Toured to Death, page 3
Amy’s glance followed Marcus’s. There was movement up there among the cacti, a shadow retreating through the gray and green stalks. “Someone threw a rock.”
“I’m all right. Go.”
“Go where?”
Marcus pushed her helping hands away. “Go see who it was.”
“Who it was?” Amy’s feet remained rooted, her mind numbed by the unexpected.
“Don’t confront him. Just look.”
“Umm.” Amy didn’t know what to say or do.
“What are you waiting for? Go. He’s getting away.”
With a quick pivot, Amy hurried back up the path, swinging herself around a railing, then twenty feet up another incline and around a second railing. From here she had an unobstructed view of the next few turns. Whoever had been there was gone.
Amy returned, the sound of espadrilles on gravel crunching loudly in her ears. “Maybe it was an accident,” she said. Marcus didn’t look happy. “Are you all right?” She extended her hands again.
Marcus refused her assistance. “An accident?” He reached up for the wooden railing but was too far away.
“Let me help.”
“No, I’m fine.” He waved her away. Their hands never touched, but it felt almost like a slap. “You were right not to go. It might have been dangerous.”
“I did go. He was already gone.”
Marcus finally grasped her hand, pulling Amy off balance and down as he pulled himself up. He hobbled past her up the twisting incline. “I could’ve been killed.”
“It was probably some crazy kid.”
“Well, that makes it fine.”
“Or an accident.”
Amy crossed to him, and they leaned over, staring at the weapon, a lethally large stone in a prickly pear setting.
“That’s one strong kid,” Marcus growled. “And it was thrown, not dropped, not dislodged.”
“I couldn’t have caught him, anyway,” Amy said.
“I didn’t ask you to catch him.” Marcus abandoned the post-mortem and placed a hand on Amy’s shoulder for support. Together, they made their way down the path toward the exit. Without a word, they passed the rock and kept going, the blue-green scenery now wasted.
“I’m just not good in emergencies. I freeze up.”
Had it just been freezing up?
Unsettling memories flashed. The time she had been bullied on the school playground and had pretended to be sick for the next two days. The time she’d been robbed in Central Park, when she could have run away but didn’t. And the big memory—Eddie’s attack and her delay in calling 911, which didn’t make any difference, no difference in the world, because he was already dead.
Awkwardly, they walked, like an elderly couple out for a pleasant but difficult stroll.
“I should have gone after him.”
“That’s okay,” Marcus said and winced as his foot hit an uneven patch of stone.
CHAPTER 3
As the afternoon progressed, a line of clouds began forming over the nation, and by eight that evening, a warm but threatening breeze wafted its way in from the Mediterranean. The air was still comfortable enough to allow Amy’s guests to mingle out on the stone terrace. An open bar had been set up near the doors to the dining room, and that became the centerpiece of the festivities.
Fashion-wise, Amy was always torn between the needs to stand out and to fit in. Her black evening dress seemed to tread the line perfectly, a stylish, strapless Donna Karan from last year’s collection, bought recently at an outlet store. The glasses were also Donna Karan: black on orange, with rectangular frames.
Leaning against the marble balustrade, she nursed a well-deserved Campari and listened to the waves, trying her best not to think about the clouds.
All twenty-four guests were dressed formally in honor of the rally’s opening night, or perhaps in honor of the fictional Daryl Litcomb and his dinner party.
Two hours earlier Amy had slipped the mock invitations under each door, requesting them to spend the evening at the industrialist’s home and setting the time and place, 7:30 p.m. on the terrace. This was their first hint about the mystery’s plot, and although the details on the engraved invitation were almost nonexistent, they still managed to pique everyone’s imagination.
A dozen theories were already in circulation. “Daryl Litcomb is obviously the victim,” a toothy, heavyset woman was telling her friends.
“I’m suspecting his wife,” came another knowing comment, even though Daryl’s marital status had yet to be revealed. “Is Litcomb an English name?”
