The Readaholics and the Gothic Gala

by Laura Disilverio

  Faint knocking and indistinct voices drifted from the second floor, and I paused with my hand on the knob. I realized someone was going door-to-door upstairs. Doors opened and closed, and footsteps shuffled. I turned and looked up to see Constance and Allyson standing on the landing at the top of the stairs. The Stewarts, Cosmo Zeller, and Francesca Bugle, all looking curious, gaggled behind them. Constance and Allyson started down, with Allyson carrying a wicker basket.

  “Wait,” Constance told me and Maud. “Allyson has a few things she wants to return.” Constance gripped the banister so hard the bones of her hand stood out white against the thin flesh.

  I wondered how many times she’d played out some version of this same scene.

  “Merle,” she said, surging into the breakfast room, “get Sandy and Dave. I think that’s everybody, right, Allyson?”

  Without looking up, Allyson nodded. We all trooped into the cheery room, bright with sunlight streaming through the side window. Allyson set the wicker basket on the nearest breakfast table, and then shuffled back a few steps, as if to dissociate herself from its contents.

  “What did you say this is about again?” Lucas Stewart asked. He wore a raggedy T-shirt, flannel pajama bottoms, and flip-flops, and his hair was damp. I figured he’d just gotten out of the shower. He looked unbearably hot, but his hotness didn’t affect me nearly so much now that I knew how he and Mary had conned Eloise Hufnagle. It was almost as if the knowledge had smudged the sharp lines of his cheekbones, dulled the blue of his eyes, or softened the muscular planes of his chest. Impossible of course, but he definitely didn’t seem as handsome as he had when I’d first seen him at Book Bliss.

  Mary approached the table and rattled the basket. “What’s in here?” She started poking through the contents as Merle returned, bringing Sandy Milliken and her husband, Dave. A big man, Dave was clearly still suffering from his cold, honking his nose loudly into a tissue as he entered.

  Several “bless yous” welcomed him.

  “I’ve got an important conference call with the studio,” Cosmo said impatiently. “What’s this all about?” He sat in a chair pulled out from a table, ankle resting on his knee, foot jiggling.

  Allyson gave her mother a pleading look, but Constance shook her head resolutely. Merle, plucking at his beard, said, “You can do it, baby.”

  With a fleeting smile for her father, Allyson straightened her shoulders and said, “I’ve, uh, collected a few things here that, uh, might belong to some of you. I, uh, wanted to make sure you got them back.” Without further explanation, she gestured limply toward the wicker basket.

  I saw Maud whispering to Sandy by the door. Sandy at first looked taken aback, then nodded slowly. She walked toward the table as everyone else hung back. Peering into the basket, she shifted a couple of items and then lifted a snow globe. She shook it vigorously so the “snow” became a blizzard obscuring the pagoda inside. “My paperweight,” she said. “I’m so glad you found it for me, Allyson.” She leaned over to hug the girl.

  Allyson stiffened, her eyes wide with surprise, and then returned Sandy’s hug awkwardly. I shot a look at Maud, who had her arms crossed over her chest and a satisfied smile on her face. I didn’t know what she’d said to Sandy, but it had apparently convinced the B and B owner to be charitable. “And, look, Dave,” Sandy said, returning to the basket and rooting through it again. “Here’s that ugly shot glass you’ve been looking for, the one from that bar in Texas. I was hoping it was lost for good.”

  Dave greeted the return of his shot glass with a massive sneeze. The glass tumbled out of his paw and bounced across the carpet toward me. I picked it up, noting the grinning skull etched in the glass above the words “Dead Man’s Saloon,” and the tarnished silver rim. “Is it broken?” Sandy asked hopefully.

  I shook my head, and she heaved an exaggerated sigh.

  Dave, mumbling something about “more Sudafed,” bore his prize away in the direction of the kitchen and their living quarters.

  Mary Stewart looked into the basket next, and pulled out a silver bangle bracelet and a travel alarm clock with an iridescent face. “I thought I’d forgotten to bring my clock,” she exclaimed. “And my bracelet.” Her long, narrow eyes took in Allyson’s discomfort. “I could swear I never even took this out of my suitcase, so I can’t imagine how you came to find it. I simply can’t imagine.” She faced Constance as she said it, rather than Allyson, and I could tell she was wondering how she could use the situation to her benefit. I figured she’d be hitting Constance up for a quote for her next book, or another joint signing, before the day was over.

