"You mean the Powells, right? You mean the Powells may find it."
"Either way," he said. "The important thing to me is my comeback. And mark my words. Before you know it, Attack of the Alien Caterpillar is going to be the talk at all the conventions. Hell, I'm gonna be bigger than Wes Craven."
Wait a minute. "Did you just say 'alien caterpillar?'"
"Attack of the Alien Caterpillar. That's the name of my next horror project. It's all about how things can just really get outta hand if we don't do something fast. The pitch is: When the organization that's been protecting their species is driven under by corporate greed, a virus mutates the alien worms, and humans are suddenly the prey, not the predators. Don't you just love it?"
"Was that what I inked this morning? A little green alien caterpillar? Not a Martian?"
"Martian?" He snorted. "No. It was the Lepidoptera Alien Caterpillar." He nodded, pleased with himself, looking about as self-satisfied as I'd ever seen anyone look. "It's going to be huge. The guy who brought it to me is—"
"Incarcerated, by any chance?"
"Why, yes."
"Oh no, Mr. Holly—Goodwin, I don't know how to tell you this, but ironically I've run across this same person before. Many of us here at Mystic Isle have. We had some trouble here at Mystic Isle a while back. Bad trouble, and he was involved. This man isn't exactly what he represents himself to be."
"You know him? Man, what a small world. But don't worry." He waved me off. "I know the whole story already. The guy's an environmentalist who's been persecuted for his efforts to save a species most people don't want saved. He even made me an honorary member of the organization he'd founded to keep the creepy, crazy-looking little maggot going strong—Society for the Preservation of the Lepidoptera Alien Caterpillar. Mouthful, huh?"
He went on, droning about how destructive our species was, how we were destroying the planet, and how the screenplay this guy had written brought all this to the forefront in a scary, funny way that was going to knock everybody's socks right off their feet. "Even better than Tremors," he said.
At least that was pretty much what I thought he'd been saying. I was suddenly so distracted I only caught about every third word. What I'd told the director was the truth. I'd definitely encountered the caterpillar guy before, and he really hadn't been what he'd presented himself to be.
But that wasn't what had me standing there unable to focus.
Society for the Preservation of the Lepidoptera Alien Caterpillar. In my mind's eye I was seeing the pin I'd found in the parlor at Harry's place, the letters—SPLAC—designed to curve into letter art. And with that odd little dome at the front, I could see it now for what it was intended to be. The Lepidoptera Alien Caterpillar. I couldn't believe I hadn't put it together before. Granted, the picture Roger had presented for his tattoo only looked somewhat like the real caterpillar.
"Mark my words." He was still talking, oblivious to the fact that I was putting together a scenario where he could be a murderer. "Insects will be here long after we're not around anymore, and I'm going to be the one who brings humanity to that realization, and it's going to make me famous. Famous. And rich as Bill Gates." He grinned. "Well, maybe close." He stopped smiling. "What? Something wrong?"
"No," I managed. Then I took a breath and asked, "Say, Mr. Goodwin, when the Powells went over to Harry Villars' house looking for the letter, did you and your film crew go with them?"
He shook his head. "No. I've never been in that house. I tend not to film beyond police lines. Cops'll confiscate the footage. Doesn't work out all that great."
SPLAC.
I've never been in that house, he'd said. But I knew that was a lie.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Even though I was trying so hard not to, I must have been looking at him strangely. "What's wrong?" he asked.
"Nothing." My voice cracked like a fourteen-year-old boy's. "Nothing. Why?"
"Well, honey, you're looking at me like I just crawled out of that swamp out there."
"It's just…" I couldn't think of anything to say.
The band started up again, this time with "Thriller." At the familiar introductory chords, people who were sitting got up on their feet and began to move toward the center of the room where a dance mob formed. The music was loud and fast, and the guests all cheered and clapped and began to move together in the familiar choreography.
Goodwin was still staring at me.