At 8:05 p.m. Amy strolled to the French doors and raised her hand to the maître d’hôtel. Fire at will. The seven actors hidden in the shadows of the dining room also noted her signal and tucked their scripts into assorted purses and pockets. Amy scurried to the bar and replenished her Campari, this time with soda.
A well-timed crack of real thunder subdued the half dozen conversations, and it was during this lull that a high-pitched laugh erupted from one of the dining room actresses. It was followed a second later by an angry shout, delivered by a male voice, then several loud and colorful insults.
A curious excitement rippled through the guests as they gravitated to, then crowded around the French doors. Suddenly, a chandelier illuminated the room’s central round table, spilling enough light to include all seven performers, also dressed formally and ready for dinner. The guests broke out in applause, heralding the official start of the Monte Carlo to Rome Mystery Road Rally.
Amy watched and listened, as attentive as her clients. This morning she had been unnerved to learn that most of the dialogue would be ad-libbed, following Otto Ingo’s plot outline, with only a few key pieces of information recited verbatim.
As the actors eased into their roles, Amy found herself pleasantly surprised. The majority of them were Americans, recruited by a Paris casting agent. During their few hours of rehearsal, they hadn’t seemed to take the job seriously. Jokes had flown, mostly at the expense of the plot. Critical lines had been flubbed. And no one had stayed in character for more than a minute. Amy had been within an inch of getting up the nerve to yell.
But now that the costumes and lights were on and an appreciative audience stood in the doorway, the cast came to life, imbuing Otto’s hackneyed scene with as much life and realism as the average TV drama. Not high art, certainly, but at least a level of competence with which their viewers seemed comfortable.
The plot began simply enough. Daryl Litcomb, an American businessman, had invited several guests to spend the weekend at his Monte Carlo estate. The exposition came fast and blunt, with lines like, “Well, if it isn’t the legendary soap opera star, Bitsy Stormfield.”
This prompted a similarly contrived but information-packed reply. “Stew, dear. I see you’ve already had a drink. Being Daryl’s business partner must be the perfect job for a lush.”
The audience readily forgave the clunky dialogue and probably appreciated the broad personalities and names: a diminutive but excitable actress named Bitsy Stormfield, an alcoholic business partner named Stew Rummy.
Otto obviously knew his business. Subtleties were harder to remember, and at this stage in the game there was a lot to digest. Several of the players had pulled notepads from the folds of their formal wear and were writing down anything they thought might prove helpful.
In the space of ten minutes, the six future suspects were introduced, with their names and relationships to Daryl repeated several times. Members of the household included Daryl’s unhappy wife, Dolores; his faithful secretary, Fidel; and Price, the millionaire’s spendthrift son.
The weekend guests consisted of just three. Bitsy and Stew were old friends of the family, as was Dodo, an eccentric, middle-aged heiress of dubious mental capacity. Dodo Fortunof, perhaps the most inspired of the names.
Three men, three women. Three household members, three outsiders. The mystery’s demographics had been constructed with the same precision as everything else.
As the dialogue progressed, the actors drifted to their places at the round table. Dolores rang a silver bell, and a butler and maid responded, entering from the kitchen with a soup course. The theatrically bright lights dimmed, and the first scene was over.
There was only a smattering of applause, as if the guests were reluctant to admit the unreality of the scene. Amy and the maître d’ then went about the task of seating them at four rectangular tables surrounding the circular one. The waiters were already busy serving up an identical first course, a soupe de poissons rich with saffron and fennel. Amy found her spot at one of the tables, suddenly realizing how little of her lunch she’d actually eaten and just how famished she was.
“Very exciting,” Georgina murmured. Ever since sitting down, the heiress had been uncharacteristically quiet. Now she placed aside her soup spoon and leaned into Amy. “And such an interesting story.” Both sentences were delivered in a flat tone that gave the impression of things left unsaid.
“Glad you’re enjoying it.”
“I wonder where he got his ideas, the person who wrote this.”
