Alpine for You (3 page)

"You bet," Dick Teig replied. "Red. Green. Black."

I could see where this conversation was leading. Shirley was going to ask all of us what we did for a living, and I'd have to admit I was currently unemployed. I'd lost my job in phone solicitations two weeks ago when the president of Playgrounds for Tots, for whom I'd done fund-raising since returning from New York, had been hauled off to jail for fraud. Apparently, the only playgrounds he'd built had been for himself--million-dollar mansions in Palm Beach, Palm Springs, and Tahiti. The police said I'd been one damned fine fund-raiser and asked if I'd like to raise money for their Policeman's Ball. Nana pointed out later that it had been a trick question because only firemen have balls.

Andy Simon coughed again and started to wheeze.

"How about those rooms!" I said in a quick change of subject. "Anyone try the shower yet?"

Dick Rassmuson gave me a surly look. "You have a shower?"

Unh-oh. Dick and Lucille must have opted for a super-saver room with a bathroom down the hall that was shared by six other people.

"We don't have a shower," Dick grumbled in his smoker's voice. "We have a damned Jacuzzi."

"And that bed is so high off the floor, I had to stand on my suitcase to climb onto it," Lucille added. "The bedspread and canopy are pretty though. And the view of the lake will be really nice once the fog lifts."

"I didn't much care for the chocolate wafer," Helen complained. She scratched her eyebrow, accidentally smearing it across her forehead. "Too much rum in it. But I hope the weather warms up so we can use the balcony."

"You got a wafer?" I asked in a strangulated voice. Not to mention a balcony and a view. "What kind of rooms do you have? Presidential suites?"

"Standard rooms," the two Dicks said in unison, to which Dick Rassmuson added, "No sense paying deluxe rates for a room we'll be occupying only a few hours a night."

The Swiss obviously structured their hotel room rating system in the same way they structured their banking system: Don't tell 'em nothin'. But I was on to them.

Andy Simon's wheezing grew worse. If he'd paid extra for the luxury of a deluxe room, I could understand his reaction. I felt like wheezing myself. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an inhaler.

"What's wrong with him?" Shirley asked, as he shoved the apparatus into his mouth.

"Asthma," said Lucille. "He's had it for years. But it hasn't killed him yet, has it, Andrew?"

He gasped, then wheezed, then after several moments, seemed to breathe more easily. He held the inhaler up for all to see. "Pirbuterol Acetate. The best concoction in the world. And if you ever need any, I recommend you buy it from Janie Hanson at the Pills Etcetera nearest you."

Jane dismissed his comment with a wave of her hand. "He's such a flatterer. What he didn't tell you is we're equipped to handle all types of insurance now, including Medicare, HMOs and PPOs."

"Do you take the Discover card?" Lucille asked. "As many times as I've filled prescriptions, and I still can't remember."

Jane nodded. "Discover. VISA. MasterCard and American Express. Sorry, no personal checks."

"And," Andy continued, "Pills Etcetera is now on-line, so if you want to order anything from Viagra to contact lenses, e-mail Janie at pillsetcetera dot com, and she'll see that it's mailed to you. And she always includes free samples. Rewetting solution with your contact lenses. Toothpaste with new toothbrushes."

I wondered what she included with the Viagra. An inflatable woman?

"I love free samples," said Shirley. "Do you ship to Rhode Island?"

"She ships anywhere." Andy responded for her. "She can even put you on her mailing list so you'll know about upcoming sales and specials. Why don't you give me your E-mail address, honey, and I'll forward it to her when we get back to Iowa."

A waiter plopped a plate in front of my face at that moment, so no one heard the gagging sound I made. The E-mail thing was Andy's favorite line. I figured it was his personal brand of foreplay. When we'd appeared together in
Sweeney Todd
last spring and
A Christmas Carol
last year, he'd chatted up several of the actresses electronically, which led to his having extramarital affairs with a couple of them. But he was easily bored, so when a theatrical production ended, he'd dump the old lover and search for a new one at the next production. The man was a slimeball. I was surprised more women couldn't see through him, but I guess when a man bombards you with daily E-mails that claim you're the most important person in his life, you prefer to believe him rather than think he says that to anyone with a uterus.

When he'd asked for my E-mail address, I'd told him it was [email protected]. I guess he must have copied the address down wrong because I never received a message from him.

"This is such fun," Shirley cooed as she patted Andy's hand. "My E-mail address is all in capital letters. LOVESLAVE at HERA dot COM."

I cringed. All in caps. Of course. You might miss it otherwise.

"And mine is simonsays at spirit dot net. Just in case you ever want to drop me a line."

