Wound Up In Murder (10 page)

I mentioned there was a nature walk put on by Vista Del Mar starting in a few minutes if any of them were interested. Madeleine nudged me. “Tell them that they can take part in the activities put on by the other retreat.” But before I could say anything, she turned to the group. “I'm kind of your hostess, since my sister and I own Vista Del Mar. I was the one who arranged for all of you to be welcome at the things being put on by the 1963 people. That's what I call them, but I think the official name of their retreat is My Favorite Year 1963.” She let out a little titter of laughter. “I don't suppose you really care what their real name is as long as you know who I'm talking about.” She took a breath. “Tonight there is a screening of
From Russia with Love
in Hummingbird Hall. There's also going to be folk singing around the fire pit.” She looked back at me. “Do you have anything planned for our people?”

Olivia Golden stood up and answered for me. “After dinner I'm going to be in the Lodge and anyone interested in making squares for charity is welcome to join me.”

The woman wearing the T-shirts with witty knitting sayings stood up. “A bunch of us are going to get together in the lobby of the Sea and Sand building. It's bring your own project.”

When she finished, everyone got up and began to file out in small groups talking among themselves. Lucinda and Madeleine hung back. Lucinda and I straightened things up while Madeleine watched. Finally, we walked to the door together.

“I suppose you're going home now,” I said to Madeleine when we got outside. “All the planned activities for our
retreat are over.” At least I hoped that was her plan. I didn't mind spending time with her and even sort of looking after her, to a point.

“No, I'm absolutely not going home now. If I do, I will just have to listen to Cora lecture me on how inappropriate everything I'm doing is. I know I shouldn't let her boss me around, but it's hard for me to stand up to her. It's a lot easier if I'm just not with her.” Madeleine must have picked up on the downturn in my expression. “Don't worry, Casey, I'm not expecting you to be my escort tonight. I appreciate that you introduced me to Bobbie. I was a little intimidated by meeting him again. But I'll be fine tonight. I'm not even going to sit at Cora's and my special table at dinner. I'm going to eat with the rest of our group. Then I'm going to the movie they're showing.” She had a happy smile as she said she was going to the café to get an espresso drink, like it was something very naughty.

Lucinda and I watched her walk down the path. When she was almost out of sight, Lucinda turned to me. “Okay, tell me everything you know.”

We went in the other direction almost to the edge of the grounds and found a solitary bench. We were at the top of the slope, and from there we could see over the sand dunes all the way to the water. The sun had done another disappearing act, and the breeze felt cool and fresh.

I filled her in on what Scarlett had said about Diana Rathman, and the fact that Lieutenant Borgnine didn't seem to have Sammy as a suspect yet. “The most important thing I got from talking to Scarlett was that Diana Rathman seems to have come at the last minute and even her husband didn't know she was coming. She hadn't been coming to the retreats for several years. What made her suddenly come to this one?”

Lucinda pulled her Ralph Lauren jacket a little tighter. “If we figure that out, maybe we'll know who killed her.”

I sent Lucinda off to join the others, and I headed across the street to my place. She offered to come with, but I wanted her to enjoy the retreat as much as possible, and I thought Sammy was really my problem.

Sammy had been in the back of my mind all day. I regretted that I hadn't talked to him more when I picked up the tote bags. I was worried that he might have awakened and left. I knocked on the door of the guest house softly before I unlocked it. I heard something like a groan as a response. Inside the light was dim and I barely made out Sammy's hulking shape sitting on the edge of the bed. When I got closer, I saw that his head was down, almost between his knees. He looked like he felt awful.

“Hey, Case,” he said in greeting and then went back to moaning and groaning and muttering to himself. “I'm a doctor. I should know what to do for a hangover.” Then he let out a laugh that sounded more like a croak. “That's what happens when you specialize in the other end of things. I should have been a GP, then I'd know what to do.”

