by Maddy Hunter
It was noontime, and now that I’d caught my breath and was dry again, I realized I was hungry. “Does the dining room have any luncheon specials?”
“The dining room isn’t open for lunch.”
Of course. That would be too convenient. “Is there anyplace nearby where I can pick up a burger and fries?”
“You mean, like a McDonald’s Happy Meal?”
“Exactly.”
“There’s a McDonald’s in Zurich.”
Even more convenient. Since hiking to Zurich wasn’t in my travel plans for the afternoon, I retreated to the lobby and examined the contents of my shoulder bag. Kleenex. Lipstick. Nail file. Passport. Tic Tacs! I poured a half dozen into my hand and popped them into my mouth. Address book. Dental floss. A lone LifeSaver ® hairy with fuzz. Looked like pineapple. I didn’t like pineapple. I dropped it into an ashtray. A bag of airplane peanuts. Yum. I’d save those for dessert.
Hearing the rumble of a diesel engine, I looked toward the side entrance of the lobby. The door flew open, and Nana trooped through, followed by the rest of the tour group. From the smile on her face, I guessed she’d just muscled past George Farkas again to be first off the bus. I waved her into the lobby and patted the seat beside me.
“You’re back a little early, aren’t you?” I asked.
“We skipped the last three sights on the tour because the Rhode Islanders were cold and the rest of us were gettin’ antsy we’d miss the bus.”
I shook my head. “The point of this trip is NOT to prove how punctual you are. The point is to see Switzerland, to sample the culture, to live a little.”
“Tell you the truth, Emily, Bernice’s hearin’ aid was hummin’ so loud, I couldn’t hear a thing Sonya was sayin’. Sittin’ on the bus wasn’t so bad. At least we got outta the rain. And Wally conducted a nice sing-along.” She tilted her head and gave me a quizzical look. “I don’t recall your hair lookin’ like that at breakfast this mornin’, dear. Your mother’s been hintin’ that I’m losin’ my memory. Don’t tell her, but I think she may be right.”
“Trust me. You’re fine.” I looked around the lobby. There were a few New Englanders milling around the front desk, but most people had headed back to their rooms so we were pretty much alone until Bernice spotted Nana and headed in our direction. She sat down at the end of the sofa and let out an audible sigh.
“I need to catch my breath before I head upstairs,” she sputtered.
“Did you enjoy the tour?” I asked.
“What?”
“I said, DID YOU ENJOY THE TOUR?”
She gave me a vacuous smile. Nana caught my eye.
“She took her hearin’ aid out, dear. If you want an answer, you’d have better luck talkin’ to a kumquat.”
That was handy. I exchanged vacuous smiles with Bernice and returned my attention to Nana. “I have something to tell you, and you have to promise to keep it to yourself.”
She made a motion of locking her lips and throwing away the key. “I promise.”
“I talked to Inspector Miceli this morning, and he told me that Andy’s death looks suspicious. They think he might have been murdered.”
“No.”
“Yes. And the killer could be your Mr. Nunzio.”
“No!”
“Yes. And what’s worse, if it’s not Nunzio, it could be someone on the tour.”
“No kiddin’.”
“And if the killer thinks we overheard something in Andy’s room last night, he could be after us, too!”
Nana froze up like the Tin Man in a rain shower. “That’s not good.”
“So Inspector Miceli said we should watch our backs, and if we see anything suspicious, we should report it. And for heaven’s sake, if you should see Mr. Nunzio again, don’t stop to chat. Run!”
“But he seemed like such a nice man.” She looked thoughtful for a moment. “You think we should arm ourselves?”
“With what?”
She gave her finger waves a slow, pensive scratch before pointing an excited finger at me. “Defense spray.”
“Like mace?”
“Like hair spray.”
Hmm. That might work. A blast of aerosol to the eyes wouldn’t cause irreparable damage to anyone’s eyesight, but it might slow them down. Slowing down was good. “Great idea. I have some in my suitcase.”
“We better go up to the room then. I gotta figure out the best place to stash it—my fanny pack or my bra. I’m kinda leanin’ toward my fanny pack though. My bra’s pretty crowded already.”
