"Sure; why not?"
"Not here," he said, taking my arm and tugging me toward the hall door.
"Careful of my poison ivy."
What the hell, I wondered, as I followed Michael down the hall. The party's a bust, anyway. He pulled me into the Magnolia Room, where we would be dining shortly. A deputy lurking in the hall gave us a sharp glance and then relaxed when he recognized us.
The outsized chandeliers were not turned on yet, and no waiters were scurrying about, but the table was already set. The silver and crystal of the place settings gleamed even in the dim emergency light, and steam was rising from a couple of covered dishes whose lids were ajar.
"Good," he said, glancing quickly around. "The coast is clear. Lock that door behind you."
"Good grief, Michael," I said. "You're acting very strangely. How much of the champagne have you had?"
"Enough, I hope," he muttered. "Enough to make me decide to--Meg, are you listening to me?"
I confess; I wasn't, really. I was looking over his shoulder. I lifted my finger and pointed at an ominously still figure slumped at the head table.
"Michael, look," I said in a quavery voice. "I think it's the Reverend Pugh."
Michael whirled, swore grimly, and leaped over one of the tables to reach the minister. I followed more slowly. Reverend Pugh, seated in a chair near the center of the table, was face down in a bowl of caviar. His left hand was clutching his chest, and his right hand dangled down beside him, still holding a small piece of Melba toast.
"Call 911," Michael said. "There's a phone on the wall."
I ran to the phone, but I had a feeling it was useless. Michael lifted the minister's head out of the bowl, and I could see that the old man's eyes were wide and staring and there was an expression of great surprise fixed on his face--or as much of it as I could see under the coating of caviar. The phone only connected with the front desk, but I figured that would do just as well. The Reverend Pugh had gotten the jump on his fellow diners for the last time.
"Call 911," I said, slowly and clearly. "One of your guests seems to be in cardiac arrest in the Magnolia Room." I was surprised at how calm I sounded.
"I'll see if Dad is here," I said. Michael nodded; when I left the room he was still staring at the reverend and absently wiping caviar from his hands with one of the napkins.
By the time I returned with Dad, trailed by the many of the wedding party, the hotel manager was already on the scene, obviously torn between his desire to express sympathy and his panic at the thought of the litigation and negative publicity that the hotel could suffer. Dad pronounced the reverend dead, and shook his head grimly at Mother's suggestion that he try to resuscitate the patient.
"Too late for that," he said. "But I think we'll need to call the sheriff in on this."
"Oh, dear," Mother said. "Not again." Dad scanned the crowd and then turned to the hotel manager.
"Please page the sheriff," Dad said. "He's probably in the bar. Tell him what has happened, and tell him Dr. Langslow believes that due to medical evidence found on the scene this death should be treated as a potential homicide."
The hotel manager amazed us by proving it was possible for him to turn even paler than he had already, and vanished without a word.
"Got homicide on the brain if you ask me," someone at the back of the crowd muttered.
"Let's all clear out of here," Dad said. "The sooner we get things organized, the less chance we'll all end up staying here all night." I failed to see what we were going to organize or how clearing the room would get us all home any earlier. Obviously Dad just wanted to get us all out from underfoot.
"We will all wait in the lounge while Mrs. Brewster and I see the manager immediately to arrange a change of rooms," Mother announced firmly, taking Mrs. Brewster by the arm and guiding her out. The rest followed, sheeplike. Dad stopped me as I started out.
"The sheriff will want to talk to you and Michael about finding the body," he said apologetically.
I found a window seat just outside the Magnolia Room and watched the comings and goings of the sheriff and his deputies for what seemed the millionth time. The various clean-cut pseudo-relatives were blowing their cover to join the investigation, and looking chagrined that another murder might have happened right under their noses.
Mother came back to tell me that they had decided to cancel the dinner after all, and the guests were going home. Michael went and fetched us both sandwiches. From outside the hotel.
"Thanks," I said, through a full mouth. "I didn't realize how hungry I was."