The Man Who Tried to Get Away

by Donaldson, Stephen R.

  “Or,” I put in, “like hunting for murderers to help them get away.”

  Just for a second, I thought Altar might laugh. He actually did smile. “Well, I wouldn’t want to go that far.” This time he made an overt show of verifying Buffy’s absence. Then he told us in a conspiratorial whisper, “But I’ve been known to disturb a few clues, just for the fun of it. Make the crime a little harder to solve.”

  Ginny’s smile had a different quality altogether. “You devil,” she said distinctly. “I can see we’re going to have to keep an eye on you.”

  At once he hooded his expression. “You’ll never catch me,” he murmured. “I’m too good at it.”

  Well, at least now we knew why he was willing to work with Sue-Rose on Murder on Cue, Inc. He wanted to sabotage her hobby. I didn’t know whether to laugh or snarl.

  But I didn’t waste time deciding which. While he was still in the mood for revelations, I said, “Tell me, Mr. Altar. How did you happen to choose Fistoulari Investigations for this job?”

  That subject clearly didn’t interest him at all. “Oh, I heard about you somewhere,” he said with a shrug. “Someone told me you do good work. I had my doubts when Ms. Fistoulari said you were in the hospital recently. You’ve been injured? But I took your reputation into account. And the job isn’t challenging.”

  And, I added for him, if one of the hunters you don’t like isn’t at his best, so much the better. But I kept that to myself.

  “I gather you’ve been doing this for a while,” I continued. “We aren’t the first security you’ve hired. Who had the job before we did?”

  Unfortunately Rock Altar wasn’t listening. Even Ginny had stopped paying attention. Instead they both watched a souped-up blue Camaro roar into the parking lot as if the driver had blood on his mind.

  Automatically Ginny braced herself. Her hand found its way into her purse. But I didn’t react. The sun was shining, and the sky was as clear as a dream. And the parking lot was too public. No one in his right mind would try to shoot me here. Besides, the Camaro had its windows up. When goons with guns drive by to blow you away, they always have their windows rolled down.

  So much for my chance to ask Altar how we got this job.

  The car skidded into a nearby parking space. The doors burst open. A woman jumped out of the passenger seat. A man stood up from the driver’s side.

  “You’re a menace!” the woman shouted. “You nearly got us killed! I’ve never been so scared.”

  She laughed happily as she protested.

  “Hey, I got us here,” the man retorted. “And we aren’t late. You said you didn’t want to be late.”

  He was laughing, too.

  They ran into each other behind the Camaro. She made a pretense of trying to slap him. He hugged her so hard that her feet left the ground. They laughed some more.

  “Dr. Drayton,” Altar murmured without too much disapproval. “Mrs. Drayton. Glad you could make it.”

  I remembered their names. Sam and Queenie Drayton. Apparently they were local—a conclusion I jumped to because they hadn’t spent the night at the Camelot. But I didn’t care where they were from. I didn’t even care why he considered it a good idea to drive like a drunk kid. What I wanted to know was, Where did she get a name like Queenie?

  She subsided while her husband turned to size us up. He wore a tweed jacket and good slacks that didn’t match the scarf flung carelessly around his neck. With his strong jaw and wavy hair and perfect teeth, he looked more like a movie star than a doctor. In fact, his face betrayed altogether too much pleasure for a doctor. Maybe he had some kind of low-stress specialty, like Facial Blemishes of the Rich. Or maybe he was one of Buffy’s stooges.

  On the other hand, it was easy to understand why any man would be happy in Mrs. Drayton’s company. She wasn’t beautiful—maybe she wasn’t even pretty. But her hazel eyes looked straight at the world, afraid of nothing, and her wide mouth seemed to fill up with joy when she smiled. She had a slim, athletic, endearing body. Her coat hung open, and the way her breasts moved under her cashmere sweater gave the impression that she didn’t wear much support. Or need it.

  Down, Fang, I said to myself.

  Fang didn’t pay any attention.

  “Mr. Altar?” Drayton asked, looking at me.

  “I’m Roderick Altar,” Rock answered. He didn’t offer to shake hands with Sam Drayton either. “This is Mr. Axbrewder and Ms. Fistoulari. My wife is inside.” He nodded toward the hotel. “We should be ready to go in a minute or two.”

