by Maddy Hunter
“Four’s about normal,” Nana said helpfully. “That’s what we averaged in Italy.”
“I told you that trail needed more signs,” Dick Teig proclaimed. “That fella probably got lost on the same trail we did and broke his neck falling down that damned embankment.”
“His neck wasn’t the problem,” I hedged. “It was his skull. Someone apparently altered the shape of it with a lethal blow then made off with all his identification.”
Gasps. Whispers. Tooth sucking.
“So he was murdered,” Tilly declared, her voice vibrating with uncharacteristic anxiety. “Perhaps by the same person who killed the professor?”
I nodded. “That’s my guess.”
“Which means our miscreant has struck not once, but twice?” She shook her head. “I don’t like those statistics. Go on with your talk, Emily.” She bowed her head in my direction, and whispered behind her hand, “And you might want to hurry.”
“Basil Broomhead.” I held his photo up like a cue card. “He may have been the last person to see Professor Smoker alive.” I flashed the next picture. “Percy Woodruffe-Peacock. The flip side of Percy’s business card is annotated with two names: Professor Dorian Smoker and Bailey Howard. I think these annotations comprise an actual hit list. Suspect number six: Shelly Valentine.”
The two Dicks elbowed each other as I displayed a DAY ONE photo of Shelly in her hot pink halter top and cheek-hugging short shorts. “Shelly may have nothing to do with any of this, but she was sleeping with Professor Smoker, so in my book that earns her billing with everyone else.”
Dick Stolee rocketed his hand into the air, his tongue hanging down to his belt buckle. “I’ll take that one, Emily.”
Grace thwacked him on the arm. “In your dreams.”
“My last photo is Bailey Howard, and you know what she looks like because you were with her all day yesterday. But I’m adding her to our picture gallery because rumor has it that her academic career could actually be furthered by Professor Smoker’s death.”
Margi executed a little finger wave to draw my attention. “I don’t mean to sound dumb, Emily, but how would Bailey have found time to kill Ansgar if she was with us all day yesterday?”
“An excellent question. And the answer is —” I let out a ragged breath. “I don’t have a clue. We have a lot of puzzle pieces that don’t fit yet.”
“Bailey knew we found the treasure,” Bernice blurted out. “I betcha she’s the one who stole it.”
“She was seasick along with everyone else last night, so that’s a stretch,” I allowed. “But she might have mentioned it to one of the other suspects. Or better yet” — I fisted my hands on the table and directed a long, pointed look at Bernice — “someone else in our group might have had loose lips and told a whole slew of people.”
Ten heads snapped around to stare at Bernice, who shifted nervously in her chair before sticking her chin out in self-defense. “Why are you looking at me? I took your stupid oath of silence! Do I look like the kind of person who’d blow off an oath?”
“We didn’t make you swear on a Bible,” Lucille accused. “Maybe you took advantage of the loophole.”
Osmond jumped to his feet. “Show of hands. How many think Bernice blabbed?”
Ten hands darted into the air.
“Majority rules. You blabbed.”
“If I blabbed, may God send the upper deck crashing down onto my head this very second!”
Screams. Shouts. Everyone doubled over, flinging their arms over their heads to protect against concussion, cranial trauma, and all other forms of divine retribution.
I ducked down and cringed at the ceiling, relieved when the overhead panels didn’t rain down on the baby grand. Five seconds passed. Ten.
Osmond poked his head out from beneath his arms to give the ceiling a distrustful look. “Damn. She might be telling the truth.”
I marked the hour on my watch. “Come on, you guys. We don’t have much time left. Let’s go over this again so I know we’re on the same page. When I cut you loose, what are you going to do?”
“Get into our costumes,” said Alice.
“Loiter casually in the corridors so’s we know what our suspects are wearin’ to the Halloween bash,” added Nana.
“Eat,” bellowed Helen.
I nodded approval. “And what’s the most important thing you’re going to do tonight?”
“Eat,” repeated Helen.
I gave her a withering look.
“I’m going to hand out condoms,” said Margi. “It’s not a widely known fact, but posing in a costume can sometimes alter a person’s psyche. The subject begins to assume the qualities of the person he or she is playing and can even start exhibiting the same behavior, which often causes increased hormonal activity that can trigger episodes of uncontrollable sexual arousal. It’s a real problem.”