I took a step back away from him. Two. "Well, it's been real nice talking to you, but I need to…uh…"
"Hang on a minute." He took hold of my arm in a viselike grip. "Come with me. Something I wanted to ask you about those secret passages we talked about this morning." The flat tone of his voice frightened me.
The crowd around us was still moving as he strong-armed me toward a nearby side door. I pulled and twisted, but we were out and moving down the hall before I could react further.
"Too smart for your own good, aren't you?" His voice gritted beside my ear. "How did you know?"
I wouldn't have thought he was so strong, too strong to break his hold on me anyway. "I found your Spee-lac pin. You must have dropped it when you murdered Elroy."
He cursed. "It doesn't matter anymore. You're going to show me these corridors behind the wall and any possible places that letter might have been hidden."
We'd gone a ways back toward the main lobby yet hadn't seen a single soul. Not a bellboy, or clerk, or room service waiter. Where was everyone? It was like we'd left every guest and every employee behind in the ballroom.
I struggled against him. "Why should I show you anything?"
"You will if you know what's good for you or for your friends who live in the house where Elroy Villars died. Those two men are your friends, aren't they? It would be a terrible thing if some night that pretty little house blew up with those two in it."
Oh no. Harry? Fabrizio? Not to mention—me?
My face must have reflected my dread because he shook me again. "Now take me where we can get in behind the walls. That letter was moved from under the house. I don't know when, but I have this feeling I do know where, somewhere in the dark hallways only a very few know of."
I thought he was wrong. He'd never been in the back passageways of the resort. I had and honestly couldn't think of anywhere back there to hide something—unless you took the time to pull down the wallpaper and cut a hole in the drywall. And how stealthy was that?
I led him to one of the back passage entrances.
When we stopped in front of a big wall of bookshelves, Roger said, "Really? Just like in the movies, eh?" He gave me a good shake. "Show me."
I found the handhold and swung out the middle section of shelves to reveal the doorway behind it.
Roger laughed softly and pushed me inside, holding me with one hand and pulling the panel closed behind us. We stood in almost complete darkness.
He cursed again. "Should've brought a flashlight. Can't hardly see anything in here. Why the hell didn't you tell me we'd be wandering around in the dark?"
He shoved me roughly, and I stumbled out into the middle of the hallway-like passage. The motion sensor did its job, and hazy light suddenly spotlighted me.
Roger snorted. "Well, that's more like it. Let's go find us that fortune." He looked back to make sure the access panel was closed securely.
And before he could do anything else, like reach out and grab me again—
I bolted.
I'm not very tall at only five foot three, so my legs aren't all that long, and I'm not exactly an athlete since I couldn't even begin to keep up with Percy Villars. But I had to do something, or people I cared for might die, and anyone who could help me was doing the "Thriller" dance in the ballroom. I dug deep, and the explosion of energy from my short little legs was nothing less than dynamic.
I was halfway down the passage before Roger had even begun to move, but the string of blue language following me warned that I better not slow down—not for anything. I r
an. Lordy, did I ever. So fast the spinning propeller on the beanie should have lifted me off the floor—I ignored it. So fast the Tweedledum Hula-Hoop middle banged from side-to-side—I didn't let it slow me down either.
Flashing through one intersection in the hallway, I took the next one to the left. My footfalls were fairly soft, but I could hear Roger's heavier ones coming behind me—that is until I made the next left, which put me back behind the main ballroom. The band's fast and raucous version of "Thriller" was still going on, and the music and crowd noise drowned out any level of racket I could possibly make with just my voice or fist pounding. It drowned out Roger too, but I figured he was yelling at me.
There wouldn't be any help from the ballroom.
And Roger was still coming.
Harry's motion-detector lights were part hindrance, part help. They enabled Roger to see me, but at the same time, I could keep track of him. And at that point, it was easy to see he was catching up.
