The Readaholics and the Gothic Gala (22 page)

“How has it affected your life, your relationships?” Francesca stopped herself with another laugh. “I have
dozens of questions, but you probably don't want to talk about it here.” She gestured to those of us staring with varying degrees of incredulity or surprise. “Can we talk in your room? When you're done here?”

Allyson gave a tiny nod, apparently never having met with quite this enthusiastic reaction to her disorder. “Ten minutes?” she whispered.

“Perfect.” Carrying her brother's photo, Francesca sailed from the room, thumbing her smartphone as she went, undoubtedly looking up “kleptomania.”

Sandy, anxious to move things along, turned to Cosmo Zeller. “Mr. Zeller, want to have a look?”

“I'm not missing anything,” he said, a hint of distaste in his voice for the process. “But okay.” He unfolded himself from the chair, and crossed to the table. “Nothing left in here but a set of keys,” he said, upending the basket so the key ring jangled to the table. He nudged the keys with a forefinger. “Not mine.” He skidded the basket across the table's polished top. “This has been entertaining, but I've got that phone call.” Already pulling his cell phone from a pocket, he was punching a number in as he headed out of the room and out the front door. It closed heavily behind him.

Closest to the table, I picked up the keys and shook them, looking inquiringly at the people left in the room. Everyone shook their heads. Lucas said, “I've got to get dressed,” and walked toward the stairs. Mary followed him a moment later. Merle and Constance, clearly relieved that no one was going to press charges against Allyson this time, drifted out, herding Allyson ahead of them. Sandy, probably also relieved that no
one was going to sue the inn for the thefts, came forward to take the keys from me. She hefted them in one hand, puzzled.

“I don't think I know anyone who drives a Volkswagen,” she said after inspecting them.

The word hit me like a gust of cold air. “A Volkswagen? Are you sure?”

“Of course. Look.” Sandy held one key out, and I saw the distinctive V over the W logo. “What's so exciting about a VW?” she asked, apparently picking up on something in my expression.

Maud had come up to us and she explained, “The man who was killed last Saturday drove a VW station wagon. His keys weren't found.”

“You think these are them?” Sandy was so surprised she dropped the key ring.

I pulled a pen from my purse and hooked it through the ring, a case of too little, too late, since Sandy, Cosmo, and I had all handled the keys. Allyson, too, undoubtedly.

Maud fished her cell phone from a side pocket of her cargo pants. “I should put the HPD on speed dial,” she said, calling the police.

*   *   *

Already so late that I was going to have to sacrifice my shower, I left Maud to talk to the police, and broke a speed limit or two on my way home. At my house, I shucked my clothes, slicked on more deodorant in lieu of a shower, twisted my copper hair into a high bun, threw on the not-quite-knee-length black dress that was my fallback for many events, flicked on mascara, and dashed out the door again, headed for the
Club. I was in and out of the house in four minutes flat. Thank goodness I'd had the sense not to adopt Misty or any other pet. If everything was in order, which I believed it would be, I might have a few minutes to look for the mysterious package before the event kicked off. I put my pedal to the metal.

U
nfortunately, everything was not as shipshape as usual at the Club. Wallace Pinnecoose was out with the flu, and his new deputy was in charge. The young man was a recent graduate from the school of hospitality at the University of Denver, and he was smart and hardworking, but not very experienced. As a result, the staff had started setting up the tables in the Club's smaller party room too late, and half of them were still not finished when Al and I arrived. We took in the situation at a glance, and began to flap tablecloths over bare tables and slap silverware down. The centerpieces, delivered by a local florist, had been left in a sunny spot on the loading dock, and were sadly wilted. I commandeered two busboys and a dishwasher and put them to work reviving the arrangements with a trick Lola had taught me. We pulled the flowers from the vases, trimmed the stems with sharp knives, added cold water and three teaspoons of sugar to each vase, and reinserted the flowers. Luckily, there were only ten tables' worth of centerpieces to do. My dress was water-splotched (which is why I usually wear black or navy to events) and my fingers were pricked and bleeding in several spots from rose thorns by the time we finished.
We had barely set the last vase onto the last table when the honoree and his family arrived. I greeted them, went over the schedule of events with them (receiving line, toasts from preselected relatives and friends, slide show of the honoree from infanthood to the present day, dinner, opening of gag gifts, birthday cake, dancing), and gave Al a few last-minute instructions.

“I am not doing this when I turn fifty,” Al said. He looked absurdly young in his black suit with the smiley face suspenders and bow tie. “I'll have all my friends over to the house—I'll own one by then, with any luck—throw some steaks on the grill, and tell them to help themselves to some brews from the cooler. Then maybe we'll play the mid-twenty-first-century version of World of Warcraft. This is too”—he searched for a word—“formal.”

“Fusty.”

“Stiff.”

“Prim and proper.”

Our vocabulary game was interrupted by a waiter as he banged through the swinging door near where we stood, and almost let a tray loaded with Caesar salads fall. After helping him right the tray, I told Al, “Hold down the fort for a few, would you? I'm going to take a look around.”

