Death in Paradise (40 page)

This was not a case of a failed suicide waiting for another chance and then succeeding. The Rory who had called me had had something she wanted to get off her chest. Something she'd been killed to keep her from telling. She had called me for help and I had gotten the message too late. Poor kid. She'd been a bad judge of people. First she'd hitched her wagon to Martina's star, and that had brought her misery and humiliation. Then she'd attached herself to someone else. Someone who had used her against Martina and then discarded her when she was no longer useful. But who?

I thought back over the past few days. Everyone, it seemed, had a grudge against Martina. The list of her crimes against her colleagues was long. She had mortified Shannon in front of her entire school by failing to show up as promised. She had blithely rescinded a promise and destroyed Jonetta's chances of saving more desperate girls. She had stolen Jolene's ground-breaking, career-making idea and claimed it as her own. Even worse, she had used Drusilla Aird's manuscript without attribution and seriously damaged Drusilla's reputation. She had stolen Linda Janovich's husband. I didn't know what she'd done to Rob Greene or to Zannah, but they had nodded when the matter of grudges against Martina had come up, so I assumed they, too, had stories. Perhaps Jeff had grown weary of her drunken misconduct. And there was Billy, who had loved and hated her.

But who, among them, had cherished a grudge so strong, a hatred so powerful, that it had motivated him or her to commit murder or hire someone to do so? Not a spur-of-the-moment passion crime, either. A carefully planned murder, complete with the dramatic distraction of the newlyweds' fight. That was why it couldn't have been Lewis Broder. Because it was planned. Unless he was a superb liar, and he'd lied when he spoke with me and Jolene. But I didn't think he was capable of planning a murder.

No. Not murder. Murders. Martina hadn't been the only victim. Rory was a victim, too, and I would have been. I looked around at the bland, banal decor of my room. Infinitely reproducible. In the room next door, one just like this, Martina had admitted, perhaps even welcomed, her killer. Been overpowered, manually strangled, and then dressed and arranged. No blood and gore. When the police were finished, the room would be straightened and cleaned and opened to guests again. Maybe the hotel would get a new bedspread. Otherwise, life would go on. People would dress and undress, rub on sunscreen, watch TV, and make love right there where Martina had died.

It was a brilliant bit of depersonalizing, killing her in a hotel. Killing Rory in a hospital. Drowning me in the sea. All of us temporary guests with no connection to the place. Easily dismissed. Wiped away. Forgotten. And in a place where people were always coming and going, where everyone was a stranger, the killer wouldn't stand out. Another hotel guest. Another hospital visitor. Another diver in a neoprene suit. It wasn't like killing in a town or a neighborhood, where someone might notice.

All right. Who was this killer, this careful, diabolical planner? Or who were these killers, for Rory had said "they." If I couldn't answer the question for Martina, or for Rory, could I answer it for myself? Martina was the target, Rory the disposable accomplice. But what was I? How did I fit in? I didn't believe I'd been selected simply because I'd solved other murders and that made the killer nervous. Unless all of my fellow board members were in on the conspiracy, and they'd tried to kill me because they feared that eventually I'd find them out. There had to be something more. Something specific. Something I knew that had made the killer target me. But what? Had I seen or heard something I wasn't aware of? I traversed the room, back and forth, back and forth, too tired for even this meager exercise, but unable to sit still.

As I paced, I tried to recall everything that had happened since I'd arrived on Maui. What seemingly innocent or trivial conversation might have given someone the notion that I was the woman who knew too much? The man in Rory's bathroom? That didn't seem likely. Try as I might, nothing rang any bells. There were no startling insights or flashes of revelation. I could beat on my chest and howl to heaven about the unfairness of it all, but I couldn't figure out what someone might believe I knew.

