Free Death on a Silver Platter by Ellen Hart Page A

paint sampler, the one maintenance had given her just this morning. She looked flushed with excitement, impatient to talk about the colors for her new apartment. Sophie would have preferred to discuss it another time. Her hesitance had less to do with Tracy than it did with her misgivings about Margie. Since last night, Sophie had spent some time thinking about Margie’s move to the Maxfield. She felt uneasy about it. At the same time, she felt guilty for feeling that way.
    “Sure, come on in,” said Sophie, forcing a smile. “I was just checking out my parents’ place, seeing what needs to be done before they get back.”
    “God, I love this apartment,” said Margie, looking around. “I remember now. I was here the night your dad announced his retirement, the night he gave the Maxfield to my dad and you.” Still looking around, she added, “If I lived in a place like this, I’m not sure I’d ever leave it.”
    “Your apartment downstairs is a lot like this one.”
    “But without the view, the formal dining room, and the balcony. And it’s much smaller. Actually, it’s a little cramped.”
    She wasn’t even paying for the place and she was already complaining. Stop it, thought Sophie. Cut her some slack. She was probably as uncomfortable in Sophie’s presence as Sophie was in hers. “But you don’t have any furniture.”
    “Sure I do. Well, maybe not tons, but what there is, is arriving next week. Dad said he was going to take me out tomorrow morning and buy me a new couch, one that folds into a bed. But it’s going to be a trick to figure out which wall to put it on. The living room’s got kind of a dumb design. Not like this apartment.”
    “Well, when you own the hotel, I guess you get the best place to live.” Sophie wondered if the gleam in Margie’s eyes had anything to do with the notion that, one day, she might own the Maxfield. She’d probably conveniently forgotten about Sophie’s son.
    “Dad and you own the hotel now, but your apartment isn’t this nice,” said Margie, examining a starburst molding at the top of the living room arch. “I love all this deco stuff.”
    “You think I should kick my parents out?”
    Margie laughed. “Nah. That wouldn’t be cool.”
    “Hey,” said Bram, standing in the open doorway. “What are my two favorite women up to?”
    “Colors,” said Margie, holding up the paint samples. “For my new apartment.”
    Bram, carrying a gym bag, was wearing a pair of green jogging shorts, white running shoes, and a gray T-shirt. He wasn’t on his way to the office.
    Sophie had a hard time believing that such a vital, fitlooking man had been in the hospital less than a year ago, fighting for his life. “You on your way downstairs?” she asked, getting up. She walked over to where he was standing, pressed a finger to the cleft in his chin and gave him a kiss. The hotel exercise center used to be the last place she’d ever find her husband. Now, he hit the machines daily. So much for what a large dose of terror could do to jump-start a fitness program.
    “I thought I’d get in a workout before dinner. Anybody want to join me?”
    Margie shrugged. “Sure, why not.”
    “Sophie?” Bram grinned. “Come on. It will be fun.”
    Sophie’s idea of fun didn’t include sweating. But then, if Bram could turn over a new leaf, so could she. Her figure had always been on the round side, even though her face, especially her eyes, reminded people of a waif in a Dickens novel. “I’ll meet you in a few minutes.”
    On the way out, Margie paused next to a trestle table in the foyer. “What’s that?” she asked, nodding to the rusted metal box.
    “One of my workmen found it in the subbasement yesterday. It belonged to my great-uncle on my mother’s side. Eli Salmela. See?” she said, picking it up. “His name’s on the back. I brought it up here because I thought Mom might like to see it when she gets back.”
    “Looks old,” said Bram, fingering the