Toured to Death (3 page)

“Marcus Alvarez,” he said, flashing a smile and extending a hand. “I'm Georgina's companion.” His accent was American.

Amy's brow furrowed at the old-fashioned term. She had thought Georgina was traveling alone. “Companion as in friend?” The hand shaking hers was strong; the skin tanned and nearly hairless.

He laughed. “As in that's my job.”

“Marcus, honestly!” The heiress's face reddened, the color clashing momentarily with her hair.

“Sorry, Georgie.” He turned to Amy. “Back in Palm Beach I'm Ms. Davis's personal assistant. But ever since we got here, people have been asking what she's up to that she needs a personal assistant.”

Amy felt vaguely disappointed, the same way she would be to learn that a gorgeous man was a model or a well-built man a personal trainer. Marcus's charm and style didn't seem to count for as much when they were part of his job description.

“I've always had someone travel with me,” Georgina said, “ever since the age of chaperones—which was not that long ago.” A pout caused her stretched hairline to inch down toward her plucked eyebrows. “Why can't we settle on
friend?
Aren't we friends? Or am I some pathetic crone, forced to hire a companion? Is that what you want people to think?”

“I'm sorry.” His apology sounded sincere, if still playful. “From now on we're two dear friends.”

“Thank you.” Georgina sighed dramatically. “Now, hunt down the waiter, pay the bill, find me a couple of aspirins, American made, and get hold of a cab. Please,” she tossed in for friendship's sake.

Marcus curled his lips in a grin that only Amy could see, then did as he was told.

Georgina settled back into her plastic chair and smiled warmly. “All right, tell me. What exactly is a mystery race? I know it's all in the brochure. But who reads?”

“It's not a race. It's a rally,” Amy explained. “Getting to the finish line is only one part. You'll play in teams, with every team representing one suspect in the story. One team plays the victim's wife, one plays his son, et cetera. Six teams, four players on each team. Every morning you get clues, and then you start racing.”

“Like that TV show,” Georgina said.
“The Fabulous Race.”

“
The Amazing Race,
yes. Except it's not just about getting there first. As you go along, you pick up clues to the mystery. It'll become clearer as we go along.”

“I'm sure it will.”

A minute later Marcus emerged with a glass of water and a travel-size bottle of Bayer scavenged from his camera case. “The waiter is getting a taxi for us. Are you all right? Did you want to go back to the hotel?”

Georgina nodded as she gulped down three aspirins and sipped the water. “I'm a little tired from the flight. And I do want to be at my best for the banquet.” Even though the table was just a few inches away, she handed the glass to Marcus. “You don't have to come with me, dear. If you and Amy wish to go off and see a little of Monaco . . .”

“Yes, I think so,” Marcus said, accepting what was only a begrudging offer of freedom. “That is, if Amy isn't too busy.”

“Oh, Amy must have dozens of more important things . . .”

“As a matter of fact, I'm free.” Amy couldn't resist contradicting an entitled heiress. “I'd love to show Marcus around. It's just about the only country that lends itself to a walking tour.”

“Good.” Georgina pushed herself to her feet, wobbling ever so slightly for effect. “I'm sure I'll be all right.”

“Of course you will,” Marcus said.

They remained firmly oblivious to Georgina's manipulations, walking her through the café, depositing her into the taxi, and waving her on her way.

“It does her good now and then,” Marcus whispered, his breath tickling Amy's ear. “So, where are we going?”

T
he Exotic Garden was a short walk away, occupying a cliff-side block not a hundred yards from the nation's western boundary with France.
Exotic
might be too exotic a word, Amy half apologized. It was a cactus garden.

They entered from the top, stopping to take in the landscape of succulents laid out below, a palette of greens and grays in every imaginable shape—round and spiked, flat and tall, modest and extravagant. A series of wooden footbridges wound through the cacti, making the steep ground passable and eventually leading down to a single exit onto the boulevard below. The winding paths constantly broke off, then wove back on themselves, giving access to every part of the sloping garden and making it all seem much larger than a single residential block.

Down below, a German guide led a small cadre of tourists. As they walked, he pointed out plants of interest, speaking in slow, heavily accented English, which carried up the slope. His charges nodded in response, occasionally breaking off to talk among themselves in fast bursts of Spanish. Amy had seen this before, the use of English as the new Esperanto, the common language of a shrinking world.