Even as badly as he wanted to make his ginormous comeback, if Roger decided I wasn't going to help him and was a liability, I didn't think he'd hesitate to hurt me if not kill me.
He hadn't admitted it, but I truly believed it was Roger Goodwin who'd beaten Elroy Villars so severely he'd died. I wasn't anxious to increase Roger's head count to two.
My heart and the noises from the masquerade ball ringing in my ears, I ran along the dimly lit passage and into the area behind the employees' wing near the main kitchen. That section ended with a door that led outside to the resort grounds.
Hardly slowing down, I hit the door, which opened from the inside but self-locked to the outside.
And then I was on the hotel grounds.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The moon was full and bright in the night sky, and the chilly air cooled my overheated face. I paused only long enough to inhale a deep breath before turning around, grabbing the steel rod they'd used to prop the door open. Only now I used it to jam beneath the handle, hoping to keep Roger inside, at least long enough for me to get to safety.
Something thundered, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.
It sounded like Roger had slammed into the door with all his weight, but the steel rod held—for now. But for how long?
Mr. Hollywood hit the door a second time, and the rod slipped but didn't give way completely. That was enough for me. I took off running again.
I was on the wrong side of the building and too far away from the front entrance to get back there before he managed to come through the door. I headed cross-country. The boathouse was close. I could get there. And if I ran fast enough and slipped inside before Roger broke down my makeshift barrier, he might not even realize that was where I'd run.
The dew from Odeo's immaculately cared for lawn splashed up as I ran, the cold soaking into the tights. The air felt cool in my lungs as I sucked it in. The hairpins holding on the beanie shook loose, and the small cap was flung off my head.
But suddenly I was there, at the boathouse. I pulled open the door just enough to slip inside, and that's when I allowed myself to stop. Finally.
Reaching behind me, twisting, turning, wriggling, hopping, I managed to grasp the pull-tab to the zipper on Tweedledum's rotund torso and yank it down. I pushed that part of the costume to the damp ground and stepped out of it. That left me in the knit body suit with the yellow shirt on top and red tights on the bottom. I stuffed the costume into one of the cabinets near the door.
The bright moon cast pale light through the big bay opening and the few windows at the near end. I'd been in the boathouse a few times before and remembered there was a housephone here. I ran to it and made a connection.
"Bell desk." I didn't recognize the voice, more boy than man.
"Hello? Hello?" My own voice was a hoarse whisper. "Listen. It's Melanie Hamilton. I'm in the boathouse. There's someone chasing me. I'm in trouble. Send help. Send the police."
"Sorry." His reply was slow. "Can you hold on a minute?"
The line went silent. Oh, crap. Nothing else to do but what he asked.
At first all I could hear was the ragged wheezing of my uneven breath as I tried to catch up on oxygen. As my breathing resumed a more normal rhythm, I became aware of other sounds. Boathouse sounds. The slap of water against the wood. The creak of the lifts as the boats under repair swayed beneath them. From out on the water, animals serenaded the bayou with their night songs.
And then there was the sound of Roger Goodwin, pounding across the lawn, huffing and grunting with the effort. How did he know where I'd gone? It didn't matter. He was coming. Coming for me.
I let the phone handset dangle loose, the connection still made, although no one was currently on the other end. Then I whirled to the interior, my eyes flying to every corner. Where could I hide? The last place I looked was up. Just overhead, a medium-sized skiff, maybe sixteen or eighteen feet long, had been hauled out of the water and suspended for repairs. A tarp was slung over part of it, and a rope ladder hung down from it.
I reached and took hold of the ladder, hoisted myself up, and climbed it. Girly-girl that I am with weenie upper body strength, it was a total struggle. I twisted and swayed and jerked and slipped and slid and banged. It was like trying to climb up a bunch of wet noodles.
