Wound Up In Murder

by Betty Hechtman

  By now it was covered with papers with messages. I checked the alphabetical area where any message to me would be. I saw my name finally, but when I took down the note, it was only a scrap of paper and the message seemed to have been torn away. All I saw was a curve, a dot and another curve that must have been the tops of some letters.

  “Somebody probably grabbed the wrong message,” Lucinda said when I came outside. “You can talk to Jimmie at the game.”

  I was sure my friend was right, even though seeing the paper ripped like that gave me a little chill. The three of us left the hotel and conference center and walked the few blocks to the small park near the lighthouse. The whole way there, Madeleine went on about how excited she was about the dance.

  “Everything we went to was always formal and no fun. I’ve never been to a real dance.” I didn’t want to bust her bubble, but I thought she might be expecting too much.

  “Look, Bobbie Listorie is singing the National Anthem,” Madeleine said, rushing ahead as we got close to the park. He got to the last note just as we reached the group. Everyone applauded and then sat down in the bleachers. The singer ran off the field as the two teams came out. Dotty Night and Sally Winston started waving poms to get the crowd excited. Kevin St. John had added a baseball cap to his suit and came out in center field. He yelled, “Play ball,” and the game began.

  Lucinda and Madeleine went to the bleachers, and I went along the fence to the sidelines, looking for Jimmie Phelps in the cluster of people up ahead. Before I reached the group, I saw Scarlett separate herself from them. “Somebody call 911.” Beyond I saw Jimmie Phelps leaning forward holding his chest. Even from the distance I saw that he looked white as a ghost.

  The game came to an abrupt stop just as it started and stayed on hold until the ambulance arrived. One of EMTs got Jimmie onto a gurney while the other one asked questions.

  “He was drinking this,” Scarlett said, handing the uniformed woman the can of Boost Up from the bench. The EMT read over the ingredients and then poured the remainder of the drink in a cup apparently to ascertain how much he had drunk. I had gotten close enough to be in the middle of the action and looked into the cup as the EMT did. There was no mistaking hunks of white stuff.

  “It looks like somebody spiked his drink with something,” I said.

  “Just a guess,” the EMT said, “but could be he wanted to boost up his Boost Up and added more caffeine. We’ve been having trouble with kids adding powdered caffeine to their drinks. A guy like him would be more old school and probably use something like NoNap, or Revive tablets.”

  “Is he going to be all right?” I asked.

  “We’ve had them go both ways,” she said. “A guy his age?” she said with a shrug. “I shouldn’t say anything. Let’s hope for the best.”

  She took the cup and the can and joined her partner. Jimmie had already been loaded into the fluorescent green vehicle and a moment later the siren wailed as it pulled away.

  Kevin St. John and Norman Rathman did their best to get the softball game going again, but without Jimmie, everyone seemed bummed out and they gave up after a couple of innings.

  I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a connection between Jimmie wanting to tell me something, the torn message and his apparent caffeine overdose.

  By the time we were walking back to Vista Del Mar, the fog was rolling in again. Fingers of it were gathering between the trees and filling the space with gauzy whiteness. The lower light went along with everyone’s mood. I felt bad for Jimmie and bad for me, well, really Sammy, as I thought there might have been a chance that whatever Jimmie had to say would have helped clear my magician ex.

  Our group headed en masse to our meeting room. There was no coffee and tea setup, and I regretted that I hadn’t baked cookies even once for this group. If ever they all needed a lift, it was now. Instead of sitting down at the tables with the rest of the group, Lucinda pulled me aside and offered to see if she could get the café to do something for us. With her restaurant experience, I was sure she would come up with something.

  Scarlett and her friend Alys came in just as the group was settling into working on their projects. Everyone seemed grateful to have their knitting to focus on, and for once, no one was talking.

  The door opened and I expected it to be Lucinda, but it was Kevin St. John in his dark suit without the baseball cap. He stepped inside and everyone turned in his direction. “I wanted to let you know that Jimmie Phelps is in intensive care, but it looks like he’s going to be okay.”

