Margaret Grace - Murder In Miniature

“You’re inviting suspicion, Linda,” I said, in a whisper that probably also did.

I had to admit I was no better than Linda at an undercover operation. Anyone listening would have wondered what we were up to. Fortunately the two at the front desk had gone back to paying more attention to each other than anything happening in the lobby.

Rosie had aged ten years. She was dressed in a nurse’s uniform, presumably Linda’s, a bad fit even though she and Linda were both on the chubby side. She’d exchanged her dressy black patent sandals for blue paper booties. The cocktail dress she’d worn on Friday night lay folded on a chair. I wasn’t proud of the fact that I wished I could surreptitiously check it for bloodstains.

A side table held several plastic containers that I was sure were from Linda’s cupboard. I was glad Rosie didn’t have to count on the vending machines for her nutrition.

The guest room itself was cheerless, only a cut above descriptions I’d read of thirteenth-century monks’ cells, minus a cross over the bed. Instead, a stern Mary Todd Lincoln, her hair tightly braided, looked down on the twin bed outfitted with white-only linens. There was a small bath and shower off the room, probably more than the medieval nuns and priests could say, but my guess was that the administrators of the home didn’t want the nonpaying guests to get too comfortable.

Linda had done her best, it was clear, to house, feed, and clothe her friend, but she could do nothing about the depression that caused Rosie’s face to sag, her eyes to be rimmed with red.

When Rosie saw me she gasped, then rushed to embrace me and cried softly. I let her stay as long as she needed to. She smelled of stale makeup. When she relaxed a bit, she said, “Someone killed David, Gerry.”

Only then did I realize I hadn’t seen Rosie since David’s body was discovered. We’d left the Duns Scotus in separate cars on Saturday morning-me for the ALHS groundbreaking ceremony, Rosie for… here, apparently.

I found myself questioning the timeline. What was the time of death for David? What time did Rosie arrive at the Mary Todd? Could Rosie’s case be so easily resolved-that she was still in San Francisco when he was killed? Nice thought, but I was sure Skip had checked that out. More important, why in the world was I giving any credence to the possibility that Rosie was guilty of murder? I was falling into the bad habit homicide detectives had of gathering evidence and alibis before making a decision on a suspect.

I needed all the information I could get, just to keep even with my nephew.

“What else do you know about David’s murder, Rosie?” I asked.

Rosie pushed herself away from me. I barely kept my balance. “I didn’t do it. How can you think such a thing?” Her voice was a hoarse whisper, a sad croak. “You know how I felt about him.”

“I only meant, what other news have you heard?” realizing too late that my question sounded like an accusation. You’d think a former English teacher would be more careful with words.

I chose not to remind her that great love was often the source of a crime of passion. And I did think that bludgeoning a man to death with his own trophy eminently qualified as a crime of passion and, if I weren’t such a highly moral person, as an example of poetic justice.

A pitcher of Linda’s special mix of ice tea and lemonade brought us a measure of refreshment. Just as we settled down to talk, Linda was called to a patient, which suited me very well. It saved me the trouble of finding a diplomatic way to get rid of Rosie’s protector and sole support.

“Let’s start from the beginning, Rosie,” I said, in the most comforting tone in my repertoire. “What did you do after you left David’s doorway?”

“I went down to the-”

“And please don’t tell me you stayed at the fitness center till two in the morning. They closed at midnight.” Not so comforting a tone, but I didn’t have a lot of time to waste. The police might be screaming down the street toward us with an arrest warrant, sirens blazing, right now. Or was that my vivid imagination after two nights on a busy street in San Francisco? And those sirens more likely came from fire engines, anyway.

“I’m so embarrassed to tell you, Gerry.”

We sat across from each other on uncomfortable straight-back chairs, making it easier for me to remain firm. “It won’t be as embarrassing as being carted off to jail, believe me.”

“You’re right.” Rosie took a long swallow of her lemony tea drink; I did the same. She worked the corner of a tissue around her eyes. I didn’t want to tell her it was a hopeless gesture if she meant to fix her makeup.

“Take your time,” I said, willing her to hurry. The small quarters were already beginning to close in on me. I wondered how Rosie had stood the cell-like room for a day and a half.

“I rode down to the lobby. I was going to go out, but I had on those uncomfortable heels and I wasn’t crazy about walking around the city alone. I’m sure it was safe, but I didn’t want to risk it. And anyway I wanted to see David. I went upstairs to eleven again and listened at David’s door. I could hear David and Cheryl. Not what they were saying or doing exactly, but I knew they were still together.” Another long swallow. “I figured since Cheryl had come to the reunion with her husband, sooner or later she’d have to leave and go back to her own room.”

I could believe that marriage to Walter Mellace would be a strong motivation to at least appear to be a faithful wife. Thinking of Cheryl’s eye patch-which might have come from a visit to her ophthalmologist, I realized-I wondered again if Mrs. Mellace had failed to pass the fidelity test.

Rosie had come to a halt, her eyes tearing up again. I tried to ignore it. Empathy would get us nowhere. I prodded. “And then?”

“Okay, you know where the ice and the vending machines are in the little alcove by the elevators?”

“You hid there?”

Full-out tears now as Rosie nodded. “I wanted to wait until Cheryl left. I had the thought that if I showed David the locker room, it might, you know, soften him and make him remember our first kiss and all.”

“You came into the room while Maddie and I were sleeping?”

She nodded and dabbed her face again. “Uh-huh. I forgot to tell you, I stopped in our room first. The room box was right on the corner of the dresser near the door, so I just slipped in and got it. I knew you wouldn’t have chained the door and locked me out.”

I had a hard time processing that Rosie had come and gone while we were sound asleep, but she had no reason to lie about that.

“Then?” I prodded.

“I went to the eleventh floor. It was almost one in the morning. I was so stupid, Gerry. My legs were cramped and every time someone came for ice, for real I had to pretend I was getting some ice myself, or a soda, or tossing a bag of trash. I hid the room box behind the big drink machine. One guy must have come in three times while I was there. Who knows what he thought. And Barry Cannon came in. He was in the room right across the hall from David’s. He… oh, never mind what he said.”

“Rosie, I’m so sorry you had to go through all this.”

“I thought, you know, maybe the reunion had reawakened feelings in David, and if I had a chance to talk to him alone and show him the lockers…” She shook her head, as if trying to get rid of silly dreams. “I can’t believe I was such a fool.”

“It’s not going to do any good to think that way, Rosie. We need to go on and cover the rest of your night.”

“Here’s the worst part.” Uh-oh. Did I want to hear this? “Cheryl came out for ice, right when I’d taken the room box out from its hiding place, to make sure it hadn’t gotten too dirty behind those machines. She was wearing a robe, one of those thick white hotel robes. I didn’t want to think about why. She laughed her head off, Gerry. She knew right away why I was there. I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life. She called me pitiful, and she was right.”