Braking for Bodies (16 page)

“If you could just shut her up, I'd be eternally grateful.” Penelope hurried off as Gabi and the Crusaders hustled into the dining room. “It
is
true,” Gabi gasped. “This is a new suspect.” Gabi nodded to Abigail, who was starting in on “Heartbreak Hotel,” round two, as the rest of the Crusaders crowded around.

“She has to be a suspect,” the tall corpse guy chimed in. “She's way too over the top to just be a guest here.” He pulled his yellow notebook from his back pocket. “She's singing about a heartbreak, and maybe that's her motivation. I got it, she was having a fling with Peep and he wanted to end it. That's a heartbreak, all right.”

The shorter Crusader guy added, “Then Peep came here to the Grand Hotel and she followed and knocked him off? Or is she just a red herring?” He shook his head. “No, that's not it. I think she's here for a reason.”

“Yeah, like to drive me nuts,” I said under my breath.

“From the looks of it, she's driving everyone nuts.” Gabi wrote in her notebook. “We need to find out more about her.” Gabi made a sour face. “The one thing we know is that she's not a singer. With a little luck she'll be the next one to get polished off and put an end to this god-awful racket.” The Crusaders trooped off and Abigail's gaze landed on me.

“Evie? Evie Bloomfield, is that really you?” Abigail's eyes focused on me. She flashed a lopsided grin and scrambled down off the table, losing one of her sensible two-inch heels as her navy skirt slid up to her thighs. Her long blonde hair slid out of the bun, and she had raccoon eyes from smudged mascara.

“Abigail,” I gushed. Well, I tried to gush, I really and truly did, for Rudy's sake. Abigail and I hadn't had a warm fuzzy relationship back in Chicago, more glacial ice and scratchy wool. “Let's get you to your room.” I smiled sweetly and ushered her toward the elevators. “You need to freshen up. Doesn't that sound nice?”

“I'm fresh enough. Let's get us to the bar, and what sounds nice is a lot more vodka.” She laughed then, her lips wobbling as a tear slid down her cheek. “Oh, Evie, Evie, what am I going to do? Things are just terrible. I'm so glad you're here.”

I pulled Abigail into a chair at a vacant table. “No, no, you got it all wrong. This marriage is a really good thing; your dad's happy, and you'll love Irma. It's going to be great, just give it a chance.”

“Irma who?”

“The bride?”

“Whatever.” Abigail waved her hand in the air. “Dad's always happy, and it's me we're talking about here. Evie, I'm never getting married.”

“I didn't know you wanted to.”

“I met this guy . . . tall, rich, connected.” She sniffed, more tears trailing down her cheek. “Did I mention
that he was rich? He left me, Evie. Roberto ran off with that digital designer person in the art department. Suzie or Sally or something S. Why would he choose her?”

Because Sarah is sweet and cute and fun to be with
, I added to myself.

“I own the company,” Abigail demanded, pounding on the dining room table, making the tableware and glasses jump and nearly overturning the vase of flowers. “I'm the boss. You understand what I'm going through, not that me getting dumped is anything like you getting left at the altar. Gads, nothing could be more humiliating than that. I don't know how you manage to go out in public after that fiasco. I'd have to dye my hair and move to Alaska, though living here is about the same as Alaska, I suppose, maybe worse. Did you go into therapy? Of course you did, you poor pathetic thing.”

Abigail grabbed my hand and looked me in the eyes. “You and I, we're not getting any younger, Evie, and our biological clocks are ticking, can you believe that?”

“You . . . you want children?”

“Children?” Abigail's brows shot up and she added another one of those hand waves to shoo away such an idea. “I'm talking Botox, liposuction, lifts, tucks, implants. Least I can afford it. You? I don't know what you're going to do, and are those crow's feet around your eyes, and do I see freckles? You poor thing! Freckles, what are you going to do about those?”

“Look for a bottle of olive oil; it's been known to put an end to an annoying problem.”

“Olive oil? Really?”

“It's a proven fact. Let's go to your room and order room service with lots of coffee; you'll feel better after coffee.”

Abigail stood, holding on to the table for support. “I do have a nice room with a lovely view. I had to pay extra for it when I got here, but that nice receptionist switched me from a crummy room to an expensive one.”

“That's great. Now you can get some sleep and rest up from traveling.”
And being on a bender.
“You'll want to be at your best for the wedding. You know, there'll be a lot of really good-looking men there, think of that. Maybe you'll meet someone new and he'll whisk you away, far, far away.”