I didn't know what to do, either. He still seemed a little slurry and I wanted him 100 percent before I started asking him questions. I made sure all the shutters were completely closed before turning on a low light. Sammy responded with more groans as he shielded his eyes.

“I'm going to make us some coffee,” I said, going to the door.

“I'll come with you,” he said, standing too quickly. He wove back and forth before falling back onto the bed. “Maybe not.”

I returned a few minutes later with a pot of coffee and a couple of mugs, a pitcher of water and some burnt toast. Sammy looked at the offering. “Gee, Case, I knew you weren't much of a cook when it came to regular food, but that toast looks
beyond eating and kind of empty. You know, so burned it's black, and missing butter and jam.”

“I deliberately burned it. I may not go in for making gourmet dishes, but I can make toast. It's amazing what you can find on the Internet. The burned stuff is carbon and is supposed to filter the alcohol out of your system. I think butter and jam would get in the way.”

“Whatever you say.” He picked up one of the pieces of toast and tried to eat it, but he couldn't get it down. He did drink several glasses of water and began to nurse a mug of coffee. He looked a little better. I felt rotten interrogating him in the condition he was in, but I had to know what had happened.

“Do you want to tell me about last night? Like what happened before you landed outside my back door,” I said. His head bobbed back and forth and he began to massage his temples.

“Is that what happened? I was wondering how I got here. Did we spend the night—”

“No, nothing like that,” I said, interrupting him.

He hung his head dejectedly. “Maybe it is just as well. I wouldn't have remembered it.” I prodded him some more for details of his evening after I left.

“I was pretty upset,” he began. “That woman kept heckling me.”

“And,” I said, trying to keep him talking.

“I probably could have handled it, but I heard about your date,” he said in a dejected tone.

“It was only dinner, and it was just a onetime thing.” I thought of adding that since Sammy and I weren't a couple, I was certainly free to go on dates, but he looked so bad, I didn't have the heart to say it. I was glad that I hadn't said more when I heard his relieved sigh before he continued.

“If only she hadn't messed with the card trick. She wouldn't let up. You're sure it was just a onetime thing?” Sammy said.

“Forget about my date for dinner, then what happened?”

“Apparently people drank a lot in the early 1960s, and part of the mixer was a martini bar. I was feeling pretty upset by then, and I just took a whole shaker of them and went to the beach.”

“You must remember something else,” I said, trying not to sound as frantic as I was beginning to feel.

He rolled his head a few times and moaned. “I don't know. I vaguely remember wandering around in the dark.”

I kept at it. “Did you talk to anybody? See anybody?” He shrugged in response and looked like he was thinking about lying down again.

“Case, I don't remember. If I did something embarrassing, I'll apologize later.”

“What about the silk streamer she pulled out of your sleeve. What happened to that?”

Sammy shrugged. “What's the difference?”

“Last night you told me you did something terrible. What was it?”

“I pride myself on not letting down my professional persona. But I couldn't help it. When she messed up the card trick, I lost it. I called her Miss Crabby Pants and said she was fired as my assistant. Case, I've never lost it like that before.” He held his head again. “Could we talk about this another time?”

“No,” I said. “We can't. There's something you don't know. That woman who wrecked your show was found dead last night. Strangled with your silk streamer.”

At that moment it seemed like I had found the cure for a hangover because Sammy stopped massaging his forehead, sat forward and seemed suddenly completely alert.

“You think I did that?” He shook his head. “Did I do that?”
Then he looked bewildered. “I couldn't have, could I?” He viewed his surroundings. “Are the cops looking for me?”

“I know you, Sammy, and even drunk I can't imagine you strangling anybody. So even if you don't know, I know. And the cops aren't looking for you, yet anyway.” I mentioned that I was pretty sure they still thought the streamer was a scarf Diana was wearing. “There's something else. She was wearing big filigree earrings, and one of them turned up in the tote bags I had sitting in here. Do you know anything about it? Like maybe you found it stuck to your clothes and dropped it in there.”

