A Rose From the Dead (15 page)

We each took one, removing the wigs and checking to see whether the stands were hollow, but that idea was a bust, too—not to be punny or anything.

“Okay, let’s think about this,” I said. “Sybil brought these mysterious belongings with her when she came to the hotel, which means she would have carried them into this suite either in her purse or her bags, and I checked her purse. We know nothing was left in a car or at the front desk, and we’ve searched these rooms thoroughly. So maybe we should check the garment bags again.”

I pulled out one of Sybil’s bags, zipped it open, and found a removable center lining that had multiple compartments in it, but all were empty. There was another pocket on the outside of the case, but it contained only more of her cosmetic brochures. “I feel something in here,” I said, pressing my palm against the back of the suitcase.

“That’s the compartment for the retractable handle.”

“Is there a way to get to it?”

Marco crouched beside me. “There’s a way in through the main compartment. I checked both of them already, but we can try again.”

Marco reached for the other bag and unzipped it, while I spread my bag flat on the floor, then removed the middle lining. Beneath that was a smaller, snap-out compartment that looked like it had been divided to hold shoes. I removed it, leaving only the heavy interior lining attached to the garment bag frame. “Are you sure there’s a way to get to the handle?”

“Pull up on the corner of the lining at the bottom of the case. It’s held to the frame by Velcro.”

I did as he suggested, and sure enough, the Velcro peeled apart. I reached a hand inside, but all I felt was the metal telescoping handle.
Damn.

“Well, it was worth a try,” I said, pressing the Velcro together.

“I’ve got something.” Marco’s hand was inside the other bag’s handle compartment.

I crawled over beside him, watching anxiously as he removed a bulky manila envelope. He turned the envelope over, and we saw a pink sticky note stuck to it with
REX
written on it in big letters. Underneath was written,
Hold for me. Do not open. Thx, S.

“That’s it!” I cried. “We found it.”

Marco ran his fingers across the envelope, pressing against it to bring forth the outline of a long, rectangular box. “It feels like a videotape.” He tried to lift the end flap, but it was glued tight. “We’ll have to steam it.”

“Shouldn’t Crawford be the one to open it?” I asked as he handed the envelope to me so he could put the garment bag back together.

“Once we hand it over, there’s no guarantee he’ll share it with us. He could very easily change his mind after he sees what’s inside.”

“But you shook on it.”

Marco rolled the bag into the closet. “He’s a lawyer. Do I need to say more?”

“Hand me the steam iron.”

Marco glanced at his watch. “Forget it. We’ve been here too long as it is, and I need to get down to the security manager’s office before he leaves for lunch. We can open the envelope afterward.”

“Marco, wait,” I said as he tucked the package under his arm and started for the door. “If we take it out of the room, we’ll be guilty of tampering with evidence.” It was one of the lessons that had stuck with me from my law studies.

“Sunshine, we’ve already broken into Sybil’s room. Do you really think that matters now?”

He did have a point. As Lottie liked to say, in for a dime, in for a dollar. “We’ll have to figure out a safe place to open it, then, because we’ll need steam and probably a TV and a VCR.”

“Leave everything to me. I have a plan.”

“You’re not going to use your charm again, are you?” I teased.

“I learned my lesson. Will you be able to put the yellow tape back?”

“Piece of cake.”

“Don’t forget to smudge everything you touched with your bare hands to erase your fingerprints.” He gave me a wink, then slipped out of the suite while I closed the remaining garment bag and returned it to the closet. I made sure the bathroom light was out and everything was as we found it; then I put on my boots, opened the door just a slit and peered into the hallway to be sure it was safe. All I needed was for the maid to see me.

At that moment, one of the couples who’d sat at our banquet table, Alicia and Walter Tyler, came around the corner and stopped in front of the door with the yellow tape across it.

“Isn’t this our room?” Alicia asked, looking bewildered.

Her husband pulled his key card envelope from his jacket pocket and checked the number. “It’s our room all right. What the hell is going on here? Why is there police tape on our door? What kind of hotel are they running here, anyway?”