“I wonder what the story is there.” Marcus leaned into her with pleasant familiarity.

“They couldn't find a Spanish-speaking guide.”

“Hmm. A bit like
Madame Butterfly.
”

“
Madame Butterfly?
”

“You know. The opera. Japanese girl and American boy. Somehow they find a common language in Italian.”

Amy chuckled. “You're right. I never thought how illogical that was.”

“Well, not for the Italians.”

They wandered away from the tour group, down the leftmost path. Nearly the entire principality lay nestled at their feet, a neat, flower-bedecked world. At the foot of it all was a yacht basin flanked by two ribbons of thin sandy beach. And just beyond the harbor and the beach was the blue-green Mediterranean, sparkling merrily in the sunny distance. Amy imagined she could hear the rhythmic surf.

The moment seemed perfect. The weather, the view, the slightly salty breeze. “What do you think of Monaco?” she asked, distrusting the quiet perfection.

“It's nice.”

“Nice?” She remembered being here with Eddie, just a few blocks away, looking at real estate windows, gasping at the prices as they fantasized about living in the Mediterranean principality.

“A bit artificial, don't you think? Like Epcot Center. Everything so controlled and condensed, but with the illusion of size.”

Amy was a bit thrown. “Well, you have to admit it works. I mean, as a country.”

Marcus turned from the view. “It's a tax haven the size of a few dozen football fields. Of course it works.”

He was smarter than she had given him credit for. Opinionated and educated . . . and sexy. She phrased her next statement carefully. “You're not the kind of man I would imagine as . . . you know, a companion.”

“We're not sleeping together, if that's what you think. And I'm not gay. Most people think one or the other.”

“It n-never crossed my mind,” Amy stammered. “Why do people think you're gay?”

“I don't know. Maybe because I don't drink beer or watch sports.”

“Plus, you have great hair and a good fashion sense.”

“That's an anti-straight cliché, Ms. Abel, but thank you.”

With a lazy, comfortable shrug, he turned back to the view. Below them, the German and his Spaniards had exited and were heading toward their tour bus. The two Americans were seemingly alone. Marcus had leaned his body into the railing and was in the process of pushing himself away. It was an unthinking rocking movement, almost like a stretch. And it probably saved his life.

The stone came from behind and lobbed past his face, just missing the railing as it breathed its weighty threat in a rush of air. Visually, it was a blur, a coconut-size object arching within millimeters of his hair, smashing into a nest of prickly pears two levels below.

The shock alone was enough to throw Marcus off balance. He fell to one side and back, twisting an ankle as he collapsed. “Augh.” He turned and glanced up the rocky slope. “What the hell?”

Amy's glance followed Marcus's. There was movement up there among the cacti, a shadow retreating through the gray and green stalks. “Someone threw a rock.”

“I'm all right. Go.”

“Go where?”

Marcus pushed her helping hands away. “Go see who it was.”

“Who it was?” Amy's feet remained rooted, her mind numbed by the unexpected.

“Don't confront him. Just look.”

“Umm.” Amy didn't know what to say or do.

“What are you waiting for? Go. He's getting away.”

With a quick pivot, Amy hurried back up the path, swinging herself around a railing, then twenty feet up another incline and around a second railing. From here she had an unobstructed view of the next few turns. Whoever had been there was gone.

Amy returned, the sound of espadrilles on gravel crunching loudly in her ears. “Maybe it was an accident,” she said. Marcus didn't look happy. “Are you all right?” She extended her hands again.

Marcus refused her assistance. “An accident?” He reached up for the wooden railing but was too far away.

“Let me help.”

“No, I'm fine.” He waved her away. Their hands never touched, but it felt almost like a slap. “You were right not to go. It might have been dangerous.”

“I did go. He was already gone.”

Marcus finally grasped her hand, pulling Amy off balance and down as he pulled himself up. He hobbled past her up the twisting incline. “I could've been killed.”

“It was probably some crazy kid.”

“Well, that makes it fine.”

“Or an accident.”

