"I guess I'll cover it, Sylvie," I replied. "How much is it?"
"Well, if you are paying it, I wouldn't add the hotel surcharge, of course, but even then, at just our cost, it is considerable. A few hundred dollars, in fact."
"My word!" I said. "Did she talk and drink gin at the same time?"
"Not exactly," Sylvie said. "She usually telephoned in the afternoon when she got back from whatever excursion you were on. But as you can see, she made a lot of calls, and some rather long ones at that. Then she drank."
"Okay," I sighed. "Add it to my bill. Can I keep this list as a receipt? I may try and collect it somehow, from her estate or something. It will be easier for me to do it from home, than for you to try."
"Of course," she said. "Let me make a copy for our records here. And thank you for this, Lara. We really appreciate it."
"What about Rick Reynolds? His phone bill must have been pretty spectacular, too. We might as well settle up on that one, while we're at it."
"He didn't make any calls," Sylvie said.
"You're joking. He was always rushing back to his room to call his office to check on the stock market. At least that's what he told us--ad nauseum, I'm sure Ben would say if he were here."
"If he did, it wasn't on our telephone. There wasn't a single long distance call, nor a local one, for that matter."
This was perplexing. "Oh, but there was a call for you while you were out," Sylvie said. "I almost forgot. He said it was urgent. A M. Loo, loo . . ."
"Luczka," I said, pronouncing it Loochka. "Thanks. I'll give him a call." It was Rob's work number, I noticed, as I headed up to my room to phone.
"L ARA," ROB SAID. "I'm really glad to hear from you. Look, after you called the other day, I got to thinking about those questions you asked me. I made a couple of inquiries. This situation may be worse than you thought."
"That would hardly be possible," I muttered.
"I checked to see if an autopsy had been done back here on Rick Reynolds. It was, and the results are disturbing. He didn't dive into that pool, Lara. His injuries are not consistent with that kind of accident. I'd be expecting a broken neck in that case, as I told you when you called. His neck is fine. But there is evidence of bruising and swelling on the back of his head--in other words, he sustained a blow to the head. Now the blow wasn't enough to kill him, maybe, but if he was dumped into the pool unconscious, then he would drown. He did drown, by the way; there was a fair amount of water in his lungs."
"You're saying he was murdered," I said.
"Not necessarily, I suppose," he replied. "He could have fallen--you know how slippery those pool areas can be--and hit his head on something. The top of the ladder, maybe. He then could just have rolled into the pool and drowned. But he'd have to have given himself an awful whack on the head not to come to when he hit the water. I think there's enough here to warrant a second look. I'm trying to see if we can reopen this one."
"Thanks for letting me know," I said.
"Wait, that's not all," he said. "Based on the autopsy on Reynolds, I made a couple of calls to some law enforcement contacts I have in the U.S. Kristi Ellingham died of smoke inhalation, just as you said. However, she was just loaded with alcohol and sedatives, not enough to kill her either, but enough to knock her out cold. She could have ingested them willingly or accidentally, but given the other situation, I think we have to assume there's at least a small possibility that somebody else gave the stuff to her."
"You mean somebody saw to it she was out, and then set the fire?"
"I know it sounds far-fetched. Do you know her drinking habits?"
"I certainly do. Gin, lots of it."
"Well, then, maybe I'm overreacting. Ever see her take pills?"
"No, but that doesn't mean anything."
"I suppose the one thing I can say for certain, then, is that regardless of how the pills and alcohol got into her, she didn't stand a chance of waking up and getting out of there when the fire started. You be careful, Lara. I think you should just get on a plane and come home right now."
"I can't do that, Rob," I said. "I have responsibilities here. What would they say about McClintoch and Swain, if I just packed up and left? What would these people do?"
"Please be very careful, then," he said. "I'm going to see what I can do from here."
"Thanks, Rob," I said. "I will be careful. Goodbye."
"Lara," he said. "Don't hang up. About this other thing, the other morning when you called. Can we talk about it?"
"No," I said. "Goodbye, Rob." I'd had quite enough handwringing confessions for one day.
Later, now burdened more than ever by suspicion and implied threat, I tried very hard not to find myself alone with any one person during the cocktail and dinner hour. Alas, I was not entirely successful.
"It's started again," Catherine said, cornering me by the staircase. "Someone's been into my belongings, again. I want to go home. You have to help me get out of here."
"Okay, Catherine," I said, as a wave of irritation swept over me. "There's nothing I can do this late tonight. We'll talk about it again tomorrow morning, and if you still want to leave, I'll see what I can do." She sobbed, and then ran upstairs to her room. Following her, I heard the safety chain slide into place, and then a scraping sound as what I assumed was a large piece of furniture was moved against the door.
Realizing rather belatedly that the events of the last couple of days had thrown me into a vile and unkind mood, I, too, headed for my room just as soon as I could.
The trouble was, I couldn't sleep. The truth, when I'd calmed down enough to consider it, was that despite all my efforts that day to persuade myself otherwise, I was growing rather fond of my little band of travelers, foibles and all. The responsibility I felt for them, as the leader of the tour, had begun to weigh heavily on me. I had some serious agonizing to do after the conversation with Rob, on the subject of what to do about the rest of the tour. It had been all very well to carry on when there was nothing more substantial than a bad dream of mine to indicate we might have a problem. It was quite another to continue when Rob thought there was enough evidence to reopen the investigation into Rick's death and possibly even Kristi's as well. Should we just keep going, as if nothing had changed, or should I pack everybody up and send them home before somebody else got murdered, no matter what Clive thought?
I needn't have lost any sleep over any of it. In the end, the matter was out of my hands entirely.
10
"Y OU MUST TELL me once more exactly what you have seen, Carthalon," Hasdrubal said, "that we may reach some conclusions. You observe well, but that in itself is not enough. One must interpret what he sees. You are young, but you will learn. So you hid in the cargo hold, and then . . ."
"I saw Mago, Safat, and Malchus all come down into the hold."
"Together?"
"No. Malchus came first, but soon he was joined by the others. They talked of checking that the cargo was stable. The storm. All three left together. I was leaving my hiding place to check on the ingot, when I heard someone else coming. It was Mago, again. I don't like Mago."
"He is difficult to like," Hasdrubal said. "So both Malchus and Mago were down there alone. Go on. What did he do?"
"He checked the cargo one more time. He opened an amphora of coins, and a pithos which contained very beautiful gold jewelry. I thought he was going to steal the coins or the gold, but he didn't, at least I don't think he did. He held a beautiful necklace of gold and lapis lazuli up to the light from above the hold, but then he put it back in the pithos. The coins, too, he returned. I checked the seals on these containers, and they had been resealed. The silver ingot was back in its place, but I regret I did not know which one had left it."