Death in Paradise Read Free

stepped in and were carried, with stomach-dropping speed, down to the lobby. Past the trickling fountains, past the chirping birds, past the omnipresent sweepers. We rushed up to the front desk and explained our dilemma.
    They directed us to a banquette, where we were joined by an assistant manager, who needed the story repeated. He, in turn, summoned security, the story was told again, and the four of us marched back to the elevator and rose skyward to Martina's room.
    Our little procession hurried out of the elevator and once again came to a halt outside her door. This time it was the assistant manager who raised his fist and knocked, announced himself, paused, and knocked again. Then there was a pause in the action. It seemed that he had fully expected Martina to appear at his official summons, as if our gentler or more meager female knocks hadn't been quite the thing. When the expected result didn't occur, he and the security man consulted briefly and then unlocked the door.
    There was a short contretemps, while I waited for management and management waited for me. Then the assistant manager, a rounded, polished gentleman of Hawaiian descent with a broad, solemn face, stepped back and gestured for me to enter. "Perhaps, as you're her colleague, it would be best..."
    I stepped past him and into the room, calling, "Martina? It's Thea. We had a meeting this..." Martina, being the VIP, had a suite. A big, beautiful sitting room with the obligatory cellophane-wrapped basket of fruit. The management greeting card was still flying from the top, like a flag, unopened. A table set for two sat before the open doors. Champagne in a bucket. Glasses. A plate of soggy caviar and toast. A bowl of strawberries. I hesitated. Why had she ordered this feast and left it untouched? Although her papers were spread all over the desk, this looked like provisions for a romantic rendezvous, not a late-night business meeting.
    Moving more slowly now, I stepped into the dressing room and peered into the opulent bathroom, hoping, as my anxiety grew, that I might find she'd fallen and hit her head. It looked like she'd taken a bath—the tub was dirty, there were towels on the floor and a terry-cloth robe thrown over the edge of the tub—but no Martina. I stepped backward and bumped into Rory. She retreated with a squeak, like a startled mouse.
    I stepped around her and went into the bedroom, calling Martina's name again. I called, waited, and called again as I stepped around the corner and the bed came into sight. I stopped as suddenly as if I'd run into an invisible screen. Stopped, stared, and turned my head away. I stopped so suddenly that Rory, hesitantly dogging my steps, ran right into me, gasped, apologized, and stepped back.
    "Don't look," I said. "Turn around and go out. Now! You don't want to see this."
    I tried to block the way but she wriggled past me, gave a bloodcurdling scream, and then, still screaming, turned and ran from the room.
    Maybe it's because I'm an oldest child, but I'm a real take-charge type. I didn't scream or cry or faint. I turned to the assistant manager, who was staring bug-eyed at the woman on the bed and pointed in the direction Rory had gone. "Find her. Take her somewhere and shut her up before you have the whole hotel in an uproar. And you, security, call the police."
    I took another step into the room, drawn reluctantly toward the figure on the bed. Martina Pullman, president of the National Association of Girls' Schools, was one of those tall, handsome, fashionably thin women who loved elegant clothes and wore them well. The outfit she had on would, under other circumstances, have been laughable. Under these circumstances, it was jarring. Embarrassing. Horrible.
    She lay on her back across the bed in a scarlet lace bustier, red thong panties and lacy red garter belt. Her long, unnaturally dark hair, hair that was usually confined in a severe chignon, was spread out around her head, as though she awaited a