Free Nice Weekend for a Murder by Max Allan Collins Page A

before—never Mohonk, but Tim and I were on an ocean cruise variation of this, for Karen and Billy Palmer, last year. We know all about the lengths these lovable loons will go to, to get in the spirit of mystery and crime and spillikins in the parlor.”
    At Mohonk, that could be a lot of spillikins, because there were a lot of parlors.
    I said, “Your room does look out on the lake, though.”
    “Yes,” Cynthia said. “And it’s a lovely view.”
    “That’s debatable,” I said.
    She pressed my arm. “You’re such a child. That’s what I love about you.”
    “Yeah,” I said. “I figure immaturity is one of my more admirable qualities. That, and poor judgment.”
    Culver said, “You don’t seriously think you saw anything more than some amateur theatrics, do you?”
    “I guess not,” I said.
    Cynthia’s brittle laugh rose to the high ceiling. “If only it were true.”
    “Pardon?” I said.
    She was putting preserves on a muffin as she responded: “If only somebody
had
knifed that little bastard.”
    I had no answer for that, so I smiled and nodded and joined Jill.
    “So,” Tom said as I sat across from him, “somebody made a sap out of you.”
    A waiter poured coffee in my cup and I drank some. “It’s nice of Curt to tell everybody what a fool I made of myself last night.”
    Tom smiled; even his beard twinkled. “So they murdered ol’ Kirk Rath in the moonlight, huh?”
    “That’s what it looked like.”
    “I tell ya,” Tom said, “this place is like some kind of demented summer camp. I mean, they really go all out here.”
    “No kidding.”
    I wrote up our order on the little menu sheet provided for us—French toast for me, scrambled eggs for Jill—and Tom sat appraising me over his coffee cup.
    “What is it, Mal?” he said.
    “What’s what?”
    “Come on. I’ve known you for a long time. Nobody likes a joke better than you. But you’re bristling about this thing.”
    “I was in a great mood till I walked in here and realized I was wearing size eighteen shoes.”
    Jill seemed uneasy; I think she was hoping I’d leave this alone. And I would have, but Tom pressed on: “I still say you like a good laugh. But you’re not laughing. Why?”
    I smiled at him, a poker player’s smile. “What would you say if I told you I’m not convinced what I saw wasn’t real?”
    His expression turned blank. “You think somebody killed Kirk Rath outside your window. Really
killed
him?”
    I shrugged. Sipped my coffee.
    “Aw, Mal, that’s crazy.”
    “If murder never happened, Tom, we’d be in another line of work.”
    He gestured with two hands; be reasonable. “But Rath left,” he said.
    “Supposedly. Where’s your room?”
    “What?”
    “Your room. We’re in number sixty-four. What room are you in?”
    “Just up the hall from you—fifty-eight.”
    “Do you have a view of the lake from your room? The gazebo, the little Japanese bridge?”
    “Sure.”
    “Did you see anything last night? Around ten-thirty?”
    “Just Pete’s movie.”
    “Did you see Jack Flint there?”
    “He was sitting a few rows behind me. Why? What is this,
Dragnet?
”
    Jill said, “Don’t mention TV shows to him, Tom. He’s still suffering video withdrawal.”
    Jill was trying to lighten the mood, but it wasn’t necessary; Tom wasn’t offended—he was just curious, interested.
    “You really think Rath was murdered,” he said.
    “It’s a possibility, that’s all.”
    “And I’m a suspect!” He said this with glee.
    “He suspects everyone,” Jill said, “and he suspects no one.”
    Now I was a little embarrassed. Just a little.
    “Look,” I said, “I just want to know if I’m the only guy who saw this particular
Saturday Night Live
sketch.”
    “TV reference again,” Jill said. “Watch it.”
    “Maybe it was staged specifically
for
you,” Tom said.
    “Curt didn’t think so,” I said. “Everybody knows all the guest authors are billeted in that wing. Curt says I just