The Dark and Deadly Pool (16 page)

The man squinted at Fran, then scowled. “You’re room service. I remember you.”

“I remember you too,” Fran said. “Three hot rum toddies.”

“Bring me another one.”

“Tomorrow,” Fran said. “I’m off duty now.”

“This is a rotten hotel,” the man said.

“We’ll escort you to your room, sir,” Lamar said. He and Pete briskly walked on, the man stumbling between them, trying to keep up.

I turned off all the lights, locked the office door, and gripped Fran’s hand as we sprinted toward the exit. With great relief I stood in the hotel’s hallway and locked the door to the club.

We went through the employee check-out, the elderly guard at the door routinely searching my already see-through purse, and out into the parking lot.

A car was parked next to the trash containers, its passenger door wide open. I grabbed Fran’s arm to stop him and put a finger over his lips.

He nibbled it.

“Stop that,” I hissed. “Be quiet!”

“What’s the matter?” he whispered.

“Shhhh. Follow me.” Staying as close to the building as I could to remain out of the glare of the arc lights, and walking silently on the grass, I edged toward the side of the trash bins and peeked around them. There was the man I had seen at the bins before—one of the assistant chefs. He was rummaging through the garbage in the nearest container.

Fran leaned around me, his face pressed against my shoulder.

Finally the assistant chef grabbed something and pulled it free. He hopped down and brushed what looked like carrot and potato peelings off the package. It was about two feet long and a foot thick and well wrapped in plastic, which shone under the arc lights. He tossed the
package into his car. I heard it thump against something else. Probably another package.

He slammed the car door and walked around the front of his car. I pulled Fran back into the shadows, as the assistant chef started his car and turned on his headlights.

After he drove off I leaned against Fran and started to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” he asked. “Some people might get a big laugh out of a guy putting garbage in his car, but personally I feel that—”

“Fran,” I interrupted. Do you know what we saw?”

“A guy putting garbage in his car. I just said so.”

“No,” I said. “We just saw the woodwind section drop out of the orchestra.”

He put a hand on my forehead. “You don’t have a fever. Do you feel delirious?”

“Don’t you remember? We talked about each crime being orchestrated. One of the crimes was stealing meat from the kitchens.”

“Go on.”

“That’s what we were watching. That guy is one of the assistant chefs. And I’d bet what we saw was a well-wrapped standing rib roast. Don’t you see? He wraps the cuts of meat he wants in plastic and puts it in the garbage containers. Then he pulls them out of the garbage at night and makes off with them. He doesn’t have to worry about getting the meat out of the building under Lamar’s scrutiny. Some innocent person who is emptying the garbage from the kitchens is carrying the roasts out for him, and he—or someone else—is selling them below market cost to the manager of some second-rate restaurant who doesn’t ask questions.”

Fran sounded impressed. “If that’s true, you solved part of the case!”

“Let’s go back and tell Lamar.”

“It’s too late for him to catch up with the guy.”

“He can keep a watch on him and catch him next time.”

“Why don’t we tell Lamar tomorrow?” Fran said. “I thought I could take you home and we could play some records and have some soft drinks and—”

“No,” I said. “It’s late. We’ll tell Lamar now.”

Fran grumbled, but he walked back with me to the employee entrance. Luckily, Lamar was there, saying good-night to the guard, who passed us as we opened the door. I told Lamar what we had seen.

Lamar’s eyes became glittery slits again, and his shoulders rose and squared themselves. It was impressive.

“Excellent work,” he said when I finished the story. “You say you recognized this man. Do you know his name?”

“No,” I said.

“Then give me a description.” He pulled out his notepad and pen.

“Okay,” I said, and scrunched up my forehead, trying to think of the right words. “He’s medium height, average kind of face. He was kind of grungy—especially after he’d gone through the garbage. Really a yucky type. Put down ‘yucky.’ ”

I paused, and Lamar sighed. “That’s it?”

“Uh—I think his hair is dark. And so is his moustache. At least they look dark in the parking lot. However, those lights are weird. They make lipstick look purple.”

