Wound Up In Murder (7 page)

“Hello,” I said, snapping to attention as I answered.

“Casey, I didn't wake you, did I?” my mother said. “I have an early day and I wanted to reach you before I left. Your father and I want to wish you luck on your upcoming retreat. Everything going okay?”

At least she hadn't started in on me about going to cooking school, reminding me it was all on hold, just waiting for me to say yes. My mother was convinced that I wouldn't keep up with the retreats and she had dangled cooking school in Paris to me as an alternative. Her thinking was that at least then I would have some credentials that made me a professional baker. I admit it had sounded appealing, particularly when I ran into snags with my aunt's business. But so far I had not taken my mother up on the offer.

“Everything is going great,” I mumbled in a sleepy voice. “It will be fine. I have everything covered this time.” With each word, I spoke a little clearer. I just wanted to reassure her and get off the phone before I said too much.

“What's wrong, honey?” she said. How did she know something was wrong? Was it something in my voice? I thought I had sounded so confident. I don't know how my mother did it, but it was like she had some kind of radar that picked up on trouble.

I hated to let on, but when she called me honey, I melted. All the fussing between us and her reminding me that my life seemed headed nowhere went out the window. “It's Sammy,” I said. Then the story tumbled out.

There was a long silence before my mother began to speak. “And his parents were upset about his magic show.” She sighed and let out some disconcerted noises. “He didn't do it, did he?”

“Mother, we're talking about Sammy. He rescues spiders and takes them outside.”

“But you said he was drunk.” She paused a moment. “You're right. Even drunk I can't imagine Sammy strangling somebody. You have to do something. You seem to have a knack for investigating. Find out what happened before they arrest him. His parents would be devastated if he called them from jail.”

Was my mother actually giving me the thumbs-up on my sleuthing? I was about to thank her for the confidence, but then she added the kicker. “Casey, he's only in all this trouble because of you. He's only there because of you.”

It was time to set up for my retreat. I hesitated outside the guest house before opening the door softly and wheeling the plastic bin in. Sammy stirred a little as the wheels made a squeaking noise.

I was trying not to feel too guilty about what my mother said. The worst part was I couldn't argue with it. I didn't admit it to her, but I had already come to the same conclusion. Sammy would never have moved here if I wasn't here, so it was really all my fault he was in trouble. He was snoring lightly and had a peaceful look on his face.

“I'm sorry,” I said, standing over him. “Don't worry, I'm going to get you out of trouble.” He opened his eyes a little and looked up at me.

“That's all right, Case. I know you always come through. You're the best.” His voice still sounded under the influence. He reached up. “Want to snuggle?” His arm fell back on the
bed and his eyes closed again as he mumbled something about how loud a noise his arm had made.

“Sammy, you don't understand. Something happened.” I realized my words were hitting deaf ears. He'd already gone back to sleep and was snoring again. I straightened the afghan and went to collect the mystery tote bags.

*   *   *

Sammy didn't stir while I loaded them in the bin, or even when the wheels squeaked as I rolled it to the door. He had no idea of what was brewing around him.

The grounds of Vista Del Mar were still quiet as I walked down the driveway. There were just a few stragglers coming down the roadway from the guest room buildings, headed toward the Sea Foam dining hall for breakfast. For a moment I considered joining them. The pot of coffee I'd downed on an empty stomach after talking with my mother and catching a few hours' sleep had left me feeling jumpy. The whole thing with Sammy added to my anxiety, along with the fact that my retreat was about to begin. As I neared the Lodge, the breeze carried the smell of hot food from the dining hall.

The kitchen staff excelled at breakfast and I imagined a stack of pancakes with a pool of melting butter. They always had eggs, breakfast meats and fresh fruit, too. The food might help the jumpy feeling, but I was pretty sure it would make me feel sleepy. Given the choice, I decided to endure my nerves.

I wondered how Diana Rathman's death would affect the 1963 retreat, and at the same time I was glad it wasn't my problem. It was enough to be concerned with twenty people coming for a weekend of yarn craft led by two women who I'd come to realize didn't exactly get along.

The interior of the Lodge was empty and the noise of the bin as I rolled it across the wood floor echoed in the huge room. All the decorations for the 1963 retreat were still up and there was something more. An old TV had been brought in and left in an open space between the table tennis and pool tables at the back and the seating area around the massive stone fireplace.

