by Maddy Hunter
Chirrup chirrup. Chirrup chirrup. Chirrup chirrup.
Suppressing a scream, I snatched my phone from my bag. “What?”
A crackle, followed by a surprised, “Emily?”
“Ohhh, hi, sweetie.” I regarded the multitude of unblinking eyes staring back at me. “Um, this isn’t really a good time for me.” I angled away from the crowd.
“I won’t keep you, darling. I’m on the train headed for — KRRRRKKK. I thought I’d — KRRRKKK.”
“Etienne?” I sighed my frustration. “Hello?”
Behind me, I heard a loud crack of bubble gum followed by Keely’s voice. “So let me get this straight. Gabriel Fox didn’t kill anyone. None of us were in danger of being murdered by him. Sylvia Root died because she was drunk, and Jeannette Bowles died because she was klutzy. What about the first woman who died? Cassandra.”
“That was ruled an accident from the beginning,” Duncan said.
“So Emily’s theory was a bunch of crap?” Keely asked.
“Emily’s theory was well thought out,” Duncan replied, “but I suspect, in this case, she was wrong.”
I spun around and gave him a frustrated look. Well, maybe my theory wouldn’t have been so wrong if I’d had all the information! “Etienne?” I said into the phone, turning away again.
“…teasing about having money left to buy a train ticket,” I heard him say.
“Did you end up losing all your money at the casino?” I asked, wondering if Switzerland might have an organization that was the equivalent of Gamblers Anonymous. “No, no. My luck held. I told you, darling, at the gaming table, I can’t seem to lose.”
“Did you win enough to buy a plane ticket to Iowa?”
“More than enough. How does seven hundred thousand sound to you?”
Delete three zeroes. Divide by two. “Three hundred fifty dollars? I don’t know if that’ll get you all the way to Iowa, but it might if you try Priceline dot com. You can get some real bargains with them.”
“Not lire, darling. I did the conversion for you. Seven hundred thousand American dollars.”
“EXCUSE ME?”
A female voice whined loudly behind me. “So if all these deaths were really just accidents, do you think we’re safe to continue the tour?”
“That would be my recommendation,” Duncan replied. “Marla and Gillian will rejoin us tomorrow, then the rest of Italy awaits. I’d hate to say good-bye to all of you before I had a chance to finish what I started.” He brushed lightly against my back, sending a jolt of electricity up my spine.
“Seven hundred thousand dollars?” I sputtered into the phone.
Etienne laughed in his beautiful French/German/Italian accent. “That’s why I — KKRRRKK.”
I sprinted toward the front desk to see if the reception was any better over there. “Etienne? Can you hear me?”
“We’ll be checking out tomorrow at ten o’clock,” Duncan announced, as people unfolded their limbs and eased to their feet, “so be down here in the lobby ready to board the bus by 9:50. The memorial service that Philip Blackmore arranged for Sylvia will be held at eight o’clock tomorrow morning in one of the minor chapels of the Duomo, so those of you who’d like to pay your respects to all our recently departed guests can do so then.”
I clutched the phone in my hands and strangled it. “Can you hear me now?” I screamed at it.
Guests wandered past me, giving me odd looks as they made their way back to their rooms. I saw several people in the Iowa contingent congratulate Jackie, then a group of them headed out the front door. I pressed the phone to my ear again, relieved when I heard the faint tones of Etienne’s voice coming through the line.
“…birthday gathering jogged my memory and reminded me what I should have asked you in Ireland last month. I don’t know how I — KKRRRK — as important as this, but I need to know, darling. Will you — KRRRRRRKKKKK!”
“Yes!” I shouted into the phone. “I will! Whatever you’re asking me! The answer is yes!”
KRRRRRRRKKKKK!
“Damn!” I screamed. I squeezed the phone. I punched buttons. I shook it in my fist. I pressed it to my ear again.
KRRRRRRRKKKKK!
“Bad connection?” asked Duncan, sauntering over to me.
“He’s on a train,” I said, refusing to give up. “Maybe he’s going through a tunnel or something.”
