Toured to Death (4 page)

“So, who the hell are we?” the same person demanded.

“Glad you asked.” Amy smiled, feeling just a little more comfortable. “I don't mean to destroy your enjoyment of tonight's dessert, but before you polish it off, I might recommend a closer examination. On the inside crust of each tart is a number between one and six drawn in blue food dye.” The last words were almost drowned out by a clattering of plates and forks.

Amy could see Georgina, her plate held at eye level, lifting the tart and peeking underneath. “No, no. The inside crust,” Amy explained. “Under the strawberries. And let this be your first lesson. For the next two weeks, nothing can be taken for granted.”

It was a silly little gimmick, one that had required a lot of persuasion with a rather rigidly minded pastry chef. But the act of playing with food could provide a primal, childlike thrill, and the gimmick succeeded. Most of the diners eagerly scraped out their crusts and found their numbers. A few others artfully ate their strawberries one by one, until the number was revealed in a purple haze of food dye and fruit jam.

“Uncle Burt, don't.” The voice was high and shrill, carrying like a piccolo.

Amy focused on the twelve-year-old girl at table two. She was pulling at the elbow of a thin, tall man in his midfifties, whose pleasant, open face was distorted by a wicked grin. It was a broad, sloppy grin, bulging with strawberries and laced with crumbs. Uncle Burt, it seemed, was in the process of eating not only the filling but the crust.

“It's delicious, Holly. You should taste it.” And he held out a forkful to his horrified niece.

“Don't!” The intense young Holly was oblivious to the tease. She grabbed his wrist and wrestled it to the table. The uncle countered smoothly, using his free hand to snatch a dessert fork from another place setting and continue destroying all evidence of his team assignment.

Amy smiled. She had expected someone to pull this stunt and was glad it was a nice guy like Burt. Federal justice Burt Baker, a good-humored, guileless man who'd been crippled years ago in a traffic accident. The rally had been a present to his favorite niece, Holly, by far the youngest member of the tour.

If good humor and an even temper were Baker traits, then they hadn't hit Holly's side of the family. Her fair, freckled skin turned an exasperated red, which nearly matched the crimson of her gown, a cut-down concoction that left too much room for bosom and shoulders. “Now we won't know what team you're on.”

“Then they'll have to put me on yours,” Burt declared. “Amy, put me on Holly's team, or I quit.”

That was when the twelve-year-old finally got it. “Very funny.”

It must be hard,
Amy thought,
being born without a sense of humor.

Most of the guests had been teamed with their travel mates. The exceptions were Georgina Davis and companion, who Amy hadn't even realized were traveling together. Marcus was a number four, a Fidel, while Georgina's purple six had placed her among the Dodos. A flighty, gossipy, oft-divorced heiress. The choice was so perfect that Amy had been a little afraid of giving offense. More than once she had changed Georgina to another team, then had changed her back. It was just so right.

The expected rainstorm never arrived. It had circumvented Monaco, circumvented the entire country, depositing only a sprinkling of drops on the terrace. Now that the evening's dinner theater was over, the maître d' opened the French doors, allowing a tropical breeze to invade the dining room, while his waiters worked the crowd with trays of assorted liquors.

The newly formed teams spent the time getting acquainted and discussing their characters. Above all the hubbub, Amy could hear Marcus's warm, distinctive laugh echoing off the high ceiling. She glanced around and caught sight of him at the center of the Fidels. The limp was nearly gone, she was glad to see.

Amy hadn't spoken to him since their arrival back at the hotel. In the taxi they had agreed not to inform the Monegasque police. There was nothing that could be done other than create needless paperwork, and both of them were anxious not to mar the festivities. Other than that, other than a rock thrown at Marcus's head and her own bumbling behavior, she was gratified by how well the first day had gone. Stifling a yawn, she wended her way toward the lobby and the stairs, which were inviting her up to the oblivion of a crisp, warm bed.

As she stepped from the carpeted dining room onto the black-and-white tile, Amy couldn't help feeling alone and out of place. All her guests were making friends, about to start out on a memorable adventure. And here she was, by herself, a non-player, a self-employed employee dedicated to everyone else's good time.

“Amy, sweetie. Calling it a night?”

She turned to see Georgina Davis behind her in the doorway.

