I replaced the sweatshirt, closed the drawer, and did a quick search of the rest of the room, the closet, and the bathroom. He'd not left his wallet for my perusal, nor had he written any letters and forgotten to mail them. I would have settled for a postcard. The wastebasket held only a crumpled potato chip bag, the copies of the insurance paperwork from the hospital, an empty bourbon bottle, and the stub of a train ticket, His toothbrush was in sorry shape, as was his encrusted razor. Wet towels had been kicked in a corner.
I went back to my room and stood in front of the window. A creature lacking opposable thumbs could do a better job of putting the puzzle pieces together than I was doing, I thought as I watched the traffic inch along. I was trying to come up with something clever when Gaylene Feather appeared below, crossed the street, and took off at a brisk clip, a large leather purse bouncing off her hip with the beat. A moment later, Ruby Bee and Estelle stopped at the curb, exchanged remarks inaudible to me but likely to be heard on Staten Island, and headed in the direction Gaylene had gone.
I would not have described myself as suspicious by nature, but the nurturing of the last thirty years had left its mark. Ruby Bee and Estelle were not taking a nice walk; they were following Gaylene. It did not give me a rosy glow of contentment to see they'd found a new hobby.
As they disappeared around the corner, I looked down to spot yet another intrepid traveler. It was Durmond's turn to hesitate for a moment, cross the street, and walk past the coffee shop to the corner. He stopped, however, as the door of the coffee shop opened and a man in a khaki jacket came out to the sidewalk. The grime on the hotel window prevented me from seeing with perfect clarity, but I got a fairly decent view of the man's long, stringy hair and unkempt beard. After a furtive glance toward the hotel, Durmond slapped the man on the back, and the two began to talk as they went around the corner.
I didn't know what to make of it, but I was certain something ought to be made of it. Morose professors from Drakestone College in Connecticut did not seem the type to relish the company of disreputable street bums. To add to the problem, the encounter lacked spontaneity. I may have been a bumpkin cop, but I could spot a prearranged meeting a block away, and just because I hadn't seen any lip-licking didn't deter me from leaping to a conclusion, maybe two.
It seemed like a good time to go downstairs and persuade Geri to part with information about various contestants. How I was going to do this was not clear, but I figured inspiration would come to me before I arrived in the lobby. I made sure my bun was firmly pinned, grimaced at my image in the cracked mirror above the dresser, and went down the stairs.
The front desk was deserted, as usual. Brenda sat alone in the dining room, a cup of coffee and an untouched danish on the table in front of her. She was studying a recipe card rather than a dagger, so I continued to the kitchen.
"He called me at home," I heard Geri say, and not in a pleasant voice. "I cannot believe you went tattling to your father like a little snot-nosed crybaby!"
Kyle sounded no more convivial. "Just run the damn contest like a big girl, okay? Stop with the princess on the pedestal routine, unless you'd like to end up without a nose or anything else. All you have to do is let them make their entries, and then we'll taste them, decide, and present the prize. If you can't stomach it, we don't have to taste them. We'll draw straws. This nightmare could be over in ten hours, if you'll keep your eyes dry and your act together. We're not messing with a bunch of clowns from Ringling Brothers."
I went into the kitchen in time to see Geri start toward him, her fingers curled into a fist and a less than regal expression on her face. "How's it going?" I asked. Geri reluctantly lowered her fist. "Peachy. We've worked out the time frame and everyone's checked to see he or she has the necessary items. We begin at one with Catherine."
The four cases of Krazy KoKo-Nut were stacked ever so innocently next to the wall. On the island were the five boxes, now crisscrossed with silver tape. If Geri and Kyle were standing in a puddle of blood, with a mutilated corpse at their feet, they were handling it with admirable aplomb.
"Well, good," I said with what aplomb I could muster, which wasn't worthy of anyone's admiration. "Where are all the contestants now?"
Geri stiffened. "How should I know? I'm not a babysitter; I'm a marketing professional-to my regret. I'd imagine they went out sightseeing or to grab a bite of lunch. Now that we've confirmed times, no one is obliged to hang around this dismal dump except for me."
"I'm here," Kyle said sulkily.
I hadn't yet been blessed with inspiration, but I forged ahead. "I was wondering how the contestants were selected for the finals of the contest. Did a panel of judges make all the submitted entries and select the five best ones?"
"In your dreams," Geri said with a harsh laugh. "Mr. Fleecum himself selected the winners, based on demographics. He then sent the list to the Krazy KoKo-Nut office for approval. Had his list not been trashed, we would have had a second man and better geographic representation to lure in regional press."
"So how did you end up with these five?" I asked.
Geri pointed her finger at Kyle. "You'll have to ask him. He's the one who blundered into my office with the updated list of finalists."
"I got the list from my father," Kyle said, squirming at her scarlet talon, "and he got it from Interspace Investments. They'd asked to see it, and he could hardly refuse, could he? Some of the finalists were unavailable, and they produced the replacements."
"Which makes this whole thing even more of a travesty," Geri said. She paused as a garbage truck rumbled and squealed to a halt in the alley, then added, "The integrity of Prodding, Polk and Fleecum is on the line. If word ever gets out on the street that the finalists are nothing but a bunch of ringers, we'll be the butt of cocktail party jokes for months."
"Not all the finalists," I said over the increasing din as the truck jockeyed with a dumpster, the men yelling and metal cans clattering as they bounced against the pavement. "Ruby Bee was on the original list, wasn't she? Who else was?"
Geri touched her temples. "This is giving me a migraine. Can't they do whatever they're doing out there and go away? Why must they make so damn much noise?"
"Maybe they're doing their job," Kyle began, then stopped as we were engulfed in silence.
"Oh, sweet Jesus," said a stunned male voice. "We got one."
"Why the fuck can't these deadbeats find a better place to sleep?" said another. "It's too late for the medics. You guys wait here and I'll call the cops from inside here. Damn it to hell, I was counting on getting off early so I could take my kid to the ball game."
Geri, Kyle, and I waited with all the animation of the teenaged finalist in one of her sulks. Even though we were anticipating the knock on the back door, we froze as if it were a spate of gunfire.
"I'll get it," I said at last.
I admitted an odoriferous man in a jumpsuit, who shrugged and said, "We got a sleeper in the dumpster. Would you call 911 and tell them we're waiting in the alley out back? And tell them we don't got all day."
"A sleeper?" Geri said carefully.
"You know-one of those homeless people who sleep wherever they can. This one chose your dumpster for his final resting place. Could you call the cops?"