Abigail brightened. “You do have rugged men, those outdoor types who can build a bridge with a knife and a toothpick. The strong virile hunks.” Abigail made a growling sound. “One of the maids here said the police chief is a real hottie. I got to meet him. Nothing's better than a man in uniform.” She flipped back her hair and jutted her chin. “You know, I feel better already. A sultry island affair is just what I need to perk myself up.”

“It's Michigan, not the Bahamas.”

“So we'll have to make our own heat. I'm getting together with that cop guy and having some fun tonight, you can count on it.”

Abigail strutted over to the elevators and got on as Madonna got off. A waitress in a smart black dress with crisp white apron hurried my way and handed me
an envelope with
Evie
scrawled across the front. “This was left at the front desk. Penelope said to look for the woman with messy hair, no makeup, denim capris and skinned-up knees and elbows.” The maid gave me the critical once-over. “You win, or lose, depending on your point of view.”

The maid took off and I tore open the envelope and unfolded a piece of hotel stationery:
If you want to know what's going on around here, Annex 1 in five.

Five minutes? I raced off for the lobby, then slowed, then stopped. What if this was a setup? I'd already been pushed into a line of horses and off my bike. Walking into this felt like a really bad idea. I needed a sidekick, an extra set of eyes to watch my back. I needed someone with a vested interest in all this, and I needed them now. I had no idea where Fiona was, and Mother was knee-deep in honeysuckle yellow. Molly was keeping Mackinac Island safe and . . .

“Hey,” I said to Madonna as she strolled past. Okay, Madonna wasn't exactly an armed guard, but right now another warm body was better than nothing. “Can you help me out? Actually I think we can help each other out.”

Madonna did sort of look like Madonna today if you squinted a little and added forty pounds. I pulled Madonna off to the side and showed her the note. “This person might know who the killer is. What do you think?”

“I think that you didn't get the memo. Fiona's the killer.”

“There are other suspects, and the police aren't going to release Peep until they are absolutely sure they've got the right person behind bars. Let's see where this takes us. It could help you out.”

“I need to find Zo, little harlot that she is. My lawyers are trying to reach her. If she thinks she's getting anything from Peep's estate, she's crazy, though she does get to keep the condo he bought her, the creep.”

Madonna started off, and I snagged her arm. “I thought you wanted to solve this murder as fast as possible, get back to L.A., read the will and live happily ever after. I need you because this sounds like one of those movies where the stupid girl goes up the dark stairs looking for the killer and the audience is yelling,
Don't go, dumbass!
”

“It's the Grand Hotel, not
Psycho
. You'll be fine.”

“Tell it to the guy cooling his heels at the medical center. I've had enough close calls lately and I know you're looking for Zo and . . . and, you know what, I think this might be Zo.” I tapped the note. “I think she might have done in Peep. It fits, it really does. I should have thought of this before; it's perfect. And now I'm getting close to the truth and she wants to do me in too.”

“Not so perfect; she has an alibi, remember.”

“For not pushing Peep off the porch. She could have paid someone to do that while she waited below and whammed him with the bottle.”

“Seems kind of far-fetched, and besides, she loved Peep.”

“But he didn't leave you to marry her, did he? She had to be furious, and I think all that uproar about the stolen turtle necklace was to throw more suspicion on Fiona. It was probably her idea to come here; I doubt if it was Peep's. Mackinac Island isn't exactly a Peep kind of place. Her plan all along was to knock him off and pin it on Fiona or Idle or both. She knew they were here.”

“Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?”

“And I think Zo was feeling scorned and used and had enough of Peep. He probably promised her the earth and handed out peanuts.”

“I know that feeling.”

“And if Peep's out of the way, she does have the dirt on everyone to keep blackmailing. Maybe I'll get one of the staff to go with me. If she thinks I'm getting close to finding her out, it could get ugly.” I rubbed my elbows. “I've had enough ugly.”

I started off and Madonna grabbed my arm. “All right, all right. I'm not the Marines, but I got a scream that'll strip wallpaper, and you're right: If I don't get some straight answers, I'm never getting off this rock. If we get the hotel staff involved, they'll call the cops and Zo will just run off.”

I followed Madonna past the
Employees Only
door and headed farther down the hall into the older part of the hotel, still maintained to absolute perfection. Madonna pointed to Annex 1. “Okay, we're here, now what do we do?”

I knocked.

“This isn't the presidential suite; we probably have to go in on our own.” Madonna turned the knob and opened the door. “Are you ready?”

“I'm ready.”
Maybe.
“Awfully dark. Where's the light switch?” We stepped inside and the door slammed shut behind us.

“Evie?” Madonna said in a flat voice, her voice echoing in the room. “I think we just reached the dumbass part.”