Lamar looked at Fran. “Can you add anything to that description?”

“His name,” Fran said. “It’s Marco Soledat. I see the guy in the kitchen every day.”

Lamar and I just stared at Fran. “Why didn’t you say so right away?” I asked him.

“I didn’t want to interrupt you,” he said. “I was enjoying your description. That was the worst job of description I ever heard.”

“Thanks to both of you,” Lamar said. He glanced quickly from side to side and lowered his voice. “Just keep this whole thing quiet. Catching Soledat in the act will depend on your not saying another word about it—even to each other.”

“Right,” Fran said. He clicked his heels together.

“Right,” I echoed.

Fran pivoted on one heel, took my arm, and pulled me out to the parking lot.

“I’m hungry,” Fran said.

I thought about what we had in the refrigerator. “Would you like an apple?”

He grinned. “Did you happen to get it from a snake?”

I gazed into space, which—of course—was over Fran’s head, and sighed. “Be practical,” I said.

Fran looked a little hurt. I didn’t want to hurt him. But before I could think of what to say that might help, he said, “Let’s hope Yellow Belly starts,” and led me toward his car.

It was a short ride from the hotel. Fran chatted about stuff at school, and before long the embarrassment between us had dissolved like fog under a Houston sun.

I unlocked our front door and flipped on a couple of lights, tossing my purse onto the hall table. It skidded and hit the little jewelry box, knocking it to the floor.

Fran picked it up and handed it to me.

I shivered as my fingers touched it. “Mr. Kamara gave
this to me to thank me for saving his life.” I shivered again and wailed, “Oh, Fran!”

“Now, don’t get undone,” Fran said. “Let’s see what’s in here.” He took the box away from me and pulled out the cloisonné locket. “Very pretty. What’s inside?”

“A movie-star picture.”

“Are you a groupie?”

“No. I haven’t even looked inside. Mr. Kamara told me there was a picture of a movie star inside the locket.”

Fran popped the locket open. “Dolly Parton? You don’t want to carry around Dolly Parton’s picture, do you?”

I had to laugh. “Of course not.”

“I’ll take it out for you. Then your locket will be ready for someone else’s picture.”

He looked at me so archly I quickly looked away. Didn’t he ever give up?

“Whoops!” Fran said as the rim in the frame suddenly gave way under the pressure of his fingernail. The rim, the small oval sheet of plastic, and the picture suddenly popped out and fell to the floor, along with a tiny, wadded square of paper.

“What’s that?” I asked. We both knelt on the floor. Fran picked up the pieces of the locket that had dropped, and I unfolded the small square of thin paper.

Fran’s chin was on my shoulder, and his warm breath was in my ear, as he tried to read the tiny handwriting on the paper. I moved a little closer to him, just to make it easier for him to read.

“It’s a list of six names, with dates and cities,” I said.

“What’s it doing in the locket?” Fran asked. He put an arm around my shoulders to steady me.

“Mr. Kamara must have put it there. But why?” I remembered the strange look of triumph on Mr. Kamara’s
face and added, “I think this list was something he wanted to get rid of.”

“So the next question,” Fran said, “is why did he want to get rid of it?”

I sat back against Fran, trying to think, and the idea that burst into my mind terrified me. “Fran,” I whispered, “Mr. Kamara must have been hiding this from someone.”

Fran’s lips nuzzled my cheek. “Then maybe we’d better find that person.”

“I hope we don’t!” I said. “I think that person is the one who murdered Mr. Kamara!”

The telephone rang, startling Fran and me so much that we both jumped up. “You’d better get it,” he said. “It won’t be for me.”

It was my mother.

“Mary Elizabeth, sweetheart,” she said accusingly, “you’re still up”

“Of course I’m up, Mom. I just got home from work a few minutes ago,” I said. Then I added, “Did you think you were going to wake me up?”

“I don’t know when to call you,” she answered. “When I call you at a reasonable time, you’re asleep. So I thought I’d call you at an unreasonable time, and sure enough, you haven’t even gone to bed yet.”

