The Unkindest Cut (7 page)

Paula nodded curtly. ‘‘I’ll see you later. I’ve got things to do.’’ She stalked off.

‘‘There goes Miss Charm School of 1966,’’ Sophie said, low enough so that only I could hear.

I suppressed a laugh. ‘‘You’re incorrigible.’’

‘‘Just one of the many reasons I’m your best friend,’’ she said, tossing her head. ‘‘Come on. We’ve got more exploring to do. I want to find out where the gym is, and if they have an indoor pool.’’

We could have gone back to our suite and consulted the hotel guide there, but Sophie headed for the reception desk instead. Trailing in her wake, I hoped we would be lucky enough to find someone besides Veronica Hinkelmeier staffing the desk.

No such luck. Not only was Veronica at the desk, glaring at a woman and a young man standing in front of it, but Paula was there, too.

‘‘Lorraine, what are you doing here?’’ we heard Paula ask. She stood a few feet away from the woman and the young man, her back rigid.

Sophie and I glanced at each other. What now?

The woman Paula had addressed, an attractive redhead in her late forties, turned slowly and faced Paula. ‘‘Oh, goody, just what I needed to make this joyful day complete. One stupid bitch behind the desk, and the queen of them all here to greet me.’’

Chapter 7

‘‘Mom!’’ The young man, with hair a paler version of his mother’s fiery mane, put a hand on her arm. ‘‘Not now.’’

‘‘Relax, Will,’’ she said. Her gaze softened when she looked at her son. When she focused on Paula again, however, her eyes hardened.

‘‘Just stay out of my way, Paula, and you won’t get hurt,’’ she said. Then, turning her back on Paula, she faced Veronica again. ‘‘I have a reservation, and you’d better stop stalling and let us have our rooms. I’m sure you wouldn’t want me to discuss your customer relations with your boss. I don’t think he would be happy to know just how
hospitable
you are to other women’s husbands.’’

Obviously furious, Veronica stood and stared across the counter at the woman who now smiled serenely back at her. Taking a deep breath, Veronica began fiddling with her computer.

Paula, with an obvious lack of common sense, moved closer to the redhead. ‘‘Now, listen, Lorraine. Everything’s going to be fine. Really, it will be. I’ve asked Avery for a divorce, and you can have him back.’’

So Lorraine was the former Mrs. Trowbridge, the one whom Avery had divorced in order to marry Paula. I glanced at Sophie—she was intent on the scene before us. We really should have left at that point, but we were both far too curious to do so.

Lorraine Trowbridge motioned for her son to sign the paper Veronica had thrust across the counter. With a fierce frown, he did so. A sardonic smile on her lovely face, Lorraine moved closer to Paula.

‘‘Why on earth would I want Avery back now? I wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole after he’s been with you.’’

‘‘I don’t want him either,’’ Paula said, her shoulders tensing. ‘‘He’s a bastard, and I just want to be free of him.’’

‘‘My, my,’’ Lorraine said. ‘‘And after you worked so hard to get him. All that time on your back, and now you don’t want him anymore.’’ She turned toward the counter. ‘‘Did you hear that, Veronica? Paula doesn’t want him anymore, so now’s your chance. You might as well put all the time
you
spent on
your
back to good use. Avery is obviously up for grabs.’’

‘‘Mom, come on,’’ Will Trowbridge said. He was patently embarrassed by what had transpired. He picked up their luggage, two large bags, and started moving in the direction of the elevator. ‘‘Come on, Mother, now, please.’’

Yielding to her son, Lorraine followed him and the luggage, but not before casting one last nasty, triumphant smile at Paula and Veronica.

Veronica stalked into the office behind the desk and slammed the door. Paula turned in our direction, and she wilted even further right before our eyes.

‘‘I’ve made such a mess of things,’’ she said, in the most woebegone voice I’d ever heard. Since that was so obviously true, neither Sophie nor I had a response. I did feel sorry for her, though, so I moved closer to her and slipped an arm around her shoulders.

‘‘Why don’t you go to your room and rest,’’ I said. ‘‘You’ve had a rough few hours, and I think a good nap will make you feel better.’’

‘‘Exactly,’’ Sophie said, patting Paula’s arm. ‘‘Listen to Emma. Go take a long hot bath to relax, and then have a nap.’’

‘‘Thank you,’’ Paula said, her lower lip trembling. ‘‘I think I will.’’ Sobbing softly to herself she turned away from us and went toward the elevator.