  Drayton didn’t seem to mind not shaking hands. He gave his wife a squeeze, then let go of her. “I’ll get our bags.”

  Fishing out his keys, he unlocked the Camaro’s trunk and produced two large suitcases and a black medical bag. For an actor’s prop, his bag looked unusually authentic. Used and familiar.

  Altar opened the back of the van. Drayton heaved his suitcases and the bag inside. Then, since our suitcases were handy, he put Ginny’s and mine beside his. Ginny thanked him with a nod. I thanked him by making a studious effort not to grin at Queenie.

  Sue-Rose chose that moment to emerge from the Camelot with the rest of her guests in tow, followed by a bellhop pushing a luggage cart the size of New Hampshire.

  Eight of them, by actual count. I reviewed their names to myself, but across the parking lot I couldn’t guess which name went with which person.

  Buffy beamed at all of us. As soon as she was close enough to be heard, she said, “I’m so glad you could all make it. This is going to be wonderful. Let’s load up and go. I can’t wait to get started. We’ll introduce ourselves when we’re on our way.”

  Sam and Queenie shared a look and a shrug to contain their laughter. Ginny and I didn’t have any last-minute messages for each other, so we just nodded. Altar stood at the van’s sliding door like a butler who didn’t care whether he got fired, and all the rest of us piled in while the bellhop filled up the back.

  Unfortunately piling in didn’t come easily. It necessitated too much stooping, which put too much pressure on my guts. By the time I reached a seat, I thought I was going to pass out.

  I found myself in what would’ve been called steerage on an ocean liner, the bench seat across the rear of the van. Other passengers had better accommodations, individual “captain’s chairs” with armrests and ruffled upholstery. The Altars sat up front. She took the driver’s seat, obviously in charge. He slumped beside her, slowly sinking from view. Behind them, Ginny had the seat closest to the door. She’d already begun talking to the man across from her, but I couldn’t tell anything about him except that he had broad shoulders and the slickest hair I’d seen since Brylcreem went out of fashion.

  Next came a man about the size and general shape of a mushy dirigible, possessively holding hands with his companion, a small flushed creature who, like Rock, looked like she was being consumed by her chair. Then two men, one of them handsome, the other not. Then two women matching the opposite descriptions. I occupied one of the corners, with Sam Drayton beside me, Queenie beside him, and the last woman beside her.

  I didn’t know what to make of the fact this woman had already taken notice of me. Ordinarily I’m used to being noticed—too big to ignore. But she didn’t seem struck by my size. Which should’ve pleased me, I suppose. She had dark brown wavy hair swept back from her face with elegant casualness, and her makeup emphasized her beauty artlessly. Gloss or moisture glistened on her parted lips. Her wide brown eyes were soft and intent.

  Us virile-type males are supposed to jump right up and salute when attractive women look at us like that. But for some reason I wasn’t pleased. In fact, I didn’t like it at all. Intuition again. I suspected her of looking at me like that because she knew I was in pain.

  Buffy fired up the van. She was talking to Rock—in a moment she would address the rest of us. Before that happened, however, the woman beside Queenie Drayton reached her hand toward me and said softly, “We should introduce ourselves. I’m Lara H
ardhouse.”

  Somehow I twisted my torso enough to get my arm free. As I shook her hand, I noticed that her fingers were cool, caressing. I tried to keep my pain from showing, but it made me sweat helplessly as I muttered, “Axbrewder. Call me Brew.”

  To distract everyone from the spectacle of my obvious discomfort, I introduced Sam and Queenie. The three of them shook hands. But they didn’t pay much attention to each other. As soon as he finished with Lara Hardhouse’s fingers, Drayton leaned over and put his mouth close to my ear.

  “I don’t like the way you move,” he whispered. “What’s the problem?”

  So much for my theory that he wasn’t really a doctor.

  “Abdominal injury.” I didn’t bother to whisper. Ginny and I’d decided to use my limitations as part of our cover. “I’ve only been out of bed for a couple of days. A vacation is supposed to help me heal.”

  Drayton glanced at my belly. Then he nodded toward the front of the van. “You should sit in one of those chairs. More comfortable.”

