The Weekend Was Murder (2 page)

I interrupted her. “Okay, okay. I really don’t want to hear all that, so I’ll just accept it. But you have to tell me, what’s the story about this room?”

Tina shot a quick glance toward the door, as though she thought someone inside might be eavesdropping, and lowered her voice. “A few years ago a husband and wife stayed in this room for a week. There were some terrible arguments, and they turned up the volume on the TV and radio to try to cover them. Just ask housekeeping and room service how bad it was. Finally guests on this floor called in complaints, and Lamar himself came up to take care of things.”

I could just picture the Ridley’s impressive, supercool chief of security, Lamar Boudry, giving that couple his down-the-nose stare. “So that took care of that,” I said. “One of Lamar’s stern looks would be enough to shut anyone up in a hurry.”

“It probably did, but the next day they were at it
again. The police said they must have struggled, a gun went off, and—” Tina interrupted herself. “See? It’s that electrically charged photographic imprint I told you about. A violent death, and the ghost goes through it again like a cassette tape.”

I envisioned a see-through woman in a filmy white nightgown who carried a lighted candle as she floated through the room. The picture may have been influenced by the last late-night movie I saw on television, but it was probably close enough.

I turned toward the elevators, eager to get as far away from that room as possible. “The ghost has turned off the noise and loud music, so let’s go.”

Tina grabbed my arm. “Not yet. We can’t. I have to check out the room first.”

Icy prickles ran up and down my back. Or were they somebody’s icy fingers? “You mean go inside?” I squeaked.

Tina nodded. “That’s why I brought you with me,” she said. As I hung back, she pleaded, “Please, Liz. I need you. I can’t do it alone.”

Ever since I began my summer job in the Ridley health club, Tina had been my friend. We may not have seen eye-to-eye on everything, especially on Fran—Francis Liverpool III—because Tina thought I should hold out for a handsome boyfriend who was a lot taller than I was; and I thought Fran was the neatest, most-fun-to-be-with guy I’d ever met, and I didn’t mind that he was four inches shorter than I am. That is, I didn’t mind
much
, and I liked the way Fran kissed.

Tina also kept telling me, every time I dropped something
or tripped over something, that my clumsiness stemmed from a lack of self-worth. Somehow she managed to tie a short boyfriend into it. I told her that I grew a lot last year, and I still wasn’t used to my head being so far from my feet, but that didn’t fit her pop-psychology theories. However, I liked Tina; she’d been a big help to me, and I decided I owed her a couple of favors.

“All right,” I agreed, in a voice so small, it seemed to come out of my toes.

Tina nodded, raised her hand again, and knocked on the door.

I could only stare. “You knocked for a ghost? Do you expect it to open the door?”

She gave me one of those looks and said, “We have to knock before entering any of the rooms. It’s a hotel rule.” She pulled out her passkey and opened the door.

Reluctantly, I followed her inside, but stopped in amazement as Tina quickly flipped on a master switch. This wasn’t just a room, it was a large, elegant suite. From where I stood I could see a living room with deep sofas, glass tables, and a carved desk with gleaming bronze bookends, pencil holder, and paperweight. Beyond was a dining area, with a glass wall opening onto a balcony, and between the living room and dining room was a short hallway that probably led to a bedroom and bath. Everything was white and gold, soft and plush, mirrored and sparkly, with just a few accents of pale blue. A small crystal chandelier hung in the entryway over our heads, and a large one graced the dining room.

It didn’t look like the kind of creepy, cobwebby place where a ghost would hang out, and there were no cold chills or floating, staring eyes. I was so fascinated with the suite, I didn’t even think about ghosts.

And I couldn’t resist looking into the nearest mirror, which framed the room behind me. “Wow!” I said. “This place was designed for a redhead. All I’d need is the right designer gown to go with it.”

“And a ton of money to pay the bill,” Tina said. “Don’t touch anything. You know how you are,” she admonished, and began to walk through the living room.

