by Maddy Hunter
“How did SLUSHGAL know all this?”
“She wouldn’t tell me, but I bet you anythin’ she works at Hightower, or used to. She knew too many a them fancy publishin’ words not to be in the business herself.”
Philip’s irritation with Gabriel made sense now. No wonder he’d fired him. No wonder he hadn’t been concerned about his whereabouts. He must have thought Gabriel was trying to sabotage the whole tour. And when I thought about it, I realized his assumption wasn’t far off the mark. Two deaths of aspiring writers and one of a literary agent. I hadn’t been able to see the connection before, but I was beginning to see it now.
“And one last thing, dear. I found a website for that Bowles woman and links to some a the New England resorts where she was wined and dined. She spent a fair amount a time at the Mount Washington Hotel. She liked the climbin’ around there and even done volunteer rescue work on weekends. Made me think her lawsuit mighta had somethin’ to do with her rescue work, so I hooked into another link that listed all the climbin’ accidents that ever happened on Mount Washington, but I didn’t find Jeannette’s name nowhere. Awful sad stories though. Forest rangers gettin’ froze to death in the winter. Lightnin’ strikes killin’ hikers. A young honeymoon couple dyin’ in a landslide.”
Honeymoon couple? That was so sad. So untimely. And so like what had happened to Duncan’s sister. I frowned. I supposed people died on their honeymoons all the time, but still — “What can you tell me about the honeymoon couple?”
“There was a real long article on that one. The husband was a famous English mountain climber by the name a Robert Adcock. He’d even conquered Mount Everest. A real expert. But he went where he shouldn’t and took his wife with him. I guess they was buried for days before anyone found ’em.”
“Did they list a name for the wife by any chance?”
“Molly, was her name. Molly Adcock. You there, Emily? I can’t hear you breathin’.”
Molly Adcock? Born, Molly Lazarus? Was that possible? Good Lord, had Nana stumbled upon an obituary for Duncan’s sister? I tried to ignore the goose bumps racing up my arms. “I’m here, Nana. Where are you off to now?”
“Me and George are goin’ back to the hotel.” A meaningful pause. “Your mother’s still there with you, isn’t she?”
“Um, actually, she’s in the hospital.”
“The hospital? Oh no. I told George somethin’ like this might happen. Your mother can be such a trial. Go ahead and tell me, dear. I won’t hold it against you. What’d you do to her that landed her in the hospital?”
“Me? Nothing! She’s not hurt. She’s on a goodwill mission. But you don’t need to know the details now. I’ll tell you later.” Why ruin an afternoon of carnal bliss with more bad news?
“Well, I’m proud a you for restrainin’ yourself, Emily. I don’t know if I coulda done it. You have any idea when your mother might be back?”
“I guess that depends on how efficient the Italian medical system is. But if their medical system is run anything like their phone system, I wouldn’t expect her back for several hours.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear. Back to the hotel, George,” I heard her say as she hung up. “Pronto.”
When I walked back to the stone rail overlooking the river, the vehicle containing Philip Blackmore’s body had already departed, so other than two laborers who were spreading some kind of powder onto the stained pavement, there was no evidence that a man had lost his life here today. It made me realize how little I knew about Philip Blackmore. Was he married? Did he have children? Was his George Hamilton tan the real McCoy or was it the result of weekly visits to a local tanning salon? Poor Philip. Duncan, or perhaps someone from Landmark Destinations’ main office, would be making all the necessary phone calls back to the States about now. Which reminded me. I had a phone call of my own to make.
I found the number for the Florence police station in my guidebook and punched it up. I told the person who answered that I had information to give Officer Agripino Piccione about a case he was working on, and I’d appreciate it if he could call me back as soon as possible. I left my name and cell phone number, but as I signed off, I wondered if Piccione would receive the message at all. The only words of English the person I’d spoken to seemed to know were, “Yes,” and “Excuse me,” which didn’t leave me very hopeful. But as I headed back through the arcade of the Uffizi, I counseled myself not to be so negative. I mean, Italians probably knew a lot more English than they let on. So I’d probably hear from Piccione within the hour.