  A collective sigh of relief went through the group. Then it became apparent that he wasn’t alone as Lieutenant Borgnine stepped next to him. He glanced around the room and his gaze stopped on me for a moment and then moved on to Scarlett. “I wonder if I could speak to you two,” he said, quickly adding that it was just part of a routine investigation after what had happened to the baseball player. The three of us stepped outside. I expected him to separate us, but he just said, “I understand the two of you were close to Mr. Phelps when the incident happened.” We both nodded and he asked about Jimmie’s drink.

  All of Scarlett’s usual outgoing nature seemed to have evaporated and the dual retreat woman looked worried. “I handed him the open can when we first started setting up,” she began. “I think he took a slug and set it down on the bench.”

  “So then you didn’t see him add anything to the drink?” Scarlett answered with a vehement shaking of her head along with mentioning that there was a lot going on. The lieutenant excused her with a wave of his hand.

  He was doing his best to keep a benign cop face when he turned to me, but it was still obvious he wasn’t happy with the encounter. Before he could ask me anything, I explained that I was going to talk to Jimmie and had just gotten there when he slumped over. “So I really didn’t see anything,” I said. I mentioned what the EMT had said, that caffeine pills might have been what was added to the drink and looked to him for confirmation.

  He didn’t hassle me about asking a question this time; he merely ignored it. “Why were you going to talk to Mr. Phelps?” Lucinda, Wanda and Crystal went past us and on into the meeting room while I tried to decide what to say. Because of the situation with Sammy, I was trying to keep a very low profile with the cop and didn’t want to give away that I was investigating. But at the same time I thought he should know that the silver-haired baseball player might have been about to disclose some information regarding Diana Rathman’s death. Information that someone might not have wanted him to say.

  If I said nothing and something more happened to Jimmie Phelps while he was in the hospital, I would never forgive myself. I swallowed hard and proceeded.

  “I think you should consider that someone spiked his drink.” I hesitated, wondering what else I should say, seeing that he’d already begun to massage his temple.

  “Why would anybody want to hurt Jimmie Phelps?” he began. “The guy is a legend, a baseball hero. Everybody loves him. I even have an old baseball card of his.”

  “You do know about his connection to Diana Rathman,” I said.

  “And that is?” he asked, being cagey.

  “He said her father brought her to all the games and that he’d watched her grow up. He implied there was something between them, but told me that he’d lost touch with her.” I debated mentioning the offhand comment Jimmie had made about there being nothing between them when she was underage and decided to leave it out.

  “Jimmie didn’t tell me any of that. All I got was that her father was their announcer and he might have seen her occasionally at games.” The lieutenant seemed upset that he’d admitted to not getting information that I had. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

  “When I saw Jimmie earlier, he told me he’d thought of something. We couldn’t talk at the time and he said he’d leave it in a message on the board.” I described the condition of the message. “Som
eone could have torn it off accidentally or not.” I let the words hang there before continuing. “I was just going to talk to Jimmie. But of course, I couldn’t because he was being rushed off to the hospital.” I was deliberately trying to be vague, but then I worried that the lieutenant might not get it so I added, “I think he was going to tell me something about Diana Rathman’s death and somebody wanted to stop him.”

  The lieutenant cocked an eyebrow. “I see what you’re doing. You’re using one of the magician’s tricks and trying to misdirect me. I can assure you, the matter of someone else having added something to the drink will be looked into, but I think he probably added it himself. And if you see the Amazing Dr. Sammy Glickner, tell him I’d like to talk to him.” He gave me a last hard look before he walked away and headed toward the Lodge. The lieutenant had never even asked to see the remnant of the note.

  28

  The room I came back to was much more upbeat than the one I’d left. Lucinda had managed to get carriers of coffee and hot water with tea bags, along with some treats. That, coupled with Kevin St. John’s news, had lifted everyone’s spirits and they were talking about the dance.

