Healthy Place to Die (16 page)

It was the lake, and I was too close to do anything but plunge into it.

The cool Alpine water was a wonderful stimulant. My head went under and something hard bumped against my knee. It was no doubt the magnificent machine that had saved my life. I had not had time to take a breath, and I was gasping for air as I broke free of the surface and saw that I was only yards from the edge. A few strokes was all it took, and I was wading in mud and then onto the springy grass.

I struggled up the slope. I had thought that the air and the water had revived me, but I found that the fumes had taken their toll. I was utterly weary but I couldn’t stop, for Janet was still in that deadly greenhouse. I battled my way uphill.

It wasn’t that far. The nightmare conditions of my desperate escape and the suffocating effect of the fumes had made it seem much farther. I reached the hole in the wall of glass. The lawnmower had done a spectacular job, and the hole looked to be four or five times larger than the projectile that had made it.

The atmosphere inside was largely clear already, the fumes seeping out into the evening air. There was still an unpleasant chemical smell, like a mixture of hospital carbolic and rotting vegetation. I kicked aside broken herb containers, pieces of splintered wood, and shattered shelving, following my way back to the storage shed where I had found the mower.

From there, it was only a short distance to where Janet lay.

Or should have lain.

She wasn’t there.

Perhaps I had miscalculated or my memory was faulty. I searched all around in a pattern that took me to the glass walls on the nearer sides. Still nothing. I set out on a search that led me up and down every aisle in the building. Perhaps she had crawled away, trying to escape. I realized that now I was assuming she was still alive, whereas I had thought before that she was dead.

The whole scenario was assuming a definite aura of déjà vu.

To be certain, I covered the greenhouse again. No body.

Had the crash of the glass been heard in the main building complex? I wondered. No one had shown up to investigate. The hydrotherapy units were farther away, and the noise had probably not reached that far. I went out through the jagged glass hole and to the main entrance of the greenhouse. It was still locked, but there was no key.

It was then that I saw a large sign erected outside the door.

WARNING! ACHTUNG! AVIS! AVVERTIMENTO!

During the next three days, the automatic insecticide spray treatment will be in effect in this building. Patrons of the spa should not enter the greenhouse during this period, as the chemicals used in the insecticide may be harmful to humans.

The notice was repeated in German, French, and Italian. If they needed any confirmation of just how nasty the chemical was to humans, I would be able to provide a testimonial. That might not be a good idea, though. The notice had not been there when I had gone in, and the door had certainly not been locked.

Someone wanted me to have an “accident” … but was it me? Maybe it was Janet they were after. She must have come in first. So where was she now? If the attempt had been successful, why had the body been removed?

It was not just déjà vu. There was a precedent for it. Kathleen Evans had been killed in the Seaweed Forest and she had disappeared. It couldn’t be coincidence. There was definitely a pattern emerging. First a columnist from
Good Food
magazine and now its editor.

The pattern was getting more and more sinister too. For two bodies to be removed from the spa cast a strong suspicion on the staff. Was Caroline de Witt masterminding some plot, aided by some of the blond staff beauties? A less likely place for such a thing to be happening was hard to imagine. A respectable spa, widely known and with prominent clients? Absurd. …

A voice cut through the clear air. I realized that I was standing there, dripping lake water and getting chilled to the bone. The voice was not too close and had no tinge of urgency in it. I waited, then went over to the outdoor herb garden, its colors faintly tinted in the light of a moon that was sliding out from behind the Alpine peaks to the north.

I had a wider vista from here, and in the dim light I could make out three or four figures making their way back to the main buildings. Two or three of them were talking now. They must have come from the hydrotherapy units, and that gave me an idea. I didn’t want to go back into the main building area looking like something dragged in from the lake—even if I was. In the hydrotherapy center, several of the buildings had racks of white terrycloth robes. I could take one of those and be less conspicuous.