By ten minutes of eight that night, he still hadn’t gotten back to me, and my two follow-up calls to the station had gained me nothing other than inane conversations with people who spoke even less English than the first person I’d spoken to. The other troubling thing was, Mom wasn’t back from the hospital yet. Of course, neither was Marla, Gillian, or Duncan, but that didn’t make me feel any less anxious.
I hadn’t told anyone about Philip Blackmore’s death, thinking it would be more appropriate for Duncan to make the announcement at the meeting tonight, but as the minutes ticked by, and people kept gathering in the lobby to await the contest results, I got worried that if no one showed up by eight, I might have to take matters into my own hands and do some explaining about what happened today. Not something I was looking forward to, especially since one of the words I’d have to use in the explanation would be the dreaded noun, “morgue.”
I paced in front of the staircase, checking my watch and the front door every thirty seconds. Bodies were jammed shoulder to shoulder in the lobby, on the vinyl sofas, on the coffee tables, on the floor. People laughing. People talking. Even some of my group had come to hear the announcement. The Teigs. The Stolees. Lucille Rassmuson. Osmond Chelsvig. Alice Tjarks. “Shouldn’t someone be getting this show on the road?” Keely asked from her perch on the sofa. “It’s five minutes of eight. I want to hear the results.”
“None of our luminaries are here,” Brandy Ann yelled above the din. “Shouldn’t they be here by now?”
“Does anyone know what room Philip Blackmore is in?” Amanda asked. “I could run up and get him.”
I checked my watch: 7:57. Okay. Like it or not, I had to say something. “About the results of the contest,” I said, skirting the edge of the group. “We ran into a rather significant problem today that might delay —”
“I’m here!” Mom announced as she barreled through the front door, red-faced and breathless. “I’m sorry I’m late, but I’ll run upstairs to get the results and be right back. I know you’re all champing at the bit, so I’ll be quick. Just hang on.” She charged past me without saying a word. I gave chase, catching up with her by the stairwell.
“Mom! What’s going on?”
She peered up the length of the stairwell, at the risers that were covered with a spanking new rubber runner. “Oh, my goodness! Did the Dicks find time to do that this afternoon? What a nice job. I’ll have to compliment them when I see them. I guess it must be safe to take the stairs now.”
“Mom! Where is everyone?”
She looked beyond me to the waiting crowd. “I don’t really have time for this now, Emily, but the big news is, I talked to the president of Hightower Publications on Duncan’s phone from the hospital, and you’ll never guess. He put me in charge!”
“Of what?”
“Of everything. I believe his exact words were, ‘The show must go on.’ He refused to serve up any more disappointment to the guests, so the tour is continuing, and I’m calling the shots. Isn’t this exciting?”
Mom was in charge? Oh, God. What was wrong with this picture?
“We can talk later, Emily. I have to get those contest results before the natives get too restless.” Up the stairs she bounded, leaving me to stare after her. Mom was in charge?
“Buona sera, pretty.”
I let out a little yelp at the sound of Duncan’s voice behind me.
“Sorry,” he apologized. “I didn’t mean to fri
ghten you.”
“Where have you guys been?” I asked, motioning him into the hallway around the corner so he could explain in relative privacy.
He braced a shoulder against the wall and brushed a wisp of hair off my cheek. “Socialized medicine. It takes forever. They’re keeping Marla and Gillian overnight for observation. Have you told anyone about Philip yet?”
“I figured that was your job.”
“Good girl.” He smiled at me with his eyes, then let out a sigh that smacked of utter weariness. “I’ll break the news after your mother announces the winner of the contest. God, can anything else go wrong on this trip?”
I winced involuntarily. “Is that a rhetorical question, or do you really want to know?”
