Timestep to Murder

by Norma Lehr

  “I did. He wants to drive up here, but I told him to stay home until this is over.”

  Just as Abby stood to leave, Jan pulled up a chair. She had moussed her short hair into genderless spikes. “You two should take a swim. That pool outside is great. Exercise releases endorphins. When I don’t dance, I swim or jog.” She set her cup on the table and focused on Abby. “So, how’re you doing? You look better this afternoon. Anyone have any idea what we should do about the show? T. J. Barry, the hired emcee, will be here this afternoon. I called him at Harveys and explained about the deaths. He said he already knew, but that he was coming anyway.” Jan drummed her fingers on the table. “He says the show should go on as scheduled. Do you two agree?”

  Abby shrugged. “Ask the others. I can’t make any decisions right now. I need to shower, change, and make a call.” She spoke past Jan to Renee. “Don’t forget the Biltmore tonight.”

  Renee smiled and leaned back in her chair. “No chance. That’s the first fun thing anyone’s suggested since we arrived.”

  Jan slid her chair back and stared at Renee. “Lady, you’re avoiding the issue. How about the show? Are you performing?”

  Renee sighed. “I’ll go along with Gail and Blythe. If they’re up for it, count me in.”

  Abby left the table, passed the slots ringed with flashing lights, and didn’t look back until she reached the lobby. Renee and Jan were still deep in conversation. So, the emcee insisted on coming to the Cal Neva regardless of their loss. Well, if the others voted to go on stage, she’d go along with the majority. Even if it killed her. Or someone else.

  Outside, the brilliant midday sun covered the hotel like a shower of hope. Abby breathed in the fresh autumn air and hurried down the steps to her deck. She fumbled for her key while she looked forward to a hot shower, shampooing her hair and lolling out on the deck. To her left and right two empty chalets sat crouched on the side of the hill. It would be too depressing on her deck. She’d find another spot to dry her hair.

  The spa. She’d stroll down the steps and find the masseuse who’d worked on Melanie the morning she died. The attendant might have remembered something now that she’d calmed down. Perhaps Melanie had mentioned Blythe’s tea or Gail’s Powrdanz.

  By now the young masseuse had probably had a visit from the detective, but there always seemed to be little tidbits of information that women shared only with each other.

  Once inside the chalet, Abby opened the Powrdanz package she’d taken from Blythe’s room and sniffed it. Nothing unusual. The smell was similar to other protein powders in her cupboard at home. She didn’t go so far as to stick her finger in and taste it. She was curious, not crazy. Gail had mixed up Powrdanz for everyone before they went on stage yesterday. Had Gail put aconite in Melanie’s cup?”

  After her shower, Abby wrapped herself in the cozy white hotel robe and wrapped a thick towel around her wet hair. She then called her children and filled them in on the chaos of the last two days. She assured them that she was safe and not to worry, even though she wasn’t completely convinced herself. With that taken care of, she removed the damp towel, lay down, and closed her eyes.

  A vision came to mind of Melanie on the spa table with pink froth bubbling around her mouth. She felt edgy and shifted from her back to her side. Allowing her mind to drift back some twenty years, she recalled Gail’s frustrated efforts to bump Melanie from center stage. Dancing center stage had always been Gail’s ultimate goal in Manhattan. No matter how hard she tried, or how much she perfected her high kicks, Melanie had held firm to her position. She always took whatever necessary steps she could, good or bad, to hold her place. Now, here in Tahoe years later, Gail’s antics at rehearsal yesterday—bumping Melanie’s hip to make her move over—sent a clear signal she was ready to fight for center spot on the Celebrity stage. When back pain had driven Melanie from rehearsal to the spa that morning, Gail had beamed victoriously.

  Would that be motive enough to kill? Abby’s head whirled with a long list of “could be’s.” She rubbed her brow and sat up on the side of the bed.

  Tonight should be fun, despite the horrific day. Blade mentioned filling her in on something of interest about Dana. If his news didn’t concern her sexual orientation and love for Melanie, what could it possibly be? Had Fromer confided some detail about the case to Blade because he was an ex-cop? It seemed Fromer gave bits of information to everyone except her, like telling Renee the name of the poison. What was ‘aconite,’ anyway? She gave up trying to sleep.

