I found Dale in the billiard room surreptitiously refilling his flask behind the small bar. 

 

“You topping up there, Mr. Dawson?”

 

He jumped in his skin. Still clutching his heart, he said, “Jesus, Detective. You almost killed me.”

 

“I was hoping we could speak again. I have some questions for you– and keep that flask where I can see it, please.”

 

“Oh, Detective, seriously? What– is Salem suddenly a dry county?” 

 

He was dressed in a blue collared shirt– no tie. His armpits, forehead, and upper chest were soaked in sweat, a white bandage peeking from the small tear in his pantsleg as he shuffled to me. 

 

“Are you okay?” I asked, gesturing to the ankle of his black dress pants.

 

“Yes. I’m fine. Just a little clumsy on the stairs this evening.”

 

He fidgeted with a billiard ball in his left hand as we spoke.

 

“You’ve known Mr. Range for a while?”

 

“Yes, long before this place was built.”

 

“He has very specific tastes, it seems.”

 

“Yes. A fascination with old myths, particularly some Hercules fable– that’s what all the dragon, nymph, and golden apple stuff is about. What an expense it must have been to procure such specific furnishings.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Have you not seen the bedrooms? Mine has a flower pot shaped like a dragon sitting by one of the windows. The thing must be 3 feet tall!. And I can tell you this, Detective: it weighs hundreds of pounds. I spent all night dreaming of the small fortune it must have cost to deliver.”

 

“Hmm, very strange. Mr. Range is quite a character.”

 

“He is. I was telling Angie about the pot in my room, and she said they had an equally puzzling dragon figurine in theirs.”

“Interesting. I may want to take a look for myself at some point. Switching topics for a minute, Mr. Dawson, I remember that you mentioned a meeting with Mr. Range this afternoon; tell me about that. What was the topic of discussion?”

 

He laughed a little, tugging at the collar of his shirt.  

 

“I couldn’t really say, Detective. The old man is famous for his eccentric ramblings– and ramblings can become unintelligible very quickly, when I get thirsty… if you know what I mean.”

 

“You expect me to believe you remember nothing of the one hour meeting?”

 

“Well, I don’t remember much. What I can say is that it started with business. Mr. Range said that we had been called here for an opportunity– something about unique skills and the like.”

 

“He never elaborated?”

 

“He didn’t want to. I gathered that he was looking for our help, but he only said that it was an urgent matter and that he’d eventually speak to us individually. I never got that chance with him.”

 

The liquid sloshed in his flask as he took another big drink and sighed.

 

“Did anyone speak with him in private?” 

 

“I swear I’m no snoop, Detective, but I do remember seeing Allen stay behind to speak with Mr. Range alone.”

 

“I see. Anything else you can tell me about your fellow guests?”

“I’d never seen them before this weekend. Most seem like normal, boring people– though, my time with Angie has been quite fun. She's a fountain of gossip, Detective, and incredibly unhappy with her husband. There was much mention of some funny business with Fred's casino financials, but, if you ask me Detective, I think Angie suspects another woman. She removed her wedding ring this morning! So, sensing her mood, I generously shared the contents of my flask with here-- but I think everyone had a sip or two at some point during the meeting.”

 

“Was anyone ill after the meeting?”

 

“No, and neither was I.”

 

“I’ll be taking that whisky bottle for evidence.” 

He rolled his eyes, taking one last swig, and dropped it into my evidence bag.

 

“Thank you for your time Mr. Dawson.”