“No kidding.”
I wrote up our order on the little menu sheet provided for us—French toast for me, scrambled eggs for Jill—and Tom sat appraising me over his coffee cup.
“What is it, Mal?” he said.
“What’s what?”
“Come on. I’ve known you for a long time. Nobody likes a joke better than you. But you’re bristling about this thing.”
“I was in a great mood till I walked in here and realized I was wearing size eighteen shoes.”
Jill seemed uneasy; I think she was hoping I’d leave this alone. And I would have, but Tom pressed on: “I still say you like a good laugh. But you’re not laughing. Why?”
I smiled at him, a poker player’s smile. “What would you say if I told you I’m not convinced what I saw wasn’t real?”
His expression turned blank. “You think somebody killed Kirk Rath outside your window. Really killed him?”
I shrugged. Sipped my coffee.
“Aw, Mal, that’s crazy.”
“If murder never happened, Tom, we’d be in another line of work.”
He gestured with two hands; be reasonable. “But Rath left,” he said.
“Supposedly. Where’s your room?”
“What?”
“Your room. We’re in number sixty-four. What room are you in?”
“Just up the hall from you—fifty-eight.”
“Do you have a view of the lake from your room? The gazebo, the little Japanese bridge?”
“Sure.”
“Did you see anything last night? Around ten-thirty?”
“Just Pete’s movie.”
“Did you see Jack Flint there?”
“He was sitting a few rows behind me. Why? What is this, Dragnet?”
Jill said, “Don’t mention TV shows to him, Tom. He’s still suffering video withdrawal.”
Jill was trying to lighten the mood, but it wasn’t necessary; Tom wasn’t offended—he was just curious, interested.
“You really think Rath was murdered,” he said.
“It’s a possibility, that’s all.”
“And I’m a suspect!” He said this with glee.
“He suspects everyone,” Jill said, “and he suspects no one.”
Now I was a little embarrassed. Just a little.
“Look,” I said, “I just want to know if I’m the only guy who saw this particular Saturday Night Live sketch.”
“TV reference again,” Jill said. “Watch it.”
“Maybe it was staged specifically for you,” Tom said.
“Curt didn’t think so,” I said. “Everybody knows all the guest authors are billeted in that wing. Curt says I just happened to be the one who got snookered.”
Tom pushed his empty coffee cup aside. “What do you think?”
“I think I’m going to do what all these game-players are doing this weekend.”
“What’s that?”
Dum da dum dum.
“Play detective.”
8
YOU ARE LESTER DENTON—age thirty-seven. Small-town boy, introverted, Middletown High Class of ’67—Least Likely to Succeed (also member of Chess and Poetry Clubs). A life-long nerd, you are an asexual bachelor living with your rather wealthy, widowed mother. Despite being a timid soul who rarely ventures out of the house, you have succeeded in realizing a lifelong dream: you have had a mystery novel published, The Apple Red Take-off. But your dreams have been dashed by critic Roark K. Sloth, in whose Mystery Carbuncle your debut novel has been unmercifully panned. You blame the lack of financial success of the novel directly on Sloth’s heartless review. When you check into the Mohawk Mountain House one wintry Thursday evening for a mystery writer’s convention, you are at first distressed to find Sloth one of the guest lecturers. Then, upon second thought, you decide his presence presents a unique opportunity to rectify an unpleasant situation. You go to Sloth’s room that evening and offer the critic money to “simply ignore” the next (and, if sales don’t pick up, probably last) Lester Denton novel, Death Is a Fatal Disease. Sloth not only laughs at you, he pledges to reveal your “pathetic” attempt to bribe him in a Carbuncle article; and when, though flustered, you shrewdly point out that there are no witnesses to the bribery attempt, and therefore Sloth would be putting himself on the line for a libel suit, the critic laughs smugly and reveals a pocket tape recorder—on which the entire conversation has been captured! You leave, tail tucked between your legs, defeated, but notice private eye Rob Darsini coming down the hall, apparently on his way to Sloth’s room. The next morning, you are as surprised as the other guests to discover that Sloth has been found dead in his hotel room with a knife in his back, slumped over his typewriter, a sheet in which bears the cryptic dying clue: TOVL FOF OY. And no tape of your bribe attempt is found.