Amy crossed to him, and they leaned over, staring at the weapon, a lethally large stone in a prickly pear setting.

“That's one strong kid,” Marcus growled. “And it was thrown, not dropped, not dislodged.”

“I couldn't have caught him, anyway,” Amy said.

“I didn't ask you to catch him.” Marcus abandoned the post-mortem and placed a hand on Amy's shoulder for support. Together, they made their way down the path toward the exit. Without a word, they passed the rock and kept going, the blue-green scenery now wasted.

“I'm just not good in emergencies. I freeze up.”

Had it just been freezing up?

Unsettling memories flashed. The time she had been bullied on the school playground and had pretended to be sick for the next two days. The time she'd been robbed in Central Park, when she could have run away but didn't. And the big memory—Eddie's attack and her delay in calling 911, which didn't make any difference, no difference in the world, because he was already dead.

Awkwardly, they walked, like an elderly couple out for a pleasant but difficult stroll.

“I should have gone after him.”

“That's okay,” Marcus said and winced as his foot hit an uneven patch of stone.

A
s the afternoon progressed, a line of clouds began forming over the nation, and by eight that evening, a warm but threatening breeze wafted its way in from the Mediterranean. The air was still comfortable enough to allow Amy's guests to mingle out on the stone terrace. An open bar had been set up near the doors to the dining room, and that became the centerpiece of the festivities.

Fashion-wise, Amy was always torn between the needs to stand out and to fit in. Her black evening dress seemed to tread the line perfectly, a stylish, strapless Donna Karan from last year's collection, bought recently at an outlet store. The glasses were also Donna Karan: black on orange, with rectangular frames.

Leaning against the marble balustrade, she nursed a well-deserved Campari and listened to the waves, trying her best not to think about the clouds.

All twenty-four guests were dressed formally in honor of the rally's opening night, or perhaps in honor of the fictional Daryl Litcomb and his dinner party.

Two hours earlier Amy had slipped the mock invitations under each door, requesting them to spend the evening at the industrialist's home and setting the time and place, 7:30 p.m. on the terrace. This was their first hint about the mystery's plot, and although the details on the engraved invitation were almost nonexistent, they still managed to pique everyone's imagination.

A dozen theories were already in circulation. “Daryl Litcomb is obviously the victim,” a toothy, heavyset woman was telling her friends.

“I'm suspecting his wife,” came another knowing comment, even though Daryl's marital status had yet to be revealed. “Is Litcomb an English name?”

At 8:05 p.m. Amy strolled to the French doors and raised her hand to the maître d'hôtel. Fire at will. The seven actors hidden in the shadows of the dining room also noted her signal and tucked their scripts into assorted purses and pockets. Amy scurried to the bar and replenished her Campari, this time with soda.

A well-timed crack of real thunder subdued the half dozen conversations, and it was during this lull that a high-pitched laugh erupted from one of the dining room actresses. It was followed a second later by an angry shout, delivered by a male voice, then several loud and colorful insults.

A curious excitement rippled through the guests as they gravitated to, then crowded around the French doors. Suddenly, a chandelier illuminated the room's central round table, spilling enough light to include all seven performers, also dressed formally and ready for dinner. The guests broke out in applause, heralding the official start of the Monte Carlo to Rome Mystery Road Rally.

Amy watched and listened, as attentive as her clients. This morning she had been unnerved to learn that most of the dialogue would be ad-libbed, following Otto Ingo's plot outline, with only a few key pieces of information recited verbatim.

As the actors eased into their roles, Amy found herself pleasantly surprised. The majority of them were Americans, recruited by a Paris casting agent. During their few hours of rehearsal, they hadn't seemed to take the job seriously. Jokes had flown, mostly at the expense of the plot. Critical lines had been flubbed. And no one had stayed in character for more than a minute. Amy had been within an inch of getting up the nerve to yell.

But now that the costumes and lights were on and an appreciative audience stood in the doorway, the cast came to life, imbuing Otto's hackneyed scene with as much life and realism as the average TV drama. Not high art, certainly, but at least a level of competence with which their viewers seemed comfortable.

The plot began simply enough. Daryl Litcomb, an American businessman, had invited several guests to spend the weekend at his Monte Carlo estate. The exposition came fast and blunt, with lines like, “Well, if it isn't the legendary soap opera star, Bitsy Stormfield.”

