The Swizzle Stick Stalker: A Mrs Margaret Mystery, #1

CHAPTER ONE

A nd Mrs Margaret, is she traveling today?

—So then I told Cynthia—my daughter, Cynthia, right here—that I'd never been to Bermuda, and she'd never been to Bermuda, and that's how we decided—

Mom.  The agent needs your passport.  Her daughter held out her right hand, her left hand planted on her hip.

Of course, my passport.  Just a minute, Cynthia.  These people are going to Bermuda, too.  She fiddled with the zipper of her handbag, attempting to retrieve the passport.

Passport, Mom.

They do know Margaret is my first name, don't they?

Cynthia raised an eyebrow at the ticket agent, then accepted two boarding passes and both passports from her.

It's the way the tickets are written.  Yours is MACRIS / MRS MARGARET and mine is MACRIS / MS CYNTHIA.  So now you're Mrs Margaret.

They wheeled their suitcases over to the security line.  Keep your passport and boarding pass together, Cynthia said.

I'm not a child, her mother replied.  The security line stretched through the better part of John F Kennedy airport, and Mrs Margaret pulled a guidebook to Bermuda out of her shoulder bag.

What are you doing, Mom?

Look at this line.  I might as well read a little bit about our trip.

Cynthia shook her head.  This isn't our line.  She wheeled over to a side area with its own set of stanchions and a sign that said PRIORITY LANE.  This is our line, Cynthia said, flashing her boarding pass at a security agent.

Those other people are staying at the Royal Hamilton Hotel, they said they got a deal for five nights at the price of four.

Cynthia hoisted their luggage onto the x-ray conveyor belt.

Anything in your pockets?  No?  Leave your shoes on.  And take off that awful hat.

Mrs Margaret placed her hat tenderly in a plastic bin.  She expected to be in the sun, even though New York was dreary, and had worn a wide-brimmed straw hat with a grosgrain ribbon in anticipation of their island holiday.

Cynthia had expressed her dismay at the hat multiple times, at her apartment, in the taxi, and now in the security queue.

Reunited with her personal items on the other side of the metal detector, Mrs Margaret followed Cynthia dutifully through the expansive airport terminal.  They passed a coffee shop (the line's always too long at the first coffee place), a fast-food joint (their coffee is terrible, it sits in the pots all day), a fancy sit-down restaurant by a celebrity chef (we don't have time to wait), and were about to pass a small deli when Cynthia made an abrupt left turn.

Well, she said, I suppose this will have to do.

Can't we just have coffee on the plane? Mrs Margaret asked.

Plane coffee?  You've got to be joking.  They can't make a latte on the plane.

Cynthia proceeded to order a triple-shot latte for herself and then, ignoring her pleas for a small coffee with cream and sugar, a cappuccino for Mrs Margaret.

You love cappuccino, don't you?

It's fine, Mrs Margaret said.

And anyway, we'll have mimosas on the plane.

Cynthia had gotten their flights using several of her hundreds of thousands of frequent flier miles, which she accrued for just this purpose, to fly first class on vacation.  Mrs Margaret, who flew only once or twice a year, would have been fine in coach, but she did enjoy the socks and the dessert cart.

Window, Mom?  They traveled well together, Mrs Margaret and Cynthia, not just a window-and-aisle pair but also a surf and turf pair, a day driver and a night driver, two people who had known each other for 35 years.  They accepted their mimosas and mixed nuts from the flight attendant and settled in.

Mrs Margaret pulled out her travel guide again and began to study it in earnest.

It says here that the Royal Hamilton Hotel gets four diamonds.

I'm sure our place gets five, Cynthia replied, waving her mimosa at her mother.  I read all the reviews.  They serve a home-baked breakfast, afternoon tea, and a cocktail hour with cheese and fruit.  I thought you'd like that.  The Royal Hamilton Hotel probably has an overpriced minibar.

It doesn't say anything about that, Mrs Margaret mused.  Their restaurant has an ocean view, though.

I've made reservations at the best restaurants in Bermuda already.

Of course you have.

Why don't you find us some things to do during the day?  Sightseeing, that kind of thing.  I didn't have a chance to look at any of those things, I hope we don't need reservations.

Mrs Margaret thumbed through her guide.  Pink sand beaches, harbor cruises, island heritage museum, a historic district that looks to be small workshops, any of those sound interesting?

All of them, don't you think?

It says there's an old railroad line, too, and you can bike along it.  Mrs Margaret envisioned herself on a cruiser bicycle, with a picnic in the basket and her straw hat atop her head.

Well, that sounds lovely.  The inn has bikes for us to use, which is one more advantage over that big McResort your friends are going to.

They're not my friends, they're just nice people on our flight.  Sheila and Frank.  It's their anniversary.

You got all that while we were in line to check in?

Darling, I listen to people.  And unlike you, I actually like people.  The flight attendant came by and refilled their mimosas.  Thank you, Reagan, Mrs Margaret said.

How did you know his name, too?

He's got a name tag, Cynthia.  Honestly.  You just have to pay attention.

THE HARBOURVIEW INN, please, Cynthia told the taxi driver.

Mrs Margaret had been hoping for a quainter car, something in a pastel color, a convertible, maybe.  But they were in a Prius.  The driver was, however, wearing Bermuda shorts and that pleased her.

The Harbourview? he asked.

Yes, do you know where it is?  Number 5 Allen's Alley, it says it's just off the main road—

I know where it is, the driver said.  I just wanted to make sure you wanted to go there.