I wondered if Shirley realized it was Andy who'd just dropped the line. I stared at the plate of food in front of me. Mashed potatoes. Cauliflower smothered in cream sauce. White meat smothered in white sauce. The brochure had said the hotel cuisine was superb. It didn't necessarily say it would be colorful. I poked at the meat with my fork. "What is this?" I whispered to Jane.

She scraped away some of the sauce.
"Uff da.
I think it's whitefish."
Uff da
is a common expression among Norwegians in Iowa. From what I can figure, it means, 'Holy crap!'"

"What's this under all the white sauce?" boomed Dick Rassmuson.

"It's chicken," said his wife.

Dick Teig shook his head. "Tastes like pork to me. But it's not as good as Iowa pork."

"Well, it looks like
Seashells and Snow
to me," said Shirley. "That shade was a really big seller last Christmas. Part of the Pearlized collection."

"I think it looks more like shit on a shingle," Andy offered, sending the Dicks into gales of loud, hysterical laughter and table pounding.

I shook my head. Nana had a point about being punctual. If you were on time, you had a choice about whom you wanted to eat with. Tomorrow night, I planned on being
really
early and sitting as far away from these guys as possible.

"What did you think of the food?" I asked Nana, when we returned to the room after dinner.

"There's probably children starvin' in China who would've loved that meal, but frankly, I found the white sauce on the veal a little lumpy."

"You had veal? We had chicken. Or pork. Or maybe whitefish."

"You had veal, dear. The entire dinin' room was served veal."

"How do you know that? You must have asked. I tried to ask, but our waiter didn't speak English."

"I read the menu. It was in a plastic holder in the middle of the table. And since you were so late, you missed the announcement Wally made before dinner."

I didn't want to hear. He'd probably warned us not to eat any food we couldn't identify.

"He said to remember the faces of the people you were eatin' with tonight because you're supposed to eat at the same table with the same people for the rest a the trip. I guess that works out better with the waiters and tippin'."

"The same people? No. NO!" I flopped onto the bed and buried my face in the crook of my elbow. I considered my options. I supposed I could give up eating in the dining room and subsist on Swiss chocolate for the next nine days. This would require my having to walk back to Iowa to get rid of all the fat calories, but I didn't have a job to rush back to, so I had the time. And chocolate releases serotonin into the brain, so I'd be happy.

"Did you see our waiter, Emily? We all agreed he looks like a young Sean Connery. He wears a little gold hoop in his right ear, though. Does that mean somethin'?"

"Yes," I groaned. "It means he's cool. Does he speak English?"

"He has buns of steel, dear. Who cares what language he speaks?"

"Oh, I finally figured out the rating system on the rooms here and I need to call downstairs and ask to be taken off the super deluxe room list and placed on the standard room list. The standards are the good rooms."

"If it's all the same to you, dear, I'm gettin' more fond a this room all the time."

"You don't want to move?"

"Not really."

"Aw, that's so sweet." I gave her a little hug. "It's because the room reminds you of Grampa's ice shanty, isn't it? I bet when you look around, you can just feel his presence. Can you hear him saying anything to you?"

"You bet. He's sayin', 'You just got all your clothes hung up and put away, Marion. It'd be a pain in the ass to have to do it again.'"

Yup. That sounded just like Grampa.

We were in bed by nine. I fell asleep immediately and remained asleep until sometime in the middle of the night, when I came wide-awake. I grabbed my miniflashlight and shined it on my wristwatch, which I'd set out to dry on the built-in shelf above the headboard. The crystal was still fogged up. Nuts. I considered tiptoeing over to Nana's bed and checking the travel alarm, but since she was snoring like a trumpeter swan, I didn't want to chance waking her up. One of us deserved a decent night's sleep.

I began counting sheep. I hummed the theme songs from old TV Westerns. I made up naughty verses for the Oscar Mayer Weiner Song. An hour passed. I suspected this was a glaring example of my sleep pattern being thrown out of whack. I heard noises from the room next door. Groans. Loud groans.

Always respectful of other people's privacy, I pressed my ear to the wall.

Thrashing. Pounding. Moaning. Thumping. A couple of high-pitched cries of ecstacy. A gazillion rooms in this place and I get stuck next to the one where there's an ongoing reenactment of
Debbie Does Dallas.
Great. I flopped back onto my pillow, covered my ears, and went back to the Weiner Song.

That's the last thing I remember until I heard the scream.

It was a woman's scream. Loud. Shrill. Blood-chilling. I recognized it immediately because I'd let out the same scream my freshman year of college when I'd stepped onto the scale and discovered I'd gained ten pounds in two months.