  Ten minutes later, dressed in jeans, a casual cotton sweater, and sneakers, Abby reached the spa to find a CLOSED sign on the door. She shook her damp hair in the sun while she figured out her next move. Why would the spa be closed this time of the day? No hours were posted. One would think patrons of the hotel would be scheduled for an afternoon body scrub before the nightlife began.

  “Were you looking for me?” The soft voice startled her. Midway down the long deck and seated in a redwood chair was Melanie’s spa attendant, hunched and staring through the pine trees to the lake below. “I can’t do it,” she said mournfully, turning to stare at Abby. “I didn’t lose my job like I thought I would, and now I’m supposed to open the doors and check the scheduled appointments, but for some reason I just can’t go in there. In where she ...Where I ...”

  Abby strolled down the wooden deck and joined her. “Hi. I’m Abby Rollins.”

  The masseuse, wearing an apricot cover-up, straightened in her seat and swept a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “You’re one of the dancers. You were here yesterday morning. I’m Cher. Named for you-know-who. I can’t sing or dance but ...” She broke off and stood to face Abby. “This has all been so awful. Now there are two dead. Here I am feeling sorry for myself when the murdered women were your friends. We don’t have murders here at Crystal Bay. No one around here knows how to deal with this.” She gripped the deck rail. “I feel so responsible.”

  “Why? You’re not, are you?” Abby attempted to comfort the young woman. “She was poisoned, and you certainly didn’t have anything to do with that.”

  Cher gripped Abby’s hand. “Can you believe it? Poisoned! Who would do such a terrible thing? Am I a suspect?”

  “I don’t think so,” Abby stated firmly. “Not unless Detective Fromer thinks you had motive. You’d never seen Melanie Mars before yesterday morning, had you?”

  “Never.” Cher let go of Abby’s hand and nibbled on her lower lip. “I didn’t even know she was a Toppette until she mentioned it.”

  “Did she say anything else?” Abby joined her at the rail. “You know, girl-to-girl stuff?”

  Cher thought a moment. “Well, she did say that one of her exes, the only one she ever really loved, would be coming for Friday night’s performance, and she wanted to look ravishing for him. Oh, and yeah, she wanted to be pain free for one night.”

  An ex! Abby pushed on. “Did she say where he would be coming from? Did she give you a name?”

  Cher looked thoughtful. “I think she did, but you know, I can’t remember. She said she’d had three husbands and named them all pet names, like pooky or something. At times she just seemed to be talking to herself.”

  “I suppose the detective has been down here to see you.”

  “Uh-huh. He came to my house this morning, but he didn’t ask me much. He wanted me to tell him what I thought happened here.”

  “Did you?”

  Cher broke down. “I swear I don’t know what happened. How could I? At first she gave me orders about what she wanted. No steam room, but a massage and a salt scrub. I obeyed. The next moment she was having a seizure.”

  Abby recalled Cher mentioning yesterday morning how Melanie insisted on lying outside in the fresh air after her massage, and Cher saying it was against the rules. “Any particular reason why you broke the spa rules and let Ms. Mars finish up outside?”

  Cher sniffed back her tears. “She was set on having her own lotion applied to her back out here. She
brought her own stuff, claimed it opened her pores, and she wanted the early sun to bake it into her skin. I wheeled the table out, put the lotion on her back like she ordered, and the next thing I knew she couldn’t breathe.”

  Abby patted Cher’s shoulder. “Hang in there. You might feel better if you open the spa and get set up for new customers. We all feel awful about these killings, and some of us feel responsible, too.” Some of us more than others, she reminded herself.

  Abby left Cher and took the steps leading up to the hotel, two at a time. Well, that little scoop was a gem. Her ex-husband, huh? Which one? Dana probably knew, but that didn’t help now. The idea of Melanie truly loving just one man was hard to swallow. Maybe they had all misjudged her. The older she got, the more Abby was certain that it was impossible to really figure anyone out.

