Alpine for You

by Maddy Hunter

  I made eye contact with the blonde and flashed her a smile. “Hi. I’m Emily.”

  “I’m Shirley Angowski. From Rhode Island. I’m part of the East Coast contingent on the tour.”

  East Coast contingent? We were sharing our Golden Swiss Triangle Tour with a group of Easterners? No one had said anything about that.

  “What do you mean East Coast contingent?” Lucille Rassmuson asked. Lucille had a flawless ivory complexion, short permed hair that was the color of the froth on a frozen peach Margarita, and no lips. Her mother had no lips either. The condition was probably a genetic thing that had to do with her being Irish and had nothing to do with the fact that Lucille had attended Helen Teig’s fiftieth birthday party and was standing near the gas grill when it exploded.

  “Since there were so few of you people, the Triangle tour agents recruited twenty-five of us from the New England area to fill up the rest of the bus. You all seem to know each other. Are you from the same place?”

  “Iowa,” said Lucille, tucking in her lips with displeasure at the idea of sharing her bus with strangers. Bad move. Now she had no mouth.

  “Iowa.” Shirley Angowski looked pensive. “I know where Iowa is. It’s west of Rhode Island, isn’t it?”

  “You bet,” Dick Teig said with a wink. He smoothed back his Chiahair. “Right between East Dakota and West Dakota.”

  Shirley nodded. “I think I might have relatives in East Dakota.”

  I studied Shirley Angowski for a moment. She was probably just shy of sixty, and sported big hair, big eyeglasses, and big breasts. I envied the breasts. She looked as if she could put the Click Miracle bra people out of business.

  “Are you working or retired?” Helen Teig asked Shirley in a smug tone. She was probably hoping Shirley would claim to have a degree in geography from Stanford so she could jump up and say, “Liar, liar, pants on fire.” Helen wasn’t a native Iowan, which explained her penchant for liking to confront people.

  Shirley held up her hands and wiggled her fingers for us. Her fingernails were like stilettos and were painted a color that looked like Pepto-Bismol. “You see this color? It’s called Baby Flamingo and I named it. I make up all the names for the nail and lip products at Revlon.”

  I used Revlon products. I glanced at my fingernails. “I’m wearing Crystal Berry. Did you make that one up?”

  “I sure did. That was part of the Summer Berry collection, along with Raspberry Soufflé and Boysenberry Sherbet.”

  “We carry Revlon products,” Jane added helpfully. “Aisle one. Along the wall. Just like Walgreen’s.”

  My impression of Shirley Angowski skyrocketed. So what if she didn’t know the exact location of Iowa? Her value to womankind was unimpeachable. How else could we distinguish between subtle shades of nail polish if the Shirley Angowskis of the world didn’t provide really cool names for them?

  “What about you?” Shirley inquired politely of Helen. “Working or retired?”

  “We’re retired now, but Dick owned a professional dry-cleaning and dye business.”

  Shirley looked exuberant. “You dyed things? That’s SO exciting. Were you able to create a lot of exotic colors?”

  “You bet,” Dick Teig replied. “Red. Green. Black.”

  I could see where this conversation was leading. Shirley was going to ask all of us what we did for a living, and I’d have to admit I was currently unemployed. I’d lost my job in phone solicitations two weeks ago when the president of Playgrounds for Tots, for whom I’d done fund-raising since returning from New York, had been hauled off to jail for fraud. Apparently, the only playgrounds he’d built had been for himself—million-dollar mansions in Palm Beach, Palm Springs, and Tahiti. The police said I’d been one damned fine fund-raiser and asked if I’d like to raise money for their Policeman’s Ball. Nana pointed out later that it had been a trick question because only firemen have balls.

  Andy Simon coughed again and started to wheeze.

  “How about those rooms!” I said in a quick change of subject. “Anyone try the shower yet?”

  Dick Rassmuson gave me a surly look. “You have a shower?”

  Unh-oh. Dick and Lucille must have opted for a super-saver room with a bathroom down the hall that was shared by six other people.

  “We don’t have a shower,” Dick grumbled in his smoker’s voice. “We have a damned Jacuzzi.”

