The Weekend Was Murder (11 page)

“It’s a long story.”

“I don’t care how long it is,” she answered.

“Some other time,” I said, and walked toward the door with Fran.

Suddenly a woman leaped into my path from the shadows behind a potted ficus tree. As I stumbled back, her teammates scrambled after her. “Here she is!” the woman shouted and grabbed my arm. “They said you’re a witness! They said you overheard an argument! Tell us, quick! We have to catch up with the other teams!”

“I’ll tell you,” I said, “but out in the hallway. The manager of the health club has to lock up.”

“But we want to
see
the club. We want to see where you were and where they were and if there were any weapons around.”

“Weapons?”

A man in the group nodded vigorously. “Detective Sharp told us that Edgar Albert Pitts was hit on the head with a blunt object.”

Just like the real murder
, I thought. How much was fiction and how much was fact? Did Mrs. Duffy have ESP when she wrote the script? Surely, there couldn’t have been any way she’d know what would happen.

“Come tomorrow morning, any time after eight,” I told them. “I’ll show you all around the club.”

It was eleven-thirty before they had finished questioning me, and Fran and I could head upstairs. “I don’t get it,” I told him. “What difference does it make if Pitts’s nephew ordered his lunch from room service, or if he’d ever traveled to Colombia?”

“The man with the FBI sunglasses was kind of mad at you because you said you didn’t know.”

“I had to say I didn’t know. Eileen told us we couldn’t make up anything.” As we got into the elevator I looked at Fran suspiciously. “Have you been making things up?”

For a moment he grinned wickedly, but then he said, “No, Liz. I promise. I’m sticking to the script.”

Outside my door, as I fished into the pocket of my shorts for the key, I felt
two
keys, and as I pulled them out I realized I’d forgotten to give back the key to room
nineteen twenty-seven. I palmed it, opened my door with my own key, bent my knees just a little, and kissed Fran good night.

But once inside my tiny room my mind whirled with questions. Was it just coincidence that both the make-believe victim and the real victim were murdered in the same way? Did Devane and his murderer get into the scene of the crime room while the lock was taped open? Or was it later, after the tape had been removed? In that case they’d have to use a key. Who had keys to the room besides Mrs. Duffy and Eileen? Did the ghost have anything to do with the murder? Did Mrs. Duffy? Was Fran ever going to grow taller, so I wouldn’t have to bend my knees when we kissed?

First things first, I told myself. Who had a key?

As I looked at the pair of keys in the palm of my hand, I got a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach. Who had a key? I had.

I suppose I slept during the night. I must have slept, because the next morning the telephone woke me up.

I answered with a mumble, not awake enough to open either my eyes or my mouth, and heard Eileen say, “Liz? It’s already seven. I thought you’d be awake.”

“I’m awake,” I said, and for a moment tried to figure out where I was. Suddenly it came back to me and I sat up in bed, rubbing my eyes. “Is something wrong?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “Something’s right. Mom fixed the script to account for Randolph’s hit on the head.”

“Good,” I said, my confidence in Mrs. Duffy’s talents returning.

“Listen carefully,” Eileen said, “because this concerns you.”

“I know,” I said, “I told everybody he was—”

“Listen,” she repeated. “This is what really happened. You went back to the nineteenth floor because you were curious about the murder. You thought that
maybe one of the crime lab investigators would answer some of your questions.”

“Like, what was the murder weapon?”

“Right,” she said. “Very good. You’ve got the picture.”

“Did they answer my questions?”

“No. Instead they asked
you
questions. They wanted to know how you happened to find the body, if you saw anyone else on the nineteenth floor, and if you touched anything. Got it?”

“Got it. But where does Randolph Hamilton come in?”

“Randolph Hamilton had been curious too. But he was afraid to question the police, so he hung around the hallway, trying to listen in. When you got off the elevator, he quickly stepped into that nearby broom closet so that you wouldn’t see him. Do you remember where the closet is?”

“Yes.”

