“He may not have drowned,” Lamar said.
The two paramedics stood up. One moved toward a folding stretcher on wheels, but Lamar stepped into his way. “The police are coming,” he said. “Leave the body where it is.”
“We haven’t got all night,” the paramedic said.
“You have if we say you have,” Lamar said. Even with his squishy shoes he was in total command. The guy shrugged, muttered “Okay,” and moved back from the steps to where his partner was standing.
There was silence for an instant, the way it sometimes is at parties when everyone stops speaking at once. But it didn’t stay silent for long.
“Pete, make the bar check,” Lamar ordered. “Nate, back on the cameras. No one’s in the office, and you’re supposed to be on duty there. Tina”—he paused for just an instant and glanced in my direction—“Tina, you’re off duty now. You can go home, or you can stick around for a while.”
“I’ll stay with Liz,” Tina said, getting the message.
“You don’t have to,” I told her.
“I want to,” she answered. She took my hand and led me to one of the tables away from the pool. Fronds of a large potted palm provided an interlaced green barrier between Mr. Kamara’s body and us. Tina glanced at the palm a couple of times as though trying to convince herself that we couldn’t see the steps of the pool. She huddled back into the web-backed chair and said, “We’ll wait here. By the way, where’s your short friend?”
“Fran had to go home as soon as he got off duty. His family was entertaining visiting relatives.”
“Speaking of relatives, have your parents come back from their trip yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Want me to call them?”
I wanted it more than anything I could think of, but I shook my head. “No. Dad can’t interrupt an important business trip just because … because of Mr. Kamara.”
“If you’re afraid of a guilt trip,” she began, but thankfully the door from the hotel opened, and two uniformed police officers came through. They were halfway to the pool when the door opened again and there was Detective Jarvis with another shorter, stockier man who walked the way a policeman walks, with his arms slightly held out from his body. It had to be Detective Jarvis’s partner.
He was. Detective Jarvis introduced him to me. Detective Robert Morgan. He nodded at me, then walked over to the body and talked to the paramedics. Jarvis conferred with Lamar, examined Mr. Kamara’s body, front and back, and went through the pockets of his robe, coming up empty handed.
Then attention was focused on me. I found myself repeating my story, then repeating it again. As I retold it the third time, I realized that most of the shock had been squeezed from my body by my own words, which came out as sour and dry as brittle, brown bay leaves.
“Was Mr. Kamara in the habit of going swimming after club hours?” Detective Jarvis asked.
“He’s never done it since I’ve worked here,” I said.
“I can answer that,” Lamar said. “No one is allowed in the pool after closing time, and that includes Mr. Kamara.”
“But his robe and thongs are exactly the way he always left them,” I said.
Detective Jarvis turned to the paramedics and motioned toward the body. They immediately covered the body, swung it over to the stretcher, and raised it up on its wheels.
“Please take the side door out,” Lamar said.
“Yeah, yeah, that’s where the dispatcher told us you said to park the Vehicle,” one of the men drawled. “Don’t worry. We won’t be going through your lobby.”
They didn’t seem upset at dealing with a dead body. Maybe that was so much a part of their job that they got used to it. Or maybe they had learned to cover all the deep, twisting horror and hurt that surely must shiver inside them.
I must have spoken my thoughts aloud as I watched them wheel Mr. Kamara’s body out of the health club, because Detective Jarvis, who stood next to me, murmured, “If the day ever comes when I don’t feel something, I’ll quit.”
“It’s an unhealthy instinct to try to cover one’s normal emotions,” Tina said. “I was glad to find out you had cried, Liz. That was healthy.”
Detective Morgan said a few words to Detective Jarvis, then walked out with the paramedics.
Jarvis turned to Lamar. “Thanks for the information and the descriptions of the men whom Mary Elizabeth saw.” He nodded toward me. “Those were good, clear, helpful descriptions.”
“They weren’t my descriptions,” I told him. “A couple of women who were in the club gave Mr. Boudry those descriptions.”