Al perked up, his curiosity aroused. “What for?”

“I don't know exactly,” I admitted. “Treasure.”

“Buried?”

“I hope not.” Without waiting for more questions, I strolled away.
Could
Van Allen have buried whatever it was, in a sand trap maybe? No, that was ludicrous.
Too hard, too risky. No, if the package was here, it was inside the Club, somewhere the casual visitor or staff member wouldn't trip over it, somewhere a guest could plausibly be, somewhere easy to access. When I added up those three requirements in my head, it left only a handful of places to search. Trying to be nonchalant, I lifted the cushions on the sofas and chairs in the lobby; asked Wallace's deputy if there was anything unclaimed in the lost and found and sorted through the box of sunglasses, golf visors, expensive pens, swim goggles, iPods, orphan earrings, and miscellaneous other detritus (none of which seemed to fit the bill); asked Danny at the main bar if he'd stumbled across anything; twitched aside the heavy drapes to see if they hid anything; and admitted defeat as dinner was winding up and the staff rolled the cake in on a trolley, fifty candles blazing. I was forced to admit that I'd been wrong: Van Allen had not hidden the package he'd mailed to Sharla in the Club, or if he had, he'd retrieved it before meeting the killer and it was gone for good. My spirits slumped and I wished I could ditch the rest of this shindig and go to Hart's place right now.

The birthday boy almost missed the opportunity to huff and puff and blow out the candles; he came strolling in as the staff parked the trolley at the front of the room, and his wife looked around for him. Wiping his hands down the sides of his legs, he trotted toward the front, taking bets on whether he could extinguish all the candles in one breath. I smiled, tickled that he'd
almost missed his big moment because he'd been in the men's room.

Wham!
It hit me like a charging moose. The men's room. Allyson had seen a man come out of the bathroom near Wallace's office. Her description had been generic, but it could fit Trent Van Allen. I knew where he'd hidden the package. Taking a quick look around the room to ensure everything was going smoothly, I slipped out the door. Once outside the party room, I dashed for the bathroom.

It was only when I was standing in front of the men's room that I realized I might have been smart to bring Al with me. I mean—
men's
room. I stared at the door with its masculine silhouette for a moment, nerving myself. In the end, my need to know
now
trumped my nerves. I pushed the swinging door inward two inches and called out, “Hello?”

When there was no answer, I looked up and down the hall again, and slipped through the door. The men's room was an attractive facility, with large gray stone tiles on the floor and smaller blue and gray tiles on the walls to waist height. Strong lighting illuminated the three stalls, five urinals, and three sinks with a long mirror over them. It smelled of lavender cleaning products and something mustier that I couldn't identify. At first glance, there didn't appear to be much of anyplace to hide a nine-by-twelve-inch item. The plumbing beneath the sinks was exposed—no cabinets to hide anything. The paper towel holders looked most promising and I broke a fingernail before I figured out
how to prize off the top of the metal containers. Nothing in the first one but half an inch of paper towels. I moved to the second one and had just lifted the lid off when the door swung open with a
whoosh
.

Startled, I dropped the metal top and it clanged against the sink and then rattled loudly on the floor. The astonished gentleman at the door, zipper half-undone, met my gaze and stuttered, “Must have the wrong—so sorry—”

“No, I'm sorry,” I said. “I'm, uh, restocking the paper towels. I can come back in a minute—”

“No need. I'll use the bathroom by the pro shop.” He fled before I could apologize again or get out of his way.

Feeling embarrassed and guilty, I peeked into the top of the second paper towel container. Nothing visible. I lifted up a handful of towels to reveal . . . more towels. With a discouraged sigh, I retrieved the lid from where it had skittered into a stall and replaced it. Hands on my hips, I surveyed the room an inch at a time. No janitorial closet, no lockers, everything in plain sight. Except . . . I stepped into the first stall and stared at the tank. Cops on TV shows and in books were always finding hidden drugs in toilet tanks. It was worth a look.

The toilet and the floor around it gleamed, but I still wished I had rubber gloves as I shifted the heavy porcelain top and looked into the tank. Nada. Feeling a little silly, and trying to hurry, I walked into the second stall. The door closed most of the way behind me, leaving a two-inch-wide gap. Leaning over the toilet, I
dragged the lid aside with a scraping sound. Something caught on the lip of the tank and I had to lift the lid higher to free it. A piece of gray duct tape dangled down, cleanly sliced.

I caught my breath and bent my head to examine the inside of the tank. To my disappointment, there was nothing there. I flipped the lid over and rested it upside down atop the tank. In addition to the piece of duct tape I'd already spotted, there were gummy spots inside the lid that suggested more tape had been removed. Given how sticky they still were, I didn't think it had been there too long, certainly not weeks or months. I reached for the duct tape, intending to peel it off, then hesitated. What if I was right? What if Van Allen had stashed his package here, had come prepared with duct tape and secured whatever it was inside the tank? If so, where was it now? Had Van Allen removed it prior to his meeting with the killer, or had the killer gone through the same thought process I had and found it after stabbing Van Allen? I shivered. If the latter, then the duct tape might have the killer's fingerprints on it.

