Toured to Death (8 page)

“You're terrible.”

“Marcus says the same thing. You two are a lot alike.”

“Really?” Amy felt unexpectedly flattered. “How long has Marcus been with you? He seems like a nice guy.”

“I don't know much about him, to be honest.”

“Really? You seem the type who likes to know everything.”

“Not about his personal life. Are you interested?”

“Me?” Amy was taken aback. “I don't know. Is he interested in me?”

“You mean, is he straight? Amy, dear, just because a man is well groomed and sensitive and doesn't grab at every pair of boobs on the street . . .”

“I know he's straight. I just asked if he was interested.”

“No idea, sweetie.”

 

It was past midnight when Amy returned to her room. The combination of sun and long hours on her best behavior had taken their toll.

A breeze from the balcony stirred the light white curtains, billowing them into the room and rustling the thin piles of clue packets, the next two days' worth of clues, all neatly stacked on the desktop. For a moment she thought about her negligence, about keeping the balcony door open. The breeze could have blown away the clues, or someone could have broken in. She told herself to be more careful next time.

The Corsican aromas of myrtle and lavender were blended now with a hint of lilac, making the air more intoxicating than usual. Amy removed her shoes and used them as paperweights, placing the heels on one pile of packets and the soles on the other. Much less negligent now.

Within five minutes of unlocking the door, Amy was undressed, in bed, and asleep. Sleep was always good.

A
my loved the Tuscan hills this time of year, lush with ripe grapes, the vistas almost hypnotic in their rolling beauty. Then, suddenly, around the least likely bend, a gap would open up to reveal not more hills, but a piercing blue sky and a fishing village nestled in the rocks below, the blue-green sea bobbing with brightly painted herring boats and the occasional yacht.

Two days back on the Tuscan mainland, motoring through this ethereal countryside, had brought them to the Piombino docks and the high-speed ferry to the island of Elba. Everyone had more or less assumed they would be heading this way.

The Napoleon subtheme had so far resulted in an excursion to his Corsican birthplace, followed by their first night in Italy, at Villa La Principessa in Lucca, home of Napoleon's sister. As soon as the clues led them back toward the coast, they all congratulated themselves on their brilliance. Before long, they were disembarking at the site of the Emperor's first exile and settling into their rooms at the Hotel Montecristo on the south side of the island.

A tranquil pine grove stood on a bluff a dozen feet above the narrow beach of Marina di Campo. It had a manicured look. Although the trees were not lined up in obsessively exact rows, as in some replanted German forests, the pinecones and needles and twigs had all been raked away. What was left was a sun-dappled carpet of sandy brown earth. This, combined with the tall, elegant trunks and high, wide canopies, gave the place a natural but civilized ambiance.

Very Italian,
Amy mused as she strolled among the pines.
Stone pines,
she reminded herself, the trees that had sunk their roots into the forums of Rome centuries before the birth of the first Caesar. Reaching the edge of the rocky bluff, she stopped to listen to the lapping waves and gaze at the outline of the Tuscan mainland six miles away.

It had been a short day, mystery-wise. Barely 2:30 p.m. and no more clues to plant or arrangements to make. Just an idle afternoon on the beach. Then perhaps a relaxing walk into the village and a drink at a dockside trattoria. That sounded good.

She was just starting back toward the hotel when it dawned on her that for the past hour she hadn't seen anyone from the tour. Not that she minded. It was just unusual. There was always someone lurking around the corner to invent a new problem. Amy stretched up her arms and felt the breeze through the cotton of her floral beach tunic, bought for this trip and the dream of a moment like this.

“There you are! Thank God.”

She lowered her arms and did her best to paste on a smile. Weaving his way through the shadows of the manicured grove was Marcus, looking fresh and vital in Bermuda shorts and a white polo. Amy's disappointment was transformed.

“Marcus. Hi!”

“We have a problem.” The closer Marcus came, the more his words faded into a guarded hiss. “Someone's been giving out false clues. It's not you, is it?”

Amy was confused. Then suddenly it made sense. “You're Otto's assistant.”

“Yes,” he confessed with a simplicity that made Amy want to strangle him.

She felt a combination of relief and anger. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“Tell you what? It's supposed to be a secret.”

“So, you're not really Georgina's companion?”

“She's just helping me out. Amy—”

“But after Otto's death? How was I supposed to find you? Why didn't you come forward?”

“Look.” Marcus took a moment to slow himself down. “I don't know what Otto charged you, but I paid half my own way. Out of my own pocket.” Amy was surprised. Even half was a lot. “This was my vacation. I wanted to see how the game played.” He spread his arms in a gesture of utter incomprehension. “I can't believe you're upset.”

“I'm upset . . .” When Marcus put it that way, it did seem silly. “I'm upset because Otto didn't just die. He was murdered.”