Nana raised her hand politely. “I’m sorry. How’s that a problem?”
Oh, God. “Okay, just to refresh your memories. Bailey is the only person among our suspects who’s scheduled to disembark in Maui, so if you see anyone other than her leaving, jump on them. Got it? That’s your primary mission this evening. I’ll be in a conspicuous place in the dining room, so please check in with me every so often to let me know how you’re doing. Any questions?”
When no hands went up, I nodded with satisfaction. “All righty, let’s get those photographs divided up.”
A minor skirmish erupted between the Dicks over who’d be assigned to Shelly Valentine, so I resolved the problem with King-Solomon-like wisdom by handing her over to Bernice.
“Thanks a bunch, Emily,” Dick Teig griped as I escorted him to the door. “I’ll be burning up with sexual passion, and who will I get to ogle?” He slapped the front of his assigned photo. “Some English wacko in short pants and a bow tie. I’ll remember that when it comes time for your evaluation.”
After I’d shown the last person out, I scooted back to the desk in the living room and read the items that remained on my list. I’d already crossed out BUY PHOTOS FROM PHOTO GALLERY and HAVE CONCIERGE PROVIDE SUSPECTS’ CABIN NUMBERS. I drew a line through ASSIGN PHOTOS TO GROUP, then stabbed the next item with the point of my pen. CALL ETIENNE.
Feeling equal parts anticipation and dread, I punched up his number
“This is Miceli,” he said in his steamy baritone. “Please leave a short message. I’ll get back —”
I slammed the phone down, unwelcome tears blurring my eyes. He wanted to make amends? He wanted to make it up to me? Sure he did. That’s why he was falling all over himself to answer the message I’d left on his machine two freaking days ago!
I swiped moisture from my cheeks with an angry hand and scratched his name off my list. “Take that, Etienne Miceli,” I sniffled, disguising my hurt as anger. But, hey, it was Halloween. Everything was parading around in costume. Even my emotions.
Proceeding to the last item on my list, I dried my eyes and punched up another number on the phone. “Are you through not being seasick?” I teased when Duncan answered.
“Completely.” He lowered his voice seductively. “Are you through not pining over your no-account Swiss police inspector?”
Was I? Damn. It was time to stop waffling. I was old enough to be a ma’am, for God’s sakes. I had to make a decis — “Yeah,” I blurted out before I had a chance to change my mind. “I’m…I’m through.”
I could hear him smile through the phone. “I could be at your cabin in five minutes.”
“I’m scheduled to do the buffet bash with my group, so I’ll be tied up for a while.”
“No worries, I had plans to do the buffet myself. I’ll find you in the dining room.”
“I’ll be in costume, but without a mask, so you shouldn’t have any trouble spying me.”
His voice sizzled like a low current through an electrical wire. “With a mask, without a mask. You could be dressed in a soup can and I’d still know it was you.”
He said
it with so much conviction, I almost believed him.
Relieved not to be dithering anymore, I raced into the bedroom and grabbed my costume from the closet, my heartbeat quickening inexplicably when the phone on the bedside table began ringing. I stared at it in trepidation for a moment before charging around the bed and ripping it off the hook. “Etienne?”
“It’s Nana, dear. Since you’re the one what’s gonna tail that Jennifer, I thought I’d let you know that Tilly and me seen her in the elevator, and she’s all dressed up in black rubber.”
I tried to visualize that. “What’s she supposed to be? A Michelin tire?”
“I think she’s s’posed to be Catwoman, on account a she had a tail.”
“She’s kind of early for the buffet, isn’t she?”
“She told someone on the elevator that she was headin’ to the rental shop ’cause her zipper got stuck and she wanted ’em to fix it. She was afraid if she fiddled with it, she’d break it, and she didn’t wanna get stuck payin’ for no damages.”
“Catwoman, huh? I owe you one, Nana. Thanks.” I could picture Jennifer French as Catwoman — a self-absorbed, sharp-clawed creature with a poorly disguised vicious streak. But I was hoping that unlike your average feline, Jennifer would have a lot fewer than nine lives.
