I saw the man’s hand emerging, the shine of metal, and—with a yell—I flung myself at Randolph and Crystal, knocking them to the ground and landing on top of them.
I wasn’t the only one yelling. Footsteps pounded past my head, a gun slammed onto the carpeting near my nose, and something went over with a crash.
“It’s okay, Liz. Everything’s okay. Stop screaming,” I heard Detective Jarvis say. His hands gripped my shoulders, and he lifted me to my feet.
I dusted myself off and saw that Randolph and Crystal were standing, with no bones broken, Detective Jarvis was now holding the gun, and the officer in the weird clothes had handcuffed the man in the suit and was leading him out of the hotel, accompanied by a couple of uniformed officers who had appeared from nowhere.
“Did that girl try to kill Randolph?” A woman pointed at me.
“No,” Jarvis said. “Liz saved his life.”
Mrs. Bandini beamed at me proudly, but Sherlock Holmes scowled at Jarvis and asked, “Just who are you?”
“I’m a detective from homicide,” Jarvis said.
Eileen made her way through the crowd, and Mrs. Larabee said loudly, “Are you Detective Sharp’s partner? Is that right?”
“That’s right,” Eileen said and gave Jarvis a wink as she stepped to his side. “I’m going to ask Detective Jarvis to tell you what happened. Then we can all go back into the ballroom for our predinner meeting. Some more information has come in regarding our suspects.”
“Like what?” a man asked.
“You’ll find out when the meeting begins,” Eileen told him.
Sherlock Holmes interrupted. “I’d like to know if Martin Jones has put any money into one of those offshore banks in the Cayman Islands.”
That was a weird question. Maybe Sherlock had been reading about that big trial and that’s why the Cayman Island banks had come into his mind. Or maybe Mrs. Duffy had put something about the banks into her plot. I hadn’t been following the story, so I didn’t know.
Eileen’s expression showed that she was surprised too. “As a matter of fact, I’ll be able to give you that information,” she said.
Sherlock turned to one of his teammates and mumbled, “Aha! Laundering money! What did I tell you?”
Eileen said a quick word to Detective Jarvis, who nodded agreement. He looked very uncomfortable as he faced the group, but he said, “Ladies and gentlemen, you want to know what happened here. Okay. The man who was wearing the knit cap was one of our undercover officers who was on stakeout here at the hotel.”
“That was a stupid outfit for a plainclothes officer to wear to the Ridley,” Sherlock said loudly. “He looked like he belonged in an alley.”
“Oh, be quiet!” Mrs. Larabee told him. “I liked the actor’s costume. He looked cute.”
“Actor,” Jarvis said. “Uh—yes, actor. The other actor was a known hit man. He was—uh—after Randolph Hamilton, who had borrowed money from the wrong kind of lending agency and hadn’t repaid it.”
“Oooh! New information!” someone cried, and a number of the sleuths began scribbling in their notebooks.
The tiny woman I’d seen before called out in a loud voice. “Are you telling us there were two gamblers? It’s already been established that Martin Jones gambles, and now you’re saying that Randolph Hamilton gambles too.”
Eileen gave her mother a frantic look, but Mrs. Duffy nodded and smiled. I guess having two gamblers wouldn’t hurt the script. Jarvis went on as though he were an actor himself. “That’s what I’m saying.”
“Then there could be collusion!” Excitement kept her from whispering to her teammates, so everyone in earshot made further notes.
“Pay attention, please,” Jarvis told them. “Our plainclothes detective had a make on the hit man and was approaching. However, the hit man pulled a gun, Mary Elizabeth Rafferty saw it, and she pushed Randolph and Crystal Crane out of the way”
“Isn’t she a sweet, darling girl?” Mrs. Bandini said.
I heard Sherlock mumble to the man next to him, “Think about it, Randolph can’t pay his gambling debts, but Martin Jones can. Where does Jones get the money?”
Randolph spoke up, his voice so shaky he could hardly talk. “Believe me, I’m very grateful to you, Miss Rafferty!” he said, and tears spilled down his cheeks.