I followed, chattering away. I picked up the paperweight, which was heavy enough to be real bronze, steadied the tall blown-glass vase that rocked a little as I gently brushed the table, and examined the delicate white-and-gold china demitasse cups on a sideboard in the dining area. I lifted one to examine it, but Tina froze, so I put it down again, managing to catch it before it rolled off the edge. I knew I was klutzy. I didn’t need Tina to remind me.

“This is fantastic! I didn’t even dream the Ridley had a suite like this,” I said.

“There are five of them on this floor—all of them on this north side,” Tina told me, “but only two are occupied right now—the one at the end of the hall and the one next to that.”

“I don’t get it. The people way down there couldn’t hear noise coming from this suite,” I said.

“The one at the end did,” Tina told me. Then, as though she suspected someone of hiding there, she
carefully opened each of the cupboards under the built-in bar, which was in a waist-high divider that stood in front of the hallway entrance between the left side of the living room and the dining room. Tina went on to explain, “He’s a businessman from Japan, here for a meeting with some financial-investment group—that one Mr. Parmegan is in on. Rita, in housekeeping, says the man’s a candy-bar freak. The guy in the suite next to his is in that financial group too. I wonder if …”

I wasn’t interested in a financial group, especially if it had any connection to the manager of the Ridley, who was a gracious host to hotel guests but about as friendly as Oscar the Grouch to his employees.

“What about the other suites?” I asked. “The hotel’s giving me a room during the weekend because I’m one of the staff who’ll have to give out clues when they put on that murder-mystery weekend. Do you think there’s any chance that …”

“None,” Tina said. She stopped and turned to look at me. I could see that she had something on her mind, and I wondered if she’d tell me about it. Tina loves good gossip. But she just said, “By tonight all the rest of the suites will be occupied.”

“Has there ever been a murder-mystery weekend at the Ridley before?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “It’s something new here, which is probably why they sold out right away. There’s a limit. Only one hundred and fifty people can play the game.”

I shrugged. “It doesn’t seem like much of a game to me. I don’t know why people would want to pretend to solve a crime.”

“Laura … You know Laura Dale, don’t you?”

“Of course I know Laura. She’s head of the Ridley’s public relations. She’s the one who got the idea to put on this mystery thing.”

“Okay, then,” Tina went on. “Laura told me it’s like being inside a mystery novel. People who love to read mysteries want to see if they can solve one, too, given the chance.”

One hundred and fifty supersleuths running around the hotel? This was going to be something to see.

Tina thought a moment, then seemed to make up her mind. She pulled out a chair from the dining table and sat down, motioning to me to do the same. Her eyes glittered and she lowered her voice as she said, “Liz, this is top secret, but I’ll trust you not to tell anyone. There’s something even more exciting than a mystery weekend going on at the Ridley. You know that big stolen-securities–money-laundering trial that’s going to begin on Monday?”

“No,” I said.

She was so surprised that for a moment she seemed to lose her train of thought. “What do you mean, ‘no’? Aren’t you interested in local crime news?”

“I try to avoid it.”

“Hmmm. Obviously an infantile return-to-the-womb response,” she said. “For your own welfare you should—”

I interrupted. “What about the trial?”

Tina remembered what she’d been talking about, and her enthusiasm returned. “Well! The district attorney’s key witness is a secretary who knows how the guy on
trial managed it and can identify some of the syndicate people he dealt with. Lamar said her testimony’s so important, it could bring about the conviction. The only problem is that a prowler, who may or may not have anything to do with the syndicate, was chased away from the apartment complex where she lives, and now she’s terrified that her life is in danger, so she’s going to be sequestered with a policewoman here at the Ridley.”

Tina proudly squared her shoulders, and her uniform of white shirt and maroon jacket and slacks looked even better filled out than usual. “Of course, Lamar and I and the rest of our security staff will be helping to protect her.”

“Why did the desk put her up here in a suite?”

“The suites have got two bedrooms,” she answered, “one for the witness and one for the policewoman.”