  “I should do a lot of things.” All this courtesy wore on me. “Taking my pills. Getting more exercise. Improving my personality. Unfortunately I just get cranky when people tell me what I should do.”

  The doctor smiled as if he understood perfectly. “Convalescent blues,” he pronounced. “That’s a good sign. It means you’re finally well enough to realize just how lousy you feel. Don’t worry, it doesn’t last.”

  He turned away, wrapped his hands around Queenie’s, and proceeded to ignore me.

  Too bad Lara Hardhouse didn’t do the same. Instead she kept her gaze on me, her eyes moist with sympathy.

  Mrs. Altar didn’t make any announcements until she had the van rolling in the direction of the freeway. But after that she couldn’t contain herself.

  “Well, this is wonderful.” We could all hear her. The van was as quiet as a mausoleum. “I get so excited before one of my mysteries. Rock keeps telling me that Murder on Cue is a business, but I can’t think of it that way. I just love it. We’ve done everything we can imagine to give you a crime you’ll enjoy. Haven’t we, Rock?”

  Rock’s reaction—whatever it was—remained hidden by his chair back.

  “Now,” Buffy went on as if we were all about to start singing campfire songs, “it’s time for introductions. I’m Buffy, most of you know that, and this is my husband, Rock. You’ll all probably start from the assumption that he and I didn’t ‘do it,’ but that’s precisely why you shouldn’t be too sure we’re innocent.

  “Let’s work toward the back. Tell us who you are and what you do and why you’re here.”

  She paused expectantly.

  The man beside Ginny looked over to her, giving me a glimpse of his profile. His face had aggressive lines—sharp brows, a nose you could’ve used to open cans, a chin like clenched knuckles—softened by a wide flexible mouth. His jet-black hair lay slicked back from his forehead like a streak of grease. Ginny murmured something I couldn’t hear—she may’ve told him to go first—and he nodded.

  Turning farther to scan the rest of us, he said, “I’m Joseph Hardhouse.” Like his mouth, his voice was flexible, capable of all kinds of inflections. “I own Granny Good’s.” Granny Good’s was a chain of family-style restaurants based in Denver. “We make a lot of money, but the work is almost as boring as the food.” He smiled humorously. “I take vacations like this to get away from worrying about the price of hash browns, or cooks who don’t wash their hands enough.”

  Sam and Queenie Drayton chuckled. I didn’t hear any other reactions.

  “Murder fascinates me,” Hardhouse continued, “the whole question of why people kill each other. To be fair, I should warn you that I think I know the answer. If I’m right, that gives me an advantage this week.” His tone concealed whether or not he was joking. “But I don’t like to lose, so if I’m wrong I’ll never admit that I said anything like this. You’ll only find out what my answer is if I win.”

  “That isn’t fair!” Buffy protested in good-natured reproach.

  “Neither is murder,” Hardhouse countered. “That’s part of what makes it interesting.”

  Still smiling, he passed the introductions to Ginny.

  She studied him briefly with an expression I hadn’t seen on her face for a long time. Then she announced calmly, “Ginny Fistoulari. Mick Axbrewder and I run a construction company in town.” She did it again, set me up for people to call me Mick. There was nothing I could do to stop her. “Last week he didn’t watch where he was going and nearly impaled himself on a bundle of rebar. But I can’t make him rest unless I stand over him, and then I don’t get any work done myself, so I signed us up for this. At least he’ll be away from heavy equipment. And if the mystery gives him enough to think about, he might not drive both of us crazy.”

  I should’ve been angry. She knows I don’t let anybody call me Mick. But as I listened I realized what she was doing. That Mick and her joshing tone dissociated us from each other. It disguised our relationship. Which might conceivably make our job easier.

  I didn’t like it. But I decided to let her get away with it, at least temporarily.

  Obliquely I noticed that we were on the freeway now, picking up speed. The van ran almost silently, and I couldn’t feel any vibrations from the road. For some reason, that made me nervous, as if we’d lost contact with reality.

  The dirigible heaved himself around to look up and down the aisle. His smile was like too much butter icing on a cake, so rich that I could feel my cholesterol level rise. Maybe it explained his bad teeth. Still holding hands with his companion, he said, “Ah’m Houston Mile, and this here pretty little filly is Maryanne Green.” His accent was so thick you could’ve used it to stucco houses. “We’re from the great state of Texas, where Ah’ve got a few little ol’ oil wells and just a bitty stud farm.”