  Whatever Constance might have said was preempted by Lucas’s exclamation. “My Super Tool!” He pulled out each of the blades and gadgets from a lethal-looking Swiss Army–type knife, as if to assure himself they were all there. He polished the longest blade with the hem of his shirt, rubbing at something sticky. “Where did you get this?” His gaze skewered Allyson.

  The girl seemed to shrink in on herself. “I—I sometimes—I never remember exactly. . . .” She trailed off. Lucas looked like he would pursue it, but Mary, perhaps taking her cue from Sandy, put a hand on his arm and shook her head.

  Curious myself, I walked to the table, and looked into the basket. I was surprised to see something I recognized. “Hey, my sunglasses.” I plucked them out, and slid them atop my head. “I’ve been looking for these—couldn’t imagine where I left them.”

  Maud approached and looked over my shoulder. “Nope, nothing of mine,” she said. I wasn’t surprised; Maud secured her glasses, pens, and whatnot in the multiple pockets of her cargo pants, and rarely misplaced anything.

  Francesca Bugle, looking more casual than I’d yet seen her in a pair of stiff jeans topped with a Blackhawks sweatshirt, strode forward. Without the ubiquitous hats, her hair was a solid dark brown, devoid of highlights or grays, that hinted at a home dye job. Without ceremony, she examined the basket’s contents, and pulled out a silver-framed three-by-five photo with a little gasp. Before she clasped it to her bosom, I caught a glimpse of a grinning young man leaning against a highly polished car of 1980s vintage. “My brother,” Francesca said. “I didn’t even miss this until this morning.”

  Newly suspicious of “brothers” and “sisters” because of the Stewarts, I cocked a doubtful brow, but when she held the photo out to show everyone, I could see the young man looked enough like her to be her twin. Clutching the frame in one hand, Francesca moved toward Allyson. The young woman looked nervously up through her lashes at the older woman’s approach.

  “You’re a klepto, I take it,” Francesca said.

  The word jolted all of us, I think, but there was no judgment or condemnation in her voice.

  Still as a mouse facing a cat, Allyson slid her eyes sideways, looking to her mother for guidance. Constance looked like she was going to leap to her daughter’s defense, but Merle stopped her with a hand on her arm.

  “That’s got to be miserable, and if you don’t want to talk about it, I understand,” Francesca said, either unaware of or ignoring the family byplay. “But I’d love to talk to you about it before I leave. I’ve just realized that making my protagonist’s best friend a kleptomaniac in the follow-on to Barbary Close would open up all sorts of plot possibilities. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. I was debating whether to make her an alcoholic or give her a gambling addiction, but those are so overdone.” Enthusiasm made her talk faster. “Is kleptomania considered an illness like alcoholism? When did you come down with it? No, that’s probably not the way to phrase it, is it?” She laughed heartily at herself. “When did you first know? What are the treatments? Obviously, they don’t always work.”

  Constance drew herself up, prepared to be offended, but Francesca was so clearly following a train of thought and not meaning to offend that Constance deflated without saying anything.

  “How has it affec
ted your life, your relationships?” Francesca stopped herself with another laugh. “I have dozens of questions, but you probably don’t want to talk about it here.” She gestured to those of us staring with varying degrees of incredulity or surprise. “Can we talk in your room? When you’re done here?”

  Allyson gave a tiny nod, apparently never having met with quite this enthusiastic reaction to her disorder. “Ten minutes?” she whispered.

  “Perfect.” Carrying her brother’s photo, Francesca sailed from the room, thumbing her smartphone as she went, undoubtedly looking up “kleptomania.”

  Sandy, anxious to move things along, turned to Cosmo Zeller. “Mr. Zeller, want to have a look?”