  The group broke for a quick dinner than came back to the room. They cleared away their knitting and the room turned into a dressing room. Scott mumbled something about meeting us all later when he saw the tables were turned into hair and makeup stations. Madeleine supervised the unloading of the boxes of clothing.

  Lucinda decided to handle my transformation. I couldn’t see what she was doing with my hair or face and she refused to give me a mirror. She waited while I changed out of the jeans and shirt I’d been wearing and zipped me into the dress we’d picked out.

  The apricot silk dress fit perfectly, but felt strange with the fitted bodice and flared skirt. I had drawn the line at wearing panty hose and stuck my bare feet in the cream-colored sling-back shoes. I was glad I’d chosen ones with lower heels. Madeleine helped me put on the long white gloves, and the look was complete. And then Lucinda walked me into the small bathroom off our room and let me see myself in the full-length mirror.

  I gasped. I was sure I was seeing somebody else’s reflection. She had managed to turn my dark brown hair into a bouffant-style à la Jackie Kennedy. She’d spread some kind of foundation that made my face look flawless, the eye makeup was all Elizabeth Taylor, and she’d finished by adding bold coral lipstick. And the dress, shoes and gloves looked absolutely foreign. It even looked odder when Madeleine hung the chain strap of a beaded evening bag from my arm and showed me she had one, too.

  With her love of designer wear, Lucinda was over the top about wearing a real Oleg Cassini silk shift-style dress. I felt all weird, but Lucinda seemed entirely at home in hers. I was astonished at the change in the group. I’d never seen Wanda in anything but loose-fitting pants and floral print tops. It was amazing what a black shift, some hair fluffing and a makeup job could do.

  Crystal had managed to tame her black curls into a bouffant style. The white shift was hers, but the blue bolero jacket with the big collar was from Madeleine. I almost wouldn’t have recognized her, but the unmatched earrings gave her away.

  The others had done up their hair and makeup and added the pieces that Madeleine had brought and were having fun seeing their looks in the mirror. Madeleine had chosen to wear the actual dress she’d worn on her big night out so many years ago. She’d added a little pouf to her timeless bob hairstyle and had some subtle makeup. We all agreed we looked fabulous and went as a group to Hummingbird Hall.

  Scott caught up with us and did a whole lot of double takes as he tried to figure out who was who. His khaki pants and blue oxford cloth shirt would have worked for almost any year the group was celebrating.

  The fog seemed to have settled, dropping a silvery curtain over the background. Fleece simply didn’t go with what any of us were wearing and we’d all gone jacketless. It made us walk through the grounds much faster.

  We picked up speed when we got close to Hummingbird Hall and then rushed to the warmth inside. Kevin St. John was standing just inside the doorway acting as a greeter. He was so friendly to me, I realized he didn’t have a clue who I was. He didn’t really notice who anyone was; he just wanted to watch everyone as they stopped in awe of how he’d transformed the auditorium.

  The seats were gone, and the middle of the room had been turned into a dance floor. A big net had been draped from the open rafters and filled with balloons. A band was setting up on the stage, while canned music played in the background.

  Madeleine stopped in front of me and gazed around with her mouth open. Then she grabbed my gloved hand, and we went to the back of the room. She was fascinated by the large glass punch bowl sitting amid the plates of finger sandwiches and bowls of chips and dip.

  She wanted to try the punch, which looked like a concoction of ginger ale and frozen strawberries with an island of orange sherbet floating in the middle. I tried to get her a cup of it, which wasn’t easy with the gloves.

  Scarlett came by. She’d gone for a pleated skirt and a blouse and pigtails in some sort of a schoolgirl look. I envied her loafers, which looked a lot more comfortable than the sling-backs. She made an odd pair with her husband, who seemed dressed in what people thought professors wore. There were suede patches on the elbows of his jacket and a pipe sticking out of the pocket.

