The phone rang in my ear. I pulled the curtain as I waited. The view out the window seemed even less real in the cold gray dawn; several couples in winter clothes were making their way across the little bridge. One couple paused in the gazebo, to chat, their breath smoking. I didn’t find it particularly inviting — winter not being my favorite season in any state, New York and Iowa included — but neither was it ominous.
On the ninth ring, he answered: “This is Kirk Rath.”
“Kirk!” I said. “This is—”
“At the sound of the tone, leave any message you might have for me, obscene or otherwise.”
Shit.
At the tone I said, “Kirk, this is Mallory up at Mohonk. If you’re alive, give me a call today, as soon as possible.”
I hung up. Scratched my head.
“Think he’ll call back?” she said.
“That hinges at least partly on whether or not he’s alive,” I said, sitting by her.
“Do you think he might be home and just has the answer machine on?”
“With answer machines, that’s always a possibility. It’s still relatively early — he could be sleeping. A little later this morning I can call the business number.”
“Didn’t you say the Chronicler was published out of his house?”
“Yup,” I said. “Everything but printed on the premises. But it’s a separate number, the business is, and I’ll bet his staff will be working there even if he’s not. They live right there. It’s like a big fraternity house, I understand.”
“So you can find out from somebody whether he showed up or not.”
“Should be able to.”
Jill sighed. “It’s too bad Rath himself didn’t just answer and put an end to this.”
I said, “Suppose last night he had second thoughts, and came back, to play his weekend role? And got killed — really killed — for his trouble.”
“Who by?”
“Jesus, Jill. I haven’t even been able to establish the poor S.O.B. is really dead. Don’t ask me to name the killer just yet, okay?”
“Okay,” she said, with a little smile.
“But one thing I do intend to find out,” I said, standing, looking down at her, touching her nose with the tip of a forefinger, “is which of these teams of game-players has theater pros on ’em, and who among ’em brought their makeup kits along.”
She stood and straightened the collar on my pullover shirt, the type the Beach Boys and I have been wearing for decades.
“Feeling more like a detective now, are you?” she said.
“Thinking like one. That long day yesterday threw me.”
She gave me a peck of a kiss and a wry grin and said, “Put on your Miami Vice jacket and let’s go down and have breakfast.”
“Did you have to mention Miami Vice? This is Friday and we still don’t have a TV.”
“I asked at the desk about that,” she said, helping me into my white linen jacket. “They have a projection TV in one of the parlors.”
“But will it fit in this room?”
I opened the door for her and in the hall we met Jack Flint and his wife, Janis, just coming back from breakfast apparently. Jack wore a lime blazer and a pastel green shirt, and Janis another floral print dress, yellows and greens; they looked like California. I wondered if, God help me, I looked like Iowa.
We exchanged good mornings and, with a small wicked grin, Jack said, “I hear you got stung last night.”
“Pardon?”
“Curt mentioned that some of the game-players staged a little skit outside your window.”
“So it seems,” I said. “I think George Romero directed it.”
Janis cocked her head like she hadn’t heard me right, not understanding the reference; movie buff Jill said to her, “Night of the Living Dead.”
“Oh,” Janis said. Nice of Jill to coach the wife of a screenwriter in film lore.
Meanwhile, Jack was laughing. “Bunch of overgrown kids. We’ll be putting on a show for them, in an hour or so.”
He meant, of course, Curt’s mystery in which we were playing roles.
“Yes,” Janis said, “and I’m scared to death.”
Jill resisted telling her that that was the title of Bela Lugosi’s only color film and said instead, “Why? Are you playing one of the suspects?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Janis said, with a nervous little smile. “Aren’t you?”
“No. Mal didn’t tell them I was coming along till the last minute.”
Janis grasped Jill’s arm, in mock panic that was only part mock. “You wouldn’t want to take over my role, would you?”
Jill grinned and shook her head no. “I’m no mystery fan, or puzzle freak, either. I’m here for a little peace and quiet; I mean to roam these endless halls and sit in every one of the hundred and eighty-one gazebos on this property. As Elmer Fudd once said, ‘West and wewaxsation at wast.’ ”
I put a hand on Jack’s arm and said in almost a whisper, “Did you see any of that out your window last night?”
“Your little passion play? No. When did it go on?”
“Just before eleven.”
“Janis and I went up and watched Pete’s flick. I’d forgotten how good Laura was.”
“Yeah,” I said, glumly, “well, my favorite Otto Preminger film is Skidoo.”
Jack did a little take; he’d apparently seen Skidoo.
“He’s kidding,” Jill said, and took me by the arm and we exchanged good-byes with the Flints and were off to breakfast.
Where, in the big pine dining hall, we found Tom Sardini sitting at our designated table, having a cup of coffee; Cynthia Crystal and Tim Culver were over at Curt’s table, only neither Curt nor wife Kim were present. I said good morning to Cynthia and Tim, both of whom (even the normally dour Culver) grinned at me. I had the feeling I was a comical figure.
Jill went on over to our table, but I stopped and stood behind and between Cynthia and Culver, and leaned in, a hand on the back of either of their chairs.
“Good morning, gang,” I said. “What’s so funny?”
“Oh, Mal,” Cynthia said, the arcs of her pale blonde hair swinging as she looked back at me, blue eyes sparkling, “I just treasure it when you behave like a gullible hick.”
“Me, too,” I said. “Takes me back to the days when I traveled with Spike Jones and the band.”
Culver’s smile was gone now; he sensed my feathers were ruffled. So did Cynthia — she just didn’t care. But Culver said: “Curt told us about that practical joke. Didn’t mean to rub it in.”
“Oh, Mal,” Cynthia said, “how could you fall for amateur theatrics like that?”
“Why?” I said, looking at her sharply. “Did you see it too?”
“No, no,” Cynthia said, brushing the notion away with one lovely hand. “Last evening Tim and I went walking for hours around this charming old hotel.”
“House,” I corrected.
“Whatever,” Cynthia said. “But I’ve done several of these weekends before — never Mohonk, but Tim and I were on an ocean cruise variation of this, for Karen and Billy Palmer, last year. We know all about the lengths these lovable loons will go to, to get in the spirit of mystery and crime and spillikins in the parlor.”
At Mohonk, that could be a lot of spillikins, because there were a lot of parlors.
I said, “Your room does look out on the lake, though.”
“Yes,” Cynthia said. “And it’s a lovely view.”
“That’s debatable,” I said.
She pressed my arm. “You’re such a child. That’s what I love about you.”