"Good Lord!" Nana was up like a shot. "What's wrong? Emily? Are you all right? Who's screamin'?"

"Someone in the hall." I was across the room and fumbling with the doorknob in the dark. "You stay here." I flung the door open, expecting to find another guest who'd misinterpreted the room rating system.

Instead, I found Shirley Angowski, attired in a pink nylon peignoir edged with a profusion of pink boa feathers at the hem and cuffs. She was shaking with hysteria and clawing her cheeks with her
Baby Flamingo
fingernails. "He's dead. Look at him. He's dead. He's dead."

"Who's dead?" I asked, as more doors were flung open.

She pointed toward the spill of light in the room next to mine. I followed her gaze.

Supine on the floor lay Andrew Simon, his mouth contorted into a hideous rictus, his skin pasty even beneath his tube tan, eyes wide and bulging, hair disheveled, dressed in a handsome black satin smoking jacket with matching ascot that was pulled dreadfully askew. I thought the ascot was a bit over the top, especially since it looked as if Andy hadn't had a clue how to knot the thing. Now he'd never know.

Shirley Angowski was right. Andrew Simon was dead.

Not a good way to begin your Golden Swiss Triangle Tour.

T
he hotel management allowed Nana and me to change into street clothes before they escorted us to a private office on the first floor. Street clothes for me consisted of a pair of London jeans and a warm Green Bay Packers sweatshirt. For Nana, it meant her Minnesota Vikings warm-up suit, but since we were going to be interviewed by the Swiss police, she decided to put on the dog, so she opted for the panty hose with the tummy control rather than the ones that were sheer to the waist.

I paced the office and peered through the window miniblinds into the darkness beyond. "What time is it?"

"A quarter to eight."

"But it's still dark outside. Why is it dark?"

"My guess is that the sun hasn't come up yet."

"Well, they should have said something in the brochure about Switzerland only having three minutes of sunlight per day in the month of October. We might have decided to visit the Congo instead."

"I'm not sure the Congo's still a country, dear."

Too bad Shirley Angowski wasn't here. She'd probably know.

"Why do the police need to interview us?" Nana wanted to know when I returned to my seat. "All the action happened while we were asleep."

"The police are interviewing everyone in the rooms adjoining Andy's. According to the night manager, they usually conduct the interviews one individual at a time, but they think you might be more comfortable with a relative in the room, so they're letting me stay."

"That's very considerate. They must suspect that my bein' grilled in isolation by the police might give me a coronary. I suppose that's a concern when you cater to the senior set. You were real nice to that Angowski woman, Emily. Too bad about her peignoir moltin' all over the place though. They'll never get all those boa feathers off the hall carpet."

Management had whisked Shirley off to calm her down before the police arrived. I didn't know where she was now, but her feather trail had terminated at the third-floor freight elevator. I'd felt a twinge of indignation as I'd passed by the shaft, and a twinge of guilt for my reaction, but it seemed the only way to get prompt elevator service in this building was to find a dead body in one of the rooms.

"What do you s'pose this policeman is gonna look like?" Nana asked. "I hope he looks like Columbo. I know I won't have a coronary if he's wearin' an old trench coat and has a glass eye. Or he could look like Kojak. I like bald men. Did you know bald men have more testosterone than men who have full heads a hair? I seen it on Tom Brokaw. They done a study." She paused thoughtfully. "I wonder what would happen if a bald fella started wearin' a toupee? You think the fake hair would make his testosterone level drop? Maybe they should do a study on the testosterone levels of bald guys who wear rugs."

The door opened behind us and I peeked over my shoulder to see the most gorgeous man I'd ever set eyes on enter the room. No trench coat. No glass eye. No bald head. More like Italian suit. Piercing blue eyes. Hair like liquid coal. "Ladies." He strode across the floor and sat down at the desk, referring to a small notepad before looking up. I knew his type immediately. One percent body fat. Reflexes like a panther. Testosterone level off the chart. I wanted to have his children.

"I'm Inspector Etienne Miceli." His voice was deep and resonant and started at his knees. He had the most beautiful French accent I'd ever heard. Or German. Or maybe Italian. "I'm told you ladies are visiting from America."

"Windsor City, Iowa," I said, reeling my tongue back into my mouth.

"Iowa," he repeated. "That's close to Chicago, isn't it?"

I was impressed with his geographical acuity. He could probably even point to Rhode Island on a map and be fairly close. "It's west of Chicago."

