The Weekend Was Murder (17 page)

Tina looked surprised. “Liz kept a hit man from killing Randolph. Didn’t she tell you?”

“Well, yeah,” Fran said, “I guess she did, but …”

“It takes you a while to catch on, huh?” Tina asked.

“Aw, come on,” Fran mumbled.

Tina giggled. “You could phone in your answer, but you’re one number short.”

“Oh, yeah,” Fran said and grinned. “Well, let me tell you—”

Suddenly the thought in my mind took shape, and I cried out, “Wait a minute! Fran! Tina! Everyone’s been talking about phone calls. You, Detective Jarvis, Lamar. Even the ghost was holding a telephone.”

Tina put on her authoritative expression and said, “We’ve already discussed the symbolism in that action.”

“What if it wasn’t symbolism? What if the ghost was trying to tell me something real?”

“Like what?” Fran asked.

“Like the fact that someone in room nineteen twenty-seven had been using the telephone.”

“That’s hardly news. Everybody uses the telephone,” Tina said.

“But not at the scene of a murder.” I got so excited I swung around in my chair and nearly knocked it over. Righting myself I said, “Tina, you know everybody in the hotel. Do you think that the operators would tell you if anyone made a phone call from that room?”

“If a caller was dialing a local or long-distance call, the operators wouldn’t know. The call would go through the computer system.”

“But it wouldn’t if someone were calling someone else in another room and didn’t know the number. They’d have to go through the operator. Maybe an operator would remember.”

“Operators handle thousands of calls. How would they remember?

“If a celebrity stays in the hotel and calls the operator, the operator would remember, wouldn’t she?”

Tina thought a moment. “I don’t think we ever had a real celebrity stay here—I mean anyone terribly important, although there once was a country-western singer who brought his horse and—”

“Tina, could you ask the operators for me?”

“Ask them what?”

“If Stephanie Harmon placed any calls to Frank Devane, and if she made any other calls.”

“What have you got in mind?”

“The beginning of an idea. I’ll tell you about it later, because I might be wrong.”

Tina still looked dubious. “If an operator remembers placing the call, she won’t be able to tell you what they talked about, because she wouldn’t have listened in.”

“I know that,” I answered. “I just need to find out if a call was made and about what time it was made.”

Tina slowly got to her feet, and Fran and I pushed back our chairs and stood too. “I’ll do it,” she told me, “but I feel kind of stupid about asking, because Lamar told me that Stephanie Harmon recognized Devane but didn’t even know his name.”

“She screamed at him—or rather, the man she thought was him.”

Fran shook his head. “I agree with Tina on this one. Remember when Stephanie arrived at the Ridley? The actors passed her near the service elevators, and she was so nervous she practically passed out. If any of them had spoken to her she probably would have screamed then too.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “I may be wrong about the call, but we won’t know unless Tina at least gives it a try.”

“Okay.” Tina motioned to us. “Come on. I’ll ask right now.”

Fran and I had to stand outside the door to the switchboard office and wait, but we didn’t have to wait long. Tina came back out in just a few minutes, with a surprised look on her face.

“On Friday evening Bobbie Jean took a call from a woman in room nineteen twenty-seven, who asked to
be connected with Frank Devane’s room. Bobbie Jean remembered because she knew that nineteen twenty-seven was the crime scene for the mystery weekend.”

“Does she know who the woman was?”

“No, and the woman didn’t give a name. Bobbie Jean thought she was probably Mrs. Duffy or Eileen Duffy.”

“Was Devane in his room? Did he take the call?”

Tina nodded, but she said, “I don’t know what that proves, since we don’t know who called him.”

“The Duffys didn’t know him.”

“So they said.”

“What about calls from nineteen twenty-nine? Stephanie Harmon’s room?”

“There’s a charge for local and long-distance calls, so they’re on the computer, but that’s private information. The operators wouldn’t give that out.”

“What about other calls to rooms in the hotel?” I asked.