  “Now don’t you be too modest, Houston,” his “filly” put in, her voice as sweet as his smile. “You raise the finest Arabians in the state, and you know it. Why, just last year,” she informed us, making sure we understood Houston Mile’s finer qualities, “place and show at the Kentucky Derby were sired on Houston’s farm.”

  From where I sat, I could see dimples and devotion, but not much else.

  “Well, Ah am a mite proud of them long-legged heartbreakers,” Houston responded, “if Ah do say so mahself. But not too proud to exercise mah brains ever’ once in a while. Ol’ Buffy and Rock do put on a fine mystery. Stumped me ever’ time so far, and that’s a fact.”

  At that Buffy laughed happily, and Houston Mile licked his fat lips as if he wished he were licking Maryanne Green.

  I could tell right away that I had a lot in common with both of them.

  The handsome man behind Maryanne was next. He actually got out of his seat, offering all of us a good look at him, but he didn’t smile. He had one of those faces that was too young for itself, as if it hadn’t made up its mind what it would be when it grew up. He must’ve been at least thirty-five, but he looked about nineteen. Now that I could see him clearly, I wondered why I’d thought him handsome. His features were too soft for that, almost malleable.

  “I’m Simon Abel,” he said seriously. I seemed to hear a hint of Boston in his voice. “I’m here with Cat Reverie.” He indicated the woman sitting in front of me, and she stood up, too. “This is a working vacation for us. I used to be a housepainter. She ran a hairdressing salon. But we saved up, and now we want to go into business for ourselves. We want to run our own mystery camps. We came to see how Rock and Buffy do it.”

  A housepainter? Simon Abel looked about as much like a housepainter as Sam Drayton did like a doctor. I decided to reserve judgment until I got a better look at his hands.

  Cat—Catherine—Reverie, on the other hand, looked exactly like a woman who ran a hairdressing salon. Her lush auburn hair swept down onto her shoulders as if you were supposed to write a poem about it. Her bulky sweater and long skirt concealed her figure in a way that made you thi
nk you’d find it stunning if you got a glimpse of it. She was pretty in a professional fashion, as if she were just an advertisement for herself, not a real woman.

  Her smile was the exact opposite of Simon Abel’s. “Of course,” she beamed, “the reason we want to run a mystery camp is because we love mysteries. Miss Marple, Nero Wolfe, Marlowe, they’ve always been my favorite books.”

  With an air of studied naturalness, she smoothed her skirt under her and sat back down.

  Until Abel folded himself into his chair again, I didn’t realize that he hadn’t actually looked at anyone except Cat Reverie while he stood.

  That left two people who needed no introduction, mostly because they were the only ones left who stood a reasonable chance of being Constance Bebb and Mac Westward, the famous novelist. For their sakes, I hoped they really were famous. To me, they looked like the sort of writer you’ve never heard of. The woman wasn’t more than middle-aged, but she had the prim graceless air of a worn-out schoolteacher. Despite his corduroy jacket and turtleneck shirt, the man made me think of mashed potatoes that someone forgot to put in the refrigerator a few days ago.

  He remained in his seat and didn’t say anything. She rose to do the talking for both of them. “I’m Constance Bebb,” she said as if she weren’t sure we’d done our homework, “Connie, and this is Mac Westward. We’re collaborators. Together we write the Thornton Foal novels.”

  There she paused like she expected a round of applause.

  Somewhat to my surprise, she got it. I’d never heard of Thornton Foal—and I was still looking for Buffy’s shills. But Maryanne Green and Cat Reverie clapped enthusiastically, Simon Abel breathed, “Wow!” and Joseph Hardhouse arched his black eyebrows. Queenie Drayton shifted forward as if she recognized the name happily.

  Now that she had her applause, however, Constance Bebb didn’t seem particularly interested in it. “Thank you,” she said dryly. “It’s nice to know that some people still read.

  “We like attending mystery camps,” she continued in the same tone. “They give us ideas. The experience of thinking about someone else’s puzzles is invaluable. And guessing who did it in books is too easy. A reader doesn’t have all the distractions that make real crimes so difficult to solve. Camps like this help us make our own books convincing.”