Mary Ellen Hughes - Maggie Olenski 01 - Resort to Murder

by Mary Ellen Hughes

  She laughed when she spotted two guests strolling on the grounds. They were clothed. Not in togas, but in comfortable shorts and T-shirts. And they looked very relaxed and contented, a condition Maggie hoped to reach as soon as possible.

  She parked her car and allowed a college-aged boy from the Inn to help carry her bags into the lobby. As she waited at the desk to be checked in, she did her own checking out of the scene. Not bad, she thought, feeling her smile grow as her eyes panned the spacious lounge area. Plump tan sofas and chairs dotted the space, several facing large windows which looked out onto green lawns and a blue, sparkling pool. Maggie mentally plopped herself down on one of the couches, kicked off her shoes and sighed with satisfaction.

  The silvery-haired man in a navy blazer who had been processing her necessary paper work behind the desk interrupted her reverie. “You play?” he asked with a smile, inclining his head towards the protruding tennis racquet handle of one of the bags at her feet.

  “I try,” Maggie said.

  “I asked that somewhat obvious question because we keep daily lists of guests looking for tennis partners. Another young lady called just a few minutes ago. She would like to play this afternoon at four. Would you be interested?”

  “Sure, as long as she’s not a second Steffi Graf.”

  “No, no,” he said. “Nothing like that. The young lady in question is Dyna Hall. She specifically asked for someone who, and I quote, `didn’t mind chasing moon-balls’.”

  “Sounds just about my speed. Four o’clock, you said?”

  “Yes, Miss Olenski. Or do you prefer Ms?” He drew out his z-z-z’s with a smile curving up the ends of his mouth.

  “Maggie’s fine. Thanks…” she looked at the name tag on his lapel, “Charles.”

  Maggie picked up her key and raised it to him in farewell, then followed the bellboy to the elevator. She was just about to step on when Charles called to her, waving a small piece of paper.

  “I just realized you have a message here,” he said.

  Maggie trotted back, puzzled, and took it. Her brow puckered in annoyance as she scanned it. It was from her mother, wanting her to call to let her know she had arrived safely. Maggie shoved it in her pocket and resolved to wait before responding. She would be able to handle it better after she had wound down a little. But as she got back on the elevator and watched the bellboy punch her floor button a small guilt feeling crept in, which annoyed her even more.

  Forty-five minutes later, unpacked and wearing white cotton shorts and a green T-shirt, her brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, Maggie followed the signs to the tennis courts. She crossed the sunny expanse of lawn that stretched away from the pool area, then stepped onto a mulched pathway that became a cooler, sun-dappled passageway through the wooded area, with thick branches touching overhead. She took deep breaths of the sweet, woodsy fragrance as she walked. It took only a few steps to lose sight of both pool and hotel and to see nothing ahead but plant life.

  A lifelong city-dweller, Maggie was suddenly transported to another world, one much darker and quieter than any backyard garden or city park she had ever been in. The unfamiliarity began to make her uneasy. Her steps slowed, and she started looking more closely at the terrain as she went. What was that on the path up there? A snake! No, just a twisty dead branch. She began to wish she weren’t quite so alone. How far were those courts?

  The temperature was at least ten degrees cooler than it had been out in the sun, and Maggie rubbed her bare upper arms, shifting racquet and tennis balls. A branch brushed her leg and made her jump. She laughed nervously at herself. Maggie walked on for what seemed too long a time, then turned a sharp corner in the pathway. She drew a quick breath. There, up ahead, finally, were the courts.

  “Should have warned me to wear my hiking boots,” she grumbled. “It wouldn’t surprise me if I saw a moose grazing over by one of the courts.”

  As she got closer, she noticed a definitely un-mooselike creature watching her. He was tall, dark, and had better legs than any moose she’d ever seen. Judging from his Highview-labeled shirt and shorts she guessed he was the tennis pro.

  “Hi,” he said as she drew closer, and as if all his other attributes weren’t enough, long, masculine dimples appeared as he smiled. “Need any help?”

