Cambria refused to be urged one inch. "I would rather go to my room and make a call. A long distance call."

"Of course you would." He opened a drawer and took out a key. "You must stay in the penthouse. I'll be up shortly to remove my things from your way, and I'll bring the scotch and some ice. I'm afraid we don't have maid service, but I myself will change the sheets and-"

"First, the call," the older man said as he took the key, winked at me, and went to the elevator. Rick hurried after him in time to push the button, then stepped back and maintained a pained smile until the doors slid open.

Once Cambria had been whisked upward, Rick returned to the desk and scratched his chin with a well-manicured fingertip while we assessed each other. I waited silently, and he finally sighed and said, "Are you like a judge for this screwy contest or something?"

"Something," I said, nodding.

"Is there anything I can do or say that will induce you to go away?"

"I don't think so."

He smoothed down his narrow mustache with yet another well-manicured fingertip, glanced over his shoulder at the closed door behind him, and shook his head. "This has been some coupla days. Only a week ago did anyone bother to inform me of this contest, and nobody seemed to remember that I am up to my ass in remodeling. When you're dealing with union guys, you can't tell them to take a short hike, unless you plan to make like a submarine in the bottom of the Hudson River. After last night, that has begun to appeal." He noted my wince. "You got something to do with this shooting thing, right? Are you the dame's lawyer?"

"Her daughter," I admitted. "I flew in about an hour ago, and I'd like very much to find someone who'll explain what's going on."

"So would I, but I got problems with the accountant and Mr. Cambria in the penthouse and I think I'd better make some calls myself. The pistol-packing maniac-pardon me, your mother-was in 217. The police sealed it off, so I moved that woman who was with her to 219. It's possible she is up there now, presuming she didn't get her hair caught in a ceiling fan and her head was jerked off." He twitched a third well-manicured fingertip in the direction of an elevator, gave me a smirky look, and disappeared through the door.

The elevator groaned and shuddered, but eventually I found myself walking down the corridor of the second floor. The carpet was worn and badly stained, the unappetizing beige paint curled off the walls, and the redolence was that of the restrooms in Grand Central Station-or any ol' bus station in this great land of ours.

Some of the doors had numbers; others did not. I had no difficulty locating 217, however. It was crisscrossed with yellow tape and seals, and an officious sign threatened would-be trespassers with everything short of capital punishment. A few inches above the sign was a splintery hole…Ruby Bee's signature, so to speak.

I tapped on 219. The door opened, and before I could speak, I was yanked inside. The door slammed so quickly my heels felt a breeze.

"Oh, thank gawd you made it," Estelle said, collapsing on me in a bony hug. "I am worried sick, and all I've been able to do all day is sit here in case Ruby Bee calls or Geri finds out what's happening or the police come back to drag me off in handcuffs or I just go plum out of my mind like ol' Particular Buchanon. Remember when he decided there were Nazis in his attic? I could hear his shotgun all the way out at my house."

I squirmed free, caught her shoulders, and pushed her down on the narrow twin bed. "Get a hold of yourself," I said as I looked around the room. It was adequate for the two narrow beds, dresser, and night table, as long as you didn't mind stepping over the furniture and suitcases every time you moved. The flowers on the wallpaper clearly were not perennials; their season had come and gone. The artistic spiderwebs dripping from the ceiling implied other life forms enjoyed more success, as did the tiny brown beads along the baseboard. All in all, it was your average New York hotel room.

"What're we gonna do?" Estelle demanded. "You don't aim to stand there gawking while your own flesh and blood's being gnawed by rats in some filthy jail, do you?"

"I still don't know what happened." I sat down across from her, patted her knee, and suggested she begin at the beginning-slowly, thoughtfully, omitting nothing that might be important.

She omitted nothing, from the exchange between Ruby Bee and the cute lil' stewardess (Mitzi) concerning the socalled food (worse than the specials at the Dairee Dee-Lishus) served on the airplane (cramped), the airport aswarm with foreigners (potential purse snatchers, every one of them), the cabdriver (as ornery as Raz and twice as dumb), the lack of a welcoming committee in the lobby (a disgrace), and the arrival of the contestants, companions, contest coordinators, and possibly enough workmen (real pushy fellows) to remodel the entirety of the city from 48th Street to the tip of the island (and it sure could use a facelift).

"Wait a minute," I said, rubbing my face, "you were spouting off names too quickly. I met the manager when I arrived. His name's Rick, right?"

"Geri called him Richard Belaire, but a carpenter called him Rick. He's a real uppity sort whose, mama should have smacked some manners into him long before now. Anyway, he acted like he wasn't gonna let us stay here, but Geri marched him off and told him how the cow ate the cabbage, and pretty soon he comes back with room keys and says this floor is okay." She glanced disdainfully disdainfully at the room. "Okay if you do your redecorating at garage sales or flea markets! Why, the Flamingo Motel beats this place hands down-and costs a quarter of what that little framed sign on the back of the door says. You ain't gonna believe it, but when you open the bathroom door, it hits the bed and you have to slither in sideways. And you'd better decide aforehand what you're gonna do when you get inside, 'cause there's no room to turn around."

"Who's Geri?" I asked.

"Geri Gebhearn is the gal from the marketing firm. She's in charge of the contest. A sweet thing, with big brown eyes and a heartshaped mouth. I'm not sure she's real pleased about her job, even though she seemed to take to telling folks what to do like a hen does to a handful of corn. She's the one who gave out the room keys, told us to get settled, and then said she'd send out for some food that we could eat in the lobby. The restaurant's closed on account of the remodeling, so I don't see how the contestants can use the kitchen, but Geri goes off again to talk to Mr. Richie Rick and comes back and says-"

"Why is the contest being held here?"

Estelle gave me a huffy look. "I ain't the one running it, so how would I know? Catherine's mother liked to have a fit over the sawdust, and I told her that if I was-"

"Catherine's mother? Is she one of the contestants?"

"Didn't they teach you to pay attention when you went to that police school? " She stood up and would have paced had space allowed it. She was obliged to stand over me; her hair was such that I felt as though I were being intimidated by a six-foot fire hydrant. "Catherine Vervain is this sour pickle of a girl, and she's the contestant, although if you ask me, her mother-Frannie-sent in the recipe and stuck Catherine's name on it. The girl does nothing but sulk, and refused to eat the Chinese food on account of it having some chemical in it. I myself thought it was real tasty."

"Catherine and Frannie," I said humbly. "Who else?"

"Well, there's nice Mr. Pilverman, who was naked in Ruby Bee's bed. He's a mannersome sort, a widower, and you can tell from looking at him that he's not keeping company, not by a long shot. No woman in her right mind would let him wear that shoddy old raincoat out in public." She paused, her good eye sweeping over me like a liposuction tube. "Not that old, either. Nothing to write home about, but kind of attractive and real polite. You might take to him."