The Weekend Was Murder Read Online Free Page B

magnifying glass. A young woman swathed in a long, black cape swept past me, and two elderly women in red and black T-shirts from Houston’s mystery bookstore, Murder by the Book, swiveled in place, studying everyone in the room with deep suspicion.
    When the glance of the shorter of the two fell upon me, her intense gaze was replaced by a pleased grin, and the woman shouted, “Yoo-hoo! Mary Elizabeth! Over here!”
    I smiled back and went to greet Mrs. Sylvia Bandini and her best friend, Mrs. Opal Larabee, two of the health club’s regulars.
    “We were the first to sign up,” Mrs. Bandini said.
    “We’re naturals,” Mrs. Larabee chimed in, so excited that she reminded me of a fat little bird, hopping on a tree limb. “Look what a good job we did in finding out who killed Mr. Kamara.”
    Mrs. Bandini had the grace to look embarrassed. “Opal,” she said, “Detective Jarvis told us we were the best eyewitnesses he had ever met, but
we
didn’t find out who killed Mr. Kamara. Mary Elizabeth did.”
    “Oh,” Mrs. Larabee said. “Well, I would greatly appreciate it if you wouldn’t bring that subject up around my house, since my grandchildren happen to have a different impression.”
    “If you can’t be honest with your grandchildren, who can you be honest with?”
    “Can I help it if they jumped to conclusions?”
    “Maybe you’ll solve
this
mystery,” I told them, and hurried to join Fran at the end of the reception desk.One of the clerks nodded to us and handed us our room keys.
    Mrs. Duffy was standing close by, reading the list of people who had registered for the murder-mystery weekend, and I heard her saying to Laura Dale, who had a copy of the list, “It’s my fault. I told you to limit the number to one hundred and fifty, but there’s always a last-minute cancellation or two, and I should have given you the opportunity to compile a short waiting list.”
    “I’m sure they’ll all be here,” Laura said. “We were sold out just a day or two after the ad appeared.”
    “Come on,” Fran said to me. “I’m on the fourth floor. Where’s your room? I’ll go up with you first.”
    I looked at the number on the key. “Fifth,” I said. I was kind of excited about this weekend, in spite of my earlier misgivings. I’d be playing a role, I’d be part of the fun, and I felt very sophisticated about having my own hotel room.
    If I didn’t already know how low the Ridley manager, Mr. Lewis Parmegan, rated his employees, I would have figured it out when I stepped inside my room. Someone had thoughtfully decorated a broom closet in a flowered blue print. There was barely enough room for the bed and a small dresser. The bathroom was teeny-tiny, and the view from the window consisted of the trash bins and part of a brick wall.
    As I tossed my suitcase on the bed Fran said, “Uh-oh. According to the number on my room key, I’m right below you. I bet I get the same spacious accommodations.”
    “Oh, who cares?” I said. “We won’t be in our rooms very much anyway. Why don’t we go down to the coffee shop and get a soft drink?”
    “Great idea!” Fran said. He waited until I’d tucked my key into one of the pockets in my shorts, and we went down to Fran’s room on the fourth floor. It was a duplicate of my room, only in green.
    The visit to the coffee shop was a dismal failure too, because we’d no sooner seated ourselves in one of the booths than the waitress hissed at us, “What are you doing in here? You know employees aren’t allowed in the restaurants while they’re in uniform!”
    I felt as though everyone was staring at us as we squeezed out of the booth, but Fran took my hand and guided me down the side hallway, which led to a number of meeting rooms. In some of them we could hear people talking into crackling microphones, and Fran passed those rooms by. He stopped at the doors of two rooms, looked inside, then went on. But when Fran poked his head into a small, wood-paneled