Cozy (Stanley Hastings Mystery, #14) Page 4

  Alice looked at me. “Yes, of course,” she said. “So did we. What’s so hard to understand?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just we went there because we were driving by. So, in my mind, I didn’t think of it as something important enough to actually drive to. See what I mean?”

  “Yes, I see what you mean,” Alice said. “You have the most convoluted thought process. Tell me something, what could it possibly matter?”

  Our waitress suddenly materialized, slid salads in front of us, and stalked off without a word. That was the only problem with the booth—the side partitions acted like blinders, allowing people to sneak up on you.

  I picked up my fork, said, “Damn.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “She forgot to ask us what dressing?”

  “Stanley, it’s house salad. Comes with house dressing.”

  “Yeah, but I bet they have others.”

  “It looks good. Try it.”

  I tried it. As expected, it was some sort of vinaigrette. It wasn’t half bad. Still, given a choice, I would have opted for something more along the lines of blue cheese.

  Alice’s scampi hit the deck a moment later, accompanied by the admonition, “Don’t touch it!” from the Miss Congeniality of the serving set. I’m sure she just meant it was hot, still I couldn’t suppress the image of me reaching out for a shrimp and her smacking my knuckles with a ruler.

  “What are you smiling at?” Alice said.

  “Just a thought. What do you suppose her name is?”

  “What do you mean, what do I think her name is?” Alice said. “You want me to guess her name?”

  “I mean, how does she strike you? From her attitude.”

  “As a rather hassled waitress. What’s your point?”

  “No point. I was just playing a game. Like it occurred to me maybe her name was Olga and she used to moonlight as the head of a concentration camp.”

  “Nice guy,” Alice said. “Is this just because she wouldn’t let you have the barbecue ribs or put cheese glop on your salad?”

  “Not at all,” I said. “It’s just if you were writing a murder mystery, she’d be the chief suspect.”

  “And therefore innocent,” Alice said.

  “Huh?”

  “If she were as suspicious as you say, she’d have to be innocent. Otherwise there’d be no mystery. It would be too easy.”

  “Aha,” I said. “But that’s the double twist. You think it’s too easy because she looks so guilty. So you figure she couldn’t possibly be. But in point of fact she is.”

  “No good,” Alice said.

  “Why not?”

  “Too convoluted. The double twist is the same as no twist at all. You wind up with the person who looks guilty being guilty. Wow, what a surprise.”

  “It is if you’re led to think otherwise.”

  I was grateful the conversation had moved into a nonserious discussion of murder mysteries. I munched on my salad, and cast covetous glances at Alice’s scampi. It was cool enough for Alice to eat, but I wasn’t about to risk the ruler.

  Our entrees arrived just then, and I found myself hard-pressed any longer to wish our waitress ill. Alice’s shark was indeed a small portion, but my prime rib was an inch and a half thick and filled the plate. I kid you not. The potato and mixed vegetables came in side dishes. The beef stood alone.

  I had just begun sawing into my mountain of meat when I heard, “Oh, to die for.”

  Alice had just tasted the shark. Evidently it was to her liking.

  “Oh, Stanley, you have to try this. The sauce is magnificent.”

  To be honest, tasting shark is not a high priority in my life. I also had a mouthful of meat. Still, I was trying to be a good sport. I chewed, swallowed, took a sip of water.

  Alice dipped a bit of shark in the sauce, held the fork out to me. I accepted it rather tentatively on long teeth, but had to admit it was quite good.

  “See?” Alice said. “It’s the sauce. The sauce is to die for.”

  I wouldn’t have gone that far, but it was rather tasty. Still, I was happy enough to return to my prime rib. I attacked it vigorously, and polished it off about the same time Alice finished her shark.

  “And how was everything?” demanded our waitress.

  It struck me as a perfunctory and practically rhetorical question. I couldn’t help wondering how the woman would react to anything but abject praise. On the other hand, I couldn’t think of a single thing to complain about.