“Awwww.” The audience let out a collective, sympathetic sigh, and I heard someone murmur, “Scratch Randolph Hamilton as murderer. He couldn’t have done it.”
Eileen took command. “Thank you for your report, Detective Jarvis,” she said as she briskly stepped forward. “Come on now, everyone. Back to the ballroom. I’ll give you the rest of the evidence that has turned up.”
As she passed me she surreptitiously took my hand and squeezed it, which made me feel good. While everything was happening I didn’t have time to think about it. I’d just reacted. But now it was all sinking in. I had saved Randolph’s life. In spite of all the klutzy goofing-up I’d been doing, I’d actually done something right.
Randolph paused to give me a quick one-armed hug, which was fine, except that he was blowing his nose into a large handkerchief at the same time.
He hurried after the others, and only Detective Jarvis, Mrs. Duffy, and I were left.
“What’s going to happen to Randolph?” I asked Jarvis. “They’ll send another hit man after him, won’t they?”
Mrs. Duffy answered first. “After lunch Eileen and her actors held a meeting. We decided to pool our resources and pay off Randolph’s—uh—John’s debt, and he’s promised to pay us back and join Gamblers Anonymous and never gamble again.”
“That’s very nice of you,” I told her. “I’ve got a couple of dollars I could contribute, if that would help.”
“Every little bit will help,” she said. “How that man could run up such a large debt …”
I turned to Detective Jarvis, determined that I was going to keep on doing the right things. “I need to talk to you,” I told him.
“Come with me,” he said. “I have a phone call to make.”
We left Mrs. Duffy and went to a small office that apparently had been given to Detective Jarvis for his own use.
“Sit down,” he said, so I sat at the table and studied the small computer and the fax machine while he made a call. I’d never used a fax machine, and I wondered if anybody would care if I faxed something to someone. I gave up the thought, because I didn’t know anyone who had a fax machine, so there’d be no one to fax anything to even if I could think of something to fax.
While I sat there I couldn’t help overhearing Jarvis’s conversation, so I knew he was talking to someone downtown at police headquarters.
“According to Parmegan’s account of the meeting this afternoon, Ransome wanted the other investors to stay in the deal, but they’re all wary now. It sounds like another land-flip fraud.”
He listened a moment, then said, “I talked to each of them alone. In my opinion Yamoto, Logan, and Parmegan are innocent dupes. None of them had a reason to murder Devane. Have you got anything yet on Ransome?”
Again he listened and gave a low whistle. “Some of these guys thought savings and loans were set up for their own benefit,” he grumbled. “Okay, so Ransome is as guilty of fraud as Devane, but at the moment I can’t see any motive for murder here. On the contrary, a bunch of pigeons are flying right out of his grasp. If Devane hadn’t been murdered they probably would have pulled off this scheme without a problem.”
Again he listened and made some notations in his notebook. “Yeah, swampland,” he said. “Not hard to guess.”
In a few moments he had finished his conversation and turned to me. “Okay, Liz, let’s hear it from the top.”
“That’s the way actors talk,” I told him. I’d heard Eileen say that.
His face got a little red, and he said, “I’ve been talking to actors. Maybe I picked it up from them.” He shifted in his chair and looked at his watch. “What was it you wanted to see me about?”
/>
“Could I tell you something important about the ghost in room nineteen twenty-seven?”
“No,” he said. “I haven’t time. I want to try to clear up this murder before the weekend is over and everyone lights out. I can’t keep them all here much longer.”
“But the ghost can tell you who committed the murder. The ghost is the only eyewitness.”
“Fine,” he said, with more than a hint of sarcasm—which I didn’t appreciate—and adjusted his pen so the tip came out. “Now, let’s get down to business.”
But I wasn’t through with my questions. “What happened to him?” I asked.
“What happened to who?”
“The guy who got killed in room nineteen twenty-seven a couple of years ago. You’ve been in homicide for longer than that. Do you remember the case?”
Jarvis nodded. “His name was Larry … Larry something, and he and his wife had been arguing.”
