Hounded to Death (26 page)

W
ell, hot damn.

Maybe I'd been wrong earlier. It was looking like I might have something interesting to tell Margo after all. But what exactly? What had Derek been up to? And how did that fit in with everything else I'd learned?

What I needed was a sounding board. Someone to run through the possibilities with.

Aunt Peg was no good. She currently had problems of her own. I got out my phone and called Bertie.

“Yo!” she said.

“Where are you?”

“Guess.”

“The health club.”

“Right-o. Who would have guessed that an educational symposium could be so much fun?”

Certainly not me.

“I'm on my way,” I said.

Bertie was just finishing a hot rock massage, courtesy of Gunther, who was tall, teutonic, and had shoulders like rolled hams.

“All is good,” he said in heavily accented English as Bertie sat up and switched her towel for a robe. “Come back and see me tomorrow. We make more steam together.”

“It's a deal.”

Bertie had a dreamy smile on her face. She looked limber, and languid, and very happy. It was a good thing this guy was gay; otherwise Frank might have been in trouble.

Then Gunther caught sight of me.

“Your turn next,” he said. “Take off your clothes. Gunther has magic hands and secret European techniques to make you feel better.”

“No, thank you. I'm just here to meet Bertie.”

“You should think about it,” she said.

“Yes, think about it.” Gunther stepped over beside me. Hands the size of baseball gloves began to knead my shoulders. “You are tense here, ja?”

“Probably.” My entire body was rolling with the rhythm of his hands.

“Tension not good. Much better if you relax. Gunther show you how. Special European—”

“Techniques. Yes, I know. I'm sure they're excellent, but no, thanks.”

I stepped out from under his hands and straightened. What do you know, the kink in my back was gone.

“I need help,” I said to Bertie.

“Name it.”

“Give me half an hour of your time.”

“That sounds easy enough.”

Gunther insinuated himself between us. “In half an hour, Gunther could make you feel like a queen.”

“Buzz off,” Bertie said mildly. “Or your tip is going to suffer.”

Gunther laughed and the sound bounced off the soothing, cream-colored walls. “I like you.”

“I like you too,” Bertie replied. “But now we're busy with something else. Girl talk.”

“Gunther is very good at girl talk.”

No doubt.

I took Bertie's arm and steered her out of the room. Gunther stared after us wistfully.

“Where to?” I asked.

“The locker room. It's this way.”

Bertie led the way through a maze of corridors, all with the same creamy walls. Signs pointed the way to the various amenities. The spa offered everything from mud baths, to facials, to rock climbing. Despite all the choices, we didn't see anyone else making use of the facilities.

“Is this place always so empty?” I asked.

“Apparently only when the inn is filled with dog people. The rest of the year I gather it's very popular.”

She pushed open the door to the locker room and I followed her inside.

Rows of lockers lined the walls. Several benches sat between them. One wall was mirrored. A countertop beneath it held a large stack of thick, cream-colored towels.

This room, too, was empty. The majority of the lockers sat open and unused. There wasn't so much as a discarded sneaker out of place.

“I've got a great idea,” said Bertie. “I know you didn't want a massage, but Gunther was right, you do look tense. That can't be good for you or the baby. Does it matter where we talk?”

“I guess not. Though I'd rather we weren't overheard. What do you have in mind?”

“How about taking a nice, relaxing break in the steam room? We can sit around naked, open up our pores, and talk until we're blue.”

“Or pink as the case may be,” I said.

The steam room opened directly off the locker room. I walked over to have a look. Not surprisingly, the small window in the door was fogged over.

“Is this thing coed or women only?”

“Just for women. The men have their own on the other side, connected to their locker room. Come on, it'll be fun.”

I had to admit, the prospect did sound appealing.

“I wonder how good this is for women who are pregnant.”

“
Nothing's
good for women who are pregnant,” Bertie said with a snort. “Cats, water beds, aspirin, fish…I know all about this stuff, I was just there. Do you know you're even supposed to stop eating hot dogs?”

“Thankfully that particular restriction hasn't put much of a crimp in my diet.”

I opened the door and peered inside the small room. A cloud of warm, damp steam billowed out. I could feel my hair begin to curl.

“Anyway, I asked my doctor about saunas and he said I could go ahead as long as I didn't overdo. They've done a bunch of studies on women in Scandinavia and they do this all the time. Look, here's the thermostat. If you're worried, we can turn it down a few degrees. There's nobody even around but us. No one's going to care.”

“Sold,” I said. “Go ahead and dial it down. I'll grab a locker and a towel.”

It took me only a minute to get naked, and considerably less than that to wrap up in a big fluffy towel. I stuffed my clothes in the nearest locker and slammed the door shut, then padded, barefoot, across the cool tile floor. Bertie was waiting for me by the door.

“Say good-bye to your mascara,” she said and led the way inside.

The steam swirled around the room in silent jets, enveloping us like a dense cloud of fog. But instead of being clammy, this mist felt warm and inviting. I inhaled sharply and felt my sinuses open.

“Take a seat,” said Bertie.

Wide benches, slightly elevated, ran along the tile covered walls. She stepped up and settled down on one. Loosening the knot of her towel, she allowed it to slide down and pool around her hips.

