Snagged (21 page)

“Some latecomers arrived. Over there.” He pointed at Ruth and the Calla-Lily group. “Look at the expression on her face. She looks like the cat who ate the canary.”

“Never mind them,” Regan said. “There’s Dayton Rotter. He did get here in time. Keep your fingers crossed.”

Six of the models were now clustered beside Nora. Three more were on the runway. They were all in great form, Regan thought. The Fourth Quarter residents were thoroughly in the spirit of the occasion. Bessie lifted her skirt to do a peekaboo of her knee as she coquettishly turned, stopped and posed. Their legs looked great. Regan could see the intense interest on Dayton Rotter’s face.

Regan looked over at Nadine, who winked at her as a new CD came on. “Hal-le-lu-jah” started to play. The models near Nora began to sway, building up to the grand finale.

“Rotter missed the beginning,” Regan told Luke. “I’m going to talk to him.” She slipped through the crowd.

“Stunning!” Regan heard a thin, sharp-featured woman say as she passed. “The whole collection is absolutely stunning.”

Dayton Rotter was whispering to Scott, who was shaking his head vigorously. “You’ve got me wrong,” he was saying as Regan approached.

“I don’t get things wrong too much,” Rotter said. “But I’m sure
you
know who you are. I’m telling you, you’re a dead ringer for him.”

“Mr. Rotter,” Regan began in a low voice. “I’m Regan Reilly. We’re so pleased you’re able to be here.”

Rotter turned from Scott. “I thought I knew this guy,” he said in a low voice. “Thought I met him with his uncle in South America last year.”

“You didn’t,” Scott said shortly.

“Well, it wouldn’t have been the worst thing if I was right,” Rotter told him. “The man I thought was your uncle is one of the few who ever beat me out of a real estate deal.”

Regan looked at Scott, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

“I’ve heard a lot about this panty hose,” Rotter said quietly. “I’d like to talk to Mr. Blossom afterward.”

“That would be wonderful,” Regan whispered. “I just wish you had a better view.”

“I’ve got good eyes.”

Richie was not standing at the door. He’s probably stepped out in the hall, Regan thought. It was almost the finale of the show. He should start moving up toward the microphone to make his speech. I’d better get him.

Before she could take a step toward the door she heard her mother say, “And now Bettina is wearing cameo ivory, the delicate shade that enhances the most enchanting summer frock. Bettina . . . Bettina, we’re waiting.”

Regan whirled around. Why wasn’t Bettina coming out? Someone was obviously signaling. Nora’s head was bent. She was looking in the direction of the bedroom.

“Oh, I’m sorry to say that Bettina’s extreme case of sunburn has caught up with her. I’m afraid that she can’t join us on the runway. So we’ll go into our closing number. Ladies . . .”

Regan heard the sound of stifled laughter begin to ripple through the audience. Bessie was scratching her legs vigorously. Annabelle was poking her to make her stop.

What’s the matter with her? Regan wondered. She’s ruining the show. And what’s the matter with Bettina? Oh, my God, she thought. Is Bessie having an allergic reaction to the panty hose? This would kill Richie. And where the heck was he? She stepped out into the hall. With a sinking feeling she saw that it was empty.

“Bessie,” Annabelle whispered. “Cut it out. Everybody’s looking at you.”

“I can’t help it. I feel as though I fell into a patch of poison ivy.”

A dismayed Nora heard the whispers around her. “I knew nothing could be that good” was the tone of the remarks. The atmosphere of the room was changing rapidly. People were starting to laugh, many with relief.

Irving leaned forward. The old itch test, he thought. A problem that can pop up no matter how many times you test something. What had brought on the reaction now? He’d bet his bottom dollar that in a few minutes they’d all be clawing themselves. Why is it happening to so many of them at once? He’d have to find out.

“What the hell is going on?” Ruth snarled.

The models were valiantly doing their well-rehearsed version of the Rockettes’ famous kick. That only served to give everyone a better view of Bessie’s legs, which were now beet-red. But a scream went up in the room when the worst possible disaster of all unfolded. Everyone watched transfixed as a run crept its relentless path up willowy Annabelle’s nine-mile legs. “Get him,” Ruth shrieked. “Get that lying, cheating schmuck.”

She mowed people down as she raced from the room. “Where is he? Where’s Blossom?”