But I made it, slung one leg over the side of the boat, and rolled inside the small space. As quietly as I could, I pulled the ladder up after me then dragged the tarp across and lay down under it. There was water and leaves and who knew what else in there, but I didn't care. The reason the little boat was in for repairs made itself apparent right away. A shaft of moonlight through a small hole in the bottom of the skiff lit up the inside of my hiding spot. Peeking through it, I could see the door.
If I was quiet and still, maybe I'd get away with it. Maybe he wouldn't find me, and maybe I would somehow see him brought to justice. Breathing a silent prayer, I waited.
The door opened. Roger Goodwin stepped inside. He was holding the beanie from my costume. The traitorous thing had given away my whereabouts. He stood stock still for a moment, and from the angle of his head, I thought he might be listening for a clue as to where I was.
Mouth open, shallow breaths, not so much as a twitch otherwise. I willed my body to stone.
"Oh, girly." His voice was singsong. "Girly, girly, girly."
What? I was being stalked by someone who hadn't even bothered to remember my name? In a way that was sort of an insult. Knock it off. You're losing it.
"Come out, come out, wherever you are." What did he think this was—a game? "I won't hurt you. You'll be fine. Not like Elroy. I didn't mean to hurt him either."
He began to edge his way around the floor next to the boat bay. I couldn't see him unless I moved, and I wasn't going to do that. But I could sort of keep track of him by the sound of his voice.
"If old Elroy hadn't been drunk and looking for a fight, he'd be walking around today. But no, buy the guy a few drinks, and he got sloppy. But he told me where to look for that blasted letter."
I could hear the sound of Roger ascending the stairs to the storage area. His voice was farther away now, but I didn't move. Not yet.
"Then the fool up and followed me to the Villars house. Nothing worse than a mean drunk. I was trying to find the letter, and he kept trying to hit me."
Now Roger was coming back down the stairs.
"I didn't intend to hit the guy so hard, you see. And I would never do that to a woman. He just wouldn't back off, and that bathroom paper holder, the wrought iron free-standing antique-y thing, was just so handy. So come on out, little cutie. You know, you're good-looking enough I could make you a star. Petite little redheads do well in the movies. You noticed that? Why do you think that is?"
The sound of his steps stopped, and I could see him standing back by the door.
"What a fiasco this turned out to be." He sounded disgusted. "All I wanted was to beat the Powells to the document. Plain and simple. The money from that piece of parchment would have let
me finance my feature on my own. Wouldn't have to crawl around on my knees any more begging jackasses for nickels and dimes. I couldn't believe somebody else got to it first. Where the hell is it? Do you know, girly?"
He waited a moment or two before going on.
"Even Elroy thought it was still there. He was carrying around that pathetic page out of his journal, just waiting for Harry to come back to town so he and his brother could go and get it."
Roger was looking around again, his head turning every possible direction but up. Please, don't look up. Please, don't look up. Please. Don't.
And then he was just standing there, his chin sort of resting on his chest.
"Hmph." It had the sound of confusion. "Where'd you go?"
And then he put his hand on the door handle and opened it, having one final look around before stepping back out onto the approach to the small dock.
The door closed behind him, and I heard his footfalls carry him off the wooden deck and back, I assumed, onto the grass.
I waited what seemed like a very long time, but was probably only a few minutes, before climbing down out of the skiff while silently thanking it for serving so effectively as my place of refuge.
I was drained. Barely able to stay upright. It was more than exhaustion. It was depletion. But I had more to do. Since no one had responded to my call for help, I had to get back to the main building and put out the alert that Roger Goodwin was a killer, and he was on the loose.
I opened the door and peeked out. Nothing this way. Looked the other way. Ditto here. I stepped outside
Aw, hell. No.
This time when I looked back toward the main building, Roger stood halfway between me and the hotel, and he was looking right at me. How the hell had I missed him the first time?
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I spun, looking for a way out, an escape route.
A ways from the boathouse and pier, on the sloping bank, Bayou Bill had parked the two four-passenger airboats he used to take tourists out on the water.
Mystic Mischief Page 17