The space set off for my registration was behind the TV and in front of the windows that looked toward the sand dunes running between the hotel grounds and the beach. The Vista Del Mar staff had already put up two tables and provided some chairs. I arranged the bags out on one of the tables. Crystal had made up some extra bags just in case. It had been fun putting the supplies in them—deciding what kinds of yarn to add and picking out the beads from the big box we had. We'd put some charms and special beads in each one. I had made binders for everyone, too. I'd begun to understand that presentation was everything. The papers with the schedule and assorted information appeared far more impressive in a notebook than just stuck in the tote bags.

I set out the sign-in sheets, the name tags and holders, and a dish of foil-wrapped chocolate candy. I liked to start things off with a sweet touch. The setup had gone far quicker than I'd expected, and the jumpy feeling of my empty stomach had gotten worse. I decided to stop in the Cora and Madeleine Delacorte Café for a quick bite.

Since everyone was in the dining hall, the place was empty. Almost. I was surprised to see Dane in uniform leaning against the front counter. “Are you still here or here again?” I asked.

“Still,” he said. “Nothing very exciting. I was just making sure no one started poking around in the tent set up around the crime scene.” He dropped his voice at the end even
though there was no one to hear but the guy behind the counter. And I was sure he already knew about it.

“Anything happening with the investigation?” I asked.

“Not that I know of. Lieutenant Borgnine is being very closemouthed, particularly to me.” The counter man interrupted and asked for my order. I glanced at all the sweet things and even considered one of my own muffins, though that seemed a little weird.

“I'm not sure. Maybe one of the smoothies.” I saw Dane shaking his head at my choice.

“Why don't you have a breakfast sandwich, my treat.” He proceeded to give me a lecture on the importance of a good breakfast. My stomach grumbled in agreement and I nodded to the man.

“Any idea why Lieutenant Borgnine isn't talking?”

Dane let out a heavy sigh. “He knows I talk to you. He's probably afraid you're going to get in the middle of things again and he doesn't want me helping you. Though I don't know why you would. The victim isn't one of your people.” He led me to a table by the window and we both sat.

The sandwich was delivered and I started to eat so fast, Dane had to tell me to slow down. “I don't understand how someone who bakes so well can be so lame about regular food.”

“Hey, I started brewing a pot of coffee instead of using instant,” I said between bites. He gave me an approving nod and I smiled, glad that he seemed to have accepted what I'd said the night before. I debated whether I should tell him about the silks. “There is a way I might be sort of involved with Diana Rathman's death.”

Dane's eyes opened wider. “Oh, so you want to confess,” he teased.

“Ha, ha, very funny,” I said with a joking eye roll. Then
I got serious. “There might be something that looks bad, but isn't what it seems.”

Dane held up his hand. “Don't say anything more, please. Whatever it is, it's better if I don't know it. Lieutenant Borgnine has already warned me that I'm not supposed to help amateur investigators—in other words, you.”

I remembered Frank's advice on how to get information from Dane—flirt. I started batting my eyes and twirled a strand of hair. “C'mon, tell me what you know. You're not going to listen to him, are you?”

Dane watched in amusement, barely holding back a laugh. Once again I'd come across more as funny than sexy. Not the reaction I was going for. I said Frank gave me the advice; I didn't say I was good at it.

“Nice try, but your attempts at flirting are still too obvious. However, if you'd like to practice, I'd be glad to be your coach,” Dane said with a wicked smile. He looked disappointed when I changed the subject.

“You can probably answer this, though. Do you know how it's going to affect the 1963 retreat?”

“Yup, I could answer that if I knew. But I don't.” He looked at his watch. “I better check if I'm done for the day. I need my beauty sleep.” He got up from the table and gave my arm an affectionate squeeze. “Next time I promise, no audience,” he said. And then pursed his lips in a kiss in case I didn't get his meaning. So maybe he hadn't given up.

I finished the last of the sandwich and headed back into the main room. It had gone through a big change in the short time I'd been away. The quiet had disappeared and there was a buzz of activity. The TV was on and playing a Jack LaLanne exercise show. A group of the 1963ers were in front of the screen exercising along with Jack. One of them was wearing a Jack LaLanne–style jumpsuit and ballet
slippers. Others just wore timeless-looking shorts and T-shirts. A couple of women had on black stretch pants with stirrups that went over their feet along with T-shirts. Exercise attire was certainly a lot easier to wear now.