“Calm down, Walt. There’s a housekeeper down the hall. I’ll go get her.”

“She won’t be able to do anything about it.” Her husband reached into his suit coat pocket and pulled out his cell phone. “I’m calling the police.”

Terrific.

I
f I didn’t stop that phone call, I’d be caught for sure. Short of wrapping myself up in a sheet and running out of the suite screaming like a banshee, hoping to frighten the people half to death, all I could do was try to send them a telepathic message, not that it had ever worked before. I scrunched my eyes shut and concentrated:
Please don’t call the cops please don’t call the cops please don’t call the cops please—

“Don’t bother phoning the police,” Alicia told her husband. “Hotel security will be faster.”

My eyes flew open. Wow. That was impressive.

“And just how am I supposed to call hotel security when the phone numbers are in our room?” Walter shot back.

“Will you hush? There’s a house phone on the table across from the elevators.”

Grumbling as he folded his phone and slipped it into his jacket pocket, Walter followed his wife up the hallway toward the corner. I eased the door shut and stood with my back against it, my heart pounding furiously. Now I had to get the tape off their door and back on this one before they returned. But how would I get away afterward without them seeing me? If someone from security, or the cops, figured out that Sybil’s room had been entered, I sure didn’t want anyone remembering me up here.

Aha! The stairs. I checked the emergency exit map on the back of the door and located the nearest stairwell, but it was on this side of the bank of elevators. I’d still be in plain view, and the Tylers would surely remember me from the banquet. My red hair was a dead giveaway.

Use your head, Abby. Hurry!

“Easy for you to say,” I told that nagging voice in my ear. I eyed the closet, wondering whether I should just hide until night fell and pray that the cops didn’t check the room in the meantime.

Wait. The closet. Sybil’s wigs!

I opened the closet door and stretched to reach the high shelf, but I was barely able to touch the base of one of the stands with my fingertips. I grabbed a hanger and used it to scoot the stand to the edge of the shelf, then tipped it over and caught it. I pulled off the stiff wig, then jumped up to shove the stand back onto the shelf.

I held the phony hair with some trepidation—the thought of wearing a deceased woman’s wig made me shudder—but there was no time to be squeamish. Scrunching my eyes shut, I whispered, “Forgive me, Sybil.” Then I twisted my hair into a bun and tugged the wig on over it.

Using the mirror on the closet door, I adjusted the wig, which was a little too big and nearly hid my eyebrows, then tucked in a few stray strands of red hair. How was
that
for using my head?

I took a deep breath, then opened the door. The hallway was clear, so I dashed to the next door, pulled off one strip of tape and flew back to Sybil’s door, stuck it in place, then repeated the process with the second strip. I had barely attached the last end when I heard voices coming my way. Oh, no! There was no time to wipe off my fingerprints. I had to pray that the latex gloves had smudged them for me.

Quickly, I hid my hands behind my back, put my head down, and strode purposefully forward, rounding the corner just as the Tylers came around it from the other direction. They were still arguing about whether they should have phoned the police, so they barely noticed me as I slipped past. Once out of sight, I ran to the stairway exit, reaching it just as the elevator doors opened and two men stepped out, one the beefy security manager and the other a cop. They were in the midst of a discussion.

“—found a new piece of evidence, so with any luck the investigation should start to fall into place—”

I stopped. A new piece of evidence? In Sybil’s case?

Wait. I knew that voice.

I darted a glance at the man in uniform.
Crap.
It was Reilly. I grabbed the metal door handle to give it a push and realized I still had on the latex gloves.

I let go of the handle and tucked my hands under my armpits just as he glanced my way. He gave me a cordial nod, and our gazes locked for a split second, just long enough to make him pause—and my insides quake.