The lure of water therapy was proving popular. Several people were coming and going and I had to be alert, but I managed to grab a robe, crumple up my sodden clothes into a bundle, and carry them under my arm. As I walked back to the main building, all seemed calm and peaceful. I recalled a previous occasion—I had been looking for Kathleen’s body and I had been unable to understand why no alarm had gone out then.

Was this going to be the same?

Pools of orange light lit the approaches to the main buildings of the spa. As I walked toward the nearest building, I encountered Marta Giannini and Axel Vorstahl out for a stroll.

“Aha,” Axel said, “getting some water treatment?”

“I think I’ve had all of that I can stand for today,” I said.

I was aware that they were both looking with amusement at the bundle of wet clothes under my arm, dripping water.

“I had another mud bath,” Marta said gaily.

“It has made you look radiant,” I assured her.

They walked on, and I hastily made my way back to my chalet and temporary security. This place was getting to be dangerous.

T
HE FIRST THING I
did was to call Janet’s room. As I had expected, there was no answer. I took a shower and let the hot spray pummel my body. This was too much. Two women, both appearing dead—but were they? Both disappearing? Or had they? Well, Kathleen certainly had disappeared and it would be only a short time before it would be clear if Janet had disappeared also.

They both worked on the same magazine … that was the odd coincidence that was probably not a coincidence at all. It must be a key to these bizarre happenings. So why were they happening here?

After breaking out of the greenhouse, I had toyed around with the idea that Caroline de Witt was pursuing some criminal plan, but the more I examined that idea, the more absurd it seemed. What plan could possibly be operating in a spa, especially one as popular as this? It was true that cover-ups would be easier for staff members to arrange, but I could not rule out the possibility that guests were responsible. At least that possibility applied to Kathleen’s “disappearance,” but now with Janet’s “disappearance”—if that was what it turned out to be—some more elaborate explaining by the management was going to be needed.

A big hole in one glass wall of the greenhouse, for example. The reaction to this suddenly appearing aperture would be a signpost along the road to solving the puzzle.

Drinking time before dinner had been severely eroded, and by the time I emerged from the soothingly hypnotic influence of the hot shower and dressed, it was the dinner hour.

I went through the lobby again as before, taking the temperature. Once again, it was normal. Everyone was going about their business as if nothing had happened. Staff members sauntered or scurried about, attending to their tasks just as they always did. Guests asked at the desk about messages or at the cashier’s office about currency or banking transactions. The fax machine was in demand, with missives flying in and out. Phones rang, were answered, and voices filled the air. As to anything out of the ordinary—nothing, absolutely nothing.

Every time the main door opened and someone came in, I expected to see a man in uniform. None appeared. I saw one of the blond staff girls passing through, and after a brief study of her walk, I concluded it was Julia. She came closer, and I confirmed the identification. She smiled as I greeted her.

“Busy as always, I see. Still shorthanded?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, “but we all enjoy our work.”

“This vandalism hasn’t caused you more work, has it?”

She looked puzzled. “Vandalism?”

“There’s a rumor that there was a break-in at the greenhouse.”

“Oh, that … it’s just a rumor. One of the gardeners tried to drive a mower out and the controls stuck. He ran into the glass wall.”

So that was the party line. I went into the dining room. Oriana Frascati and Michel Leblanc were my immediate companions. “Are you contemplating a Swiss cookbook?” I asked Oriana. She had her hair swept back and looked quite attractive in a severe way. “Or is there one already?” I added.

“In Switzerland, there are several, but a book on Swiss cooking written in English? Nothing recent has been published.”

“Is that because there are not considered to be enough Swiss dishes?”

“Probably,” she said.

“Swiss chard and Swiss rolls don’t count?”

As a spot check on her sense of humor, it worked well enough. She smiled. “After
Geschneltes,
it’s hard to find as many as are needed to fill a book. The favorite dishes of the Swiss are all claimed by the French, Germans, and Italians.”

The stuffed green olives that had been my choice of the first course arrived, super colossal size, and the stuffing tasted like a mix of sausage and veal. Michel had a stir-fried hot and sour cabbage salad, and Oriana chose a zucchini risotto.