“Unfortunately for Randolph, he knew you’d been talking to the police on the scene, and he wanted to find out what you’d learned, so as you came by on your way to the elevators, he stepped out of the closet. You were edgy in the first place, so when Randolph suddenly appeared behind you, grabbing your shoulder and speaking your name, you instinctively turned around and slugged him, knocking him out. You thought you’d killed him, so you hurried downstairs.”

I didn’t know what to say. “Your mother, the famous mystery writer, thought this up?”

“Don’t worry. It will work.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “I don’t think I could have hit Randolph that hard.”

“You were under stress. You were also a nervous wreck. The sleuths will buy that. They know that a burst of adrenaline causes people to have unusual strength.”

She was probably right about the sleuths. Last night they were accepting anything and everything, and I suppose I did act kind of weird, with all that running around and screaming.

But there was another problem. “With a room full of police at the crime scene, why did I go all the way down to the lobby to get Lamar Boudry?”

“Mom already thought of that,” Eileen explained. “Remember, you thought Randolph was dead and that you had killed him, but you didn’t want anyone to know you had done it. If you went down to the lobby, it would buy you some time and confuse the issue. It could have been
anyone
in that hall who did it, not just you. That’s also why you told everyone at first that you’d just found Randolph. Understand?”

I hesitated. “Could I have a new name?”

“What do you mean? You’re playing yourself.”

“That’s the point. Myself is coming across as pretty stupid.”

“No, no, no,” Eileen reassured me. “Remember? You were terrified, and you panicked.”

“I also must have confessed everything, or no one would have figured it out.”

Now there was silence on her end. “I guess you did,” she said.

Remembering what Mrs. Larabee had told me, I said,
“I not only didn’t feel for a pulse, to make sure Randolph was dead, but I tried to trick everyone, and then I blabbed the whole thing. Put dishonest and idiotic in there along with stupid.”

Eileen sighed. “Frankly, Liz,” she said, “I’d just as soon pack up my actors and go home. It’s awful knowing that a real murder took place here. John—uh—Randolph’s scared to death, Annabelle’s hung up on that story about the ghost in room nineteen twenty-seven and jumps at the slightest sound, and Mom kept me awake half the night trying to work her plot around what you said about Randolph being dead. But Detective Jarvis asked us to stay and keep the mystery weekend going, and actors aren’t kidding when they say ‘the show must go on.’ If they’ve got a job to do, no matter what happens, they do it.”

“I guess I’m an actor, too, even if I am using my own name,” I told her.

“I hope so,” she said.

I felt kind of strange thinking about the way people would be looking at me after that story about what I had done came out, but there wasn’t anything else I could do. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll tell them everything you told me.”

“Oh, thank you, Liz!” Eileen said. “I just can’t thank you enough!”

I could hear someone in Eileen’s room speaking to her, but she came back to me and said, “I’ve got to hurry, Liz. Martin and Randolph are scheduled to have a fistfight during the breakfast buffet in the ballroom, and I’ve got to make sure they’re ready and it comes off
on schedule. I’ll tell the sleuths about you when we meet for the detective’s report at nine.”

“Okay,” I said, but as I hung up the phone I wondered how I’d let myself get into this mess.

I was supposed to show up at the health club at eight, and I wanted a big breakfast, so I quickly showered and dressed in my shorts and T-shirt uniform and hurried down to the employees’ cafeteria in the basement.

Fran already had a table and a head start on scrambled eggs, bacon, and everything that went with it, but he put down his fork as I joined him and said, “How come the eggs and bacon we’re eating probably came from the same hen and pig as the eggs and bacon that’s being served in the hotel’s dining room, only theirs tastes so good, and ours doesn’t?”

“They’re paying for theirs,” I said.

“Good reason,” Fran said, and began to eat again.

I told him about Eileen’s phone call as I spread strawberry jelly on my toast and thumb.

“Wow,” he said and stuffed his mouth with limp hash browns. “You are a sneaky one.”

