Free Death in Paradise by Kate Flora

would—I took the elevator to the seventeenth floor and banged on the door. Doing it reminded me of the banging on my own door that had begun this awful day. It didn't seem like half a day had gone by. It seemed like weeks and weeks had passed, weeks during which people's stories of animosity and conflict had begun piling up at my feet like blown leaves. Weeks during which I had grown older and tireder and more cynical. So much had happened since I responded to that knock.
    I stood in the hall and looked around. The hotel's opulent decor, the bird-filled lobby, the sound of fountains, and the cascades of green vines that hung over the balconies, couldn't mask the utilitarian quality of the tiers of rooms that circled the atrium center or banish the dull anonymity of all those rows of blond doors. I could hear the raucous shriek of a parrot, a disgruntled woman complaining, a tired child whining. Down the hall a maid was singing as she worked. And Rory wasn't answering. I pounded again and this time, for good measure, I announced my presence.
    "And I'm not going to go away, Rory, so you might as well answer the door. Tragedy or not, we've got a conference to run." I waited a gracious minute, timing it on my watch, and knocked again. "If you don't let me in, I'll call security, claim I'm afraid you're sick or injured, and get them to open the door. You can save us both a lot of trouble by answering."
    I waited. I gave her another whole minute. "Okay," I said. "You've got thirty seconds and I'm calling security."
    The door flew open so violently it slammed into the wall. She stood there, red eyed and pale, her arms folded across her chest. "You are such an aggressive bitch, Thea," she said. "I was trying to rest, you know. Why can't you people leave me alone? Don't you have any idea how upset I am? How traumatic this is for me?"
    "A pretty good idea," I said, walking past her into the room. Unlike her boss, she didn't have a suite. The truth is that I'm not especially sympathetic to people who collapse and stop doing their jobs. I'm from the old school, despite my tender—or as of today, not quite so tender—age. I truly believe that when the going gets tough, the tough get going. That the measure of an adult and a professional is the ability to do what has to be done, even when things are hard. That if someone throws a curve ball, you catch it anyway and throw it back twice as hard. A lot of the people I know think the tough are supposed to go shopping. Rory obviously believed the tough got to go to bed.
    She leaned against the wall, arms folded defensively across her chest. "I was almost asleep," she whined. "What is it that was so important you had to wake me?"
    She was doing a good job of combining aggrieved with wan and weary. A more sympathetic person probably would have bought the act, apologized, and retreated, but I needed Rory to do some work, to be doing her job like the rest of us. And there were a few things about the scenario that didn't quite ring true. Rory was wearing a long sundress of off-white linen. Sleeveless, well cut, expensive. Not the sort of thing one naps in except Victorians, fools, or those with a wait staff, irons poised. And the dress had nary a crease. Nor was the bed rumpled. Her hair was freshly washed. She was wearing perfume. And the air in her room was scented with something other than her perfume—something that smelled to me like a man's aftershave. Unless, of course, it was one of those newfangled unisex scents—part of the movement to render us all androgynous, in which case, why was she wearing two different scents? Maybe it was a trend I had missed?
    I didn't think so. Plus, I'd known plenty of vain and peculiar people, but few who put on earrings and bracelets to take an afternoon nap. "I'm sorry to have to bother you like this, but I need to go over the arrangements for this afternoon and tonight," I said. "Particularly tonight. I don't want the same seating