  “Isn’t this great,” Dotty Night said in her perky tone. She was wearing a skirt and blouse that looked like it might have been left over from the wardrobe of Bridget and the Bachelor. Madeleine held up her punch cup as if making a toast before she took her first sip.

  There was tapping on a microphone and then Norman Rathman asked if everyone could hear him. He’d taken center stage with his assistant, Sally Winston, standing close by. He welcomed the crowd and raved on about how great the room looked. He called Kevin St. John up onstage. “Here’s the man who did it all. Let’s give him a round of applause.” Kevin waved to the crowd then took the microphone and did the same thing he’d done at the softball game when he’d said, “Play ball.” Except now he said, “Let the dancing begin.”

  The band took the cue and started on their first song. I was surprised to see Dane come in. He stopped near the entrance and surveyed the crowd. Instead of his uniform, he was dressed in clothes to fit in and had slicked back his hair, trying to look very 1963. He made his way into the room and walked right past me. I tapped him on the shoulder. “What are you doing here?” I asked. He turned and had a blank look for a moment before he realized it was me. Even then he kept looking at me, going from the hair, makeup, dress and finally the gloves and the beaded evening bag hanging on my arm.

  “In answer to your question, I’m here in a professional capacity. After what happened this afternoon, Lieutenant Borgnine added security,” he said.

  “It means he listened to me,” I said and Dane answered with a confused look. I told him about my conversation with his superior earlier. “Does that mean he has someone watching Jimmie Phelps’s room at the hospital?”

  Dane nodded. “I could have had that assignment, but this seemed like more fun.” This group had no hesitancy about dancing and lots of them were already out on the floor. “Shall we?” he said. “It’s a good cover and a way to keep an eye on things.”

  I started to protest. In all my professions and schooling, I’d never really learned how to dance. I could get out and gyrate on my own, but when it came to something with organized steps and a partner, like the fox trot or waltz, I really had two left feet. Dane laughed when I told him and assured me he’d teach me as we went. We got the hand part right, but when we started to move, and I tried to follow his steps, I only succeeded in tripping over his feet. Lieutenant Borgnine came in and did the same thing Dane had done. He stopped near the entrance and looked over the crowd. When he saw Dane, there was a disapproving shake of his head. Dane had to be relieved. “Sorry, I guess according to him, it�
�s no dancing on duty,” he said. He let go of my hand and we started to go our separate ways. He looked back. “We have to try this again.”

  “Give it up. I’m a hopeless klutz.”

  “If I can teach those teens karate, I can certainly teach you the waltz.” He paused and got his teasing smile. “But we do it in bare feet.” He pretended to limp away and we both laughed.

  I might not be able to dance with one person, but I could dance with many. So when the hokey pokey line started, I was right there in the front. Madeleine grabbed on behind me and we waved our arms and legs and sang along as the line got longer and snaked around the room.

  When the dance ended, Madeleine and I retired to the side of the room. Her eyes were glowing with happiness. “This is just what I thought a dance would be like. And Bobbie is going to perform, too.” She giggled as she called him by his first name.

  She opened her bag and took out a folded-up program. “I found this in the cigar box—it’s from the other time I saw him. I was thinking that maybe he would sign it for me and we could take a picture together.” She wanted to show the program to me. I nodded as she pointed out how it listed the baseball game and the concert. There was something else, but her finger obliterated most of it and I just saw the tops of the letters. “It’s too bad how it ended,” she said. “It was even mentioned in the newspaper the next day that the fireworks all went off at the same time. I don’t know how anybody who was there could ever forget it.”

  She stopped abruptly as Norman Rathman took the stage and announced the singer. Bobbie took the microphone and the band began. It was the first time I’d seen him perform, and he was very entertaining. He had all the moves down, crunching forward when he seemed overcome with emotion, pumping his arm for emphasis and of course reaching out to the audience and then pulling his arm in and holding it as he did a final crescendo.

  The audience loved him and began to sway to the music. Madeleine looked like she was going to float away. Personally, I wanted a cup of punch and left the swooning Delacorte sister for the food table.