This prompted a similarly contrived but information-packed reply. “Stew, dear. I see you've already had a drink. Being Daryl's business partner must be the perfect job for a lush.”

The audience readily forgave the clunky dialogue and probably appreciated the broad personalities and names: a diminutive but excitable actress named Bitsy Stormfield, an alcoholic business partner named Stew Rummy.

Otto obviously knew his business. Subtleties were harder to remember, and at this stage in the game there was a lot to digest. Several of the players had pulled notepads from the folds of their formal wear and were writing down anything they thought might prove helpful.

In the space of ten minutes, the six future suspects were introduced, with their names and relationships to Daryl repeated several times. Members of the household included Daryl's unhappy wife, Dolores; his faithful secretary, Fidel; and Price, the millionaire's spendthrift son.

The weekend guests consisted of just three. Bitsy and Stew were old friends of the family, as was Dodo, an eccentric, middle-aged heiress of dubious mental capacity. Dodo Fortunof, perhaps the most inspired of the names.

Three men, three women. Three household members, three outsiders. The mystery's demographics had been constructed with the same precision as everything else.

As the dialogue progressed, the actors drifted to their places at the round table. Dolores rang a silver bell, and a butler and maid responded, entering from the kitchen with a soup course. The theatrically bright lights dimmed, and the first scene was over.

There was only a smattering of applause, as if the guests were reluctant to admit the unreality of the scene. Amy and the maître d' then went about the task of seating them at four rectangular tables surrounding the circular one. The waiters were already busy serving up an identical first course, a
soupe de poissons
rich with saffron and fennel. Amy found her spot at one of the tables, suddenly realizing how little of her lunch she'd actually eaten and just how famished she was.

“Very exciting,” Georgina murmured. Ever since sitting down, the heiress had been uncharacteristically quiet. Now she placed aside her soup spoon and leaned into Amy. “And such an interesting story.” Both sentences were delivered in a flat tone that gave the impression of things left unsaid.

“Glad you're enjoying it.”

“I wonder where he got his ideas, the person who wrote this.”

“His name is Otto Ingo,” said Amy. “He's the best in the business. Although he does seem to like his clichés.”

“You're too cruel.” An amused reprimand, but delivered with the same flatness. And then the tone was gone, replaced by Georgina's usual carefree lilt. “Did this Otto know who was coming on the tour? I mean, was he given our names?”

What an odd question.
“Uh, no.” Amy paused as a slim, silent waiter circled their table, collecting bowls. “Otto was working on this before I made the first booking. He never even saw a guest list. Why do you ask?”

“No reason.” The lights were dimming now, like the houselights in a theater.

The spotlight had again come up on the central table as the seven actors wiped their mouths. Their first few lines were drowned out by the sound of two dozen chairs scraping across the floor as the players rearranged themselves for a better view.

Scene Two consisted of more heavy-handed exposition, this time focusing on Daryl's social and business life. Innuendos of love affairs and crooked deals splattered wildly around like loosely packed shotgun pellets, hitting everyone and everything but causing little damage. Meanwhile, the butler and maid delivered shell-shaped dishes. Scallops in a garlic cream sauce.

As the cast members gazed down at their new course, Dodo launched into her monologue, a comic speech loosely outlined by Otto and elaborated on by an imaginative actress.

“My third husband could never eat seafood,” she announced, toying with her scallops. “Which was odd, considering he was Swedish and those people just seem to live on fish. Most everything affected Lars's stomach, poor dear. He would have the most appalling attacks of gas, like nothing you've ever smelled. How to describe it . . .”

“Don't,” murmured her hostess. But it was useless.

“Have you ever had a skunk spray your compost bin? That happened to us on Martha's Vineyard.
Très
pungent. It was like that—with perhaps an added hint of rotten cocoa beans.” Dodo sniffed the air, as though her description had magically re-created the aroma. She went on for another two minutes, and by the end of her unappetizingly explicit speech, Daryl Litcomb had stopped eating, a pained, faraway expression etched on his weathered face.

