—you are sadly mistaken. You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

  “Mr. Hollister, are you threatening me?” David asked.

  “I may have set the wheels in motion to get them killed, but I certainly wasn’t the one who did it. I’m not responsible and I’m not taking the blame.” He pointed his finger up at David. “I’m personally going to make you pay for what you did.”

  David stepped up to stand over Raymond Hollister. “You have no right to talk to me like that.”

  Mac joined in. “This is the chief of police you’re talking to, Mr. Hollister.”

  “I wasn’t even in the country when they were killed,” David said. “I had no reason to kill Genie, Jansen, or Wagner. Now I want to know who killed them.”

  “Am I under arrest?” Raymond Hollister rose to his feet.

  He had moved so fast that Gnarly jumped between him and David, stopping Raymond Hollister’s movement. He paused long enough for Mac to grab his arm.

  “You just said that you had set the wheels in motion that led to Wagner’s murder,” Mac said. “That sounds like a confession to me.”

  “But I didn’t kill him or Jansen.” Hollister turned back to David. “I want the animal who did punished, and I intend to do everything I can to help. But first, I need to make a couple of phone calls.”

  “You can call from
the station,” David said.

  “Do you have any evidence to prove I killed them?” Hollister asked.

  David looked over at Mac. He may have been the chief of police, but Mac had this conversation countless times. He knew best how to play it. Knowing that the only evidence they had was circumstantial, Mac slowly shook his head. They couldn’t even prove Raymond Hollister was in the area at the time of the murder.

  A smirk crossed the agent’s face. “Tomorrow morning,” Hollister said. “I’ll come to your office tomorrow morning with the name of your killer.”

  Before David could object or order him to go to the station with them, Raymond Hollister hurried across the lobby to the elevators and practically knocked a couple out of the way to get up to his room.

  Mac turned to tell David. “Now that was weird.”

  “Very.”

  On the other side of the entrance, Mac saw Stan Gould’s limousine pulling away. He also saw Hector sighing with relief. Next to the security manager, Jeff Ingles was mopping his sweaty brow.

  Chapter Ten

  A white sedan with Maryland state government plates was in the parking lot when David pulled the chief’s cruiser into his reserved spot at the Spencer police department. “Who else did I tick off?” he asked.

  “Look at it this way,” Mac said. “It can’t get any worse.”

  In the back seat, Gnarly’s hackles were up. He clawed at the door for someone to let him out. When David opened the door, the shepherd shot out like a bullet shot from a gun.

  “Did Fletcher order pizza again?” Mac spilled out of the cruiser and gave chase.

  As soon as the station door opened, Gnarly scurried across the reception area to greet the intruder. He charged with such force that the other dog yelped while diving for safety behind her master, causing her to become entangled in the dog’s leash and tumble.

  Bogie caught her in his arms before she hit the floor. “Gnarly, behave yourself!”