“With what?”
“Two thousand dollars’ worth a traveler’s cheques. But it’s my own fault. I should’ve asked for somethin’ other than twenties.”
“About the room, Nana. We don’t actually have a room right now.” I gave her the scoop on my mad dash to pack our bags and the desk clerk’s promise to have our luggage moved to our new room.
“Well, room or not, I need a potty break and fast. I’m an old lady. I got needs.”
“There’s a ladies’ room down that way.” I pointed toward the dining room. “You want me to go with you?”
“That’s all right, dear. I’ll take Bernice with me. She’s probably caught her breath by now.”
Fifteen minutes later, most of the Rhode Islanders had returned to the lobby, but many of our group were still missing, including Nana and Bernice. Concerned, I headed for the rest room.
I pushed on the door. It opened a quarter inch, then slammed shut. I tried again, and this time it didn’t open at all. “Nana?” Could she have fainted…or worse? Was it her body that was blocking my entry? I pounded on the door. “Nana!”
I heard the toilet flush. Then I heard laughter. And clapping. “Who’s in there!” I yelled. “Let me in!”
The door suddenly opened, and I was sucked into the crowd that was packed shoulder to shoulder in the small rest room. The toilet flushed again. More laughter. More clapping. Cameras flashing. “Nana? Are you in here, Nana!”
I came nose to nose with Helen Teig. “Have you seen my grandmother?”
“Stall number three,” she said as she brushed past me.
I slithered through the crowd to find Nana holding open the stall door and directing traffic. “Time’s up for you, Bernice. Come on now. It’s Grace’s turn.”
What in the world? Was Nana giving toilet-training instructions to all of Iowa?
“Emily! Move aside there. Let my granddaughter through. You gotta see this, Emily.” She flushed the toilet. The seat was shaped like a big doughnut, and when the water stopped running, it started moving in a clockwise direction all around the bowl, self-sanitizing itself as it passed through some kind of heating mechanism. “Just like a self-cleanin’ oven, only quicker.”
Grace Stolee pressed the button on her husband’s camcorder. “Revolving toilet seat in the Grand Palais Hotel.”
The city of Lucerne had to be a thousand years old. There were churches, and fountains and antiquities in Lucerne that most people would kill to see. But not my group. My group was squeezed into the rest room of the Grand Palais Hotel snapping photos of a revolving toilet seat.
You had to love a group that could find so much enjoyment in life’s simple pleasures.
“The bus is getting ready to leave!” I hollered above the din. Gasps. Watch-checking. Louder gasps. Then I found myself being spun around and dragged forward as the ladies scrambled toward the door. Even the novelty of a revolving toliet seat wasn’t worth being late over.
* * *
“Mark Twain called Lucerne’s Lion Monument, ‘the saddest and most poignant piece of rock in the world.’” Wally directed our attention to the mammoth dying lion that was carved in deep relief in the sandstone cliff before us. “The lion is twenty-seven feet long and is protecting a French fleur-de-lis. The monument was dedicated in 1821 and honors the Swiss Guards who died in Paris in 1792 trying to protect the life of Marie Antoinette.”
The lion’s massive paw hung over a shallow reflecting
pool at the base of the cliff. I dug a penny out of my change purse and tossed it into the water.
“Did you make a wish?” asked Nana.
“Yup.”
“What’d you wish for?”
I visored my hand over my eyes to shield the rain from my face. “Sun.”
“Okay, people!” Wally called out. “This is your Kodak moment. Short people in front. Tall people in back. No umbrellas and no hoods.”
“Did you notice it’s raining?” Dick Rassmuson griped.
“You’ll only get wet for a few seconds,” said Wally.
“The photo’s not gonna come out in the rain,” Dick persisted.
Wally sighed. “We can digitally remove the rain.”
I slatted my eyes and looked skyward. Too bad they couldn’t digitally remove the fog.
The Rhode Islanders all clustered on one side and the Iowans on the other, as if the Great Wall of China stood between them. I stood between Nana and Lucille Rassmuson in the front row of the Iowa side, waiting for the photographer to snap his photo. “So who do you think killed Andy?” Lucille whispered to me.