"I visited Chicago only last year. My sister is married to a man who works at the Art Institute there. I assume you've been to the Art Institute?"

"I've-uh, I've been to the Marshall Field's flagship store. That's within ten to twenty blocks of the Institute."

"You must be Emily. Emily what?" His mouth curved into a soft, dazzling smile that revealed teeth too perfect not to be capped and dimples in both his cheeks. Unh.

"Emily Andrew. How did you know my first name?" Was it possible we were so mentally connected that he could simply look at me and know my name?

"The night clerk told me that Emily and Marion were waiting for me. Since I'm reading 'Marion Sippel' on this lady's name tag, that makes you Emily."

Deductive reasoning. I hated deductive reasoning.

"I assume from the family likeness that you ladies are related?"

That was kind of scary. Nana had two chins, a bulbous nose, and ears like Alfred E. Newman. If he was seeing a likeness, I was in big trouble. "Emily's my granddaughter," Nana piped up. "And she's not married. She used to be, but it didn't work out."

"Ah, yes," the inspector commiserated. "In Switzerland first marriages often don't work out either."

"She got an annulment though," Nana continued. "The Church will do that anytime when a couple has serious issues involvin' closets."

Nana was a whiz with E-Trade over the Internet, but she'd never been able to understand the gay thing about coming out of the closet. I blamed it on underexposure. In all of recorded history, only two gays had ever lived in Minnesota. Then she moved to Iowa, where there were none.

"In my day we didn't even have closets," said Nana. "We had wardrobes."

Inspector Miceli leaned back in his chair, trying unsuccessfully not to grin. "Please allow me a few questions, Mrs. Sippel, then you'll be free to go."

"It was the asthma what killed Andy, wasn't it?"

"We don't know what killed him. We'll know more after the autopsy is performed. Can you tell me anything unusual you remember about last night, Mrs. Sippel?"

Nana shrugged. "I ate dinner. Went to bed. Fell asleep. Dreamed about the Ponderosa."

"The steakhouse in America?"

"No. Ben Cartwright's spread in Nevada."

Miceli made a quick notation. "Ben Cartwright?"

"He's a make-believe cowboy," Nana explained. "He was head of the Cartwright clan in
Bonanza.
You ever see
Bonanza?
It was on for fourteen seasons back in the sixties. I wonder what you'd have to do to get Westerns here in Switzerland?"

"Razing the Alps would be a good first step," said Miceli, scribbling out what he'd written, "but it would kill the tourist industry. Go on with your dream, Mrs. Sippel."

"Ben was havin' a reunion at the Ponderosa for a bunch of gunslingers I recognized from the old Westerns."

Miceli leaned forward and narrowed his eyes as if he were definitely on to something. "Sometimes, external stimuli can incorporate itself quite seamlessly into a person's dream. For instance, gunfire in an adjacent room could become gunfire in your dream. Were the gunslingers in your dream having a shoot-out, Mrs. Sippel?"

"They were at a buffet table eatin' Oscar Mayer weiners."

I slunk down several inches in my chair.

"And then I woke up and heard that Angowski woman screamin'."

Miceli nodded and penciled something onto his notepad again. "Is there anything else you can think to tell me that might be of significance?"

"Are you sure Andy's really dead?" Nana asked. "He fancied himself an actor, so's he might be fakin' it to get attention."

"I assure you, Mrs. Sippel, Mr. Simon would have to be an extraordinary actor to fake death this well."

"He must be dead then because he wasn't a very good actor. Just ask Emily. He chewed his words and spoke too fast. The only reason he got to play Ebenezer Scrooge in
Christmas Carol
was because his wife donated five thousand dollars to finance the production. He'd a made a better Tiny Tim, but I'm not sure he was tall enough."

Miceli made another notation, then stood up and escorted Nana to the door. "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Sippel. They'll be serving breakfast in the dining room about now. I'll send your granddaughter in to join you when I'm through with her." He returned to the desk and riveted his eyes on me. "I apologize for interrupting your holiday, Miss Andrew, but I promise to be as quick as possible with my questions. These interviews often end up being a waste of everyone's time, but it's procedure."

"Nana must have said something important. You were taking notes."

He held up the notepad for me to see. At the top of the page was written a word in a foreign language. Beneath it appeared two more equally mysterious words. "I don't know what those words mean," I said.

"My grocery list." He shrugged. "Power of suggestion. I just remembered that my refrigerator's empty."

My refrigerator was empty most of the time, too. We already had something in common.

In the next instant he was back in detective mode. "How well did you know the deceased, Miss Andrew?"

