Five Spot Read online

  “Well then, let’s go ask,” Adam said.

  Wilson grinned. “Now you’re thinking like a cop.”

  ***

  Adam told us our timing was perfect as he led the way through the deserted dining room.

  “The kitchen won’t be busy,” he said. “Even better, Clarisse Timmerson won’t be here. She’s the food services manager.”

  “Jo Keegan complained that management hasn’t been cooperative,” Wilson said.

  “No, but Sandra Sutton will help us. She’s the night chef.” Adam pushed the swinging doors leading into the kitchen. “Let me do the talking.”

  “Talk about what?” a female voice called out. “Is that you, Sheppard?”

  Adam announced his presence, and we weaved our way around the kitchen toward an industrial-size refrigerator. A young woman in a chef’s uniform stood in front of its open doors, obviously taking stock of supplies.

  “If you’re here begging for a snack, you’ll be disappointed,” she said over her shoulder. “These pink people eat like pink pigs.”

  “Ahem!” Adam spoke loudly, and she turned around.

  “Oh!” she said when she saw Wilson and me. “Umm!” She tried smiling. “I’m sure you don’t eat much, but—” She looked desperately at Adam. “Umm?”

  He waved a hand and assured her, as did Wilson and I, that we weren’t offended by her comments, and she relaxed.

  “Not to be rude again,” she said. “But the kitchen really is off-limits to the guests.”

  “But this is my friend, Sandra,” Adam stepped forward. “This is Adelé Nightingale. The Adelé Nightingale,” he repeated, and I do believe the chef finally got it.

  “You’re his favorite author, right?” she asked. “The one he’s actually happy to see each year?”

  I shrugged modestly and held out my hand as Adam explained our purpose. Chef Sandra Sutton still seemed reluctant to cooperate, but he persevered. “Adelé’s one of the good guys,” he told her and jerked a thumb toward Wilson. “And her husband’s a cop.”

  “An off-duty cop.” Wilson held out his hand, and Chef Sutton reluctantly shook.

  “I don’t know anything about Saturday,” she said. “I was off duty and have no idea what the dead girl ate.”

  “Okay, but who was on duty?” Wilson pointed to the computer on a small corner desk. “That thing hold any room service records?”

  Chef Sutton squinted at the cluttered desk. “Yes, but let’s make it quick.” She told us the waiter on the night shift was delivering something to the fourth floor. “He won’t be gone all night.”

  She stepped to the computer, we gathered around to see the screen, and soon we were scanning the room service billing information from Saturday morning.

  “They’re by room number.” I stated the obvious.

  “Penelope was in Suite 322,” Adam said as the four of us scanned the records. “The one right below yours.”

  “Nothing,” I said. “She ate Batsy’s candy, just as she told me.”

  “But that can’t be.” Adam insisted Penelope had ordered room service. “Why would Mary Alice lie to me?”

  “What was Tori Fister’s room number?” Wilson asked, and Adam told him right off the bat.

  I raised an eyebrow, but he assured me the entire staff made a habit of keeping track of Roaring Tori.

  “Self-preservation,” Chef Sutton agreed.

  “I hear you,” Wilson said and pointed to Tori’s room number on the computer screen. “Bingo.”

  I studied the information given. “Wow. That seems like a lot of breakfast.”

  “That’s because it’s two breakfasts,” Chef Sutton said. “Two breakfast specials to be exact.”

  “Tori and Penelope?” I asked.

  “Let’s see.” She rummaged around in a stack of paper until she found what she was looking for. She stood up and handed Wilson the slip of paper. “Does that help?”

  He grinned and handed me the receipt, and sure enough Tori Fister—room 263—had ordered two breakfast specials. But the room number circled at the bottom of the slip was 322. And below that, the signature was clearly T. Fister, and not P. Shay.

  I took a deep breath. “Tori Fister was in Penelope’s room yesterday morning.”

  “Yep,” everyone else said in unison.

  I handed the receipt back to the chef, but Wilson reached out and asked if he could keep it. “A memento,” he said, and Chef Sutton told him it was all his.