“Murdered?” His arms fell to his sides and his voice quavered. “Murdered?”

“Yes. Call me paranoid, but I think it had something to do with this game.”

“Oh, my God. Who would want to kill . . . Do they know who did it?”

“Nope.”

“Poor Otto. I just assumed it was a heart attack. He took such bad care of himself. Believe me, if I'd known it was murder . . .”

Amy felt a little ashamed of her anger. “You're right. I'm sorry. I should have been more honest in the first place.”

“And you think he was killed because of this game? Why, for heaven's sake?” Marcus waved away any answer. “No. Don't tell me. We don't have time for that right now. We have a problem to take care of.”

Amy studied his face. Something was wrong. Marcus had adjusted a bit too easily to the news and was too anxious to move on. “You knew about the murder, didn't you?”

“What? I knew?”

“You knew.” She thought back to that morning in Aix-en-Provence. “Five minutes after I announced his death, you were on the phone to New York. I saw the bill.”

“I have friends in New York.”

“You were calling someone about his death.”

Marcus shrugged. “Yes, of course. I called Otto's niece, and she told me. What's wrong with that?”

“What's wrong?” It was like arguing with her mother. “Oh, Amy,” she mocked, clasping her hands to her chest in faux sincerity. “If I'd known it was murder . . . Well, you
did
know.”

“So?” Marcus was amazingly uncontrite. “Can we get back to the matter at hand?”

“I don't know when to believe you and when not to.”

“
It doesn't matter,
” Marcus spat. “Look, if you want to hate me, fine. But we currently have six teams running around the island of Montecristo, looking for nonexistent clues.”

Amy paused and blinked, befuddled by the revelation. “Montecristo?” She glanced back up toward the resort. “Not as in the hotel? As in the count thereof?”

“Exactly. It's an island a few miles south.”

“Yes. I've been there. There's absolutely nothing. A bird sanctuary and the ruins of some old convent. How the hell did they get to Montecristo?”

“That's what I'm trying to tell you. As soon as we checked in, all the team leaders got telegrams from Daryl. It was a clumsy puzzle, not worthy of Otto or even me. But the solution basically said, ‘Hire a boat for a few hours and go to Montecristo.'”

“Italy still has telegrams?” It was the first thing to flash through her mind.

“They do. I checked with the office in Portoferraio. They said an Amy Abel sent the messages. I wanted to throw mine away. But all the other teams were running around the lobby, talking about it.”

“So why aren't you on Montecristo with your team?”

“I . . . I was thrown.” His voice cracked, and for the first time in their acquaintance, he looked helpless. Amy found this appealing, even sexy, and was annoyed with herself. “I knew I had to talk to you. . . . So I pretended to be sick. They went without me.”

“Why would someone send them off on a false clue? To sabotage the game?”

“Why would someone want to sabotage the game?”

“Why would someone throw a rock at your head?”

“Oh.” Marcus winced. “I'd forgotten that. You think they're connected?”

“I don't know. But there's nothing we can do until they get back.”

“True.” The stress was starting to leave Marcus's voice. “That's true.”

“We haven't really talked since the cactus garden. Your ankle seems better.”

Marcus's smile was crooked and sweet. “I'm sorry for the way I yelled.”

“No, you were right. I should have chased after him. At least then we might know who we're dealing with, if we're dealing with anyone.”

“Just because I'm the confrontational type, I expect everyone to be that way. It probably does more harm than good.”

They were walking back through the pine grove, toward the hotel and the two-storied wall of balconies that faced onto the sea. “When they get back, we'll find out what happened on Montecristo. Then we'll find some way of working it into the mystery. With any luck, they'll never know the difference.”

“Good idea,” Marcus said.

“Good idea? That's the first time I ever heard you say, ‘Good idea,' to anyone.”

“Oh, I don't know. The words came out so easily. I must have said it at some point in my life.”

“Or maybe you just heard other people say it.”

The dark, striking man stopped in his tracks, his crooked smile frozen. Had Amy joked too far? She was about to verbally backtrack when she noticed Marcus's eyes focused into the distance.

“What is it?”

The Hotel Montecristo's functional architecture—a main floor topped by two tiers of bland, sea-facing balconies—was being attacked by the bright afternoon sun. Marcus raised an index finger and started counting horizontally from the left. “Three, four. Jolynn and Vinny,” he said, sounding vaguely puzzled.

Amy picked out the room, the only one on the lower level with the drapes closed. The piercing sunlight illuminated a moving silhouette behind the beige barrier. “It's the maid,” she said. No sooner were the words out of her mouth than she saw a second silhouette, this one farther back in the room. “Two maids?” Then the legs moved. Two pairs of long, distinct legs. “Two maids wearing pants?”

“Why would maids be in the room at this hour?”

