by Lois Winston
“That would be a good start,” Anastasia said, in what she was ashamed to say was a weak voice. What was so different about this case from the others she’d helped with? Was it that she’d been pressed into service against her will and better judgment? That one of the suspects was related to her best friend? That she was intimidated by the seemingly large group of energetic young people? She wished she knew.
“I’m the one who found her,” Erica said. Erica’s curls were slightly different from those of her contemporaries in that certain strands had been severely bleached, to the point of looking like straw. “We left her last night about six-thirty.”
“And no one saw her after that?” Anastasia asked.
They all shook their heads and answered with a version of “No.”
“She’d pulled a muscle at our workout and wanted to just go to her room and space out,” Shannon said.
“When she didn’t come down this morning, we thought you know, maybe she snuck Lucas into her room, and, you know,” Erica said. Anastasia nodded that she knew what Erica meant. “I had a key, since I’d be helping her get dressed and all, but I wouldn’t use it if the privacy sign was up.”
“And was it?” Anastasia asked.
Erica nodded. She choked up and took a few seconds to compose herself.
“She was supposed to come to tennis and breakfast,” Rachel said.
“It was breakfast, then tennis,” Shannon corrected.
“Whatever,” Rachel said, with a glare toward Shannon. “The point is she didn’t show up as planned.”
“You don’t need to get so huffy,” Shannon said, tossing back a shot.
“So the privacy sign was on the doorknob?” Anastasia said. She noticed that Cody quietly excused himself and left the booth.
“Uh-huh,” Erica said, calmer now. “But it was really quiet in there, and I was worried, so I used my key, and . . . I found Terry in the tub. It’s one of those big whirlpool types, and—”
“We don’t need all that detail,” Rachel said. “Geez. This isn’t one of your teens-in-jeopardy therapy sessions.”
“Maybe it should be,” Erica said.
“You would want to share the nitty-gritty,” Rachel said.
“Please, everyone,” Jessica said. “We’re all tense. Let’s see if we can just help Anastasia with . . .” Jessica threw up her hands and turned to Anastasia with a helpless look.
“With what exactly?” Shannon asked.
“Isn’t it obvious? She thinks one of us killed Terry,” Rachel said. “I wonder if our sleuth knows you dated Terry’s husband-to-be?”
“You—” Shannon looked ready to choke Rachel. She sat back and threw out her own barb. “I wonder if she knows how pissed you were when Terry got that promotion over you.”
It was Rachel’s turn to fume, until a waitress, who clearly hadn’t been paying attention, approached the group. Everyone fell silent, except for Erica, who signaled for another shot.
“Maybe you’ve had enough?” Shannon said.
“No, I haven’t, obviously,” Erica said. To Anastasia’s ear, the last word was slurred
When the waitress returned, Anastasia acted on a spur-of-the-moment idea. She whipped out her phone. “Will you take a group shot?” she asked the waitress.
“You bet,” the woman said. “Do you want to move outside?”
“This will be fine,” Anastasia said. To her companions, she said, “For Laura, you know, to remember us all.”
“You know what? I’m out of here,” Shannon said, as soon as the first flash was over. She nearly knocked over the waitress as she climbed over Anastasia.
“Maybe we should get something to eat,” Jessica said. She cast an apologetic look at Anastasia. “Too much drink, not enough food. Why don’t we move this to the dining room.”
“Good idea. I’ll meet you there,” Anastasia said, more and more impressed with Jessica’s ability to keep her head. At some point, she hoped to be able to share that with Keicia.
“Oh, right, you still haven’t gotten settled in your room,” Jessica said. She checked her watch. “Is an hour or so from now okay? Say six thirty? I’ll try to make sure everyone is in a better mood.” Anastasia nodded. Jessica took out her phone. “Let’s do the phone thing, just in case.”
Anastasia agreed to the phone thing, exchanging numbers with Jessica. At least there was some part of millennials’ lives she could keep up with.