I was so lost in thought, I must have missed the restroom door opening, because the next sound I heard was a tuneful whistling and a zipper whizzing down. Oh, no! Panicked, I eased the stall door closed and slid the lock home silently. Then, I sat on the toilet and pulled my feet up so the man wouldn't see my very un-male shoes. The man must have heard me, though, because he said, over the sound of urine splashing into the urinal, “Quite a party, hey? Hard to believe Bob's
fifty. I'll be going over that hill next May. My doctor's already talking about colonoscopies and prostate exams.” He laughed and zipped up.

I quickly flushed the toilet, hoping he'd think I hadn't heard him. The whistling resumed and the restroom door whooshed as he left without washing his hands. Letting out a squeaky sigh, I replaced the tank lid, figuring the duct tape was secure enough for the moment, dashed out of the men's room and into the adjacent women's room to wash my hands, and then called Hart. He thought I was calling to tell him I was on my way over, but he snapped to attention when I told him what I'd found.

“Can you keep people out of that bathroom until I get there?”

I told him I would and hung up to go in search of Wallace's deputy, who located a cone with a
CLOSED FOR CLEANING
sign attached. With that in place, I hurried back to the party room, where I discovered that everything was going beautifully with Al in charge. The DJ was playing “Y.M.C.A.” and almost all the guests, including the birthday boy's octogenarian parents, were boogying on the dance floor.

“Everything okay, boss?” Al asked when I came up to him.

“Ducky,” I replied. Then, prompted by the excitement buzzing through me at the thought of a breakthrough in the case, I added, “I think I found a piece of evidence related to the murder. In the men's room.”

“I'm not even going to ask,” Al said, shaking his head. “Only you, boss, only you.”

*   *   *

Later that night, I watched Hart mix up a late-night snack of waffles. I sat on a stool pulled up to the counter at his place, chin on my hands, and admired his economy of motion as he moved around the kitchen, cracked eggs one-handed, and added cinnamon and vanilla without measuring. The drapes were drawn against the dark, and a fire flickered in the gas fireplace. I was tired, but still buzzed from my discovery in the men's room and the end of my event, which had dissolved into disaster when the birthday boy informed his wife, in front of everyone, that he wanted a divorce. He'd been seeing a twenty-six-year-old and planned to marry her. Talk about your midlife crisis. Luckily, by that time, Hart and a crime scene officer were working on the evidence in the bathroom, and they'd managed to separate the warring couple after the spurned wife leaped on her husband, trying to beat his brains out with the foot-tall, ceramic Viagra pill a guest had brought as a gag gift. Despite the disruption, Al and I had sent each guest home with a wrapped-up piece of birthday cake, as previously planned.

Hart and I had talked briefly about the case, standing outside the Club, watching the stragglers pull out of the parking lot. The wind had died down, having delivered a cold front with frigid temps and clear skies. The stars stood out against the cloudless black, each one a twinkly jewel, seemingly within touching distance. If only I could reach high enough . . . Hart brought me back to earth by saying they'd know about fingerprints
on the duct tape or the toilet tank lid in a couple of days, but he wasn't counting on anything useful.

“In all probability, Van Allen hid the package in the men's room and came back for it. If not, if he told the murderer where to find it, or he got lucky and stumbled across it like you did—”

“I didn't stumble,” I protested. “I applied my analytical abilities, came up with a reasonable hypothesis, and tested it.” I felt Lola, the scientist, would have been proud of me.

Hart slanted a grin. “Regardless, this murderer's been pretty savvy so far. I doubt we'll pick up his prints.”

“What about on the keys that Allyson had?” I asked.

“Only partials. I talked to her and she can't remember where she got them, says that her therapist tells her that she dissociates from the act of stealing. The idea is that she finds it abhorrent—her word, not mine—to the point that she doesn't have clear memories of what she stole from where, which is partly why she doesn't return more of the stuff she steals. Mumbo jumbo,” he said, “but she seems to believe it and either truly doesn't remember where she picked up the VW keys or has convinced herself she doesn't remember.”

“What are the chances of the murderer believing that?” I asked, suddenly fearful for Allyson.

“I'd say pretty good at this point. In all probability, the murderer was in the room when Allyson returned her loot. When Allyson didn't confront him or her, or try to return the keys to anyone in particular, it probably set his or her mind at ease.”

I hugged my arms around myself against the near
freezing temps as the woman who'd organized the party, the wife of the honoree, staggered out of the Club, spectacularly drunk. Her sister had an arm around her waist and was guiding her to the passenger side of a Volvo. The wife began to retch and her sister shoved her toward some shrubbery, saying, “For goodness' sake, Jan, not in the car. Get it out of your system now.” Jan was thoroughly and loudly sick into a clump of lavender. I winced. I had a feeling she was going to balk at paying the rest of what she owed me. Clients did that sometimes—took it out on the event planner when their parties or functions didn't live up to their expectations, even when that was due to something—a cheating, inconsiderate louse of a husband, for example—over which the planner had zero control.