2 Dancing With Death (16 page)

    
Mrs. Finklesworth jerked her hands away and looked down her nose at Betty. “And you are?” she asked.

    
“A friend,” Betty said firmly. She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “It’s a good thing you haven’t left.”

    
Mrs. Finklesworth let Betty draw her over to one of the love seats. As she looked down to arrange her skirts, Betty turned to wink at George. Then she made a shooing motion with her hands. She turned her attention back to Mrs. Finklesworth before she could see his reaction.

    
“It’s about your coat,” whispered Betty, thinking fast. She tried not to gag on the scent of the noxious perfume radiating from the older woman beside her, keeping the expression on her face to one of earnest concern. “There’s a rally of extreme animal rights activists at the base of the mountain.” She silently pledged to send a donation to the ASCPA as an apology for her lies. “They’re stopping every car and burning any fur clothing they find.”

    
“No!” gasped Mrs. Finklesworth, a hand coming up to her chest as though to ward off hyperventilation.

    
Betty nodded. “It’s true.” She faked an admiring glance at the woman’s fur coat, firmly placing the idea of skinned foxes out of her mind. “The police aren’t saying anything yet, they’re just letting people know the roads are closed. But you really ought to be careful about your coat.”

    
Mrs. Finklesworth reached out, placing her hand on Betty’s knee. Betty forced herself not to cringe away in disgust as the reek of Mrs. Finklesworth’s breath joined the perfume. “Oh my dear, you’re an angel. I must call Maurice straight away! He can’t bring my car through that. I have fur interior! And he was bringing my other winter coat.” She stood, brushing her clothes into place. “If he gets my car ruined, I’ll fire him!” she exclaimed, before rushing off towards the elevators.

    
Betty watched her go, dumbfounded. She couldn’t believe that had worked! As soon as the elevator door closed and Mrs. Finklesworth was on her way up to her room, Betty started to laugh. She couldn’t help it.

    
George appeared in front of her. “Miss Crawford,” he said in a shocked voice. “What did you say to her?”

    
Betty repeated the conversation for his benefit, and was pleased to see some of the stress lines leave George’s face as he laughed.

    
“She deserved it,” he said after he’d calmed down. “Pardon my saying so, but that woman is a witch.”
    
“Of course she is,” Betty said. She looked at George sympathetically, patting the loveseat next to her. “And I bet she’s not the only one you’ve had to deal with today. Here, why don’t you sit? I’ll go get you a cup of coffee.”

    
“Oh no,” George said. “I couldn’t.”

    
Betty fixed him with “the look,” the one that parents the world over use on misbehaving children. “You can, and you will,” she said. “Surely you’re due a ten minute break?”

    
George looked around at the hall. It was filled with guests milling about, but no one seemed in immediate crisis.

    
“Sit,” Betty repeated. George sat, sinking into the plush red and gold brocade cushions with a sigh. He took off his brass name tag and stuck it in a pocket. “I’ll be right back,” Betty said.

    
She wound her way through the crowd until she reached the beverage table in the ballroom. Sure enough, they had coffee. She poured a cup and grabbed a few packets of creamer and sugar, just in case.

    
When she arrived back at the love seat George was leaning against the cushions, his eyes closed and his brow furrowed ever so slightly, as though he had to concentrate on willing himself to relax. Given the state of the hotel, Betty didn’t blame him if that was the case.

    
She was almost sorry to break him from his reverie. Fortunately, she didn’t have to. George’s nose twitched almost comically when she neared with the coffee, and he pulled himself up into a sitting position, rubbing his eyes with one hand.

    
“Here,” Betty said, handing him the coffee and setting the creamers and sugars on the wood and marble table in front of the love seat. “I didn’t know what you liked in your coffee,” she said by way of explanation.

    
George blew on the coffee to cool it and took a sip before replying, “Black is perfect.” He patted his stomach. “I don’t need any extra sugar.”

    
Betty smiled in understanding. She wasn’t going to get in the way of anyone watching their diet! And, while George was far from morbidly obese, his prominent stomach could stand to lose a few inches for health’s sake.

    
“But then,”” said George, “you’d know all about that, eh?” He lowered his voice. “Diabetes, right?”

    
Betty laughed. “Am I that obvious?” she asked. She flat out refused to be embarrassed that George had guessed her disease. Diabetes wasn’t something to be ashamed of, just something to live with and manage.

    
George shrugged. “Only to me,” he said. “It’s my job to notice the little things. And it helps that I know what to look for. I have it myself.” Betty was shocked. Diabetes wasn’t something to be ashamed of, but she didn’t go around proclaiming her disease! For a moment, she envisioned George in a vivid blue “Diabetic and Proud” t-shirt. She shook her head to clear the image, wondering if her blood sugar was spiking after that meal. “To beating our disease,” George intoned solemnly, raising his coffee cup in a toast.

    
“Absolutely,” Betty agreed.

    
George relaxed back into the cushions with a sigh. “Thank you so much for dealing with the witch woman,” he said. He eyed Betty, his lips quirked. “Any chance you want a job? You’d do wonderfully in the hospitality business.”