“No charge, so no record. You were just lucky that the call you wanted to know about went through an operator and Bobby Jean remembered it.”

In my excitement I grabbed Tina’s arm. “Bobby Jean told you about the room-to-room call. Don’t you think she’d look up the other calls for you?”

“I know she wouldn’t, because I already asked. She said she couldn’t give me any information about the long-distance call made from nineteen twenty-nine.”

So there
was
a long-distance call. I looked at my watch. “It’s dinnertime,” I told them.

“Good thought,” Fran answered enthusiastically.
“Let’s get down to the cafeteria before all the good stuff is gone.”

“I wasn’t thinking about dinner. I was guessing that Officer Maria Estavez ought to be back on duty, and I could talk to her.”

“About what?”

Tina’s walkie-talkie beeped, and she said, “I’ve got to get back to the monitor room.” She put a hand on my arm, and her eyebrows dipped into a frown. “Liz, talk to Detective Jarvis about whatever you’ve got in mind. Don’t try to figure out all these things by yourself.”

I nodded. “He could find out about the long-distance call. Bobbie Jean would tell the police, or else Detective Jarvis could subpoena the records, like Lamar Boudry’s friend did.”

“What friend?” Tina asked.

“It’s a long story. Ask Lamar. He’ll tell you.”

Tina left, and Fran said, “I agree with Tina on this one too. I don’t see how Stephanie could have got away from her bodyguard to murder Devane, but somewhere in this hotel there may be a murderer, and you could be in danger if you get too close to what really happened.”

“I just want to make one phone call,” I told Fran. “There’s something more I have to know.”

“Could you wait until
after
dinner?” Fran asked. “I’m getting awfully hungry.”

“You’re always hungry,” I said, “My call won’t take long.”

“Okay,” Fran said with a long, miserable sigh. “Go ahead.”

We were close to the house phones, so I picked up the nearest one and asked for room nineteen twenty-nine. On the second ring there was kind of a double click and Officer Estavez answered. I recognized her voice and blurted out, “Hi! This is Mary Elizabeth Rafferty, and you’re just the person I want to talk to.”

She repeated my name in the vague way people have when they can’t remember who you are, so I explained, “I’m the one who found Frank Devane’s body.”

“Oh,” she said. “I remember now. What can I do for you?”

“You can tell me about phone calls from your room,” I said.

“There’s nothing much to tell about them,” she answered, and her voice sounded puzzled. “I’ve called downtown a couple of times, to report. The other officers do the same.”

“I mean Miss Harmon’s calls, especially a long-distance call,” I said.

“You’d have to discuss that with her. As far as I know, she hasn’t made any.”

“Would you know if she did? I remember telephones all over that suite—even in the bathroom.”

There was silence for a moment before Estavez asked, “What’s this all about?”

“I’m not sure yet,” I answered.

Her voice became stern. “I hope you’re not meddling into police business.”

“I was just asking a question,” I said.

“If you have any more questions, ask Detective
Jarvis,” she told me. “As a matter of fact, I just might ask Detective Jarvis what you think you’re doing.”

“I’m sorry I bothered you,” I said quickly, although I really wasn’t. “I won’t call you again.”

“Don’t come up here either,” she ordered.

She could keep me away from their room, but surely she couldn’t keep me away from the entire nineteenth floor, could she?

“Uh, look,” I said, wanting to make sure, “I promise I won’t bother you, but I’ve got to go up to the nineteenth floor because there’s something I need to find out at the scene of the murder.”

Officer Estavez didn’t answer. She didn’t even say good-bye. She just hung up, and again, almost immediately, there was a second click. I didn’t give any thought to it, but later, oh how I wished I had!

“Now can we eat?” Fran asked in a pitiful voice.

“Fran!” I said, putting my head close to his, so I could keep my voice down. “Listen to what I found out. Stephanie Harmon could have called a thousand people, and her bodyguards wouldn’t have known about it.”

“What would these thousand people do?”