Stop thinking,
I told myself.
Relax. Let the mind drift.
Oh, sure. I was alone in a hotel room identical to one in which I'd encountered a grotesquely strangled body. Someone out there wanted me dead. The only person who knew what was going on had just been killed. It was not a scenario for letting the mind drift. It was time to panic. Time to hand Rory's laptop over to the cops, pack my bag, and run.

I seized the phone and called Jolene. No one answered. I tried Shannon, Zannah, and Jonetta. No one home. They must all still be in the bar. I left a message for Jolene that I was leaving, detailing my few remaining responsibilities and apologizing for dumping them in her lap, and one asking Jonetta to call me. Now I needed to go downstairs to my old room and pack. But for that I needed help. I have a friend, a very wise therapist, who keeps reminding me that it's all right to ask for help, that people are glad to be asked. So I called the Pryzinskis, apologized for the lateness of the hour, and asked if I could leave the laptop with them while I packed. They were watching a movie, not at all bothered by being disturbed, and happy to help. Ed insisted on coming with me, "just to be sure," exactly as I'd hoped.

He sat on the foot of the bed, watching his movie, while I plucked my clothes and papers from the mess and put them in appropriate containers. Packing is so strange. It always seems to take me days to get ready for a trip and minutes to pack up at the end. Maybe that's hotel rooms again. There are so few places to put things and anyway, I tend to live out of my suitcase instead of stowing things in drawers and closets. I hate those foil-the-thief hangers that require fitting the little hanger tops into the loops on the rail, a dexterity exercise I'm always forced to do either late at night when my eyes are half-shut, or early in the morning when my eyes aren't open.

I checked the drawers anyway, and under the bed, in the bathroom, behind the door. I threw the last of my things into the suitcase and zipped it shut. "Ready," I said.

"Fine," he said, getting up and turning off the TV. "They were about to have a commercial anyway." He reached out and took the suitcase from me. "So you've decided to go home early?"

"First thing in the morning."

"Smart girl."

"The only good thing about this trip has been meeting you and Marie."

"We've enjoyed it, too," he said. "I hope you'll stay in touch."

We stopped at his room to retrieve the computer and then he walked me back to the elevator, rode up with me, and walked me to my door. Cautious and protective. I didn't mind a bit. We found Jeff Pullman standing in the corridor outside my room.

He came toward us with long, purposeful strides. Gave me a carefully measured smile that seemed forced. "Thea. I've got to talk to you about this morning. I owe you an apology. I'm afraid I..."

He reminded me of a kid whose mother has sent him to apologize. Insincere and under duress. I would have expected better from a pro like him. I shook my head. "I have nothing to say to you."

"Look, Thea, please, I need to explain...." He reached for my arm, but at the first sign of motion, I stepped quickly backward. He dropped his hand but stayed there, too close, unable to keep the irritation off his face. "Cut me some slack, okay? I was upset about Martina. I wasn't thinking. I've never done anything like that before."

"Lucky me," I said, stepping past him and slipping my key card into the slot.

He grabbed my wrist, trying to make me look at him, trying to force eye contact. He wasn't used to being ignored. Charm was his stock in trade. "At least give me the chance to apologize and explain. Surely you owe me that."

Idiot! I hate being grabbed. And I hate obnoxious, entitled people who believe they're "owed" the right to excuse their unacceptable behavior. I pulled my wrist away. "I owe you nothing, Jeff. You're lucky you aren't in jail on assault charges. I'm surprised you have the nerve to speak to me, after the way you behaved this morning. The slack I'm cutting you is that I didn't file assault charges. Now leave me alone before I call security."

But he was too used to getting his own way, to having life made easy for him because he was charming and handsome, or to being able to talk his way into or out of anything. "Oh, come on, now, Thea. It wasn't all that bad. You must listen to me."

I wondered what he would consider bad, if knocking me to the floor and hacking at me with chunks of a terra cotta pot was not. It met
my
definition of bad.

My good buddy Ed had been very patiently standing there with my suitcase, being ignored, but he had heard enough. "Sir, the lady says she doesn't want to talk to you. She has asked you to go away and leave her alone. Is there something about that you don't understand?"

