Shriver (17 page)

“Are you a suspect?” Shriver asked.

“It's like a cheap Agatha Christie novel,” Rather sniffed, scratching at a welt on his neck. “And then these goddamn mosquitoes.”

Seeing Rather paw at his splotchy neck prompted everyone else to rub their various bites.

“Is everyone going to the soiree tonight?” Rather asked.

“Of course!” T. said. “I wouldn't miss that for anything.”

“Another soiree?” Shriver asked. “Isn't
this
a soiree?”

“This is obviously your first writers' conference,” Rather said.

“Every year,” T. explained, “Dr. Keaudeen throws a swanky party for the authors and whoever else tags along. It's wonderfully decadent.”

“Who's Dr. Keaudeen?”

“A local gynecologist. Female. She gives beaucoup bucks to the university, so we have to pay attention to her.”

“Will there be food?” Shriver asked.

“Tons of it.”

“Then I'm in.”

“I wonder who will get lucky tonight,” T. said.

“What does that mean?” Rather asked.

“Dr. Keaudeen has a habit of seducing writers. Last year it was that mystery writer with the speech impediment. What was his name?”

“Is this bush doctor attractive?” the playwright asked.

“That's the thing. She's not. In fact, she's plug-ugly. But she's rich and charismatic.”

“Sounds as though you have had the pleasure, T.”

Professor Wätzczesnam became uncharacteristically quiet and downed a good portion of wine.

“Hello, everybody!”

Simone appeared at Shriver's elbow. When she looked up at him her face turned the slightest shade of pink. Shriver turned to see T. watching her, his face like stone.

“I'm still high from that reading, Zebra,” Simone said. “How exhilarating!”

“It was a fantastic audience,” the young author replied. “It's funny, the farther I get from the projects, the better the response.”

“Don't look now,” Basil Rather said, “but Hercule Poirot has arrived.”

Over by the door, Detective Krampus stood watching over the crowd, smiling crookedly, as if he knew some secret about every single person in the room.
That woman there is having an affair with her dentist. That man has an unlicensed handgun in his car's glove compartment. That fellow is wearing women's underpants.

“He is a pesky little fellow,” T. muttered.

Delta Malarkey-Jones approached the detective and spoke animatedly to him. As she jabbered on, Krampus continued to gaze around the room. When his eyes met Shriver's he nodded almost imperceptibly, as if they had some sort of understanding between them.

“I wonder what happened to poor Gonquin,” Simone said.

“She's probably in Vegas,” Basil Rather said.

As he snuck a lengthy gaze at Simone's rosy face, Shriver again saw a black-clad figure out of the corner of his eye. He turned quickly to see the figure just as it exited.

“I'll be right back,” he said, directing it mostly to Simone, whom he still wanted to talk to. He walked over toward the door.

“Hello, Mr. Shriver,” Krampus said through that knowing grin of his.

“Did you see someone leave?”

“When?”

“Just now. Dressed all in black.”

“Like Ms. Smithee?” the detective asked, perking up.

“I don't know.” That hadn't occurred to him.

Shriver pushed through the door, Krampus right behind him. In the parking lot, a few students sat inside a pickup truck, laughing and drinking beer. Otherwise Shriver saw only empty cars, neatly parked. Simone's slumbering dinosaur took up two spaces off to the side. Mosquitoes buzzed around his ears. He swatted them away as he and Krampus walked around to the rail yard behind the museum, where row after row of freight cars sat rusting on railroad tracks.

“Are you sure you saw her?” Krampus asked. He seemed unbothered by the mosquitoes. He did not wave his arms at them, as Shriver had to do.

“I saw
someone
,” Shriver said, peering beneath a row of boxcars. “I don't know who.”

“If not Ms. Smithee,” the detective said, “perhaps it was the person responsible for her disappearance.”

Shriver paused. “You think so?”

“Perhaps he plans to dispatch the writers, one by one.”

“Really?”

“Who's next?” Krampus asked. “The great and legendary Shriver?”

Shriver thought about it. The theory made as much sense as any other. Maybe it was some envious would-be author taking out his revenge on those more successful than he. And who was more successful than Shriver?

