DEADWOOD'S HOTEL MYSTERY

  A GRIPPING MURDER MYSTERY WITH JAW-DROPPING TWISTS | BOOK 1

  PEYTON DINWIDDIE

  Copyright © 2022 PEYTON DINWIDDIE

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  THANK YOU GIFT

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  Books In This Series

  CONNECT WITH AUTHOR

  ABOUT AUTHOR

  THANK YOU GIFT

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  CHAPTER ONE

  He wasn't bothered by the chirp of the crickets, nor was he bothered by the smog that hung so thickly over the area. The cold seeped through his leather jacket and gloved pocketed hands to his body as much as his soul. An owl hooted. Bats fluttered by at low range as midnight's parade of creepiness settled over the cemetery.

  Deadwood was a town with many claims to fame, one of which was its many cemeteries. Maybe that was a fallacious assumption. Maybe Deadwood didn't have that many cemeteries, but it was simply famous for its burial sites like Mount Moriah Cemetery.

  There was, in fact, a slim chance, the fictitious omen of death brooding in the minds of Deadwood's visitors was what endeared him to the place when he thought about where he might settle after college.

  Marcus liked to believe he was brave. Maybe that was true. His father had looked him in the eyes when, at ten, he'd rushed at a raccoon, grabbing it by the neck.

  “Let it go, Mark.” There had been a shudder in the man's stifled breath.

  Marcus had squeezed tighter as the whole family watched, all of them afraid to near him until he'd flung the thing out the open door.

  He was not weird, but fear did not make much sense to him. Neither did death. It was what had opened him up to a lifetime's inquisition about the most dreaded topic: death. It's also what had drawn him to the police force when he'd applied as coroner. However brief that time had been, it was helpful with his inquiries about the dead.

  Stroking, poking, lifting, and carrying dead bodies was not enough to satisfy his investigations. His subjects were as lifeless as they came. They could not talk, nor could they explain the mysteries of their deaths. They simply laid there, snobbish and cold. It was a bore. His theory was that the mystery always laid with the killer. Only the killer knew what it meant to see the life leave a person's eyes. The killer surely held the mystery, for only they, as messengers of death, knew it well enough.

  At that stage in his life, it had become an obsession. It was not entirely his fault. At twenty years old, he had seen his first corpse: his father's. Bloated and blue, eyelids shut like firm straps. Fists clenched like a fighter's and nose as slim as a stick. Everyone wailed except for him; he simply watched, looking intently at was his remorseless mom's face, who would become infamous for poisoning the man's food. His young mind had labeled her mysterious from that day on, not because she had killed a person but because she had the answer he had sought all his life. She knew what it meant to take a life, and he was dying to know.

  His inquiry along as coroner was short-lived, ending when he'd joined the police academy to become an officer and later a detective. Maybe he was out for a position that would nudge him toward killers whom he believed had the answers for which he was looking.

  Marcus had been successful as a coroner, and so was his short career as a detective before he left it to become a private investigator. That was really where he'd been headed, after all. Surely, he would find his answers if he could stalk killers, find them, and ask them, "Master to apprentice—what does taking a life feel like?"

  It seemed he was not the only one obsessed with death; death was obsessed with him, and it always found a way to stimulate deeper levels of his curiosity. Fifteen years after the death of his father, his younger sister, Lona, had died. Mysteriously, they had said. It had been three months since her death. Whatever he thought was a clue took them further away from the answers they were looking for. His arch-nemesis was playing tricks on him. Death was taking him on a wild goose chase.

  He stood over his father’s grave and prayed to God, his father, and anyone with the power to give him answers.

  His phone beeped. He looked to see that the officer was calling again.

  “Okay," Marcus said, answering the phone, "I’ll be on my way.”

  He went back to his car and zoomed off. It was 1 a.m.

  ◆◆◆

  The police building had not been spared by midnight's notorious haze, but through it all, Marcus saw officers dragging along their perps, walloping them when necessary. He pulled over in the driveway and made his way into the building.

  His eyes met with Raymond's immediately after he'd walked in. “They say noble men don't walk around in so terrible a time,” Detective Raymond joked.

  “Raymond, I can assure you there is hardly anyone of noble birth who's already in bed.”

  They hugged and shared a laugh.

  "How're you faring, man?" Detective Raymond asked.

  “As you can see, not too bad for a man with a loveless life,” Marcus scoffed.

  “What of Brianna, Marcus? Tell me you called her.” Raymond grunted and sat in his chair.

  "You see, my friend, calling her wasn't the issue. And I promise you: we were getting along," Marcus replied.

  “But?” Raymond sounded frustrated.

  “But you know how I am with dates. I received an urgent call on a lead on that kidnapped toddler, and I couldn't help myself,” Marcus said.

