Three Bedrooms, One Corpse - By Charlaine Harris Page 0,51
right on by him, close enough to tell he’d been drinking—in the middle of the day, too! noted my puritan streak.
“Martin, we have to go to lunch, I’m starving,” I told him, and held his elbow firmly. Because I continued walking, he had to turn and the younger man had to go down the stairs ahead of me. I didn’t look at Martin, and I didn’t look back over my shoulder.
“I’ll wait out here for you to shower,” I said at the bottom of the stairs. The blond man had not followed. I waited for Martin and his racquetball opponent to go through the doors marked men’s LOCKERS AND showers before I seated myself in the safe proximity of the incredible spandex girl at the reception desk.
After a moment the blond man stomped down the stairs and, giving me another long look, left.
“Do you know who that was?” I asked the receptionist. She looked up from her book—Danielle Steel, I noted—to say, “He’s not an individual member, but he used to come here on the Pan-Am Agra membership. I think his name is Sam Ulrich. They took him off the list last week, though.”
“So why didn’t you tell him he couldn’t come in?”
“He went too fast.” She shrugged. “Besides, one of the guys in the men’s locker room would see he wasn’t on the list and tell him to leave if he went in to change.”
Security was really tight at the Athletic Club.
I stared blankly at an out-of-date magazine until Martin emerged, dressed for once in casual clothes.
When he held out his hand, I took it and rose, conscious of the receptionist’s gaze. She was really making those orange-and-pink stripes ripple for Martin’s benefit. But he was not in the mood.
Martin said over his shoulder to her as we left, “I’m going to have to call the manager today. You should have informed me Sam Ulrich was in the club, and I would have escorted him out.” I caught one glimpse of her dismayed and beginning-to-be-angry face as the door swung shut.
“Are you all right?” he asked. He put his arms around me. I was kind of glad to lean against him for a moment.
“Yes. It shook me up, though,” I admitted. “Who was that man?”
“A very recent ex-employee. Part of the deadwood I was hired to cut out of the company. He took it pretty bad.”
“Yes, I could tell,” I said dryly.
“I’m sorry you had to be there. If you see him again, call me instantly, okay?”
“Do you think he’d hurt me to get at you?” I asked Martin.
“Only if he’s a more complete idiot than I think he is.”
Not too good an answer, really. But how could Martin tell what the man would do?
“Are you really worried about Sam?” he asked. “Because, if so, I can cancel my trip and stay here.”
I thought for a minute. “No, not so much worried about him, though that did shake me up. It’s just been a down morning, Martin. I went to see Susu Hunter, and that was depressing. Then I went to Tonia Lee’s funeral.”
“You told me when it was and I forgot. I was so involved in getting everything assembled for my trip.”
“I didn’t expect you to come. It was pretty bleak, and very cold.”
“Where are we going to lunch?” he asked. “You need something to warm you up.”
I was recalled to my hostess duties. “Michelle’s, have you been there? They have a buffet lunch with lots of vegetables.”
“In my three months here living in the motel, I think I’ve visited every restaurant in Lawrenceton at least ten times.”
“I didn’t think about that, Martin. I’ll have to cook for you soon.”
“Can you cook?”
“I have a limited repertoire,” I admitted, “but the food is edible.”
“I like to cook once in a while,” he said.
We talked about cooking until we got to Michelle’s, where we collected our plates and went through the line. I saw Martin was careful in his selections and realized he was weight-and health-conscious as well as an exercise enthusiast. We sat on the same side of the booth, and even in that prosaic setting, his nearness was disturbing.
It had been a harrowing morning, and now Martin was leaving town. Ridiculously, I felt like bursting into tears. I had to get over this. This intensity was terrifying me. I sat with my fork poised in my hand, staring straight ahead, willing myself not to cry.