Sweet Revenge (7 page)

“Exactly. According to the report”—Officer Sherbinski tapped a manila folder resting on the table—“dinner was served buffet-style. There's no way the culprit could have singled out Brock's food.”

Nancy sighed. “We're totally in the dark then.”

• • •

Nancy stepped out of her car and walked slowly across the parking lot toward the inn, her shoes crunching on the gravel. She wasn't sure how to proceed with the case. At least Brock was safe in the hospital for the time being. But with him out of the picture, the culprit would probably lie low. Nancy would have to work with the few clues that she already had.

Deep in thought, Nancy pushed open the door and stepped into the lobby. The scene there brought her sharply back to the present.

A tearful Samantha was standing by the front desk, her arms around Tim Krueger. Next to her were two police officers—Officer Ullman and another young man. A cluster of guests had gathered, too. From their expressions, Nancy guessed the officers weren't there to join in the Chocolate Festival.

“You can't take him away!” Samantha was sobbing. “I won't let you!”

Jolted into action, Nancy stepped forward to join Samantha. “What's going on?” she asked.

“Nothing for you to be concerned about, Miss Drew,” Officer Ullman told her calmly. “We're just taking Mr. Kreuger in for questioning.”

“Questioning?” Nancy repeated.

“That's right. He's our main suspect in the attempted murder of Brock Sawyer.”

S
EEING
N
ANCY
, Samantha turned to her.

“Nancy, I know Tim didn't do it. You've got to find out what really happened,” she begged. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. “I don't have anyone else to turn to!”

Samantha let out a little moan as the police led Tim toward the door. She, Nancy, Bess, and George followed them outside and stood watching as the police car sped away with Tim inside.

“I'll be happy to take on the case,” Nancy told Samantha quietly. She didn't mention that she'd already begun investigating. “Should we talk in your office?”

“I guess that would be better than broadcasting
all
my problems to the guests,” Samantha said with a wan smile. “They know more than enough already.”

Straightening up with determination, she led the way through the lobby and down the hall to her office. Samantha sat at her desk, motioning the girls toward chairs.

“The whole inn must know Tim was arrested,” Samantha groaned.

“Maybe that's best right now,” Nancy suggested. “If your guests think the problem's been taken care of, they might start to relax again. And if the real culprit is someone else—and if he or she thinks that Tim is the only suspect—then that person might start getting careless.”

“So you don't suspect Tim?” Samantha asked, brightening. “Oh, I'm so glad!”

“Well, I certainly don't think the case against him is airtight,” Nancy replied carefully. “It's the fight Tim picked with Brock that makes him the most likely suspect to the police. But picking a fight with someone is a long way from poisoning him.”

“That's right,” George put in hopefully.

“I
know
Tim didn't poison Brock,” Samantha said firmly. “He—he certainly had a motive. But I've known Tim for a long time. There's no way he'd be so vicious.”

“I hope you're right,” said Nancy, “And if he didn't, then we need to find out if anyone else has a bone to pick with Brock Sawyer.” She got to her feet. “Why don't you go back to your guests now, Samantha, while we get to work. The minute we turn something up, we'll let you know.”

A sheepish expression came over Samantha's
face as she asked, “How would you feel about keeping me company for lunch? I don't feel as if I can face eating in the dining room with all those people around.” She plucked nervously at one of the combs in her hair. “I've got a few phone calls to make, but then would you like to grab a sandwich in here with me?”

“Sounds great,” said Nancy. They agreed to meet in forty-five minutes.

“I didn't want to say this in front of Samantha,” Nancy told her friends when they were out in the lobby, “but we definitely can't rule Tim out. There's no way I can question him when he's in police custody, though. Let's start our questioning with Dan Avery, since I did hear him make a threat about getting some actor. It's about time we found out what he was talking about. George, you want to come along?”

“What about me? Should I question Brock?” Bess asked hopefully.

“Not quite,” Nancy told her, smiling. “You can do the next best thing and spend time getting to know Jake Tagley better.”

Bess's blue eyes widened. “You think Jake's a suspect? What could he have against Brock?”

“I have no idea,” said Nancy, “but he may be able to shed some light on what the people around the inn think of Brock. Just turn on the charm, Bess, and see what you come up with.”

“You've got it!” Bess said brightly. Then, gesturing to her stained T-shirt and shorts, she added, “But first I'd better change. I can't get to
know Jake in clothes that are covered with brownie batter!”

• • •

Nancy and George knocked on Dan Avery's door, but there was no answer. He wasn't in the basement playing Chocolate Trivia or taking a chocolate pastry class with Mrs. Tagley or participating in an auction of chocolate-related cooking supplies. In fact, he was nowhere to be found.

“Okay, on to plan B,” Nancy said, running a hand through her hair. “Let's try some members of the staff instead. The waiters who work in the dining room might have something to tell us.”

Most of the waiting staff were too busy setting up for lunch to talk to Nancy and George, but two waitresses named Karen and Liz agreed to spare the girls a few minutes. After a brief explanation of her involvement in the case, Nancy asked, “Has either of you noticed anything in the kitchen that seems out of the ordinary? Even the smallest discrepancy could be a clue.”

The two waitresses considered the question. “Well, Mrs. Tagley's been in the kitchen more than usual,” said Liz slowly. She had a round face and curly dark hair. “It's not exactly unusual, since so many of her desserts are being prepared for the festival. But it seems as though she's in there constantly.”

“Is she cooking or just checking up on things?” asked Nancy.