“His name is Otto Ingo,” said Amy. “He’s the best in the business. Although he does seem to like his clichés.”
“You’re too cruel.” An amused reprimand, but delivered with the same flatness. And then the tone was gone, replaced by Georgina’s usual carefree lilt. “Did this Otto know who was coming on the tour? I mean, was he given our names?”
What an odd question. “Uh, no.” Amy paused as a slim, silent waiter circled their table, collecting bowls. “Otto was working on this before I made the first booking. He never even saw a guest list. Why do you ask?”
“No reason.” The lights were dimming now, like the houselights in a theater.
The spotlight had again come up on the central table as the seven actors wiped their mouths. Their first few lines were drowned out by the sound of two dozen chairs scraping across the floor as the players rearranged themselves for a better view.
Scene Two consisted of more heavy-handed exposition, this time focusing on Daryl’s social and business life. Innuendos of love affairs and crooked deals splattered wildly around like loosely packed shotgun pellets, hitting everyone and everything but causing little damage. Meanwhile, the butler and maid delivered shell-shaped dishes. Scallops in a garlic cream sauce.
As the cast members gazed down at their new course, Dodo launched into her monologue, a comic speech loosely outlined by Otto and elaborated on by an imaginative actress.
“My third husband could never eat seafood,” she announced, toying with her scallops. “Which was odd, considering he was Swedish and those people just seem to live on fish. Most everything affected Lars’s stomach, poor dear. He would have the most appalling attacks of gas, like nothing you’ve ever smelled. How to describe it . . .”
“Don’t,” murmured her hostess. But it was useless.
“Have you ever had a skunk spray your compost bin? That happened to us on Martha’s Vineyard. Très pungent. It was like that—with perhaps an added hint of rotten cocoa beans.” Dodo sniffed the air, as though her description had magically re-created the aroma. She went on for another two minutes, and by the end of her unappetizingly explicit speech, Daryl Litcomb had stopped eating, a pained, faraway expression etched on his weathered face.
“Honey?” Dolores Litcomb leaned across the table and touched her husband’s sleeve. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes.” Daryl’s voice was hollow. “I mean, no. I’m not feeling well.” He looked up at his guests, and it was like he was seeing them for the first time. “I’m sorry, people, but you’ll have to excuse me.” And with no further explanation, the tall, lumbering man rose from the table and stumbled off toward the hotel lobby—or, to maintain the illusion, the front hall of his home.
“The scallops are poisoned,” Georgina whispered, first to Amy, then to her other tablemates. “The scallops are poisoned.”
“I don’t think so,” Amy said as she pointed to the central table.
Georgina followed Amy’s gaze. “Oh. I guess this isn’t going to be so easy.”
“I hope not,” said Amy.
Back at the spotlit table, Stew Rummy and Fidel were busy. They had divided the remains of Daryl’s appetizer, scooping the round, creamy morsels into their own dishes, and now they were devouring them with systematic diligence. It was an uncharacteristic act, wildly out of place for both the men and the setting. But it served admirably, laying aside any theory about poisoned shellfish—for the time being.
Three more courses and three more scenes followed. The seven characters spent the time exposing the subtler facets of their one-dimensional personalities, and it was here, with most of the essential information already dispensed with, that the actors could shine. Humorous touches abounded.
Amy was relieved to see how much her guests were enjoying themselves. A little competition, a little faux danger, a little—very little—story. Their bodies were relaxed; their faces animated. Like children, she thought. Wealthy, powerful children who can put aside their own lives for two full weeks and escape into a murderous little game. Did she really envy them? Yes, she decided. She did.
Throughout the meal, Dolores Litcomb grew increasingly concerned. Finally, during the fruit and cheese, she excused herself from the table, promising to be back in a minute. “I just want to go check on Daryl.”
The sumptuous meal, combined with cases of French wine, had numbed the few remaining inhibitions of the formally dressed detectives, and Dolores’s departure was accompanied by a chorus of drunken catcalls.
“He’s dead, honey.”
