Page 25 of Without a Clue

The Seven walk into the meeting lounge in various states.

Jackie with one handkerchief over her mouth while gripping a wastebasket. The sea doesn’t welcome her, it appears.

Gordon in what I can only refer to as a sheepskin dress, carrying a wooden Samurai sword.

Neena in full glam from the neck up, but wearing a satin nightgown with robe sashed around her waist.

Ricky, who, after I ask about his whereabouts, slithers out from behind a wingback chair (which means he also overheard the private conversation Neena and I had about her hemorrhoid cream situation).

Crystal, who slinks in after my fifth call. She was in her room playing video games (no surprise).

And Nash, who looks particularly sober this morning.

I try not to take it to heart when he seems to purposefully ignore my gaze.

He’s just exhausted. Days of little sleep will do that, of course.

Oh, and Hugh.

Where is Hugh?

“I’m going to check on him,” I announce, picking up a second cup of coffee for Hugh from the coffee cart after pocketing my phone.

It isn’t like him to miss my calls, I mentally note, with a little chill.

Nobody really answers me.

I cast a look at everyone in their various positions around the room.

Some are looking at the library books.

Some are lounging on the couches.

Some stand beside the heavy velvet curtains, inspecting the deep maroon.

Geez. A bunch of weirdos before eight.

“Hugh?” I call as I rap twice on the door.

I wait several seconds.

Rap again.

“Hugh?”

A full minute goes by. I shift my weight, following the intricate patterns of the carpet with my eyes as I wait.

Sip my coffee.

The cups are getting hot in my hands.

At last, I set a cup in the crook of my elbow and go for the knob.

I wasn’t exactly expecting it to open, but when I give it a turn, it goes easily, and I pop the door open just a respectful inch.

“Hugh,” I call a bit louder now.

I step inside.