Act Two, Part Two

Morning came all too soon. Artie dragged himself out of bed, got dressed, gave Jim a bleary "G'morning," then headed off down the hall for his rendezvous with the Amazon — which was exactly as agreeable as he had anticipated it would be. Miss Hippolyta was uncooperative in the extreme, barely acquiescing to be escorted down to the dining hall for breakfast.

"I'm hardly an invalid or an idiot, Mr Gordon. I can find my way around the hotel for myself, thank you very much!" she growled in a tone of voice that belied the polite phrase at the end of her statement.

Artie took a deep breath and pasted on a smile. "Nevertheless," he said, persistently offering his elbow, "as you pointed out last night, something happened to your father on our watch, and Mr West and I intend to do everything in our power to prevent anything else happening, particularly to you or your sister."

"Hmph! Is that so?"

Artie's brows knit slightly. "Excuse me?"

She smirked. "You're here to protect me. Of course you are! And meanwhile your partner is 'protecting' Lana, is that it? He sent you off to bear me company while he and my sister…" Another smirk. "…bear each other company, I presume?" She fixed Mr Gordon with a gimlet glare. "And just where was my sister all night, anyway? She certainly wasn't here in our suite when I came back, nor has she put in an appearance in all the hours since I returned either!"

"Well, no. She's in our suite. She was sleeping there when we got back, so Mr West and I just let her continue to sleep. She wasn't awake yet when I came away just now, so that leaves Jim with the unhappy task of breaking the tragic news to her."

Hippolyta rolled her eyes expansively — a far from pleasant sight. "Oh, he gets to do that, does he? Poor little Atalanta! No doubt she'll cry her pretty eyes out, leading Mr West to wrap his manly arms around her, and… well, who knows what will happen after that! No wonder Mr West sent you away so that he could have the suite all to himself, just him and my sister!"

Artie drew himself up and gave the hem of his vest an angry yank to straighten it. "Let me assure you, Miss Bracewell, that my partner is not the sort of man to take that sort of advantage of a grieving woman, and I resent your insinuations against him!"

She all but crowed with laughter. "Oh dear me! Did I dare to touch the fragile male ego? Do you think I don't know what men talk about when they believe women aren't eavesdropping, Mr Gordon? Oh believe me, I have been on plenty enough archaeological digs where the male workers presumed falsely that I did not know their language! I know well enough that one of their favorite topics of conversation is women, and in particular how easy it is for a man to… persuade a woman right into his arms. And it matters little what sort of man your partner is, nor whether he may have designs on taking advantage of my sister or not, for let me assure you that taking advantage of him is precisely what sweet Atalanta has in mind! She will have him wrapped around her little finger, eager to jump as soon as she says 'Boo' before…" She glanced at the clock on the mantel. "…before the two of us can return from our breakfast. You just mark my words and see if it isn't so! In fact," she added, a grim smile upon her face, "I would give all my eyeteeth and half my molars to be a fly on the wall in your suite right now to see just how quickly your partner succumbs to Atalanta's plans for him. For that matter, I wish you were there to see it as well!" And with that she swept from the suite and away down the stairs, leaving Mr Gordon behind her to play a scrambling game of catch-up once more.

…

Meanwhile, for any flies that might have been on the wall of the other suite in question, the following scene played out:

"Oh! Oh, no! Father!" The ravishing blonde covered her face with both hands as she broke down sobbing. Beside her on the sofa, Jim West slipped an arm around her and wordlessly drew her close. After all, there was nothing he could say that would ease a daughter's grief over her slain father; only time would do that. He simply held her and let her cry, and offered her his handkerchief.

"No, thank you," she murmured softly. "I still have my own." From the pocket of her dressing gown she drew forth a lace-edged hankie a shade paler than her blushing cheeks. In the corner, Jim saw, was a large capital A surrounded by delicately embroidered roses. "T-tell me everything," she choked out. "Wh-what happened? How did my father d-d-die!" The final word turned into a wail.

Succinctly Jim complied, giving her the briefest version of the night's events. "The undertaker has charge of the body now. Once you and your sister are ready, Mr Gordon will escort you to the funeral parlor to make all the arrangements."