I pivoted my head around so fast, I heard my spine creak. “What?” How did she find out? No one was supposed to know.
“The police’ll probably accuse one of us,” Dick Rassmuson said from behind me. “When a fella dies, they always point the finger at his friends.”
“Sometimes they blame the butler,” offered Jane Hanson, who was sandwiched between Dick Rassmuson and Grace Stolee. “The butler does it in a lot of English mystery novels. Unfortunately, our store doesn’t carry English mysteries anymore, but we still have a good selection of romance and male adventure novels.”
“Andy didn’t have a butler,” came George Farkas’s voice from somewhere to my right. “He had a housekeeper.”
“And he sure as hell didn’t have no friends,” said Dick Teig. “He ran too hot and cold to have friends. He’d be all palsy-walsy with you one minute, and ignore you the next.”
“All that theater business of his was the blame,” Bernice said with authority. She’d obviously freshened the batteries in her hearing aid. “Community theater is just like Hollywood. You get real close to folks for a few weeks of rehearsal, then the production ends, and everyone goes his separate way. He didn’t bond with anyone. All his friendships had to be disposable. Use ’em and lose ’em. Isn’t that right, Helen?”
All eyes riveted on Helen Teig, who remained motionless for a beat before turning her head slowly to regard us. Helen had apparently remained in the rain too long because her right eyebrow had disappeared, leaving her with a grease pencil arch over only one eye. Not a good look for her.
“I’m not sure what you mean by that,” Helen replied tartly.
“Your niece was in a play with Andy, wasn’t she?” Bernice prodded. “The one about the London barber who gave his customers more than just a haircut and a shave. Didn’t Andy pull the use ’em and lose ’em routine on her?”
Oh. My. God. Was Helen’s niece the actress Andy wooed in Sweeney Todd? The actress who’d tried to commit suicide after he dumped her? I felt my spine prickle but didn’t know whether to blame it on chills or the raindrops drizzling down my neck.
Helen turned back to the photographer. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Bernice.”
“Sure you do. Emily was in that play, too. You remember Helen’s niece, don’t you, Emily?”
“Ahhhh…” As my mouth was hanging open, Wally yelled, “Smile!” and a blinding light flashed from the photographer’s camera.
“Jeez, I hate those flashes,” complained Dick Stolee, who was looking pretty good with his toupee reattached. “I got spots dancing in front of my eyes now.”
“Those aren’t spots,” said his wife. “They’re floaters. I hope you haven’t detached your retina again.”
“Don’t anyone move,” instructed Wally. “We’ll take one more picture.”
“Waste of film,” Dick Rassmuson grumbled. “Can’t they see it’s raining? Let’s hurry it up. I need a cigar.”
Nana looked up at me. “I think the rain’s helped your hair, Emily. It’s not so flyaway anymore.”
Hard for hair to be flyaway when it’s soaking wet. “You told,” I accused in a stage whisper. “You told everyone what Inspector Miceli told us to keep under wraps.”
Nana looked shocked. “I most certainly did not. You saw me lock my lips and throw away the key. That’s good as swearin’ on a Bible.”
“Then how do they KNOW?”
“I thought you told ’em.”
“I would never tell them.”
“Well, I didn’t tell ’em.”
I pondered this. “If you didn’t tell them, and I didn’t tell them, who did tell them?”
We looked at each other. We narrowed our eyes. We swiveled our heads around to glare at Bernice.
“My hearing aid!” cried Bernice suddenly. “It’s not in my ear anymore. It’s gotta be on the ground someplace. Don’t anyone move.”
I glanced toward the ground and spied the device near the toe of Nana’s shoe. “I’ll get it.” It probably wasn’t even a real hearing aid. It was probably an ultrasonic eavesdropping device. She’d no doubt heard every word of my private exchange with Nana and lost no time spreading the news to everyone else. I bent down and picked it up.
“Smile!” yelled Wally. Snap. Flash. “Great pictures everyone. We’re all done. You can get back on the bus now.”