  “But I still don’t get it,” I said as he slipped the paper into his shirt pocket. “How did Tori know Penelope would be in her room and not at the buffet with everyone else?”

  “She knew,” Wilson said. “Tori bugged her on Friday night, right?”

  I cringed. “And Penelope complained about her supposed diet, and how she wasn’t eating.”

  “Tori knew Penelope was cheating on that diet.”

  “Penelope liked to complain,” Adam agreed.

  Wilson tapped at the receipt again. “Server number eight.” He nodded to Chef Sutton. “I’d like to meet server number eight.”

  She checked the schedule on the bulletin board above her head. “Derrick Maloney,” she said. “He had today off, but he’s working tomorrow.”

  “Who isn’t?” Adam enlightened us that the entire Goodnight Inn staff would be on duty the next day. “It’s a lot of work to get all you pink people fed, packed, and out of here.”

  “You folks are a challenge,” Chef Sutton said.

  “And here’s another challenge,” Wilson said. He ordered six breakfast specials to be delivered to Suite 422 at eight thirty the next morning. “And I want server number eight to deliver it. Can you make that happen?”

  “No can do.” She shook her head. “My shift doesn’t start until noon.”

  “I can make it happen,” Adam said. “I’m on duty all day. I’ll catch Derrick when he comes in to start his shift.”

  Wilson offered his most cop-like look. “Discretion,” he said, and Adam grinned.

  “I’m a bellhop,” he said. “Discretion is my middle name.”

  ***

  I tossed a few dozen pillows aside and collapsed onto the bed. “You know it was Tori,” I said through closed eyes.

  “I’m ninety-nine percent sure.” Wilson sat at the edge of the bed and rubbed my back until I rolled over. “You were never the intended target, Jessie.”

  “I figured that out when you ordered breakfast for the entire sleuthing team.” I opened my eyes. “Including me. You’re letting me eat like a normal person.”

  “I never said you were normal.”

  Chapter 35

  Conrad Montjoy stood up to find his trousers. “This was Splawn’s doing!” He raised a fist. “Mark my words, Miss Vervette. Splawn will pay for this.”

  Slipper looked up from her bedroll, which was in quite a disarray. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Montjoy?” She blinked her lovely brown eyes, and Conrad noticed a single tear trace its way down her slightly sunburned left cheek.

  “Oh, my lady! Not this!” He fell to his knees and placed the gentlest kiss on her lips, somehow still dewy despite the depleted water supply. Conrad forced himself to lean away. “That,” he said and pointed to the edge of the sheets, where the deadly scorpion had lurked.

  “Mr. Splawn tried to kill me!” Slipper cried. “Oh, woe is me!”

  Her delicate tears began flowing, and Conrad once again forgot his resolve to break camp before the heat of midday. He slipped off his trousers and slipped between the sheets.

  ***

  “So much for dehydration.” Wilson reached over and hit the up arrow on my laptop a few dozen times. “Yikes, Jessie. How long have they been at it?”

  “Since early dawn.” I set my computer aside and slid back beneath our sheets.

  “How long have you been at it?” he asked as I snuggled closer.

  “Since about the same time. That’s when Slipper noticed the scorpion.”

  “The bad guy’s doing?”


  “Of course. The altogether repulsive Barney Splawn might prefer to torture Slipper with a slow and agonizing death by dehydration, but he has grown impatient. He’s decided he needs to work quicker.” I yawned. “But you know and I know Conrad is much quicker than Splawn.”

  Wilson chuckled. “He’s not quick at everything. So why’s this Splat character chasing them around the Sahara?”

  “Splawn,” I said. “And I just told you—he wants to kill Slipper. It has something to do with her father, Dr. Wesley Vervette, of course.”

  “Should I ask?”

  I rolled over and stared at the ceiling. “It seems Dr. Vervette made his earliest discoveries as a naturalist in North Africa. And long ago, before Slipper or Conrad were even born, he had a run-in with Barney.” I blinked twice. “On second thought, it had to be with Barney’s father. Who would be, umm, Barfey.”

  “Barfey?” Wilson wrinkled his nose. “Barfey Splat?”

