Lilies That Fester by Janis Harrison

the balcony and down the four flights of stairs to the fifth floor.
    Like a shadow with respiratory problems, I wheezed along the corridor that led to my room. Maybe it was a cleaning lady, I thought to myself as I stopped to catch my breath. I eased the door open and peeked inside. From this angle I couldn’t see anything.
    I stepped farther into the room and saw my open purse on the floor. On the bed was the key card, its plastic surface covered with something that looked like blood. I stepped closer, seeing droplets on the beige carpet. I thought the room was empty until I heard muffled sobs coming from the bathroom.
    I nudged that door open a few inches, and my heart nearly stopped. Bloody fingerprints rimed the sink. A bloodstained towel was wadded on the floor. I pushed the door open wider and saw Delia leaning against the wall. Her eyes were closed, her skin the color of ashes.
    â€œDelia, what happened?”
    Her eyes opened slowly as if she were awakening from a bad dream. She licked her lips and mumbled something. I
didn’t catch what it was, and repeated, “Delia? What happened? Where did all this blood come from?”
    â€œMe,” she said. “I could have bled to death, and it would’ve been your fault.”

Chapter Seven

    I took a step toward Delia. She came out of her daze with a shriek. “Stop! Don’t come any closer. As soon as my head clears, I’m out of here.”
    â€œWhy are you in my room?”
    â€œI took your purse from the dining room, and I used the key to get in here. I had to know if you’re taking this contest seriously. You surely have a list of the categories written down somewhere. This contest is important to me, but nothing warrants booby-trapping your door.”
    â€œBooby-trapping? What kind of booby trap?”
    Delia didn’t answer right away. She loosened the towel from her hand. With the palm held toward me, I saw blood trickle from a four-inch cut that crossed three of her fingers. Tears welled up in her eyes. “I’m out of the contest. I can’t work with my hand like this.”
    â€œWhy did you say my door was booby-trapped?”
    â€œRazor blade taped to the door handle.” She gulped and shuddered. “It was a reprehensible act. What if a maid had come by? What if a child had gotten mixed up on which room was his?”
    A razor blade?
    I spun on my heel, headed for the door. I jerked it wide
open and stared at the handle. Nothing. I looked at Delia, who’d followed me. “There isn’t anything here.”
    â€œWhat?” She leaned around me so she could see for herself. “It was there.” She held up her wounded hand. “I have the proof.”
    I touched the metal lever and felt a tacky residue that might have come from a piece of tape. “Something was here, but it’s gone now.” I looked Delia straight in the eye. “I didn’t do this. I wouldn’t do anything so horrendous.”
    â€œIf you didn’t put it there, then who did?”
    â€œI haven’t a clue, but if it’s someone’s idea of a practical joke, that person is in for some serious trouble.”
    I went to the phone and called the front desk, explaining that an assault had occurred on the fifth floor. In three minutes flat the night manager was on the scene. Delia told her tale. The young man listened, looked at the handle, made a few notes, and assured us that he’d alert his supervisor. He offered to arrange medical attention for Delia’s hand.
    Before they left, I took Delia aside. “I’m sorry this happened, but I didn’t have anything to do with it.”
    â€œI probably know that, but right now I’m in pain and too upset to think about it.”
    She turned to go, but I touched her on the arm. “Please don’t tell anyone about this. If that person is to be caught, it might be best if he isn’t alerted.”
    Delia didn’t