Jimmie Phelps was bringing in a load of boxes on a dolly. It was amazing how much he'd retained the athletic build pictured on the old baseball card. He just had less hair with more silver in it. Bobbie Listorie was helping him. His attempt to keep the same look as he'd had in his younger years seemed to be based on keeping the same hairstyle and wearing the same type of clothes. And as Madeleine had said, who could miss those beautiful green eyes.

Kevin St. John was standing in front of the massive registration counter. I recognized the woman talking to him as Sally Winston, Norman Rathman's assistant. Their body language said there was some kind of dispute going on. I edged closer to hear.

“Norman Rathman would be here himself, but he's in shock. We haven't made an announcement to our people yet. But we think that under the circumstances, once we tell them, they should be given the option of leaving with a complete refund.”

Kevin St. John seemed to be trying to retain his cool, but I could see the frustration building. “That's completely against our policy,” he sputtered. Just then Lieutenant Borgnine joined them.

“Did I hear something about people leaving?” he said, looking at Sally Winston. She apparently thought she'd found someone who understood and proceeded to plead her case.

“Sorry, Ms. Winston,” the policeman said. “I have to insist that everyone stay put until we finish our investigation.”

“And when will that be?” she asked in a shrill voice.

“Certainly by the end of the weekend,” he said. “In the meantime I would suggest you try to keep the weekend going as planned.” He gestured toward the exercise group. “And your people needn't worry that there is some crazed killer on the loose. We're sure that it was personal to the victim.” He let it all sink in for a moment before he continued. “I know we spoke last night, but I'd just like to clarify a few things while I have you here.” He waited until she gave a nod of agreement. “Norman Rathman didn't seem to be aware his wife was missing. Do you know anything about that?”

Sally suddenly looked like she wished she was anywhere but there. “Norman and I were going over the program like we do at the beginning of these events. He's a bit of a perfectionist. Diana said she didn't want to disturb him and had arranged for her own room.” She did her best to turn the tables on the police lieutenant. “I can assure you that he loved his wife very much.”

My eyes were almost jumping out of my head, they opened so wide in disbelief. She was lying. She'd told me they were getting a divorce. I wanted so badly to butt in and tell the lieutenant, but I knew all it would do was get me in trouble. Where he was concerned, a low profile was best.

I couldn't believe what she said next. She complained that they were ruining the illusion of the 1963 retreat, and if they were going to have police officers wandering around, the least they could do was wear uniforms from 1963 and hide their cars if they couldn't get old ones.

Lieutenant Borgnine looked at her at if she was crazy. His answer was a mere shake of the head before he walked away.

“I'm sure everything will be fine,” Kevin St. John said to Sally. “It's important to keep things as normal as possible.”

As he said that, Jimmie Phelps began to unpack one of
the boxes. He took out some cardboard pieces, and as he assembled them, I saw that it was a life-size cardboard cutout of him with a tray attached to the front. A prominent sign read,
GET A BOOST WITH BOOST UP
. Jimmie lined up rows of red-colored cans.

“What are you doing?” Sally Winston demanded. “That Boost stuff wasn't around in 1963. In those days there were only caffeine tablets. Now please take that down.”

Jimmie Phelps looked at Kevin St. John. “Our agreement was I would stay here for the weekend and mingle, along with putting on a softball game, if Boost Up could be a sponsor.”

Kevin St. John looked really uncomfortable. “Well, yes, I did say that . . .” Just then Bobbie Listorie chimed in, “And you said I could sell CDs.”

“CDs?” Sally shrieked. “There were no CDs in 1963. It was all vinyl LPs. She grabbed one and examined the cover. “This isn't even one of your old albums.”

“You've got to move with the times.” He pointed out that the CD was all covers of ballads from the last ten years. She seemed upset and he looked to the manager. “The only reason I'm here is they're having a private event at my usual place.” He did a couple of winks as if there was something wrong in mentioning the name of the posh resort where he was paid a retainer. Or maybe it was that he didn't want to say that he was paid a retainer to hang out and schmooze. “The point was to give the guests here a chance to take home a souvenir of the Bobbarino.” He threw a seductive look Sally's way.

“What's going on? Are we having a meeting?” Dotty Night said, coming in with a box of DVDs. Her platinum hair was so bright, I thought it might glow in the dark. Sally took one look at what Dotty was carrying and got even more upset and fussed that DVDs weren't around in 1963.