  “Marcus!” Raymond sighed.

  "I sent her flowers, though," Marcus said.

  “How did she feel about that?” Raymond asked.

  "Not too good, I can imagine. Her text was furious. All capital letters."

  “Damn, man.”

  “I tell you.”

  They were quiet for a little while.

  "Well, I imagine you didn't call me over to discuss my hopeless situation," Marcus said, straightening his posture.

  “Not at all. Even I know it is hopeless," Raymond joked. "It’s something else.”

  “Tell me, then.”

  “There’s been a murder at the Orient Hotel.”

  "You know my principle, Raymond: I don't take on more than a single murder case at a time."

  “I admire what it takes to be a private investigator, making your own rules and the like,” Raymond said.

  “You can say that again.”

  "What's the second murder, though? Don't tell me you're investigating Lona's death. You know we've got that, and you're not allowed to investigate," Raymond said.

  “I make my own rules; you said so yourself,” Marcus said.

  “Then you might as well go live in your own country.”

  Marcus laughed.

  “Marcus, I wouldn't ask if there was some other way. I want you to know that. The daughter of Theophilus Bradly, the business mogul, was murdered last night. I'd happily give it to any of these dorks, but it’s nothing like we have had in a while.”

  “What do you mean?” Marcus asked.

  “There were no wounds whatsoever, and the coroner says it was neither strangulation nor poisoning. It looks like her heart simply stopped on its own. Maybe I could believe that, but Claire was just twenty-six. And before you ask, there was no sign of a break-in,” Raymond explained.

  “That does sound intriguing, but why should I do this?” Marcus asked.

  “The family promises to be very generous.”

  “You know I'm not motivated by money.”

  “And that's why we all hate you,” Raymond joked.

  They laughed again.

  “There’s more,” Raymond said.

  “Which is?”

  Raymond leaned over his desk to be closer to Marcus. “See, I'm breaking my own rules here, but my guts tell me this may have something to do with whoever killed Lona,” he whispered.

  “You're not pulling my leg now, are you?” Marcus asked.

  “That'd be stupid.”

  “Why do you think they have something in common?”

  "I don't want to point fingers, but there are several things that just don't feel right. Lona's ex-husband, Patrick, was in the same hotel that night. Was he lodged there? No, but he walks in and out between nine-fifteen and ten p.m., the estimated time of the death."

  “Should that mean anything?” Marcus asked.

  “Maybe not, except that something belonging to Lona was found in the same room.”

  M

arcus’s curiosity was set suddenly afire.

  Raymond pulled out a pendant from his drawer, wrapped in a Ziploc bag that Marcus immediately recognized. He'd been baffled when it was not around Lona’s neck when she'd been found dead in her residence because it never left her neck.

  Marcus was silent for a few minutes as he held the bag close to his person. “Why has Patrick not been called in yet then?”

  “Not so quickly. No camera captured him going beyond the lobby of the hotel. More so, I don’t want him thinking we know just yet. We have some detectives on his tail, and there's been nothing unusual in the last twenty-four hours,” Raymond explained.

  “You think he was contracted to kill the lady?” Marcus asked.

  “It’s not impossible,” Raymond said.

  “I love your objectivity, but Patrick—a fireman who works undercover as an assassin?”

  "Tell me you haven't seen worse in your years as a detective. Well, I have," Raymond said.

  “I know that guy. He’s not the best, but an assassin?”

  "Your familiarity has become a blind spot for you, Marcus. Take no chances."

  Marcus handed the bag with the pendant back to Raymond.

  “Are you taking the job, then?” Raymond asked.

  “Of course. You know I must,” Marcus replied.

  “I thought so, too. I'll provide you with every clearance you need to get into the crime scene. We need answers, and we need them fast.”

  Marcus merely nodded. It had been a while since anything had washed up regarding Lona's death, and this made him feel one step closer to solving it. He looked through the file Raymond had given him. That Claire looked familiar, but he could not say from where.

  He shook hands with Raymond and drove down to the Orient Hotel. Raymond was correct, he mused: he could not afford to have a blind spot where Patrick was concerned. He also could not afford to visit Patrick right away, not because it was midnight but because he knew it would be confrontational. Guilty of his sister's death or not, Patrick was not what you would have called the best husband, and there was nothing that clouded Marcus's better judgment than emotions.

  Marcus pulled up at the hotel and made his way to the crime scene. Upon arrival, he met with the receptionist in the lobby, the same one who had been on duty on the night of the murder. He was friends with Patrick, and his name was Farooq.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Marcus was not sure what he might find when he was there for a look. If the killer had been so good that Raymond had to call him in, the scene would be as neat as it could, but following with tradition couldn't hurt, now could it? He paced the scene, looking intermittently back at the officer who'd been placed there to chaperone.

