THE HOTEL CLEARWATER was a faded blue two-story Victorian facing Main Street, with a second-floor exterior balcony supported by columns. It looked right out of the Wild West or maybe a movie featuring Sundance and Butch.
Claire and I entered the lobby, which hadn’t seen any changes since the 1920s. I took in the Victorian flock wallpaper, satin-covered armchairs, and sepia photographs of long-dead people in ornate frames on the walls.
The man behind the desk was also a relic of earlier times. Not from another century, but definitely from another time. His thinning gray ponytail and frameless specs made me think the hotel had been named for Creedence Clearwater Revival, a band I liked from the ’70s.
I signed the register and credit-card receipt and collected the keys. As Claire called home, the desk clerk told me his name was Buck Keene and that he owned the place.
We chatted about the weather and the local restaurants, and then I said, “I’m trying to look someone up. Maybe you know her? Antoinette Burgess?”
“Everyone knows everyone here. Sure, I know Toni. She’s the president of Devil Girlz — with a z. It’s a motorcycle club, girls only. They mainly work as bouncers for one of the saloons in Winchester.”
“She has a friend — Sandy someone?”
The man with the gray ponytail jerked back as if he’d said too much or I’d put ammonia under his nose.
“You’re a cop,” he said. “I should have figured as much.” He opened a drawer to show me his sheriff’s badge, and I showed him my shield.
“Is Toni in trouble?” Keene asked.
“Not at all. I just want to talk with her about an ongoing investigation.”
“Then find another source,” Keene told me. “She’s had a rough time, but she’s clean. Getting her life straightened out. Being questioned by the cops …” Keene shook his head. “Checkout is at noon tomorrow.”
The bathtub in my room had claw feet. The towel rack was brass, and there was a basket of toiletries on the pedestal sink. I ran the hot water, poured some bath salts into the tub, and called Conklin.
“Antoinette Burgess is in a motorcycle gang called Devil Girlz,” I told him. “Outlaw type, I’m guessing.”
Conklin said, “Hold on,” and did a Web search while I tested the water temperature and pinned up my hair.
“I’m finding some stuff on these Girlz,” Conklin told me. “Drugs. Weapon trade. They aren’t Avon ladies, Linds. Watch your ass.”
“I’m walking on tippy-toes,” I said. “Rich. I saw evidence of a baby in the Burgess house. A baby car seat on the kitchen table. Blue one.”
“No kidding. Yeah?”
“Yeah. Do me a favor and tell Brady.”
Joe picked up my call on the first ring. I stepped into the tub, lowered myself slowly, and sighed as the hot water covered my shoulders.
“What’s it like there?” Joe asked me.
“Sweet little town,” I told him. “Imagine Northern Exposure crossed with The Twilight Zone.”
“
Be careful, Blondie.”
Second guy in under ten minutes telling me to be careful. Jeez, I’ve been a cop for a decade.
“I’ve got a badge and a gun,” I said to my husband.
“I don’t like the way you sound.”
“How do I sound?”
“Blasé. In a completely detached kind of way.”
“I’ve been driving all day.”