Page 22 of Line of Sight
“Poirot, I didn’t recognize you without your mustaches. What did you do, shave them off?”
Greg’s face was drawn, dark smudges under his eyes. “I’ve been looking for you for the past two weeks.”
I offered him a beaming smile. “Well, you’ve found me.” I wasn’t surprised it had taken him this long to track me down. I’d missed a ton of classes, not that I was concerned: I wasn’t at UMass to get an education—after all I didn’t need a degree, not the way my future had already been mapped out for me—but for the entertainment.
I went to UMass to appear just like everyone else.
Greg swallowed. “Saturday night. Come to the Twelve Ben’s Tavern on Adams Street, eight o’clock. The others will be there too. Well, they will once I’ve spoken to them.”
I widened my eyes. “Another mystery/thriller night?”
Since the party, I’d taken pains to learn their true identities, a piece of detective work that had kept boredom from my door—for a while, at least.
That was the trouble. Nothing ever did that for long.
Greg gaped at me. “Youdoknow what happened to Scott, don’t you? My stepbrother?”
Lying was out of the question, what with the lurid headlines screaming at passersby from the newsstands. Only a hermit could have missed them.
“Of course I do.”
“Then you know exactly why we need to meet. So be there.”
I smirked. “Seeing as you’ve asked me so politely….”
Greg gave me another hard stare. “Haven’t you worked it out yet? That party… all those people who sat with us and talked and laughed…. Okay, so I was drunk, but not drunk enough to forget what we discussed. One of them is a murderer, and they killed Scott.”
I feigned shock. “Then of course I’ll be there.”
And do you include me in that summation?
“Fine. I’ll see you then.” He strode across the campus.
And there was I, thinking the coming weekend would be dull.
Saturday night was looking more entertaining by the second.
Chapter Thirteen
Saturday, February 4, 1995
THE TWELVEBen’s Tavern was the perfect spot for a meeting. The dank atmosphere lent itself to dark, furtive deeds and conversations. The anticipation of the evening’s entertainment had given me a much-needed break from life’s monotony.
Boredom was my nemesis.
I soon found the others, huddled in a corner, silent as the grave, and undoubtedly waiting for me, seeing as I was the last to arrive. Drinks sat untouched on the table, their owners staring at them.
“Good evening.” I took stock of the tavern’s clientèle. Thankfully there were few patrons, which suited me just fine. What I had to say was intended for a select audience.
They greeted me with nods or muttered words. No sooner had I taken a seat than Greg pounced.
“Okay, none of you are going to be stupid enough to tell me Scott’s murder was a coincidence, not after the way we were talking the night of the party.”
No one said a word, including myself. I was too busy enjoying their startled expressions. Come to think of it, they all looked as though they hadn’t slept for a week.
I had no such trouble. I always slept like a baby.
Greg stared at the circle of faces. His was pale even in the dismal lighting. “So… which of you did it?”