I counted on my fingers. “There’s still one more suite. If it’s going to be empty …”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” she said. “The one on the other side of this suite will be occupied by that mystery writer and her daughter, the actress, who are putting on the mystery weekend.”

“Yikes!” I said. “Do mystery writers make
that
much money?”

“Not on your life,” she said. “For them it’s a comp.”

“Which means?”

“Complimentary. The hotel’s paying for it.”

There was a loud buzz on Tina’s walkie-talkie, which made us both jump. It was Lamar, of course, and Tina convinced him she was simply doing a thorough checkup.

She hooked the walkie-talkie back on her belt, said, “Come on,” to me, and walked into the first bedroom. I was right behind her, and when I saw that room I made a little strangling noise of total admiration and naked jealousy.

Filmy gauze swooped from a gilded crown to frame the gigantic bed with its rose velvet spread, and I am probably exaggerating a bit, but the soft, white carpet had to be close to knee-deep. The outside wall was glass, and I pulled back the sheer curtains to see another sliding glass door leading to a balcony that ran across that side of the hotel. It was perfect, except for the view. All I could see was the tops of nearby buildings, and I couldn’t imagine why anyone would go out on the balcony when the view inside the room was so much better.

Tina unplugged both the clock radio next to the bed and the television set in the armoire. “Just in case one of these was turned on by mistake,” she told me, although she knew as well as I did that with no one in the room there was no way it could happen. I began to feel creepy again.

She did a fast tour of the second bedroom—which was pretty, but not movie-star pretty like the first—and the gigantic marble bathroom. I stayed right behind her. What impressed me most was the telephone in the bathroom. Imagine! In the bathroom! As though there wasn’t a telephone in every room of that suite.

Tina winced and jumped back as she jerked open the closed shower curtain. When nobody lunged out at us,
she let go of my arm, gave a huge sigh of relief and said, “Okay, it’s done. Let’s get out of here.”

But as we left the bedroom area a strange thing happened. The air seemed to grow colder and riffle against the back of my neck. “Maybe we should adjust the air-conditioning in here. It’s awfully cold,” I said, as I gave a quick glance toward Tina.

Tina didn’t answer, and her face told me something I didn’t want to know. She broke into a run, but I beat her time by at least three seconds and might have been faster if I hadn’t tripped over a small footstool and gone sprawling.

“Hurry up!” Tina said. She had the front door open by the time I scrambled to my feet. And as she turned off the light switch I thought I heard her murmur, “Don’t leave me.”

“I’m not going to leave you,” I said.

At the same time she said to me, “What is that supposed to mean? I’m not going to leave you.”

I gasped and stammered, “Y-you said it. I didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t. You did.”

“I did not!”

We stared, wide-eyed, as it dawned on us who had spoken. Then we screeched and slammed against each other as we raced out the door, bouncing off the walls in our mad dash for the elevator. As though we were little kids, we jabbed at the button over and over and hopped up and down, whimpering and squeaking.

Suddenly the elevator doors slid open, a headless man in a tuxedo thrust himself toward me, and I screamed.

“Sorry,” the bellman named Ziggy said. “I didn’t know anybody would be standing there.” He pulled back his luggage cart, on the end of which stood a fully clothed dressmaker’s dummy, and swung it sideways, passing around me.

“I do like that scream,” a woman trilled. She followed Ziggy out of the elevator and beamed at Tina and me. “Now, which one of you darling girls made that beautifully loud noise?”

“She did,” Tina answered quickly. “I’m with security.”

I recognized the woman immediately as Roberta Kingston Duffy, the mystery writer. I’d met her when she’d visited the Ridley Hotel a couple of months ago, getting acquainted with the layout before she wrote the script for the murder-mystery weekend. Mrs. Duffy had short, curly gray hair, a round, rosy-cheeked face, and reminded me of my grandmother. But my grandmother behaves in a normal way and doesn’t carry dressmaker’s
dummies in tuxedos around with her, or compliment people on their screams, or sit in the coffee shop making notes and mumbling aloud about whether her current victim should be shot, stabbed, or poisoned.