Alpine for You

by Maddy Hunter

  “I’m Inspector Etienne Miceli.” His voice was deep and resonant and started at his knees. He had the most beautiful French accent I’d ever heard. Or German. Or maybe Italian. “I’m told you ladies are visiting from America.”

  “Windsor City, Iowa,” I said, reeling my tongue back into my mouth.

  “Iowa,” he repeated. “That’s close to Chicago, isn’t it?”

  I was impressed with his geographical acuity. He could probably even point to Rhode Island on a map and be fairly close. “It’s west of Chicago.”

  “I visited Chicago only last year. My sister is married to a man who works at the Art Institute there. I assume you’ve been to the Art Institute?”

  “I’ve-uh, I’ve been to the Marshall Field’s flagship store. That’s within ten to twenty blocks of the Institute.”

  “You must be Emily. Emily what?” His mouth curved into a soft, dazzling smile that revealed teeth too perfect not to be capped and dimples in both his cheeks. Unh.

  “Emily Andrew. How did you know my first name?” Was it possible we were so mentally connected that he could simply look at me and know my name?

  “The night clerk told me that Emily and Marion were waiting for me. Since I’m reading ‘Marion Sippel’ on this lady’s name tag, that makes you Emily.”

  Deductive reasoning. I hated deductive reasoning.

  “I assume from the family likeness that you ladies are related?”

  That was kind of scary. Nana had two chins, a bulbous nose, and ears like Alfred E. Newman. If he was seeing a likeness, I was in big trouble. “Emily’s my granddaughter,” Nana piped up. “And she’s not married. She used to be, but it didn’t work out.”

  “Ah, yes,” the inspector commiserated. “In Switzerland first marriages often don’t work out either.”

  “She got an annulment though,” Nana continued. “The Church will do that anytime when a couple has serious issues involvin’ closets.”

  Nana was a whiz with E-Trade over the Internet, but she’d never been able to understand the gay thing about coming out of the closet. I blamed it on underexposure. In all of recorded history, only two gays had ever lived in Minnesota. Then she moved to Iowa, where there were none.

  “In my day we didn’t even have closets,” said Nana. “We had wardrobes.”

  Inspector Miceli leaned back in his chair, trying unsuccessfully not to grin. “Please allow me a few questions, Mrs. Sippel, then you’ll be free to go.”

  “It was the asthma what killed Andy, wasn’t it?”

  “We don’t know what killed him. We’ll know more after the autopsy is performed. Can you tell me anything unusual you remember about last night, Mrs. Sippel?”

  Nana shrugged. “I ate dinner. Went to bed. Fell asleep. Dreamed about the Ponderosa.”

  “The steakhouse in America?”

  “No. Ben Cartwright’s spread in Nevada.”

  Miceli made a quick notation. “Ben Cartwright?”

  “He’s a make-believe cowboy,” Nana explained. “He was head of the Cartwright clan in Bonanza. You ever see Bonanza? It was on for fourteen seasons back in the sixties. I wonder what you’d have to do to get Westerns here in Switzerland?”

  “Razing the Alps would be a good first step,” said Miceli, scribbling out what he’d written, “but it would kill the tourist industry. Go on with your dream, Mrs. Sippel.”

  “Ben was havin’ a reunion at the Ponderosa for a bunch of gunslingers I recognized from the old Westerns.”

  Miceli leaned forward and narrowed his eyes as if he were definitely on to something. “Sometimes, external stimuli can incorporate itself quite seamlessly into a person’s dream. For instance, gunfire in an adjacent room could become gunfire in your dream. Were the gunslingers in your dream having a shoot-out, Mrs. Sippel?”

  “They were at a buffet table eatin’ Oscar Mayer weiners.”

  I slunk down several inches in my chair.

  “And then I woke up and heard that Angowski woman screamin’.”

  Miceli nodded and penciled something onto his notepad again. “Is there anything else you can think to tell me that might be of significance?”

  “Are you sure Andy’s really dead?” Nana asked. “He fancied himself an actor, so’s he might be fakin’ it to get attention.”

  “I assure you, Mrs. Sippel, Mr. Simon would have to be an extraordinary actor to fake death this well.”