E
NJOY YOUR PICTURE taking,” Ethel said brightly as she left the elevator.

“That is one nice lady,” Richie said heartily as the elevator door closed behind her.

Judd Green did not answer.

“I appreciate the chance to try out for the movie. Who did you say the producer is?”

“I didn’t. I’m not supposed to say.”

Richie’s spirits refused to be dampened by the attitude of the man who had introduced himself as the photographer. Richie had protested going downstairs but Green had brusquely explained that his photography equipment was set up in a seminar room off the lobby.

The check in his breast pocket electrified Richie. He was so excited that he hoped he’d be able to concentrate on however they wanted him to pose. He was thinking of the party he had planned to throw if the contract was signed.

“Come on,” Judd urged, taking his arm.

Richie hadn’t even noticed the elevator had stopped at the lobby. “Oh, sure. Sorry.” Dutifully he allowed himself to be hustled from the elevator bank down the deserted hallway to the cluster of abandoned seminar rooms.

The last door was closed. Green knocked on it three times, a staccato rapping.

It was opened instantly. “All set?” Green asked, his voice suddenly genial.

“All set,” a burly man in a mover’s uniform agreed.

“All set,” an equally hefty guy in the same uniform confirmed.

“Holy cow,” Richie said as the door closed behind him and he got a look at the room. At least two dozen caskets were lined up. “What is this gonna be, a horror movie?” he asked, laughing.

“You got it,” Judd said. “Now we have kind of a funny request for you. You have to climb in this casket for the picture.” He indicated one that was open.

“Climb in a casket? Holy smoke. Okay, I’ve come this far. I thought I was up for a speaking part.”

“There’s a flashback scene,” Judd assured him.

“The crazy things actors will do to get a job,” Richie joked as, supported by the two men in uniform, he climbed the little stepladder. “ ’Can you jump out of an airplane? Sure. No problem . . . Do you ski with one foot? Every weekend . . . Can you walk a tightrope? Watch me.’ “

He thrust his left leg over the edge. “Hope I don’t get this nice satin lining dirty. Want me to take off my shoes?”

“Just get in.”

Richie obediently hoisted himself into the coffin and asked, “Sitting up or lying down?”

“Lie down,” Judd directed. “Have a smile on your face. I’ll take your picture like that. Then, when I say, ’Now,’ I want you to sit up straight with a great big grin.”

“It’s a comedy, not a horror movie. I like that better,” Richie confided as he sank his head into the soft ruffles and shut his eyes. “My wife loved funny movies. She should see me in this one.”

As the coffin lid snapped shut, Richie had the horrifying thought that he hadn’t noticed a camera anywhere.

E
THEL TOOK THE elevator back to the penthouse floor. She knew she’d better be there for Ruth’s victory speech. Already she was sure the aspirin was doing some good. Her headache was fading. As she turned the corner of the hallway, she ran smack into a young woman.

“Sorry,” Regan said, then added quickly, “Are you going to the panty-hose fashion show?”

“Yes.” Why on earth did the poor girl look so worried? Ethel wondered.

“Do you by any chance know Richie Blossom?”

“Oh, yes. I just met him.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“He went down in the elevator a few minutes ago to have his picture taken.”

“His picture taken!” Regan exclaimed. “Where?”

“I’m not sure. Something about a seminar room.”

“Was he alone?”

“No. I think the man he was with was a photographer.”

Regan experienced a moment of pure despair. “What did that man look like?”

Ethel knew this was serious. She frowned. “Tall,” she said quickly. “Thin face. Wearing a light jacket. Wait a minute. When he pressed the elevator button I noticed he had a really mean scrape on the back of his hand.”

Oh, my God, Regan thought. With total clarity she could see the hand of the rollerblader scraping along the sidewalk. She raced past Ethel and pressed her finger on the elevator button, holding it there.

Ethel followed her. “Is that nice Mr. Blossom in trouble?”

“Big trouble. My mother is Nora Regan Reilly. Tell her and my father it’s an emergency. Send them down to the seminar rooms. They all have to be searched.” The elevator door opened. Regan rushed into the car.

Ethel hurried around the corner and flattened herself against the wall as a herd of Calla-Lily directors charged behind Ruth toward the elevator bank. Preston Landers was swinging his lariat, yelling, “This is fun. I never thought I’d say it, but I’m glad to be back.”