YOU WILL NOT LIE—but you will not volunteer information about the visit to Sloth’s room unless asked by an interrogator. You will, if confronted directly, admit having attempted to bribe Sloth. You will reveal having seen Darsini. You are not the killer; you did not steal the tape.
This, as written by Curt Clark, was all I knew about the character I would be portraying in the Mohonk mystery this weekend; each of the author guests had received similar instruction sheets by mail, though we weren’t privy to each other’s. I tucked mine back in the envelope it had come in (MALLORY—EYES ONLY), which also included a sheet with one-paragraph descriptions of the other suspects, and placed it in my inside suitcoat pocket, for handy reference. I looked at myself in the mirror, straightened my red bow tie, which was color-coordinated with my pale pink shirt, combed back my heavily Brylcreemed hair, which was parted in the middle, adjusted my window-glass glasses so that they were halfway down the bridge of my nose, under which a pencil-line moustache twitched, and adjusted the SUSPECT badge on one lapel of my double-breasted black-and-red-and-white-plaid corduroy suit.
I was, for all intents and purposes, Lester Denton, suspect in the Roark K. Sloth murder, The Case of the Curious Critic. While I’d never thought of myself as a nerd, nor did I have a wealthy, widowed mother, Denton was, in some respects, a cute if nasty-around-the-edges parody of myself and my own situation with Kirk Rath. In light of the murder I’d witnessed (or was that “murder”?), I found the wry, sardonic echoes of real life in Curt’s scenario more disturbing than amusing. I wondered if the other authors were playing roles that struck them as somewhat uncomfortably similar to themselves and their own bitterness toward Rath.
“You make a truly convincing nerd,” Jill said, smirking cutely, skin crinkling around the corners of her cornflower-blue eyes.
“I know you are,” I said nasally, “but what am I?”
“Takes one to know one,” she said nasally back at me.
I gave her a sloppy, nerdy smooch and slipped my arm around her shoulder and we walked out into the hall and down to Curt’s room, where all the role-playing authors were assembling, prior to the first of the weekend’s two interrogation sessions, which was to begin just fifteen minutes from now. Partylike sounds were going on behind Curt’s door; we paused before going in.
“You look so cute with that little mustache,” she said, pinching my cheek (facial cheek). “I’m tempted to just be a groupie and hang around and watch your performance.”
I shook my head no. “I’d really prefer you to circulate—listen to the other ‘suspects.’ ”
“What am I supposed to get out of that?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Just make sure you catch a glimpse of each of them, noting whether or not they seem unduly ill at ease.”
“If they do, it won’t necessarily mean anything more than stage fright.”
“Maybe not, but jot down some notes anyway. Also, look for any particularly obsessive game-players; anybody who seems to be taking this too seriously, or is really pushy in the interrogation sessions.”
“How am I supposed to know what their names are?”
I pointed to my badge. “They’ll be weari
ng them.”
“Ah.”
We knocked on Curt’s door, which Curt himself opened. “Well, Lester Denton in the flesh!” he said above the crowd’s conversation, doing a pop-eyed take. “Where on earth did you find that suit?”
Jill said, “You’d be surprised. I didn’t have to dig all that far back in his closet to unearth it.”
I shrugged. “The early seventies were a do-your-own-thing kind of era; apparently my thing was tacky plaid suits.”
“Yesterday’s trendsetter,” Curt said, ushering us in, “today’s nebbish.” His room, which was filled with the other suspects, was easily twice as large as ours, a suite really; the fireplace was bigger, and the twin beds were boxed together, I noted. The suspects were all in costume, of course; only Curt was in civvies, a casual blue shirt and brown slacks. He had a glass of something in his hand—ginger ale, as it turned out—and he got us some.
“Well,” he said, “you certainly look your part. Ready to live it as well as look it?”