  “He must be dead then because he wasn’t a very good actor. Just ask Emily. He chewed his words and spoke too fast. The only reason he got to play Ebenezer Scrooge in Christmas Carol was because his wife donated five thousand dollars to finance the production. He’d a made a better Tiny Tim, but I’m not sure he was tall enough.”

  Miceli made another notation, then stood up and escorted Nana to the door. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Sippel. They’ll be serving breakfast in the dining room about now. I’ll send your granddaughter in to join you when I’m through with her.” He returned to the desk and riveted his eyes on me. “I apologize for interrupting your holiday, Miss Andrew, but I promise to be as quick as possible with my questions. These interviews often end up being a waste of everyone’s time, but it’s procedure.”

  “Nana must have said something important. You were taking notes.”

  He held up the notepad for me to see. At the top of the page was written a word in a foreign language. Beneath it appeared two more equally mysterious words. “I don’t know what those words mean,” I said.

  “My grocery list.” He shrugged. “Power of suggestion. I just remembered that my refrigerator’s empty.”

  My refrigerator was empty most of the time, too. We already had something in common.

  In the next instant he was back in detective mode. “How well did you know the deceased, Miss Andrew?”

  “We were in a couple of community theater plays together in Windsor City. But we didn’t hang out together. I spent my time memorizing lines. He spent his charming all the bosomy blondes.”

  “Was he successful?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. He’d scope out the prospects at rehearsal, target one of them, then woo her with attention, phone calls, dates to rehearse lines, intimate E-mails. He was big into romancing over the Internet. He’d tell her they were soul mates, that they shared a bond that transcended space and time. He’d make a woman feel so special, she’d fall into bed with him before the end of rehearsal for scene one.”

  “Ah, yes. We have a saying in Switzerland. ‘Men fall in love through their eyes. Women fall in love through their ears.’ You were a witness to all this?”

  “When you’re in a community theater production, the cast becomes your family. And the ladies talked. About everything. Including Andy.”

  “How often did Mr. Simon exhibit this kind of behavior?”

  “He had a short attention span, so when auditions would begin for the next play, he’d pick out a new victim, end the affair with his current lover, and start the pattern all over again. It was really insidious because he always hooked up with women who had no self-esteem—the ones he could brainwash into believing their lives were worthless without him. Poor things would be completely devastated when he dumped them. Last spring, one of them overdosed on sleeping pills afterward and had to be rushed to the hospital to have her stomach pumped. But Andy didn’t care. As long as he was getting his ego stroked, it didn’t matter who suffered.”

  “He never tried to woo you?”

  “I’m not suffering from low self-esteem.” I grabbed a hunk of my hair and held it out. “And I’m not blonde.”

  Miceli scribbled something furiously onto his pad.

  “What are you writing?”

  “I’m reminding myself to invite you to dinner while you’re here. I happen to be enchanted by women from your Midwest. I find your accents quite charming.”

  Men usually asked me out because they said I was friendly, or had a great smile, or a good personality. My brother told me that was a guy’s way of saying h
e liked my breasts and was hoping I’d take my blouse off. No one had ever asked me out because he liked the way I pronounced my vowels. I didn’t know whether to be flattered or disappointed. “You’re not married, are you?”

  “Widowed.”

  “Gay?”

  “Straight.”

  I thought about my ex-husband. “Do you dress in ladies’ lingerie?”

  “That would be my cousin, Jean-Claude. But you’ve no cause to worry. He’s adopted.”

  “I’m in room thirty-three-ten.”

  He smiled one of those bedroom smiles that caused every organ below my neck to tingle. My Golden Swiss holiday was definitely looking up.

  “If you would be so kind, Miss Andrew, I have only a few more questions.”

  In response to his queries, I told him about Andy’s red, watery eyes the day before, the mix-up in our room assignments, and his minor asthma attack at dinner.

  “His asthma undoubtedly worsened as the night progressed,” Miceli commented. “We found his inhaler on the floor beside him.”

  I told him about Andy’s request for Shirley Angowski’s E-mail address and the disturbing noises I’d heard in his room during the wee hours of the morning.

  “What time did you hear the noises?”

  “My watch was drying out, so I don’t know what time it was.”

  “You must have touched the diverter on the shower. Can you describe the noises for me?”

