The Oldest Sin (20 page)

Bram came over to take a closer look. “So what’s it mean?”

“It means,” said Sophie, tapping a finger against the side of her face, “that someone made a batch yesterday.”

“You mean Lavinia?”

“Possibly.”

“Why not probably? They’re in her room. Unless she made them herself, where else would she get them?”

Sophie shrugged. “Bunny, or Cindy. Even Adelle. They all had the recipe. I Xeroxed each of them a copy of my old cookbook. If you could make them in a dorm room, you could certainly make them in a hotel. Maybe someone decided to whip up a batch and share them around. You know, just to be friendly.”

Bram leaned close to the floor and sniffed the lumps. “Whew, they stink.”

She took her own sniff. She had to admit, they didn’t smell quite right.

“What was that?” Bram’s head shot up.

“Someone’s at the door,” said Sophie. Right now neither one of them had nerves of steel. “Come in,” she called, getting up. “It’s open.”

Frances Lester, the housekeeping supervisor, popped her head inside the room. “I finally found a key for the closet door. Thought I’d bring it up.” She dangled it off the end of her finger.

“Thanks,” said Sophie, slipping it into her pocket.

“Have you heard anything from Ms. Fiore?”

“Not yet.”

“I’m sure you will soon. If you ask me, whoever burgled her stuff should be boiled in oil.” She gave the room a nasty glance. “Well, if you don’t need me anymore, I’ve got some work to do in the south wing.”

“I’ll let you know what happens,” said Sophie. “And thanks again for the key.”

After she was gone, Bram asked, “The closet door is locked? You mean, no one’s checked to see what’s inside?”

“Not yet.”

“But… doesn’t that strike you as funny?”

“Doesn’t what strike me as funny?” She hurried into the bedroom.

Bram followed. “I know these old locks. Any guy with a modicum of strength could snap it open in a flash. How come the burglar didn’t do it? There might have been valuables inside just ripe for the picking.”

“That’s a good question,” said Sophie. One neither she nor the police had considered. “Maybe the burglar was a woman and the lock was too strong for her.”

“A sexist comment if I ever heard one.”

Sophie pushed the key into the lock, twisted it, and opened the door. Inside, everything was jumbled together on the floor. Dresses. Shoes. Coats. Hats. Nothing was where it should be.

“Hmm,” said Bram, staring at the mess. “I guess we were both wrong. The burglar did get in.” He kicked some of the clothes aside, revealing a corner of the bedspread.

“Hey,” said Sophie. “I wondered where that went. But… what’s it doing in here?”

Bram leaned down and tried to yank it free. It wouldn’t budge. He pulled several coats and sweaters off the top to get a better grip.

Sophie took some of the clothes and placed them carefully on the bed. Lavinia would just be sick when she saw how wrinkled everything was.

“What the —” He was on his hands and knees now.

“What is it?” asked Sophie, moving back to the closet.

As Bram looked up she could see that his face had lost some of its color. “We’ve got to call the police,” he said, scrambling to his feet “Why?”

“It’s Lavinia.” He gripped her shoulders and looked her square in the eye. “Sweetheart, she’s … dead.”

It took a moment for his words to sink in. When they did, her knees nearly buckled. “You’re … sure?”

“Positive.”

“Anybody home?” called Peter, pocketing his key as he breezed through the door and entered the suite.

Sophie seized Bram’s arm. This was the worst possible timing.

“What are you two doing in here?” he demanded, seeing them emerge from the bedroom. His blond hair was windblown. As he stood glaring at them he tried to rake it back into place.

“I’m afraid —” began Bram, but Peter cut him off.

“You’re afraid what? What the hell’s going on here?” He surveyed the room in one long, defiant glance. “I want some answers.”

“It’s Lavinia,” continued Bram.

“What about her?”

“We … found her in the closet. I’m sorry, Peter.”

He bumped past them into the bedroom. In an instant he was by her side, checking her pulse, his fingers gently smoothing back her hair. “Get somebody! Call someone! There’s got to be something we can do!”

Bram squeezed Sophie’s hand. There was no way to make this easier for him.

And no way on earth to change what had happened.

As Sophie walked into the bar, she looked around for a dark booth where she could sit unnoticed and alone. Fourteen stories above her, a homicide detective had taken over Lavinia’s suite and was interrogating Peter. Since she and Bram had discovered the body, they’d spoken with the officer first, giving their statements as clearly and concisely as possible.

Unfortunately, Bram had scheduled a six o’clock taped interview with a state senator over at WTWN and couldn’t get out of it, not even to stay and help Sophie come to terms with the loss of an old friend. They would spend some time together later, back at their own home, attempting to make sense of what, on the face of it, seemed an utterly senseless murder.

For now, Sophie was on her own. She didn’t want to leave die Maxfield until she’d made an attempt to contact the other members of her old group. So, instead of hiding in her parents’ apartment, she decided to go downstairs and use the bar phone. That way she felt more connected to what was happening, and ultimately, less isolated by her own thoughts.

The convention had ended hours ago. By now, Bunny and Cindy should have returned to the hotel. The odd thing was, when she’d checked her parents’ voice mail a few minutes ago, there were still no messages.

Easing onto a stool, Sophie caught the bartender’s eye.

“Hey, Ms. Greenway,” called Sherman. He was pouring a drink at the other end of the bar. “Be right with you.”

Sherman Watts was an institution around the Maxfield. He’d been the main bartender at Scotties for almost thirty years. Perhaps he might find this an unflattering observation, but Sophie’d always thought he looked like a jockey — small, tough, wiry. All that was missing were the silks and the horse.