“They took in a lot of detail. Tell them I said, good work.”
“They’ll like that,” I answered. I looked at Lamar. “Could I go home now?”
“In just a moment,” he said, “as soon as you give us Mr. Kamara’s locker number.” Lamar turned to Detective Jarvis. “You’ll want to look in his locker, won’t you?”
“Yes,” Detective Jarvis said. “Any need for a warrant?”
“No,” Lamar said, “because the lockers are the property of the health club, which is the property of the hotel. Anyone using a locker is using it courtesy of the hotel.”
Detective Jarvis nodded. “Same setup for his room.”
“Right.”
“Might as well get with it.”
They both looked at me. “There’s a book in the top drawer with the locker assignments in it,” I said. “I’ll get Mr. Kamara’s number for you.” I took two steps toward the office, then turned back to them. “Why are you doing all this investigating? Just because he drowned?”
“We’re not sure that he drowned,” Detective Jarvis said. “We’ll get the facts from the medical examiner tomorrow.”
They looked at each other as though they both knew something the rest of us didn’t know.
“Why aren’t you sure?” I asked.
“Because,” Detective Jarvis said, “Mr. Boudry and I noticed a slight depression on the back of Mr. Kamara’s head. Maybe he slipped and bumped his head as he fell into the pool, or maybe …”
He stopped, and Lamar finished the sentence, “Or maybe somebody else put that bruise there.”
“Murder?” Tina’s voice was overloud and echoed through the room.
Lamar shrugged and said, “If Mary Elizabeth will get Kamara’s locker number for us …”
I got it in a hurry. I also got the spare key for the lock and led the way to the end of the men’s locker room. It was the last locker on the top row. I stood back while Detective Jarvis opened the locker.
But all the time I was doing this I was reliving what had happened. I could see myself flooding the area with light, discovering Mr. Kamara’s body, and pulling it to the steps. His blank eyes kept staring into mine. I had never seen a dead person. I felt sick to my stomach and wished I could wake up and find this had never happened.
There wasn’t much in the locker. A short-sleeved sport shirt, one rubber thong, and a half-empty bottle of expensive men’s cologne.
“It doesn’t tell us much,” Detective Jarvis said.
“It does in a way,” I said.
“How do you mean?”
“Something’s missing. The wallet. Mr. Kamara’s wallet and room key should be in the locker. People from the hotel usually get locks for their lockers and put their wallets and room keys in them. People rarely leave wallets in their hotel rooms. Mr. Kamara never did.”
“Good point,” Tina said. She tried to smile at me and didn’t quite make it. In spite of being older and working in security, it was obvious that she felt as miserable as I did.
“It’s a very good point,” Detective Jarvis said. He made a notation in his notebook.
“This whole thing is weird,” I said. “You didn’t find his wallet or room key in his robe pockets, did you? And they aren’t here. He wouldn’t have left his room without both of them—especially the key. He’d need the key to get back into his room.”
“So it really
was murder,” Tina whispered. One corner of her mouth twisted down and she choked out, “Excuse me. I’m going to the ladies’ room.” She turned and ran.
“Should I go with her?” I asked Jarvis.
“She’ll be all right,” he said. “How about you? You don’t look any better than she did.”
I backed up and sat on one of the wooden benches that stretched down the middle of the dressing room. I took a couple of deep breaths. It didn’t help. In spite of the air conditioning that circulated the air through the club, the dressing room still stank of wet feet and deodorant soap and dirty, wet towels. And Mr. Kamara’s dark eyes were still staring into mine.
“Real murder’s not like a murder in a Chevy Chase movie,” I said.
“No, it’s not,” Detective Jarvis answered.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I think—” I bolted after Tina.
A few minutes later, as we splashed cold water on our faces, Tina said, “It’s a normal reaction for the mind and the body to cooperate in rejecting that which they do not want to accept.”
“Oh, come on, Tina,” I said, mopping up my face with a clean towel, “why can’t you just face it that we threw up?”