I strutted into the dining room at precisely seven o’clock in my thigh-high boots, French-cut blue satin shorts speckled with white stars, strapless red bustier trimmed in gold, wide metal belt, tasteful gold tiara, bracelets that fit like soda cans, and attitude. My face was painted, rouged, and dusted with shimmering powder. My eyes were lined, smudged, and mas-caraed in a deep black. My lips were outlined, stained, and polished with candy apple gloss. As I watched heads turn and jaws drop at my entrance, I realized Margi hadn’t been spinning idle yarns about taking on the personality of the character you’re disguised as. With missile-deflecting bracelets hugging my forearms and a gold lasso strapped to my waist, I wasn’t just dressed like Wonder Woman. I was Wonder Woman.
I had my fingers crossed that the uncontrollable sexual arousal part was true, too.
I felt glances sidling left and right to check me out as I cut a sassy path through the gathering crowd. I saw brows lift in shock. Heads tip with curiosity. Mouths curve in admiration. I heard throaty growls of approval. Conspicuous lip smacking. A few low whistles. And why not?
I was hot. Not only did my legs start at my throat, but my bustier was inset with a push-up bra that did for my chest what yeast did for bread dough — the only problem being, if I made the mistake of bending over, I’d probably knock myself out.
I surveyed the room with my superhero vision, assessing the guests, the food, the decorations. Paper skeletons and witches on broomsticks hung from the ceiling, dangling over tables that had been shifted to one side of the room. Carved jack-o’-lanterns perched in the center of each table. Cornstalks nestled in obvious corners. Food islands angled across the floor, tempting partygoers with aromas that were sweet and spicy, piquant and peppery. Guests huddled in scattered circles, masked and unmasked, everyone living out some alter ego fantasy. I eyed the Lone Ranger in his little black mask and white “good guy” outfit. Little Bo Beep encased in an igloo of ruffly pink flounces with a ribboned shepherd’s staff. Count Dracula in his tuxedo, cape, widow’s peak, and fake incisors. At least, I hoped they were fake. If not, he could forget about tearing into the corn on the cob I saw steaming under a nearby heat lamp.
“Emily?” a voice croaked close to my ear. “Holy crap! Look at you.”
I pivoted to find a six-foot broccoli spear practically standing on top of me. “Jonathan?” His bespectacled green face poked out of an opening three-quarters of the way up his stalk, but his arms were hidden somewhere beneath his fibrous beta carotene layer. I looked him up and down, root to floret, reaching an unexpected conclusion. “You know something, Jonathan, that color green really accentuates your eyes. Are you fresh or frozen?”
“Fresh. If I was frozen, I’d be in a major thaw right now. Emily, wow, you’re so —” His gaze dipped to the acre of exposed cleavage rising above my bustier. “I mean, I never realized you were so…so —” his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as he riffled through his vocabulary — “tan.”
“Instant bronzer. My ex-husband swears by it.” I circled around him, testing his stalk with my fingertip. “Hey, how’d you manage to get into this thing with two arms in a sling? There’s a zipper back here.”
“I had the rental shop hold it for me and went down there to dress. And guess who I ran into while I was there?”
“Mmm, the tattooed blonde who looks like your ex-wife?”
His eyes rounded in amazement. “How did you know that?”
I shrugged one naked shoulder. “Goes with the territory. Remember? I’m Wonder Woman.”
“Yeah,” he said, his voice soft and breathy. “You sure are.”
“So did the costume rental people get Jennifer’s zipper unstuck?”
He stood very still, his mouth gaping open like a knot hole. “Man, this is awesome. It’s the belt, isn’t it? Wonder Woman’s belt is the source of her superpowers. Who would have thought this stuff was actually real?”
I cocked my hip and gave him a flirty wink. “You should see what I can do with my lasso. So Jonathan” — I poked his broccoli belly with my forefinger — “what about Jennifer?”
He gulped down a mouthful of oxygen, looking as if he were trying to prevent his florets from wilting. “Is that her name? Jennifer? What a whiner. I think someone should do the rest of the world a favor and put her out of her misery. She nearly took the clerk’s head off when he told her the zipper was broken and he’d have to give her a new bodysuit. But you know what I overheard when she was jabbering with some of the female clerks?”