  “They were like World Wrestling Alliance noises. Thumps. Grunts. Groans. Maybe a flying dropkick.”

  “Could you tell if he was alone?”

  “It sounded more like a tag team.”

  “So he might have been entertaining a paramour and they woke you with their spirited…lovemaking.” He paused. “Given Mr. Simon’s sexual appetites, would you be surprised if he’d arranged assignations with two different women on the same night?”

  “Not at all. But if Shirley Angowski was assignation number two, who was assignation number one?”

  “Something to ponder, Ms. Andrew. Perhaps he was having a secret liaison with someone else on your tour.”

  This last thought stuck with me as I located Nana in the dining room. Had Andy been boffing women other than aspiring actresses? Women with husbands, and grandchildren, and varicose veins? I sat down opposite Nana and eyed her speculatively.

  “Is Andy Simon the kind of man you’d want to have an affair with, Nana?”

  “He’s dead, dear. I never have sex with dead men, though after your grampa started havin’ those erectile dysfunction problems, I had a pretty good idea what it would be like.”

  I shook my head in bewilderment. “Why would any self-respecting female want to have an affair with that self-centered, self-important, undersized gnome?”

  Nana shielded her mouth and spoke in a stage whisper. “He wasn’t so undersized, down there, if you catch my drift.”

  My heart stopped beating. How could she know that? Oh, no! Not my own grandmother! “You didn’t! You couldn’t! I can’t listen to this.”

  “Margi Swanson accidentally walked in on him when he was doin’ his business into a cup at the clinic—Margi works part-time for Andy’s doctor—and she told me at the Legion a Mary meetin’ that his hoho reminded her of a big old eel she’d seen washed up on a beach on the coast a Maine. Can you hear me with your hands over your ears like that, Emily?”

  Fortunately, I’d left enough space between my fingers to catch the important words. “Yuck,” I said, thankful that Iowa is landlocked.

  “Margi said he was pretty proud of that hoho a his. Called it his ‘Pile Driver.’” She slipped into a moment of nostalgia. “We called your grampa’s ‘Mr. Handsome.’ It had lots a personality. Before the prostate problem, he could even make it do tricks.”

  I’d named my husband’s, too. “Rover.” But after he’d started stepping out on me, the only trick it could perform with any regularity was the one where it rolled over and played dead.

  “I don’t mean to rush you, dear, but you better grab some breakfast before the food’s all gone.”

  A diversion. I could use a diversion. Considering my tension level at the moment, food was a good choice, especially food at the breakfast buffet in a four-star hotel.

  I started salivating as I squeezed around chairs enroute to the buffet table. I thought I’d start with hot buttered toast and a sweet roll, then move on to scrambled eggs, pancakes with maple syrup, bacon, sausage, and smoked salmon if they had any. A twinge of conscience made me rethink my choices. Okay, maybe out of respect for the dead, I’d forgo the sausage. But only for one morning.

  I grabbed a plate and lifted the cover of a huge silver serving tray. Empty. I lifted the cover of the next tray. Empty as well. I caught the eye of the waiter with the buns of steel. “Where are the bacon and eggs?”

  “No no.” He made a sweeping gesture toward the rest of the table.

  “Are they all gone?”

  “Gone? Yes, gone.” And before I could ask another question, so was he.

  I proceeded down the table. I passed a bread basket that was empty save for a pair of tongs. A glass bowl that was half-full of Elmer’s Glue. A bowl that was full of Elmer’s Glue with raisins. A platter with one slice of cheese that was curling at the edges and two slices of luncheon meat with large chunks of lard embedded in them. A bowl with a single wedge of canned grapefruit floating in liquid. And three bowls that held the scant remains of what looked like dried cereal. I peered into each bowl and noted the choices. Cornflakes. Cornflakes. And cornflakes. We should have stayed in a five-star hotel. Their dried cereal selections probably included Cocoa Puffs.

  I threw some food together and returned to the table with Nana. “What did you end up eating?” I asked her as I motioned the waiter for coffee.

  “I had the plain glue. It wasn’t bad actually. Tasted a little like Cream of Wheat without the wheat.” She regarded my meal. “We’ll have to come down earlier tomorrow, Emily. I don’t see how you’re gonna survive the mornin’ on six cornflakes and a cup a coffee.”