“Sure. How long did you say this session’s going to be?”
“One hour; they get another hour with you tomorrow morning. Say, you know, you really loosened everybody up.” He gestured to the costumed suspects around him.
“How’s that?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Ah, well...” He put them back down. “I think my sense of black comedy got the best of me, in whipping up this mystery; some of the guests—Jack Flint and my brother, in particular—took a little offense at the way I’d written their roles, especially in regard to ‘Roark K. Sloth.’ ”
“Hit a little too close to home, did you?”
He mock-grimaced for just a moment. “Guess so. Anyway, that prank that got pulled on you last night, when the word got around, gave everybody a laugh.”
“I noticed.”
He put a hand on my shoulder, pretended to be somber. “You’re not angry with me?”
“For making me the laughingstock of Mohonk? I’m livid. I’ll never speak to you again.”
He shrugged, mugged. “Just so we cleared that up,” he said, and moved on to mingle with other members of his cast.
Jill, who’d been at my side listening to all this, said, “You sure cut that guy a lot of slack.”
“He’s done me plenty of favors. Remember my mentioning that one of my teachers at a writers’ conference helped me get an agent?”
“Sure.”
“Well, Curt was that writer. I’d written him fan letters for years, and my early short stories were all brazen imitations of his work. He felt flattered, rather than plagiarized, and gave me a lot of help.”
“So he’s a mentor. Like Roscoe Kane.”
I lifted a lecturing finger. “There’s a difference.... Kane’s dead. Curt’s alive.”
“One of your few surviving heroes, then.”
“Yup. So I’ll cut him some slack any ole time.”
Nearby, Tom Sardini was chatting with Mary Wright; both of them were in costume—Tom in his trenchcoat and fedora, Mary in a slinky shiny red low-cut gown that showed her figure off to good advantage.
“The Quakers wouldn’t approve,” I said, nodding toward her impressive decolletage.
“To hell with the Quakers,” Mary said, toasting us with her plastic glass of ginger ale, slipping her arm around my shoulder mock-drunkenly and as if we were (ahem) bosom buddies.
Jill pinched me; the plaid suit was so heavy I barely felt it, though I got the point.
Jill said to her, coldly, “I didn’t know you were an author.”
“I’m not,” Mary said, her arm still around my shoulder, as she paid Jill’s manner no noticeable heed. “But a few of the roles had to be filled by Mohonk staff members.”
I smiled and slipped out from Mary’s arm as gracefully as possible and got Jill and myself some more ginger ale. We were standing sipping it when Cynthia Crystal slid over and put her arm around me; she seemed seductive despite her costume and makeup: she had transformed herself into a grandmother type, hair in a gray bun, wearing granny glasses and a blue calico Mother Hubbard.
“What big eyes you have, Granny,” I said.
“Was I rude this morning?” she said.
“A little.”
“Did it surprise you?”
“Not in the least.”
She let loose her brittle laugh. “You really have me pegged, don’t you, Mal?”
“I think so,” I said with a lecherous grin. “But I love you anyway, Cynthia.”
Jill pinched me again; this time she found her way under my coat to my pink shirt, under which was my pink flesh.
“Ow,” I said.
“What?” Cynthia said.
“Nothing. Where’s your Mr. Culver?”
She nodded over toward the fireplace. “Talking with his brother.”
So he was. Culver was dressed all in black; what separated him from Johnny Cash were gloves, a beret, and a domino mask. Between the brothers, making a strange backdrop, was an oil painting in a fancy frame, leaned up above the fireplace, on the mantle—a striking abstract work in which shades of orange and yellow and red swirled in an off-center spiral, a whirlpool of color.
“What happened to their famous family feud?” I said.
“Fizzled, finally,” Cynthia alliterated. She adjusted her granny wig. “It was mostly jealousy, you know.”