I chose a similar bench several feet away. Already the steam was having a therapeutic effect. I could feel the coils in my body beginning to unwind.

“This was a terrific idea,” I said.

“I told you so. Do I know hedonistic, or I do know hedonistic?”

“Both,” I agreed, leaning back and closing my eyes. “I could fall asleep right here.”

“Don't you dare. We're supposed to be talking, remember? Who's the first subject, Peg?”

“Among others. We'll get to her in a minute.”

“Fine by me,” Bertie said easily. “Who's first?”

“Well…Charles.”

“Oh, right, I should have known. We're solving a mystery. Excellent. The first thing we need is suspects.”

“No problem. There are plenty of those.”

“Caroline,” said Bertie.

“Interesting you should mention her first.”

“She's the spurned wife. I'd have her on the top of my list. She's a very strong-willed woman, one whose reputation means a lot to her.”

“More than her husband's life?”

“Could be that Charles's antics were getting to be an embarrassment to her. Maybe that speech he gave was the last straw and she decided she had to get rid of him.”

“Speaking of spurned women,” I countered, “what about Alana? According to Caroline, she knew all about their affair. She said that Charles had gone to meet with Alana that night so he could break things off with her.”

“That's not true.”

“According to whom? Alana? If Charles had just dumped her and she drowned him in a fit of rage, she'd hardly be likely to admit it, would she?”

Bertie opened one eye. “What kind of person invites his lover to a hot tub so he can dump her?”

We both thought about that for a minute. Inconceivable as it sounded, we could both see it happening.

“Men,” we said together.

“All right,” Bertie conceded. “Leave her on the list. Who else?”

“Rosalyn Arnold.”

“What did Charles do to her?”

“Blackballed her so she didn't get accepted into the Bedminster Kennel Club. Apparently it was a life-long dream of hers to be a member.”

“Who would want to join that bunch of snooty old farts?”

“Rosalyn apparently. It meant a lot to her and she's never forgiven him.”

Bertie lifted a hand and fanned her face.

We'd been in the steam room for a few minutes, but rather than adjusting to the temperature, I could feel myself growing warmer too. I loosened my towel and let some air circulate around my body.

“There are hundreds of kennel clubs,” she said. “I can't imagine being tempted to kill someone over a membership in one of them.”

“You're thinking too logically. Committing murder never makes sense to a normal person. It takes someone crazy or deluded for that.”

Bertie began to laugh. “Crazy and deluded. That must bring us to Tubby. I swear. Where that man got the idea that he's God's gift to women, I haven't a clue.”

“Me either,” I agreed. “And he hated Charles too. He called him a prick.”

“Pot calling the kettle black, don't you think?”

“Absolutely. Now listen and tell me what you think of this. The first night we were here, Margo mentioned hearing a rumor about a judging scandal.”

“You mean there's hot gossip going around that I missed out on?”

“Apparently so. Some judge was supposed to be getting into trouble for taking kickbacks.”

Bertie sat up and opened both eyes. “Who?”

“That's what I'm trying to tell you. It was Tubby.”

“Wow,” said Bertie. “That'll shut down his career.”

“Right. If it gets reported through the proper channels. Which I don't think it has been, because when I asked him about it, he demanded to know if I had any proof. Then he told me that what I was saying was slander.”

“It's not slander if it's true.”

“Precisely. Except that whoever it is that knows the truth doesn't seem to be talking. Tubby isn't in trouble if his accuser doesn't come forward.”

“Good point.”

“I know,” I said with a grin. “And I have an idea who that missing person is. Let me backtrack for a minute. Florence told me—”

“Oh, goody,” Bertie broke in. “Does this mean it's finally time to talk about Peg?”

“No, we were on Tubby—”

“Bite your tongue! Nobody wants to be on Tubby. Besides, Peg's problems are much more interesting.”

There was that. Besides, the heat in the room was having a positively enervating effect. Reasoning things out was beginning to seem like a chore. Exchanging gossip was much more fun.

“I talked to Richard earlier,” I said. “He admitted that Florence doesn't really know what happened last night. With the concussion and all, her recollection of events is pretty hazy.”

“So she'll tell everyone that she was mistaken about Peg attacking her?” Bertie asked hopefully.

“Not so fast. What Richard will admit and what Florence will admit are apparently two very different things. And by the way, while we're on the subject, Florence resented Charles too.”

“My, how that man got around. What was her beef with him?”

“She thought that she should have been the one delivering the keynote speech.”

“And killing him after the fact would help how?”

“I'm only mentioning…”

“Knock yourself out,” said Bertie. “I like the idea of putting Florence on a list of suspects. It seems like the least she deserves.”

So we were back to that again.

“What do you know about Marshall Beckham?” I asked.

“Who?”

“Tall, skinny, glasses? He's a friend of Richard's.”

Bertie shook her head. The description didn't ring a bell.

“He owner-handles Bichons and he's the kind of guy who always seems to be skulking around somewhere in the background. He has this hero-worship thing going on with some of the judges. I swear he nearly bowed when he met Aunt Peg.”

“That must have gone over well.”

Sarcasm coated her tone. I let the comment lie.

“Anyway, Marshall felt really let down when Charles gave that speech. It was as if Charles had disappointed him personally.”