"A-arrangements! You… you mean, to… to… to…"

"Bury him, yes," Jim finished for her. The more she dwelt on what had happened, the worse became her stutter.

"Th-th-thank you. But burial! A funeral! I-I can't even imagine… Oh, I have no idea what to do, not even the first thing!" She fell to crying once more.

"No offense, Miss Atalanta, but someone made the arrangements for your mother's funeral not so very long ago. Who did that?"

"Why, Father, of course! He was… Oh, he was my rock! How shall I ever r-recover from this dreadful blow? How can I go on without Father-er-er?" Her face disappeared behind the hankie as she sobbed.

"The same way daughters have gone on after their fathers' deaths all throughout history," said Jim sensibly, finding it hard to imagine the oblivious little Prof Bracewell as any sort of a rock above the size of a pebble. "And you'll have Hippolyta; you won't be alone." Though of course Hippolyta had immediately accused Atalanta of being behind the murder; Jim wondered what this sister's view of the crime might be.

He didn't have to wait long to find out. "Oh, Hippolyta! Really? The w-way she hates me so? The way she treats me? Oh, no no! I c-can't imagine Hippolyta turning to me for any c-comfort in this tragedy, and I certainly don't expect her to offer m-me any comfort either. Why, I wouldn't be surprised at all if… if…!" She broke off then, shot a horrified look his way, and buried her face in the hankie once more.

"You wouldn't be surprised if what, Miss Atalanta?" Jim prompted.

"Oh, oh, please! You needn't be so formal; you may call me Lana."

"Lana, then. You wouldn't be surprised by what, Lana?"

"I… I…" She sat up then and turned away from him. "Oh, I know it must sound terrible to you, for me to even th-think such a thing of my own sister, but I've known her s-so much longer than you have. She's… she's terribly suspicious, terribly. I've no d-doubt but she thinks that somehow I'm behind the disappearance of all the G-Golden Apples, and I wouldn't be surprised if she comes up with some f-f-fantastic tale of how I'm behind Father's m-murder as well!" Her shoulders shook, and she ventured a glance at the man at her side. "She… she hasn't made s-such accusations, has she?"

"What would you do if she had?" asked Jim.

For a moment she hesitated and bit at her pretty bow-shaped lips with her pearly-white teeth. "I… I don't know. Lock myself into my room to keep away from her, I s-suppose. She has such a raging temper, you know!"

"Do you think she might hurt you?"

"I…" Atalanta gave a nervous laugh. "Sh-she's so big! Perhaps? Oh, I don't know. But she… that is, whoever killed Father, did she — or he, of course — did they do it alone? Unaided? Or did sh… did the m-murderer have help?"

"That's part of the job Mr Gordon and I will be doing today, Miss Lana: investigating to find out who precisely did this and how." Jim patted her hand and came to his feet. "You stay here in this suite for now and keep the door locked. I'll have some breakfast sent up for you."

She arose as well. "And my clothes? I… I can hardly go out anywhere, not looking like this." She waved a hand at her peignoir. "And especially not to… to… Oh!" She broke down crying again.

Right: the funeral parlor. "Don't worry about that," said Jim. "I'll bring back a bellhop shortly to carry your cases over from the other suite. You just wait here. And keep the door locked."

She blinked up at him shyly. "Th-thank you, Jim. You, ah, you don't mind if I call you 'Jim,' do you? You've been ever so much help! I w-wouldn't know where to turn if not for you!" Again she bit at her lip, her large liquidy eyes looking up at him from under her dark lush lashes, one slender hand resting on Jim's arm.

He smiled down at the lovely girl reassuringly. "Don't worry about a thing, Lana. Artie and I will get to the bottom of all of this as quickly as possible."

"Oh, I'm s-sure you will. You've just been so, so wonderful!"She tipped her head slightly to one side, her big eyes closing.

And Jim kissed her. It was a long, slow kiss, with the girl melting trustingly into his arms.

At length he released her, and watched for a moment as her eyes fluttered open again, a dreamy smile upon her lips.

"Remember what I told you," he said. "Don't let anyone in except for me or Artie. I'll be back shortly with the bellhop." Jim slipped his hat onto his head, touched the brim of it to the lovely Lana, then left the suite and waited briefly to hear her lock the door behind him.