Sophie and I waited until the elevator had come and carried Paula away before we moved. Sophie turned to me. ‘‘This is some little soap opera.’’

‘‘No kidding,’’ I said, shaking my head. ‘‘And I have a nasty feeling it’s just going to get a lot worse before we’re done with it.’’ I headed for the elevator. ‘‘Come on, I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for a little quiet time.’’ I punched the call button.

Sophie shook her head. ‘‘No, you go ahead. I still want to check out the gym. I really ought to put in some time on a treadmill today if I can.’’

I laughed. ‘‘You and your treadmill. Oh, well, have fun. I’m going upstairs.’’ The elevator doors opened, and I stepped inside.

‘‘See you later,’’ Sophie said as the doors shut.

Back in our suite, everything was quiet. Marylou must still be napping, I thought, and moved with care through the living room area to the bedroom I was sharing with Sophie. I pulled off my shoes, retrieved my book from my bag, and made myself comfortable on the bed.

As I read, I could feel my eyelids drooping, and after a few minutes, I surrendered to the drowsiness and put the book aside. I closed my eyes, nestling down in the bed, and before long I dropped off.

I awoke sometime later when Sophie slipped into the room. Yawning, I sat up.

‘‘Sorry if I woke you,’’ she said. ‘‘When I came in earlier, you were sound asleep.’’ She wore her exercise togs, but from what I could see, she didn’t appear to have broken a sweat.

‘‘No, I need to get up and start stirring around.’’ I moved to the side of the bed and put my feet on the floor. Yawning again, I glanced at my watch. ‘‘Good grief, it’s almost five thirty.’’

‘‘And the reception starts at six thirty,’’ Sophie said. ‘‘If you don’t mind, I’m going to hop in the shower to freshen up. I won’t be long.’’

‘‘Go right ahead,’’ I said, yawning again. ‘‘I need to wake up a little, and then I probably should take a quick shower myself.’’

Sophie disappeared into the bathroom, and I got up from the bed and wandered out into the living room. I walked over to Marylou’s door, which stood slightly ajar, and knocked.

When I received no answer, I pushed the door open and took a step inside. ‘‘Marylou,’’ I called. I listened for sounds of movement from her bathroom, but all was quiet. She wasn’t in the suite. I went back to the living room and paced around a bit to wake myself up completely.

I was on my fourth circuit of the room when I heard the door from the hall opening.

Marylou came in, and from the look on her face, I could tell something was wrong.

‘‘Are you okay?’’ I asked, moving toward her. ‘‘You look like you want to murder someone.’’

Marylou pushed the door shut behind her, then leaned against it. ‘‘I’ll give you three guesses, and the first two don’t count.’’

‘‘Paula?’’

She nodded. ‘‘Of course. I was sound asleep, enjoying a nice nap, when the phone rang. It was Paula.’’

‘‘I didn’t even hear the phone,’’ I said.

‘‘It rang only once,’’ Marylou said. ‘‘I wake very quickly, and I picked it up before it could ring again.’’

‘‘Come on over here and sit down a minute,’’ I said, heading for the sofa. Marylou followed me and plopped down beside me. ‘‘So what was it this time?’’

‘‘More of the same,’’ Marylou said, shaking her head tiredly. ‘‘I gather you and Sophie were on the scene when Paula ran into Lorraine Trowbridge and her son.’’

I nodded. ‘‘Another unpleasant little encounter.’’

‘‘Well, Paula wanted a shoulder to cry on,’’ Marylou said, ‘‘and I obliged.’’ She sighed. ‘‘If this goes on much longer, my shoulders will start to mildew.’’

I laughed, and Marylou smiled. It was a rather grim smile, however. ‘‘You’re a good friend to put up with her.’’

‘‘I suppose,’’ Marylou said. ‘‘She’s just so goshdarned pathetic right now, and I can’t find it in my heart to turn her away when she needs to talk to somebody. I suppose I’m helping her, but no matter what I say, I’m not sure she really hears what I’m telling her.’’

‘‘Just look at it this way,’’ I said. ‘‘You’re shortening your time in purgatory in a big way.’’

She laughed outright at that, and I was pleased to see her normally cheerful demeanor returning.

‘‘Where’s Sophie?’’ she asked.

‘‘In the shower,’’ I said. ‘‘I need to take a quick one myself, so I can get ready for the reception.’’

‘‘Oh, good grief,’’ Marylou said, forcing herself up from the sofa. ‘‘I completely forgot about that dad-blamed reception. I need a shower, too.’’ She frowned. ‘‘It’s at six thirty, isn’t it?’’