Larry. I liked knowing his name. It made him just a little bit less scary than when he was nameless. Of course, his name could have been something weird, like Vladimir or Freddy. “What was Larry’s wife’s name?” I asked.
Jarvis thought just a moment. “Linda. That’s it. Larry and Linda. Anyway, Linda lost her temper and hit Larry over the head with a large vase, I think. She hit him too hard, and as a result, was tried on a charge of voluntary manslaughter and convicted.”
“What happened to her?”
“She’s in a women’s correctional institution near Digby, just north of Houston.” Not even trying to disguise his impatience, Detective Jarvis said firmly, “That’s enough, Liz. We haven’t got time to digress anymore. I want you to tell me as carefully as you can what you saw in the lobby, starting with just before you spotted the man who was going after Randolph Hamilton.”
I told Jarvis my story over and over again. I hate the way detectives ask questions. They want to know every little tiny exact detail, and I didn’t think what had happened in the lobby was nearly as important as trying to find out who killed Frank Devane.
Finally Jarvis seemed satisfied, and he told me I could go. I hurried out into the hallway, desperate to find Fran. Where was he? I needed him.
“Hi,” Fran said behind me, making me jump a foot in the air. “What’s going on?”
I turned and grabbed his shoulders. “Fran! Where have you been?”
“In my room,” he said. “It wore me out to answer so many questions, especially since I didn’t know the answers to most of them, so when I got a chance I sneaked upstairs for a minute and kind of fell asleep. Did anything happen while I was gone?”
“I saved Randolph from a hit man.”
“Good for you,” he said. “What else is new?”
There was no point in trying to explain. Fran would find out the story soon enough. “You were right about one thing,” I admitted. “I told Detective Jarvis about the ghost being an eyewitness to the murder, and he wasn’t the least bit interested.”
“I won’t say ‘I told you so,’ ” Fran said.
“Thanks. I appreciate that.” I took a long breath, tried to steady myself, and said, “I really don’t have a choice, Fran. I’ve got to go back and talk to that ghost.”
Fran groaned and said, “In a way, I wish you wouldn’t.”
I melted. Good old Fran. Who could be nicer? Who could care more about me?
“Because if you do, I know you’re going to make me go with you,” Fran added.
I gave him a look of total disgust, but he didn’t seem to catch it. “This is something I have to do alone,” I said. “I’m the only one the ghost has ever appeared to, and he may not show up if anyone’s with me.”
“Oh, well, in that case,” Fran began.
I started to get mad at him, but he burst out laughing, so I knew he’d been teasing me all along.
“You really do care what happens to me,” I said.
“You bet I do,” Fran answered, and he grew more serious. “Liz, don’t jump at this thing too fast. When Detective Jarvis gets all the facts together, he’ll solve the case, and there probably won’t be any reason for you to have anything to do with that ghost.”
I was insistent. “Fran, there aren’t enough facts to help Jarvis solve this case, but the ghost saw whoever it was who murdered Frank Devane. What else is there to think about?”
“Come on,” he said and took my hand. “Let’s find some quiet place and talk about it.”
“Not an empty conference room with leftover food in it.”
He paused. “Okay. We’ll do it your way. Let’s go to the health club.”
As we sat again at the far end of the room, Fran said, “Let’s go about this in an orderly way. The first thing to do is list the murder suspects.”
I sighed. “That’s the trouble. There aren’t any, except for Mr. Burns, and Detective Jarvis thinks he was telling the truth and didn’t commit the murder.”
“How about Al—Albert Ransome, who helped Devane set up the meeting to fleece investors?”
“I heard Jarvis tell someone at headquarters that Ransome doesn’t have a motive, that he’d probably be better off financially if Devane hadn’t died and they’d have been able to hold the meeting the way they’d planned it. Jarvis doesn’t think Ransome’s involved in the murder.”
“What about the others in that financial thing?”
I shook my head. “He said they were innocent dupes.”
Fran had to smile at that. “I like thinking of our esteemed hotel manager as a dope—uh—dupe.”