  “I’m not missing anything,” he said, a hint of distaste in his voice for the process. “But okay.” He unfolded himself from the chair, and crossed to the table. “Nothing left in here but a set of keys,” he said, upending the basket so the key ring jangled to the table. He nudged the keys with a forefinger. “Not mine.” He skidded the basket across the table’s polished top. “This has been entertaining, but I’ve got that phone call.” Already pulling his cell phone from a pocket, he was punching a number in as he headed out of the room and out the front door. It closed heavily behind him.

  Closest to the table, I picked up the keys and shook them, looking inquiringly at the people left in the room. Everyone shook their heads. Lucas said, “I’ve got to get dressed,” and walked toward the stairs. Mary followed him a moment later. Merle and Constance, clearly relieved that no one was going to press charges against Allyson this time, drifted out, herding Allyson ahead of them. Sandy, probably also relieved that no one was going to sue the inn for the thefts, came forward to take the keys from me. She hefted them in one hand, puzzled.

  “I don’t think I know anyone who drives a Volkswagen,” she said after inspecting them.

  The word hit me like a gust of cold air. “A Volkswagen? Are you sure?”

  “Of course. Look.” Sandy held one key out, and I saw the distinctive V over the W logo. “What’s so exciting about a VW?” she asked, apparently picking up on something in my expression.

  Maud had come up to us and she explained, “The man who was killed last Saturday drove a VW station wagon. His keys weren’t found.”

  “You think these are them?” Sandy was so surprised she dropped the key ring.

  I pulled a pen from my purse and hooked it through the ring, a case of too little, too late, since Sandy, Cosmo, and I had all handled the keys. Allyson, too, undoubtedly.

  Maud fished her cell phone from a side pocket of her cargo pants. “I should put the HPD on speed dial,” she said, calling the police.

  * * *

  Already so late that I was going to have to sacrifice my shower, I left Maud to talk to the police, and broke a speed limit or two on my way home. At my house, I shucked my clothes, slicked on more deodorant in lieu of a shower, twisted my copper hair into a high bun, threw on the not-quite-knee-length black dress that was my fallback for many events, flicked on mascara, and dashed out the door again, headed for the Club. I was in and out of the house in four minutes flat. Thank goodness I’d had the sense not to adopt Misty or any other pet. If everything was in order, which I believed it would be, I might have a few minutes to look for the mysterious package before the event kicked off. I put my pedal to the metal.

  Chapter 22

  Unfortunately, everything was not as shipshape as usual at the Club. Wallace Pinnecoose was out with the flu, and his new deputy was in charge. The young man was a recent graduate from the school of hospitality at the University of Denver, and he was smart and hardworking, but not very experienced. As a result, the staff had started setting up the tables in the Club’s smaller party room too late, and half of them were still not finished when Al and I arrived. We took in the situation at a glance, and began to flap tablecloths over bare tables and slap silverware down. The centerpieces, delivered by a local florist, had been left in a sunny spot on the loading dock, and were sadly wilted. I commandeered two busboys and a dishwasher and put them to work reviving the arrangements with a trick Lola had taught me. We pulled the flowers from the vases, trimmed the stems with sharp knives, added cold water and three teaspoons of sugar to each vase, and reinserted the flowers. Luckily, there were only ten tables’ worth of centerpieces to do. My dress was water-splotched (which is why I usually wear black or navy to events) and my fingers were pricked and bleeding in several spots from rose thorns by the time we finished. We had barely set the last vase onto the last table when the honoree and his family arrived. I greeted them, went over the schedule of events with them (receiving line, toasts from preselected relatives and friends, slide show of the honoree from infanthood to the present day, dinner, opening of gag gifts, birthday cake, dancing), and gave Al a few last-minute instructions.

  “I am not doing this when I turn fifty,” Al said. He looked absurdly young in his black suit with the smiley face suspenders and bow tie. “I’ll have all my friends over to the house—I’ll own one by then, with any luck—throw some steaks on the grill, and tell them to help themselves to some brews from the cooler. Then maybe we’ll play the mid-twenty-first-century version of World of Warcraft. This is too”—he searched for a word—“formal.”

  “Fusty.”

  “Stiff.”

  “Prim and proper.”

