Max Collins - Nice Weekend for a Murder

“I’m just down the hall from you,” Tom said to her as he and I stood. “So my view isn’t any better.”

“Maybe Kirk Rath’ll let us borrow his view,” I said. “No matter what floor he’s on, it’s bound to be aloof.”

“The room’s this way,” Jill said, gesturing; she’d had enough snappy patter and milling around. “I want to freshen up before dinner.”

We told Tom we’d see him in the dining hall, and I followed Jill around a corner, down a wide corridor, subdued wallpaper and polished woodwork all around; it was one of those endless halls like in the movie version of The Shining (Stephen King again — he’s everywhere) and I half expected that little kid to come pedaling his Big Wheel around the corner at us.

But he didn’t and we finally found our room — 64 — and Jill worked the key in the lock, saying, “Tom seems like a nice guy.”

“Yeah, sure,” I said. “And he’s probably written another book since we saw him last.”

We stepped inside. The room was small — make that cozy — but it had its own polished-wood and brick fireplace with a fresh supply of firewood nearby. Our bags awaited us as well. The walls were papered in vertical stripes of yellow shades and the ceiling was high and the window looked out on a patch of snowy ground beyond which was the white frozen lake. A wooden, Japanese-style walkway bridge spanned a near section of the lake, from one ledge of rock to another, with a gazebo at midway point; the wooden bridge did not at all obscure the view of the lake, beyond which rock ledges rose, as well as towering evergreens, distinct and distinctly unreal in the blue-gray moonlight.

But back in the room we had a problem.

“Twin beds,” we said.

“There must be some mistake,” I said.

“Maybe it’s because we’re not married.”

“If it comes to that, I’m ready for a ceremony at sea. Where’s the captain of this ship?”

“Wouldn’t that be your friend Curt Clark?”

I paced between the beds. “When I made the arrangements with Curt, I told him I was bringing a female companion. I figured he would’ve guessed I didn’t mean my Aunt Mabel.”

“If you had an Aunt Mabel.”

“If I had an Aunt Mabel,” I said, and then, in mid-pace, I noticed something else that wasn’t there.

“Where’s the goddamn TV?” I said.

Jill poked around, looking in this corner, and that one; and in the bathroom, and she even, I swear to God, looked under the nearest bed.

“There doesn’t seem to be one,” she said.

“How do they expect me to watch Hill Street Blues ?”

“Somehow I don’t think they do.”

“What the hell else am I supposed to do with my Thursday nights in Iowa?”

“We’re not in Iowa, anymore.”

“They got TVs in New York,” I said, irritably, “even upstate,” and went for the phone on the nightstand between the beds. Only there wasn’t one.

“There isn’t even a damn phone ,” I said. “Maybe if I go down to the front desk, they’ll provide me with two tin cans and a long piece of string!”

“Cool it, lover,” Jill said, pointing to the table next to her. “There’s a phone here by the window.”

And there it was. It had been right in front of me before and I hadn’t noticed, so caught up in the view of the lake and mountains and such had I been.

“It’s on a long cord,” Jill said. “Want to move it over to the nightstand?”

“No,” I said, joining her, dialing 0. “All I want is my TV and a double bed.”

“I like a man who knows what he wants.”

“Curt Clark’s room, please,” I told the operator, and waited. I looked around the room some more, waiting for Curt to come on the line.

“If I got to pay a little extra myself,” I said, “I am going to get my double bed and TV. I’m a juggernaut on this one, kid.”

She gave me a thumbs up. She worked for a cable company. She believed in TVs. Double beds, too, for that matter.

The phone was ringing in Curt’s room and in my ear and it would have gone on forever, I guess, if I hadn’t hung up.

I stood. I spread my hands and said, not without a little desperation, “How do they expect us to have any fun in a room with twin beds and no TV?”

Jill shrugged expansively. “It’s a mystery to me... But then this is a mystery weekend, isn’t it?”

“Come on,” I said, taking charge, heading for the door. “If I know Curt, he’ll be down in the bar. We can get this thing straightened out.”

My hand was on the door but I stepped back; somebody had trumped my doorknob with a knock. Okay, then. I was game; I opened the door.

Curt Clark was standing there, with a big grin on his face — and where else did you expect it to be?

He moved in past us, a good-looking, rangy guy in his late forties, with thinning blond hair and dark-rimmed glasses; he was wearing a sports coat with patched elbows, and corduroy trousers.

“Ah, good!” he said, gesturing about him. “You got one of the nice rooms.”

“The nice rooms?”

“Well, they’re all nice, but they don’t all have fireplaces. That’s cute, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, uh... it’s cute.”

Curt turned to Jill and said, “And you must be...”

“Mal’s Aunt Mabel,” she said, smiling, shaking his hand.

He didn’t get the joke, but he knew an inside joke when he saw one and laughed a little anyway. “Funny,” he said, “I figured you for this Jill Forrest person Mal’s always raving about.”

Tom Sardini wasn’t the only reason my phone bills were thicker than my latest novel.

“That’s me,” she said. “I have to admit I haven’t read any of your books yet...”

“You’re in good company,” Curt said, smiling some more.

“But I intend to soon,” she said. “I’m not really a mystery fan—”

Curt waved a hand in the air. “Me, either!”

“—though I’ve started to read a few, on Mal’s recommendation. I’m enjoying them.”

“Let me guess,” Curt said, stalking our room, checking it out, peering out the window at the icy lake. “He’s feeding you Roscoe Kane intravenously.”

This time I smiled. “I haven’t hit her with any Kane, yet. I’m starting her off on Hammett and Chandler.”

“Good, good,” Curt said, planting his feet in one place. “In twenty or so years he’ll have you worked up to me.”

“Oh no,” Jill said. “You’re coming up next... right after Mickey Spillane.”

Curt laid a hand on his chest. “Rating right after the Mick on Mal’s reading list is a high compliment indeed. This doesn’t prevent me from being horrified, of course. Speaking of which, isn’t this place something? This is where they should’ve filmed The Shining! ”

Him again.

“Actually, Curt,” I said tentatively, “we were wondering about the twin beds...”

“All the rooms have twin beds,” he said dismissively.

“Well, uh, what about the television?”

“There aren’t any televisions. Why, are you still watching television ? Nobody watches television. I thought you were a writer , for Christ’s sake.”

“This place does have me a little confused,” I admitted. “Look, let’s go down to the bar. I’ll buy you a drink and—”

“There’s no bar,” Curt said.

I laughed. “I could have sworn you said—”

“There’s no bar,” he said. “I said that, yes. That’s because there’s no bar.”

I looked at Jill; she looked at me.

“This place is owned and operated by Quakers,” he said.

“Quakers?” I said.

“Quakers?” Jill said.

“Quakers,” Curt said. “You know — like the oats.”