He shrugged. “Oh, Case, I don't know. If I had it, my fingerprints could be on it.” He turned to me. “You have to find out what happened.”

“Nobody knows that you're here. Why don't you just stay here for now—until I can get this sorted out.”

“I can't let you do that. You could get in trouble. Oh, my gosh, I'm a fugitive.”

“Almost a fugitive,” I countered.

“If my parents find out, they'll kill me. As you might imagine, they were against my whole plan to move, er, stay in Cadbury for a while.” But then his demeanor changed. “Be sure to let your mother know I'm a fugitive,” he said as his eyes brightened.

“Almost a fugitive,” I repeated. “Sammy, this is serious. It's not about trying to show my mother you're some kind of bad boy. Besides, she already knows about it.”

“I bet she thinks I'm all wrong for you now. Dangerous.” He struck his version of a bad boy pose, but his good-natured expression and puppy dog eyes blew the illusion.

I had gone back and forth between my place and Vista Del Mar so many times and I was so tired that I had lost track of time. The white sky didn't help since the light looked the same all day. It was even hard to remember what month it was. The weather didn't seem like August. Or at least not the Augusts I'd known all the years living in Chicago. Summer there meant sundresses and a sweat fest. I zipped up my beige fleece jacket as I walked down my driveway. Summer, winter, spring and fall were all pretty much the same here—cool and damp. I was still getting used to the uni-season climate and had a wardrobe of fleece jackets in many colors since they were basically my year-round outerwear of choice.

The dinner bell had already rung and there were just a few stragglers with me on the walkway toward the Sea Foam dining hall. The building up ahead was mostly windows and I could see the tables full of people.

I was once again grateful that meals were included with the rooms at Vista Del Mar. It was so much nicer than just having a restaurant connected to the place. This way everyone ate together. The big round tables and cafeteria-like setup for the food service made it feel like the guests were one big group. And the food was good.

I wasn't worried about being late for the meal with my group. Lucinda had taken on the job of acting as a host at the meals. With her restaurant experience, my friend was a natural for the job. I still wondered how much of a holiday the weekend was for her, but she insisted it was about a change of scenery, or in this case, a change of where she offered pitchers of ice tea.

The din of conversation and the smell of hot food greeted me as I walked inside. My stomach gurgled in response to the delicious fragrance and reminded me that I hadn't eaten since the breakfast sandwich. In a true gesture of sacrifice, I wasn't going to eat now, but get my meal packed up so I could take it to Sammy.

He'd finally eaten the burnt toast I made, not to filter the contents of his stomach as much as to put something in it. Could I have come up with a cure for a hangover? As soon as it sank in that Sammy might be a murder suspect, all traces of his headache and bad feeling left and were replaced by the gnawing of a hungry stomach.

Okay, I felt responsible for the mess he was in. He would never be living in Cadbury if it wasn't for me, and certainly part of his getting drunk had to do with my dinner with Dane. The least I could do was give him a place to hide out and bring him some food. I still wondered if he realized how much trouble he was in. All he seemed to care about was how my mother would view his situation.

Lucinda had taken over a group of tables near the large
stone fireplace. When I caught up with her, she was circulating with a pitcher of ice tea and pointing out the food line at the back of the large room. As usual, she was wearing something designer. The Eileen Fisher pants outfit appeared comfortable and stylish. I felt underdressed in my black jeans and tunic-style shirt, but then I always did compared to her. And I still had a night of baking ahead of me.

“Why don't you get your food,” my friend said.

“I think I will,” I said. “And thank you again for your help. It is such a relief to know that I have you and the early birds helping out now. I practically have a staff,” I joked. This was certainly a change from the temp work I'd done before moving here. I had repeat retreaters and people assisting me. That meant I was going to stick with something this time, didn't it?