  Our vocabulary game was interrupted by a waiter as he banged through the swinging door near where we stood, and almost let a tray loaded with Caesar salads fall. After helping him right the tray, I told Al, “Hold down the fort for a few, would you? I’m going to take a look around.”

  Al perked up, his curiosity aroused. “What for?”

  “I don’t know exactly,” I admitted. “Treasure.”

  “Buried?”

  “I hope not.” Without waiting for more questions, I strolled away. Could Van Allen have buried whatever it was, in a sand trap maybe? No, that was ludicrous. Too hard, too risky. No, if the package was here, it was inside the Club, somewhere the casual visitor or staff member wouldn’t trip over it, somewhere a guest could plausibly be, somewhere easy to access. When I added up those three requirements in my head, it left only a handful of places to search. Trying to be nonchalant, I lifted the cushions on the sofas and chairs in the lobby; asked Wallace’s deputy if there was anything unclaimed in the lost and found and sorted through the box of sunglasses, golf visors, expensive pens, swim goggles, iPods, orphan earrings, and miscellaneous other detritus (none of which seemed to fit the bill); asked Danny at the main bar if he’d stumbled across anything; twitched aside the heavy drapes to see if they hid anything; and admitted defeat as dinner was winding up and the staff rolled the cake in on a trolley, fifty candles blazing. I was forced to admit that I’d been wrong: Van Allen had not hidden the package he’d mailed to Sharla in the Club, or if he had, he’d retrieved it before meeting the killer and it was gone for good. My spirits slumped and I wished I could ditch the rest of this shindig and go to Hart’s place right now.

  The birthday boy almost missed the opportunity to huff and puff and blow out the candles; he came strolling in as the staff parked the trolley at the front of the room, and his wife looked around for him. Wiping his hands down the sides of his legs, he trotted toward the front, taking bets on whether he could extinguish all the candles in one breath. I smiled, tickled that he’d almost missed his big moment because he’d been in the men’s room.

  Wham! It hit me like a charging moose. The men’s room. Allyson had seen a man come out of the bathroom near Wallace’s office. Her description had been generic, but it could fit Trent Van Allen. I knew where he’d hidden the package. Taking a quick look around the room to ensure everything was going smoothly, I slipped out the door. Once outside the party room, I dashed for the bathroom.

  It was only when I was standing in front of the men’s room that I realized I might have been smart to bring Al w
ith me. I mean—men’s room. I stared at the door with its masculine silhouette for a moment, nerving myself. In the end, my need to know now trumped my nerves. I pushed the swinging door inward two inches and called out, “Hello?”

  When there was no answer, I looked up and down the hall again, and slipped through the door. The men’s room was an attractive facility, with large gray stone tiles on the floor and smaller blue and gray tiles on the walls to waist height. Strong lighting illuminated the three stalls, five urinals, and three sinks with a long mirror over them. It smelled of lavender cleaning products and something mustier that I couldn’t identify. At first glance, there didn’t appear to be much of anyplace to hide a nine-by-twelve-inch item. The plumbing beneath the sinks was exposed—no cabinets to hide anything. The paper towel holders looked most promising and I broke a fingernail before I figured out how to prize off the top of the metal containers. Nothing in the first one but half an inch of paper towels. I moved to the second one and had just lifted the lid off when the door swung open with a whoosh.

  Startled, I dropped the metal top and it clanged against the sink and then rattled loudly on the floor. The astonished gentleman at the door, zipper half-undone, met my gaze and stuttered, “Must have the wrong—so sorry—”

  “No, I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m, uh, restocking the paper towels. I can come back in a minute—”

  “No need. I’ll use the bathroom by the pro shop.” He fled before I could apologize again or get out of his way.

  Feeling embarrassed and guilty, I peeked into the top of the second paper towel container. Nothing visible. I lifted up a handful of towels to reveal . . . more towels. With a discouraged sigh, I retrieved the lid from where it had skittered into a stall and replaced it. Hands on my hips, I surveyed the room an inch at a time. No janitorial closet, no lockers, everything in plain sight. Except . . . I stepped into the first stall and stared at the tank. Cops on TV shows and in books were always finding hidden drugs in toilet tanks. It was worth a look.