“Stop being silly, and listen to me. What do you think of this idea? Suppose Stephanie talked a couple of times over the phone to Frank Devane. I
know
she knew him, but she wouldn’t admit it, so I bet they were involved in something illegal. Maybe it was some crooked deal Devane had going with her boss. She might have had a part in it too.”

“Maybe she was blackmailing Devane,” Fran suggested.

“Hmmm, that’s not a bad idea,” I said. “Anyhow, Stephanie hears Mrs. Duffy say that the room next door is taped open. Stephanie tells Officer Estavez that she’s going to take a nap, she waits for her chance, sneaks out of the room and into nineteen twenty-seven. Then she telephones Frank Devane through the operator and asks him to meet her there. He does, and she hits him on the head and kills him.” I stepped back and held out my hands. “There. What do you think of that?”

“I don’t think she could have got out of the room with the police officer right there.”

“Sure, she could. Let’s say that she waited for Estavez to go into the bathroom. Then Stephanie could sneak out of her bedroom and out the front door, and her bodyguard would think she was still asleep in the bedroom and wouldn’t know the difference.”

“How would Stephanie have got back in her own suite without Estavez seeing her?”

“Well,” I said. “Well … uh … I’ll think about that part later.”

“While we’re eating, I hope?” Fran asked.

“Okay,” I said, but we didn’t have a chance to go down to the dining room.

Mrs. Duffy sailed out of the ballroom in a hurry and stopped, looking around. As she spotted us an expression of joy and relief lighted her face, and she zoomed toward us.

“Mary Elizabeth!” she called, as soon as she was in hearing distance. “We’re nearly at the end of the last
detective’s meeting before we break for dinner, and an important question has come up. Some of the sleuths want to know about the manuscript you found—the one you tried to return to Mr. Pitts.”

I shrugged. “There isn’t anything to say about it, is there?”

“As a matter of fact, considering the changes we’ve had to make in the script, I think this would be a good opportunity to strengthen one of the clues.” She took my hand and began to lead me back toward the ballroom. “Now, this is what you tell them: The manuscript was fastened inside a navy-blue cardboard folder. It fell open as you picked it up, and you saw the title and name of the author.”

I turned, and made a hopeless gesture at Fran. “Go on down to the cafeteria,” I called to him. “I’ll join you in just a few minutes.”

Mrs. Duffy, intent on her script, was going on at full steam. “The title of the play was
Too Late for Darkness
, and the author was Arthur Butler. Can you remember that?”

“
Too Late for Darkness
, Arthur Butler,” I repeated.

“Fine,” Mrs. Duffy said, and we entered the ballroom.

As one hundred and forty-eight heads turned toward me, I got an inspiration I couldn’t ignore.

Fran was occupied, I’d be free from the sleuths in just a few minutes, and this would be the perfect opportunity to visit room nineteen twenty-seven. I was almost positive that Stephanie Harmon had killed Frank
Devane, but I needed more information. I was sure that the ghost—the only eyewitness—had the rest of the answers I needed, and what’s more, it dawned on me that I had something important to tell the ghost.

I explained to Detective Pat Sharp what Mrs. Duffy had asked me to say, but I was trapped on the stage while the actors went through their lines. Before I arrived Detective Sharp had divulged the last of the evidence against each of the suspects, so she went into a kind of recap while the actors responded, and I was interested in spite of myself.

“I know it looks bad for me because I was paying blackmail to Mr. Pitts,” Annabelle wailed. “But I didn’t kill him!”

Detective Sharp turned to Arthur Butler. “We subpoenaed the contents of Edgar Albert Pitts’s safe-deposit box, and found in it two copies of the same play—one with your name on it as author, and one with the name of Harvey Hamlick as author. We attempted to contact Mr. Hamlick at the address typed on the manuscript, and discovered that two years ago he disappeared.”

Arthur Butler squirmed and muttered, “I don’t know
any Harvey Hamlick. I don’t know what you’re talking about. And furthermore, you’re wrong if you’re intimating that I killed Edgar Albert Pitts!”