“You need an alibi. Take someone with you.”
“Don’t scream.”
“I want a good scream.”
The actress ignored these intrusions from the fourth wall and disappeared into the Hotel Grimaldi’s lobby.
Her return was timed to coincide with the arrival of dessert. The lack of a scream and the absence of blood on her dress disappointed the crowd’s Grand Guignol faction, but there was good reason. Daryl, it turned out, wasn’t dead. Just missing.
“He’s not in his room,” Dolores said. “The servants are checking the grounds, but . . .” And here she collapsed into her chair. “His room is a shambles, things thrown everywhere. What in the world could have happened?”
“He’s been kidnapped,” the TV soap star said.
“Nonsense,” the drunken business partner blustered. “It’s a big house. He’s probably tucked away in some corner, reading a book.”
The other actors, some with authentic reluctance, pushed aside their strawberry tarts. Each one had similar words of comfort. A proposal was made to cut short dinner and search the entire mansion.
“I’ll check the wine cellar,” Stew Rummy volunteered brightly and got a laugh.
As the actors made their way, Amy stood and applauded, signaling the end of the evening’s performance. During the ovation that followed, the spotlight faded, the general lighting was bumped up to reading levels, and a cadre of waiters set about serving the players their own strawberry tarts, each one carefully delivered to a specific place setting.
“I’d like to thank the Litcombs and their guests for providing us with such an enjoyable dinner.” Amy had taken a stance behind Daryl’s empty chair. Making speeches embarrassed her, but they were part of the job. “And now I suppose you’d all like to know how this game works.” She was grateful for the few chuckles and the ragtag remnants of applause. “Good. As you know, this is going to be a team effort. Each team will represent one of the characters, except Daryl, of course, who is missing.”
“And presumed dead,” a male voice blurted out from table three.
“Not necessarily,” Amy admonished. “We’ll know more in the morning.” Then she went on to explain the rules.
They would be divided into six teams of four each. Tonight in their rooms, each player would find a packet of information explaining their character’s secret relationship with the missing industrialist. All six characters had some guilty secret they were hiding from the others. Naturally, this information had to be kept private and could be discussed only with members of one’s own team.
Tomorrow morning each team would elect a captain, someone who wasn’t afraid of a little role-playing, since he or she would be physically representing that team’s character for the rest of the game.
“So, who the hell are we?” the same person demanded.
“Glad you asked.” Amy smiled, feeling just a little more comfortable. “I don’t mean to destroy your enjoyment of tonight’s dessert, but before you polish it off, I might recommend a closer examination. On the inside crust of each tart is a number between one and six drawn in blue food dye.” The last words were almost drowned out by a clattering of plates and forks.
Amy could see Georgina, her plate held at eye level, lifting the tart and peeking underneath. “No, no. The inside crust,” Amy explained. “Under the strawberries. And let this be your first lesson. For the next two weeks, nothing can be taken for granted.”
It was a silly little gimmick, one that had required a lot of persuasion with a rather rigidly minded pastry chef. But the act of playing with food could provide a primal, childlike thrill, and the gimmick succeeded. Most of the diners eagerly scraped out their crusts and found their numbers. A few others artfully ate their strawberries one by one, until the number was revealed in a purple haze of food dye and fruit jam.
“Uncle Burt, don’t.” The voice was high and shrill, carrying like a piccolo.
Amy focused on the twelve-year-old girl at table two. She was pulling at the elbow of a thin, tall man in his midfifties, whose pleasant, open face was distorted by a wicked grin. It was a broad, sloppy grin, bulging with strawberries and laced with crumbs. Uncle Burt, it seemed, was in the process of eating not only the filling but the crust.
“It’s delicious, Holly. You should taste it.” And he held out a forkful to his horrified niece.
“Don’t!” The intense young Holly was oblivious to the tease. She grabbed his wrist and wrestled it to the table. The uncle countered smoothly, using his free hand to snatch a dessert fork from another place setting and continue destroying all evidence of his team assignment.
