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Authors: Marta Chausée
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opened into the kitchen of the suite, as I gave it a little push.
“I say, old bean,” she said, “that’s pretty impressive. How’d you know it would work?”
“I didn’t, but it’s not the only tool in my kit, you know.” I gave her a nudge that said, “What? You doubted me?”
We stepped into the middle of the kitchen and looked around.
“Kind of feels like Christmastide, don’t it?” said Lily.
“Yup, it does,” I agreed.
Every surface in the kitchen was covered with a thick layer of white. There were marks and mars where OPD had dusted for prints. The black granite countertops, the stovetop, the stainless steel sinks, the cherry wood cabinet doors were all streaked with white, as was the black refrigerator. The snow-covered vista looked as if it had been smudged by a young Helen Keller, feeling for something to eat.
“Here,” I said to Lily, handing her two latex gloves. “Put these on over that perfect manicure of yours.” She did, as did I.
“Let’s go upstairs to see the bedroom, the closet and the bathroom,” I said.
I led and she followed. The bedsheets were crumpled. With my gloved fingers, I smoothed them and noticed a stain. No surprise there. I already suspected that Torrey had enjoyed his murderer just before she killed him. Still, it was gross. Why hadn’t the police taken that sheet into evidence? Sloppy police work or was something else at play here?
Lily made a sucking sound as she inhaled and said, “The randy bugger—how disgusting.”
“So it is, my dear. Thank God they didn’t let Alana back in here,” I said, and re-crumpled the sheets.
We opened the closet doors and looked inside. There was nothing out of the ordinary—some well-tailored men’s suits, some golf shirts, khakis and casual wear. Torrey’s shoes were neatly lined up, all in a row.
Secretly checking out a dead man’s wardrobe was a little uncomfortable, like wearing a pair of ballerina flats a half size too small. We both felt it.
“What are we looking for, exactly?” Lily asked.
I looked down at Torrey’s foppish velvet slippers with their glittering crests and pointed them out to Lily. “Prince Horny won’t be needing these anymore,” I said.
Lily giggled. “Seriously, Miss Maya Marple,” she said, “why did you bring me here?”
“I’m not sure. It just seemed like we should take a peek.”
I walked into the bathroom and began opening drawers.
“Help me look in these,” I said to Lily.
“What’s this?” she asked, after rummaging through the drawer closest to the spa tub. She held up what looked to be a tiny metal shovel or scraper with a miniature razor blade in it.
“I have no idea,” I answered. “Let’s commit it to memory and scat. I have to meet Vacaar and David in a few minutes. You go back to the lobby.”
Lily smiled at me. “I’m dismissed, am I? No problem—I’m ready to go, thank you!”
Chapter 20
On the way to my appointment, I looked into my tote bag. The silk scarf was neatly in place, covering my burglar’s tools and the two sets of latex gloves. No one was going to guess that I had been snooping around Torrey’s old suite.
I thought about Vacaar. Why would he tell Lily to tell me to meet him? Why didn’t he tell me himself? Maybe the opportunity had not presented itself at the dance. After all, Mona took most of his time and attention and I had been busy observing as many of our Sapphire guests as possible.
And why, of all people, had Vacaar asked David Enderly to meet us in his suite? He couldn’t have known that Dave was in charge of everything since French was off the premises, could he? Maybe Vacaar didn’t want to meet me in his suite alone. That made sense. Then again, he could have had Mona there as a sort of neutral third party. Did he have something to tell us he would rather not discuss in front of her? My mind was working overtime.
French called my brain the “Big Deal Manufacturing Plant” and, further, said it
“I say, old bean,” she said, “that’s pretty impressive. How’d you know it would work?”
“I didn’t, but it’s not the only tool in my kit, you know.” I gave her a nudge that said, “What? You doubted me?”
We stepped into the middle of the kitchen and looked around.
“Kind of feels like Christmastide, don’t it?” said Lily.
“Yup, it does,” I agreed.
Every surface in the kitchen was covered with a thick layer of white. There were marks and mars where OPD had dusted for prints. The black granite countertops, the stovetop, the stainless steel sinks, the cherry wood cabinet doors were all streaked with white, as was the black refrigerator. The snow-covered vista looked as if it had been smudged by a young Helen Keller, feeling for something to eat.
“Here,” I said to Lily, handing her two latex gloves. “Put these on over that perfect manicure of yours.” She did, as did I.
“Let’s go upstairs to see the bedroom, the closet and the bathroom,” I said.
I led and she followed. The bedsheets were crumpled. With my gloved fingers, I smoothed them and noticed a stain. No surprise there. I already suspected that Torrey had enjoyed his murderer just before she killed him. Still, it was gross. Why hadn’t the police taken that sheet into evidence? Sloppy police work or was something else at play here?
Lily made a sucking sound as she inhaled and said, “The randy bugger—how disgusting.”
“So it is, my dear. Thank God they didn’t let Alana back in here,” I said, and re-crumpled the sheets.
We opened the closet doors and looked inside. There was nothing out of the ordinary—some well-tailored men’s suits, some golf shirts, khakis and casual wear. Torrey’s shoes were neatly lined up, all in a row.
Secretly checking out a dead man’s wardrobe was a little uncomfortable, like wearing a pair of ballerina flats a half size too small. We both felt it.
“What are we looking for, exactly?” Lily asked.
I looked down at Torrey’s foppish velvet slippers with their glittering crests and pointed them out to Lily. “Prince Horny won’t be needing these anymore,” I said.
Lily giggled. “Seriously, Miss Maya Marple,” she said, “why did you bring me here?”
“I’m not sure. It just seemed like we should take a peek.”
I walked into the bathroom and began opening drawers.
“Help me look in these,” I said to Lily.
“What’s this?” she asked, after rummaging through the drawer closest to the spa tub. She held up what looked to be a tiny metal shovel or scraper with a miniature razor blade in it.
“I have no idea,” I answered. “Let’s commit it to memory and scat. I have to meet Vacaar and David in a few minutes. You go back to the lobby.”
Lily smiled at me. “I’m dismissed, am I? No problem—I’m ready to go, thank you!”
Chapter 20
On the way to my appointment, I looked into my tote bag. The silk scarf was neatly in place, covering my burglar’s tools and the two sets of latex gloves. No one was going to guess that I had been snooping around Torrey’s old suite.
I thought about Vacaar. Why would he tell Lily to tell me to meet him? Why didn’t he tell me himself? Maybe the opportunity had not presented itself at the dance. After all, Mona took most of his time and attention and I had been busy observing as many of our Sapphire guests as possible.
And why, of all people, had Vacaar asked David Enderly to meet us in his suite? He couldn’t have known that Dave was in charge of everything since French was off the premises, could he? Maybe Vacaar didn’t want to meet me in his suite alone. That made sense. Then again, he could have had Mona there as a sort of neutral third party. Did he have something to tell us he would rather not discuss in front of her? My mind was working overtime.
French called my brain the “Big Deal Manufacturing Plant” and, further, said it
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