Chapter 21 - Taking a peek

Image is copyright Jorisamonen from Pixabay

Elevator music is the same the world over, all too often it borders on auditory assault. From mindless plinking and plonking to electronic strains, popular tunes get soft-rinsed into blandness, acoustic atrocities all of them, the Western take on Chinese water torture. Minus the water. The lift in the Stella del Monte was a little behind the times and doused them with a sterilised version of Barclay James Harvest's "Hymn".

The doors pinged open, and Ike turned towards the exit, a bloodhound on the scent, headed for the trattoria. A lot cheaper than the hotel, it served comfort food alla mamma all day long, exactly what she needed right now. Not that her mother would have been capable of creating such treats; her idea of good cooking took the shape of microwaved curries from Marks&Spencer's.

Somehow, that summed up her mum: She meant well, but she had her mind on other things which led to misunderstandings and, sometimes, a sour aftertaste. Now, the trattoria was a different beast entirely, much more to Ike's liking. Sensations of ripe braised tomatoes sprinkled with basil and doused in olive oil and garlic served with fresh crispy bread danced on her tongue. Moist, pink veal in a fluffy batter so light it almost didn't exist followed suit. Her mouth watered and with her gastronomic tunnel vision, it took Ike a moment to realise the others had stopped.

"What's up now? I thought we would grab a bite to eat?"

"Yeah!" Jon said. "I'm hungry."

"You're always hungry, so it doesn't matter," his father responded. "Sorry, Ike, it'll take just a mo. But I wanted to have a look at that toilet if you don't mind."

What did he mean? Of course, she minded. Just when she had finally thrown those gruesome images overboard, the bugger had to haul them back up.

Ike allowed a scowl to possess itself of her features. "It's a crime scene, my lord. The cops have locked the place."

With a twinkle in his eyes, Gary addressed Brigitte. "She's my lording me. What have I done wrong?"

The Frenchwoman wrestled with a grin. It won. "You're keeping a woman from her snack. Never a good move. My lord."

He swung back to face Ike. "Frightfully sorry, but you brought up the idea, and it made me rather curious. The boys in blue can't have closed the men's as well?"

"To the best of my knowledge, nobody's snuffed it in the men's loo, so, no."

Gary nodded. "That's what I thought. Your theory about the mirror is rather intriguing. I would imagine the two toilets to be similar in layout so we should be able to visualise things."

She should have kept her trap shut. No doubt, the coppers were already on top of the mirror issue. Detective Guidetti excelled in displaying the poker face, but there was a shrewd enough brain whirring along in that curly haired head of his.

Funny, though, he never asked about the mirror.

Brigitte strode past them. "All right then, I was wondering myself. Let's get this out of our system. Won't take long." When the sentence finished, she was already halfway into the corridor that led towards the breakfast room and the back entrance to the terrace, leaving Ike no choice but to follow.

Down at her feet, Boris whined. He too must have already breathed the imaginary smells of braised offal the trattoria served their four-footed visitors.

"Annoying, isn't it?" If she was honest with herself, Ike had to admit that checking out the mirror mystery was not a bad idea of his lordship. The hunger cramps from her empty stomach had gone centre stage, but that would change once she had eaten. The hotel was quiet, the coppers gone, the perfect opportunity for a bout of sleuthing.

Her stomach disagreed and growled.

Note to self: In future, no sherlocking until after dinner.

Her companions stopped, they had arrived, and to her right, she spotted blue and white plastic bands blocking the entrance to the ladies. Queasiness tickled her throat once more, and it wasn't due to a lack of food. She glanced the other way, at the front of glass panels that closed off the semi-circular winter garden used as breakfast and dining room. Dark shapes with long white aprons were flitting around inside, the waiters preparing the dinner.

"Ike?" She jerked around and found the others had moved on towards the gents, placed opposite the winter garden. The men's toilet always got placed closest to whatever exit or entrance was around. Ladies had to wait longer, walk further.

Every single time.

No police barrier blocked the gents and Gary had his hand on a chrome rectangle inset into the creamy wood decorated with a latticework of panels.

