Never Neck at Niagara (2 page)

Pay a little visit to Purple Mist Tours, Inc.

***

Niagara Falls, Canada wasn't a difficult place to navigate in, provided it wasn't a summer evening. Then the streets became so clogged with pedestrians of every shape, size, and nationality that just getting from one light to the next took the nerves of a surgeon. Since Leigh had no such nerves, she was happy for the light crowd, and the fact that Purple Mist Tours, Inc. (whose address was conveniently listed in the phonebook) was right on the main drag. She steered the Cavalier past the horseshoe falls and into the tourist area, past wax museums, haunted houses, and a plethora of souvenir shops, to the relatively plain storefront whose sign read "Purple Mist Tours, Inc./Hot Nails." She parked and walked in.

A narrow staircase ran straight up from the entrance, stenciled letters and a giant arrow on the wall announcing it as the path to Purple Mist Tours, Inc. Those wishing to increase the temperature of their nails, on the other hand, had merely to make a left. Leigh began the climb.

Through another door at the top of the stairs was a dimly lit reception area with a single counter and two uncomfortable-looking chairs. Serviceable quarters for a small tour company, she thought, but they hardly screamed "big money." A hefty woman with long, stringy dark hair smiled at her curiously. "Hello. Can I help you with something?"

"I'm here to see Marjory," she answered simply. She had been hoping that Roger's wife worked in the business, but if not, she figured she could at least  wrangle a home phone number. And that, unfortunately, was about as far as she had planned.

The woman's casual smile told Leigh she had gotten lucky. "She's in the back. You a friend of hers?"

Leigh nodded. Given the circumstances, she figured it was a white lie, at most.

"Go on in, then," the woman said cheerfully, opening a gate at the edge of the counter. Leigh thanked her and walked through it to the closed door behind marked "Private." She opened the door hesitantly, rapping on it gently at the same time. "Excuse me? Marjory?"

The door opened on a spacious office that was lavishly decorated in hues of soft ivory, a sharp contrast to the stark reception area. Plush, spotless modern furniture appeared to have come right out of the plastic, and the walls were lined with what looked—to Leigh's admittedly untrained eye—like original artwork. "Yes. Can I help you?" The woman who stood up was every bit as carefully and tastefully put together as the room. Her crisp coral-colored suit was without a crease, her stylishly short hairdo without a single misplaced strand. Coordinated gold jewelry adorned her neck, earlobes, wrists, and fingers, successfully conveying that "have money—will spend" aura that retailers drool over. She was pretty in a stately sort of way, her age betrayed by the prominent crow's-feet that peeked out through her heavy makeup.

"I, um…" Leigh hadn't prepared a speech. Since there wasn't any good way to say what she had to say, she took a deep breath and winged it. "Your husband's name is Roger, right?"

The woman's carefully plucked eyebrows lowered instantly. "Yes. What of it?"

From the look on Marjory's face, Leigh had to wonder if she had encountered many other young women claiming familiarity with her husband. "I don't know him," she said quickly, tensing. "I just overheard something he said this morning, and I thought you ought to know about it."

The woman's calm face broke into a carefully controlled smile. "My dear," she began, "I appreciate your sense of moral righteousness. Really, I do. But what my husband does, and with whom, doesn't concern me in the least."

Leigh tried to keep her jaw from dropping. She knew that women with such attitudes existed, but she'd never met one. She hoped her husband hadn't either.

"Is there anything else?" Marjory asked politely, clearly ready to be relieved of her unwelcome visitor.

"Yes," Leigh exclaimed, flustered. "I didn't come here to tell you your husband was fooling around." He was, of course, but it was hardly the point of her visit. She took another deep breath. "I came here to tell you that I think he's trying to kill you."

The woman's smug features dissolved, and for a brief moment, Leigh could see fear flash across her dark brown eyes. But just as quickly, a look of calm confidence returned. "That's ridiculous," she answered softly. "What exactly did you hear?"

