Free Death of an Obnoxious Tourist by Maria Hudgins Page A

telling me Lucille had pitched a fit in Venice because they wanted twin beds and had been given a double. It all made sense now.
    “How nice that you travel together,” I said.
    “We don’t usually, but she was keen to go on this trip and didn’t want to go alone.”
    “What do you do back home?” I asked.
    “Security.” Paul coughed and tapped his lens cover a couple of times. “Security service. Electronic sweeps. Photography. Location and recovery.”
    “That explains the state-of-the-art camera,” I said.
    I hate it when people tell you what they do in such nebulous terms you still have no idea what they do even after they’ve told you. That happens to me all the time whenever I talk to someone who has a government job or something to do with computers. Paul’s answer sounded to me just like, “You wouldn’t understand if I told you, and if I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
    “This camera is not state-of-the-art anymore, I’m afraid. Nope. I need to go digital, but I’ve been putting it off because it means taking courses to learn what the hell it’s all about and I just haven’t had the time.”
    “I see,” said Lettie. “Is your sister enjoying Italy as much as she thought she would?”
    “Oh, I think so. Of course, we’ve not exactly had just a happy little tour so far, have we? I mean, this whole thing is extraordinary. At the elevator yesterday, did you see Jim Kelly at any time?”
    “No, but I saw Wilma,” Lettie replied.
    What a strange question . It had nothing to do with what we had been talking about. It made me feel uncomfortable, so I cleared my throat and changed the subject. “You and Lucille didn’t do your sightseeing together yesterday, did you? Lucille came into the lobby by herself.”
    “No. I spent my day at the Ponte Vecchio and the Boboli Gardens . . . taking pictures, you know. Lucille went to the Uffizi Gallery.” Paul sipped my water, apparently not noticing that he had done so without asking me first.
    “So Lucille is the art aficionado in the family?”
    “She’s an artist, all right, but not the visual kind,” he said, tapping his right ear. “The auditory kind.” He leaned forward, one hand on his knee and looked into my eyes in a confidential, almost uncomfortably intimate, way. “Lucille has had a tough time. She was a singer—a classical singer. Voice like an angel. But you know how it is, show business. Tough life.”
    “I’m sure it is.”
    “She always thought that by the time she reached this point in her life—mid-forties—she’d be an established artist, maybe even famous. But she kind of slipped downhill instead of rising up. She went from concert halls to smaller venues to night clubs to . . . well.” Paul glanced over his shoulder and checked his watch.
    “You said you ddn’t see Jim Kelly yesterday.” He looked straight at Lettie. “Did you see that Brit? What’s-his-name, Reese-Burton?”
    Lettie’s eyelids fluttered. Since she is not quick to pick up on subtleties like a cough or a throat clearing, I resorted to the old kick under the table. With Lettie, though, you run the risk she’ll yell “Ow! Whadja do that for?” Paul was fishing for information. Why, I couldn’t guess, but I felt strongly that it was time for us to clam up. Captain Quattrocchi we would talk to, but Paul Vogel? This was beginning to feel like high-stakes poker, and I knew enough to keep my cards close to my chest. Who was Paul, anyway, and why was he pumping us for details on what Lettie may have seen or not seen yesterday?
    The kick to the shin worked. Lettie grabbed my arm from across the table, looked at my watch, and said, “Oh dear, we’re late for the meeting.”
    We were the last to take our seats in the small conference room. A quick glance around told me that everyone was there except Crystal. And Meg, of course. Beth and Amy sat beside Tessa, Amy holding Beth’s hand. Tessa explained that we were going to play it by ear for the