[DYH] The Long Day's About to Get Longer

Made up some bull about how Henning has a room when he's never met Polly before... XD

Henning pulled into the parking lot and recalled how quickly the number of cars in front of the hotel had grown since his arrival. At the moment it didn't seem like there was anyone else around; only the pine trees and the squawk of some distant bird served to alleviate the stark emptiness surrounding him. He got out and walked into the lobby, expecting it to be just as devoid of people as when he'd arrived; but lo and behold, this time there was someone behind the desk. This must be Polly Oxford, whom he'd only spoken to over the phone, and even then it had only been to arrange a room in advance. He'd found the keys taped to 164's door with a note saying he could let himself in; he hadn't met the hotel owner in person before now. She looked good for someone of such advanced age, except for the fact that she was apparently asleep.

Not wanting to disturb her, Henning pulled the hotel register towards himself, having forgotten to write down his contact information. He had the idea of leaving it open in front of Polly on the desk so that she'd know he was here, but he got sidetracked by on of the guest names, which seemed to jump out at him from the page as he was scanning it. He read it twice, just to make sure.

Charlotte Jacobs? It couldn't be. It was too much of a coincidence. So she was staying here as well, room 213. Well, I'll be damned! he thought, grinning to himself. He looked over at the date next to her name and his astonishment grew. She'd been staying here for the last few months...

He wondered where she was now, how she was doing. Even one month was a long time to be living in a hotel, especially in a place like this. Absently, he reached for a pen to sign his own name, and winced as his hand miscalculated the distance and accidentally knocked the inkstand to the floor.

Henning stooped to pick up the fallen inkstand and put it back on the desk, embarrassed.

"I'm sorry, Miss Oxford, I didn't mean to wake you. I don't know if you remember me from my voice- I phoned earlier about reserving a room? I'm in 164, I just forgot to write down my registration information. Specia- uh, David Young Henning."

He was so used to prefacing his own name with his Bureau title that he usually stumbled when introducing himself as a civilian. He was, after all, only on vacation. No need to announce his identity to everyone he met... And it might be a good idea to lay low if he wanted to get any personal research done.

"How's the wireless connection in here? I haven't had a chance to test it out yet, but I do have some e-mails I need to send..."

He looked into Polly's bright, kindly eyes and wondered if she even knew what a computer was.

Henning had to grin at the hotel owner's hustling and bustling. He accepted the extra key with grace; at the same time, the paranoid part of his mind feared the increased likelihood of one of them falling into the wrong hands. He shook himself. What was he afraid of? Spies? Burglary? Or maybe whoever killed the Graham girl, tired of going after young women and deciding to try someone new for a change?

He started as Polly thunked something down in front of him on the desk. He listened bemusedly to her explanation of the object sitting between them: A battered radio that had seen better days, charmingly elegant despite its overlarge knobs and boxy design. He brushed the dust off while Polly explained about the hotel's online estrangement from the rest of the world, which wasn't surprising. He made a mental note to have the Bureau send him a phone cord; he doubted there'd be anyone within miles in the business of selling such equipment around here.

"That's fine, Polly. I'm sure I'll figure something out. As to your first question of why I'm here... You may not get a lot of tourism in Greenvale, but that's exactly what I'm here for. See the sights and all that. I hear the, um, fish are really... fertile."

Henning silently grappled with the flimsiness of his story, keeping one hand on the radio's comforting bulk for reassurance. There was something about Polly's grandmotherly demeanor that made it extraordinarily difficult to cover oneself. It was harder than he'd thought to be convincing about the reality of why he was here; not to mention the numerous personal agendas he had a tendency to accumulate while on assignment, usually borne of curiosity and boredom. He quickly switched the topic to something more on his home ground:

"...Although, I must say, it sounds like I've come at a bad time. Heard there was something about a local death, recently? I hope it's just a rumor, because it's hard to believe such a thing could happen in a town like this."

Henning watched Polly shuffle off to who knows what dark and untouched corner of the massive hotel, leaving him standing awkwardly at the desk with his hand still on the radio. Being a practical and efficient man with little need for objects, he usually frowned upon the hoarding habit, but it seemed to suit Polly Oxford in a funny way. His profiling instincts kicked in as he browsed the cluttered shelves with his eyes: Mass accumulation of material goods, most of which seemed to indicate some attempt to cling to a certain time period... An obsession with bygone days... No husband in sight... He knew from reading the tourist pamphlet he'd found that there was some kind of hunting museum in the hotel, but the amount of antique collectibles on display seemed to extend beyond the second floor.