  “And that bed is so high off the floor, I had to stand on my suitcase to climb onto it,” Lucille added. “The bedspread and canopy are pretty though. And the view of the lake will be really nice once the fog lifts.”

  “I didn’t much care for the chocolate wafer,” Helen complained. She scratched her eyebrow, accidentally smearing it across her forehead. “Too much rum in it. But I hope the weather warms up so we can use the balcony.”

  “You got a wafer?” I asked in a strangulated voice. Not to mention a balcony and a view. “What kind of rooms do you have? Presidential suites?”

  “Standard rooms,” the two Dicks said in unison, to which Dick Rassmuson added, “No sense paying deluxe rates for a room we’ll be occupying only a few hours a night.”

  The Swiss obviously structured their hotel room rating system in the same way they structured their banking system: Don’t tell ’em nothin’. But I was on to them.

  Andy Simon’s wheezing grew worse. If he’d paid extra for the luxury of a deluxe room, I could understand his reaction. I felt like wheezing myself. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an inhaler.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Shirley asked, as he shoved the apparatus into his mouth.

  “Asthma,” said Lucille. “He’s had it for years. But it hasn’t killed him yet, has it, Andrew?”

  He gasped, then wheezed, then after several moments, seemed to breathe more easily. He held the inhaler up for all to see. “Pirbuterol Acetate. The best concoction in the world. And if you ever need any, I recommend you buy it from Janie Hanson at the Pills Etcetera nearest you.”

  Jane dismissed his comment with a wave of her hand. “He’s such a flatterer. What he didn’t tell you is we’re equipped to handle all types of insurance now, including Medicare, HMOs and PPOs.”

  “Do you take the Discover card?” Lucille asked. “As many times as I’ve filled prescriptions, and I still can’t remember.”

  Jane nodded. “Discover. VISA. MasterCard and American Express. Sorry, no personal checks.”

  “And,” Andy continued, “Pills Etcetera is now on-line, so if you want to order anything from Viagra to contact lenses, e-mail Janie at pillsetcetera dot com, and she’ll see that it’s mailed to you. And she always includes free samples. Rewetting solution with your contact lenses. Toothpaste with new toothbrushes.”

  I wondered what she included with the Viagra. An inflatable woman?

  “I love free samples,” said Shirley. “Do you ship to Rhode Island?”

  “She ships anywhere.” Andy responded for her. “She can even put you on her mailing list so you’ll know about upcoming sales and specials. Why don’t you give me your E-mail address, honey, and I’ll forward it to her when we get back to Iowa.”

  A waiter plopped a plate in front of my face at that moment, so no one heard the gagging sound I made. The E-mail thing was Andy’s favorite line. I figured it was his personal brand of foreplay. When we’d appeared together in Sweeney Todd last spring and A Christmas Carol last year, he’d chatted up several of the actresses electronically, which led to his having extramarital affairs with a couple of them. But he was easily bored, so when a theatrical production ended, he’d dump the old lover and search for a new one at the next production. The man was a slimeball. I was surprised more women couldn’t see through him, but I guess when a man bombards you with daily E-mails that claim you’re the most important person in his life, you prefer to believe him rather than think he says that to anyone with a uterus.

  When he’d asked for my E-mail address, I’d told him it was getlost@screwu.com. I guess he must ha
ve copied the address down wrong because I never received a message from him.

  “This is such fun,” Shirley cooed as she patted Andy’s hand. “My E-mail address is all in capital letters. LOVESLAVE at HERA dot COM.”

  I cringed. All in caps. Of course. You might miss it otherwise.

  “And mine is simonsays at spirit dot net. Just in case you ever want to drop me a line.”

  I wondered if Shirley realized it was Andy who’d just dropped the line. I stared at the plate of food in front of me. Mashed potatoes. Cauliflower smothered in cream sauce. White meat smothered in white sauce. The brochure had said the hotel cuisine was superb. It didn’t necessarily say it would be colorful. I poked at the meat with my fork. “What is this?” I whispered to Jane.

  She scraped away some of the sauce. “Uff da. I think it’s whitefish.” Uff da is a common expression among Norwegians in Iowa. From what I can figure, it means, ‘Holy crap!’”