Krampus laughed. “Really, Mr. Shriver. You don't seem the paranoid type. Tell me—how much have you had to drink today?”

Shriver attempted to display a contemptuous expression, but he wondered if the detective might be right: maybe he was just soused. Krampus smiled and returned to the museum. Shriver then made a halfhearted effort to look beneath the freight cars, but there were hundreds of them; someone
could hide quite effectively back here if they wanted to. Plus, it might be dangerous—paranoid or not, Krampus's theory could be correct.

“Shriver!” someone called from the parking lot.

He headed around to the front of the building and arrived in time to see Simone's vehicle pulling away. He waved frantically for her to stop, but she did not see him, or else ignored him.

“Shriver!”

T. Wätzczesnam and Edsel Nixon were climbing into the jeep, madly swatting their arms at the insects.

Shriver ran to the car and, with some difficulty, ascended into the backseat.

“Giddyup, Nixon!” the professor cried out. “Before we get eaten alive!”

“I'll drop you off at the hotel,” Edsel shouted over the engine noise, “so you can freshen up a bit. Then I'll swing around to pick you up for the party.”

“Don't take too long, Shriver,” T. said. “Finger foods await!”

Next thing he knew, Shriver was standing at the entrance to the Hotel 19 as the jeep tore off through a cloud of insects. He went straight up to his room and, just as he reached the door, remembered he did not have the key. He rode the elevator back down and, rounding the corner, saw the familiar beehive behind the front desk.

“May I help you?” Charlevoix asked.

“Yes. I left my key in my room. May I have a spare?”

“Oh my,” she said. “This has never happened before.”

“No one has ever misplaced their key?”

“Not that I know of.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Well,
I've
never heard of it, and I've worked here since forever. Oh my.”

“May I have a spare?” Shriver asked again.

“Spare? We pride ourselves on providing the utmost in privacy. If we had a spare, you wouldn't have privacy, now, would you? Not so long as another key was floating around out there.”

“But—”

“Why, some nefarious person could use that spare key to sneak into your room and take your things!”

“But what about the maid? Surely she would have a key.”

“Of course, the maid has a
master
key. How else would she clean your room?”

“Exactly. Can you tell me where I might find her?”

“Well, I'm sorry, but she's gone for the day.”

“And she took the key with her?”

Charlevoix, insulted, narrowed her eyes. “Oh, we trust Luna implicitly, Mr. Shriver.”

“Of course, but it just seems impractical to—”

“She's worked here for twenty-five years!”

“Yes, but—”

“She would never abuse her privileges.”

Shriver gave up that argument. “So, how do you suggest I get into my room? There are things in there that I need.” He thought not just of his keys, but his per diem money, his clothes, and, most of all, his story.

Charlevoix appeared to ponder his question. “I'm going to have to call my big sister,” she said. “Perhaps you could wait in the saloon?”

As Shriver started off Charlevoix called him back. “I almost forgot. This was left for you.”

She held out a manila envelope with his name written on it in large block letters. Shriver carried it into the Prairie Dog Saloon. The place was dimly lit, with spindly ficus trees and rodeo memorabilia on the walls. Shriver sat at the bar and waved to the bartendress, a skinny college student with blue hair spilling from a too-small straw cowboy hat.

“Whiskey,” Shriver said. “Wait—make it a double.”

He examined the envelope. It was sealed, and appeared to contain a manuscript of some kind.

His drink arrived. “Please charge this to room nineteen,” he told the bartendress, then he downed the drink in one burning gulp.

He started to open the envelope, then hesitated. Detective Krampus's words came to him:
Perhaps he plans to dispatch the writers, one by one.
An absurd idea, probably, but still . . . Who knew what was inside this envelope? Perhaps it contained a threat of some kind, or incriminating photos, or anthrax. No, that was crazy.

“Another?” the bartendress asked.

Shriver was about to answer in the affirmative when he heard a loud car horn beeping from outside the front door of the hotel.

“Maybe later,” he said.