"We were in a couple of community theater plays together in Windsor City. But we didn't hang out together. I spent my time memorizing lines. He spent his charming all the bosomy blondes."

"Was he successful?"

"Unfortunately, yes. He'd scope out the prospects at rehearsal, target one of them, then woo her with attention, phone calls, dates to rehearse lines, intimate E-mails. He was big into romancing over the Internet. He'd tell her they were soul mates, that they shared a bond that transcended space and time. He'd make a woman feel so special, she'd fall into bed with him before the end of rehearsal for scene one."

"Ah, yes. We have a saying in Switzerland. 'Men fall in love through their eyes. Women fall in love through their ears.' You were a witness to all this?"

"When you're in a community theater production, the cast becomes your family. And the ladies talked. About everything. Including Andy."

"How often did Mr. Simon exhibit this kind of behavior?"

"He had a short attention span, so when auditions would begin for the next play, he'd pick out a new victim, end the affair with his current lover, and start the pattern all over again. It was really insidious because he always hooked up with women who had no self-esteem--the ones he could brainwash into believing their lives were worthless without him. Poor things would be completely devastated when he dumped them. Last spring, one of them overdosed on sleeping pills afterward and had to be rushed to the hospital to have her stomach pumped. But Andy didn't care. As long as he was getting his ego stroked, it didn't matter who suffered."

"He never tried to woo you?"

"I'm not suffering from low self-esteem." I grabbed a hunk of my hair and held it out. "And I'm not blonde."

Miceli scribbled something furiously onto his pad.

"What are you writing?"

"I'm reminding myself to invite you to dinner while you're here. I happen to be enchanted by women from your Midwest. I find your accents quite charming."

Men usually asked me out because they said I was friendly, or had a great smile, or a good personality. My brother told me that was a guy's way of saying he liked my breasts and was hoping I'd take my blouse off. No one had ever asked me out because he liked the way I pronounced my vowels. I didn't know whether to be flattered or disappointed. "You're not married, are you?"

"Widowed."

"Gay?"

"Straight."

I thought about my ex-husband. "Do you dress in ladies' lingerie?"

"That would be my cousin, Jean-Claude. But you've no cause to worry. He's adopted."

"I'm in room thirty-three-ten."

He smiled one of those bedroom smiles that caused every organ below my neck to tingle. My Golden Swiss holiday was definitely looking up.

"If you would be so kind, Miss Andrew, I have only a few more questions."

In response to his queries, I told him about Andy's red, watery eyes the day before, the mix-up in our room assignments, and his minor asthma attack at dinner.

"His asthma undoubtedly worsened as the night progressed," Miceli commented. "We found his inhaler on the floor beside him."

I told him about Andy's request for Shirley Angowski's E-mail address and the disturbing noises I'd heard in his room during the wee hours of the morning.

"What time did you hear the noises?"

"My watch was drying out, so I don't know what time it was."

"You must have touched the diverter on the shower. Can you describe the noises for me?"

"They were like World Wrestling Alliance noises. Thumps. Grunts. Groans. Maybe a flying dropkick."

"Could you tell if he was alone?"

"It sounded more like a tag team."

"So he might have been entertaining a paramour and they woke you with their spirited...lovemaking." He paused. "Given Mr. Simon's sexual appetites, would you be surprised if he'd arranged assignations with two different women on the same night?"

"Not at all. But if Shirley Angowski was assignation number two, who was assignation number one?"

"Something to ponder, Ms. Andrew. Perhaps he was having a secret liaison with someone else on your tour."

This last thought stuck with me as I located Nana in the dining room. Had Andy been boffing women other than aspiring actresses? Women with husbands, and grandchildren, and varicose veins? I sat down opposite Nana and eyed her speculatively.

"Is Andy Simon the kind of man you'd want to have an affair with, Nana?"

"He's dead, dear. I never have sex with dead men, though after your grampa started havin' those erectile dysfunction problems, I had a pretty good idea what it would be like."

I shook my head in bewilderment. "Why would any self-respecting female want to have an affair with that self-centered, self-important, undersized gnome?"

Nana shielded her mouth and spoke in a stage whisper. "He wasn't so undersized,
down there,
if you catch my drift."

My heart stopped beating. How could she know that? Oh, no! Not my own grandmother! "You didn't! You couldn't! I can't listen to this."

"Margi Swanson accidentally walked in on him when he was doin' his business into a cup at the clinic--Margi works part-time for Andy's doctor--and she told me at the Legion a Mary meetin' that his hoho reminded her of a big old eel she'd seen washed up on a beach on the coast a Maine. Can you hear me with your hands over your ears like that, Emily?"