Toured to Death by Hy Conrad Page A

since the start of Georgina’s confession.
    â€œWe met one winter, when he and Doris rented a house near mine in Palm Beach.”
    â€œDoris?”
    â€œHis wife. Doris? Dolores?” Her eyes never lifted from the sand. “Anyway, after he left the dining room, no one saw him again. And, just like in the game, everyone had some reason not to notify the police.”
    â€œWhat was your reason?”
    Georgina tittered, perhaps at the ridiculousness of the question. “Nearly everyone. You know what I mean, the same sort of thing with the inheritance and the stock offering. I tell you, when I heard those actors doing their speeches, you could have knocked me over with a feather.”
    â€œSo, you didn’t go to the police.”
    â€œThe family put out the story that Fabian was ill, then hired a private detective. It was a secret investigation. There weren’t any rhyming clues or other such nonsense. But they were able to trace him through his credit cards. Columbus, Chicago, Salt Lake. I’m making that up. But they were all cities leading west.”
    â€œHis own little road rally.”
    â€œIt does lend itself to that format,” she conceded. “For about a week, no one heard anything. And then Stu Romney received an e-mail from Fabian himself.”
    Amy started. Had she heard right? “Stew Rummy?”
    â€œNo, no. Stu Romney. Another little play on names. You can’t fault Otto for his sense of humor. Now, where was I? Oh, yes, the e-mail. Fabian claimed it had been some business emergency that took him away. He was back in San Diego. That’s where he’d founded the company. San Diego. The e-mail told Stu to fly out there right away. Stu was to check in at the Marriott or the Sheraton or the Hyatt—one of those—and wait there for a phone call.”
    â€œWas the e-mail really from Fabian?”
    Georgina shrugged. “The detective was suspicious. He suggested all six of us go out there together, not just Stu.”
    â€œYou mean all six of you flew out to San Diego? Why?”
    â€œWell, we were all of us worried and curious, and I had the free time and . . . Oh, I see what you’re asking. Why did the detective want all six of us to go?”
    â€œHe must have suspected one of you of being involved.”
    Georgina stopped trudging through the sand and glanced sideways, addressing herself to Amy’s sandals. “How do you figure that?”
    â€œHe wanted to keep an eye on you. Control your movements.”
    She began to walk again, eyes returning to her own feet. “I suppose it’s possible. We all flew out on a company jet, and we all stayed at the same Sheraton, Marriott, Hyatt. The detective kept us together for several hours, waiting for Fabian to phone. When it got late and he still hadn’t called, a few of us went up to our rooms.
    â€œI was getting ready for bed, watching the news, when THIS JUST IN came up on the screen. To this day, I can’t see THIS JUST IN without thinking of that night. Fabian Carvel had been found, stabbed to death in a back alley in Old Town, the victim of a mugging—apparently.”
    Amy recalled it now, vaguely. The New York press had speculated about it for exactly one day. What had a fast-food magnate been doing at night, alone, walking down an alley in one of San Diego’s more colorful neighborhoods? Illicit sex was the media’s unsubstantiated conclusion, despite Fabian Carvel’s age. Something seedy and perverse and that made a nice headline. Then, just as suddenly, it was old news.
    â€œWas anyone ever arrested?”
    â€œNo one. Once the police discovered the private detective and the e-mail, we were all of us under scrutiny. It didn’t take long before someone squealed and they found out about the dinner and his disappearance.”
    â€œI don’t remember reading anything about his disappearance.”
    â€œThe police were good about