The Big Dirt Nap

substantial frame in what had to be a custom-made suit, a white-on-white shirt, ivory silk tie, with a gold tie tack, and a pocket hanky origamied into four perfect points. To his credit he wasn't wearing a pinkie ring.

I was anxious to get on the road, so I got out my pad and launched into some of the questions I'd jotted down earlier that afternoon after my session with Sveta. The staff had been tipped off that I was a FOB, a friend of Bernie's, and plied me with snacks and drinks all day, so I'd sat bundled up by the fifties-style pool guzzling complimentary virgin Marys and making notes.

Mishkin took his time answering, giving me generic answers, telling me to ask Rachel, and repeatedly steering the conversation back to Nick Vigoriti and the tragic loss of such a fine young man.

'As I said, I really didn't know him. We just had a brief conversation at the bar.' Why was Mishkin grilling me? Wasn't I the one who was supposed to be interviewing him?

'I understand why you might not have wanted to say anything last night.' Had Hector told him the maid had seen us together? 'I've known Nick all his life, and he could never resist a pretty woman,' he said, laying it on.

I'm sanguine about my looks. Sometimes I look good and other times, when I'm stressed or tired, I look like the Olsen twins' less normal older sister—bad hair and wild eyes. Bernie leaned in conspiratorially, waiting for me to spill some nonexistent beans. I didn't have any beans.

'So, were you the driving force behind getting the corpse flower for the hotel?' I continued.

'It was Fran's idea.' Now I felt guilty for pressing the issue. Fran Mishkin had read an article about the titan arum and had thought it would be a good gimmick for the hotel. She had also suggested an exhibit some years back in honor of their neighbors on the reservation. Bernie called it, an 'In-jun exhibit.'

'They didn't understand publicity like she did. She was a real marketing genius. We would have gone under years ago if it hadn't been for my Franny.' His eyes went glassy, either from the loss of his wife or from the amber liquid he'd just gunned.

'This probably isn't a good idea. I'm sorry to have brought back bad memories.'

'My memories of Fran are good. It's just all so fresh. She's only been gone a few months. And now Nicky . . .' The bluster was gone and Mishkin was left staring at his ice cubes. I mumbled my thanks and got up to leave.

'Please, Ms. Holliday. Sit down. I'm sorry. Nicky's death has hit us all so hard.' He looked at me for confirmation.

Not me, I thought. I hardly knew the guy. And if Mishkin was so broken up about it why did he keep bringing it up? I was tired of denying I knew the guy, so I decided to play along.

'Well, Nick was an extremely attractive man.' I looked down at my folded hands, feigning grief, to see what Mishkin would do.

'See, I knew you two were up to something,' he said, wagging his index finger. His eyes twinkled and he smacked his lips, his bonhomie returning. He poured himself another generous drink, and again tilted the bottle in my direction. Again I passed.

'It all happened so fast,' I said, alluding to our totally fictitious yet torrid relationship. I struggled to remember some detail about Nick, or something he'd said to me, to keep the ruse going. 'He did tell me that you two hadn't spoken for a while.'

Mishkin's smile froze. He drained his glass and made little patterns in the condensation. 'Did he say why?' he asked, doing a rotten job of sounding casual.

Ka-ching. I'd touched a nerve. 'No. But I know he was sorry about that. I think he was hoping for a reconciliation or a resolution.' It wasn't a total lie. Nick did say he'd talk to the Mishkins for me, but it was about the greenhouse, not whatever it was that had caused a dark shadow to pass across Bernie Mishkin's wide face. So was all of Mishkin's hand wringing and hair tearing a fake?

With eerily perfect timing, his sister buzzed him as I chewed over the uncomfortable possibility that Bernie Mishkin was not only not grieving for the dear departed Nick, but that he also knew more than he was telling either me or the charming Detective Winters about Nick's death.

'Sorry,' he said, holding a button down on the phone. 'International call, London, can't be helped.' He nodded periodically but said little. Over the phone, I heard someone yelling.

If Mishkin was implicated in Nick's death, I didn't want to know about it. That was a matter for Stacy Winters, and the other cops, not me. He motioned for me to wait, but I took the opportunity to escape.

Back in my room I threw my things in my bag, still wondering what the hell that meeting was all about. Wasn't it after midnight in London? And I'd forgotten to ask about the damn greenhouse. I called his office as soon as I remembered, but Rachel said he was gone for the day.

'That was fast,' I said. 'Is there any way I can reach him?'

She didn't respond. This was one closemouthed family. Unlike my own vocal, trusting crew. If someone had called my mother and asked where I was, she'd probably give him directions, whether she knew him or not. This nice man called. He didn't say what he wanted. Yes, dear, he did say something about being an escaped convict.

I checked for messages one last time and left two for Lucy, one on her cell and one at her office. The recorded message still claimed Lucy would be in central Connecticut for the weekend. That was odd. Unlike me, who records one outgoing message and doesn't record another until I get a new machine, Lucy changed hers with neurotic frequency, every time she took a trip, and sometimes just for fun. Either this was one hell of a tryst or she'd been called out of town for an even bigger story. That was also possible, given her job, and it was the option I was starting to root for.

One last call before I hit the road—I dialed my pal at the Springfield Bulletin to report on the corpse flower's progress, or lack thereof.

'Jon, how's it going? Listen, I don't think this baby is going to pop for another two or three days. Do you really want me to stay up here that long? It's only seventy miles, I can always drive back when it does bloom.' I told him what I had and he agreed there was enough pre-bloom material for a Sunday feature, so I closed down my computer while we were still on the phone.

'Guess what? Some guy was killed here last night. I talked to him before it happened.'

'Well, it'd be damn hard to talk to him after. You're yakking to me about a potted plant when there's been a mysterious death at the old hotel,' Jon said. 'You will never be a newspaperman. Spill.' Jon must have seen too many old Rosalind Russell movies when he was young and impressionable, and liked to affect a 1940s newshound's lingo. It was quite endearing. I told him as much as I knew.

'What does Lucy think?' he asked. 'She's got a nose for news.'

'She's not here. She stood me up.'

Jon and Lucy had met a few months back, and he nursed a puppy-dog crush on her, which she wisely ignored. He knew about the accident on 95 and offered to contact the local hospitals to make sure she wasn't laid up somewhere. Part of me thought he was overreacting, but in the back of my mind I felt like a lousy friend for not having thought of that; I was too busy working her love life into the equation.

'Good idea. My cell signal goes in and out on the Merritt,' I said, 'but call me if you hear anything. I'm coming home.'

Eight

I'd wasted most of the day waiting for Mishkin, but it wasn't a total loss. Apart from my free session with Sveta, Mishkin had instructed the front desk to comp my stay. Since Lucy and her corporate credit card had never showed up, my friends at the Bulletin would be happy about that.

I went outside and waited for the parking attendent to bring my car. Two young guys, one in a gold vest and another exuding all the health and charm of a heroin addict, stood there lighting up. I tried to stand where the secondhand smoke wouldn't drift my way.

The valet pulled my Jeep around to the front of the hotel. I handed him a couple of bucks and pulled out, fiddling with my cell and hands-free cable. I hated talking while I drove, but if Jon or Lucy called, I wanted to know as soon as possible.

There'd be congestion near the hotel, but the Merritt Parkway should be clear by the time I got on it and with