  “What’s this under all the white sauce?” boomed Dick Rassmuson.

  “It’s chicken,” said his wife.

  Dick Teig shook his head. “Tastes like pork to me. But it’s not as good as Iowa pork.”

  “Well, it looks like Seashells and Snow to me,” said Shirley. “That shade was a really big seller last Christmas. Part of the Pearlized collection.”

  “I think it looks more like shit on a shingle,” Andy offered, sending the Dicks into gales of loud, hysterical laughter and table pounding.

  I shook my head. Nana had a point about being punctual. If you were on time, you had a choice about whom you wanted to eat with. Tomorrow night, I planned on being really early and sitting as far away from these guys as possible.

  “What did you think of the food?” I asked Nana, when we returned to the room after dinner.

  “There’s probably children starvin’ in China who would’ve loved that meal, but frankly, I found the white sauce on the veal a little lumpy.”

  “You had veal? We had chicken. Or pork. Or maybe whitefish.”

  “You had veal, dear. The entire dinin’ room was served veal.”

  “How do you know that? You must have asked. I tried to ask, but our waiter didn’t speak English.”

  “I read the menu. It was in a plastic holder in the middle of the table. And since you were so late, you missed the announcement Wally made before dinner.”

  I didn’t want to hear. He’d probably warned us not to eat any food we couldn’t identify.

  “He said to remember the faces of the people you were eatin’ with tonight because you’re supposed to eat at the same table with the same people for the rest a the trip. I guess that works out better with the waiters and tippin’.”

  “The same people? No. NO!” I flopped onto the bed and buried my face in the crook of my elbow. I considered my options. I supposed I could give up eating in the dining room and subsist on Swiss chocolate for the next nine days. This would require my having to walk back to Iowa to get rid of all the fat calories, but I didn’t have a job to rush back to, so I had the time. And chocolate releases serotonin into the brain, so I’d be happy.

  “Did you see our waiter, Emily? We all agreed he looks like a young Sean Connery. He wears a little gold hoop in his right ear, though. Does that mean somethin’?”

  “Yes,” I groaned. “It means he’s cool. Does he speak English?”

  “He has buns of steel, dear. Who cares what language he speaks?”

  “Oh, I finally figured out the rating system on the rooms here and I need to call downstairs and ask to be taken off the super deluxe room list and placed on the standard room list. The standards are the good rooms.”

  “If it’s all the same to you, dear, I’m gettin’ more fond a this room all the time.”

  “You don’t want to move?”

  “Not really.”

  “Aw, that’s so sweet.” I gave her a little hug. “It’s because the room reminds you of Grampa’s ice shanty, isn’t it? I bet when you look around, you can just feel his presence. Can you hear him saying anything to you?”

  “You bet. He’s sayin’, ‘You just got all your clothes hung up and put away, Marion. It’d be a pain in the ass to have to do it again.’”

  Yup. That sounded just like Grampa.

  We were in bed by nine. I fell asleep immediately and remained asleep until sometime in the middle of the night, when I came wide-awake. I grabbed my miniflashlight and shined it on my wristwatch, which I’d set out to dry on the built-in shelf above the headboard. The crystal was still fogged up. Nuts. I considered tiptoeing over to Nana’s bed and checking the travel alarm, but since she was snoring like a trumpeter swan, I didn’t want to chance waking her up. One of us deserved a decent night’s sleep.

  I began counting sheep. I hummed the theme songs from old TV Westerns. I made up naughty verses for the Oscar Mayer Weiner Song. An hour passed. I suspected this was a glaring example of my sleep pattern being thrown out of whack. I heard noises from the room next door. Groans. Loud groans.

  Always respectful of other people’s privacy, I pressed my ear to the wall.

  Thrashing. Pounding. Moaning. Thumping. A couple of high-pitched cries of ecstacy. A gazillion rooms in this place and I get stuck next to the one where there’s an ongoing reenactment of Debbie Does Dallas. Great. I flopped back onto my pillow, covered my ears, and went back to the Weiner Song.

  That’s the last thing I remember until I heard the scream.

  It was a woman’s scream. Loud. Shrill. Blood-chilling. I recognized it immediately because I’d let out the same scream my freshman year of college when I’d stepped onto the scale and discovered I’d gained ten pounds in two months.