While I was still in my scooch with my palm open, inspecting the piece of plastic, Bernice walked past and snatched the thing out of my hand, as if she didn’t want me to get too close a look. “Thanks, Emily.” And before I could straighten up, the whole place emptied out in a mad stampede for the bus. I lost sight of Nana, but, as usual, from the depths of the crowd I could hear her yell something about saving me a seat.
I noted Helen Teig hustling around George Farkas and mulled over what I’d just learned. Helen’s niece had tried to commit suicide because of Andy, which meant Helen could be out for revenge. She seemed the type who could hold a grudge, but was she the kind of person who could allow a grudge to lead to murder?
Hmm. Revenge was a definite a motivation for committing murder. Helen had a motive, and Andy’s door being unlocked had provided her the opportunity.
I scuffled toward the waiting bus with a sinking feeling in my stomach. I wondered what I’d done with the card Inspector Miceli had given me this morning. I didn’t want to make the call, but he probably needed to know that someone other than Mr. Nunzio had a reason to want Andy dead.
Chapter 6
“You’re in room 4624, Miss Andrew,” said the front desk clerk as she handed me the key. “I apologize for any inconvenience we might have caused you.”
I grabbed Nana by the arm and sashayed her to the elevator. Three-quarters of our group had decided to be dropped off in town to shop, so only a handful of us had returned to the hotel.
“You seem awful excited, Emily. They must’ve given us a real spiffy room this time.”
We stepped inside the elevator. I punched the button for level four. “It’s not excitement. It’s anxiety. I don’t want to point fingers, but if Mr. Nunzio didn’t murder Andy, I think I know who did.”
“My money’s on Helen Teig,” Nana said. “She was probably holdin’ a grudge against Andy for what he done to her niece, and it kept festerin’ and festerin’ until she couldn’t stand it no longer. I can’t say I like her doin’ him in, but if Andy had hurt you like that, Emily, I’d probably wanna do him in, too. I can’t figure out how she done it though. There was no blood on the scene, so you know she didn’t riddle him with bullets. I didn’t see no ligature marks around his neck, so you know she didn’t strangle him. She might a suffocated him, but they’ll have to wait for the results of the autopsy protocol to decide that.”
I stared down at Nana. “Autopsy protocol?”
“That’s the file tellin’ you everythin’ there is to know a
bout how someone died.”
“How do you know about autopsy protocols?”
“Investigative Report, dear. You can catch it on A & E almost every night at eight o’clock Central Time, nine Eastern.”
That did it. I was going to have to start watching more TV…and thinking like Columbo. I’d even cooked up a possible theory. “Do you suppose someone might have tampered with Andy’s inhaler? I saw a movie once where a killer discharged the spray from a woman’s inhaler so when the woman had an asthma attack, the apparatus was empty. She nearly died.”
“That woulda been the most obvious way to do him in. And tidy, too. No screamin’. No fistfights. No splattered blood. Just release the spray or muck up the chemical balance in his Pirbuterol Acetate. But it don’t do much good for all this second-guessin’, does it? The police won’t know a thing until the serology and toxicology reports come back.”
Serology report. Right. I knew that.
“So who do you think killed him, dear?”
Considering all my years of higher education, it was deflating to be scooped by a woman with an eighth-grade education and a satellite dish, but not wanting to steal her thunder, I decided to take the high road. “Well, it could be one of several people, but maybe I shouldn’t elaborate until I know more.” After all, maybe I’d reached my conclusion too quickly. Maybe there was incriminating evidence about other people that hadn’t surfaced yet. Maybe Bernice had mentioned the incident with Helen’s niece to throw us off the scent. But whose scent?
“George Farkas was thinkin’ a gettin’ a pool together to guess the killer,” Nana went on, “but he said he’d need more suspects than Helen to make it worth his while.”
“That’s terrible!”
“That’s what I told him. Between you and me, Emily, I think George has a gamblin’ problem.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he shows up at Holy Redeemer every Thursday night to play bingo.”
“So do you.”
“But I have an excuse. I’m Catholic. Bingo’s part a my religion. George don’t have an excuse. He’s Lutheran.”