Free MASS MURDER by LYNN BOHART Page B

action. He took the stairs two at a time, skidding to a stop at the landing. The hallway on both sides was empty. There was no sign of the boy anywhere. He dared not start knocking on doors for fear of disturbing guests, but when a cold pair of fingers brushed against his cheek, he flinched backwards down the stairs, his eyes focused on where he’d seen the boy. When he reached the foyer he paused, almost willing the boy to return . B ut nothing moved at the top of the stairs.
    He waited until a soft noise made him spin around, his hand automatically reaching for his weapon. The chandeliers had been extinguished, leaving only the wall sconces to provide light in the large, vacuous room. When something by the far window moved, h e pulled the gun halfway from its holster . The shadow shifted again , and he realized it was a woman sitting on a window seat staring out the window. He moved in cautiously to stand above her, his hand still resting on his weapon. She leaned on her inside hand , while she stared into the brewing storm outside, either ignoring hi m or oblivious to his presence.
    “Excuse me.” Giorgio spoke softly thinking she might be asleep. “Are you all right?”
    She looked up, her eyes lost in deep shadow. She seemed to study him for a moment before turning back to the window. The branches of the oak tree raked the window while leaves fluttered grotesquely in the shallow light outside.
    “You’re with the police.” She made it a statement rather than a question.
    “I’m Detective Salvatori. Has someone taken your statement yet?”
    “No.”
    “Have you been here all night?”
    “Yes. I’ve just been sitting here.” Her reply was lazy, as if she’d been drugged or perhaps dazed by the tragedy.
    “Can I get you something? Coffee? W ater?”
    “I don’t want anything.” A long pause stretched between them until she sighed. “We were supposed to have a mystery tonight. Did you know that?”
    “No.” He relaxed a bit and sat on the arm of a nearby chair. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”
    “I wrote it,” she said distantly. “A game, called Dead to Rights .” She chuckled, but it caught in her throat. “It was a play on words, you see.”
    When he didn’t respond, she turned and looked directly at him. Although her eyes were still obscured by darkness, he realized this was the woman Father Damian had been consoling in the banquet room earlier in the evening.
    “Writers sell their rights.” She emphasized the word s as if Giorgio were an idiot. “But we never played it. We never had a chance.”
    “Because the body was found?”
    “Yes.” Her throat seemed to close around the word in disgust. “That stupid woman was found. Now everyone’s running around t rying to solve a real mystery.”
    Giorgio was shocked at her lack of compassion, but chose to ignore it. “And your mystery was never used?”
    “I can’t believe it. I worked so damned hard on it, and for what?”
    “Miss …u h … ”
    “Levinsky.”
    The name registered and he acknowledged it. “You’re the Program Chair?”
    “Yes.”
    “Did you know Mallery Olsen?”
    “Who?”
    “The woman that was killed.”
    “My job was to oversee the speakers, not the agents. I didn’t even meet her.”
    “Would you have known her if you saw her?”
    “Maybe. I saw all the agents at the opening reception. They all had ribbons on their nametags, but I didn’t pay much attention.”
    “You’re an aspiring writer like the rest?”
    “I’m a playwright. I’ve written several one-acts and two full-length plays. Mostly mysteries. That’s why I volunteered to do the mystery tonight. Arthur Wright was here from Samuel French.”
    Finally, Giorgio understood her enduring disappointment. Samuel French was the premier publisher of working plays. Most of the scripts Giorgio had ever used in the theater came from Samuel French. Ms. Levinsky missed her one big opportunity to impress someone important and she couldn’t stand