Max Collins - Nice Weekend for a Murder

“Did you see anyone else entering or leaving Sloth’s room?” a guy who looked almost as nerdy as me asked.

“No,” I said. “But... well, it’s not really my place to gossip.”

A woman in a red and white ski sweater was amused by that, but followed up. “No, Lester. Go on. We’re interested in anything you saw that might be helpful.”

“Well...” I leaned forward conspiratorially. “I did see that private detective — that Darsini person — walking in the hall as I departed. He might have been going to Mr. Sloth’s room.”

“Were you aware that Darsini was in Sloth’s employ?”

“No,” I said.

“When did you find out about Sloth’s death?”

“This morning. The police came to my room to question me.”

The intense guy in gray pointed a pencil at me and made an accusation. “Isn’t it true that you saw Sloth murdered outside your window last night?”

That threw me. I’d done a pretty good job, I thought, of settling into the nerdy persona of Lester Denton; I’d even done a pretty fair job of putting Kirk Rath, and what may or may not have happened to him, outside my mind for a time.

But the story of the so-called prank last night had obviously found its way beyond the inner circle of authors and out into the mainstream of Mystery Weekenders, who (at least some of them) were dealing with what I’d seen as if it were a part of Curt’s staged mystery. And I didn’t quite know how to handle that.

Meanwhile, the intense guy in gray was doing his Hamilton Burger impression. “Answer the question, Mr. Denton!”

“I did,” I said. Or Lester said. “I did see it. But I must have been dreaming. I reported what I saw to the hotel staff, but when we went outside, there was no corpse in the snow. I must have imagined it.”

“Did you tell the police about this?” another interrogator asked.

Now I was floundering. I had done pretty well, as long as I had Curt’s script to lean on; but now that I had allowed myself to wander from it, I was no longer swimming; I was treading water, and not terribly well.

“The hotel manager told them about it,” I said. “And they questioned me, yes. But, as I told them, if I were involved somehow, why would I go to the front desk to report what I’d seen?”

The guy in gray was pointing his pencil at me again. “Yet you saw him killed with a knife — and that is precisely the way he was killed.”

He was just obnoxious enough to make me glad he was wasting his time down this blind alley.

“Excuse me for my boldness,” I said, “but wasn’t Mr. Sloth’s body found in his room, sitting at his... its... typewriter?”

“Yes,” said the guy in gray. “But the coroner has established time of death as late last night — corresponding with what you saw!”

I didn’t know what to say. I’d been trying to explain away the prank (or whatever it was) within the context of the fictional mystery they sought to solve, because otherwise it would only serve to throw them unfairly off their game. But we weren’t supposed to break character during the Interrogation Sessions, so stopping to explain (as Mallory) seemed out of the question.

And speaking of questions...

An attractive brunette in black said, “Are you Jewish, Mr. Denton?”

Was I? Curt hadn’t said. I winged it: “No, ma’am. But some of my best friends are.”

I — or Lester — got a little laugh out of that one.

“But do you speak or read Yiddish, Mr. Denton?” she continued. “Or are conversant with any dialect related to Yiddish?”

“No, ma’am.”

“So you couldn’t translate the phrase, tovl fof oy ?”

“No, ma’am.”

And we seemed to be off the subject of what I — or Lester or anybody — had seen out my (his/her/their) window last night.

As the questioning continued, various interrogators left, while fresh blood filled in. Each team had assigned one or two members to be at each of the suspect’s grillings, and when their team representatives deemed a suspect sufficiently grilled, they were free to move on and help grill another one.

But my grilling was over; the hour was up.

I smiled and took off my bow tie and said, “Lester isn’t here anymore.”

There were some expressions of frustration, but mostly laughs and even a little applause. People were smiling; they’d all had a good time, except for the anal-retentives like the guy in gray, who were taking this charade a bit too seriously. This was supposed to be a vacation, after all. What the hell was relaxing about trading the pressure of your work for the pressure of some goddamn game?

The attractive brunette who’d asked the question about Yiddish stopped to shake my hand. She had sharp but pretty features, and jade-green eyes.

“You were terrific,” she said. “You make Ed Grimley look like a macho man.”

Her reference was to a Second City character created by Martin Short, which led me to compliment her on her taste.

“I’m a big Second City fan myself,” I said.

“TV or stage?”

“Both. I’ve seen various Chicago companies, oh, I bet a dozen times; and a couple of the Toronto companies, including the one that seeded the original Saturday Night Live .”

“Are you an actor yourself?”

“No, no. I’m strictly a writer.”

She seemed a little embarrassed. “Well, I know you’re a writer; it’s just that your performance as Lester made me wonder if you’d had professional training.”

“The last play I was in was My Fair Lady in high school.”

She laughed a little. “You know, I have to admit I’ve never read anything of yours, but I plan to remedy that.”

“That’s nice to hear. And, I must say, you’re a very attractive young woman. I make that observation well realizing that the sturdy young man lurking behind you is very likely your boyfriend.”

“Husband,” she said, smiling; she motioned for him to step forward, and he did. Like her, he was in his late twenties, blond, handsome in a preppy way, sweater and Calvins; they were as perfect as a couple in a toothpaste ad.

“I’m Jenny Logan,” she said, offering a hand to shake, which I took. “And this is my husband, Frank.”

I shook Frank’s hand too; he had a firm grip and a white, if shy, smile.

“ You wouldn’t happen to be in showbiz, would you?” I asked them.

“Frank’s a lawyer,” she said, patting his shoulder fondly. “But he doesn’t do trial work, so I guess you’d have to say he’s not in showbiz. I, however, am.”

“In New York?”

“Yes. Mostly commercials.”

Maybe I had seen her in a toothpaste ad.

“Could I talk to you two, for a moment?” I said, even though I already was. I gestured toward a comfortable-looking velvet couch near a baby grand piano.

We sat, Jenny in the middle.

“Have you ever been to Mystery Weekend at Mohonk before?” I asked them.

Frank nodded, but Jenny lit up, all smiles and enthusiasm.

“Oh yes, and it’s great!” Jenny said, like the captain of the Mohonk cheerleaders. Then she forced herself to calm down: “At least I think it’s great. Frank isn’t a puzzle freak like I am — though he figured last year’s out, darn him.”

“Your team was one of the winners?”

“Yes,” she said. “Funny thing is, we were going all out to win ‘most creative,’ and thanks to Frank, here, we won for accuracy!”

“Attaboy, Frank,” I said. “What are you going after this year?”

“Whatever we can get, Mr. Mallory,” Frank said, smiling, proving he could speak.

“Make it Mal,” I said. “And I was just wondering if you’d brought any theatrical gear along.”