I let out a sigh of exasperation. “And just how exactly did they convince Rath to stick around and go along with this farce?”
“They didn’t.”
“I saw Kirk Rath die!”
“Did you? How close was he to your window?”
I thought about it. “Well, not all that close — not all that far, either.”
“Could it have been someone else?”
“I don’t think so...”
“Possibly someone who looked something like Rath — similar hair, similar build.”
“Maybe,” I granted.
“And you had Rath on the brain — you had the ‘murder’ of Rath on the brain, specifically. If someone who resembled him were ‘killed’ outside your window, wouldn’t Rath come immediately to mind?”
“Curt, I don’t think so...”
He was shaking his head now, gesturing out the window at the now barren stage where I’d witnessed what he insisted was a performance.
“You haven’t been here before,” Curt said. “You don’t know the lengths these lovable crazies will go to. When we assemble on Sunday morning, for the teams to present their solutions to my mystery, their presentations will be as elaborate as an off-Broadway play. And not far off Broadway at that.”
Jill looked at Curt thoughtfully and said, “You give an award for the team presenting their solution in the most creative manner, don’t you? Whether they solve the mystery correctly or not.”
“That’s exactly right,” Curt said.
“Don’t encourage him,” I told Jill sternly; she gave me an apologetic look and shrugged, but I could see she was being swayed by this. “You didn’t see what I saw,” I reminded her.
“She didn’t?” Curt said.
“No. She was in the shower.”
“Cleanliness is next to godliness,” Curt shrugged.
“Why are you trivializing this?”
He put a fatherly hand on my shoulder. “I don’t mean to. I just know the foolishness that goes on here. Jill is right about the award for most creative presentation. Toward that end, many of the players bring along theatrical gear — makeup, fake blood, the works. A number of them are theater professionals. If they noticed somebody here who resembled Rath, and could convince him to play along, with a little expert makeup, they could, at a distance, fool somebody... like you. Not me. Because I’m a veteran of this cheerful nonsense.”
Cheerful nonsense.
“So,” I said, “I’m the butt of a fraternity initiation sort of joke, then?”
He waved that off. “Not you specifically. It could have just as easily been me that witnessed this ‘murder.’ The guests know that the authors are all grouped together in this wing of the hotel. Do you think it’s an accident that this event was staged outside all our windows? You just happened to be the one of us who caught the show.”
“And the hook,” I said.
“And the hook,” he said, nodding. He slid an arm around my shoulder and walked me away from the window. Jill followed. “Mal, I’m convinced you’ve witnessed a prank, nothing more — a grisly piece of impromptu theater by some Mystery Weekenders unknown.”
“I’m not convinced,” I said.
He walked out into the hall and I followed him. So did Jill.
“Well,” he said, “we can go down to the front desk and report it. Right now. New Paltz is nearby; the police could come right up.”
“Let’s do that.”
“I wish you wouldn’t. Let me tell you why.”
“Please do.”
He gestured with an open palm, in a reasoning manner. “If the police come up here, you’re going to get some of the hotel’s guests in trouble, and some very bad publicity could be stirred up. You might put a damper on the whole weekend; Kirk Rath’s little temper tantrum would be nothing compared to this. I don’t think that would be a useful thing, do you?”
“I... suppose not.”
“Besides which, everybody here saw Rath leave in a huff. In a minute and a huff. How could he be who you saw out your window? He left.” Curt hunched his shoulders and gestured with both hands in mock seriousness; very melodramatic, he intoned, “Or did he come back? If so, why? In which case, what was he doing here, then?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted, ignoring his kidding manner. “But those strike me as legitimate questions.”
“You strike me as somebody who’s had a long day and ought to catch some z’s.”
“I’m tired, but I’m not seeing things.”
“I know you aren’t,” he said, unconvincingly. “Hey. Why don’t you go have a look around outside? If you find anything, see anything, come knock on my door. I’ll be up for another hour — I’m working on some last-minute materials for tomorrow’s fun and games. We have to kill Rath again tomorrow morning, you know — in absentia. Anyway, if after that you still want to go down to the desk, I’ll accompany you.”
“All right,” I said.
He smiled and patted my shoulder again. “But if you don’t find anything, then go get some sleep. These game-players are crafty and they’re cute — don’t let ’em get to you. You’ll need to be fresh in the morning. You have to play one of my suspects, remember.”
Then he shut himself back in his room.
I looked at Jill.
“Could he be right about this?” she said.
“Yeah,” I said.
“But do you think he’s right?”
“No. But he thinks he’s right. And I can see how this looks to him.”
“Yes.”
“Only he didn’t see what I saw out that window, did he?”
“No.”
“Let’s get our coats.”
“Let’s,” she said.
I stopped at the front desk and asked if I could borrow a flashlight; the guy behind the counter was accommodating and friendly — he didn’t even ask what I wanted it for, he just handed it to me. I wondered how accommodating (and friendly) he’d be if I came back later and reported a murder. Not to mention a disappearing corpse.
And it had disappeared, all right. The snow on the ground outside my window showed footprints, and you could see where something had been dragged away — but only for a few feet. Then the footprints resumed; only the wind was blowing the snow around and to call these footprints, in the sense that some real detective could pour plaster of Paris into them and make a moulage and trap a suspect, would be a joke. You could tell somebody had been walking in the snow, and that was all. That was the most you could say.
And there was no sign of blood. Or theatrical makeup or ketchup either.
I poked around with the flashlight, looking in the trees and bushes, Jill at my side. Nothing. We walked up on the bridge; stood in the gazebo; looked out at the impassive frozen lake and the mountain beyond. The night was chilly, and the wind had teeth. So did we, and they were chattering.
We went inside.
We went to bed.
“Some detective,” I said.
She was cuddling me on my side of the pushed-together twins.
“Who says you’re a detective? You’re a writer.”
“I’ve played at detective before. You helped me once, remember?”
“I vaguely remember.”
That was sarcasm: the time she’d helped me out, she had seen the aftermath of some very serious violence; I’d almost been killed, and two other men had. So she knew that none of this was anything I was taking lightly. She also knew I’d had some experience with crime, with violence, and wouldn’t be easily fooled by pranksters.
“Want to go down to the front desk?” she asked.
“And report what I saw?”