Good point. The rooms had been cleaned before check-in. Any turning down of beds would occur in the evening. And didn't the maids here wear skirted uniforms?

“Why would our practical joker want everyone away from the hotel?” Marcus asked.

Amy suspected it was another rhetorical question, but she answered. “To rob the rooms.”

M
arcus was already racing across the lawn. He ignored the winding path and cut directly across a rock garden that had probably been placed there to prevent just this type of shortcut.

“What are you doing?” A reluctant Amy began chasing him through the slippery bed of rocks and plants. “Have you thought that far ahead?” Her words floated off in the breeze. Marcus was already up the outdoor staircase and around the pool.

“What's their room number?” Marcus shouted.

The Mrozeks' room was next door to Amy's own. She tried to visualize the hallway. “Two-oh-four.”

Marcus was already inside at the reception desk, leaning over, nearly grabbing a startled clerk by the lapels. “Room two-oh-four is being robbed. We need the key to two-oh-four. Amy. Italian.”

“Scusi, signore,” Amy said. “La camera due-zero-quattro . . .”

By the time the clerk grasped the situation, Marcus had already disappeared up the main staircase. From the next floor came the sound of fists beating on a door.

“Good God. He's going to get shot. Marcus!” Amy turned back to the slow-moving clerk. “Venga subito! Portaci la chiave.”

As she tripped her way up the stairs, Amy heard Marcus's voice in front of her. “Olla. Alto. Polizia.” Marcus was pounding on the door to 204, pounding and shouting maniacally, with no thought to what might happen next. He paused just long enough to turn her way. “Tell them to open up. We're with the police.”

“No,” Amy barked back. She was at the next door, her own, unlocking it with her key card. She rushed inside. Her room had been untouched, she noted thankfully as she raced straight through it and slammed open the balcony door.

The two balconies, hers and the Mrozeks, were connected, physically the same balcony. They were divided by a waist-high partition, an angry blue slab of sheet metal welded to the wall and the seaside railing, providing the occupants with minimal privacy from each other.

Even as Amy climbed over the blue metal, just inches from the Mrozeks' sliding glass door, she wondered what the hell she was doing. She would not be making this insanely reckless gesture if Marcus the avenger, the man who had scolded her in Monaco, wasn't right now slamming his fists against the room's only other entrance.

“I know you're in here. Open up.” Marcus's voice was loud and forceful.

For a moment Amy stood on the Mrozeks' balcony, facing the glass and curtain, her hand hovering over the handle. The door was probably locked from inside. But what if it wasn't? How would the burglars—two at least, maybe more—react to the sight of an unarmed woman entering from the balcony, from which they were probably hoping to make their escape?

Another moment and her hand still hovered. They would already be unnerved by Marcus's attack on the door. Anyone would be. And at any moment the desk clerk would finally arrive with the key. Then . . . ?

Her hand seemed to hover forever, all of three seconds. And then the glass slid open from inside. The sudden draft forced a cascade of curtains to blow out, embracing Amy in a swirling cocoon. Instinctively, she twisted, trying to free herself from its soft clutches.

She was off balance now, still turning. And that was when the shadows outside the cocoon grew denser and harder, gaining weight and arms and legs and, worst of all, ramming speed.

The force of the burglars' exit was enough to knock a linebacker off his legs. Amy found herself trapped within the twisting, ripping curtains, suspended like a lanky hunk of wrapped taffy.

“
Porco miseria,
” a disembodied voice growled. Two pairs of arms and legs began alternately grabbing the trussed tour leader, then pushing her away in a wild, panicky attempt to keep themselves free of the billowing folds.

It didn't take long for the curtain rod to give way. Pulled from its anchor in the wall above the sliding glass, the left end fell first. One curtain ring slipped, then half a dozen more slid off. The concrete balcony rose up to meet Amy's body with an excruciating impact that knocked the breath out of her lungs and disoriented her even more.

Barely aware of which side was up, she continued to writhe and turn, convinced that she was rolling back toward the room and away from the foot-high gap that she knew existed under the balcony railing.

“Amy, stop.” More hands grabbed at her, and she fought back, hearing the words but not connecting them to any meaning. “It's Marcus. Stop. Stop moving.”

Like a dog obeying an unwelcome command, she snorted and fell limp, giving up any attempt at control.

The hands returned—helpful hands this time—and within a minute, she was being pulled from the ripped strands of beige curtain, like a floral butterfly emerging from a chrysalis. “Pig misery,” she moaned as her eyes focused on Marcus's face.

“Pig what?”

“Just quoting someone,” Amy said, now finally able to help free herself. “Did you see them? I think there were two.”

Marcus rose from his knees and stumbled over the curtains to the balcony railing. “What the hell were you doing?” He continued to stare out over the rock garden and the pine-sheltered bluff beyond. “You could have been killed.”

“At least I slowed them down.”