She waited for him to finish, absently popping several peanuts into her mouth. They tasted like sawdust Pushing the bowl away, she folded her hands on the table and gazed at her own reflection in the etched mirror that ran the length of the back counter. She looked every bit as depressed as she felt “Can I get you something?” asked Sherman, running a damp cloth over the counter as he approached.

“Why not?” said Sophie. “Make it a whiskey sour.” She watched his experienced fingers prepare the cocktail. “And I need to use the bar phone.”

“No problem.” He set the drink on a napkin in front of her and then reached under the counter and grabbed a small cell phone.

“Thanks.” She was about to move over to a booth with it when she had a thought. “Say, Sherm? I was wondering. Do the hotel security guards spend a lot of time in here? Drinking? Shooting the breeze? Eating peanuts?”

“Well, not drinking
alcohol
,” he said somewhat sheepishly. “But yeah, they drink a lot of Coke.”

“I thought so,” said Sophie. She hesitated. “Did my father know about it?”

He shook his head. “When they saw him coming, they always took off out the back.”

“And you didn’t want to rat on fellow employees by informing my dad that they were worthless deadbeats.”

“Something like that, Ms. Greenway. Being a management mole isn’t part of my job description.” He said the words soberly, yet she could see a certain twinkle in his eye.

“Thanks, Sherm.”

“No problem.” He picked up a glass and began polishing it “Oh, by the way, die security boys were in here a little while ago, but they left before you came in. They must have radar.”

“No, actually, we had an … incident upstairs. That’s where they are now.”

“Same thing as yesterday?”

“What happened yesterday?”

“That man who was stalking one of the guests. The police took him into custody yesterday afternoon.”

“Oh, right No, that guy’s in jail, thank God.”

Sherman stopped polishing. “No, he’s not.”

“Of course he is. The police arrested him.”

“Not according to what one of the security guards told me just a few minutes ago.”

Sophie stared at him. “Explain.”

“Well.” He leaned across the bar and spoke more confidentially. “The police took him in and questioned him, but they didn’t have evidence to make an actual arrest.”

She was aghast “You mean he’s out on the streets?”

“Don’t shoot the messenger, Ms. Greenway.” He held up his hands. “That’s just what I heard.”

This was terrible news. How could they let someone like him go? “Thanks for the information.”

“This guy … he didn’t hurt anyone, did he?”

Dropping her gaze to her drink, she said, “I don’t know. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

She was glad he didn’t push any further. Moving the phone and her glass over to a booth, she made herself comfortable and then dialed the number of her boss at
Squires Magazine.
Even though Hilyard Squire worked weekends, she doubted he’d be in the office this late. It was now nearly six
P.M.
Most sane people were home being scandalized by
60 Minutes.

After a couple of rings the answering machine picked up. Sophie listened to the brief message and then began one of her own. “Hilly, it’s me. It’s Sunday evening and —”

“Sophie,” said an energetic voice. “What a nice surprise. I was just getting ready to leave.”

“Sorry to bother you so late,” she apologized.

“How’s the birthday girl?” he asked cheerfully.

“Well… that’s kind of a long story.”

“I love long stories — if they’re good ones.”

“Oh, this is. But… actually, I was calling to ask a favor.”

“Ask away.”

“Well, a friend of mine just died.”

“Gosh, sorry to hear that, Sophie.”

“Thanks, Hilly.”

“And you need to attend the funeral.”

“Something like that.”

“When is it?’

“That’s just it, Hilly. I don’t know. Is it possible I could take this coming week off?’ Before he could say no she added, “I know I’m asking a lot, and I wouldn’t if I didn’t think it was absolutely necessary.”

After several long seconds he said, “Well, I suppose we could swing it — just this once.”

“Great. You’re a doll, Hilly.”

He grunted. ‘Tell that to my wife.”

“I will. And… when I get back, I’ll tell you die amazing story of my birthday party.”

“Why does that sound ominous?”

Sophie allowed herself a private grin. “It’s all a matter of perspective, Hilly.”

“Isn’t everything?”

“So I’ll see you a week from Monday?”

“Bright and early,” he said wearily. “I’m sure your desk will be buried by then.”

If Sophie hadn’t fully comprehended it before, she did now. Just thinking about the same-old-same-old of her routine at that magazine was enough to turn her stomach. As she said goodbye she gave a silent cheer. She needed a change in her life and her father and mother had dropped one right in her lap.

Taking a sip of the whiskey sour, she sat back in the booth and spent a few moments admiring the room — the green glass-block bar and chrome stools, the framed photos of famous stage actors hanging on every wall. Strange that the pleasure of sitting here now was mixed with such sadness.

Several police officers were standing near the bar entrance locked in private conversation. As she continued to sip her drink she saw a familiar face enter the room and walk quickly up to the counter. For a moment her heart stopped. Lavinia! she said under her breath. As the woman turned to look for a vacant table, Sophie could see she’d made the same mistake the bell captain supervisor had made earlier in the day. It wasn’t Lavinia at all, but Cindy.

“Over here,” called Sophie. By the dour look on her friend’s face, Sophie wondered if she’d already heard the news.

Cindy waved and then waited as Sherman drew her a beer. Hurrying over to the booth, she settled her bulk into die seat across from Sophie. “Have you heard what just happened?”

Sophie gave a gloomy nod.

“A man in the newspaper kiosk told me.” She lowered her voice. “Everyone’s talking about it.”