/

As Edsel accelerated across campus and T. Wätzczesnam lambasted the “so-called art” on display at the museum—“Honestly, Mr. Nixon, if those unsightly bison were not put on this earth for us to consume, then God has a whole lot of explaining to do”—Shriver sat in the backseat and stared down at the manila envelope in his hands. Perhaps emboldened by the double shot of whiskey, he thought, Oh, what the hell, and tore it open. Inside he found a sheaf of paper. He peeked in at the top sheet and saw these words, typed on an old-fashioned manual typewriter:

THE IMPOSTER

As a tingling sweat broke out on his forehead he pulled the pages from the envelope and tried to read what came next, but the words started to blur.

“What do you have there, Shriver?” T. asked.

“What?” Shriver said, looking up. The cowboy eyed him, one hand clutching his ten-gallon hat to stop the wind from lifting it off and away.

“Is that your new masterpiece, by any chance?” T. asked. “Let me see.”

He took hold of the pages with his free hand, but Shriver refused to yield. As they struggled, Edsel Nixon made a sharp turn that nearly lifted the jeep onto two wheels. Startled, both men lost their grip and the pages flew from their hands and out the vehicle.

“No!” Wätzczesnam shouted. “Turn back, Mr. Nixon!”

“It's fine, T.,” Shriver said. “It wasn't important.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. Just some forms to fill out. Keep going, Edsel.”

“Will do,” his handler said. “We're almost there.”

Shriver looked back to see sheets of paper floating, a flock of doves, above a motorcyclist who, distracted, pulled off to the side of the road.

Shriver didn't need to read the story. The point had been made: someone was onto him.

/

Dr. Margaret Keaudeen lived in a large, recently constructed home on the outskirts of town. Cars lined the wide driveway that circled an immaculately kept lawn, each blade of grass glowing in the soft light of dusk. Edsel parked behind Simone's behemoth and the three men leaped from the jeep and made for the front door as mosquitoes buzzed loudly around their heads.

Professor Wätzczesnam flung open the door and entered the two-story-high foyer, followed by Nixon and Shriver.
Conversation and music could be heard from the other side of a padded swinging door straight ahead.

“This way, gentlemen,” T. said.

Partygoers milled about the sizable living room, many of their faces familiar from the readings, as classical music floated from speakers built into the ceiling. The walls were covered in vertically striped wallpaper, with fancy gold light fixtures and ornately framed paintings. Large, overstuffed chairs sat atop a plush beige carpet.

“Follow me,” T. said as he pushed through the crowd toward a well-stocked bar. He helped himself to a glass of whiskey and poured a glass for Shriver too. Shriver downed his in one gulp and looked around the room for Simone. He had to tell her the truth before it came out. To his right he noticed the entrance to the kitchen, where an army of caterers was preparing finger food. His stomach gurgled loudly.

“Excuse me,” he said, pushing off toward the food table. This could be a long night, he reasoned, and he'd need some fortification. En route he was stopped by a tall woman in an elegant linen jacket and matching skirt. She smiled down at him with artificially whitened teeth, her thick lips painted a ruby red.

“Mr. Shriver! So thrilled to meet you!” She thrust out a meaty hand on which sparkled several rings. “Dr. Margaret Keaudeen. Welcome to my home!”

“Very nice to meet you, Doctor,” Shriver said, his hand engulfed inside hers. His stomach twisted at the sight of a cracker slathered with some sort of cheese-and-spinach concoction that the gynecologist held aloft in her other hand.

“I'm an alumna of the college,” she said. “I loved it so much I feel I must give something back in return, so I throw a little party every year. Plus, I'm simply a nut for literature!”

The top half of her jacket was opened to reveal a lacy blouse that, in turn, showed off the cleavage of her suspiciously firm and rounded breasts. Shriver felt reasonably sure that, were he to touch them, they would be as hard as the breasts of a marble statue.

“You have a lovely home,” he told her. “And I'm very excited to partake of the delicious-looking food you've provided.”

“Talk to me,” she said, taking hold of his elbow and turning him sideways, closer to her, “about your wonderful novel. I haven't quite finished it, but I'm fascinated by what I've read so far. I've written a bit myself, you know—I had a story published in the college literary journal last year—”