“Never mind. Pretend I didn’t ask.” He checked his watch. “You didn’t hear from Officer Piccione this afternoon, did you? I’d like the final word about whether he’s intending to question the group about Sylvia’s death. When he receives her autopsy results, I suspect he’ll decide further questioning won’t be necessary. But I’d like to know for sure.”
That gave me a jolt. “What do you expect him to find in the autopsy results?”
He snapped his fingers. “That’s right. You weren’t at dinner last night. You didn’t see —”
“That’s it, ladies,” Jackie’s voice rang out from the hall to my left. “Quick like bunnies. We don’t want to miss the big moment.”
I glanced down the shadowed corridor to find Jackie herding two elderly women in leopard skin pants and tank tops toward us. Their hair was Howdy-Doody orange, styled into manly buzz cuts, and from their ears hung long clusters of beads that rattled softly as they scurried in our direction. Good God, where had she picked up these two —
OH MY GOD! IT WAS THE SEVERID TWINS!
They stumbled past in strappy high-heeled sandals with toe thongs. They winked at me with thickly mascaraed eyes and waved with glittery fingernails that were as gold as their earrings. “We’d stop to talk,” said Barbro —
“But we don’t want to miss the big moment,” Britha finished for her, hastening toward the lobby.
EH! I gripped Jackie’s arm as she sashayed by in a pink leather miniskirt. “What did you do to them?”
“Don’t they look adorable?”
“Sure! If you like geriatric butch!”
“And I took them shopping afterward,” she said proudly.
Duncan cleared his throat and made an awkward gesture toward the lobby. “Will you excuse me? I should probably make my presence known in there.”
“What were you thinking?” I raved at Jackie as I peered around the corner at the twins. “I can’t take them back to Iowa like that! They’ll be laughed out of town. Banished from political caucuses. Excommunicated from their church. Lutherans don’t do orange hair!”
On the other hand, their hair had turned out nothing like mine, so maybe it wasn’t so bad after all. I perked up. “What happened to the idea of having their hair cut exactly like mine?”
“Bad timing. Donatella’s was closed, so we had to find another salon. But it was the coolest place, Emily. They had manicurists, pedicurists, body waxers, masseurs, stylists, color experts. When the twins saw the list of services, they decided to go the whole nine yards.”
I slanted a final woeful look at them. “Do they realize their hair is the color of Raggedy Ann and Andy’s?”
“Patrizio said that was the color this summer and it would look splendido with their blue eyes.”
“Are you sure Patrizio wasn’t trying to use up product to beat the expiration date?”
Jackie appeared shocked. “You can be so cynical. Patrizio would never do that. He was much too soulful.” She fanned her hand in front of her face. “Not to mention he had abs you could have grated cheese on. Unh.”
I paused. “How do you know what his abs look like?”
“That was the cool part. It was straight out of a Fellini movie. If you paid a little extra, you could have all your services performed by employees — Are you ready for this? In the nude!”
A memory fluttered in my brain. “Excuse me?”
“I thought the ladies would be horrified, but they really got into it. They even took pictures! You know, Emily, they’re really quite liberal for Lutherans.”
I clapped my hands over my face.
“I’m gonna take the idea back to Tom, but you wait. There’s probably some kind of blue law that forbids cutting hair in the buff in Binghamton. The guy who owns this salon is making a bundle though. The main salon is in Florence, but he has franchises in Milan, Paris, and Lucerne. Hey, maybe Etienne has had his locks chopped there.”
Lucerne? Hair cutting in the nude? Oh, my God. This couldn’t be the same guy who’d tried to hit on Nana in Switzerland, could it? I shot a look up at Jackie. “Did you happen to speak to the owner?”
“Nope. But Patrizio pointed him out to me. Funny-looking little guy actually.”
I recalled a faint image. “Hair like a cactus? Face like a ferret? Knees like old potatoes?”
Jackie’s mouth dropped. “Euw. Scary. How’d you know that?”