“What a terrific kickoff,” Georgina said, her heels clicking on the tile. The light from the dining room chandelier spilled around her, throwing a shadow across the checkered floor and further darkening the already spectral hall. “We Dodos are very excited, you know.” The flat, meditative tone was back in her voice.

“Good.” Amy tried to keep her eyes averted from the inviting staircase.

“By the way, was it Otto who decided which characters we're playing? No, that's right. You told me. He didn't know.”

“It was me.” Amy's heart sank. Georgina had taken offense. “There wasn't much rhyme or reason,” she tried to explain. “I mean, I tried to match sexes and ages where I could. It's no reflection on anyone.” Was she protesting too much?

“Yes, of course. It's all fiction.”

“Right. You know, from what I've seen, Dodo Fortunof is a lot smarter than she appears.”

“Yes, she is,” Georgina agreed and betrayed not a hint of emotion. “And a bit of a mystery aficionado, I think. Our team has very high hopes.”

Amy smiled—what else could she do?—then wished Georgina and her team all the luck in the world. Ten minutes later she was asleep, the sheets pulled cozily up over her head.

T
he second act took place the next morning in the Litcombs' breakfast room, otherwise known as the hotel lounge. A buffet had been set up along the length of an antique credenza, and while the guests hovered and devoured and injected themselves with caffeine, the six remaining actors entered from the hall to continue the drama.

“Daryl must have run off,” Stew Rummy offered, looking appropriately hungover. “There's clothes missing from his room and a suitcase. His Porsche is gone from the garage. The idea of foul play is preposterous.”

“Why preposterous?” Dodo objected. “And why are you so adamant? No one's suggesting that
you
had anything to do with the foul play.”

“Are you suggesting that I had something to do—”

“I just said I wasn't, you alcoholic twit.”

Price Litcomb piped up. “I agree with Stew. Dad left on his own. Unless you think the servants waylaid him or that kidnappers somehow broke in.”

Dodo wasn't convinced. “Why would he leave in the middle of dinner? What possible reason . . .”

“Shouldn't we call the police?” Dolores asked. Her meek suggestion was met with a silent chorus of disapproving glances.

“No police,” Stew said, settling the matter. “Next week there's a new offering of Litcomb Industries stock. If word gets out that Daryl Litcomb is missing—”

“Next week?” Dolores was horrified. “You think he'll be missing a whole week?”

“I hope not,” said Stew. “Then we'd have to withdraw the stock offering, and I need . . .” He cleared his throat. “The company needs that influx of cash.”

“And don't forget Dad's will,” Price reminded his mother. “As of now just about everything goes to that pet charity of his.”

A ripple of laughter swept through the room. The players had already been informed that Daryl's pet charity was literally that—the American Animal Rights Federation, rather fancifully known as AARF.

“Dad finally agreed to change it,” Price went on. “He was going to put us all back in. I'd like to check with our lawyers before doing anything.”

The others all had their own reasons for not calling the police, making it clear to even the densest that no one in the house seemed to have a motive. Daryl's disappearance had been badly timed. Every one of the six suspects had some strong reason to keep Daryl Litcomb alive and in circulation.

“Did you find anything in his room?” Dolores asked her son, confirming last night's hint that the couple occupied separate bedrooms.

“I didn't look,” said Price, “other than checking the closet. I thought Fidel . . . That's his job, personal secretary.”

Dolores came perilously close to raising her voice. “You mean no one searched his room?”

“I thought you or Price would do it,” said Fidel defensively. “After all, it's not my place . . .”

“Damn your place.” Stew Rummy was marching out into the hall. “The most crucial room in the house and nobody's given it a thorough inspection.”

“Where are you going?” Price yelled as he followed the businessman out.

Within seconds, the characters had evacuated the breakfast room and were all trudging up the marble staircase. As before, Amy led her guests in a round of applause.

“I'm sure you'll all agree that our cast did a splendid job.” She was getting used to this speech making. “But now, I'm afraid, the easy part is over. For the next two weeks it will be up to you. Has each team chosen a captain?”

Since last night's dinner, all six teams had spent time together, reviewing the rules and planning strategies. As with most small groups, natural leaders had emerged, making the selection of team captains a rather organic process.