He leaned casually against the front desk, regarding me with his dark eyes. “If he’s on his way back to Lucerne, he’s a fool.”
“He’s Swiss. He’s very efficient and…and duty-bound.” But no matter what he was, he wasn’t on the other end of the phone line anymore. I stuffed the phone back into my bag. “He’ll call back,” I said cheerily, hiding my disappointment.
The corners of Duncan’s mouth lifted imperceptibly. “Ofcourse he will. In the meantime, how about having a drink with me?”
I was a woman who loved men in all their various sizes, shapes, and incarnations, but at the moment, Duncan Lazarus was not the man I wanted to be around. “Thanks for the offer, but I really should start throwing things back into my suitcase.”
His eyes sparkled with amusement. “That’s right. I’ve seen the size of your suitcase. You probably should have started yesterday. I don’t suppose you need any help? I’m a natural at organizing, folding and…filling empty spaces.”
I narrowed one eye at him. “It seems you’re a natural at just about everything.”
“Not everything. Apparently I need to work on my technique for convincing beautiful women that I’m a good catch. You suppose my antenna is defective? I always seem to fall for the ones who are taken. But like I said before, we still have a lot of days left on this tour. I’m not prepared to give up quite yet.”
Oh, God. Why me? I scanned the now empty lobby, shaking my head in disbelief and thinking that I could actually feel egg dripping from my face. “I can’t believe how off base I was about everything.”
“You had at least one thing right. Gabriel Fox didn’t want romances shoved down his throat anymore. That’s why he ditched us in Pisa. He told the Rome police he refused to demean himself by returning to Florence to judge Philip Blackmore’s imbecilic contest. And he implied he’d rather chew razor blades than spend more time with that, and I quote, ‘crazed flock of wannabe writers,’ unquote. So he decided to fly back to the States instead.”
“Can he be charged with anything?”
“He’s guilty of chickening out, which isn’t a crime. It’s a personality flaw, not even prosecutable in Italy.” He bent his head and said in a whisper so close to my ear, I could feel his breath, “It’s a common frailty among people who aren’t from Iowa.”
Chapter 14
I returned to my room, wondering if anyone would miss me if I flew home, too. I mean, with the way this trip was going, I doubted I’d miss myself! I’d maligned Gabriel Fox to the point where he could sue me. I’d sent Nana on a wild-goose chase over the Internet when she could have been canoodling. I’d wasted an entire day tailing people when I could have been shopping. I’d prompted Jackie to parade around as a poorly dressed transvestite stalker. I’d labeled every accident a capital crime and ended up looking like the tour escort who’d cried wolf. And I didn’t even want to get started on my love life. I was having “connection interruptus” with the man I wanted and “connection overloadus” with the man I didn’t. AARGH! Maybe I could just lock myself in the bathroom and turn on the shower. That could put a quick end to my misery.
I walked to the bathroom and inspected the folding door. The lock was broken, so it wouldn’t stay shut. Great. With my luck the water would all leak out before I could drown myself, and I’d end up having to pay for flood damage.
Wallowing in self-pity, I grabbed my suitcase and swung it onto the bed, then plopped down beside it, burying my face in the crook of my elbow. Maybe I should have taken Duncan up on his offer. I could use a drink. I could use a lot of drinks. But I knew that kind of remedy wouldn’t work. I w
as too hard-core Midwestern to resort to drowning my sorrows in a bottle. I needed to look for a silver lining rather than drink myself into oblivion. Philip Blackmore had tried that, and look where it had gotten him.
Giving myself an invisible slap upside the head, I forced myself to a sitting position and took mental stock of the situation. Okay, I might have ended up with egg all over my face, but the good news was, there was no killer on the tour. Duh! How could I feel bad about that? The deaths had all been accidental, so if people started watching out where they stepped, maybe we could continue the rest of the tour without incident.
I felt a sudden release of tension in my muscles.
As for being sued, if no one told Gabriel Fox about what I’d said, he’d have no reason to sue me, right? I pondered that. No one would tell him, would they? Gillian and Marla hadn’t heard my accusation, and Jackie surely wouldn’t rat on me. So what were the chances that anyone else on this tour would ever have contact with him again? Slim to none, I’d guess.