“By any chance, was the salon named…Nunzio?”
She sucked in her breath and inched backward as if I were an apparition. “Okay, Emily, cut it out. You’re really starting to creep me out.”
It was the same guy! Wow, there were apparently a lot more business opportunities for perverts here in Europe than back in the States.
I heard a muffled thud and a yelp from the stairwell and dashed around the corner to find Mom stumbling awkwardly down the stairs despite the new runner. She held up her hand to ward me off. “I’m all right, Emily. It’s the risers. I think they’re just too far apart. Must be hard to measure things right when you’re using that durned metric system.”
My panic subsiding, I helped her the rest of the way down the stairs and into the lobby area, where we were greeted by applause, whistles, and a feeling of general anxiety. Duncan reached out a hand to Mom, guiding her into the middle of the crowd where she could command center stage. “Mrs. Andrew is here to announce your contest winner.”
Heads turned right and left in surprise. “But where are Marla and Gillian and Philip Blackmore?” someone called out. “Shouldn’t they be the ones to announce the winner?”
“Mrs. Andrew is in charge,” Duncan replied smoothly, “so please give her your full attention.” A space opened up for him so he could sit on the floor. I stood on the outer fringe of the group, marking the agonized anticipation on the faces of Amanda, Brandy Ann, Keely, Fred, and all the other contest entrants. Jackie slid by me in her pink leather miniskirt and curled up uncomfortably on the floor beside the twins. Mom scooted her wire-rims higher up on her nose and smiled at the crowd.
“I want to tell you what an honor it’s been for me to judge your wonderful proposals and ideas. We have some very talented writers in our little group here, and I think you all deserve a round of applause.”
Raucous clapping erupted, interspersed with a few abbreviated hoots. Mom quieted them down with the panache of a symphony conductor. “Look at all of you. So anxious to learn the identity of the next rising star in the romance world. Who will it be?” She bobbed her head at the people around her, squinting at their name tags. “Elaine Lewis? Amanda Morning? Fred Arp? Lucille Rassmuson?”
Lucille waved her hand to object. “Yoo-hoo! Margaret! I didn’t enter the contest. We’re just here to see who wins. But we have eight-thirty dinner reservations, so could you get cracking?”
“You betcha. Sorry.” Mom removed a slip of paper from her pocket and snapped it open. “To remind you now, the winner will receive a one-book publishing contract with Hightower Books and an advance of ten thousand dollars.” Her words were breathy with excitement. “I’m so nervous! Okay, I don’t want to keep you waiting any longer. The winner is —” She squinted at the name tags, building up the drama, then suddenly lowered her paper. “I’m sorry, but before I announce the win
ner, could I trouble you to arrange yourselves in alphabetical order? I can help if you like. It shouldn’t take too long. It’s so much more orderly that way. Can I have all the A’s in the far left corner, please?”
Groans. Hisses. Oh, Lord.
Nana rounded the corner of the stairwell at that moment, cheeks pink and eyes glowing despite the fact that her hair was even wilder than it had been this morning. I knew this look. I’d lived this look. And I realized it could only mean one thing.
She’d finally “done it,” and done it right. Aw, that was so sweet!
George shambled along slowly behind her, head drooping, shoulders sagging — a black eye patch slanted across his face. Eye patch?
OH, MY GOD! SHE’D POKED HIS EYE OUT!
“Mrs. Andrew doesn’t really need you in alphabetical order!” Duncan instructed as he catapulted himself to his feet.
“Yes, I do,” she countered.
“Stay where you are,” Duncan pleaded. I dashed over to George, peering nose to nose with him.
“Oh, God, I’m so sorry! I never should have left the two of you alone together.”
George smiled at me with his little gap-toothed grin and slid his arm around Nana’s waist. “Ith’s nuthin’.”
I dried my face with the back of my hand. Nana offered me a tissue.
“George,” I reasoned. “Have you looked at yourself in the mirror? You only have one eye!”