Marcus turned back. “You were an inch away from rolling off the balcony.” His voice was angry, but his eyes looked frightened. Amy stared into those eyes and for a few seconds forgot the pain from the pummeling and the twisted ankle and . . . Damn, her new beach tunic had a split at the seam.

The desk clerk had joined them, key in hand, eyes focused on a white poplin object among all the heavy beige. “Ecco, guarda,” he said, pointing to the bulging pillowcase.

“They dropped their stash.” Amy said it brightly, hoping to call a truce with Marcus. “We did good.” But he wasn't listening. He was bending down by the railing, pulling a sliver of paper from where it had been caught between two points of decorative ironwork.

“What?” Amy asked as she wriggled her way free of the curtains. Her new Fendis sat twisted on her nose, perhaps permanently twisted.

“A list of numbers. Two-oh-four, two-oh-six, two-oh-eight . . .”

“Room numbers.” Amy joined him, twisting her glasses to look at the handwritten note. “Our rooms,” she said. “Mrozek, Callas, Davis. The whole tour.”

“Not quite.” Marcus reviewed the list again. “Two rooms are missing. Yours and mine.”

For just a second she was flattered that Marcus knew her room number. Then the oddity of the note sank in. “What does it mean?”

Marcus turned the note over and back and thought out loud. “The burglars—probably locals—had a list of everyone who'd been lured away to Montecristo.” He looked up. “What's in the pillowcase?”

Back in the room, the desk clerk had already dumped the contents out on the bed. “Purse,” Amy said, pointing out the scattered items. “Man's watch and wallet. A few rings and a necklace. Cuff links. Two passports. This must be the first room they hit.” She crossed back to Marcus and lowered her voice. “So? What now?”

“Go yell at the manager. Enough to make him cooperate. We have a lot to do before our people return from Montecristo.”

“Right.” Amy sighed. “If only it hadn't been the Mrozeks.”

 

They began arriving back at seven, a convoy of four tiny tour boats, plus two rusty trawlers that had been hired by the slower teams. Amy was at the docks to greet them, relieved to discover that her players weren't nearly as cranky as she'd expected. More shamefaced than cranky.

“Well, Otto finally fooled us,” Burt Baker said, reflecting the general sentiment.

The moment the first boat landed, the hotel inaugurated a program of pampering. Nothing that smacked too much of an apology. But there was a full staff of waiters on the terraces and in the lounge, ready to jump at the merest hint of a drink order. A special dinner was on time, on the best linen, and accompanied by champagne, compliments of the management.

The manager, unable to hide the fact that someone had ripped down their curtains, took Vinny and his wife aside and confessed a version of the truth. Two thieves had broken into their room. But an alert employee had intervened before anything was stolen.

“There's nothing missing,” Vinny exulted with his usual positive attitude.

“I guess it's all here.” Jolynn sounded disappointed.

“Of course it is.” Vinny was opening his wallet. “Now, where is that guy who risked his life for us? I'd like to give him a little something.”

“That won't be necessary,” the manager said. “It was his job.”

“Nonsense. He deserves a reward.”

“Is everything all right?” Amy asked, appearing in the doorway. She and Marcus had been next door, in her room, listening through the wall. Now that the Mrozeks seemed to be taking it so well, they felt emboldened to drop by.

“Abel. Marcus. Come in.” Vinny was reluctantly putting his wallet back in his pocket. “I guess you heard about our good luck.”

“Nothing was taken?” On Amy's first step into the room, her right ankle twisted, sending a spasm of pain up her injured body, intensifying the throbbings in her left elbow and right side.

“Nothing at all. Are you all right? Looks like you hurt yourself.”

“Oh, just banged myself up in the pool. Acting stupid.”

“I'll bet the pool was nice,” Jolynn said. “Was it nice?” The short, hard woman was smiling at Marcus, who had just entered the room. “You were so clever not to come along. How on earth did you know it would be a wild-goose chase?”

“I didn't.” Marcus shrugged uncomfortably. “I should have gone. A once-in-a-lifetime chance to see Montecristo.”

“You didn't miss a thing.” Vinny laughed. “I never knew how boring ruins could be until we examined every inch of that godforsaken island.”

Jolynn's steely gaze switched from Marcus to Amy. “I assume our boat costs will be reimbursed.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Absolutely,” said Amy.

“Unless this little excursion was some sort of mistake.”

“I sent the telegrams myself. How could it be a mistake?”

“But there weren't any packets of clues, were there? You didn't have time to sail out there and plant clues. Yes?”

“No . . . I mean, not exactly.” She breathed deeply, trying to regain her composure. “Jolynn. If you missed a clue or you didn't, you certainly can't expect me to tell. Daryl asked you to go to Montecristo. He must have had a reason.”

It was a rebuttal that was, for the moment, unassailable.