Michel Leblanc leaned across to address Oriana. “It must be getting harder to find new approaches for cookbooks.”

“It is. We’ve even exhausted the noncooking cookbooks.”

Michel looked puzzled. His English was excellent but it was easy to understand why that expression baffled him. Oriana smiled as she saw his expression.

“We’ve been having a flood of them for some time. “The
I Hate to Cook Book, I Can’t Boil Water,
and
Fifteen-Minute Meals”

Michel smiled and nodded. “Ah, I see. Books for beginners. That is good.”

“Then we had the humorous cookbooks,” said Oriana. She rattled off a list that included
Nobody Knows the Truffles I’ve Seen, Gourmet Cooking for Dummies,
and
Desperation Dinners.

My ploy was working well. Now I was able to turn to Michel Leblanc. “Have you written any cookbooks, Michel?”

“No, I have not. Many articles for magazines and newspapers but not any books.”

“Magazines? Ah, of course; yes,” I said, “I was just trying to remember where I had seen your articles. One was in
Good Food,
wasn’t it?”

Michel hadn’t mentioned any television appearances, but if he had made any, they hadn’t sharpened any latent acting ability. He looked down at his plate, reached for the salt (which he didn’t need), and said in an uncertain voice, “No, I haven’t, er, been in that magazine.”

“You’re going to be in a future issue then?” I asked. “Didn’t I hear Kathleen Evans say something about working with you on it?”

Mentioning her name seemed to embarrass him. “No, we haven’t discussed it.”

“So what were you talking about in the Roman baths?” was the next question, but I didn’t want to ask it at the dinner table. I compromised with, “She’s a good food writer, isn’t she?”

He mumbled what might have been a grudging agreement, but it trailed away and Oriana was saying, “We have a book in preparation with favorite recipes of famous chefs. Perhaps we can get you to contribute to that?” Michel grabbed eagerly at this lifeline, and the arrival of the entrée brought a halt to the conversation. I had selected the fritto misto, tiny fillets of lake fish that are found commonly in Swiss lakes—perch, trout, pike—and served with basil mayonnaise on the side. Michel was having a pork stew, which probably had Hungarian origins, and Oriana explained her choice with “I’ve been hungering for a steak all week. Just a simple one with a green salad.”

I was pondering my next ploy when Oriana handed it to me—on a plate. “The food here really is excellent,” she commented.

“It is,” I agreed. “We must congratulate the chef—yet again.” I put down my fork and gave a plausible impression of having been struck with an idea. “In fact, the food is so good that you should talk to Leighton about a cookbook.”

“I did,” said Oriana, attacking her steak with gusto. “He said no.”

“Really?” I was sincerely puzzled. “I would have thought he’d leap at the chance.”

“He doesn’t even want to contribute a recipe.”

Silence didn’t exactly fall as the sounds of happy eating continued, but it was an additional fact to add to the complex picture of such a potentially great chef. Was he shy about publicity? He didn’t seem to be shy in other regards.

I tried not to let these conundrums spoil my meal. They didn’t. The fritto misto was perfect, just crunchy enough but not laden with batter. The basil mayonnaise had been made with a light touch, and as this was a Swiss dish I decided on a Swiss wine and ordered a
vin fletri.
In France, such wines are known as
vins de paille.
The word
paille
means straw, and the wines are so named because the grapes are laid out on beds of straw to dry out. This can increase the sugar content, and the French version is more of an after-dinner wine, but the waiter assured me that the Swiss version is lighter and drier. And so it was.

A slice of what the French call “the embroidered melon” completed the meal. The raised, lighter-colored network on the rind gives this melon its name. It is called a canteloupe in the United States, a situation complicated further by the fact that what Europe calls a canteloupe is not grown commercially in the United States.

After the meal, though, the questions kept coming into my mind. Two women had disappeared. Both might be dead. In my search for clues, a name had come unbidden to the top of the heap—a name that should have occurred to me sooner when I considered who might be able to contribute some meaning … Carver Armitage.