"Speaking of the press," I inserted politely, "did you confirm the credentials of those people at the reception?"
"Why would they lie?" she countered, making it clear they were likely to be the only unimpeachable souls in the entire city, if not the state.
"Ruby Bee and Estelle were interrupted in the middle of a conversation about how someone in the room resembled a plumber."
"And I should know what a plumber looks like?" Geri said, then turned on Kyle. "I find it reprehensible that one of your contestants not only killed her husband, but also went to some seedy nightclub and killed the manager. If I'd had the slightest inkling that you were including homicidal maniacs on your list of finalists, I never would have set foot in this place."
"I told you the names came from Interspace Investments," he said sulkily.
"Which ones?" I asked.
"What difference does it make?" Geri said, but put her clipboard on the counter and flipped through the pages.
"The two contestants from the original list are Ruby Bee and Catherine. We were supposed to have a cab driver from Brooklyn, a taxidermist from Boise, Idaho, and some hack mystery writer from Hansville, Washington. Instead, we get a hooker, a professor, and a homicidal maniac. It's rather obvious that this sort of decision process should be left to professionals, isn't it?"
She had a point. I thought for a minute (an increasingly alien activity), and said, "Why did the original three decline?"
"Ask him," Geri said as she let the pages flutter down.
Kyle stared at the floor. "They all called the same morning. The cab driver fell and broke his leg, and the taxidermist accidentally severed a finger. The writer said he'd decided to take a three-month cruise to Alaska. Someone from Interspace called that afternoon and said they'd found alternates."
"Lucky us. We got a hooker, a professor, and a homicidal maniac," Geri added with a sneer.
"They didn't phrase it quite that way," he said. "I'd better call my father with the news that the contest is off. He'll be pissed, but there's nothing we can do about it-except pray they find Brenda and arrest her without giving the media all the details about the purpose of her stay here."
He started for the office. Geri stared for a minute, slammed down the clipboard, and took off after him. "Just a minute, buddy boy. If your father calls my boss again and tries to blame this mess on me, I'll personally swim to the Cayman islands and bury him up to his neck in the sand so the crabs can chew off his face!"
They continued their discussion in the office. Beyond the closed doors of the dining room, Lieutenant Henbit and Durmond sat with their backs toward me, intent on their conversation. On the counter not ten feet away, the clipboard lay abandoned on the counter, just begging to be given some attention and a few kind words.
Soft-hearted kid that I was, I sauntered over to the alcove, ducked beneath the counter, and removed the clipboard and myself to a shadowy corner. There were a lot of lists, some scratched into illegibility and others fresh with ill-fated optimism. I finally found the list of contestants and jotted down the addresses of the three replacements.
As I returned the clipboard, I glanced up. Mr. Cambria was regarding me from the sidewalk, not with his usual twinkly smile but with a cold impassivity that caused the hairs to rise on my arms and a lump to settle in my stomach. I felt like an animal on a stainless steel table in a laboratory.
The smile reappeared as he turned to speak to someone, and seconds later Gaylene came into view, laden with shopping bags, her purse, and yet another suitcase. I ducked back under the counter and hurried toward the stairs, not sure I'd interpreted his expression correctly but no longer in the mood to linger in the lobby. Nobody ever died of claustrophobia, for pete's sake.
Once I was in my room with the door locked, I sat down on the bed and looked over what I had scribbled. Unsurprisingly, Gaylene had a local address. Brenda lived in Peabody, New York, which I seemed to remember was on Long Island. I called information and got her number, then took a deep breath and dialed it. A male voice answered.
"Is Brenda home?" I asked.
"Who's calling?"
"Just one of the girls. I wanted to know if she wants to play bridge tomorrow at her house or at the club."
"Who is this?"
"I'll call back later," I said and hung up, aware I'd been chatting with a cop. Brenda hadn't gone home, apparently. If she'd murdered her husband and/or the nightclub owner, she might well have chosen a less obvious haven. But it was equally possible that she had no idea that either murder had taken place and was shopping at Saks or having a three-martini lunch in honor of Jerome's departure (albeit for a destination noticeably farther than Rio).
I looked back at the list. Durmond Pilverman resided in Beaker Lake, Connecticut, and taught at Drakestone College. He taught something "very obscure," he'd said. The college might not be in the same town, but it was apt to be in the same area.
It turned out to be in the same area code. I first called his home number and was not amazed when no one answered, in that he'd told me his wife was deceased and implied he lived alone.
"How obscure is it?" I muttered as I dialed the number of the college. The switchboard operator refused to put me through to his office on the grounds that he didn't have one and was not a member of the faculty. I insisted that he was. After a few rounds of "is too," "is not," I asked for the administration office. "May I help you?" asked a bored young woman who did not sound dedicated to the proposition.
"I'm trying to get some information about Durmond Pilverman. I was under the impression he's a professor there, but the switchboard operator seemed to disagree."
"Yeah, hang on," she said, then punched a button that allowed me to be entertained by a saccharinized Beatles' medley. We were well into "Yesterday" when she returned. "He used to be here, but now he's not anymore. That's all I can tell you on account of our policy."
"Can you at least tell me what department he was in?" I asked before she could cut me off.
"I dunno. It's like we've got this really strict policy about not giving out information about faculty and students. I think there's a law or something."
I put on my smiliest voice. "There's no law against naming his department. It's in the old catalogues, which means it's already in the public domain."
"Yeah?" she said dubiously.
"You can tell me."
We discussed the issue at length. After I'd defined public domain" and assured her several times that I was merely tracking down a dear old friend, she told me he'd been in the sociology department. I went back through the switchboard and found myself speaking to the department secretary, a bored older woman. Her vocabulary was better, as was her attitude (when I explained that Durmond had inherited property in Idaho), and she suggested I speak to Dr. Ripley. I professed willingness to do so immediately and was told Dr. Ripley was conducting a graduate seminar and could not be reached the rest of the day.
All this had taken most of an hour. I now knew Durmond was no longer on the faculty of Drakestone College. I also knew he had a gun in the dresser and a peculiar affinity for disreputable friendships. Then again, I didn't know how his mugging related to the murder, but I was convinced it did. He'd been shot in the stairwell by someone thoughtful enough to put him in a bed. Jerome had been shot in the kitchen by someone who'd felt the need to clean up afterward. Thoughtfulness and cleanliness were not traits I associated with the local criminal element.
I lay down on the bed and began at the beginning.
"I've just about had it with you," Dahlia growled, not at her captor but at her husband, who was in a corner, tied up like a bale of cotton. Marvel had done a competent job of it, although he'd been careful not to cause any pain and had inquired solicitously throughout the process. Kevin had been real grateful, sort of.