“H
ello? Anybody here?” I called out, with Madonna yanking on the door handle behind me trying to open it.

I reached in my back pocket, snagged Sheldon and poked the flashlight app. Thank you, Steve Jobs. “There's got to be a light switch somewhere.”

“There,” Madonna said as the beam zeroed in on the wall by the door. She flipped the switch back and forth, and nothing happened. “Any more brilliant ideas?”

I scanned the room with the light. “I think we're alone. We'd be dead by now if we weren't.”

“I feel so much better now.”

“It's a storage room of some kind. Dining room storage, judging by the bins on the shelves labeled
cups, saucers, tablecloths, napkins, dishes, candleholders
.”

“Oh good, now we can have a dinner party, and is that an envelope with your name on top of that big box in the middle?” Madonna took my hand and directed the beam. “It is. How much you wanna bet it's not the key to get us out of here.” Madonna handed me the envelope, and I slid out eight-by-ten glossies.

“Cats?” Madonna said, looking over my shoulder. “Why cats on a pool table? Is this like cats playing a piano, one of those YouTube things? What is going on?”

“It's Cleveland and Bambino, they're my cats and in the middle of my pool table, well actually it's the town's table but it's in my bike shop for the summer.”

I flipped over the pictures and Madonna read, “
Butt out or lights out.
I don't think they're talking about the lights out in this room.”

“Neither do I.” My blood ran cold. I couldn't breathe; little dots danced in front of my eyes. “What kind of sick bastard would harm cats? My cats? Okay, they're a little testy at times . . . most of the time . . . and ill-tempered and crabby and grumpy and critical and bossy, boy are they bossy.”

“If this means what I think it means, you might be in line to get some nicer cats.”

Holy freaking hell! My hair stood on end. “I have to get out of here!”

“If you remember correctly, I never wanted to come in the first place.”

“The door's locked, but I can pick a lock. Do you have a hairpin, nail file, even a safety pin? Underwire
from a bra will do. My state of noncleavage doesn't warrant a wire. It's all because of that blasted cloud!”

“I sure don't see any clouds.” Madonna jutted her boobs. “And I didn't pay ten grand for boobs that need wires. We can bend a fork and use one tine, except I can't see the Grand Hotel using forks that bend, and I'm guessing knives are too big for your little Houdini trick. I say we take turns banging on the door. We'll just have to wait till someone finds us.”

“Everyone's busy and I don't have time to wait. No one's going to find us for a long time, and I have to find Bambino and Cleveland.”

“Um, why?”

“The door is thick, really thick,” I said, trying not to panic. “Like soundproof thick and . . .” I focused the light to the ceiling, with fancy moldings still intact and a mural that needed work. “And the reason it's soundproof,” I said as much to myself as Madonna, “is that this was a gambling room back in the day that the hotel served smuggled-in booze. I bet there's another door. There would never be just one way in and out. Think about it; if the cops come in through the door we just came in, the escape exit would be across the room so guests could exit into another area, probably a nightclub or bar, and look as if they were there all along.”

“I don't see any door.” Madonna sat on the box in the middle of the room and crossed her legs.

“It's a secret door in case the feds went snooping
around. We'll have to move these bins off the shelves to find it. Come on, let's get going.”

“I think you watch too much TV, and I'm a singer, not a mover. Let me know what you find.”

“Really? You're just going to sit there?”

“Of course not, I thought I'd take a nap.”

Holding Sheldon in my teeth so I could see what I was doing, I tugged the bin of dishes to the edge of the shelf, then lifted them as best I could onto the floor so they wouldn't break. Didn't seem fair to have the Grand Hotel pay for my mishap. I did the same with the cups and the saucers, and when it came to the tableware I sort of accidentally-on-purpose dropped it to the floor with a thunderous
clank
.

“Hey, a girl's trying to sleep here!”

I got a silver candlestick holder from the candlestick bin and started tapping the walls.

“What in the world are you doing now? You're giving me a headache.”

“I'm listening for a hollow sound that should be the door. The walls are solid plaster, the door filled with Styrofoam or whatever they used to muffle sound back then.”

Madonna sighed. “Maybe they boarded it up and plastered it over, ever think of that? We're talking almost a hundred years ago with this gambling room idea.”

I gave a few more taps. “This whole place is built on history. My guess is that sooner or later the Grand will rehab this room as the Rum Runner Room, say
that Al Capone had a shoot-out here, sell bathtub gin at an exorbitant price and make a killing and . . . Here.” I tapped again, listening closely. “I think the door's right here, I really do.” I searched the seam for a spring or latch.

