The Weekend Was Murder (19 page)

I honestly don’t know what happened next. Later, Mrs. Duffy had me go over and over it, but that didn’t help a bit. All I know is that the room exploded with a blast of music that could have been heard a block away. The big vase in the center of the table rose in the air, and I made a grab for it, but missed, and it came down on Al Ransome’s head. Detective Jarvis burst through the hallway door at the same time, and he insisted he saw me swoop up that vase and clobber Ransome. But I couldn’t have. I distinctly remember turning to run after Stephanie.

Officer Estavez, who’d been talking in the hallway with Detective Jarvis when the music nearly knocked them off their feet, came barreling into the room right behind him, and she said she saw me floor Stephanie with a right hook.

I wasn’t even sure what a right hook was, but I wasn’t going to argue with them or anyone else about what saved me. I just quietly whispered, “Thanks, Larry, for
sticking around just a few minutes longer than you had to.”

I think he heard me before he left. The others were too busy to notice the swirl and swoosh of cold air as it swept the room, then completely vanished.

Later, when Fran and I got together, I told him about Larry, and all Fran said was, “I wonder if he went to visit his wife in Digby.”

That’s what I liked so much about Fran. He was really a great guy, and even if he never grew tall enough to catch up with me, and even if my low self-esteem really was all mixed up in dating a short boyfriend, I decided I didn’t care.

Down in the lobby Eileen took me aside and said, “Since you’re officially one of our actors, you’ll sit with us at the brunch tomorrow morning.”

“Wow!” I said. “You mean I’ll get real food?” But then I shook my head.

“We’ll include Fran too,” she said, misunderstanding my reason for hesitating.

“I’d better not come to the brunch,” I insisted. “I told you, I’m pretty klutzy. What if I spill something and embarrass everybody?”

“Today at lunch I spilled my iced tea,” she said.

“You?”
I asked.

Eileen smiled. “Just between you and me, there was salad dressing on Sherlock Holmes’s shirt, and one of the sleuths dropped her cheesecake into her lap. Everybody spills things.”

“Low self-esteem,” I said. “Tina explained it to me.”

“Tina’s wrong,” Eileen said. She walked me over to a
mirror, holding my shoulders. “Take a good look at yourself.”

“I’d rather not,” I said. “Not on an empty stomach.” But I sneaked a look anyway and saw Eileen’s reflection. “I wish I looked like you,” I said. “You’re glamorous and poised and graceful, and you … well, you look as if you like yourself.”

“That’s the secret,” Eileen said, “to like yourself the way you are. I’ve heard you saying you’re klutzy and you’re stupid. You keep insulting yourself. You wouldn’t do that to a good friend, would you?”

“Of course not,” I said.

“Then treat yourself just as nicely as you’d treat your good friend. Be a good friend to yourself. You’ll find that when you learn to be at ease with yourself, the poise, the grace, and the charm follow.”

“That won’t help me look like you.”

With both hands she swept up my hair and swirled it up and over the top of my head. I suddenly looked older and more sophisticated. “When I was your age,” she said, “I had bangs and braces. But I learned to play with new hairstyles and makeup. You’ve got plenty of time ahead to try it too.”

She let my hair drop, but I picked it up myself and held it this way and that. Maybe … just maybe she was right. I couldn’t help feeling just a little bit excited.

Eileen said, “It’s going to take time to develop your new self-image, Liz. Just promise me that you’ll keep working on it.”

“I will,” I said, but I had another thought. “I’ve got a question about low self-esteem and a short boyfriend.”

“No relation at all,” Eileen answered. “Your boyfriend, for example. He’s really a neat guy. He’s got a lot more going for him than some of those tall hunks who are more interested in their own muscles than anything else.”

I saw Fran charging across the lobby toward me, so I left Eileen and ran to meet him. In spite of the mystery-weekend people roaming around the lobby, I gave Fran a big hug.

“Is this part of the script?” he asked, hugging me back.

“No,” I said.

“Then let’s write our own,” he suggested.

“With no murders in it,” I said.

We started laughing, but Sherlock Holmes interrupted by tapping me on the shoulder.

“I want a straight answer,” he said. “Did you have anything to do with the murder?”

“Whose?” I asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes in exasperation. “What do you mean, whose? We’ve spent all weekend talking about Edgar Albert Pitts. Now, don’t be evasive. Give me an answer.”

I looked him right in the eyes and said, “I had nothing to do with his murder.”

He studied me. “Of course, if you did, you wouldn’t come out and say so. You’d lie. Are you lying?”

“No.”

“How do I know that?”

“Because I told you.”

“A murderer would lie.”

“That’s right, but I’m not a murderer.”

He paused, never taking his eyes from mine. Finally, he shrugged and said, “You look honest, which probably means you aren’t.”