Leigh repeated an edited version of the conversation, and grew increasingly uneasy as she did so. Roger had told Ash that her blowing the whistle now would cost them money, and Leigh had assumed that was because once his wife found out about the affair he would lose his half of the tour business. But given Marjory's liberal attitude toward matrimony, that theory didn't wash. So what exactly was Ash threatening to blow the whistle on? Leigh looked into Marjory's carefully concentrating face. Perhaps Roger had been cheating on his wife in more ways than one. Had he been stealing from his own company? Or was there something shady about Purple Mist Tours in general? And if so, did Marjory even know about it?

The walls of the office seemed suddenly closer, and Leigh's fight or flight mechanism kicked in. If there was something illegal going on with Purple Mist Tours, she had no desire to know about it. Marjory was on her own. "That's all I know, I'm afraid," she said quickly, rising.

Marjory's face went blank, and she sat down heavily in her svelte office chair. The reality of what Leigh was saying appeared to have finally sunk in. "I can't believe this," she said weakly. "I really can't believe it."

"I'm sorry," Leigh offered helplessly.

"We should call the police," Marjory said weakly. "Shouldn't we?"

Leigh nodded. She knew she had to call the police, she just hadn't yet. Warning Marjory had been priority one, and far more effective, because the cops wouldn't do squat anyway. They would simply give her the standard speech about not being able to prosecute people for
potential
crimes, write up a report to placate her, and send her on her way. And given her well-established rapport with law enforcement officials—or more accurately, lack thereof—she would probably tick them off royally in the process. Nevertheless, they had to be told. If Roger ever did succeed in his quest, the report could be valuable evidence against him.

"Yes, we should," she answered.

Marjory said nothing for a moment, then announced, more to herself than to Leigh, "I'll call them and get a restraining order."

Leigh smiled. She might just get out of this office and get out of dealing with the police, too. "Good idea." She pulled a pen and yellow sticky note off Marjory's desk and wrote down her name and hotel room number. "Have them contact me if they want a statement about what I heard, okay?"

Marjory didn't answer, but sat limply, staring at a spot on the wall. "I was supposed to meet him later today," she said faintly, her face alarmingly pale despite her makeup. "We were going out to dinner. It's—" she stopped a moment, her lower lip quivering slightly. "It's our anniversary."

Blood rushed into Leigh's cheeks, and she squirmed in discomfort. "I'm so sorry," she offered again. "Please be careful. And do call the police right away."

Marjory managed to snap out of her funk and look back at her through moist eyes. "Thank you," she said, extending a cold hand for Leigh to shake. "I appreciate all you've done." She took the sticky note off the desk, folded it neatly, and slipped it into her suit's breast pocket.

"No problem," Leigh answered with a forced smile. She headed for the door, and once safely on the other side took off as fast as her feet would carry her.

***

For a regular churchgoer like Leigh, sleeping in on vacation Sundays was a real treat, and being in a hotel on someone else's expense account was icing on the cake. She could doze the morning away with preordered blueberry muffins and tea waiting at her bedside, thinking of how nice it was that she had "forgotten" to bring along any work. Being a partner in her own ad agency had its benefits, but feeling constantly guilty about leaving work undone was a pesky disadvantage, and putting a few hundred miles between herself and the unwritten copy was the only cure.

Having been awakened early by hunger, she dove happily into a large muffin. Room service was expensive, of course, and her scrupulously honest public-servant husband would be sure to pay for every morsel she ate out of his own pocket rather than the taxpayers', but it was still worth it. She collected a few crumbs from off the bed sheets and reached for the morning paper to help break the next batch's fall. Then she saw the small headline in the lower right hand corner, and her appetite dissolved.

WOMAN'S BODY FOUND  BELOW FALLS; FOUL PLAY POSSIBLE.

