Max Collins - Nice Weekend for a Murder

Every jaw in the house had dropped to the floor.

Except Rath’s, which was still churning: “I have a certain respect for the work of Curt Clark. So when he approached me, I agreed to attend this charade — only to discover when I arrive that I’m to play a cruel parody of myself, and then to be ‘murdered,’ to play a corpse, to be what so many of you wish I truly were: dead. Well, you’ll have to find yourself another body. I’ve had enough of this nonsense. I’m not playing.”

And Rath walked through the crowd’s Red Sea, which parted for his Moses, and was gone.

Curt calmed the crowd by pushing the air with his palms and smiling.

“We all know Kirk’s a shade temperamental, but I’ll do my best to catch him and convince him to stick around for the fun. In the meantime, Pete Christian has a movie scheduled for about half an hour from now, in the Parlor upstairs. I think you’ll find it apropos.”

Pete stepped forward and said, “It’s Laura — the classic Otto Preminger film featuring Clifton Webb as an obnoxious critic.”

That got some laughter going, but it was mostly of the nervous variety; Rath’s outburst had cast a shadow over the previously lighthearted proceedings. The casually dressed guests — ranging in age from late teens to senior citizens, with all stops between represented, baby-boomer Yuppie types perhaps the most predominant — rose slowly from the floor, as if their collective bones ached. Chatter soon filled the air, but the merriment quotient seemed low.

“What do you make of that?” Jill asked, looping her arm in mine again, as we headed out into the hall.

“Kirk Rath’s a self-important dope,” I shrugged. “That’s hardly a news flash.”

We headed down a hall toward our room and, soon, up ahead, there was Curt, who was standing talking with an attractive brunette about thirty or so, her nice shape snug in a navy-blue blazer and gray skirt that seemed to say “hotel management,” not guest.

It was an animated conversation, which carried. Curt was shrugging, smiling, doing a lot of body movement in an apparent effort to be charming as well as apologetic. The woman was frowning, shaking her head, not quite buying it. But she seemed more worried than cross.

“I just don’t like seeing our Mystery Weekend begin with the murder victim refusing to cooperate,” she said.

“I think he’s been very cooperative,” Curt said. “Everybody in the hotel wants to kill him.”

“I don’t find this amusing, Mr. Clark.”

“Curt. Please. Curt.”

“Curt. But our guests pay a premium price for a fun-filled weekend. Your corpse might be better behaved.”

Jill and I had caught up with them now.

“Kirk Rath doesn’t take dying lying down,” Curt was saying, then noticed us: “Oh, Mal — Jill.” Curt gestured to the brunette. She was wholesomely pretty; her face was rather full and her eyes were dark brown. Unlike some career women, she took it easy on the makeup. Maybe she was a Quaker.

“This is Mary Wright,” he said. “She’s the social director here at Mohonk, my boss... for the weekend anyway. This is Jill Forrest, Mary. And this is—”

“Mallory,” she said. She smiled at both of us, but extended her hand only to me. “No introduction necessary. You look just like your dust jacket photo.”

Jill said, “I think he looks more like his driver’s license photo.”

Mary Wright ignored that, continuing to hold my hand, saying to me, “I try to read something by all our guest authors. I enjoyed the book I read of yours very much.” She still held my hand; hers was warm, mine was sweaty.

Jill seemed less than thrilled that Mary and I were hitting it off so handily, and said to Curt, “Is that little creep really gone?”

“Rath? Yes, I’m afraid so. Thought I might head him off at the pass before he lammed out of here, but no luck. He must’ve intended doing this all along: he hadn’t even checked into his room. He walked directly outside from the Lake Lounge, climbed in his car and drove down the mountain.”

Mary finally released my hand, and made a frustrated face. “I’m afraid Curt is right. Our bell captain saw him go.”

“What now?” I asked. “Can you stage one of these things without a corpse?”

“Sure,” Curt said, waving it off. “Piece of cake. Rath’s participation this weekend was minimal, anyway... just a gimmick, really.”

I nodded slowly. “You mean, having the murder victim be the critic every mystery writer would most like to kill.”

“Right. All that was required of Rath was to pose briefly as a bloody corpse tomorrow morning. That and give a lecture and question-and-answer session tomorrow afternoon, after yours. We’ll have to fill in there, of course, but we’ll come up with something. Rath’ll just have to die offstage.”

“We can proceed easily without him,” Mary Wright admitted. But she was still troubled: “What bothers me is his obnoxious behavior back there... the cold water he’s thrown on my guests.”

“They’ll get over it,” I said. “They’re here for a good time, and one pompous put-down from the likes of Rath won’t keep the wind out of their sails for very long.”

“I hope so,” Mary said doubtfully. She smiled, prettily, extended a hand again. “Anyway, your concern is appreciated. And it was a pleasure meeting you, finally.”

And she was squeezing my hand again. Giving me a look as warm as her grasp.

“Pleasure’s mine. Try another one of my books sometime.”

“I intend to,” she said, letting loose of me slowly, her fingers brushing my palm rather seductively. “Curt, let’s go to my office and figure out exactly how we’re going to restructure this thing...”

And they were off, talking, gesturing as they went.

“She’s nice,” I said.

“ ‘It was a pleasure meeting you finally ,’ ” Jill said with infinite sarcasm.

“Huh?”

“Come with me, Romeo.” She yanked me by the sweaty hand, and we walked down a hallway. It took a jog and we were suddenly at our room. She had the key and was working it in the door.

“You’re not mad at me, are you?” I asked.

“What for?” she said.

“Just because I was polite to that girl.”

“She’s not a girl. She’s thirty-five if she’s a day.”

“So are you.”

“You always know just the right thing to say.” She opened the door and smiled tightly and gestured for me to go in. I did.

Jill began undressing, and I sat on one of the twin beds looking at her while she did. When she was down to her wisp of a bra and her sheer panties, she said, “If I hadn’t come along on this trip, you’d be cozying up to that little flirt, wouldn’t you?”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Was that a gun in your pocket, or were you just glad to see her?”

“Hey, there wasn’t anything in my pocket!”

I got out of my clothes. Turned out the lights. Sat back down on the bed.

“You have no right to be jealous,” I said. “You’re the one who’s leaving me , after all.”

“I have to. My job in Port City is finished.”

“A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”

“I have to work, Mal.”

“There are other jobs. You could find something in Port City, or anyway the surrounding area.”

“And you could pack up and come with me. You’re a writer — you can work anywhere. Nothing’s keeping you in Port City.”

We’d had this conversation dozens of times, in minorly varying forms. My next remark would be that I had property in Port City — not only my house, but the farmland my parents had left me, which I had to keep an eye on, and... well, anyway, that’s what I would normally say next. And she had something to say that came after that, but to hell with it. An impasse is an impasse.