He walked away, but both Fran and I were questioned until close to the midnight deadline, when the teams who hadn’t yet turned in their answer cards huddled together to come up with the solution, writing as fast as they could.

This had been one of the most exhausting days of my life, so I said good night to Fran and dragged myself up to my room, where I found the message light blinking insistently.

The operator told me that Mom wanted me to call, no matter how late, so I did.

As soon as I said “Mom,” she interrupted.

“On the ten o’clock news they reported arresting the murderers of that savings-and-loan man. You just don’t know how relieved I was to hear it.”

“Me too,” I said.

“Are you having fun, sweetheart?” she asked.

“A blast,” I told her.

“I know the weekend’s exciting, but are you sure you’re getting enough sleep?”

“I’d be sleeping right now, Mom, except I got the message to call you.”

“That’s different,” she said. “Tell me, are you eating well, dear?”

“Mom—”

“I mean, you’re not just living on pizza are you?” she asked quickly.

“We don’t get pizza around here. On a scale of one to ten, the employee cafeteria is a minus five,” I said. I remembered what the morning would bring and felt a lot happier about the food situation. “Guess what, though. Tomorrow I get to eat brunch with the mystery-weekend group.”

“Oh, lovely!” Mom said. “That should be fun.” Her voice became more serious as she added, “Just remember, dear, that if the brunch is a buffet, there will be plenty of salad greens and fresh vegetables to choose from.”

“And lots and lots of desserts,” I added.

She didn’t react, which was just as well. For some reason—maybe because of Eileen and what she said, or maybe because I’d helped solve the real murder and was feeling good about what I’d done—I said, “Mom, I wish you and Dad had been here. Some of the people who came to the mystery weekend are crazy, but they’re all having an awfully good time. When I get home, I’ll tell you all about it.”

“I’ll love that,” Mom said. She suddenly gasped and added, “My goodness! Look at the time! You belong in bed, young lady. It’s way past your bedtime!”

I said good night and grinned to myself. Life at the hotel was pretty exciting, but life at home hadn’t changed a bit. Good old Mom.

The brunch was fantastic. There was so much food, I could only manage to eat three desserts. Everyone, except Fran and me, was excited and a little nervous, each team eager for the arrest to take place, so they’d know
the winners. I did drop a buttered roll in my lap and began to say, “Oh, that was stupid of me,” but I changed in mid-thought and—smiling at Mrs. Bandini, who was seated across from me—I said, “Thank goodness these rolls are light. I could have broken a leg.”

Everyone close by laughed as though I’d made a great joke, and the man in the FBI sunglasses said, “She has a good sense of humor. She couldn’t be the murderer.”

I beamed at him, happy to note that a tiny bit of strawberry jam had slid down the front of his shirt.

Detective Sharp took the microphone and called the suspects up to the small stage at one end of the room. She went down the list, eliminating them one by one, while the teams cheered and clapped, or groaned because they’d made the wrong choice. When it came down to the last two, we all held our breaths. Then—surprise, surprise—the murderer turned out to be the desperate actress, Crystal Crane.

The members of Sherlock’s team leaped to their feet, yelling and screeching and hugging each other. “I knew she did it!” Sherlock shouted.

The winners were awarded bottles of champagne, and Detective Sharp read a few of the entries. Except for Randolph, every other suspect had been guessed at least once. One team thought Detective Sharp committed the crime, and two of them guessed that I was the murderer.

“I was pretty sure it was you too,” Fran murmured in my ear and squeezed my hand.

“It should have been the nephew,” Mrs. Larabee muttered under her breath. “He’s the only one of them who’ll inherit, and now he’ll get all Mr. Pitts’s money, and I don’t even like him—the nephew, that is.”

All the actors were introduced, and I have to admit that I loved being the center of attention for even those few seconds. Remembering what Eileen had told me, I thought good, positive thoughts about myself and stood up as gracefully as I could, my head held high. Even though my chair fell over, no one seemed to notice or care.

When it was all over, Fran had to report for work, but I was free to go home. Well, not exactly free, because Mrs. Duffy latched on to me and said, “Mary Elizabeth, let’s find a quiet place to talk. I want to hear all about the murder you solved when you began work at the Ridley in June.”

We settled into a couple of chairs in one corner of the lobby, and she pulled out a small tape recorder, which surprised me.

“You’re going to record what I say?”

“It will make it easier for me, if I decide to use your story in a mystery novel.”

Tina had been right. If Mrs. Duffy wanted to write my story, then I’d be in a book! I’d be famous!

“Just tell me everything, in your own words, right from the beginning,” Mrs. Duffy said, and turned on the recorder.

I closed my eyes, envisioning a drawing of myself on the book jacket. I’d be wearing my pink Ridley health-club
T-shirt, and I’d be standing in front of the Ridley Hotel swimming pool, my long, red hair streaming around my shoulders. “How about this for a title,” I said: “
The Dark and Deadly Pool
?”