Page 22 of Cougar Point

“Her,” Rebecca corrects. “The night manager is a woman.”

As if on cue, a striking young woman, twenties, slender, with dark skin and the largest brown eyes I have ever seen, comes in. The writer stares at her until I give him the glare of death. I tell the newcomer to have a seat, and I go to the writer.

“We’re here on police business,” I say. It’s not a lie. We’re just not the police here. “Do you mind working in the lobby?”Or anywhere away from here will do.

“And just when it’s getting interesting,” he says. He gets his crap together and leaves, looking back at our new arrival until he trips and almost face plants.

I sit and ask the woman, “You are?”

“Missy. I’m the night manager. Beverly is the real night manager but she’s home with a sick daughter. I’m covering for her.”

She seems bright and open and friendly and not the least bit curious as to why she’s here. “Missy, do you know Victoria Marsh?”

“Yes. She’s your mom,” she says to Rebecca. “Roger—Mr. Whiting—checked you and your mom in but I had a bottle of champagne delivered to your mom’s room late that evening. Rog…Mr. Whiting said she has been reported missing and I was to cooperate with you. Have you found her? Is she okay? I really like your mom, Miss Marsh.”

“Call me Rebecca. This is Detective Megan Carpenter. My mom loves this place. Is Roger a good boss?”

The question takes her by surprise. “Well. Yes.” Any time someone starts a response with “well,” it means they have to think about it. In this case it was an easy answer. Yes or no. She’s young enough to be Roger’s daughter, or granddaughter, but when she called him by his first name and not by his title, there was a sense of familiarity. Maybe he has been making passes at her. Or the other way around.

“You’re a detective?” she asks me.

“Yes, but I’m just consulting,” I say to keep this above board.

“I wasn’t aware it was serious enough for the police to be involved.”

“I’m not the police, Missy. I’m a friend of the family.”

She nods but doesn’t look convinced.

“Did you talk to Connie?” I ask.

“Yes. I’m her supervisor. I wanted to know why you were talking to her.”

She works nights so she’s not Connie’s direct supervisor, but I let it pass. “No problem. I just wondered who delivered the champagne to the room? You?”

“No. Hold on. Yes. I was going to have one of our night staff, but no one was around so I decided to do it myself.”

I pause a long time and she doesn’t take her eyes away from mine. “What time did you take the champagne to her room?”

“Ten thirty. Eleven. Maybe a little later. Why? You don’t suspect a crime has been committed, do you?”

“Just covering all the bases.”Bitch.“Did you hand it to her?”

“She was in the shower.”

“How do you know that?”

“I assumed. I heard the shower running. I left the bottle on the table in the suite.”

“Did Mrs. Marsh order the champagne?”

“She always…Excuse me, Miss Marsh, but I have to explain myself. Mrs. Marsh always has a bottle sent up when she visits. She generally likes it late in the evening.”

I see the look Rebecca is giving Missy and put my hand on hers to be still. “Does she get one glass or two?”

“One. Sometimes two. I only took her one bottle on Thursday night. Was there something wrong with the champagne? Am I in trouble?”

“Was the champagne chilled?” I ask, and Missy’s inscrutable façade slips just slightly.

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