For a moment I thought she was going to cry. “An efficient security guard should be in total control at all times.”
“Only Lamar,” I said. “He’s one of a kind.” I took her shoulders and smiled at her. “Hey, you’re a nice, normal person, and you reacted the way a nice, normal person would. Remember what Detective Jarvis said? That if he didn’t feel something he’d quit?”
“I guess,” Tina said. She pushed a strand of hair back from her face and stared at me in the mirror. “I’m not going to be a security guard forever. I’m going to work hard and get my degree. And I’m not going to be just any old average psychologist either. I’m going to write books to help people and become rich and famous. You’ll see me on TV.”
“I’ll watch for you.”
She attempted to smile, and the corners of her mouth quivered. “When I start my practice, how would you like to be my assistant?”
“You’d lose your patients,” I said. “You’ll need a serene assistant, not someone who drops things and falls over coffee tables.”
“Basically,” she said, “awkwardness comes from your mind not being willing to adjust quickly to rapid body growth, which comes right down to a bottom line of insecurity. You need a stronger self-image. Have you thought about—”
“Let’s go, Tina.” I tugged at her hand. “If Detective Jarvis doesn’t need us any longer, I want to go home.”
He and Lamar were in the health-club office. Jarvis gave Tina and me a quick glance. “Anything else you can think of to tell me? Anything else you know that Mr. Kamara had or did?”
“No,” I said.
“Thanks for staying,” he said. “You can go home now.”
I squeezed around him and sat at the desk. I unlocked the bottom drawer and removed my purse, locked it again, and dropped the key into its place in the top, middle desk drawer.
“Let us know what you find out,” I said.
“We will,” Jarvis said.
It was past midnight. At this time no one was at the employee check-out station, so Tina and I quickly went through and to our cars. She waved at me as she drove off.
Even with the bright arc lights in the parking lot it was lonely and scary. I fumbled with numb fingers, trying to start Old Junk Bucket, and gave a yelp of relief when his motor finally took hold.
It wasn’t until I was safely home, inside the house, my back against the locked door and the living-room lights on, that I could begin to let go. I shivered, wrapping my arms around myself, and allowed myself to cry.
I fished inside my plastic purse for a tissue, but my fingers bumped the small box that held the cloisonné locket. I took out the box, opened it, and examined the locket as it winked and glimmered in the lamplight.
It was strange, too, the way Mr. Kamara had given me the locket with such a peculiar delight. I wondered. Should I have told Detective Jarvis about this locket?
I promised myself to sleep late the next morning. Promises about sleeping late aren’t any good if you don’t spread the word around to people who could help you keep them.
Mom called.
“Mmmmph,” I breathed into the telephone, trying to untangle my legs from the sheet and keep from falling out of bed at the same time.
“What are you doing, sweetheart?” Mom asked.
“Sleeping,” I managed to grunt.
“At this hour?” Mom’s voice rose in surprise. “Why, it’s after ten-thirty! Almost twenty to eleven! Are you feeling all right?”
“Sleepy,” I said.
“Goodness,” Mom said, “you’re wasting the best part of the day.”
“Morning people always say irritating things like that,” I told her, and giggled, because I sounded like Tina and her pop psychology.
Mom giggled too. “I’ll let you get back to sleep,” she said, “if you tell me one thing. How are you? Is everything all right? The dishwasher isn’t acting up again, is it? Do you need anything?”
“That’s more than one thing, and everything’s fine,” I said.
Mom sighed. “You’re a young woman now, Liz. I shouldn’t worry about you. Your father says to me over and over, ‘Nothing’s going to happen to Liz. She’s fine.’ ”
“I’m fine,” I said.
“Are you eating properly?”
“Mom!” I was more awake now. “You promised you wouldn’t ask me that.”
“Well, I just don’t want you living on junk food. I bought all those nice vegetables and that big bag of Golden Delicious apples. You love apples, I know. You are enjoying the apples, aren’t you?”
“Constantly,” I said. “I slice them on my pizza.”