I didn't let on what my plans for the food were. It had nothing to do with not trusting her and everything to do with I didn't want to stick her any further into the middle of the mess. If I had it to do over, I never would have told her Sammy was in my guest house. I knew that she would protect him, but I hated putting her in a position where she would have to lie if Lieutenant Borgnine asked if she knew where he was.

The line was long and I decided to cut to the chase and asked for mine in a to-go box, explaining I knew I wouldn't finish it all.
Or eat any of it
, I mumbled to myself, wondering if it would be so terrible if I took a few bites. The meatloaf and mashed potatoes looked particularly tasty.

I was on my way back to the table when Scarlett approached me. She was holding a plate of food and looking in the direction of our group. “Would it be okay if I sit with you guys?” she said, giving a dismissive glance to her husband and the rest of his tablemates. “I wish there had been events like this when I went to the other Favorite Year things.” She had changed out of the pedal pushers and was wearing a rosy pink
with white polka dot shift-style dress. I saw a pair of long white gloves hanging out of her bag. It made me glad that I wasn't around in 1963. Who would want to wear gloves unless it was to keep your hands warm?

“Of course, you're officially one of us now anyway. You're a dual retreater.” We started to thread our way through the tables. Now that I knew Sammy didn't remember anything from the previous night, I hoped I could find an alibi for him. But then, I couldn't ask for it directly. Why not start with Scarlett. “So then you've been to a lot of these Favorite Year retreats?”

“How about all of them and I have the wardrobe to prove it. I have raided all my relatives' attics and hit all the local thrift stores. To a lot of the people, the appeal is it's like a weekend-long costume party.” She glanced back toward the table where her husband was sitting. He was wearing a boxy-looking black shirt with white embroidery. “It makes you wonder what people were thinking of when you see some of the old styles. You should have seen the outfits from the My Favorite Year 1977. Norman actually wore one of those white three-piece suits like John Travolta did in
Saturday Night Fever
. He even wore the heeled shoes and he did his rendition of the dance routine from the movie.”

I looked at Norman as she spoke, imagining him in the outfit. He seemed to have all the attention of the people at his table. They honestly seemed to be hanging on to every word he said. “Last I heard he was in too much shock to deal with his people. I guess he recovered. He hardly looks like someone whose wife just died,” I said.

Scarlett followed my gaze. “I see your point. It makes you wonder.” I led the way to a couple of open chairs near the early birds. She pulled out a chair and sat down. I just deposited my food and went about working the tables.

It turned out I didn't have to worry about picking at Sammy's dinner. I spent the whole time circulating and working the crowd. For once Lucinda got to sit down and eat.

I waited until the last of our group was finished and the dining hall had emptied before I left. Outside, the light definitely looked like evening, but with the cloud-lined sky, it was more like someone was turning down a dimmer on the day than the brilliant light of the sunset. My plan was to take the food across the street to Sammy. But as I passed the Lodge building, Olivia Golden caught up with me.

“You're coming in, aren't you?” she said, taking a step toward the building that I thought of as the heart of the place. “You know the agreement. If we meet here, all guests are welcome to join us. And if they want to learn how to knit, we'll teach them. I think Scott is a little nervous and it would be good if you joined us.”

I understood. It was one thing to knit yourself and a total other thing to give lessons.

“It's not just the lessons. He's come a long way since hiding that he was a knitter on the first retreat, but people still do stare,” Olivia said. She looked at me for an answer. All the early birds had gone through some kind of transformation since the first retreat, but Olivia's had been the most dramatic. She had literally turned her frown upside down. She had bristled with anger on that first long weekend. Now, she'd turned all that negative energy from her ex's remarriage to something positive. She'd learned to help herself by helping others.

Instead of her eyes flashing with hostility, they glowed with good feeling and her mouth seemed to naturally rest in a pleasant smile. Gathering the squares to make into blankets for needy people had really turned her life around. More than once she'd brought up how each square carried the good feelings of the person who'd made it. What could be
nicer than being a recipient of a blanket with such good vibrations attached?