  Taking a calming breath, Maggie said, “No, not now that I’ve actually found this place. But I was beginning to wonder if these courts were somewhere in West Virginia.”

  The dimples deepened as he grinned. “I know what you mean,” he said. “I think they had to searched hard for the most level spot they could find. A lot of people complain about the time it takes to get here. You need a court?”

  “I’m supposed to meet Dyna Hall for a match. I assumed she reserved one.”

  “Let’s take a look.” He led Maggie into the sports shop, a low, red brick building, and checked the sign-up sheets spread out on a counter. “Dyna Hall….” He ran his left hand down the list, which Maggie noticed was ringless. “Yup! Here she is. Court five. She’s signed in and should be over there now.”

  “Thanks,” Maggie said, turning to leave.

  “Hold on, your name is…?” He grabbed a pencil and held it poised.

  “Maggie Olenski. O-l-e-n-s-k-i.”

  He wrote her name then smiled at her. “Hi, Maggie. I’m Rob Clayton. Resident tennis pro. If you need any lessons, I’m the one to call.” He flashed her a set of clean, straight teeth and gave her a look that lasted a fraction of a second too long, and Maggie was annoyed to find herself becoming flustered. She pretended a sudden, overwhelming interest in a nearby rack of warm-up suits to cover her reaction.

  “Well, we’ll see how I do today,” she said, as she examined a silky sleeve.

  You’ve been cloistered in the classroom for too long, she chided herself when she finally managed to walk away from the building. One slightly attractive male smiles at you and you react like a fourteen-year old. But there was something about his easy flirtation that bothered her, too. Maybe it seemed just a little too practiced?

  She shrugged off the thought and watched the activity on the courts as she walked along the outside of a high, green fence. A couple of mixed doubles games were in progress on courts one and two, and two flushed and sweating, middle-aged males rested on the sidelines of court three. A solitary woman worked on her serve on court four, reaching regularly into a tall orange basket filled with balls. Court five, as Maggie approached it, seemed at first glance to be empty.

  Maggie looked around and finally saw a figure seated crosslegged near the net, her back against the fence. As Maggie approached she realized the young woman’s eyes were closed.

  “Are you all right?” Maggie asked, after some hesitation.

  “Meditating.”

  “What?”

  “Meditating.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.” Maggie stepped back, wondering what to do. She walked a few feet away, and put her gear down, glancing back at the person she assumed to be Dyna Hall. She was blonde, with her thick, curly hair bunched and pinned in an odd arrangement. She wore purple sweatpants cut down to shorts and a sleeveless top. Maggie watched the woman on court four hit her serve into the net a few times, then looked back again at Dyna. She was just considering slipping quietly away when the woman’s eyes snapped open.

  “There,” she said, and jumped up, brushing off her backside.

  Too late. Maggie smiled and walked over.

  “You must be Maggie,” the meditator said. “Hi! I’m Dyna - with a `Y’. Everyone gets it wrong, so don’t worry. Sorry to make you wait, but I always try to meditate before I do anything challenging. It really helps. You ever try it?”

  Maggie looked at her prospective opponent’s open friendly face and decided she’d probably like her, despite definite indications of oddness. She was about Maggie’s age, possibly a year or two younger, with a pretty face and a sturdy figure. Her blonde hair was many-shaded, going from light brown near the scalp to near white at the end
s, and had a few streaks of orange here and there.

  “Uh, no, I guess I never have,” Maggie said, pulling her eyes away from the hair to answer.

  Dyna-with-a-Y talked on about the value and methods of meditation, and leaned forward against the net post to stretch her leg muscles. Maggie pulled her racquet out of its cover and assumed an expression of polite attention, as she tried to remember the correct grip for a backhand volley. After trying a few, none of which felt particularly familiar, she decided she would probably just stay back near the baseline most of the time - forget the volleys. Dyna’s dangling, crystal earrings flashed in the sun.

  “OK! Shall we start?” Dyna was spinning her racquet, waiting for Maggie to call up or down. Maggie began to worry that she might be overmatched. Most of the games she had played up till then, the player with the most balls in her pockets simply walked back and started serving.