“Mary Elizabeth,” Mom said, “I love you, and I miss you, Take good care of yourself.”
“I will until you get home, Mom, and then I’ll give up and let you do it,” I said.
She laughed. “Your father sends his love too.”
“I love you both,” I said. “Good-bye, Mom.”
“Good-bye, sweetheart,” she said, and we hung up together.
For a moment I snuggled back into the blanket, feeling cosy and warm from both the blanket and from Mom’s voice. But I was awake enough now to remember, and the remembrance of last night was like a cold bucket of water dumped on my head.
I couldn’t stay in bed another moment. I washed my hair, rubbed some mousse into it, and set it on hot rollers. Then I put some green stuff on my nose and chin. It looked kind of sickening, but I’d bought it after reading that it banished zits forever. I pulled on my old jeans and my favorite T-shirt printed with NOBODY’S PERFECT and went into the kitchen to make breakfast.
The open refrigerator was yawning at me when the doorbell rang. I knew who that would be. Mrs. Zellendorf. I had got in awfully late last night, and I bet she knew all about it. How can you be independent and at the same time have a next-door neighbor checking on you?
In my bare feet I padded down the hall to the front door and threw it wide open. There stood Fran. He was holding a sack of doughnuts.
He blinked, then smiled. “You’re a walking advertisement for your T-shirt,” he said.
“I thought you were Mrs. Zellendorf.”
“Do we look alike?”
“No. But—”
“If I were Mrs. Zellendorf, would you invite me in?”
“Well, sure, but—”
“Hi,” he said. “I’m Mrs. Zellendorf.”
I had to giggle. “Come in, Fran. Go straight back to the kitchen. Just excuse me for a moment.”
“Don’t change on my account,” he said. “You look good to me even with that sickening guck on your face.”
I washed my face, put on a little bit of blusher and blue eye shadow, and combed out my hair. “Why?” I asked my reflection, peering nose to nose in the mirror. “Why do you care? It’s jus
t Fran.”
The mirror didn’t say a word, so I joined Fran in the kitchen. He had already poured two glasses of milk and put the sack of doughnuts on the table.
“Where do you keep the paper napkins?” he asked.
I got the napkins and plates, sat across from him, and fished out a jelly doughnut.
“I had to get out of the house,” Fran said, his mouth full of doughnut. “My uncle’s six feet five, and he intimidates me.”
“I can’t imagine anyone intimidating you.” I took a big bite, and the tart raspberry jelly exploded into my mouth.
“Uncle Ralph does, but he proves my theory. I asked him how he did in school, and he said okay. Just okay. I asked if he worried about being only okay, and he said it didn’t bother him at all, because he spent most of his time playing first string on the football team. See what I mean? No stress, no worries, and he gets to be six feet five.”
“Then why don’t you just stop worrying about school?” I asked.
“It may be too late,” he said glumly. He licked his fingers and added, “Either your nose is bleeding, or you missed with the jelly in your doughnut.”
I wiped off my nose and pulled a second doughnut from the bag. Fran did too.
He took another bite and said, “I thought about you last night. I hoped you wouldn’t be afraid, and I wished I could be with you. I missed you. So—how did it go?”
I dropped my doughnut and burst into tears.
In an instant Fran was beside me, his arms around me. He kept murmuring little snuggly things into my neck. “You missed me too, huh? It’s okay. I’m here now. Don’t cry.”
I pulled back, grabbed my napkin, which was gritty with granulated sugar, wiped my eyes, and blew my nose. “I’m not crying about you, Fran,” I said. “Sit down, and I’ll tell you what happened.”
As I recounted the story, Fran leaned forward with interest. “There goes your theory about Mr. Kamara being the one who orchestrated all the crimes.”
“Not necessarily,” I said. “Maybe that’s why he was killed.”
“By whom?”
“I’m not sure.”
“And why?”
“There are a few things about this case I don’t know yet,” I said.
The Dark and Deadly Pool Page 10