“Have you?” This conversation didn’t seem to be making sense.

“Your father and I went to a company party. We just got back to our hotel room. I thought I’d call and make sure that you’re all right.”

“I’m fine,” I said.

“Are you remembering to bring in the newspaper and the mail?”

“Mom, I live here!”

“Oh, I know,” she said. “I’m sorry I asked. Your father keeps telling me that you’re a mature young woman, and he’s right. It’s silly of me to worry about you.”

“Are you having fun, Mom?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” she said, “and meeting all sorts of nice people, which I’m sure you’re doing too.”

“You bet,” I said. “Well, give my love to Dad. I love you, Mom.”

“I love you, too, sweetheart,” she said.

I put the receiver back in its cradle and said, “Good night, Fran. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I’ll bring breakfast,” he said.

“No,” I told him. “Tomorrow I’m going to sleep late.”

“Lunch, then,” he said. “I’ll pick up some hamburgers and fries. We can eat them before we go to the hotel. I can’t stay and go home with you tomorrow night. My aunt and uncle are taking us to the Athens Bar and Grill. My uncle wants to try some Greek dancing.” Fran made a face. “He doesn’t dance very well in any language.”

“Hamburgers will be great,” I told Fran, and his eyes brightened. I looked again at the scrap of paper I still held. “Maybe if we talk about all this and share ideas, we can get a better idea of what’s going on at the Ridley.”

“Do you want me to take that paper with me?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “I’m not afraid. I don’t think that anyone but you knows I have it.”

He hadn’t moved, so I walked to the front door and opened it. My mind was on the list, so I was taken unaware when Fran reached up, pulled my head down, and kissed me good-night. It wasn’t a quick kiss, and it wasn’t a long, passionate kiss. It was one of those just-right
kisses that are warm and soft and absolutely wonderful. I couldn’t help enjoying it.

Finally Fran pulled away. “See you tomorrow,” he said.

I shut the door and leaned against it, clamping my lips tightly together. They wouldn’t stop overreacting. Why couldn’t Fran be taller?

Somewhere
, I told myself firmly,
there is someone just for you who is tall and gorgeous. Don’t be so unhappy because Fran isn’t
. I felt a lot better until I got the uncomfortable thought that somewhere just for Fran there was a girl who was short and beautiful. Darn! Life was just too complicated.

Before I went to bed I copied the information on that list and hid the copy under the mattress on my bed. Then I folded the paper just as it had been folded and put it back into the locket. I didn’t have a picture to substitute for Dolly Parton’s, so I put her back, too, complete with plastic and gold rim, snapping it all into place. It was too late to call Detective Jarvis and tell him about the list. I’d do it tomorrow—that is, later today. It was already tomorrow.

I slept with the bathroom and kitchen lights on and conducted the entire overture to
The Nutcracker Suite
before I fell asleep.

Sometime after the sun had come up, the ring of the telephone shot through my dream. I swam through the shattered pieces, reached for the receiver, and pulled it under the covers. I didn’t even open my eyes. “Hello, Mom,” I mumbled.

“It’s not your mom. It’s Tina.”

“Mummmph,” I said.

“I heard about your solving the problem of the stolen meat. Great work.”

“Mummph.”

“Lamar’s going to station Nate out at the garbage bins tonight. Glad it’s not me.”

“Mummph.”

“Anyhow, congratulations. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I reached out and hung up the phone, immediately drifting back into my dream, which obligingly pulled itself together and went off in another direction.

Time doesn’t exist in dreams, so I don’t know how much of it passed before the telephone rang again. Once more I pulled the receiver under the covers and tried to mumble something.

This time it was Mr. Parmegan. He was brusque, clipped, and kept it short. That was fine with me. That meant I didn’t have to say anything.

“I was apprised by Mr. Boudry about your work of detection last night,” he said. “I’m thanking you by telephone, because with the number of appointments I have on my schedule for today, I would not be able to thank you in person.”