~*~
Anastasia felt like it was she who’d downed a few too many Jell-O shots. She needed to clear her head and that wasn’t going to happen in the midst of the bridal party. So it hadn’t been such a great idea to keep them captive at the Abrey. Even Jessica’s obvious skills hadn’t been enough to ease the tension of losing their friend and then, for all practical purposes, being accused of killing her or hanging out with the one who did.
She hadn’t learned anything from the conversation, if it could be called such, that she didn’t already know—that Erica had found Terry’s body, that Shannon had once dated Lucas, that Terry was Rachel’s new boss. The only thing she’d accomplished was acquiring a photo of the group. She had no idea what she’d use it for. One thing she was sure of—if one of the women did turn out to be her daughter’s killer, Laura Corbett would never see it.
Anastasia dug her key card out of her bag and headed for the elevator. On the way, she spied the concierge’s desk. A man and a woman, both in drab gray hotel uniforms stood behind the desk, chatting. No one was waiting in line. A good time to get some information.
“Excuse me,” Anastasia said. “I have a request.” They both snapped to attention, eager to help. “I wonder if you can do an errand for me. I’m running late for a meeting.”
They both nodded. “Of course. What do you need?” the woman asked. Her name tag read OLIVIA, and her jacket was at least two sizes too big for her narrow frame.
“Well, my friend was here yesterday and sent out for Epsom salt, so I figure there must be a drugstore around here.”
“Uh-huh. Is that what you need? Epsom salt?” Olivia asked. The man had turned away to the computer, bowing out of Anastasia’s request.
“No, I need some eye drops. I didn’t know what time it was okay to ask you to leave your post.” She looked at her watch. “I can’t remember when my friend said she called you. Maybe you weren’t even working last night?”
“We were here,” Olivia said, “and I remember the Epsom salt run. I made it just before my break at eight o’clock.” She pointed to her uninterested partner. “We’re on from four to midnight.”
“My friend was really grateful that you would do that—hand deliver, so to speak.” Anastasia laughed as if she hadn’t a care in the world.
“It turned out someone else was waiting for it, and said she would take it up to your friend. Another woman who was a hotel guest.”
“How amazing that you’d remember.”
Olivia smiled. “So, what kind of drops do you need?” She pulled a pad of paper toward her.
It took Anastasia a few seconds to figure out what Olivia was talking about. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t prepared better for this ruse. “Oh, uh, just the generic will do,” she said, to Olivia’s understandably confused look.
“And you’re in the room?”
She handed Olivia her key card, still in its little cardboard holder, with the number written on it. “I have such a bad memory,” she said.
Anastasia walked away, certain the concierge thought she was loony, and was now sharing the thought with her partner at the desk. She’d taken a chance that the employees wouldn’t put it together that the guest who’d received the Epsom salt was the one who’d left the hotel in the coroner’s van. Once on the elevator, Anastasia took a breath. If she was going to do any more sleuthing, which she was not, she’d have to learn to be a better liar.
What had she learned from her playacting? Not much, except that most likely one of the bridesmaids had delivered Terry’s Epsom salt.
What could you do with Epsom salt that could result in death? Anastasia ran through the possibilities. The key component was magnesium, which could lower blood pressure, perhaps to a dangerous level. She’d have to check dosage and other factors. If Terry’s blood pressure was already low, prolonged soaking could have made her dizzy or even rendered her unconscious. But, although Terry had no formal medical training, her work experience at a pharmaceutical company would have made her more aware of drug interactions and side effects than the ordinary layperson.
If Terry had ingested Epsom salt, it was another story altogether. Toxicity from an overdose could be lethal. But that would have required a prescription, not the over-the-counter version supplied by the concierge. Besides, prescription Epsom salt was for internal problems, not sore muscles.