  And Alice was still sky-high. “The shark was to die for.” she said. “That sauce. What is in that sauce?”

  “It’s our chef’s own recipe. Isn’t it good?”

  “It’s to die for. I don’t suppose ...?”

  “What?”

  “Would it be possible to get the recipe?”

  She shook her head. “The chef does not make a policy of giving out his recipes.”

  There was something in the way she said it, and she and Alice exchanged a look. At least, that’s how it seemed to me, but maybe I just imagined it, because a second later she said, “Would you care for dessert?”

  “What do you recommend?” Alice said.

  “The cheesecake is quite good. But if you prefer chocolate ...”

  “Yes?”

  “Our chocolate cake is very popular. It’s all chocolate, and very moist. It’s so rich it has no frosting.”

  “I’ll try it,” Alice said.

  “And I’ll have the cheesecake,” I said.

  Alice and the waitress exchanged looks, as if to say, “How predictable.” I must say, I felt somewhat picked on. What was wrong with having cheesecake?

  I was about to voice that very thought when the blond hiking couple hoved into view. They were escorted across the dining room by the other waitress, and seated at a table right in our line of fire.

  The young man was dressed in sneakers, shorts, and a white polo shirt, and looked as if he might have just stepped off center court at Wimbledon. The young woman was dressed in a two-piece pink sunsuit. While not nearly as revealing as her swimsuit, it still looked pretty good.

  At any rate, it was impossible not to note their entrance.

  “Ah,” Alice said, “the floor show has arrived.”

  Having already taken a ribbing about talking to the girl by the pool, I was not looking forward to going through it again.

  “Yes,” I said. “And don’t you find it a little strange?”

  That caught Alice up short, and at least postponed whatever remarks she’d been about to make about the young lady’s attire and my possible appreciation of it. She frowned, said, “What?”

  “I mean, that they’re here. Don’t you find it strange that they’re here? I mean, they’re here, we’re here, the woman with the dog is here. We were all at Champney Falls, and we’re all here. It’s like a bad mystery novel that’s full of coincidences, where all the people in it keep bumping into one another for no apparent reason.”

  “I’m sure they have a reason.”

  “That’s not the point. The point is, how did we all wind up here together? The girl says they checked in yesterday. But that doesn’t have to be true.”

  Alice stared at me. “What are you getting at?”

  “Well, did they follow us here?”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sakes.”

  “No, they couldn’t have. When we left, she was still crying behind a rock. But what about the woman with the dog. They could have followed her here.”

  “Stanley ...”

  “See what I mean? They’re not involved with us, but they could be involved with her.”

  “Stanley, what do you think you’re doing?”

  What I was doing was kidding around and trying to forestall any more husband-bashing.

  “Shhh,” I said. “Here comes the waitress. Don’t let on. Just act natural.”

  Fortunately, that had the desired effect. Alice wasn’t about to let a total stranger in on how goofy a
moron she’d happened to marry. She just smiled and said, “Thank you,” when the chocolate cake was slid in front of her.

  Alice took a bite, and suddenly all was forgiven. Or at least forgotten. The look on her face approached ecstasy.

  “Oh, my god,” Alice said. “I don’t believe this.”

  Alice’s dessert was so moist and soggy it looked almost more like pudding than cake.

  “Good?” I asked.

  “Good? Stanley, I don’t believe this cake. It’s heaven.”

  It was, indeed. It had rescued me from the conversation. I took a bite of cheesecake—which wasn’t heaven, but wasn’t bad, either—and enjoyed a brief respite while the two of us drank our coffee and ate our dessert.

  Unfortunately, having placed her order, the young woman got up and headed in the direction of the ladies’ room, which of course led her right past our booth.

  Alice watched her go, turned back, and said, “You were saying?”

  “I don’t remember what I was saying.”

  “Oh, yes, you do. You were advancing some insane theory about how that young woman happened to be here. Probably to cover up the fact that she’s actually here to see you.”