Of course we want to go there.  Cynthia looked at her mother and gave a little shake to her head, a look Mrs Margaret knew to mean 'he's an odd one.'

They turned off the main road and traveled nearly a mile down a narrow, winding road, serene and quiet with the heavy green of summer a canopy above them.  And when, after the final curve, they crested a hill and a large shell-pink house came into view, Mrs Margaret nearly gasped.  They pulled into the circular drive of crushed shell gravel, parked under a porte-cochere, and unfurled themselves from the Prius.

You want me to wait? the driver asked.

Whatever for?  Cynthia seemed astonished at his cheek.  Thank you, we're all set.

They watched him drive away.  Funny little man.

The foyer at Harbourview overlooked a two-story hall with windows highlighting the promised harbor view, full frontal exposure across the bay to the town of Hamilton, pastel houses and white stepped roofs dotting the coast opposite them.  Mrs Margaret stood at the rail and stared, captivated, while Cynthia managed the check in.

But after a moment, things seemed not to be going smoothly.  Mrs Margaret heard the familiar, whining tone that crept into Cynthia's voice when she wasn't getting her way.

I don't think you understand, Cynthia was saying, it's my mother's sixty-fifth birthday and we want to stay here.  That's why I reserved here.  If I'd wanted to stay at the Royal Hamilton Hotel I would have reserved there and gotten my fifth night free like every other cruise ship plebian on this island.

What's the problem?  Mrs Margaret edged her way up to the desk beside Cynthia.

Due to a circumstance outside our control we are unable to host guests at this moment.  We've made alternate, comparable arrangements for you at another hotel.

What is this circumstance? Mrs Margaret asked.

I can't say, ma'am.  It's indelicate.  But I'm sure you'll be more than comfortable at the Royal Hamilton Hotel, it's got a pool and a beach and a restaurant with a view.

Yes, I know, Mrs Margaret said.  I read it in the book.

And you'll have a complimentary breakfast and drinks included, to make up for the service here.

I should hope so, Cynthia huffed.

Outside a light rain began falling on the grounds of the Harbourview Inn.  As they stood under the porte-cochere waiting for the car to bring them to the Royal Hamilton, Cynthia fumed about the inn.

I just can't imagine what it could possibly be that caused them to do this.

Mrs Margaret sniffed at the air.  Plumbing? she guessed.  Doesn't smell like a septic issue, though.  But plumbing is indelicate.  Leaks of any sort, I suppose.  Black mold.  Health concerns.  No one wants something like that getting out of hand.

Something in the close-cropped lawn of Bermuda grass caught her eye, and she walked over to it.  A red plastic cocktail stick, the kind with a bulbous end and gold type reading THE FUNKY MONKEY.

If it is a septic issue you shouldn't be picking things up off the lawn, Cynthia called to her.

I don't think it is, Mrs Margaret repeated.  And you know I can't stand litter.  It's distracting.

The crunch of tires on the shell gravel startled them.  Damn Priuses, Cynthia said.  They just sneak up on you.

It's the same man, Mrs Margaret said.  We should have just had him stay.

How would we have known?

He knew, she said, mostly to herself.

Royal Hamilton Hotel? the driver asked.  Cynthia nodded glumly.

You'll like it, he said.  It's fun.  Waterslide in the pool.  Pina coladas.  Not uptight like here.

What do you mean, uptight? Mrs Margaret asked.

The lady who own this place, Mrs Carole, she have a shop in town, too.  My sister works in her shop.  She particular about everything.

What's the shop called?

Belle Harbour.

She likes a theme, Mrs Margaret said.  We'll have to go.  Who's your sister, we'll tell her we know you.

The driver's eyes lit up.  Angela.  You tell her you met Albert.  She'll take right good care of you.

Well, thank you, Albert.  If she's anything like you, I'm sure we'll have a lovely time.

CYNTHIA PACED BACK and forth on the mousy pink wall-to-wall carpet as the rain fell steadily outside their third-floor window.  Two double beds with upholstered headboards, twin framed photographs of the beach hanging above the beds, a pale oak-veneer dresser with a giant flat-screen television atop it: they could be anywhere.

Mrs Margaret laid on the bed, reading her guide book.

The Funky Monkey has traditional island cocktails and a variety of tasty dining options, she read aloud.

I made reservations already, Cynthia said.  We're going to Conch at eight o'clock.

That's a little late, don't you think?

That's the time that people go to dinner.  Honestly, mother.  If we're too early we're going to look like tourists.

We are tourists, Cynthia.  And as soon as it stops raining, we're going to do tourist things.

Cynthia stood at the window and looked out over the swimming pool with the waterslide and out past the palm trees to the beach, wind-swept and pocked by rain.

Mrs Margaret flicked on the television.

Why are you watching TV?

What else are we supposed to do?

Cynthia sighed, as if she was in a high-school production of Our Town and as Mrs Gibbs her role was to walk into the scene and give an exaggerated, painful expression of boredom.  She had perfected it after nearly 30 years.

Would you like to go have a cocktail, mother?

Mrs Margaret closed her guidebook and set it on the faux-driftwood bedside table.  Are you going to change for dinner?

Of course, Cynthia said, unfurling a garment bag attachment from her suitcase and shaking out three silky dresses.

Mrs Margaret opened her carry-on.  I brought a dress, she said.

You should wear it.

"I didn't