The elevator doors opened on the second floor, ending Anastasia’s analysis. She realized she’d spent the entire trip to her room focusing on the method of killing Terry, if indeed her death was a homicide, and not on a motive for doing away with her. She knew the reason for the single focus. Motive was harder to scope out, especially given all the personalities involved in this case. A half hour with only some of them had been enough to send Anastasia into her own dizzy spell.
She used her keycard to enter her room and was drawn immediately to the enormous California King bed. She threw her purse on the chair, about to stretch out on the luxurious royal blue comforter, but turned away instead. She had work to do. An important phone call to make.
She pulled out her phone and saw a text from Marty. “Interesting day,” he’d written. She was about to ask “How?” and decided instead to scroll through her contacts list for Frank Galigani, her old mentor and go-to person in times like this. A second message icon came to life and she remembered the call from the title company handling the sale of her home. She swallowed hard and ignored it again. Tomorrow was soon enough.
She clicked on Frank’s name, hit the CALL icon, and imagined the ringing sound far away in a suburb of Boston. She was ready to leave a message when Frank picked up.
“Anastasia. Nice to hear from you.”
Anastasia asked after Frank’s wife, Rose, and Rose’s friend, Gloria, whom Anastasia had met several times. They went through the usual updates about Frank’s three adult children before Frank asked, “So, is this about a case?”
“What makes you say that?” She paused, and quickly added, “Never mind. I know I hardly ever call without a problem to solve. I’m sorry.” She’d wandered toward the bathroom and was relieved to see that this suite had no whirlpool tub—a plain, white claw foot number stood out against dazzlingly clean tile and mirrors.
“Nonsense,” Frank said. “I’m glad your life out there is busy and good, even if things are slightly higher on the west coast.”
Anastasia laughed, a memory of her parents coming to the fore. They’d often told her how most TV product ads in decades past came with the “slightly higher” caveat, due to shipping costs.
She gave Frank a thumbnail of Terry’s death and the current situation at the Abrey.
“Sounds as though you need resources beyond just the victim’s mother’s and your bosses’ encouragement to solve this, one way or another.”
“Exactly.”
“What about accessing the crime scene photos?”
“I’m not sure how long the room was a crime scene.”
“They would have taken pictures, trust me.”
“Even so, I can’t go waltzing into the Berkeley PD—”
“I might be able to help with that.” Anastasia was amazed. Even from Frank, this was more than she could have expected. “I have a friend.”
“Of course you do.”
“You remember my friend Matt Gennaro of the Revere Police Department?”
“Gloria’s husband.”
“Right. Well, he worked a case in Berkeley a few years ago, with a detective named Russell. It turns out I got involved, and then a few times I flew out to testify for him. Long story short, he owes me. I’ll give him a call.”
“Frank, that would super.”
“What’s that you say? I’m super? Well, thank you.”
Anastasia couldn’t believe her luck was turning. Maybe she could take a few minutes on that enticing bed. Only a few minutes was all she needed.
“Knock, knock.” Marty’s voice from the doorway. Okay, new plan.
She turned to see him dressed in his tennis whites. She hadn’t known he’d packed them.
“Been busy?” she asked.
“You bet. I made some new friends.”
“Huh.” Anastasia had a moment mixed with annoyance and envy. How come he was on vacation? How come she wasn’t?
“Do the names Lucas, Noah, and David sound familiar?” he asked.
Anastasia perked up. “You played tennis with the bridal party guys?”
Marty nodded, looking pleased with himself. “I saw you headed for the booth with the women, or mostly women. I figured the guys were working it out by moving around, not by sitting around talking.”
“I’ll have to think about that one. What made you think of tennis?”
“Something that would bring them together, not like swimming, and why treadmill inside on such a beautiful day?”
“Smart.” Anastasia made a “give it to me” gesture with open palms and wiggling fingers. “What did you learn?”
He joined her on the plush seat and put his feet on a low, wide ottoman, remarking on the spectacular view. The Abrey’s interior designer had done it right—the love seat faced out, not into the room. Immediately below them were the tennis courts and swimming pools; beyond that stretched the Bay Bridge, spanning the San Francisco Bay.
