A Fountain Filled With Blood

“No. No need. Ron can throw together a five-star meal out of whatever we have in stock.” Stephen Obrowski swept his hand toward the chef, who bowed. “We had invited Paul, of course, and our other guest, Bill Ingraham, but they both had to attend the aldermen’s meeting instead.”

“Bill Ingraham?” Clare said. “The developer?”

“That’s right. He’s been staying with us at least once a month since this winter.” Obrowski pointed at a mullioned window centered over a stainless-steel sink framing a view of the mountains. “The Landry property, where he’s working, starts about a mile west of us. As a matter of fact, this house used to be the Landry mansion. The family made their fortune in logging and real estate speculation. Archibald Landry built his own railroad line into Adirondack Park to transport timber and holidaymakers, but the connecting lines that other developers were supposed to build never came through, so his track just petered out in the wilderness.” Obrowski took a sip of coffee. “Then a son died in World War One. When the stock market collapsed, it took most of the family money with it. They sold this place in the thirties.”

“So this guy Ingraham, he’s the one who’s building the new hotel?”

“Luxury spa,” Obrowski corrected. “Very exciting. It’s going to bring in lots of people, lots of money. Lots of traffic past our door.”

“And he couldn’t make it to your dinner last night.”

“He was definitely at the meeting,” Clare said. “There was quite a to-do about PCBs in the area maybe coming from the old quarry on the Landry property. He stood up and told everyone what a good thing the spa was going to be, but he said that he wouldn’t be building it if the town called in the DEP for another go-round.”

“You’re kidding! That would be a disaster. Let’s hope they don’t jump the gun and call in the DEP prematurely. Lots of people are counting on that resort going forward.”

“Not the least of whom is that Landry woman.” Handler rolled his eyes.

“Oh, cut it out. She’s not that bad.”

“Joan Crawford on hormone-replacement therapy.”

Russ snickered. Clare pressed her lips together, trying not to smile. “How about his partner?” she asked. “Did he stay here, too?”

Handler and Obrowski glanced at each other. “Well…” Obrowski said.

“He used to,” Handler said.

Obrowski sighed. “They had a big blowup here at the end of May. The kind where Ron and I try to disappear into the woodwork for the duration. We haven’t seen him since then.”

Clare put her mug down. “But he was at the meeting last night. Mr. Ingraham introduced him.”

“He did what?” Handler goggled at her.

“Wait. Wait.” Obrowski laughed. “Slightly chunky guy with lots of slicked-back dark hair?”

“Yes, that’s the one. John something.”

“Opperman. John Opperman.” Obrowski grinned at Handler. “She meant his business partner.”

“We thought you were referring to the Queen of Tarts,” Handler said.

“His girlfriend?”

“His boyfriend.”

Russ started. “Ingraham’s gay?”

Handler grinned, showing his pointed eyeteeth. “We’re everywhere. Scary, isn’t it?”

“Cut it out, Ron,” Obrowski said.

Russ’s cheeks grew pink beneath his tan. “Did Ingraham know Emil?”

“No, not to my knowledge. He hasn’t been one for socializing,” Obrowski said. “When he stays here, he spends most of his time meeting with subcontractors and tramping around the woods, plotting out the resort and directing what construction they’ve already started—cutting down trees, plowing roads, that sort of thing. Opperman, his business partner”—he tilted his head toward Clare—“handles the paperwork. He’s been up frequently, too, but he stays at one of those concrete-cube chain hotels along the Northway.”

“I keep telling you, Steve, if we put up some bad art and wall-to-wall carpeting, we could get that trade, too.”

“Ron…”

“Maybe if you put in an ice machine down the hall?” Clare offered. Handler looked delighted.

Russ cleared his throat. “Okay, it’s unlikely anyone knew Emil was going to be here last night. Which leaves the possibility we were discussing earlier.”

Obrowski looked down into his coffee cup. Handler’s dazzling smile disappeared, replaced by a wary look in his eyes.

“What?” Clare said. “What?”

“When we were walking Emil out, there was a drive-by.” Stephen Obrowski’s amiable voice turned hard. “A truck with a bunch of rednecks shouting a lot of homophobic crap. They’ve been by before a few times, but the worst that’s happened so far is a few beer cans chucked on the lawn.”

“And they continued east toward Route One Twenty-one?” Russ asked.

“We asked him if he wanted to wait. I was worried about him heading in the same direction as the pickup.” Obrowski shook his head. “I wish to God I had insisted. If he had waited until the police arrived, we wouldn’t be standing here having this conversation.”

Clare looked at Russ.

“They called in a report right after,” he said. “We had an officer up to Cossayuharie who came down to check things out. It was when he was headed back into town that he found Emil’s car.”