  By now her hair had dried. She fluffed it up and used small clips to pin it behind her ears. Two blasting toots from below caught her attention. A large paddlewheeler made its way past the hotel tower and chugged around the rocky bend. She watched until the ferry was out of sight. The afternoon sun eased its way toward Emerald Bay and nestled at the foot of the Sierra. Before she returned to the valley and her busy schedule, she made a promise to herself to take that cruise, lean against the deck railing, and take in the fresh mountain air—to renew herself. Reluctantly, she left the steps and the grandeur of the lake to tour the far side of the resort.

  She remembered her vow to go through the garbage cans in hopes of finding a stained foam cup used for tea. When she turned the corner of the building, she realized she hadn’t been thinking clearly. Five metal cans and a dumpster lined the employee parking area. In a hotel this size there could be a thousand discarded cups, and she wasn’t about to climb up and search through that mess in her brand new jersey shirt.

  She glanced around. It was quiet back here, with only a half filled parking lot. A door leading to the kitchen was propped open with a gallon-size tomato juice can, and she could hear voices and clamor coming from inside. She rapped hard on the door, and a brawny fellow—somewhere in his thirties, a white apron tied around his middle—poked his head out.

  “Hi, there,” she called. “Just curious. Do you by any chance keep your plastic separate from your garbage?”

  “Plastic?” he repeated, eyeing her clothes. “Why do you want to know?”

  She shrugged. Might as well be as honest as possible. “Looking for evidence to help sort out one of the murders that happened here.”

  “Too late, lady. The cops have already been here and filled trash bags with all of our stuff.” He gave her the onceover again. “You a cop?”

  “Yeah,” she lied. “Undercover.”

  He blanched, backed in, grabbed for the handle, and slammed the door.

  So much for that angle. Undercover? He probably thinks I’m a Narc.

  She gazed around at the now deserted area. A seven-foot metal fence to her right separated the hotel area from a field of brush. She moved along, flanking the building and headed toward the front, the opposite direction from the way she’d entered. She slowed her pace while she considered her next move. She really should talk to Blade. She stopped, smiled, and stared at the faded white letters painted above two parking spaces. FRANK SINATRA RESERVED. Nice! Worn, but nice. The stalls stood empty. Of course, they were. No one would dare park there. As she stood alone on the black pavement, a feeling of being watched stole over her. She glanced around the deserted area. A heavy crunch of pine needles on the far side of the fence caused her to twirl around and stare. There was dead (she really shouldn’t be thinking about dead) silence before a small doe with bright eyes lifted her head and stared back, twitching her nose, ears, and tail.

  Abby let out a sigh of relief but couldn’t shake the notion that she was being watched. She scanned the nine floors of the hotel tower jetting up behind her. Someone, even the killer, could be up there at one of those windows spying, wondering what business she had back here. She upped her pace, never looking over her shoulder. When she reached the front of the casino, she stepped through the automatic doors, bent on finding Gail. Perhaps Fromer had shared information with her.

  Chapter 10

  As Abby approached the Indian Room, Jan rushed out, her spiked hair looking even spikier and her body rigid with tension. She hesitated a second, glanced at Abby, and frowned before making a beeline to the elevators. By now, Abby had Jan pretty well pegged. Impatient and controlling would about cover it. Either Detective Fromer had kept her in that room too long or angered her with questions she couldn’t answer.

  Abby sniffed her annoyance. What she wouldn’t give to have eavesdropped on that interrogation—mainly to find out if Fromer had dropped any juicy tidbits to Jan.

  Jan hardly knew the dancers. The only information available to her had been on the forms they filled out for the reunion show. No way could she have known about Renee’s hostility toward Melanie, and Dana must have been a total blank slate to her. Seemed no one had known much about Dana except Abby, and now Renee. And, considering his earlier remark, perhaps Blade.

  Gail could well have pointed the finger at Renee. She knew all about the torrid love affair that had gone on in New York over twenty years earlier. Abby entered the room and watched as Fromer carefully stacked his papers and neatly placed them in a file. After he finished, he stood and stretched his broad shoulders. He looks so strong. The good detective will need all the strength he can muster to solve this horrible case. She backed away from the door and turned toward the slot machines. It was time now to find Gail.