‘‘Yes,’’ I said, glancing at the clock on the wall. ‘‘That gives us about forty-five minutes to get ready.’’

Marylou relaxed a bit. ‘‘Plenty of time, then. But I guess I’ll go ahead and have a shower.’’ She disappeared into her bedroom and shut the door.

I got up from the sofa and wandered back into my bedroom. Sophie had finished her shower and was sitting at the dressing table doing her makeup. ‘‘Shower’s all yours,’’ she said.

‘‘Thanks.’’ I gathered my things and busied myself in the bathroom.

At a few minutes past six thirty, the three of us were ready for the reception. Sophie wore cream slacks and a stunning blue silk blouse that set off her blond hair and tanned skin to perfection, while Marylou had chosen an emerald pantsuit with a white shell. I had opted for my favorite red silk top and black slacks, accompanied by a wide red, white, and black belt. The belt was very 1960s, but I loved it. Sophie grinned when she saw it.

‘‘That’s so retro,’’ she said, ‘‘but on you, it actually works.’’

‘‘Thank you,’’ I said. ‘‘I think.’’

‘‘We all look very nice,’’ Marylou said. ‘‘Casual but elegant.’’ She beamed at us as proudly as if we were her daughters.

After Sophie and I gave her a quick hug, we were out the door and on the way to the reception. Sixty to seventy people milled about in the ballroom, and a few more entered behind the three of us. The transformation of the room was complete. If anyone had wondered what the theme of this party was, the decorations ought to be a big clue. Large playing cards hung from the ceiling at intervals, and I counted them. There were thirteen—in other words, a bridge hand.

Quite a hand it was, too, I decided as I assessed the cards. Twenty-seven high card points—almost enough for a slam bid in one hand.

I examined the rest of the room. Suspended over the dais were two large bridge scorepads, partially filled in. I moved on to the tables. Each of them sported a flower arrangement, and looming out of each arrangement were large cards, continuing the pattern of the large cards overhead.

I realized with a start that Marylou and Sophie had left me to goggle at the room on my own. I spotted them near the buffet table and walked over to them, wending my way through the milling crowd.

‘‘Look at this spread,’’ Sophie said. She held a small plate, empty at the moment. ‘‘Too many choices.’’

I agreed as I looked over the long table. There were platters of crudités with dip in the center, plates of delicious-looking cheeses with bread and crackers, a mound of grapes and sliced apples on a tray, and a selection of meats and breads for small sandwiches. A table nearby held a tempting array of dessert items, like miniature cheesecakes, pecan pies, and éclairs, just to name a few.

The three of us made our choices before going to the bar for drinks. Then, drinks in hand, we found an unoccupied table and sat down. There were eight places at each table, and before long our table filled up. We introduced ourselves to the newcomers, one of whom was a twelve-year-old girl attending with her grandmother.

The grandmother proudly informed us that the young girl was a whiz at bridge and had already accumulated an impressive number of points toward being named a Life Master. The girl, whose name was Alice McCarthy, blushed and tried, without success, to restrain her grandmother, Lucinda McCarthy. Before too many minutes had elapsed, everyone at our table knew more than any of us could ever wish to know about Alice’s prowess, while Alice hunched so far down in her chair I thought she would soon disappear under the table.

Taking pity on the poor girl, I engaged her in conversation, and Marylou did her best with the grandmother. We had made some headway when we were all startled by a voice booming out across the room. We all turned toward the dais to see a beaming Basil Dumont at the podium.

‘‘Thank you for your attention, ladies and gentlemen, ’’ he said. He paused for a long moment to let the residual chatter die down. ‘‘We’re all so pleased you could join us for this wonderful event here at this beautiful hotel. Isn’t the hotel doing a great job for us?’’

Again he paused, this time for some rather lukewarm applause from the audience.

Sophie leaned toward me. ‘‘I guess most of them have met Veronica Hinkelmeier, too, and they don’t like her any more than we do.’’ She kept her voice low, but people nearby heard her.

One man guffawed, then said, ‘‘You got that right, honey.’’ He winked at Sophie, who smiled back at him.

Alice had heard her as well. Her face solemn, she regarded me. ‘‘That’s the lady that checked us in, isn’t she?’’

I nodded.

Alice frowned. ‘‘She was really rude to Nana and me when we checked in. I thought she was just having a bad day, but I guess she did it to other people, too.’’