Free A Friendly Game of Murder by J. J. Murphy

with a puzzled look on his chubby face.
    For the moment her mind was occupied only by the frustrating realization that she had missed her perfect opportunity of planting a kiss on Benchley at midnight.
    “Mrs. Parker?” Woollcott was saying softly. “What, pray tell, is going on here?”
    “Bibi’s dead,” Dorothy said.
    “Dead?”
    She looked down at the pale, lifeless body. “If she’s not dead, then she’s a much better actress than any of us gave her credit for.”
    “What—?” Woollcott hesitated. “What should we do?”
    “What do you think? Call down to Frank Case, of course. He’s the manager. He’ll know what to do.”
    Woollcott turned to find the phone. Dorothy wanted to leave the bathroom, too, but she found a morbid fascination in staring at the beautiful young girl.
    Something’s wrong with this picture. . . .
    Dorothy bent closer. All around Bibi’s mouth and chin, the skin was pink and blotchy, like a stain or a rash. Almost like a burn.
That’s odd.
    But that wasn’t the strangest thing. . . . Bibi, as a corpse, didn’t have the vivaciousness and audaciousness of the living girl. She was not just naked but bare. Raw. Vulnerable. Stripped of life, in every sense of the word.
    Poor Bibi. Is this what you get for having fun? For being brash and silly?
    Dorothy found her mind wandering. She stared at the ice bucket and the shards of shattered glass on the tile floor. A steamy wisp of vapor crept out of the metal bucket as the last pieces of ice slowly melted.
Like the soul leaving the body
. Dorothy shivered again and told herself it was because the bathroom was so chilly.
    Woollcott hurried back in, looked again at Bibi and then at Dorothy. “Let’s shut this window. You’ll catch your death of a cold.” He flung the sash down quickly.
    They stood silently for a minute, both looking at the body. Then Woollcott said, “Our magnificent hotel proprietor will be up momentarily.”
    “Perhaps he’ll have housekeeping clean up this mess.”
    Woollcott ignored her stab at humor. “What do you think happened to her?”
    Dorothy didn’t answer. She was wondering the exact same thing.
    He said, “I can’t stand to see her lying there wet as a clam. Should we drain the tub?” He reached for the chain attached to the tub plug.
    She stopped him. “Don’t. You’re liable to throw out the Bibi with the bathwater.”
    He turned, a quizzical look on his face. “She’s not going to go down the drain.”
    “Leave her be. She went out of this world the way she came into it—naked and wet. Let’s let Frank Case decide what to do.”
    A moment later they heard the ding of the elevator. Frank Case entered the apartment, with Douglas Fairbanks and Robert Benchley in tow.
    “Oh, dear,” Case said.
    “Oh, Bibi . . .” Fairbanks slapped his forehead. “Someone remind me to never throw another party.”
    Benchley spoke under his breath. “Never throw another party, Douglas.”
    Case looked to Dorothy and Woollcott. “How did it happen?”
    “No idea,” Dorothy said. “This is how I found her.”
    Case put a hand to his chin. “I’d call the ambulance, but we’re quarantined. And, well, it’s apparently not an emergency at this point anyway. I know, I’ll get Dr. Hurst. He helped me earlier.”
    “Very little a doctor can do for her now,” Dorothy said, moving next to Benchley for comfort.
    Benchley sighed in agreement. “She needs an undertaker, not a doctor.”
    “Besides,” Fairbanks added, “that Dr. Hurst was dastardly drunk when I threw him out of here an hour ago. He should be sleeping it off in his room by now.”
    Dorothy asked, “What about Dr. Doyle?”
    “Who is Dr. Doyle?” Woollcott asked.
    “Artie,” she said. “The one who wouldn’t play your game of Murder.”
    Woollcott looked skeptical. “That old bear? He’s a practicing physician?”
    She considered this. “Nope, I guess he’s not. Not practicing anymore, at any rate. But he’s