Her pulse pounded in her ears as she read the short article. "The body of a woman was recovered at the base of the horseshoe falls at approximately 11:00
PM
last night by officials utilizing a
Maid of the Mist
tour boat. The search was authorized after numerous sightseers reported watching a large object that might have been a person drifting in the river and going over the edge of the falls near the midpoint. Witnesses claim that the individual was not moving voluntarily at the time, leading investigators to speculate that the woman was either unconscious, or perhaps already dead, when she went over the falls. An investigation is currently under way."

Leigh's stomach lurched. It couldn't be. Marjory couldn't be dead. How could Roger have killed her, when she knew he was planning to? Hadn't she called the police?

If she had, they hadn't bothered to contact Leigh.

An even sicker feeling suddenly overcame her. If Marjory hadn't called the police, it was probably because she herself was involved in whatever illegal shenanigans Ash was threatening to blow the whistle on. In which case, she had probably never intended to call. She had intended to handle Roger on her own.

Leigh let the paper fall limply to her lap. If she had contacted the police herself, Marjory might still be alive. Guilt washed over her in heavy waves, blending imperceptibly with nausea. She pulled herself out of the bed and started getting dressed. It was too late to save Marjory, but her mistake could still be rectified somewhat. After she told her story to the authorities, Roger and the pink chameleon would be certain to get what was coming to them.

She had finished dressing and had her hand on the doorknob when the phone rang. She flew to it anxiously. "Yes? Hello?"

A man's voice, deep and proper, answered. "Yes, this is Officer Tony Burnett with the New York State Park Service calling. Is this Leigh Koslow?"

Her heartbeat quickened. So. Marjory had called the police after all. The burden of guilt on her chest lifted a little. "Yes, that's me."

"Ma'am, I wonder if you would be willing to come down to our headquarters on Goat Island as soon as possible. We have an individual here who appears confused and disoriented, and we're hoping you might be able to help us identify her. She isn't carrying any ID, but a note with your name and number was found in one of her pockets."

It was a moment before Leigh could speak. Marjory confused and disoriented, on Goat Island? It made no sense, but the primary implication was positive. If Marjory was on Goat Island now, she couldn't possibly have been found dead last night.

Leigh took a deep breath. It was all right. Marjory was alive. Whatever had happened to her between yesterday and this morning—she was still alive. And although Leigh stopped short of being glad that some other woman was dead, she couldn't help but be relieved at not having been a party to that particular tragedy.

"I'll be right there, Officer," she said firmly.

***

Her hands shook a little as she drove the Cavalier over the Peace Bridge back into the United States. Thankfully, it was still early, and the line at customs was short. A tour bus idled up in the queue next to her, and she somehow wasn't surprised to note that it was a Purple Mist. Since yesterday she had noticed two of them driving about, their striking eggplant color making them easy to spot. Like most local tour busses, they shuttled regularly between the U.S. and Canadian falls. But unlike most of the other busses, Purple Mist tours appeared to cater exclusively to foreign tourists. Both of the busses she had seen yesterday had carried Japanese families, while all the occupants of the current bus appeared to be from India.

A female passenger with a red dot on her forehead stuck a camera up to the bus window and aimed it at the customs booth, and Leigh's mind began to drift to something curious that Ashley had said. She was just about to remember it when the radio station she had been listening to began its newscast.

"Police have identified the woman whose body was pulled from the base of the horseshoe falls late last night as twenty-three-year-old Ashley Whitener, a resident of Fort Erie, Ontario. Ms. Whitener was employed as an assistant manager at the Niagara Sun Diner in Niagara Falls, Ontario; she was last seen Saturday morning by her roommate as she left their apartment, ostensibly to go running. Investigators have not yet determined whether foul play was involved in Ms. Whitener's death; autopsy results are pending."

Leigh's mind raced.
Ashley
Whitener. Twenty-three years old. It could be a coincidence, she reasoned. There must be any number of twenty-something Ashleys in the area—there was no reason to assume it was Roger's Ashley. If she hadn't first thought the dead woman was Marjory, it would never even have occurred to her.