I heard the buzz of one of the surveillance cameras and saw it turn on us. “Be quiet,” I whispered.
“They can see us, but they can’t hear what we’re saying.”
“How do you know they can’t read lips?”
“They can’t,” Fran said. “Now … to get back to suspects. What about Mrs. Duffy?”
I made a face at him. “Mrs. Duffy just commits murders on paper.”
“Does she?” Fran asked. “She’s got all those ideas in her head. What if she decided really to use one of them?”
What he said made me stop and think. “There are some strange coincidences,” I admitted. “Mrs. Duffy’s victim and the real murder victim were hit on the head, both in the same room. And there must be something in Mrs. Duffy’s script about money laundering in the Cayman Island banks, because Sherlock Holmes asked about it, and that’s one of the crimes Stephanie Harmon’s boss is going on trial for.”
“How about Stephanie Harmon?” Fran asked. “She was right next door. She could have killed him.”
“No, she couldn’t. She’s had a police officer with her every minute.”
“Every single minute?”
“Well, no,” I told him. “I mean, after she goes to bed, or when she takes a bath—stuff like that—she’s by herself, but the police officer would see her if she left the room.”
“She couldn’t sneak out?”
“How?”
“There’s a sliding glass door in her bedroom. She could have gone out on the balcony and over to the sliding glass door in the next suite and let herself in.”
“Wrong,” I said. “When the police examined the room, after Mr. Devane was murdered, they said the doors to the balcony were locked.”
I suddenly sat up straight. “Wait a minute, Fran! The Duffys had put tape across the lock of the door opening into the hallway so that their actors could take a few minutes to go up there and get familiar with the scene of the crime.”
“But how would Stephanie Harmon know that?” Fran asked.
The scene came into my mind with a rush. “Randolph was looking for Mrs. Duffy and knocked on the wrong door—Stephanie’s door. The policewoman opened it, but Stephanie saw Randolph and screamed.”
“She’s kind of high-strung. She probably screams at everything.”
“Don’t distract me,” I said. “I was going to tell you that Mrs. Duffy told Randolph he could have gone into the scene of the crime, because they’d pu
t tape across the lock so the actors could get into the room without a key.”
“Stephanie could have heard her?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think she could have sneaked away from her bodyguard and gone into the room next door?”
I sighed. “I don’t see how. Besides, there’s still a big, unanswered question, and that is, what was Mr. Devane doing in room nineteen twenty-seven?” An idea began wiggling in my mind, and it started to get close enough so I could almost catch it, but just then Tina came to join us and I lost the thought.
She slid into a chair and said, “I saw you here on the monitor, and I just had to tell you, Liz, that what you did was fantastic.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“I mean, you risked your life to save Randolph Hamilton’s. That was awfully brave of you.”
“I really wasn’t brave,” I said. “I just saw the man coming with a gun and acted without thinking.”
Fran’s head swiveled back and forth as though Tina and I were playing catch. “Okay,” he finally said. “What are we talking about?”
Tina looked surprised. “Liz kept a hit man from killing Randolph. Didn’t she tell you?”
“Well, yeah,” Fran said, “I guess she did, but …”
“It takes you a while to catch on, huh?” Tina asked.
“Aw, come on,” Fran mumbled.
Tina giggled. “You could phone in your answer, but you’re one number short.”
“Oh, yeah,” Fran said and grinned. “Well, let me tell you—”
Suddenly the thought in my mind took shape, and I cried out, “Wait a minute! Fran! Tina! Everyone’s been talking about phone calls. You, Detective Jarvis, Lamar. Even the ghost was holding a telephone.”
Tina put on her authoritative expression and said, “We’ve already discussed the symbolism in that action.”
“What if it wasn’t symbolism? What if the ghost was trying to tell me something real?”
“Like what?” Fran asked.
“Like the fact that someone in room nineteen twenty-seven had been using the telephone.”
“That’s hardly news. Everybody uses the telephone,” Tina said.
The Weekend Was Murder Page 12