I held up the food container and said I was just going to take it across the street.

“It'll be okay for a few minutes. I just think you should be there for the beginning of our first knit gathering. I know Scott would feel better if you were there.”

She was right; the food would be okay for a while, and if my presence made Scott feel better, so be it. We walked into the Lodge together. It was buzzing with activity. The table tennis and pool tables were both in use. There was a line for the phone booths and a crowd around the message board outside the gift shop. The corkboard was Kevin St. John's substitute for texting. By now, it was a little better organized than when Vista Del Mar first went unplugged and the messages were all over the place without any sense of order. Now the board was divided into alphabetical quadrants, more or less.

A group of the 1963 people were gathered around a long table having a discussion. I noticed copies of a book called
The Group
, which I assumed was connected with the year they were spotlighting. The café was crowded with customers looking for espresso drinks.

The amber-colored glass lampshades gave off a friendly glow around the seating area. And the chandeliers hanging from the open-beamed ceiling were reflected in the dark wood floor.

Scott had already staked out another long table and chairs for the knitters. A smaller table was set up for a game of cards next to it. Since it was unoccupied, I set the food container on it. Scott was standing up waiting for people to join him. I thought I'd work the room and see if anyone was interested in doing some yarn craft.

I was surprised to see Norman Rathman standing with
Sally Winston in the midst of a small group of people. I was curious about the conversation and pretended to be interested in a copy of
Look
magazine on the table next to the couch.

“We're all so sorry for what happened,” a woman in a full skirt said. “But we're glad to have you back with us.”

Norman reacted by touching the woman on the arm and thanking her. I noticed that he had a way of looking at her as if she was very important to him. It was definitely part of his charm. It was interesting that while I was sure he was wearing clothing in the appropriate style from 1963, the off-white cable-knit sweater over khaki slacks were a lot more attractive than some of the old shirts the other men were wearing. “Sitting in my room didn't help. And to be treated like the prime suspect at a time like this was just terrible.” The group all murmured sympathy and he put his hand up. “It's okay now. That police lieutenant is looking elsewhere.”

“Really?” a man in a plaid sport shirt said. “What happened to change things?'

Norman shook his head, apparently referring to the ineptitude of the cops. “They finally thought to show me the scarf that was used to . . .” His voice grew strained with emotion. I had a hard time buying that it was genuine. There had been nothing but hostility between him and his wife when I'd seen them together. I knew their marriage was breaking up, but not who wanted out. Was he putting on an act now?

The group had drifted toward the front of the room as they talked. Was Norman going to finish the thought or leave it hanging? I moved with them, wanting to hear what he was going to do. In an effort to hide that I was eavesdropping, I pretended to be very interested in the displays the three celebrities had put up near the registration counter. Jimmie Phelps had the most professional one, but then the energy drink company was sponsoring his being there. I was pretty
sure that meant they were paying him. It seemed like it was a success as the supply of energy drinks had dwindled. I pretended to flip through the CDs that Bobbie Listorie was offering. There were a few old ones, but the largest number of copies seemed to be of something he'd done recently. The title read,
Bobbie Listorie, My Life in Song
. There was an attractive photo of him on the cover straddling a chair and looking straight into the camera. Dotty Night had a small display of DVDs, but most of the space was given over to photographs of her inn, along with postcards with all the information. The picture made it look charming, like an inn out of a fairy tale. It wasn't anything like Vista Del Mar and looked like the perfect place for a romantic weekend.

Norman knew how to draw out a story. In all the time I'd been looking at the stuff for sale, he still hadn't come out and said anything more about the “scarf.” Instead he'd talked about how bad he felt for missing out on so much of the day's activities and how upsetting it was dealing with an inept police department at a time like this.

Finally one of the people standing around him realized he'd never finished the thought and asked him what they'd found out about the scarf.