  The waiter appeared at my shoulder, sloshed coffee into my cup, and rushed off again. I peeked into my cup. Correction. Six cornflakes and a half cup of coffee. I took a sip. A half cup of cold coffee. I refused to be upset, however. My anticipated dinner date with Etienne Miceli made even cold coffee seem palatable.

  “While you was with that nice policeman, Wally announced to the dinin’ room that we’re gonna have a group meetin’ in the lobby after breakfast,” Nana said. “He probably wants to tell us about Andy.”

  I wondered how the Windsor City group would react to the news of Andy’s death. I was particularly curious to see if anyone would respond with more than casual sorrow. I was no detective, but if one of the ladies in the group burst into uncontrollable fits of weeping when she heard the news, she’d win my vote as the person most likely to be Andy’s secret lover.

  The lobby was buzzing with conversation when we arrived. Thinking I might be able to shed new light on the case within the next few minutes, I sat down on one of the velvet sofas, butterflies in my stomach. Or maybe it was hunger pangs. Nana joined me after exchanging a few words with Bernice Zwerg.

  “Poor Bernice says she didn’t sleep a wink after two o’clock. She’s still operatin’ on Iowa time. You should see the bags under her eyes.”

  “I have concealer.” I rummaged in my shoulder bag.

  “Concealer won’t cut it. She’s gonna need a face-lift.”

  Wally hurried into the lobby, then stood for a moment with a stunned expression on his face. The room grew quiet. He looked very patriotic this morning, dressed in his khaki pants, navy blazer, and perfectly knotted red necktie. “You’re all so prompt, I can hardly believe it. This doesn’t usually happen until day four. Is everyone here?”

  “Andy Simon’s not here,” yelled Dick Rassmuson. “Maybe you oughta phone his room.”

  The expression on Wally’s face became grim. “Mr. Simon is the reason I�
�ve called this meeting. I’m afraid I have some tragic news, people. Sometime last night Mr. Simon passed away in his room. He’s no longer with us.”

  A moment of shocked silence ensued before a terrible wailing sound filled the room. “Nooo!” cried Dick Rassmuson. “Not Andy!”

  My eyeballs froze wide-open. Dick Rassmuson and Andy? But Dick wasn’t Andy’s type. Not only wasn’t he blond, he didn’t have hair at all. And Dick didn’t have an E-mail address. As far as I knew, he didn’t even own a home computer.

  “I bought him a frozen custard in the airport yesterday,” Dick whined. “He never paid me back!”

  Lucille elbowed him in the ribs to shut him up, but he continued to grumble. I breathed a sigh of relief. If anyone else had made that wailing sound, I’d accuse them of being the secret lover. But since Dick Rassmuson was reputed to be Windsor City’s biggest tightwad, I concluded he truly was more upset about the loss of his money than the loss of Andy. I erased the picture of Dick and Andy locked in a lovers’ embrace. Whew. I wouldn’t have wanted the job of explaining the term “bisexual” to Lucille.

  “Has anyone told Andy’s wife yet?” Jane Hanson asked.

  “I talked to Mr. Erickson, the Windsor City Bank president this morning, and since he’s Mrs. Simon’s brother, he said he thought it would be more appropriate if he broke the news in person.”

  “Is this going to affect our schedule?” Solvay Bakke called out. “We’re supposed to meet the bus this morning at nine o’clock. It’s eight-forty now. We’re already running late.”

  All eyes in the room darted to their collective wrists. “I have eight-forty-two,” said Bernice Zwerg. “I bet the bus has left without us.”

  Everyone in the lobby rose en masse and gathered up their belongings.

  “People. People. The bus isn’t going anywhere without us. Sit down. Please. Just for another minute.”

  Dick Stolee whipped out his stopwatch and clicked the crown with his thumb. Dick Stolee was blessed with the kind of all-American good looks that don’t fade with age. He was athletically built, pink-cheeked and blue-eyed, with a mop of steel gray hair that never blew out of place. Could be he used a lot of hair spray, but for hold like that, I suspected spray starch. He was addicted to techno toys and gadgets and probably spent most of his monthly pension buying batteries to keep the things running.