The Best of Sisters in Crime (22 page)

The Big Ben-like
tone of the grandfather clock on the landing tolled the hour. Boom. Boom. So
quiet
at two A.M. Then she paused, one hand
lightly resting on the heavy mahogany newel post at the foot of the stairs.
Switching off her pencil flash, she cocked her head to listen.

A footstep.

No doubt about
it.

How odd.

Perhaps another
mystery competitor. She felt a quiver of disappointment. She’d so often
triumphed because most people, face it, were slugabeds. She, of course,
scarcely needed any sleep to function quite successfully. Darting into the
cavernous library, which also served as the inn’s lobby and as an auditorium,
she found shelter behind heavy red velvet drapes as another stealthy footstep
sounded.

Her heart raced
in anticipation. Perhaps this weekend would be decidedly special. There were
many reports of ghosts in these backwoods. Could it be that she would soon
witness a spectral apparition? Laurel considered herself something of an
authority on unearthly visitants. She was quite familiar with the works of the
Society for Psychical Research, having read the ambitious, two-volume,
1,400-page work,
Phantasms of the Living,
published in 1886, and certainly she was cognizant of the
apparitional research of that modern giant in the field, Dr. Karlis Osis.

Eagerly, she
peered from behind the drapes. When a gray-robed figure glided into view, she
was at once disappointed, yet intrigued. This was no ghost. After all,
apparitions have no need of flashlights. But this was decidedly curious!
Something was afoot here, no doubt about it. The dimly seen gray figure in the
long, sweeping, hooded robe aimed a pencil flash, a twin to the one Laurel
carried, down the center of the huge room. Laurel followed the bobbing progress
of the light to the small stage where the mystery play would be presented
tomorrow night. Such a clever idea, as touted in the brochure. As is customary
at mystery weekends, a murder would be discovered shortly after breakfast,
teams formed, and an investigation begun. The young actors hired to play
suspects’ roles would provide grist for the weekend detectives’ mills. But, in
addition, this weekend would feature a suspense play to be presented after
dinner and before the announcement of the winning detective team at, of course,
the stroke of midnight.

The hooded figure
ran lightly up the steps and the pencil flash illuminated a narrow portion of
the stage. The set included a yellow pine nightstand beside a rickety wooden
bed with a pieced quilt cover. The figure placed the flash on the bed, the
sliver of light aimed at the nightstand.

A gloved hand
pulled open the drawer and lifted out a pistol.

Laurel strained
to see the robed figure, dimly visible in the backwash of the flash, the
sharply illuminated gloved hand, the gun. A crisp click, the gun opened.
Another click, it shut. The gun was replaced in the drawer, the drawer closed,
and the pencil flash lifted.

The hooded
figure passed very near, but there was no visible face, just folds of cloth.
There was an instant when Laurel could have reached out, yanked at the robe,
and glimpsed the face of the intruder. She almost moved. To unmask the villain
now—and the click of the pistol signaled unmistakable intent to Laurel—would
perhaps protect the victim in this instance. But what of the future? Laurel
remained still and listened to the fading footsteps, and then the figure was
gone.

The police
chief, such a handsome man and, understandably, a bit confused as to the
purpose of her visit, welcomed her eagerly to his room. She soon put things
clear, however. Then it took a bit of persuasion, but finally the chief agreed
to her plan.

“Damned clever,”
he pronounced. “And, now, my dear, perhaps, after all your exertions, you might
enjoy a glass of wine?”

Laurel hesitated
for a moment but, after all, nothing more could be accomplished in her quest
for justice until the morrow. She nodded in acquiescence, bestowing a serene
smile upon her coconspirator. She couldn’t help but appreciate the enthusiastic
gleam in the chief’s dark eyes.

Over a breakfast
of piping hot camomile tea and oat bran sprinkled with alfalfa sprouts, Laurel
studied the program of
Trial
,
described as “a drama of life and death, of murder and judgment, of passion and
power. An abused wife, Maria, is on trial for her life in the shooting death of
her husband. A vindictive prosecutor demands a death for a death. Her fate will
lie in the hands of the judge.” Laurel thoughtfully chewed another sprig of
alfalfa and committed to memory the five young faces of the cast.