  “Oh, I’m sure she is. I just thought you might find that hard to accept.”

  “Not at all,” Alice said. “I’m sure she isn’t. Although you probably think she is.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Anyway, do tell me your fascinating theory—what was it?— that they’re here because they followed the woman with the dog. And just why would they do that?”

  “Why, I have no idea. I was just saying they had the opportunity. When we left, the woman was still crying behind the rock. The woman with the dog was still up at the falls. By the time she came down, the boyfriend could have showed up, and the two of them could have followed her.”

  Alice looked at me. “What is this, a busman’s holiday? You’re a detective and you’re on vacation, so you’re going to make up a mystery wherever you go?”

  “I’m just kidding around, Alice. All I’m saying is it’s quite a coincidence, all of us winding up at the same place.”

  “Exactly,” Alice said. “And that’s all it is, coincidence. We came here because the other inn I called was full. I don’t know why our friend with the dog came here, but I can certainly find out.

  “And as for them,” Alice said, jerking her thumb in the direction of the young woman, who had just walked by on her way back to her table, “they are probably staying here because they stayed here before, because it’s a cheap place to stay, or because the other inns were full. All right, we all happened to be at Champney Falls. It’s a coincidence, and that’s all it is. And there’s no reason to make anything more of it than that.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I said.

  And in walked the grumpy, overweight hiker with the bald head.

  7.

  WHEN WE GOT back to the room after dinner, I suggested that since there was no television we find some other means by which to amuse ourselves.

  To Alice, who knows me well, this was none too subtle a suggestion. She gave me her there-he-goes-again look, designed to make me feel like a moronic, sexist pig, incapable of controlling his base, primitive urges. But, as I pointed out, this was the first time in years we’d been vacationing alone, and it was somewhat like a second honeymoon. And I was gentle and romantic and suave and tender and caring and loving, and in every way, shape, and form, the epitome of a perfect gentleman, and the long and the short of it was Alice was moved by the sentiment, and before you know it she was in my arms, and I was nuzzling her hair, and things were looking awfully good.

  And someone in the next room coughed.

  You couldn’t mistake it. It was as loud as a pistol shot.

  Alice stiffened and pulled away, and I knew I was dead.

  “Did you hear that?” she whispered. “The walls are paper-thin. You can hear everything. Everything.”

  I whispered something about how I could be quiet, but it was a lost cause, Alice was having none of it. And just like that, our romantic evening went down the drain. And, I realized, so did all of them. Good lord, how many nights were we staying here? And I thought not having a TV was bad. Say it ain’t so, Alice. Say it ain’t so.

  Unfortunately, it was so, and after a few more whispered arguments, entreaties, and pleas, I gave up the fight and accepted Alice’s invitation to go for a walk. A walk wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, but anything beat hanging out in a room so devoid of creature comforts.

  First off, we stopped by the inn to see if anything was going on. Surprisingly enough, there was. From the tinkle of glasses and silverware coming from the door of the dining room dinner was still being served. And the bar was absolutely jumping with two, count ’em, two patrons sitting on bar stools sipping drinks, two young men who sat there chatting happily as if no one had told them sitting at the bar simply wasn’t done. On the other hand, the middle-aged couple I’d previously seen on the porch was back on the porch, demonstrating the approved method of sipping drinks at the Blue Frog Ponds.

  As if that weren’t enough, a sign by the front desk announced that at nine o’clock there was a movie in the game room.

  “Where’s the game room?” I said.

  “Right out back between East and West Ponds,” Louise said.

  Once again, I hadn’t noticed she was there, and had no idea where she came from. I made a mental note to ask Alice about that later.

  “How do you show movies?” I asked.

  “There’s a big-screen TV and a VCR.”

  “You mean you have another TV?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “On the cable?”

  “Of course.”

  “Nice to know,” I said.