“Hello, dear,” said a short passerby in a belted tunic, leggings, and floppy mushroom cap of a hat. She wore a half-face mask, carried a miner’s pick, and sported a slash of embroidery over her breast that read HAPPY. She gave me a thumbs-up as she nodded toward one of the food islands. “Snow White and me are all over Bailey. But she’s not in costume, so it’s not too challengin’. Woulda been more excitin’ followin’ that Gjurd fella around. He’s dressed like a Vikin’, and you wouldn’t believe the fine-lookin’ gams he’s got under that wolfskin skirt a his.” Nana acknowledged Jonathan with a wink and a nod. “You better stay away from the appetizer table, dear. You look tasty enough to dip. Oops. There’s Snow. Duty calls. We’re gonna stalk Bailey while she gets her food.”
I waved to Tilly, who stood pencil straight and shapeless in a low-cut, puffy-sleeved gown with a huge bow roosting atop her head of synthetic black hair. She waggled her cane at me as she flicked wisps of hair away from her face, but her wig was charged with so much static electricity, the hair kept flying back, attacking her cheeks like bats. That had to be annoying.
As I watched her and Nana trundle off, I blinked at the nearest food island, whipping around suddenly to stare at Jonathan.
“Like I was saying,” Jonathan continued, “while I —”
“How are you planning to go through the buffet line?” I cut him off, gesturing to the two empty sockets in his stem. “Have you seen yourself? You have no arms.”
He looked down his nose at his stalk. “I thought maybe I could ask one of the waitstaff to help me. You suppose they do stuff like that?”
“Probably. But how is the food going to travel from the plate to your mouth?”
His florets bobbed in thought. “Don’t know. I haven’t thought that far ahead.”
“Jonathan, Jonathan, Jonathan.” I glanced beyond him to where a female in a black bodysuit with a Catwoman hood was edging into line at the salad island. Eh! Jennifer. “Tell you what. Sit down at this table —” I yanked out a chair and navigated him into it. “I’ll get you some food and bring it back to you. Maybe I can even help you get it to your mouth.”
He regarded me with puppy-dog eyes. “You’d do that for me, Emily?�
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“I’m a tour escort,” I said hurriedly. “It’s one of the many functions I perform.”
“But I don’t get it. Why are you being so nice to me? No one’s ever been this nice to me.”
“I’m from the Midwest. We’re all like this.”
I strutted across the floor, dropping into line three people back from Jennifer and wondering if her agenda for the evening included a quick cut-and-run after the dessert course. She didn’t look to be in too much of a hurry as she piled Caesar salad onto her plate, which meant my plan was working perfectly. She didn’t have a clue I was onto her.
“Trick or treat,” said a digitalized voice behind me. I spun around and nearly scraped my nose on the broad chest of Darth Vader, evil galactic lord of an empire that existed long ago and far, far away — like my love life. He towered miles above me, a striking figure in his floor-length cloak and hermetically sealed breathing mask. He curled a gloved hand around my bare shoulder and looked down at me through bulbous orbs of tinted glass that I suspected were the science fiction equivalent of Foster Grants. “Nice costume,” he announced, sounding like the voice inside my answering machine.
“Duncan?”
He expelled a heavy breath through the vents of his mask and trailed a gloved finger down the nape of my neck. “Darth.”
I smiled up at him, rapping a knuckle on his helmeted face mask. What was it with guys? Jonathan with no arms. Duncan with no face. Did their brains shut down completely when they crawled into a costume? “Tell me, Darth, will you be taking this thing off to dine, or are you planning to eat dinner through a straw?”
“I’ll take it off for you. Later. In private.”
If I got lucky, he might even take off more than just the mask. I tapped my finger on his tinted insect eyes. “Can you actually see through these things?”
“I was managing fine until I saw your costume.” Air shot out of his mask like steam from a volcano. “Now I’m having a small problem with condensation.”
“We’ve identified our mark,” Alice Tjarks announced in a flurry as she seized my arm. Her dwarf’s hat was so big it drooped over her head like a flaccid bucket, blinding her, but at least her mouth was still visible. “He’s over there.” She swung her pickaxe toward the back of the room, accidentally thwacking the Lone Ranger in the holster as he passed.