“You know,” Madonna said with a yawn, “I don't think this is Zo; seems a little elaborate for her pea-brain, but whoever set all this up never considered the extra door idea. You were probably supposed to sit here in the dark and worry so much about your kitty cats that you'd give up on finding this killer person to protect them from future harm.”

“That's because the imbecile who did set this up doesn't know that Evie Bloomfield's a Midwest girl and meaner than a junkyard dog when pissed. I passed pissed an hour ago.”

I gave one hard shove on the panel and it sprang free, with me tumbling headfirst into a lovely room draped in greens and mauve. There were maybe a hundred guests in tuxes and long dresses all holding champagne flutes, and right now they were all staring at me and not the bride and groom cutting a five-tiered wedding cake.

“Congratulations,” Madonna said, offering a big toothy smile as she stepped over my back. “And to the groom, a little piece of advice—always remember those three magic words that keep a marriage strong:
You're right, dear.
”

Madonna headed for the exit with me right behind her.

*   *   *

“Where have you
been? We're running out of time,” Sutter said as I bolted into the bike shop. He was standing at the workbench expertly arranging lilacs in white wicker bike baskets, the whole thing looking like
Better Homes and Gardens
.

“Where are Bambino and Cleveland? They're not on the pool table; why aren't they on the pool table?”

“Because there's blush tulle bunting spread out on the table so it doesn't wrinkle. It'll go over the white cloth bunting that—”

I grabbed Sutter by the front of his navy T-shirt and yanked him around to face me. “Cats now!” I tugged the crumpled glossies from my pocket and crammed them into Sutter's hands. “I got locked in a room for two hours with Madonna and cat death threats.”

“I'm not going to ask which was worse.” Sutter smoothed out the glossies and read the back, his jaw tightening, cop face firmly in place. “When the cats aren't on the pool table, where are they?”

“In the kitchen snarling and hissing at me till they get tuna.”

“The kitchen's a zoo with cake, chafers, chillers and dinnerware. No cats. Try again.”

“They sleep with me, one on each side. They bite my hair to wake me up at three AM for a treat.” My voice cracked and I swiped away a tear.

“You sure you want to keep these cats?”

I choked back a sob.

“Right.” He grabbed my hand and we tore up the steps to my bed, which was surrounded four deep in a jumble of bikes, with Cleveland and Bambino in a tangled heap of calico and black asleep in the middle.

Oh, thank you, God!
I backtracked out of the room, sank onto the top step and dropped my head into my hands.

“Are you okay?”

“The one good thing about this is that it's proof positive Fiona is not guilty. She'd never threaten to catnap Bambino and Cleveland thinking it would get me to back off finding the killer. That's what this was all about; even Madonna thought so.”

“Fiona wouldn't hurt your cats, I'll give you that. And of course she'd never hurt you. But this is a warning, Evie, and next time it might be more. You've got to be careful.” He closed his eyes. “I'm serious here. The next threat won't be against your cats.”

“I'll stay out of dark alleys. I'll stay out of dark anything.” I held up my little finger. “Pinky swear.” Sutter's finger circled mine and we shook. “Okay, we got that over with, but right now we've got to get a move on. We really do need to get the bunting up. Who made these napkins into swans? They're adorable.”

Sutter picked up a bird. “I got it off YouTube.”

Sutter started to get up, and I pulled him back down. “That's it! Bunting? Swans? Chafing? Tulle? Either you're gayer than a picnic basket, Nate Sutter—though that is such a stereotype and I apologize and if you are that's fine—or the Detroit police department has
added events planning to their new and improved public services for the city and you're in charge. What the heck's going on?”

He shrugged, his broad shoulders rubbing against mine. “Nothing's going on, just normal stuff, except for the John up at the bar. That was kind of interesting.”

“Johnson. So I guess he was one of those most wanted people.”

“The only thing he wanted was you. Not that I blame him. You looked hot.”

I stared at Sutter. “Really? You know, I think it was the white shawl and the blue dress and—” I jumped up. “John?”

“John.” This time Sutter pulled me down.

“He thought I was a . . .” I laughed, and Sutter joined in. Then he kissed me again, making my insides boil and my toes curl and scrambling my brain. “I get it,” I said, all out of breath, my heart racing. “You're not gay.”

“You're right.” He smiled, his eyes peering deep into mine, his fingers twining into my hair. “And you're going to love your bouquet, and as much as I'd like to prolong this activity, it's two hours to TBE and the flower baskets need lace bows along with everything else that needs to be done around here.”

“TBE?”

“The Big Event.”

“So, you're saying the Detroit police really do have an events planning department?”