Judge Burt Baker had assumed leadership of the Price Litcombs, while Marcus's competence was obvious enough to get him picked for the Fidels. To no one's surprise, the irrepressible Georgina was elected head Dodo, a title that she herself took perverse pride in.

“All right,” Amy said, writing down the last of the captains' names. “Time to begin. Are the Doloreses ready? Let's go search that room.”

 

Judge Burt Baker and the Prices were the fifth team to get a crack at Daryl Litcomb's bedroom. In honor of the rally's inaugural morning, the jurist had outfitted himself with a plaid deerstalker cap and a magnifying glass, hardly the accessories that young Price Litcomb would have on hand, but festively appropriate. And the magnifying glass was proving to be an asset.

Burt had set aside his crutches and plopped himself in a chair directly in front of a low dresser. He was seated on the edge of the chair, leaning forward, his upper body balanced on the dresser itself, while his legs stretched out behind him as a counterweight. Somehow comfortable in this position, Burt used the magnifying glass to examine the ornamental woodwork directly above the lowest set of drawers. “Daryl kept mentioning this bureau.” No one else appeared to be in the room, and to a casual observer, it might have seemed as if he were trying to explain his behavior to the invisible gods of mystery.

“He mentioned it once,” said a whiny, disembodied voice.

“No,” Burt argued. “At least twice.”

“Have it your way. There's nothing under here.” Holly, the smallest member of the team, had taken a flashlight and had crawled under the bed for a thorough search. A coughing fit signaled the possible inhalation of a dust bunny.

“Eureka,” crowed Burt. “I knew it.” He took a second to rebalance himself, then carefully pried a thin decorative panel out of the face of the dresser. The inlaid panel, no more than half an inch tall, formed the front of a shallow drawer, which Burt now slid effortlessly out of the rosewood facade. “I told you the bureau was important. Look. A note.” He pushed himself upright in the chair and held up a folded slip of paper that had been slid into the narrow cavity.

From out of the connecting bathroom came Carla Templar, a middle-aged entertainment lawyer with offices in New York and L.A. She and her husband, Rod, always on the lookout for the newest trend in vacations, had been the first people to book the tour. Carla had distinguished herself in Amy's mind by asking for a discount for an early cash payment and, when that didn't happen, paying with a business credit card. Amy was sure this would surface somewhere as a tax deduction.

“What is it?” Carla asked. “Fan mail from some flounder?”

The Bullwinkle allusion was lost on both Burt and his niece, who had just emerged from under the bed. “A secret drawer?” Holly said skeptically. “That's stupid. How would kidnappers know about a secret drawer?”

“It's not from kidnappers. There were no kidnappers.” Burt cleared his throat and read the note aloud.

“It doesn't rhyme,” Holly complained.

“Yes, it does,” said Carla, who had never had a child of her own, had never wanted one, and felt no particular need to be nice to this one.

“There's more,” Burt interjected. “Don't call the police. My life depends on it. Love, Daryl.”

Holly sneezed into a handkerchief, expelling the last of the dust. “That's dumb. I mean, leaving a poem that doesn't rhyme where anyone can find it.”

“Daryl disguised his destination so his killer, pursuer, whatever, couldn't track him down,” Burt reasoned.

“Why take all the time to write a poem? Why not send a text to someone he trusts?”

“Holly, dear.” Carla feigned a patient tone that was anything but. “If he did that, it wouldn't be a game, would it? We're playing a game. Therefore, we get a rhyme. And yes, it rhymes—ABCABC. We're expected to use our brains to figure it out. Meanwhile, this is all part of a race. Now, I know the real Daryl wouldn't put his friends in a real race. However, this is—”

“Jeez, you're sarcastic.”

“Holly!” warned her uncle.

“Holly and I are coming to an understanding,” Carla said sweetly. “We're going to stop bickering at every turn and figure out this clue before our time is up and they kick us out of the room. Now, I know the real butler wouldn't kick us out of this room . . .”

“Just solve the damned clue.”

“Holly!”

Holly and Carla ignored him. In fact, everyone ignored everyone else as the three crowded around the paper and silently reread the six lines.

“I have no idea,” Burt said quietly. At least his admission served to break the ice.