“We shouldn’t be working,” Marty said. “We should be tapping out there on the balcony. Cutting loose. Remember Fred Astaire at the nineteen-seventy Academy Awards?”
No, she didn’t, and Anastasia always marveled at how much Marty knew about tap dancing highlights from before he was born.
“Later,” she said.
“Okay, well, first, Garrett, one of the groomsmen, not the best man, never showed. He was supposed to be here last night and room with David. But I guess the guy is a little flaky, so no one was surprised that he didn’t show. He was planning to come to the hotel today, but then when he found out Terry had died and the wedding was off, he called Lucas, expressed his sympathy, and took off somewhere with his girlfriend who, I guess was not one of Terry’s friends, so it didn’t matter much. Make sense?”
Anastasia nodded. “I think we can cross him off the list. And Jessica, too. She’s been very helpful, and I just can’t imagine her as a killer.”
“And she’s Keicia’s niece.”
“Yes, but that’s not why.”
“I trust your judgment. And I’m glad to hear this.” Marty had gotten up and made a trip to the small fridge below the TV. He brought back bottles of ginger ale and a bag of chips, and continued his report. “So, the second thing I picked up is that one of the bridesmaids, Rachel, used to date Lucas, the groom. How about that?”
“It was Shannon. Shannon used to date Lucas. It came up this afternoon and Shannon didn’t deny it. Plus, it was one of the notations on Paul’s list.”
Marty shook his head. “I’m pretty sure they said Rachel. She’s the older one of the group, and Terry’s her new boss. Does that sound like Shannon?”
Anastasia’s eyes widened. “It does not. It sounds like Rachel.” She wagged her finger in a tsk-tsk motion. Our bridegroom-to-be has been busy.”
“You think he hooked up with both of them? Like, half the female section of the wedding party?”
“That we know of,” Anastasia said.
“Interesting,” they said, almost in unison.
EIGHT
At about six o’clock, a text came to Anastasia’s phone, copied to the whole wedding party, reminding them that dinner was at six-thirty, “guys and girls,” and that “we decided on no negative talk�
�.
“Who’s the ‘we’ and what do you think she means by no negative talk?” Marty asked.
There was no doubt in Anastasia’s mind. “She means that the only way she’s going to get everyone together is if I agree not to question them about Terry’s death. I guess we’ve both gotten all the information we’re ever going to get from them.”
Marty threw up his hands. “It’s okay with me. You tried. I even tried. We can report back to Paul et al that we came up with nothing, which is exactly what the police came up with.”
“It’s okay with me, too,” Anastasia said, but she felt less certain about it than Marty appeared to be.
A knock on the door interrupted as they prepared to leave the room.
“Concierge. I have a delivery.”
Marty opened the door to Olivia, and Anastasia waved her in. “Thanks so much,” Anastasia said, pulling out a bill for a tip.
“No problem. I hope you’re enjoying your stay.”
“Absolutely.” Anastasia held up her hand. “I wonder if you have another minute? I’d like you to look at a photo.”
“Sure.”
Anastasia handed Marty her package and called up the group photo on her phone—the picture from the poor excuse for an interview session she’d held earlier that evening. “Can you tell me which of these women took charge of the Epsom salt last night?”
Olivia took Anastasia’s phone and peered at the photo. She put her finger on the screen and turned it to Anastasia. “This one.”
“Great, I wanted to be sure to thank the right person.”
“No problem,” Olivia said. Anastasia was sure she saw a “how strange” expression on the concierge’s face. No matter, she doubted she’d ever be a guest here again.
“So, who is it?” Marty asked, once the door closed behind Olivia.
“Rachel.”
“Hmm,” they said, in unison for the second time in an hour.
“Not that it means anything,” Anastasia said.
“And not that we’re going to do anything about it,” Marty said.