  Alice and I went to check out the game room. It was in a small building that I hadn’t noticed before, probably because someone had neglected to put a frog on the door. Inside was a single room with a pool table, a ping-pong table, and a big-screen TV.

  As an attraction, the game room was only slightly less popular than the swimming pool. Alice and I were the only ones there.

  Of course, it was only eight-thirty, and the movie wasn’t scheduled to start until nine. Still, aside from the dining room, I was beginning to feel like I was in a ghost town.

  “Well, Fast Alice,” I said, doing my best Jackie Gleason as Minnesota Fats, “whaddaya say you and me shoot a game of eight ball for ten cents a game?”

  Alice has seen The Hustler too. She cocked her head at me, à la Paul Newman, and said, “I hear you’re a big hustler, Fats. Whaddaya say we make it twenty cents a game?”

  “Now I know why they call you Fast Alice,” I said, and racked up the balls.

  By the time people started showing up for the movie, Alice was up forty cents. I had won one game and lost three. Not that Alice is that much better than I am—actually, we’re pretty evenly matched—but two of the games I’d been ahead and lost by scratching on the eight ball.

  Anyway, the people who showed up to watch the movie were three women, including the one with the dog. Of course, the dog wasn’t with her, that’s the only way I know to describe her.

  “Hi,” she said. “Who’s winning?”

  I jerked my thumb. “The hustler.”

  She smiled. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “He’s setting me up,” Alice said. “He lets me win a few games and then raises the stakes.”

  “Won’t you have to stop playing when the movie starts?”

  “Well, I’m not the brightest of hustlers,” I said. “I’m Stanley, this is my wife, Alice.”

  “I’m Florence,” the woman said.

  “Really,” I said. “You should have your own room.”

  She blinked. “I have my own room.”

  “No, I mean your name starts with F. You could have your own frog, like Frankie or Freddie.”

  “Stanley has a strange sense of humor,” Alice said.

  The
woman smiled. “I hadn’t thought of that. But now that you mention it, I’m in Fenwick.”

  “Fenwick?” I said.

  She smiled again. “I guess they were running out of F names. But, yes, I have Fenwick frog on my door.”

  “We’re in Frankie,” I said.

  She frowned. “I don’t think I’ve seen Frankie.”

  I jerked my thumb. “East Pond, second floor.”

  “Oh, that’s why. I’m in the inn.”

  “Where’s Prince?” Alice asked.

  “Up in the room. He didn’t want to watch the movie.”

  Neither did I. The movie that night was Bridges of Madison County, which was probably why the customers were all women. In my present mood, it was a movie I seemed unlikely to enjoy, so when Louise showed up and slid a videocassette into the VCR, I excused myself and slipped out the door.

  I had no idea what I was going to do. There was no Red Sox game, since they’d already played that afternoon, but it occurred to me there might be something on TV, so I wandered back to the inn to check it out.

  The young hiker was standing on the front porch. Ordinarily, I’m shy at initiating conversations with people I don’t know, but having talked to the girl, I didn’t want to avoid talking to him.

  So I walked up on the porch and said, “Hi.”

  If I’d made his day, you wouldn’t have known it. He looked at me as if I couldn’t possibly be speaking to him. In spite of the fact there was no one else there.

  He said, “I beg your pardon?”

  That was a conversation killer. As I say, I’m not particularly outgoing. And I’m certainly not one to force a social situation. I had ventured “Hi.” As to his response, “I beg your pardon’’ was about as cold as one could get. Hi is not ambiguous. Hi is relatively simple and straightforward. Hi does not require an explanation. Under the circumstances, I beg your pardon could be translated as “I don’t know you. Why are you talking to me? Leave me alone.”

  His body language said so also. He seemed fidgety, impatient. He never really focused on me, and kept looking around.

  He was obviously waiting for the girl. Impatiently waiting. Which bothered me. I kept remembering the sound of the slap.

  Which prompted me to ease my way out of the situation as quickly as possible.