  “Good Lord!” Nana was up like a shot. “What’s wrong? Emily? Are you all right? Who’s screamin’?”

  “Someone in the hall.” I was across the room and fumbling with the doorknob in the dark. “You stay here.” I flung the door open, expecting to find another guest who’d misinterpreted the room rating system.

  Instead, I found Shirley Angowski, attired in a pink nylon peignoir edged with a profusion of pink boa feathers at the hem and cuffs. She was shaking with hysteria and clawing her cheeks with her Baby Flamingo fingernails. “He’s dead. Look at him. He’s dead. He’s dead.”

  “Who’s dead?” I asked, as more doors were flung open.

  She pointed toward the spill of light in the room next to mine. I followed her gaze.

  Supine on the floor lay Andrew Simon, his mouth contorted into a hideous rictus, his skin pasty even beneath his tube tan, eyes wide and bulging, hair disheveled, dressed in a handsome black satin smoking jacket with matching ascot that was pulled dreadfully askew. I thought the ascot was a bit over the top, especially since it looked as if Andy hadn’t had a clue how to knot the thing. Now he’d never know.

  Shirley Angowski was right. Andrew Simon was dead.

  Not a good way to begin your Golden Swiss Triangle Tour.

  Chapter 3

  The hotel management allowed Nana and me to change into street clothes before they escorted us to a private office on the first floor. Street clothes for me consisted of a pair of London jeans and a warm Green Bay Packers sweatshirt. For Nana, it meant her Minnesota Vikings warm-up suit, but since we were going to be interviewed by the Swiss police, she decided to put on the dog, so she opted for the panty hose with the tummy control rather than the ones that were sheer to the waist.

  I paced the office and peered through the window miniblinds into the darkness beyond. “What time is it?”

  “A quarter to eight.”

  “But it’s still dark outside. Why is it dark?”

  “My guess is that the sun hasn’t come up yet.”

  “Well, they should have said something in the brochure about Switzerland only having three minutes of sunlight per day in the month of October. We might have decided to visit the Congo instead.”

  “I’m not sure the Congo’s still a country, dear.”

  Too bad Shirley Angowski was
n’t here. She’d probably know.

  “Why do the police need to interview us?” Nana wanted to know when I returned to my seat. “All the action happened while we were asleep.”

  “The police are interviewing everyone in the rooms adjoining Andy’s. According to the night manager, they usually conduct the interviews one individual at a time, but they think you might be more comfortable with a relative in the room, so they’re letting me stay.”

  “That’s very considerate. They must suspect that my bein’ grilled in isolation by the police might give me a coronary. I suppose that’s a concern when you cater to the senior set. You were real nice to that Angowski woman, Emily. Too bad about her peignoir moltin’ all over the place though. They’ll never get all those boa feathers off the hall carpet.”

  Management had whisked Shirley off to calm her down before the police arrived. I didn’t know where she was now, but her feather trail had terminated at the third-floor freight elevator. I’d felt a twinge of indignation as I’d passed by the shaft, and a twinge of guilt for my reaction, but it seemed the only way to get prompt elevator service in this building was to find a dead body in one of the rooms.

  “What do you s’pose this policeman is gonna look like?” Nana asked. “I hope he looks like Columbo. I know I won’t have a coronary if he’s wearin’ an old trench coat and has a glass eye. Or he could look like Kojak. I like bald men. Did you know bald men have more testosterone than men who have full heads a hair? I seen it on Tom Brokaw. They done a study.” She paused thoughtfully. “I wonder what would happen if a bald fella started wearin’ a toupee? You think the fake hair would make his testosterone level drop? Maybe they should do a study on the testosterone levels of bald guys who wear rugs.”

  The door opened behind us and I peeked over my shoulder to see the most gorgeous man I’d ever set eyes on enter the room. No trench coat. No glass eye. No bald head. More like Italian suit. Piercing blue eyes. Hair like liquid coal. “Ladies.” He strode across the floor and sat down at the desk, referring to a small notepad before looking up. I knew his type immediately. One percent body fat. Reflexes like a panther. Testosterone level off the chart. I wanted to have his children.