  On his way out, Detective Fromer came up behind her. “Well, that does it for today, Miss Rollins. I’ll be back tomorrow morning, so stick around. And, be careful.” He left quickly, nodding to the desk clerk on his way out.

  The earlier crowds had dispersed from the gambling tables, but the jackpot machines kept busy. A dollar machine had colored lights that flashed brightly in an arc, keeping time to Elvis’ “Heartbreak Hotel.” When three Red 7s lined up, a shrill, incessant ring alerted other gamblers that a jackpot had been won. The woman player squealed with delight as silver dollars clinked into the metal pan.

  Abby continued on through the curvy aisles, past the roulette wheels and blackjack tables, in her search for Gail. She checked out the snack bar, crossed over to the restaurant, and peeked into the gift shop. She ended up at the wide corridor leading to the Celebrity Room. Frank’s Room.

  Framed black and white glossies lined both walls, most of them signed by celebrity stars who greeted the hotel patrons with brilliant Hollywood smiles. Old Blue Eyes himself, Ava Gardner, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr., Marilyn Monroe. There were two group pictures of famous or infamous people Abby didn’t recognize—entertainers dead and gone, hopefully performing somewhere on that great stage on high. Abby laughed to herself and wondered if their spirits could still be hanging around. Renee had heard rumors at the desk that an occasional guest had reported sightings of Frankie. Abby would pass that bit of trivia on to Blade this evening. He was such a fan of Frank’s and might have heard of ghost sightings on other jobs. She found herself really looking forward to seeing Blade that evening. She wanted to bounce her theories off him, plus she just wanted to see him. He was always so upbeat. She wondered whether he was a good dancer. She bet he was. She planned to show him some nice moves. That was one benefit of all her training; it made her an elegant social dancer, too. Meanwhile, she took her time studying the old pictures of Frank. The forties—an era long gone. World War II raged across the seas while on the home front bobby-soxers screamed for their favorite crooner.

  She meandered along until she reached the end of the corridor. At the entrance to the Celebrity Room, she tried the door handle. Locked. When she peered in through the window, the room was dark, except for a soft amber light emanating from somewhere behind a curtain. She turned to leave when a shadow crossed the stage. She pressed her face closer to the glass. Someone was there on the stage dressed in dark clothes and a
pulled up hood. If it was a janitor, then why the hood? Not to mention that it would be impossible to clean without better light.

  That person on stage could be the one who visited Melanie the night before she died.

  Abby peered closer and wiggled the door handle to get the person’s attention. He or she stopped without turning to face her and stood statue still for a moment before scurrying off past the pulled velvet curtain at the right wing. That was the wing that led to the dressing rooms and on to the kitchen area. Abby waited to see if the figure would step down from the stage and come in her direction or leave by a side exit.

  When seconds passed and no person appeared, she turned and sprinted down the corridor. She made her way quickly through the casino, past the desk clerk, and out to the front. She followed her tracks back to the employee parking at the far side of the hotel. Her eyes searched the area. It was vacant except for employee cars. She continued on to the now closed door that led to the kitchen and rapped loudly. The same fellow in the white apron stuck his head out. “Yeah?”

  “I’m coming in.” She spoke with authority as she pushed past him.

  “What for?” The employee followed her into the hot, busy kitchen filled with exotic smells and clattering pans.

  “Someone came through here a minute ago from the stage area. Can you describe them?”

  “Dunno.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Flew through here like the hotel was on fire.”

  Abby caught her breath. “Man or woman?”

  “Dunno. Couldn’t tell. Wore a hoodie.” He turned to the three other kitchen helpers. “Did you see?”

  They all looked down and shook their heads.

  She moved on past the chopping blocks to the steps that led to a hall and the dressing rooms. No lights. No point going up there now. Whoever had been nosing around stage was long gone.

  On her way out she eyed some cubes of cheese on a platter. Cold cuts, fancy sliced tomatoes, and deviled eggs dusted with paprika circled the cheese in an inviting manner. Suddenly famished, she snagged a cheese cube, offered the cook a sheepish smile, and left.