  “Up?” she said, tentatively.

  Dyna looked at the end of her racquet handle. “You got it.”

  Maggie soon found she needn’t have worried. Her first serve, which dropped softly into the service court, was returned by Dyna into the net. The second was swung at and missed.

  “Ace!” Dyna called, and Maggie laughed.

  The match continued in that vein, with Maggie winning, mostly because she managed to keep from double faulting and seemed to be the only one of the two who knew how to keep score. At one point, however, Dyna returned the ball quite a distance from Maggie, still keeping it inside the line. Maggie ran for it and swung wildly. The ball sailed high and disappeared over the fence and into the shrubbery.

  “Out!” Dyna yelled, grinning. “Definitely out.” She started to head for the gate.

  “No, don’t bother,” Maggie called to her. “I hit it. I’ll get it later.”

  “OK,” Dyna said, and they played out the set, with Maggie winning it, six games to two. They walked to a shady spot near the fence and sat down, fanning their faces.

  “Ooof! I must be in rotten shape,” Maggie said, breathing hard.

  “It’s the heat. And the altitude too. Less oxygen, you know.”

  “Are we that high up?”

  “Doesn’t take much.” Dyna reached back and pulled her long hair off her neck with one hand, fanning it with the other. “The human body has to get acclimated, you know. Have you had your hemoglobin checked lately?”

  “Uh, no.”

  Dyna launched on a rambling explanation of blood tests, then moved on to other areas of medicine. But Maggie, after recalling her companion’s recent performance on the court, was beginning to feel her air of expertise on the subject was just that. Mere air. She listened politely anyway, enjoying the ease and confidence with which Dyna tossed around medical terms.

  After a while, when Dyna seemed to have run down, Maggie changed the subject to Rob Clayton.

  “Who? Dimples?” Dyna asked. Maggie laughed and nodded. “He’s a hunk, isn’t he?” Dyna continued. “Pretty good pro, too. I heard he actually played at Wimbledon.”

  “Really?” Maggie said, impressed.

  “I don’t know how he ended up here, but they’re lucky they’ve got him. I imagine he’s quite a draw. In more ways than one.”

  Dyna told Maggie about a new racquet Rob had recommended that she was considering buying, but Maggie’s attention began to wander. She was tired. It had been a full day. They probably should play one more set then she’d head back to her room. Have a shower and relax before dinner.

  A squirrel ran down a tree on the other side of the fence, stopped to look at them, and ran on. Maggie stood up and stretched.

  “I’ll go get that ball before I forget where I lobbed it,” she said.

  “Oh, right. I think it went over there.” Dyna pointed.

  Maggie squeezed through the rusty-hinged gate and walked along the fence, peering into the bushes. “How far back? Do you remember?”

  “Not too far. I think. It might have rolled.”

  Maggie walked deeper into the wild undergrowth behind their court, her eyes searching the ground. She pulled branches aside and looked under them. What does poison ivy look like? she wondered, as she picked up a long stick to poke around with. Something white caught her eye. What’s that? A shoe? Why would someone leave a ….

  “Dyna.” The name caught in her throat as she struggled to shout it out. “Dyna!”

  Maggie stood frozen, looking down at the body of the young woman lying in a small clearing, hair matted with dark, dried blood, her pale, lifeless skin mottled by shifting shadows.

  “What is it?” Dyna called back.

  “I need … help,” Maggie cried. Her breath was coming faster as disjointed thoughts of CPR raced through her head, knowing at the same time that it would be useless. She looked again at the chalky skin below and wondered giddily what the girl’s hemoglobin level could possibly be. She was almost on the point of a horrified giggle when Dyna ran up to her.

  “What’s the matt…. Oh, my God.”

  ***

  CHAPTER 5

  “Help! Help! We need some help here.” Dyna’s clear voice rang down the courts. Maggie turned to see players stop in mid-play, stare, then drop their racquets and move to respond. She turned back to look at the pitiful figure on the ground, looking now beyond the blood, and a new horror suddenly overcame her as she did. Her hand flew to her mouth and she stepped back, knocking into Dyna.