“She's definitely not cooking,” said Karen immediately. “Mrs. Tagley hates to cook where people can watch her. Says she can't concentrate
if she feels like people are looking over her shoulder. She usually makes everything in the family's private kitchen upstairs—you know, where her apartment is. Then she has the stuff brought down to the main kitchen.”

Nancy was intrigued by this detail. She didn't know what Mrs. Tagley's motive might be. But Samantha's mother certainly had the perfect opportunity to poison anything she made. “But what was she doing in the kitchen if she wasn't cooking?”

Both waitresses shrugged. “Beats me,” said Karen. “Maybe it makes her feel more in control.” She stared uneasily over her shoulder. “Uh, we should really go back to work.”

Nancy thanked the waitresses for their time, then she and George headed back to Samantha's office.

“It's nice of you to keep me company,” Samantha said gratefully when they arrived. “All those guests staring at me is a little hard to take.” She reached for the telephone on her desk. “Let me just give a quick call down to room service and order us something.”

“You have room service here?” asked George.

“You can just get sandwiches, coffee, things like that.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Nancy cheerfully. The girls chatted until their order arrived, and then Nancy said, “I've been wanting to learn a little more about your background, Samantha. When did you meet Brock?”

Samantha took a sip of iced tea. “Let me see,
the summer after my freshman year. Brock was in summer stock here.” She smiled, remembering. “He was the lead in
Brigadoon.
It's kind of hard to imagine when you see him playing a cop on TV, but he was great.”

She took a bite of her turkey sandwich before continuing. “Oakwood's got a pretty good summer stock company, considering we're way out in the sticks like this. Actually, Brock grew up in an even tinier town than Oakwood, about thirty miles from here. I used to wonder if that was why my mother disapproved of him so much. Maybe she didn't want me hanging around with someone who was from an even smaller town than I was.”

“Your mother disapproved of Brock?” Nancy asked, glancing up alertly. “I didn't realize that.”

Samantha grimaced. “She practically bit my head off when I first mentioned his name. You can't believe how hard she made my life the whole time I was going out with him.” She shook her head. “Mothers. I swear, there's no way to keep them happy.”

George had been munching on her roast beef sandwich while she listened. Now she asked, “But your mother doesn't dislike Brock anymore, does she?”

“No. She wasn't crazy about having him come for the festival, but at least she didn't throw a fit about it. I mean, it's good publicity for the inn and for her new line of chocolates. Or it was. They're certainly getting bad publicity now,” Samantha added bitterly. Then she glanced at
her watch. “I've really got to get back to work,” she said regretfully. “We're setting up a chocolate fondue demonstration, and I have to go track down some chairs. Thanks for keeping me company.”

The three girls left the office at the same time, but Nancy was careful to head in the opposite direction from Samantha. “Hmm,” she said to George when they were far enough away. “So Mrs. Tagley doesn't like Brock. It fits, in a way. She seemed happy when he was talking about leaving. Now I just have to find out why.”

“Why don't you ask her?” suggested George.

“Good idea,” said Nancy. “She's going to be giving chocolate classes all afternoon, though—I checked the schedule. So let's talk to some of the employees first. I remember Jake saying that some of them have been here even longer than Mrs. Tagley has.”

• • •

“I can't discuss my boss,” the gray-haired gardener explained gruffly. “That would be unprofessional.”

As the older man turned back to clipping the azalea bushes by the front entrance, Nancy looked at George and shrugged.

“That's the fourth person we've tried,” George said as they stepped out of the heat and back into the cool lobby. “It doesn't seem like any of the old-timers want to talk to us.”

Nancy tucked her hands into the pockets of her shorts. “That's for sure. ‘In a close-knit place like this,' ” Nancy went on, mimicking the gravelly
voice of one of the older chefs, “ ‘you never know what's going to get back to people.' ”

George laughed at Nancy's imitation. Nancy sighed and said, “I'm starting to think we've wasted the whole afternoon.”

“What about trying the person in charge of room service, or whatever they call it here?” George suggested. “We haven't been there yet.”

“Good idea.” Nancy smiled as she added, “You know, I think this will be the first time I've ever seen anyone who works in room service. I've always just thought of those people as voices on the phone before.”

The woman they met in the small basement service kitchen was a lot more than a voice on the phone. She was a wiry woman named Mrs. Reames, with curly gray hair and glasses. She seemed to be in her seventies and was very happy to get the chance to talk—a lot—to Nancy and George.

“I spend all day listening to people order hamburgers,” she said, once Nancy explained why they were there. “It would be a pleasure to get to talk for once. I've seen this place go through a lot of changes. Oh, they've tried to retire me a couple of times, but I tell them I'm not leaving until they drag me out. So what if I get the orders mixed up once in a while? It's not as if—”

“I bet you have some fascinating stories to tell about the old days,” Nancy said quickly. She hated to interrupt, but she didn't want to spend all afternoon listening to stories about mixed-up
orders. “You must have been here for nearly as long as Mrs. Tagley—is that right?”

“Longer! I was here before she and her first husband ever bought the place. 'Course, Mrs. Patton—I mean Mrs. Tagley—was the real power behind the throne, you might say. Samantha's father never did have the gumption she did. But then, I guess that's why they moved out to the country in the first place.”

“Because Mr. Patton didn't—didn't have enough gumption?” George asked, leaning against the counter.

“Well, because his business had failed, I mean,” clarified Mrs. Reames. “He'd had some kind of nervous collapse after that businessman got through with him, and he and the missus bought the inn to give him more quiet surroundings. Ha! More quiet, my foot! Why, I can remember—”