Free Nice Weekend for a Murder by Max Allan Collins

white linen jacket. “They have a projection TV in one of the parlors.”
    “But will it fit in this room?”
    I opened the door for her and in the hall we met Jack Flint and his wife, Janis, just coming back from breakfast apparently. Jack wore a lime blazer and a pastel green shirt, and Janis another floral print dress, yellows and greens; they looked like California. I wondered if, God help me, I looked like Iowa.
    We exchanged good mornings and, with a small wicked grin, Jack said, “I hear you got stung last night.”
    “Pardon?”
    “Curt mentioned that some of the game-players staged a little skit outside your window.”
    “So it seems,” I said. “I think George Romero directed it.”
    Janis cocked her head like she hadn’t heard me right, not understanding the reference; movie buff Jill said to her, “
Night of the Living Dead
.”
    “Oh,” Janis said. Nice of Jill to coach the wife of a screenwriter in film lore.
    Meanwhile, Jack was laughing. “Bunch of overgrown kids. We’ll be putting on a show for
them
, in an hour or so.”
    He meant, of course, Curt’s mystery in which we were playing roles.
    “Yes,” Janis said, “and I’m scared to death.”
    Jill resisted telling her that that was the title of Bela Lugosi’s only color film and said instead, “Why? Are you playing one of the suspects?”
    “Yes, I’m afraid so,” Janis said, with a nervous little smile. “Aren’t you?”
    “No. Mal didn’t tell them I was coming along till the last minute.”
    Janis grasped Jill’s arm, in mock panic that was only part mock. “You wouldn’t want to take over
my
role, would you?”
    Jill grinned and shook her head no. “I’m no mystery fan, or puzzle freak, either. I’m here for a little peace and quiet; I mean to roam these endless halls and sit in every one of the hundred and eighty-one gazebos on this property. As Elmer Fudd once said, ‘West and wewaxsation at wast.’ ”
    I put a hand on Jack’s arm and said in almost a whisper, “Did you see any of that out your window last night?”
    “Your little passion play? No. When did it go on?”
    “Just before eleven.”
    “Janis and I went up and watched Pete’s flick. I’d forgotten how good
Laura
was.”
    “Yeah,” I said, glumly, “well, my favorite Otto Preminger film is
Skidoo
.”
    Jack did a little take; he’d apparently seen
Skidoo
.
    “He’s kidding,” Jill said, and took me by the arm and we exchanged good-byes with the Flints and were off to breakfast.
    Where, in the big pine dining hall, we found Tom Sardini sitting at our designated table, having a cup of coffee; Cynthia Crystal and Tim Culver were over at Curt’s table, only neither Curt nor wife Kim were present. I said good morning to Cynthia and Tim, both of whom (even the normally dour Culver) grinned at me. I had the feeling I was a comical figure.
    Jill went on over to our table, but I stopped and stood behind and between Cynthia and Culver, and leaned in, a hand on the back of either of their chairs.
    “Good morning, gang,” I said. “What’s so funny?”
    “Oh, Mal,” Cynthia said, the arcs of her pale blonde hair swinging as she looked back at me, blue eyes sparkling, “I just
treasure
it when you behave like a gullible hick.”
    “Me, too,” I said. “Takes me back to the days when I traveled with Spike Jones and the band.”
    Culver’s smile was gone now; he sensed my feathers were ruffled. So did Cynthia—she just didn’t care. But Culver said: “Curt told us about that practical joke. Didn’t mean to rub it in.”
    “Oh, Mal,” Cynthia said, “how could you fall for amateur theatrics like that?”
    “Why?” I said, looking at her sharply. “Did you see it too?”
    “No, no,” Cynthia said, brushing the notion away with one lovely hand. “Last evening Tim and I went walking for hours around this charming old hotel.”
    “House,” I corrected.
    “Whatever,” Cynthia said. “But I’ve done several of these weekends