Max Collins - Nice Weekend for a Murder

“I asked at the desk about that,” she said, helping me into my white linen jacket. “They have a projection TV in one of the parlors.”

“But will it fit in this room?”

I opened the door for her and in the hall we met Jack Flint and his wife, Janis, just coming back from breakfast apparently. Jack wore a lime blazer and a pastel green shirt, and Janis another floral print dress, yellows and greens; they looked like California. I wondered if, God help me, I looked like Iowa.

We exchanged good mornings and, with a small wicked grin, Jack said, “I hear you got stung last night.”

“Pardon?”

“Curt mentioned that some of the game-players staged a little skit outside your window.”

“So it seems,” I said. “I think George Romero directed it.”

Janis cocked her head like she hadn’t heard me right, not understanding the reference; movie buff Jill said to her, “ Night of the Living Dead .”

“Oh,” Janis said. Nice of Jill to coach the wife of a screenwriter in film lore.

Meanwhile, Jack was laughing. “Bunch of overgrown kids. We’ll be putting on a show for them , in an hour or so.”

He meant, of course, Curt’s mystery in which we were playing roles.

“Yes,” Janis said, “and I’m scared to death.”

Jill resisted telling her that that was the title of Bela Lugosi’s only color film and said instead, “Why? Are you playing one of the suspects?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Janis said, with a nervous little smile. “Aren’t you?”

“No. Mal didn’t tell them I was coming along till the last minute.”

Janis grasped Jill’s arm, in mock panic that was only part mock. “You wouldn’t want to take over my role, would you?”

Jill grinned and shook her head no. “I’m no mystery fan, or puzzle freak, either. I’m here for a little peace and quiet; I mean to roam these endless halls and sit in every one of the hundred and eighty-one gazebos on this property. As Elmer Fudd once said, ‘West and wewaxsation at wast.’ ”

I put a hand on Jack’s arm and said in almost a whisper, “Did you see any of that out your window last night?”

“Your little passion play? No. When did it go on?”

“Just before eleven.”

“Janis and I went up and watched Pete’s flick. I’d forgotten how good Laura was.”

“Yeah,” I said, glumly, “well, my favorite Otto Preminger film is Skidoo .”

Jack did a little take; he’d apparently seen Skidoo .

“He’s kidding,” Jill said, and took me by the arm and we exchanged good-byes with the Flints and were off to breakfast.

Where, in the big pine dining hall, we found Tom Sardini sitting at our designated table, having a cup of coffee; Cynthia Crystal and Tim Culver were over at Curt’s table, only neither Curt nor wife Kim were present. I said good morning to Cynthia and Tim, both of whom (even the normally dour Culver) grinned at me. I had the feeling I was a comical figure.

Jill went on over to our table, but I stopped and stood behind and between Cynthia and Culver, and leaned in, a hand on the back of either of their chairs.

“Good morning, gang,” I said. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, Mal,” Cynthia said, the arcs of her pale blonde hair swinging as she looked back at me, blue eyes sparkling, “I just treasure it when you behave like a gullible hick.”

“Me, too,” I said. “Takes me back to the days when I traveled with Spike Jones and the band.”

Culver’s smile was gone now; he sensed my feathers were ruffled. So did Cynthia — she just didn’t care. But Culver said: “Curt told us about that practical joke. Didn’t mean to rub it in.”

“Oh, Mal,” Cynthia said, “how could you fall for amateur theatrics like that?”

“Why?” I said, looking at her sharply. “Did you see it too?”

“No, no,” Cynthia said, brushing the notion away with one lovely hand. “Last evening Tim and I went walking for hours around this charming old hotel.”

“House,” I corrected.

“Whatever,” Cynthia said. “But I’ve done several of these weekends before — never Mohonk, but Tim and I were on an ocean cruise variation of this, for Karen and Billy Palmer, last year. We know all about the lengths these lovable loons will go to, to get in the spirit of mystery and crime and spillikins in the parlor.”

At Mohonk, that could be a lot of spillikins, because there were a lot of parlors.

I said, “Your room does look out on the lake, though.”

“Yes,” Cynthia said. “And it’s a lovely view.”

“That’s debatable,” I said.

She pressed my arm. “You’re such a child. That’s what I love about you.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I figure immaturity is one of my more admirable qualities. That, and poor judgment.”

Culver said, “You don’t seriously think you saw anything more than some amateur theatrics, do you?”

“I guess not,” I said.

Cynthia’s brittle laugh rose to the high ceiling. “If only it were true.”

“Pardon?” I said.

She was putting preserves on a muffin as she responded: “If only somebody had knifed that little bastard.”

I had no answer for that, so I smiled and nodded and joined Jill.

“So,” Tom said as I sat across from him, “somebody made a sap out of you.”

A waiter poured coffee in my cup and I drank some. “It’s nice of Curt to tell everybody what a fool I made of myself last night.”

Tom smiled; even his beard twinkled. “So they murdered ol’ Kirk Rath in the moonlight, huh?”

“That’s what it looked like.”

“I tell ya,” Tom said, “this place is like some kind of demented summer camp. I mean, they really go all out here.”

“No kidding.”

I wrote up our order on the little menu sheet provided for us — French toast for me, scrambled eggs for Jill — and Tom sat appraising me over his coffee cup.

“What is it, Mal?” he said.

“What’s what?”

“Come on. I’ve known you for a long time. Nobody likes a joke better than you. But you’re bristling about this thing.”

“I was in a great mood till I walked in here and realized I was wearing size eighteen shoes.”

Jill seemed uneasy; I think she was hoping I’d leave this alone. And I would have, but Tom pressed on: “I still say you like a good laugh. But you’re not laughing. Why?”

I smiled at him, a poker player’s smile. “What would you say if I told you I’m not convinced what I saw wasn’t real?”

His expression turned blank. “You think somebody killed Kirk Rath outside your window. Really killed him?”

I shrugged. Sipped my coffee.

“Aw, Mal, that’s crazy.”

“If murder never happened, Tom, we’d be in another line of work.”

He gestured with two hands; be reasonable. “But Rath left,” he said.

“Supposedly. Where’s your room?”

“What?”

“Your room. We’re in number sixty-four. What room are you in?”

“Just up the hall from you — fifty-eight.”

“Do you have a view of the lake from your room? The gazebo, the little Japanese bridge?”

“Sure.”

“Did you see anything last night? Around ten-thirty?”

“Just Pete’s movie.”

“Did you see Jack Flint there?”

“He was sitting a few rows behind me. Why? What is this, Dragnet? ”

Jill said, “Don’t mention TV shows to him, Tom. He’s still suffering video withdrawal.”

Jill was trying to lighten the mood, but it wasn’t necessary; Tom wasn’t offended — he was just curious, interested.

“You really think Rath was murdered,” he said.

“It’s a possibility, that’s all.”