If he had to take a stab at it, he'd have to assume some kind of loss from early in her life was driving her to surround herself with things from the past, possibly the death of a spouse or a child. Photos would be the clincher, though... He looked closer, and saw one photograph sitting alone in its frame, a black and white group shot of men and women standing together in front of a building. He leaned over the desk, trying to get a better look, and jerked back to the upright position as Polly hovered slowly into view, clutching a thick scrapbook to her chest with both arms.

Henning felt a sort of odd synchronicity to the whole scene. First he'd been thinking about photos, then he'd seen one behind the desk, and now here was Polly with a whole album, almost fifty year's worth of memories. He felt a little overwhelmed as he leafed through the pages; people and places and parties and buildings that had mostly ceased to exist, all lovingly preserved by Greenvale's resident historian.

He flipped to the earliest part of the album. Anna Graham's face stared back at him through a curtain of wavy golden hair, newspaper clippings surrounding her photograph like some kind of morbid tribute. He wondered if it would be prudent to ask permission to borrow the album. It might make for some very interesting bedtime reading indeed...

"Polly, I have to say, this is quite impressive. I would never have the patience to do something like this... What on earth possessed you to take on such a Herculean task?"

Henning perked up. "A&G? You mean the diner? I was just there, actually. Met a very pleasant young woman, works for the Sheriff's department. Emily Wyatt, I believe her name was. And... a few other people. Perhaps you're familiar with them? A man in a wheelchair and his assistant? And, ah, a man in a brown bomber jacket. Drives a red car, sharp features. Perhaps you know them..."

He held up his hands and smiled. "Not to pry too much, just curious about the locals."

As he spoke, Henning happened to glance out the hotel's enormous window. Imminent rain. He was lucky he'd decided to come inside; there would be ample time to explore later. In the meantime, he wanted to get back to his hotel room and sort things out with his Internet connection, make a few phone calls, etc. Though if there was a storm and the power was knocked out, there didn't seem to be a likely chance of that happening. Still, the fatigue of the long drive was still clinging to him, and he didn't feel like he'd properly appreciated the size and quality of the Deer Yard's beds until now.

He wondered if Polly would object to letting him hold on to the scrapbook for a night or so. Normally he wouldn't be interested in such relics of the past, but in the light of recent events... Greenvale was rapidly, unexpectedly, becoming more interesting than he'd thought.

"Besides a phone cable? No, nothing... Except. Well." Henning realized he was getting nowhere by playing coy. Polly was too quick for that. Although she seemed very adept at being elusive while seeming direct. He held up the scrapbook with the clippings of Anna's murder inside, and tapped the cover.

"Do you mind if I borrow this? I'm very interested in local history, and this might also be handy for catching up with current events before I venture out tomorrow. I won't seem like such a city boy if I'm a little more well-versed in the goings on around here."

As for the information about the mystery men from the diner: What had he been expecting? That Polly might identify one of them as the murderer? The revelation that Mr. Stewart was exceedingly wealthy was unsurprising; everything about him practically screamed "eccentric millionaire". It all fit except for the bit about this Keith Ingram fellow. Hadn't he seen the young man in the white suit address Bomber Jacket as "Mr. Wess"? Maybe that would be a more fruitful line of questioning. He added, trying not to seem like he was changing the subject:

"And this Mr. Wess I've heard mentioned about. There wouldn't happen to be anyone of that name in your album, would there, Polly?"

Henning was pleased with Polly's idea to use the hotel room phone. "Thanks, Polly, but don't strain yourself on my behalf. I just need to send a quick e-mail every once in a while; I'm sure I'll manage with your suggestion. And thank you very much for letting me read your scrapbook- I'll be sure to return it as soon as I'm done with it!"

He was mildly caught off guard when Polly asked him where he'd heard the name "Wess". It hadn't occurred to him to come up with an explanation; he was used to asking questions directly, as an FBI agent, without having to justify the reasons. Now that it was no longer officially part of an investigation, he would have to be accountable for his curiosity. He blinked and said, "Oh, I overheard your Mr. Stewart and his aide talking to a 'Mr. Wess' in the A&G Diner. I, ah..."

Henning's mind raced. "I noticed when he left that the car he was driving had a very peculiar license plate, and I wanted to know what it was in reference to. I guess that sounds a bit odd, but I suppose I was just trying to find an excuse to talk to someone. It's been a bit of a lonely vacation so far. But, he might be a Wesley, you said? Thank you, Polly. You've been such a good hel..."

He tried to suppress a yawn and failed. Even indoors, he could smell the dampness outside. It was getting late... But he did want to take a closer look at the album before he went to bed. He'd be able to ask Polly a few questions about it later.