Please don’t recognize me please don’t recognize me please don’t recognize me.
Using my shoulder, I pushed against the door and let it slam behind me as I sped down the concrete steps to the ground floor. I stopped just before entering the lobby to make sure there weren’t any footsteps coming down the stairs after me; then I peeled off the gloves, yanked the wig off my head, rolled the whole works into a furry log, and tucked it under my arm. I walked out into the lobby, made sure none of the hotel guests or staff were paying any attention, and headed for the ladies’ room near the bar.

Just my luck—a woman was standing in front of a sink applying lipstick, so I shut myself into a stall, put the toilet lid down, and collapsed onto it, breathing a huge sigh of relief. It was a miracle I’d made my escape without being caught, which just went to prove that I was totally not cut out for espionage work. The CIA had no worries about me ever applying.

I stared at the wig log, wondering how to dispose of it. The toilet? No chance of flushing that sucker. It was bad enough that Reilly was on the fourth floor right now, probably trying to remember where he’d seen my face before. Of all people to get off the elevator at that moment, why did it have to be Reilly?

I closed my eyes, trying to recall the snippet of conversation I’d overheard. Something about finding new evidence. Damn. There was no way I could ask him about it without giving myself away.

I waited until the washroom was empty, then crept out, grabbed a handful of paper towels, and rolled the gloves and wig into them. I stuffed them deep into the waste bin, trying not to gag as I pressed them as far down as they’d go. As I washed my hands, I glanced into the mirror, saw the mess I’d made of my hair, and quickly tamed it with my damp hands.

I checked my watch. Yikes. The memorial service had started ten minutes ago.

I hurried to the mezzanine level, located the Redenbacher meeting room, and quietly opened one of its two rear doors. The room was twice the size of a regular classroom and filled with ten rows of folding chairs. At the front was a podium where a woman was singing, “Be Still My Soul,” accompanied by a very somber Angelique on her harp, playing with her eyes shut, her face aimed toward the ceiling. Seated behind the singer was Colonel Billingsworth.

The last four rows were empty, so I sat down on the nearest chair and tried to catch my breath as all kinds of questions raced through my mind. Did Marco, who was supposed to be viewing the security tapes, know the security manager had been called to the fourth floor? Did he know Reilly was there, too? Were they right now at Sybil’s door? Would they be able to tell the police tape had been removed and put back? Would anyone realize one of Sybil’s wigs was missing? Would the missing wig be discovered when the bathroom trash was emptied? Could they get my DNA from it? And, of course, what kind of jail time was I looking at?

Don’t borrow trouble, Abby. Think about why you’re here.

Why was I there? Oh, right. To see who wasn’t. I scanned the people in the room. Billingsworth and Angelique: present. Urbans: absent. No Chet, either, although that didn’t surprise me. Five rows in front of me I spotted Grace with two empty chairs beside her, so while the singer finished her song I crouched low and moved up the side aisle to join her.

“Where were you?” Grace whispered as the colonel stepped up to give his eulogy. “I was beginning to worry.”

“I’ll tell you later. Did you notice that the Urbans aren’t here?”

She nodded, then pressed a fingertip to her lips.

“Friends,” the colonel began, “thank you for joining me here today to pay tribute to Sybil Blount, the woman who made our annual convention possible through her organizational talents and persistence”—he paused to rock back on his heels—“and there was no one more persistent than Sybil.”

At that there were chuckles from the audience.

“Truthfully, I consider Sybil’s passing to be a personal loss because, as many of you know, her husband and I were more than just business partners; we were also brothers in blood, having served together in Vietnam. It was Thaddeus Blount who helped me build this association into the powerful group it is today, but it was Sybil who worked tirelessly behind the scenes—”

Behind the scenes? More like under the covers.

“—so much so, in fact, that I had to consider her a silent partner….”

As the colonel continued his discourse, praising his own accomplishments as much as Sybil’s, I glanced around the room and saw others trying to hide yawns. The man in front of me appeared to be nodding off—either that or his toupee was on the move.