  Dyna turned back, startled. “Are you all right?”

  Maggie looked at Dyna, barely seeing her, then with an effort pulled herself together.

  “I know her. Dyna, I know her!”

  One of the middle-aged men from court three arrived first, puffing and scrambling for the gate latch. The lone woman on court four hung back, and when she heard the man call back to his partner that there was a dead body here, let out a screech. Others rushed over, and the area rapidly grew cluttered with noise and confusion as people alternately held back, horrified, then pushed closer for a better look.

  “Everybody please move back,” Maggie insisted, shaking herself now to take charge, her teacher’s tone of authority coming to her automatically. Her head swirled with conflicting thoughts and feelings. but as she had often found in the classroom she could rise above that when necessary to keep a situation under control.

  “This girl is dead. We have to call the police. You,” she pointed to a woman from the mixed doubles foursome, a woman who looked fairly calm and competent, “go to the sports shop and call them.” The woman nodded, grim faced, and took off, and Maggie edged everyone back on the court and away from the dead girl.

  The dead girl. Maggie looked back at her. Lori. It was Lori Basker. First row, third desk, second period geometry. Lori, whose eyes had squinted with the effort of concentration, whose soft brown hair had fallen over her face as she bent over a test paper. That hair was now plastered with blood over a crushed skull. Those eyes were glazed and unseeing. Maggie turned away. Lori had been murdered. The thought was almost incomprehensible.

  “You OK?” Dyna looked at her with concern.

  “I guess so.”

  Maggie heard a siren, far away. Before long the place would be filled with police, asking questions. What would she say? More people came. Maggie saw Rob Clayton running from the sports shop. She closed her eyes and hugged herself.

  “C’mon. Let’s go sit down over there, out of the way. Rob’s here. He can take over now.” Dyna tugged at her, and Maggie let herself be led to a quieter corner of the court. She had to think.

  With the arrival of the police the tension for Maggie only increased as they bustled about, shouting orders, pushing people back and cordoning off the area. Maggie was pointed out, and a young deputy took her aside and asked questions over the pandemonium, taking notes on when and how she had found the body. The young woman had been identified, and had been a waitress at the Highview.

  Maggie told him how she knew Lori. He nodded and wrote it down. He asked about a book that had been found next
to the body. Maggie hadn’t noticed it and could only say it wasn’t hers, it must have been Lori’s. Technicians took pictures of the crime scene, and measurements, and searched meticulously through the brush, apparently looking for evidence.

  A second official came over to Maggie. He introduced himself as Sheriff Burger, a tall, heavy-set man with thinning hair. He asked the same questions the first one had. She answered as clearly as she could, trying hard to control a tremor which had begun deep in her stomach. She knew it wasn’t the sheriff giving her the shakes. It was the whole unbelievable scene that unnerved her.

  After what seemed like hours they told Maggie she could go. What was wrong? Why didn’t she want to go, to leave this terrible scene? Bits and pieces of the things some of the deputies had said, talking to each other within her hearing, ran through her head: “blunt force, four or five hours ago, not much to go on, no weapon, sheriff’s pretty busy, the suspect’s probably in Florida by now.” The expressions on their faces were disinterested, sometimes actually laughing over comments to each other. It was their job, she knew that. They needed to be detached. But it bothered her.

  She saw Rob Clayton moving about. There was nothing for him to do either, but he still hovered. She wondered why. Was he simply looking out for the hotel property which he managed, which was his responsibility? But his focus was constantly on the murder scene. Occasionally someone in a hotel uniform would come up to him, questioning. He answered brusquely, seeming impatient at the interruption, his eyes always on the police activity, and the questioner would move on.

  Rob’s intensity seemed curious. Maggie didn’t see sadness or distress at the murder of a fellow employee, though, but a more detached, intellectual determination simply to see everything, to know everything the police did.