  “Splawn,” I said. “It was Barfey who stole Dr. Vervette’s seminal work. He hid it away for decades before passing it along to his equally evil son, Barney. And now Slipper has enlisted Conrad to go back to the desert to finally recover that long-lost tome.” I considered the plan. “The king himself has expressed great interest.”

  Wilson groaned. “King?”

  “King Theodore. He’s somewhat of an amateur naturalist himself, you see.”

  “Not really.” Wilson climbed out of bed to make coffee, and I watched him assemble the makings for the tiny pot. I noticed he used tap water instead of bottled.

  “However,” I continued. “Adelé Nightingale is still in a quandary. Why did Dr. Vervette leave Africa so hastily all those years ago? Why did he abandon his crucial work, never to return?”

  “How about a woman?”

  I gasped. “Oh, that’s good!” I sat up straight and grabbed my laptop.

  “Slipper’s mother!” I said as I began typing. “Miss, Miss, Miss—Estelle Breedlove! Wesley Vervette rescued Miss Breedlove from the evil clutches of Barfey Splawn, and after a hasty yet beautiful wedding in the oasis, the newlyweds fled Africa. And then.” I lifted my hands and wiggled my fingers. “And then, throughout their long and happy marriage—” I started typing again. “—the lovely Estelle worried about her husband’s safety as much as he worried about hers. So they made a pact. They vowed never to return to the Sahara, where Splawn was lurking, waiting to kill them!”

  I glanced across the room at Mr. Cupid. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Got news for you, Darlin’.” Wilson handed me a cup of pale beverage. “So let me get this straight. These Splat guys have stuck around the Sahara for decades waiting for the Vervettes to return?”

  “Splawn guys.” I confessed I did not have all the answers but promised the minor details would get sorted out and climbed out of bed. “Indeed, it will all be crystal clear in due time.”

  Wilson rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say, Adelé.”

  ***

  “It’s not crystal clear,” Wilson said as the team filed in. “But we’ve sorted out a lot of details. It was Tori.”

  “What!?” everyone screeched.

  “What, what, what!” Geez Louise screeched some more.

  I frowned at Mr. Cordiality and suggested he might have revealed the truth with a bit more finesse.

  “Truth?” Louise said. She was obviously upset, but at least she allowed Mother and me to sit her down between us on the couch. “You know and I know it was not Tori, Jessica! Not, not, not!”

  Wilson waited until she would look at him. “I know you don’t like it,” he said. “But it was.”

  “Was not!”

  Showing uncharacteristic patience, Wilson admitted the means was still murky. “But motive is settled,” he said firmly. “Mia Madison told Tori to even the score, or else.”

  “Score?” Louise asked. “What score?”

  “Between 3P and Double D.” I reached for her hand. “Tori lied to you, Louise. Her cutthroat act was not an act.”

  She blinked twice. “Tori was seriously trying to steal my clients? Seriously?”

  My mother reached for her other hand. “Double D certainly is having its share of problems, isn’t it?” Mother reminded us she’d chatted with Zelda Bell a number of times. “Zelda’s concerned about Tori’s arrest, but she’s also worried about her fellow authors. Evidently, Charm Willowby is about to lose her book contract.”

  “Mia Madison mentioned that,” I said.

  “Did she mention Faith Hollingsworth’s divorce?” she asked. “According to Zelda, the unpleasant scene during the Bad Guys discussion was the final straw. Roger left in a snit.”

  Wilson tilted his head. “Roger’s gone for good?”

  “Mm-hmm. He’s left the Goodnight Inn. Or more accurately, Faith asked him to leave.” Mother sighed. “Happily ever after doesn’t always happen, does it?”

  “No,” Gavin said. “Frankly, I’m amazed Faith’s tolerated the guy as long as she has.”

  “Zelda says Faith’s stayed with him all these years for the sake of her career.” Mother appealed to me. “Does that make sense, Jessie?”

  “Perhaps.” I mentioned those sweet romances of Faith’s. “I suppose a divorce could harm her image in some obscure way.” I shrugged. “But then again, knowing what we do about Roger.”

  “What is it we know about Roger?” Mykal asked, and I realized not everyone had been apprised of Roger Hollingsworth’s criminal past.

