Phantoms

However, although he couldn’t say why, the big puddle seemed significant to him.
     
    Tayton’s Pharmacy was a small place that served Snowfield and all of the outlying mountain towns. An apartment occupied two floors above the pharmacy; it was decorated in shades of cream and peach, with emerald-green accent pieces, and with a number of fine antiques.
    Frank Autry led his men through the entire building, and they found nothing remarkable-except for the sodden carpet in the living room. It was literally soaking wet; it squished beneath their shoes.
     
    The Candleglow Inn positively radiated charm and gentility: the deep caves and elaborately carved cornices, the mullioned windows flanked by carved white shutters. Two carriage lamps were fixed atop stone pilasters, bracketing the short stone walkway. Three small spotlights spread dramatic fans of light across the face of the inn.
    Jenny, Lisa, the sheriff, and Lieutenant Whitman paused on the sidewalk in front of the Candleglow, and Hammond said, “Are they open this time of year?”
    “Yes,” Jenny said. “They manage to stay about half full during the off season. But then they have a marvelous reputation with discriminating travelers—and they only have sixteen rooms.”
    “Well… let’s have a look.”
    The front doors opened onto a small, comfortably appointed lobby: an oak floor, a dark oriental carpet, light beige sofas, a pair of Queen Anne chairs upholstered in a rose-colored fabric, cherry wood end tables, brass lamps.
    The registration desk was off to the right. A bell rested on the wooden counter, and Jenny struck it several times, rapidly, expecting no response and getting none.
    “Dan and Sylvia keep an apartment behind this office area,” she said, indicating the cramped business quarters beyond the counter.
    “They own the place?” the sheriff asked.
    “Yes. Dan and Sylvia Kanarsky.”
    The sheriff stared at her for a moment. “Friends?”
    “Yes. Close friends.”
    “Then maybe we’d better not look in their apartment,” he said.
    Warm sympathy and understanding shone in his heavy-lidded blue eyes. Jenny was surprised by a sudden awareness of the kindness and intelligence that informed his face. During the past hour, watching him operate, she had gradually realized that he was considerably more alert and efficient than he had at first appeared to be. Now, looking into his sensitive, compassionate eyes, she realized he was perceptive, interesting, formidable.
    “We can’t just walk away,” she said. “This place has to be searched sooner or later. The whole town has to be searched. We might as well get this part of it out of the way.”
    She lifted a hinged section of the wooden countertop and started to push through a gate into the office space beyond.
    “Please, Doctor,” the sheriff said, “always let me or Lieutenant Whitman go first.”
    She backed out obediently, and he preceded her into Dan’s and Sylvia’s apartment, but they didn’t find anyone. No dead bodies.
    Thank God.
    Back at the registration desk, Lieutenant Whitman paged through the guest log. “Only six rooms are being rented right now, and they’re all on the second floor.”
    The sheriff located a passkey on a pegboard beside the mailboxes.
    With almost monotonous caution, they went upstairs and searched the six rooms. In the first five, they found luggage and cameras and half-written postcards and other indications that there actually were guests at the inn, but they didn’t find the guests themselves.
    In the sixth room, when Lieutenant Whitman tried the door to the adjoining bath, he found it locked. He hammered on it and shouted, “Police! Is anyone there?”
    No one answered.
    Whitman looked at the doorknob, then at the sheriff. “No lock button on this side, so someone must be in there. Break it down?”
    “Looks like a solid-core door,” Hammond said. “No use dislocating your shoulder. Shoot the lock.”
    Jenny took Lisa’s arm and drew the girl aside, out of the path of any debris that might blow back.
    Lieutenant Whitman called a warning to anyone who might be in the bathroom, then fired one shot. He kicked the door open and went inside fast. “Nobody’s here.”
    “Maybe they climbed out a window,” the sheriff said.
    “There aren’t any windows in here,” Whitman said, frowning.
    “You’re sure the door was locked?”
    “Positive. And it could only be done from the inside.”
    “But how—if no one was in