  There was nothing, as he'd suspected.

  Marcus took a few notes and turned to leave, and it was then his eye caught it.

  He had been wrong.

  Marcus walked briskly over to the window and noticed that one of the locks had been undone. The sliding door creaked noisily when he opened it, and he beckoned the officer attached to him. "Who else has been here since Miss Bradly was murdered in this room?" he asked.

  The officer looked intently at the window, no doubt expecting to see whatever Marcus had seen. “In the room? Just the rest of us. But at this exact point, sir, no one,” the officer said.

  He looked more closely at the window and realized that though the window had been unlocked, the clue he needed did not lie there.

  Everyone had assumed the killer had walked in through the front door, but that could not be the case because there were cameras mounted in the hallway, and no one had walked in or after Miss Bradly.

  He'd developed the theory that the killer had been left-handed when he went through the sliding door onto the balcony and saw the mark of a firm, left-handed grip on the railing, left behind by the killer, who had likely used it for support when jumping to the next floor (the killer couldn’t have known the railings were slightly dusty).

  He asked the officer, but there had been no DNA material found in the hotel room. Whoever this was, he was a professional, but one thing was clear: Miss Bradly was not alone the night she died.

  His curiosity was stirred now that he knew there was someone out there who knew the truth, mocking their investigation.

  Marcus rang Officer Raymond, told him of his findings, and booked an appointment with the coroner for the next day.

  Miss Grace Bradly’s body was as lifeless as anything he had ever seen. As the coroner shared the results of his examination with Marcus, he could not shift his gaze from the body. Her bowels had been examined for poison, but there was no sign it was poison. It was as Raymond had said: it seemed her heart had just stopped. There had been no resistance from outside and no marks on her body. For the first twenty minutes of the coroner’s rant, Marcus blocked him completely out of his mind, looking intently at the body. “What are the chances, sir, that she was startled to death, you know?” Marcus asked.

  “What do you mean startled?” the coroner replied.

  “Spooked. What if someone spooked her to death?” Marcus continued.

  "With all due respect—are you serious, sir?" The coroner sounded shocked.

  Marcus felt somewhat offended. “I mean, there must be an explanation,” Marcus said.

  "But not something like that, sir," the coroner said.

  "Pardon me—in all you've said thus far, didn't you indicate the possibility of Miss Bradly being an asthmatic, which, by the way, is startling? Shouldn't the family be able to tell us if she was truly asthmatic?" Marcus said.

  The coroner was quiet.

  Marcus spoke sharply: “Thank you for your time, sir.” He walked out on the coroner, who seemed to still be trying to wrap his mind around Marcus’s question.

  ◆◆◆

  It was four a.m., and Marcus was determined to get some hours’ sleep before it was daybreak. Marcus felt the assurance of light on his path. He knew he was close.

  He opened the door to his house. Kennedy was still up, a glass of whiskey in his hand. “Hey, Ken.”

  “Hey—this must be what it feels like when you don't have a life, Marcus.”

  “Rude! Why are you up, then?”

  “Just finished a program I've been working on for this gaming company. It’s by far my biggest gig in the last three months. I'm talking thousands of dollars,” Kennedy replied.

  Marcus sunk into his favorite chair and sighed in relief. His back hurt.

  He decided to pour himself a glass, so he got up, went to the table, and sat beside Kennedy. Two shots later and he was all warmed up and ready to head straight for the bedroom.

  “You know, Mama asks of you,” Kennedy said.

  He sat back in his chair. “I’m sure,” Marcus said.

  “And she's concerned about you, too, you know? Perhaps you could find some time for the old woman,” Ken insisted.

  “Ken, you know the way work is.”

  “I know; it’s always work but work never stopped a man from checking up on his mother.”

  “I guess.”

  “Then stop avoiding her. I imagine it hurts,” Kennedy said.

  “Ken, don’t do this.”

  “When did you go to see her last? It's only a five-hour drive from here, you know.”

  “A five-hour drive is not what you'd call only,” Marcus said.

  “For family, it is,” Ken said.

  “Ugh! Ken, you know how I feel about Sioux Falls. It’s not exactly my favorite place in the world.”

  “It’s not the hub of the best memories for any of us, Marcus. Our father died there, but your mother lives there, and that’s something.”

  “Now, I imagine the only reason you came visiting was to bring a message from Mom,” Marcus said.

  “To be fair, that's a part of it.”

  “Aw, jeez.”

  "But I also miss my big brother, too. You know we're all we have left…and Mom."

  Marcus felt sad. After the death of his father and now Lona’s, it truly was just Kennedy, Patricia(Marcus’s mother), and himself.

  "Promise me, Marcus, that you'll stop avoiding Mother," Ken said.

 

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