By Familiar Means by Delia James Page A

could not have been trapped in that tunnel for a whole month,” said Pete. I think he meant it to be reassuring, but he in no way succeeded. “And you didn’t see any signs that anybody else had been down there recently?”
    â€œNo. None,” said Miranda before I could even get my mouth open.
    â€œDetective Simmons!” shouted a new voice. A paunchy, pale man wearing a bright red blazer and Clark Kent glasses was striding up the street. The wind from the river blew his black tie over his shoulder as he edged his way between the police cruisers. Kenisha moved to intercept him, but Pete waved her back.
    â€œMr. Hilde,” said Pete coolly. “Sorry to pull you out of your office.”
    Mr. Hilde was not a big man, or a young one. In fact, he was only a couple of inches taller than me, and if the lines around his face and the sag in his jowls were anything to go by, he was already on the far side of middle age. His hair, though, was an incongruously dark chestnut brown, and he slicked it back nervously with one hand as he came to stand in front of the detective.
    â€œAnd I’m sorry to bother you,” Mr. Hilde said to Pete. “But I’ve got guests wondering what’s going on.” Now I could see the hotel crest on the pocket of that bright red blazer. He must be connected with the Harbor’s Rest hotel. Then I remembered Jake guessing the door we’d found might open into the hotel.
    â€œI was hoping I could tell our guests there’s nothing to worry about.” Behind their thick lenses, Hilde’s eyes fastened on Jake and Miranda. Jake grinned back at him and flashed the peace sign. A small, satisfied smile tightened Mr. Hilde’s sagging mouth. “But maybe I’m wrong. What’d they finally catch you at, Luce?”
    Jake shrugged. “Not a darned thing, Dale. Disappointed?”
    â€œNo, just surprised.” Dale Hilde was still smiling, and it was not a nice expression.
    â€œJake,” murmured Miranda. “Stay cool.”
    â€œOh!” cried Grandma. Very suddenly and very uncharacteristically, she stumbled and toppled over, right into Dale Hilde’s arms. He caught her automatically and awkwardly.
    â€œOh, I am
so
sorry!” Grandma grabbed both his wrists to steady herself, even as I lunged forward to help bring her back upright. “I caught my shoe on the curb.” She blinked at him myopically and I felt my fingers prickling. Again. “Why, you must be one of Gretchen’s boys!” she said happily to Mr. Hilde. “You look just like her!”
    â€œI . . . uh . . . yes,” he mumbled. He also rubbed his palms against his trousers and turned right back to Pete. “Detective Simmons? My guests? I can tell them this is nothing, right? You’ll be gone soon?”
    â€œUnfortunately, Mr. Hilde, I can’t tell you when we’ll be finished here,” said Detective Simmons. “In fact, I’m probably going to have to bring some of my people into the hotel.”
    Dale took at step back. His gaze slid straight back to Jake and Miranda. “What for?”
    â€œCan you tell me anything about an old tunnel, maybe a historic smugglers’ tunnel, that leads into the hotel?”
    Hilde’s eyes skittered this way and that, taking in the crowd, the flashing lights and the uniforms. His smile had vanished. He slicked his dark hair back again. “Well, you know, it’s an old building. There were always rumors. But I can’t say anybody’s ever found anything that I know about. Not that we’ve ever looked especially hard.”
    â€œThat’s a shame. But I’m afraid it doesn’t make a lot of difference,” said Pete, his considerable patience finally stretched a little thin. “I hope you’ll let my people have a look inside the hotel basement. I can, of course, get a warrant if that will make things easier with the rest of