And so on and so on, until I was no longer amused, or bemused, and was reduced to offering sullen explanations and wishing I were wearing a hood…and a noose. Even Durmond, who'd initially made an effort, had quieted down after we'd been asked to leave Tiffany's (Ruby Bee had been determined to get Gloria Swanson's autograph, and the woman thus identified all the way across the showroom had taken the accusation rather poorly).
Geri was in the lobby, the clipboard clutched in her hand and a faint frown marring her flawless brow. "Oh, good," she said, taking attendance with a gold pen. "I can't promise which media people will show, but there were a few who didn't curse at me or flatly refuse. It's shaping up nicely. The caterers are here, and the bar is set. The flowers came at noon, and…" The frown deepened just a teensy bit. "I haven't seen Kyle all afternoon. The grocers delivered the ingredients an hour ago, but since he'd danced off with the key, I had to have the boxes left outside the kitchen. I do hope he didn't say to hell with it and head south to join his father and dear Mr. Fleecum."
"I saw him midmorning," I volunteered. "He was going out to buy the utensils that were needed for the contest. He didn't mention suntan lotion and a beach towel." A genetic disposition to meddle in romantic endeavors made me add, "He wasn't too happy to be treated like a combination of a scullery maid and an errand boy." Geri stiffened. "I was working on the media contacts, which is my area of expertise. There's absolutely no reason to sponsor these things if coverage isn't forthcoming, and Prodding, Polk and Fleecum does have a reputation in the field. In any case, Kyle'll be in the spotlight tomorrow when he presents the grand prize."
"Ten thousand dollars," inserted Ruby Bee, much brighter now that she could dismiss the nonsense passin' for art in Noow Yark City and focus on more important issues.
"In a manner of speaking," Geri said uneasily. She poised her pen over the clipboard and began to murmur to herself as she perused the page. She glanced up as the door opened.
Kyle carried two bulging sacks, with a third balanced atop them. "I hope I never have to go through this again," he said as he headed toward the kitchen. "There was a sale on crockery, and I barely escaped intact."
"Did you get everything?"
"Every last damn thing. As much as I'd like to stand here and chat, my arms have lost all feeling."
"How dreadful for you. I do hope they spring back to life, since you'll need to put away all the little things you picked up and then distribute the ingredients to the proper boxes. Once you've done that, lock up and be back at five. And, please, try to wear something suitable for the media."
Kyle's neck muscles tensed, but he continued down the hallway. While our group stood like children awaiting permission to go to the bathroom, Geri complacently resumed her study of her clipboard.
The elevator doors opened and a trim, middle-aged woman joined us. "Oh, Geri, dear, have you seen Jerome? I popped out earlier to shop, and I thought he was intending to work in the room all afternoon, but he's gone. I cannot face the idea of television cameras and newspaper reporters without him beside me to keep me from making an idiot of myself. My daughters say that every time I open my mouth, there's room for a discount shoe outlet to fit inside, and-"
"No, I haven't seen him, Brenda," said Geri, "but the press reception doesn't start for an hour. I'm sure he's just gone for a walk and will be back shortly."
"I suppose so," she said, sighing in much the fashion Eilene Buchanon did when informed of Kevin's latest mishaps. She acknowledged my introduction with yet another sigh and was hovering near the door as Ruby Bee, Estelle, Durmond, and I went to the elevator and rode to the second floor. The two intrepid tourists continued to their room, now engrossed in the spectre of a large sum of money.
"A quiet drink?" Durmond said as we paused in the hall to locate our respective room keys. "I think I need something after today's…outing. Gloria Swanson must be laughing hysterically from the great beyond, along with Picasso and Warhol, and poor old Monet, who probably intended all along for his paintings to be blurry."
"I wish I were with them. Let me wash my face, then I'll tap discreetly on the adjoining door and we can do the dirty deed without stirring up any gossip."
The elevator door slid open. Brenda and Frannie stared at us, then nervously twittered as if they'd been accused of conspiring to rig the Krazy KoKo-Nut cookoff.
"Frannie's coming to my room for a little drink," Brenda said in response to our less than inquisitive expressions. "I know we shouldn't be imbibing at such an hour, but I'm so excited about the press reception, and, as Jerome says, it must be five o'clock somewhere in the world."
"I've been out shopping," Frannie said, somehow equally compelled to explain herself-and the highly suspicious presence of shopping bags in her hands. "I sent Catherine back here earlier to take a nap and prepare herself for the press. She's been in numerous beauty pageants, talent contests, that sort of thing, and she does much better if she's well rested. The DO NOT DISTURB sign's still up, so I guess she's asleep."
"What time is it in California?" Brenda asked as the two went down the hall. "I never can keep it straight, although I do know it's much earlier or much later. Vernie's a freelance writer, as I told you, and works at home. She's sold articles to-" The door closed on Vernie's career.
"I'll be ready in a minute," I said to Durmond, then went inside my shabby little sanctuary and sank down on the bed. The ghastly foray had left me so tense that I was trembling, as if I'd confronted my past on every corner. I hadn't scrutinized every face for that of my ex, nor had I really worried that I would run into him or anyone else. In Maggody, population about 755 (depending on who was off visiting relatives), you bet. In Manhattan, population 10,000,000 (give or take a million), not likely-but too close for comfort, nevertheless.
The red bulb on the telephone was blinking. I punched for the operator and waited, although I was more interested in the far side of the adjoining door than I was any messages.
Rick responded with a surly, "Yeah? Whaddya want?"
"My message light's blinking. This leads me to believe there's a message."
"Hang on." He banged down the receiver, cursing, and several minutes later, came back on, cursing. "Goddamn Gebhearn dame swept everything off the desk. Here it is, no thanks to her. Some broad named Ellen called, said to call her back, said it's an emergency." This time he banged down the receiver in its cradle.
I replaced mine more gently and flopped back on the limp pillow. I'd been expecting the message to be from Ruby Bee, concerned with the presence of cockroaches in their room or a desire for sodas from the machine in the lobby-both of which she would have construed as emergencies no less volatile than a neighborhood nuclear meltdown. But Ellen who?
There was a mild tap on the adjoining door. I pulled myself up, rubbed my eyes, and opened it. Durmond held two glasses, the ice cubes tinkling seductively, a bagged bottle, and a bag of potato chips. "Your place or mine?" he said.