Kelly Winston,
the abused wife, had sharply planed, dramatic features and soulful eyes. She
was a drama graduate of a Midwestern college. Beside her studio picture was a
single quote: “I want it all.”

“Hmm,” Laurel
murmured as she admired the really very handsome features of Bill Morgan, the
abusive husband slain by Maria. Such an attractive young man, though, of
course, handsome is as handsome does. His quote: “George M. Cohan has nothing
on me!”

Handsome was not
the word for Carl Jenkins, who portrayed the prosecutor. His dark face glowered
up from the program, thin-lipped and beak-nosed. “I’ll see you on Broadway.”

Walter Sheridan
beamed from his studio picture, apparently the epitome of charm, good humor,
and lightheadedness. He played the judge. “Life’s a bowl of cherries.”

Jonathan Ravin’s
face was young and vulnerable. His chin didn’t look as if it had quite taken
shape. He played the hired man who excites the husband’s jealousy. “All I need
is a chance.”

Laurel did
suffer a few pangs of envy as the weekend detectives began their investigation
into the murder of a rich playboy at a Riviera château. (The roles played
during the day investigation differed, of course, from the roles in that
evening’s play.) Laurel found the thrill of the chase hard to ignore. But a
greater duty called. She consoled herself with thoughts of that great company
of fictional sleuths who, like the company of all faithful people, surely were
at her shoulder at this very moment (figuratively speaking): Mary Roberts
Rinehart’s Miss Pinkerton, Patricia Wentworth’s Miss Silver (though why one
should be dowdy with age mystified Laurel), Heron Carvic’s Miss Seeton, Gwen
Moffat’s Miss Pink, Josephine Tey’s Miss Pym, and, of course, Leslie Ford’s
Grace Latham. (Good for Grace. She, at least, made time in her life for men.)

But Laurel’s
plan of necessity required that she not be at the forefront of the mystery
weekend investigations. In fact, she lagged, and only approached one of the
young people playing the mystery roles when the investigators bayed through the
inn in search of further elucidation.

She approached
by herself, bearing goodies. Did anyone ever outgrow cookies and milk, even if,
at later ages, these translated to gin and tonic?

Kelly Winston,
who played a countess in the investigations, occupied one alcove in the
library. As Laurel approached, the actress made a conscious effort to erase a
tight frown and look aggrieved, in keeping with her role of the countess whose
diamond tiara had been stolen.

Laurel proffered
an inviting Bloody Mary with a sprig of mint. “Hard work, isn’t it?” she said
cheerfully. “I do so admire you young people. And the life of an actress! So
much to be envied, but often such difficult demands, especially when emotions
run high. It’s so hard with men, isn’t it, Kelly?”

Kelly looked at
Laurel in surprise, but the drink was welcome. “Aren’t you doing the mystery
weekend?”

A light trill of
laughter. “In a way, my dear. But I’m a writer too. Fiction, let me hasten to
add. And I dearly enjoy getting to know my fellow human beings on a personal
level. And I can tell that you are
so
unhappy.”

The dam burst.
Laurel made gentle, cooing noises, such an effective response, and presented an
ingenuous face and limpid blue eyes. Kelly admitted that it was too, too awful,
the way Walter was glooming around. After all, they’d only dated for a couple
of months. Of course, he had helped her get the mystery troupe job, but that
didn’t mean he owned her, did it? More empathetic coos. And Bill was just the
cutest guy she’d ever met!

Laurel found her
next quarry, Bill Morgan, with an elbow on the bar. He accepted his drink with
alacrity. He was a strapping young man, six foot four at least, with curly
brown hair, light blue eyes, and a manly chin. Laurel’s glance lingered. She
did so admire manly chins. “I do think Kelly is such a dear girl! I hope Walter
isn’t making things too difficult for you both.”