Curt had had great success in Hollywood with his comedy caper novels, five of which had been made into movies and God only knew how many more of which had been optioned. But the critics had always been tough on Curt—unfairly, I thought—often referring to him as “a road company Donald E. Westlake.” On the other hand, Tim Culver had earned kudos from even the toughest critics for his series about professional thief McClain; the acclaim included multiple Edgars and overseas awards. But in over a twenty-year career, he had never had any success in Hollywood—never generated a dime of option money (I knew the feeling).
“Tim envied Curt’s financial success,” Cynthia said, with a shrugging smile, “and Curt envied Tim’s critical success.”
“What turned that around?” Jill asked Cynthia. “They seem to be getting along now.”
And they did. They were chatting, even smiling a little. Not warm; cool as the unlit fireplace, actually. But not feuding. One having invited the other, and the other having accepted.
“Tim sold McClain to the movies,” Cynthia explained. “Lawrence Kasdan took an option on the whole series, and the first of them, McClain’s Score, is in preproduction now.”
“Lawrence Kasdan,” Jill said. “Body Heat! Wow!”
“Movie buff,” I explained to Cynthia. “Ignore her. She won’t take me seriously until I sell to the movies.”
“You did sell to the movies,” Cynthia said.
“TV doesn’t count,” Jill said.
“Especially at Mohonk,” I added. “But as for the brotherly feud—am I right to assume that the glowing reviews Kirk Rath lavished on Curt helped smooth things over between him and Tim?”
“It certainly did,” Cynthia confirmed. “Rath may not be liked—scratch the ‘may’—but he is influential. Other reviewers pay attention to him and the Chronicler; a lot of critics have been reassessing Curt’s work since Kirk started championing him.”
“So he and Tim,” I said, “have no reason to be jealous of each other anymore.”
“Happy ending, darling,” Cynthia said, with her best cocktail party smile.
Jack Flint lumbered over, like a small tank; he was dressed as I’d seen him this morning—seemed not to be in costume. On closer look, he had extra gold chains around his neck; otherwise, business as usual.
He answered my unasked question with a shrug, saying, “The character I’m playing is so close to me, I didn’t bother with dressing up. My wife, on the other hand, is not cast to type.”
I looked around for her, and finally spotted Janis, sitting in a chair to one side; frankly, I felt she had been typecast: the outside of her had just been made to ma
tch her shy, quiet, inner nature; her cheery, bright California dresses had been replaced with a drab brown one. Her hair was pulled back and she wore no makeup.
I went over to her. “Nervous?”
Her smile was just a slight pulling back of the upper lip over tiny teeth. “Terrified.”
“Don’t be. The game is the thing, here. Our performances don’t need to be Oscar level. Besides, aren’t you a teacher? You should be used to being in front of people.”
“I got out of teaching,” she said. “It made me nervous, too.”
“You’re still in education, though.”
“Yes. I’m assistant principal, primary level.” She smiled again. “Peter Principle, I suppose. I wasn’t much of a teacher so I got kicked upstairs.”
“I’m sure you do a fine job. And I’m sure you’ll do fine today, too.”
“You’re a nice man, Mr. Mallory.”
“Call me Mal. And today I’m not a man, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“You seem to be more a mouse.”
“I do at that.”
She smiled more broadly now. “They really gave you a ribbing about that prank last night.”
“They sure did.”
“I wish it were true.”
“What?”
“What you saw last night. That, or this mystery we’re acting out.”
“In what sense?”
She talked through her tiny teeth. “In the sense that that awful little bastard Kirk Rath would really be dead.”
“Oh. That sense.”
Still waters run deep.
I wished her luck with her performance and wandered back to Jill, who was talking with Cynthia and getting along well.
“I don’t see Curt’s wife anywhere,” I said.
“She’s in the loo,” Cynthia said. Cynthia was the only person I knew who would use that expression. “Putting the finishing touches on her makeup and costume. Oh. There she is, now....”
And there she was.
Poured into a slinky black gown. Like Mary Wright, her figure was shown off to great advantage. Kim was slightly topheavy, and a lot of creamy skin was showing.
“I’m just looking,” I said to Jill. “No pinching, please.”
Nice Weekend for a Murder (A Mallory Mystery) Page 7