A Rose From the Dead by Kate Collins Page A

was waitin’ for someone. So I told her, ‘Honey, I have one little-bitty thing to glue on, and I’m not leavin’ until you let me in to do it.’” Delilah smiled. “She let me fix it, although she was as nervous as a cat the whole time.”
    “But even if she’d been waiting for someone,” Jane said, “Sybil would never allow herself to be late to the banquet, not when she’s in charge.”
    Everyone at the table agreed with her.
    Over the PA system I heard, “Sybil Blount, please come to the banquet hall.”
    I turned to glance around the room, but even the announcement failed to produce Sybil. I saw Chet Sunday seated near the back with a group of men in tuxes, no doubt his sponsors from Habitation Station. The far table where Angelique had sat was now empty.
    By seven fifteen, we were not only hungry but also annoyed. The servers were poised outside the kitchen doors, their carts loaded with salad plates; the bowls of bread and rolls on the tables had been emptied and filled again; and all around me exasperated guests buzzed with speculation.
    “She probably found herself a bellboy toy,” I heard one man say.
    At seven twenty the colonel strode up to the podium. “We seem to be missing our chairperson, so I’d like to ask Reverend Schmidt to come up and give a blessing. Then we’ll get started.”
    Applause greeted his announcement, and the dinner took off at last. We ate field greens topped with goat cheese, blueberries, and walnuts in a light balsamic vinaigrette; pecancrusted chicken breasts stuffed with spinach and Gorgonzola cheese on a bed of couscous; and white asparagus spears in a lemon beurre-blanc sauce. Delilah hadn’t misled me. It truly was a spectacular meal.
    But a rushed one. At seven forty-five, as dessert was being served—a chocolate torte with raspberry sauce—Colonel Billingsworth again went to the podium. “I’d like to ask for four volunteers to judge our casket contest. If you’re interested in judging, please raise your hand. I’ll announce the winner in half an hour, after our judges have had a chance to review the entries. In the meantime, could I ask the ladies who have prepared a skit for tonight’s entertainment to please come forward?”
    “Sybil must have taken ill,” Jane said. “She’d never let anyone take the contest judging away from her.”
    “Marco,” I said quietly, “I have a funny feeling about Sybil’s absence.”
    He grabbed a bottle of white wine from the table and splashed some into my glass. “This will make it go away.”
    “I’m serious.” I picked up my clutch purse and whispered to him, “I’m going to look for her. Want to help?”
    He gazed at me for a moment, probably trying to decide whether he could get away with saying no. Then, muttering “I know I’ll regret this,” he followed me out of the banquet hall.

C HAPTER S IX
    W e explained the situation to the hotel manager, who tried to ring Sybil’s room. When he didn’t get a response, he sent a woman from housekeeping up to the fourth floor with us to knock, and when that didn’t work either, the woman used her master key card to unlock the door and call inside, “Housekeeping, Mrs. Blount. Hello?”
    “Why do I keep picturing that shower scene from Psycho ?” I whispered to Marco, gripping his hand.
    The housekeeper scowled at me but proceeded inside anyway, making us wait in the hallway. A few moments later she returned and said, “I’m sorry, but no one is in the room.”
    Then where was Sybil?
    We headed for the exhibition hall to check her cosmetics booth. The vast hall was deserted because of the banquet, and the huge lights overhead had been dimmed, making the rows of booths feel like a ghost town. At booth four we found a big silver makeup case; several oval mirrors on stainless-steel stands; a stack of brochures; jars holding her blushes, foundations, and powders; and a dummy’s head wearing a wig and the shiny makeup that was Sybil’s trademark look, but