"Why are we here?" Jon asked.

"I would like to check something if you don't mind."

"Da-ad. I said I'm hungry."

"Bear with me for five minutes. Make it ten. This is important."

With a look of excessive concentration, Jon checked his watch, sighed and slouched against the wall. Ike itched to tell him what she thought of a boorish behaviour his parent seemed to be immune to.

From the pencilled eyebrows dancing on Brigitte's forehead, it was apparent she too had noticed, but she appeared to be more amused than anything.

Well, she did get to eat lunch.

Ike's stomach growled its displeasure into the stillness of the corridor.

"Oh dear. I got the message," Gary said and pushed his way into the gents.

Ike noticed the men seemed to have taken better care of their facilities: Unlike in the ladies, there was no black stripe marring the doorframe at hip height. Or elsewhere, for that matter.

The door opened again. "Come in and have a look," Gary said.

"Da-ad, you can't invite those females into the loo!" The boy had pushed himself off the wall and was bristling with indignation.

Brigitte sniggered. "It's for scientific purposes, mon cher."

"What's a mongshear?"

But nobody paid attention to him and three steps later Ike found herself in the mirror image of the fatal restroom on the other side. It even sported the same gilded mirror. The only difference was the first stall which had been turned into a urinal. The air inside the loo was clean and fresh, smelling faintly of apples. Through the window on the other side came the lusty chirping of a bird. A tug on the leash reminded Ike that the dog had joined the party.

Well, he was a boy after all.

"I placed myself in front of the sink and watched the door when you came in."

"Bravo!" Brigitte clapped languidly. "And?"

"Ike is right. One can't miss it. Neither the door nor the person entering."

Ike experienced a perverse sense of satisfaction. So, the murderer would not have come in through the door. Or would he? "What if she wasn't looking into the mirror. Was washing her hands or turning towards the drier?"

Gary swung around and placed his hands in the drier which roared off like an aeroplane. He pulled a face and removed his hands. "The door is still in my line of sight."

"What if somebody waited in the stalls?" Brigitte asked.

A flash of recognition zinged through Ike. "One stood open."

"Could have been the one she used." Gary leaned against the sink, cursed, bounced back off and twisted his neck to observe a wet spot on his jeans. Softly muttering under his breath, he started rubbing it.

The door flew open, and Ike frantically searched her murky brain for an explanation of her presence in this place. But it was only Jon. "Ten minutes are up." Ike watched the reflection of the boy in the mirror, his pale face, neck and shoulders that peeped around the panel.

"No way. You wait outside. We're not done yet," his father snarled.

Jon pulled a grimace and withdrew.

Brigitte marched towards the stall, the heels of her half boots clicking on the tiles. "Hard to miss the noise one makes when walking. But then, she might have been, how do you say, without guile?"

Those words, innocently spoken and well meant, sent the curtains tumbling in Ike's mind. She drew a shuddering breath. "What if . . . What if the killer didn't want to kill her?"

Gary gave up on his trousers and regarded her with a quizzical expression. "Another accident? I can't believe that."

"No, no she was strangled all right. But she might not have been the intended victim."

"Come again?" Gary looked confused.

Ike's throat constricted, making it difficult to get the words out. "She had the same hair as me. Was almost of the same height. Similar figure. And she wore my windbreaker." The last word hitched on the tears clogging her throat.

Brigitte's heels clattered across the tiles, and she put an arm around Ike's shoulders, sending across the subtle scent of lavender and the type of comfort that needed no words.

Confusion, doubt and concern chased each other across Gary's face in rapid succession. He turned towards the mirror, then swung back again before he shook his head. "Same problem. The killer would have seen a reflection of your colleague in the mirror. Even if she were turned sideways at the time. No way could he have mistaken her. No way could she have missed him. Now, let's buzz out of here before we get caught."

Do let me know if you have questions or comments on my novel. Constructive suggestions and feedback are always welcome! And thank you for reading. In doing so, you give my writing a purpose.