A hint of a smile pulled at the corners of my mouth.
As for the other stuff, Nana always enjoyed surfing the Internet, Jackie loved playing dress-up, I still had loads of time to shop, and Etienne — My brain executed a mental somersault. Oh, my God! Etienne was rich! What had he said? Seven hundred thousand American dollars? Why, that was — I added three zeroes and multplied by two — that was like 1.4 billion lire! Wow!
A full-blown smile raced across my lips. Okay, this wasn’t so bad. This wasn’t bad at all!
Chirrup chirrup. Chirrup chirrup. Chirrup chirrup.
I dived for my cell phone. “Etienne? I was just thinking about —”
“Signorina Andrew?” said the voice on the other end. “Dis Officer Agripino Piccione. Devo scusarmi. Our phone line no good today. I have message you want speak wit me.”
I paused, swallowing my disappointment. “I did want to speak to you. Earlier. I had information about Gabriel Fox I wanted to share with you, but since the information isn’t relevant anymore, I guess I don’t need to talk to you after all. Sorry to have bothered you.”
“Bene, bene. No boder. Signor Lazarus, is he at hotel wit you? His line busy but I need speak wit him pronto.”
“He was here a little while ago. Do you want me to try and find him for you?”
“Si. You find him, you have him call me. You no find him, you tell guests we question dem eight o’clock tomorrow morning at you hotel. All guests. In lobby.”
Unh-oh. “Um — eight o’clock could be a problem. We have a memorial service scheduled for eight o’clock tomorrow morning at the Duomo. Could you possibly come at say, nine-thirty?”
Silence. “We come eight o’clock, Signorina Andrew. You tell guests.”
“But…wait a minute! Why do you need to question the guests? I thought you’d ruled Sylvia Root’s death an accident.”
“Not Sylvia Root’s det we question. Philip Blackmore. We no tink he die from accident. He have high level alcool in blood. We tink someone do dis him.”
“Al — what?”
“How you say. Alcohol.”
“That’s right. I told you earlier, I watched Philip Blackmore knock back three glasses of Merlot at a wine bar this afternoon. We all saw him get drunk. I feel badly that none of us was brave enough to stop him, but you don’t tell people like Philip Blackmore that he’s over his limit. I mean, can you imagine what —”
“No vino! Alcool! The alcohol. It poison him.”
I breathed heavily into the phone. “He drank too much Merlot. You just said that!” I wondered if I’d be better off escorting tours in say, the Mid-Atlantic states.
“Alcohol! Other alcohol —”
I waited for him to continue. “Hello?” Dead air space. “Officer Piccione?” I waited some more. “Hello?”
Silence.
I suspected this was the reason Italians drank so much. Not as an alternative to bad water, but to help them forget the frustration of their lousy phone system.
I set my phone on the bed and stared at it. Philip Blackmore died from alcohol poisoning? How did a two-hundred-pound man suffer alcohol poisoning from three glasses of wine? I’d seen how three quick drinks had impaired his judgment, but poison him? That didn’t seem possible. Unless —
I jackknifed upward. Unless the wine had been some dangerously potent brand. I’d heard an Italian drink called grappa could knock you off your feet in no time flat, but Philip hadn’t been drinking grappa. He’d been drinking Merlot.
Or had he?
I pinched my eyes shut and reconstructed the scene at the wine bar. Philip had chugged one glass of red wine, then trundled off to buy himself another. He’d downed that one in short order, then asked Duncan to get him a refill. The glasses had looked like Merlot, but could they have been something else? Had he been drinking this other alcohol that Piccione had mentioned? Or could someone have introduced it into the wine without Philip’s knowledge?
My eyes flew open.
Oh, my God. Someone could have tampered with Philip’s drink. But the only person who had the opportunity was…Duncan.
I sat very still for a heartbeat, disbelieving that Duncan Lazarus was capable of murder. No! I refused to accept that. Not only was Duncan not the murdering type, what possible reason would he have to kill Philip Blackmore? The publishing mogul and the tour guide? There was no connection there. I inhaled a calming breath.