“Honey?” Dolores Litcomb leaned across the table and touched her husband's sleeve. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes.” Daryl's voice was hollow. “I mean, no. I'm not feeling well.” He looked up at his guests, and it was like he was seeing them for the first time. “I'm sorry, people, but you'll have to excuse me.” And with no further explanation, the tall, lumbering man rose from the table and stumbled off toward the hotel lobby—or, to maintain the illusion, the front hall of his home.

“The scallops are poisoned,” Georgina whispered, first to Amy, then to her other tablemates. “The scallops are poisoned.”

“I don't think so,” Amy said as she pointed to the central table.

Georgina followed Amy's gaze. “Oh. I guess this isn't going to be so easy.”

“I hope not,” said Amy.

Back at the spotlit table, Stew Rummy and Fidel were busy. They had divided the remains of Daryl's appetizer, scooping the round, creamy morsels into their own dishes, and now they were devouring them with systematic diligence. It was an uncharacteristic act, wildly out of place for both the men and the setting. But it served admirably, laying aside any theory about poisoned shellfish—for the time being.

Three more courses and three more scenes followed. The seven characters spent the time exposing the subtler facets of their one-dimensional personalities, and it was here, with most of the essential information already dispensed with, that the actors could shine. Humorous touches abounded.

Amy was relieved to see how much her guests were enjoying themselves. A little competition, a little faux danger, a little—very little—story. Their bodies were relaxed; their faces animated.
Like children,
she thought.
Wealthy, powerful children who can put aside their own lives for two full weeks and escape into a murderous little game.
Did she really envy them?
Yes,
she decided. She did.

Throughout the meal, Dolores Litcomb grew increasingly concerned. Finally, during the fruit and cheese, she excused herself from the table, promising to be back in a minute. “I just want to go check on Daryl.”

The sumptuous meal, combined with cases of French wine, had numbed the few remaining inhibitions of the formally dressed detectives, and Dolores's departure was accompanied by a chorus of drunken catcalls.

“He's dead, honey.”

“You need an alibi. Take someone with you.”

“Don't scream.”

“I want a good scream.”

The actress ignored these intrusions from the fourth wall and disappeared into the Hotel Grimaldi's lobby.

Her return was timed to coincide with the arrival of dessert. The lack of a scream and the absence of blood on her dress disappointed the crowd's Grand Guignol faction, but there was good reason. Daryl, it turned out, wasn't dead. Just missing.

“He's not in his room,” Dolores said. “The servants are checking the grounds, but . . .” And here she collapsed into her chair. “His room is a shambles, things thrown everywhere. What in the world could have happened?”

“He's been kidnapped,” the TV soap star said.

“Nonsense,” the drunken business partner blustered. “It's a big house. He's probably tucked away in some corner, reading a book.”

The other actors, some with authentic reluctance, pushed aside their strawberry tarts. Each one had similar words of comfort. A proposal was made to cut short dinner and search the entire mansion.

“I'll check the wine cellar,” Stew Rummy volunteered brightly and got a laugh.

As the actors made their way, Amy stood and applauded, signaling the end of the evening's performance. During the ovation that followed, the spotlight faded, the general lighting was bumped up to reading levels, and a cadre of waiters set about serving the players their own strawberry tarts, each one carefully delivered to a specific place setting.

“I'd like to thank the Litcombs and their guests for providing us with such an enjoyable dinner.” Amy had taken a stance behind Daryl's empty chair. Making speeches embarrassed her, but they were part of the job. “And now I suppose you'd all like to know how this game works.” She was grateful for the few chuckles and the ragtag remnants of applause. “Good. As you know, this is going to be a team effort. Each team will represent one of the characters, except Daryl, of course, who is missing.”

“And presumed dead,” a male voice blurted out from table three.

“Not necessarily,” Amy admonished. “We'll know more in the morning.” Then she went on to explain the rules.

They would be divided into six teams of four each. Tonight in their rooms, each player would find a packet of information explaining their character's secret relationship with the missing industrialist. All six characters had some guilty secret they were hiding from the others. Naturally, this information had to be kept private and could be discussed only with members of one's own team.

Tomorrow morning each team would elect a captain, someone who wasn't afraid of a little role-playing, since he or she would be physically representing that team's character for the rest of the game.