    
 
“I’m all set,” Betty said. Somehow, she doubted she’d be able to deal with the Mrs. Finklesworths of the world for an entire shift without losing her temper.

    
 
He gestured to his coffee. “Are you sure? You’re a natural. I’ve never had a guest get me coffee before.”

    
Well, what was she supposed to do? She wasn’t heartless! “You looked like you needed a break,” Betty said.

    
“I did,” George said. “I don’t know if it’s the weather, or the crimes, or the stress of competing, but the guests are insane today! Why, if I told you half the things I’ve had to deal with…”

    
And he proceeded to. At great length. Betty listened, laughing and making disgusted expressions at all the right moments. At first, George was just venting, and Betty let him. From the sound of it, he needed to. But it wasn’t long before the conversation took a more interesting turn, and Betty perked up her gossip-gathering ears.

    
Back in Lofton, Betty’s Aunt Laura ran a diner. Betty had spent enough time at that diner, listening to her aunt pump the town’s residents for every bit of information that they had, that she had a good handle on how to steer George towards the juicy bits without seeming intrusive.

    
All she had to do was smile, look sympathetic, and ask the occasional open-ended question. She didn’t even have to pretend to look sympathetic! She genuinely felt bad for George.

    
“It sounds like you’ve had quite a lot of difficult guests recently.”

    
 
Aunt Laura would be proud.

    
George snorted. “Very true. Although, I don’t know why I’m surprised. I’ve met them all before.”

    
“Oh really?” Betty asked. “Who’s been here before?” Perhaps there’d be a clue in his answer. Whoever had committed the crimes must have scoped out the area first. They’d have been guests before.

    
George frowned in thought. “I think everyone but you and your friends.” When he saw her surprised expression, he rushed to add, “They’ve all been here for dance competitions before. We’re one of the most popular resorts in the state for this sort of thing. And everyone in the hotel is here for the competition.”

    
That was unfortunate, Betty thought. One potential clue, useless!

    
George lowered his vice conspiratorially, leaning close enough to Betty that she could smell the coffee on his breath. “I’ll tell you a secret Miss Crawford. When I saw the guest list for this week, I almost took a vacation.”

    
Betty laughed. “You should’ve done it.”

    
George shook his head. “I couldn’t do that to my staff. You don’t know how fast the place would fall apart. And they certainly don’t know how to be discrete. With some of the guests here this weekend, if I wasn’t here to keep an eye on everything there could’ve been a major incident, and I don’t mean of the criminal kind. I mean soap opera drama.”

    
“Like what?” Betty asked. She tried not to seem too eager, forcing herself to stay relaxed and comfortable.

    
George looked around to make sure no one could listen in. Unfortunately, the crowd in the lobby had only thickened in the few minutes they had been sitting. One of the staff members at the desk was looking in their direction, a frown on her face. Betty thought it was the same receptionist who had been so rude that morning.

    
George stood, taking his nearly empty coffee cup with him. “Come with me,” he murmured.

    
Betty followed George through the crowd and down a maze of hallways.

    
Vaguely, she wondered if this was the brightest idea. Hadn’t the state police detective mentioned that no one should go anywhere in groups of less than three? And here she was, casually strolling through the inner workings of the hotel, getting hopelessly lost, and with only one other person. She just knew this had been a bad idea. Her eyes darted around the hallway, noting the way the hangings and paintings in this part of the hotel had gathered dust. A few were even hanging crooked, the lights were dim, and Betty thought the wallpaper might be peeling in the corners.

    
Apparently, the hotel management didn’t worry overmuch about appearances for their employees. Either that, or George was drawing her into a trap for being too nosy.

    
George took some keys out of his pocket and started to unlock a door. No key card here. The jangle of metal bits echoed. He ushered her into a office, looking both ways up and down the hall before shutting the door behind them.

    
George’s office, or at least what she presumed was George’s office, was tiny. The entire room was probably the size of Betty’s bathroom in her suite, with just enough room for a desk, two chairs, a tall thin bookcase, and a filing cabinet. The furniture was mismatched, in various stages of dilapidation or repair. It was clear that George had received the hotel’s castoffs for his office, but Betty couldn’t detect any hint that he felt the office was inadequate. In fact, George had settled into his swiveling desk chair with a happy sigh, leaning backwards with his hands clasped behind his head.

    
“I know it’s not the fanciest,” he said, clearly understanding her hesitation to comment. “But it’s private. Do you know how nice it is to be able to shut the door on everyone?”

    
Ah. Yes, Betty did know. She’d done enough stints in retail in college to understand exactly how wonderful being able to find a quiet corner away from the nagging, squabbling and sometimes smelly customers could be. It was obvious by its size that only George had access to this room. Now that she’d grown accustomed to its relative shabbiness, at least in the midst of the opulence of the hotel, she could see that he’d made plenty of personal touches. Framed photos were scattered about the desk and bookshelves, and posters of various paintings, from Monet and Dali to Jackson Pollack, adorned the walls. A small CD player sat on top of the filing cabinet, and bobble head figurines of cats waved from the monitor of his desktop computer.