Bill, who was
clearly accustomed to female attention from ages six to sixty, expressed no
surprise at Laurel’s personal interest. He drank half his Bloody Mary in a
gulp. “Oh, Kelly’s just being dramatic. Actually, it’s Carl who gets on my
nerves. I didn’t even know she’d been involved with him until he got drunk the
other night and told me I was a dumb sh—” He glanced at Laurel, cleared his
throat. “. . . jerk to get involved with her. He said she went through men like
a gambler through chips.” He downed the rest of the drink, then looked past
Laurel at the main hall and began to wave. “Hi, Jenny. Hey, how about later?”

A tiny,
dark-haired girl with an elfin grace paused long enough to blow him a kiss. “Terrific.
See you at the pool.”

Laurel waited
until Bill realized she was still there, not a usual situation for her. Of
course, he was crassly young. When he smiled at her dreamily, obviously still
thinking of Jenny, she said bluntly, “Do you think Walter is jealous?”

Bill looked at
her blankly. “Jealous?”

“Of you and
Kelly,” she said patiently.

“So who cares?”
he asked lightly.

“And Carl?”
Laurel prodded.

“Oh, he’s just a
drunk.” Then he frowned. “But kind of a nasty one.”

Carl looked like
he could be a nasty drunk, with his dark, thin face, prominent cheekbones, and
small, tight mouth. As Laurel approached, he smoothed back patent-slick hair
(he played a French police inspector in the mystery skit). He stared at the
Bloody Mary suspiciously.

“So what’s in
it?” he snapped. “Ipecac? Valium?”

It was Laurel’s
turn to be surprised. “Why should I?”

“This isn’t my
first mystery weekend. People are crazy. They’ll do anything.”

Laurel lifted
the glass to her lips, took a sip. “One hundred percent pure tomato juice,
vodka, and whatever,” she promised, and smiled winningly.

Carl gave a
grudging smile in return. “You aren’t one of the nuts?”

“Do I look like
a nut?” she asked softly.

He took the
Bloody Mary.

“Actually,”
Laurel confided, “I’m a writer and I’m doing an article on how women mistreat
men. Don’t you think that’s a novel idea? So often, it’s the other way around,
don’t you think?”

Although he
looked a little confused, he nodded vehemently. “Damn right. Women mistreat men
all the time. Wish they’d get some of their own back.”

“Your last
girlfriend?” she prompted.

His face
hardened. “Should have known better. She two-timed me and made a play for
Walter. My best friend. But he’s finding out. She isn’t any damned good. She’ll
dump Bill, too, one of these days.”

“Isn’t it hard,
having to act with her?”

Carl looked at
her sharply. “Hey, what the hell? How’d you know it was Kelly? Hey, lady, what’s
going on here?”

“That’s what I’m
finding out,” she caroled. Laurel gave him a sprightly wave and wafted toward
the hall. She ignored his calls. A determined sleuth is never deflected.

The abandoned
Walter, a French chef in the daytime skit, was short, plump, and genial. His
spaniel eyes drooped at the mention of Kelly. “Gee, I wish I’d never gotten
involved with her. She just seems to irritate everybody. It hasn’t been the
same since she came aboard.”

“Were you deeply
in love with her?” Laurel asked gently.

A whoop of
laughter. “Lady, love is a merry-go-round. You hop on and you hop off. No hard
feelings.”

She found the
fifth member of the troupe, Jonathan Ravin, beneath an umbrella at poolside. He
played Oscar, a Polish expatriate. Long blond hair curled on his neck. He had
unhappy brown eyes and bony shoulders.

He shook away
the Bloody Mary. “I never adulterate my tomato juice.”

“Oh, I certainly
understand that,” Laurel said sympathetically. “So dreadful what is done to
food today. I cook only organically grown vegetables.”

After a lengthy
discussion of the merits of oat over wheat bran, Laurel segued nearer her
objective. “Do your friends eat as you do?”

“My friends?”

“The other
actors, Kelly and Bill and Carl and Walter.”

“They aren’t my
friends,” he burst out bitterly. “I thought Bill was. But when Kelly came
along, he didn’t even have time to play checkers anymore. Why did Walter have
to bring her in? We had a wonderful time before she came.”