"Look, Grandpa, this doesn't involve you. I'm talking to the lady."

Ah, the lengths a person has to go through these days to be called a lady. Where was the famous Pullman charm? He sounded like a character from a bad gangster movie.

"And the lady has had enough," Ed said. The Grandpa remark had pierced his naturally tranquil facade. His face was ruddy and he had a dangerous look.

But Jeff wasn't paying attention. He was staring at the computer. "That's Rory's laptop," he said.

Trust no one, I thought. He might have tried to claim it for the business and I didn't want to have to fight to keep it for the cops. I shook my head. "It's mine. She has the same model." I kept it present tense, too. Not letting on that one of the identical computers, and one Rory, were no longer with us. I wasn't interested in discussing anything with him. Not me, not what he'd done this morning, not Martina, not Rory, not computers.

"But it looks exactly like—"

It wasn't like it had stickers on it, or a cute pink plastic cover. "Like thousands of other computers of the same make and model."

"Look, Thea, I'm sorry. I'm approaching this all wrong. I didn't come here to argue with you, honestly. I came to say I'm sorry... to make up for my churlish behavior." He manufactured a charming smile.

But it was too late. The little light on the lock was flashing green. I opened the door. Ed stepped into the room with my suitcase. I followed. "I'm sorry, Jeff, but no. You need to understand that you can't commit violent acts and expect others to behave as though nothing has happened." I closed the door firmly in his face and left him trying to charm the doorframe. I shuffled across the room and collapsed on the couch.

Ed held up the suitcase. "Where do you want this?"

"Bathroom? I've got some stuff in there to pack."

"Delightful fellow," he said.

"Isn't he? I used to think so. His wife is the woman who was killed on Friday night."

"What was he trying to apologize for?"

"Attacking me with chunks of a broken planter."

Ed nodded thoughtfully. "Charming," he said. "Odd, after that, that he should believe you owe him the opportunity to apologize."

"My sentiments exactly. Look, you don't have to hang around and be my baby-sitter. Go back to your wife and your movie. I'll be all right."

He looked at the door and back to me. "Will you?"

"I promise to admit no strangers, okay?"

"I'll go only if you promise to admit no one. That guy wasn't a stranger."

"Not even the cops?"

"All right. The cops." He stuck out a hand. "Deal?"

I shook it. "Deal."

"And don't leave your room for any reason until you go downstairs to go to the airport."

"Yes, Uncle Ed."

"Don't get smart with me, young lady." He smiled. "You mean Grandpa, don't you?"

It was nice to have a lighthearted moment. I knew that as soon as he left, the darkness would start closing in again. I gave Ed a hug and he left. I locked all the locks behind him and retreated to my couch. Sure enough, the corners of the room began creeping toward me. Normally, I take refuge in bourbon, action, or work. Tonight all three were denied me. I couldn't drink, didn't know what action I might have taken even if the flesh was willing, and for once, I had no work. Bobby hadn't called. Bernstein hadn't called. There was nothing to distract me from my thoughts.

I sat in the gloom and stared at my hands and pondered again about who wanted to kill me. And why?

 

 

 

Chapter 28

 

I needed another person to act as a sounding board. I would have used Bernstein. Despite our differences, he was a cop and could be trusted, but he was also unavailable. He'd had plenty of time and hadn't called me back. I assumed he was tied up with Rory's murder, but his lack of response certainly didn't make me feel any safer. Between what was happening inside my head, and what was happening outside it, like Rory's death, I felt terribly unsafe. But what good were the police? If I'd been in danger when I called him, I'd be long dead by now. Still, I needed to talk to someone. Now. Soon. I'm always an impatient person. Times like these make me more so. Maybe, running my ideas by another person, I might be able to see what I was missing. Might finally figure something out. All this conjecture was wearing, like being forced to juggle and not allowed to stop.