Well… that had gone easier than he'd expected. But there was one thing that was absolutely clear about this case: it was always a very bad idea to have the sisters in the same room together, especially if no one else was present to protect Miss Lana from her angry younger sister.

…

Every three minutes, all throughout their breakfast downstairs in the dining hall — and Artie was beginning to think he could set his watch by it — Miss Hippolyta would glance toward the doorway, then turn a smirk his way. "No sign of either one of them yet," she'd purr.

And Artie was getting tired of her repeated innuendos. He was just considering whether he really absolutely wanted to pick up that sugar-sprinkled grapefruit half from its bowl upon the table and smash the sweetened citrus full into the dear lady's face, when a deep melancholic voice rumbled in from the doorway.

"Ah, Mr Gordon! There you are!"

Both Artie and Miss Hippolyta looked up to see a vaguely familiar man — tall, lean, and balding, with a long, lugubrious face — come wending his way through the tables. Upon reaching their side, the man bowed and intoned, "Good morning, Mr Gordon, Miss Bracewell. I apologize for interrupting your morning repast, but there are arrangements to be made for the, ah, the obsequies tomorrow afternoon, and I thought it best not to waste time." He paused and added, "Naturally I have no wish to intrude upon Miss Bracewell's grief, but these matters are urgent, and…"

"Oh, right," Hippolyta cut in loudly, "I remember you now. You're the undertaker from last night."

"Oh yes, Mr, ah…" Artie gave a watery smile. "I'm so sorry, but I'm afraid I've forgotten your name, sir."

"Prior. Hezekiah Prior." The undertaker offered his hand, and Artie rose to take it. But even as he murmured a polite, "Good morning, Mr Prior," Hippolyta's voice arose to interrupt yet again.

"Priam?" she said in horror. "Your name is Priam?"

"Ah… no, Prior," the lean man corrected, shooting a puzzled look Mr Gordon's way. "Hezekiah Prior, as I said. I have a card…"

"Hector Priam?" Miss Hippolyta all but shrieked, spilling her chair over as she leapt to her feet.

"No," said the undertaker again. "No no, not Hector. Hezekiah! Hezekiah Prior." He fumbled a calling card from an interior pocket of his ebony frock coat and presented it to her. "There. There, you see? That's my name." He pointed.

With scowling mistrust hooding her eyes, Miss Hippolyta reached out slowly, then snatched the card from the man's hand. She peered at the business card closely, first through her glasses, then over the tops of the lenses. "Hmph," she said at last and stowed the card away in her handbag. "Well, anyone can get a card with anything they want printed upon it…" she muttered darkly.

Again the undertaker glanced at Mr Gordon in surprise, while Artie shot the Amazon a quelling glare — not that he expected anything short of a good tight gag around her mouth to ever quell her. "Tha-thank you very much, Mr Prior," said Artie. "We'll be along to your funeral parlor shortly to finalize all the arrangements."

"Ah, good, good. And you'll bring both of Prof Bracewell's daughters with you? That is, I seem to recall that you and Mr West mentioned last night that the dear departed had two, er…" He cast a glance at the Amazon, finding that she stood a good inch taller than he, and finished lamely with, "…ah, two lovely daughters."

"Oh, yes," Artie was endeavoring to reply, when once more Miss Hippolyta's voice overrode his. "In fact, no!" she declared triumphantly, eyes flashing. "My father did not have two lovely daughters, but only one: my sister Atalanta. I am the other one, the one who is distinctly not lovely, and I invariably resent every attempt to flatter me by bestowing upon me such an inappropriate adjective as the one you have just employed, Mr Priam!"

"Prior!"

"Ha!" In a state of high dudgeon, the woman swept off among the tables and disappeared out the door.

"Drama queen," Artie muttered in disgust. To the baffled Mr Prior the agent offered the reassurance that both Misses Bracewell would be putting in an appearance at the funeral parlor at their earliest opportunity, then Artie strode off to follow his wayward charge. After all, he was still supposed to be guarding her — though the longer he had to hang around with that insufferable woman, the more tempting was the thought that if anything did happen to her, it would only be what she deserved!