  Wilson enlightened the gang about Skidmore Imports.

  “Importing illegal drugs would give us the means to this current crime, no?” Louise suggested.

  “No.” My husband the cop argued the exact opposite. “Illegal substances are the first thing forensics would check for. But getting back to Tori Fister.” He looked at me, and I sat up.

  “Is now a good time to discuss breakfast yesterday?” I asked.

  Someone knocked on the door. “Room service!”

  Wilson slapped his knees and stood up. “Now’s a perfect time.”

  ***

  The man I assumed was server number eight pointed to Mr. Cupid. “Good thing he’s not eating. Not enough room.”

  Indeed, things had gotten quite crowded as the room service cart was unloaded. Trays of the breakfast special lined the coffee table, and two pots of coffee sat on the desk.

  Despite the lack of space, Wilson offered our waiter a chair. “Derrick Maloney” he told the gang and served him a cup of coffee. “Welcome, Mr. Maloney.”

  “Derrick,” Derrick said, and Mykal winked at me.

  “The big guy really is Mr. Cordiality.”

  “You bet,” Wilson agreed, but he quickly switched to his cop-like voice, and again addressed our waiter. “Anyone around here not so cordial?”

  “How about everyone? No offense, but you pink people are vicious. At least you were on Saturday.”

  Wilson asked a few questions, and we soon learned Derrick had worked a double shift that Saturday and had witnessed various and sundry arguments around the Goodnight Inn.

  “Let’s start with breakfast,” Wilson said. “In particular, Penelope Shay’s breakfast.”

  “The dead woman, right? Adam said you wanted to know about her.”

  “Tori ordered breakfast for Penelope,” I told the team.

  “And had it delivered to Penelope’s room,” Wilson clarified. He kept his eyes on Louise. “Derrick here delivered it.”

  Louise remained uncharacteristically still and silent and kept her eyes on Derrick.

  “Boy, was she vicious,” he said.

  “Who?” Wilson asked.

  “Both of them—the woman who died and Tori Fister.” He glanced around at the group. “The whole staff knows Roaring Tori.” He frowned. “Self-preservation.”

  “I wonder why Penelope let her in?” Gavin asked no one in particular.

  “My bad.” Derrick raised his hand. “Ms. Shay opened up when I knocked and said she didn’t order
room service. But Ms. Fister appeared out of nowhere, and pretty soon all three of us were in the room.”

  Needless to say, the entire team was interested in what happened next. And needless to say, we learned that Penelope had complained about her diet. But apparently Tori had encouraged her to “eat right.” She’d pointed to those breakfast specials and told Penelope she needed her strength for the Hall of Fame induction ceremony.

  “But the other woman—the dead lady—still said no,” Derrick told us. “She refused to eat with such a pushy bit—’” he glanced at my mother. “Witch.”

  “So Penelope never did eat the food you brought her?” Louise sounded hopeful, but Derrick wouldn’t go quite that far.

  “She gave me a big tip and told me to get out.” He shrugged. “She didn’t have to tell me twice.”

  “Did Penelope say anything about candy or chocolates?” I asked.

  “No, ma’am.”

  We pondered the significance or nonsignificance of that, and eventually Wilson asked about the other arguments Derrick had witnessed. “Who else?” he asked.

  “Have I mentioned you pink people are real good tippers?”

  Wilson pulled out his wallet. “Other arguments?” he repeated as he handed over a few bills.

  “How about the Spanish guy?” Derrick asked. “I delivered lunch to him.”

  Louise leaned forward. “Who was Roberto arguing with?”

  “He was on the phone. He said something was intolerable and he didn’t have all day.”

  “You hear any names?” Wilson asked.

  “Probably, but I don’t remember.”

  “Who else argued?” Bless his heart, Gavin took a bill from his wallet, and Derrick tucked it away.

  “I delivered dinner to that fuddy-duddy guy and his wife Saturday night.” He pointed to my Cupid. “I swear they were arguing about that thing. The wife was defending it. She kept saying something about honest business.”

  “The husband?” Wilson asked.

  “Weird, but I think he was mad at the little guy. He said it was vulgar, indecent, and crude.”