Was there?
I pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes. NO! I wasn’t going to do this again! I was too suspicious for my own good. There was no evidence to support the accusation that Duncan had killed Philip. Buying a man a drink did not earn him killer status.
Except that Piccione had said someone had poisoned Philip. And that meant I’d seen an accident that had been no accident at all.
I’d seen an accident that had been a murder.
Oh, God! I sprang to my feet, worrying my bottom lip as I paced alongside the bed. What if there was a link between the two men? But what could it be? Something personal? Something business-related? Something family-related?
That thought gave me pause.
Duncan’s sister?
But it was so far-fetched! What connection could Philip Blackmore possibly have to a young woman who may have died in a mountain-climbing accident? I mean, I suspected the closest Philip Blackmore had ever come to hiking up a mountain was publishing a book about it!
I stopped in my tracks as a recent memory jogged loose in my brain. Oh, my God!
In the next instant I was riffling through my tour papers, throwing aside itineraries, medical forms and Landmark brochures, until I found what I was looking for — a paperbound booklet giving a complete and illustrated history of Hightower Books, from its inception in 1950 until the present. I flipped through the high-gloss pages, hoping the section I needed would be in there. And in one of the back appendices, there it was. A listing of every book and best seller ever published by Hightower Books.
Please, let me be right. Please, let me be right.
I frantically scanned the titles, decade by decade, and when I got to the nineties, I hit pay dirt.
Number one on the best-seller list eleven years ago was The Thrill of Off-Trail Hiking. The book Nana said George had read and taken to Yosemite with him. The book he’d dismissed as being too dangerous to try. The book endorsed by a bevy of expert climbers, one of whom, I suspected, was an Englishman named Robert Adcock, who’d endangered himself and his wife by going off trail, and who’d died because of it — because of the book published by Philip Blackmore.
That was it! That was the connection. It had to be. Duncan blamed Philip for his sister’s death, and he’d gotten even by poisoning him.
OH MY GOD! Okay, I might be wrong, and I might be sending the police on a wild-goose chase, and I might end up with egg all over my face again, but I couldn’t sit on what I knew. I had to tell someone.
I rooted through my shoulder bag for my Florence guidebook and punched in the
digits for the Florence police office.
Dead air. Static. More dead air. If I hadn’t liked my new hairdo so much, I might have plucked every hair out of my head in frustration.
I resumed pacing and worried my lip some more. Okay, now what? I…I should call Duncan. No matter what else happened, he needed to be told about the police coming to the hotel tomorrow morning so he could alert the guests to stay here rather than attend the memorial service. I just hoped when he learned the police were going to conduct an interrogation that he wouldn’t try to skip town. I guess if he did, we’d know for sure he was guilty.
Heart pounding, I punched in Duncan’s number.
BZZ. BZZ. BZZ. BZZ.
Busy signal. Oh, God. I was almost relieved! But I wondered where he was and who he was talking to…and what I was supposed to do now.
Section 2E of my Escort’s Manual stated that no matter the situation, the savvy tour escort always prioritized her agenda and took care of first things first.
Okay. I could do that. I scanned the room, visualizing what I needed, then began gathering things into a pile. Post-it notes. Pen. Pocketknife. List of guests with corresponding room numbers. Cell phone.
I think that covered it. Noting the first name on the list, I headed up the central staircase to the third floor and stopped in the deserted hallway before Duncan’s room, but I didn’t knock. Nope. My days of being cornered by crazed killers were over. No way was I going to place myself in harm’s way again. I wasn’t a total moron. I was an Iowan. I was raised to learn from my mistakes.
I punched in Duncan’s cell phone number again.
BZZ. BZZ. BZZ. BZZ.
I pressed my ear to the door.
Silence.
If he was in his room, I’d be able to hear him talking, but I couldn’t hear a thing, which meant his room was empty. He was out. So if I left a note on his door, he’d see it when he got back and could take care of the business at hand without having to talk to me. Yeah. I liked that idea. It sounded much more safe to me than blurting out in the panic of the moment, “You did it!” and being targeted as the next victim to get clobbered.