“Into three parts divided,” Carla mumbled. “That sounds familiar. Isn't that a Latin expression or something?” She looked to the judge. “You must have had some Latin.”

Burt bit his lip. “All Gaul is divided into three parts. It's from Caesar's
Commentaries.
Gaul was the Roman name for France.”

“We're right next to France,” Holly pointed out.

“So we are,” Carla said with just a hint of leftover sarcasm. “So, next line. France was divided into three parts and is now divided into twenty-two. Daryl always was a geography nut. That's why I killed him.”

“Provinces,” Holly corrected her. “France is divided into provinces.”

“You're right,” Carla admitted. “Provinces. It may be a good idea to pick up a French map.”

Burt was still studying the note. “The generic portion. A generic province. What's a generic province?” He mulled it over for several seconds, then slapped himself on the forehead. “A generic province would simply be called province.”

“Provence!” Holly shouted with a little jump in the air. For the first time today, she showed some excitement. “He means Provence!”

Even Carla knew enough to encourage it. “Of course. Well done. Daryl is hiding somewhere in Provence.”

Holly had already grabbed the paper. She was out to solve everything now. “Where Magdalene decided . . . You think it's Mary Magdalene, like in Jesus?”

“That's the only Magdalene I know,” said Burt.

“Mary Magdalene had a house in Provence?” asked Holly. “I thought she lived in Israel somewhere.”

“Maybe she moved,” Carla suggested with a glance at her watch. “Where can we buy a Bible?”

Holly smirked. “You think they put her forwarding address in the Bible?”

“Ladies,” Burt growled as he stuffed the clue in his pocket, then reached for his crutches. “What we need is a Provence guidebook.”

“What we need is Google,” Holly countered.

 

Carla's husband, the fourth member of their team, was not particularly fond of mysteries. Rod Templar had been lured by the game's novelty and by the promise of a few good anecdotes. His contribution this morning had been to pack the luggage into the rented Mercedes, then to stand by, ready to roll, at the front curb.

Amy watched from an upstairs window as the Prices stumbled out the front door and into the waiting car. Burt eased his torso onto the front passenger seat. Holly and Carla each grabbed a leg, tossed it into the foot well, and slammed the door. And all the while, all three continued to argue and point and babble conflicting directions to Rod, their driver. Like a luxury clown car, the Mercedes sprang away from the curb in fits and starts. Halfway down the block it nearly collided with a furniture van.

Amy smiled, then set about placing a new note in the thin secret drawer and slipping it back into place. Team Six, the Dodos, were the next and the last.

So far only one team, the Bitsys, had failed to discover the note. From her second-floor window, Amy had watched as the four women solved their problem by driving off, circling the block, then pulling up around the corner to wait for the next team.

When the Fidels came running out a few minutes later, the Bitsys were ready. Amy saw them ease around the corner and follow the Fidels, staying a discreet distance back, until both cars disappeared from view. And if they were to somehow lose sight of the Fidels? Well, then, Amy supposed, they would be forced to use the desperation phone number.

Otto had set it up. A lost team could call the number and punch in its team code. A recording would then give out the address for that day's final destination, in this case a converted villa in Aix-en-Provence. At the end of each day, Amy would check to see if any code numbers had been used. These teams would be penalized, and they'd lose out on any mystery clues that had been gathered along the way.

The Dodos had been set loose in the bedroom for only two minutes when Amy heard Georgina shrieking with excitement.
Good.

Amy wandered down the marble stairs to the front desk, thanked the hotel owner once again, then took a narrow set of uncarpeted stairs to the garage. No Mercedes was waiting for her, just a cute little Mini Cooper, all gassed up and ready to head out to the shrine at Sainte-Baume, where she would hide the first packets of clues.

She figured she had half an hour on them, plus the advantage of GPS. By the time the first team found the shrine and the next clue, Amy would be gone. She'd be planting the second group of packets at a nice little café, a perfect spot for everyone to stop for lunch.

Two more sets of clues would lead them to Aix-en-Provence, where Amy would be waiting at the hotel with her trusty stopwatch, recording their times. She estimated the last team's arrival at 6:00 p.m., in plenty of time for a shower and cocktails, followed by a leisurely dinner at what Michelin described as a delightful garden restaurant.