I stood there wondering if Catherine had an overly vivid imagination, when she exclaimed, walking over to her luggage and unzipping it, "I've tried to ignore it, take it as an attempt at humor, you know, like apple-pie beds at camp, but this is the limit. What is this supposed to mean?" she said, pointing at what lay inside her suitcase. We both stared at it for a moment or two, and then I leaned over and picked up the offending object. Some people might have thought it was just a croquet mallet. Somehow, I knew differently.
"Would you like a room of your own, Catherine?" I asked.
"Yes," she said tearfully. "I know I'll have to pay extra, but I can't take this anymore."
"Let's see what I can do," I told her. "You may not have to pay anything more."
"Thank you," she said. "I will if I have to. I just can't talk to her about it."
"Leave the mallet with me," I said.
A few minutes later I was down at the desk talking to Sylvie. "Oh dear," she said. "We may have a problem here. The room Mme. Ellingham was in is a mess. The contractor has promised to come this week now that the police have cleared the room, but no one could stay in it the way it is, and the room next to it, which was M. Reynolds', is still airing out because of the smell. It's still a little smoky, and I'm not sure Mme. Anderson would like it, particularly because of what happened to M. Reynolds. I just don't have another room," she said.
"Then, I think what we'll have to do is give Catherine my room," I said. "It's lovely. She'll like it."
"So what are you going to do?" Sylvie asked.
"Would there be another hotel nearby that you could contact for me?"
"I'll try," she said. "But it's the November seventh holiday weekend coming up. You know, to celebrate the day our current president, Ben Ali, took office. It's a school holiday, too. I think most places are full. Some of them have been calling here because they've overbooked, and we haven't been able to accommodate them.
"Let me have a look at Rick's room, then," I said. "If it's not too smoky, I'll stay there. After all, he didn't die in the room."
"True," she agreed. "And it has been airing out. Here, I'll give you the key. See how you feel about it, and if you don't like it, I'll phone around to the other hotels in the area for you."
Rick's room looked just fine, but as Sylvie had said, there was a slightly smoky and damp smell to it. It will have to do, I told myself.
"Ah, Emile," I said, as St. Laurent walked through the doorway. "I was hoping I'd see you. I need a favor."
"I hope I can help. What do you need?" he said.
"Could I possibly borrow that magnifying glass of yours?"
"Of course," he replied, pulling it out of his pocket. "Are you checking out an antiquity yourself, perhaps?"
"Not exactly," I said. "I'll bring this right back."
Back in my room, I took the shade off the lamp, and set the croquet mallet on the table. I turned it around very carefully, looking at it from every angle, then put the magnifying glass up to one corner. A tiny dark hair stuck to the surface, held there by what I decided was blood. I carefully placed the mallet in a large plastic bag. The murder weapon had been found.
I called Clive. "Clive," I said. "I think we should send everybody home."
"What are you talking about Lara?"
"I think Rick Reynolds was murdered. I--"
"Whatever would make you think that?" he interrupted.
"I had a dream, a nightmare, really, and then--"
"Lara! Do you realize how that sounds? I've heard of this kind of thing happening to women your age."
"Clive! Let me finish!" Women my age! "I talked to Rob Luczka, and he told me what happens to people's heads when they dive into a pool like that. Rick's injuries were not consistent with a dive. He had a blow to the back of his head."
"Maybe he dove in backwards, did a back flip or something."
"I don't think so. I think he was hit on the head, and I think I've found the murder weapon. Think about it, Clive: If we don't send them home, and something happens to one of the others, it will be on our heads."
"What do the police there say?"
"Well, nothing," I said reluctantly. "They still think Rick's death was an accident."
He was silent for a moment. "Lara, you're going to have to get a grip, here. I know this is hard on you, taking care of all these people, but this is lunacy. Think it through. We'll be bankrupt if we send everybody home. We've prepaid the airfare and the hotel, and there'll be a penalty for changing the flight, which we'll also have to pay. We'll probably be sued for breach of contract. How would we explain why we're calling the whole thing off, when, as far as the police are concerned, these deaths are entirely accidental? Tell them you had a bad dream? Do you know how this sounds?"
"You're right," I said. "We women of a certain age do get all worked up over nothing. I'd better get back to the group."
"B UT WHY IS Catherine moving to her own room?" Susie said later. "I thought we were getting along fine. I know we're different, and everything, but she's very nice, and . . . I don't know. I guess she doesn't like me."
"Susie," I said, "you didn't touch Catherine's belongings or anything, did you? Maybe try on her clothes, or use her cosmetics?" There didn't seem any way to be tactful about this.
"Certainly not," she replied indignantly. "I only used her sunblock when I misplaced mine. But I asked her first, and she said I could help myself. We're very careful to keep our belongings separate. Anyway," she said, "her clothes wouldn't fit me, would they?" That was true.
"I don't suppose you brought a croquet mallet to the room?" I asked her.
She looked perplexed. "Why would I want to do that?" she said.
"Did you notice anything about your own stuff, things that had been moved or that looked as if they'd been handled?"
"The housekeeping staff straighten my stuff up a little when they do the room," she said. "I'm kind of untidy. Is that what it is? She can't stand my mess?"
"I don't know what it is, Susie," I said. "Maybe Catherine is just one of those people who need to have their own room."
"Will I have to pay more now that I don't have a roomie?" Susie asked. "I haven't got a lot of money."
"Don't worry," I assured her. "There'll be no extra charge. We'll look after everything. I think you should just forget about this and enjoy the rest of the trip."
"I guess so," Susie said, but she looked very hurt.
S TILL NO SIGN of Kristi's notebook I did find Marlene's Swiss Army knife. It was wedged between where the tiles around the swimming pool ended and the garden began. That put Marlene in the pool area, but didn't make her a killer. Rick wasn't stabbed to death, after all.
I thought long and hard about where the notebook might be. It was a long shot, but something just twigged. I walked over to the bookcase in the lounge, and pulled the glass door open. There were dozens of volumes, some lovely old leather books, and double rows of popular paperbacks in several languages, many left behind, I suppose, by various guests.
I scanned the shelves, and then reached for the spine of a book. It was, indeed, Kristi's diary. I quickly flipped through it. The List was gone.
"A ND NOW, LADIES and gentlemen, it is my very great pleasure to present to you our folkloric evening at the Restaurant Les Oliviers," the master of ceremonies said. "My name is Tariq. Please sit back and enjoy the show. What we are going to hear first is something called the Malouf. It is a very ancient musical tradition dating back to ninth-century Spain," Tariq explained, "which combines both Middle Eastern music with Andalusian sound. It was brought to North Africa by Muslims and Jews fleeing Christian Spain during the twelfth to fifteenth centuries. Now we consider it our national music, and take great pride in it."