“The show must go on,” I mumbled.

“So must the health club,” Deely said over my shoulder. “Hurry up and finish your breakfast. I’ll open up.”

There were a couple of media people and a TV cameraman in the lobby as I walked through on my way to the health club. I assumed they’d come about Devane’s murder, but a few of the mystery sleuths preened and giggled at the cameraman, and I heard one of them say, “This is all so realistic! Isn’t it fun!”

There was a meeting with Detective Pat Sharp scheduled
for eight-thirty, so none of the hotel guests who were playing the mystery game came into the health club, which gave me time to scrub the tiles and fish leaves out of the outdoor side of the pool. I expected all the sleuths to rush in after the detective’s talk, point their fingers at me, and ask a million questions, but around nine o’clock only Mrs. Bandini and Mrs. Larabee hurried in, both of them a little out of breath.

They cornered me in the office, and Mrs. Bandini said, “Detective Smart isn’t finished with her report yet, but we asked our teammates to take notes for us. We feel it’s our duty to talk to you, Mary Elizabeth.”

“About my slugging Randolph Hamilton?” I asked.

“We’ll get to that later,” Mrs. Larabee said. “What we have to say is more important.”

The two of them looked at each other, and Mrs. Bandini spoke up. “The first time we met you, I said, ‘Isn’t that a lovely, sweet girl?’ Didn’t I say that, Opal?”

“Your very words,” Mrs. Larabee said.

“And the way you helped solve the murder at the hotel in June—well, you were any mother’s pride and joy.”

“But last night …” Mrs. Larabee said. “Well, frankly, we’re concerned about your behavior.”

“It’s just a part I’m playing,” I told them, but they weren’t listening.

“We’re afraid this change in your formerly perfect behavior comes from bad companions,” Mrs. Bandini said.

I knew who she meant. She had wanted me to date
her gorgeous grandson, Eric, and wasn’t too happy that I chose Fran instead.

“I don’t have bad companions,” I told them, but their lips tightened and their eyes grew all-knowing, and it wasn’t hard to figure out that I wasn’t reaching them. These women had been my friends ever since I came to work at the Ridley health club at the beginning of summer. I didn’t want them to think badly of me. What was I going to do?

I sighed and leaned back against the desk. “None of it happened the way they said,” I whispered.

“What do you mean?” They both moved forward.

I raised my head and murmured, “I had to lie. I had no choice. My life is in danger.”

They gasped, and I realized I might have gone just a little too far and I’d better tone it down. Eileen had told us we’d have to stick to the script. “I was told what to say, but no one must know this,” I whispered. “Don’t tell anyone, not even your teammates.”

Their eyes shone with excitement, and Mrs. Larabee even raised her right hand as though making a pledge.

“I knew it!” Mrs. Bandini said. “I knew you wouldn’t hit someone on the head, Mary Elizabeth.”

“And not take his pulse.” Mrs. Larabee looked smug.

“And sneak around pretending someone else killed him.” Mrs. Bandini smiled and gave me a little hug. “Your secret is safe with us, Mary Elizabeth.”

Mrs. Larabee tugged at the shoulder of her friend’s shirt. “Let’s go find the rest of our team! Quickly!”

They scurried off, leaving me with confused feelings. They didn’t ask who put me in danger. They were just
happier that my life was in danger than that I was dishonest. Well, at least they didn’t consider Fran to be a bad companion any longer.

The telephone rang, and it was Tina. “Hi,” she said. “I’ve got the health club on monitor. Where is everybody?”

“At the detective’s meeting,” I answered.

“Meeting … that reminds me,” she said. “Lamar wanted me to remind you to be in Mr. Parmegan’s office at ten o’clock on the nose.”

I felt like someone had socked me in the stomach. “Lamar’s going to be there too?” I asked. “What kind of big trouble am I in?”

“Nobody tells me anything,” Tina said. “It’s the classic power-structure syndrome. As long as you know something that someone under you doesn’t know, then you have power over them.”