R
EGAN RUSHED OFF the elevator and didn’t know which way to go. The hallway to the left led to the seminar rooms where the panty-hose convention had been held. She remembered that the funeral convention was down the hallway to the right.

The panty-hose area. That would be a logical place for someone to tell Richie he wanted to take his picture. Not caring that people stared as she passed, she rushed to that section.

The whine of vacuums greeted her. Discarded posters were being bundled into trash cans. There seemed to be an army of maids cleaning up. She could see that all the doors of the rooms were open.

Regan rushed up to a woman with a clipboard who was supervising the activity. “Is anyone using any of these rooms?” she demanded.

“Nope, they’ve all cleared out.”

“By any chance have you seen two men around here? One is in his seventies, wearing a bluejacket. The other is tall and thin and has a badly scraped hand.”

“Haven’t seen them.” The housekeeper looked pointedly at her clipboard.

Regan turned and raced in the opposite direction. For all she knew, Richie was miles away by now. But she knew he wouldn’t leave the building willingly. He had to think his picture was being taken somewhere in here. The woman upstairs who’d been on the elevator with him did say she heard the word “seminar.” She’d try the funeral-seminar rooms now. She only prayed that her father had alerted the hotel security to look for Richie.

The moment she reached the corridor of quiet, empty rooms, Regan thought, this is the kind of place Richie might have been taken. She rushed down the hallway, glancing into every room, sweeping her eyes back and forth. Silence. No one.

Her footsteps echoed. The lights were dim in this area, and there were dark shadows along the interior corridor.

She was almost at the end of the hallway. Only one room left. This door was closed. She heard voices inside. She turned the handle. The door was locked.

Something pressed against her back. She whirled her head. Scott was standing behind her. “Need help, Regan?” he asked as he rapped sharply three times on the door.

Scott! The gasoline can in the garage last night. Dayton Rotter’s comments about real estate deals with Scott’s uncle. Richie being led off to have his picture taken.

“You!” Regan breathed. She knew better than to cry out. Scott didn’t have to tell her it was the barrel of a gun she was feeling. From inside the room she could hear a thud like a door closing.

Scott rapped again. In that moment, she turned and with all her strength jammed her palm under his nose. His head snapped back and she twisted the gun from his hand. It went off, the bullet hitting the ceiling.

Preston heard the shot as the Calla-Lily group stepped off the elevator. “Enemy fire,” he howled. Twirling his lariat, he raced past even Ruth, following the direction of the sound.

“Where did you tell my daughter to go?” Luke asked Ethel urgently.

“I told her that the photographer said something about a seminar room.”

The panty-hose fashion show had come to a tragic end. The special cream Nick had left in his room for them to use on their legs had reacted badly with Richie’s new fabric. It had just hit the stores in South Beach a few days before. And if
that
cream could do in the panty hose, others could as well.

The guests were happily ordering more Bloody Marys in unabashed celebration that the threat to their business had been permanently snagged.

Nadine had just received a request for a replay of “Hal-le-lujah” from H. Mason Hicks, Junior, a beaming panty-hose executive.

“Drop dead,” she told him.

Nick hurried over to Luke. “What else is wrong?”

On his way out the door, Nora at his side, Luke stopped long enough to snap, “We think Richie’s in trouble and Regan is trying to find him.”

“I’ll put out an alert.”

“She was going to the seminar rooms first,” Ethel cried as she ran behind Luke and Nora.

“Something’s up, Nadine,” Joey said.

From across the room Nadine had seen the distress in Luke’s face. “Let’s go find out, Joey,” she said.

R
ICHIE TRIED TO bang his arms against the lid of the casket. The thick satin lining muffled the sound. He felt the casket being wheeled and heard a door opening. Those guys weren’t actors, he thought. He tried to shout and knew that it was no use.

The casket was picked up, bumped into the side of something, then Richie felt himself being slid, as if they were pushing the casket into a van. Oh, Birdie, he thought, what do I do now?

Take it easy, he thought. Breathe slowly. There can’t be much air in this thing.

He heard the sound of an engine, then whatever vehicle he was in began to move.

Regan aimed the gun at Scott. Someone must have heard the shot, she thought frantically. There was no longer any sound inside the room. This had to be where they’d taken Richie. What were they doing to him?