As my thoughts wandered, I noticed that an open casket had been set up in front of the podium as a memorial to Sybil, but unfortunately the only things they had to display were her clipboard propped on a small easel, her red marker, a convention brochure folded back to show a very grainy photo of her, and a shiny aluminum makeup case similar to the one I’d seen in her room, only much larger, probably taken from her booth. The case top had been opened to display the many bottles and containers of her private potions. I was a little disappointed that they hadn’t included one of her fishnet stockings.

Grace motioned for me to lean closer. “Are you wearing perfume?”

I nodded, and she gave me a quizzical look. She knew I rarely used fragrances other than a light spritzing of body mist. I didn’t like anything interfering with the bright, fresh floral bouquets of my flowers. Plus, I couldn’t afford the really nice stuff.

“What kind is it?” she whispered.

“Gucci.” I held my wrist to my nose to see whether the scent was as strong as before. Whoa. Was perfume supposed to get stronger as the day went on?

“When did you start wearing Gucci perfume?”

I pointed toward the casket, and Grace’s eyebrows pulled together. “It’s Sybil’s? Where did you find it?”

I shrugged. No sense advertising our little break-and-enter.

“Did you get into her room, then?” Grace whispered.

I held a finger to my lips. I didn’t want to take any chances of being overheard.

“Were you able to find the package Sybil left for her solicitor?”

Was Grace missing my signals? I glanced around to be sure no one had taken a seat behind us, then whispered, “It’s an envelope. I’ll tell you about it later.”

My cell phone began to vibrate, so I eased it out of my pocket to check the screen. Blast. It was Reilly. Had he discovered my charade? I quickly slid it back into my pants pocket.

“In closing,” the colonel said, “let us bid Sybil a fond farewell as she embarks on her greatest convention, and then let us observe a moment of silence while we remember the woman whose dedication to our association shall always be an inspiration to us all.”

The room went absolutely still as Colonel Billingsworth came down from the podium and carefully closed the casket. Then, as everyone rose from their seats, the casket was lifted and carried down the center aisle by six sturdy men in a procession led by the colonel, who marched with the solemn dignity of a grand marshal leading the Veterans’ Day parade.

As people gathered in the main hall outside the room to talk, Grace pulled me off to the side. “You found an envelope containing Sybil’s belongings?”

“Yes, but we don’t know what’s in it yet because it was sealed. It felt like a—”

By the way Grace shifted her gaze, I knew someone was near enough to overhear. Looking over my head, she said, “What a lovely eulogy, Walker. You did a smashing job on such short notice.”

I turned as the colonel moved into our circle, beaming at her.” Thank you, dear lady.” He gave me a polite nod, but I could tell his focus was on Grace. “The service went well, I thought.”

“And the music was lovely, too,” Grace said, patting his arm. “Excellent choice.”

Feeling as though I should contribute something to the conversation, I said, “That Angelique really knows how to pluck a harp, doesn’t she?” At Grace’s pained expression, I threw in, “We’re fortunate to have her here—with her harp—plucking.”

Grace rolled her eyes.

“Yes, we are fortunate, indeed,” the colonel said. “Angelique has been so overwrought since Sybil’s death that I was astounded she managed to hold herself together today. It was actually her idea to participate in the service. She felt quite strongly about it. Angelique truly admired Sybil.”

He leaned closer to say in a low voice, “And, frankly, Sybil wasn’t someone people usually admired. In fact, she was intensely disliked by the majority of our members. But there’s no accounting for taste, is there?”

I was amazed that the colonel would admit such a thing about his friend’s wife, especially after the glowing eulogy he gave Sybil. It made me think he might be persuaded to share what he knew about Sybil’s behavior with us.

“If I might ask, colonel,” I said, “did Sybil strike you as the type to get involved in anything illegal?”

He gave me a stunned look. “Why would you ask me that?”

“Well, you were a friend of her husband’s, so I thought you might have an opinion.”

The colonel turned beet red as he blustered, “It’s true I was Thaddeus’s friend, but as far as having any knowledge of Sybil’s activities, legal or otherwise, that isn’t something Thad would have discussed with me.”