"Nixon, Joan Lowery - Mary Elizabeth 01 - The Dark and Deadly Pool" - читать интересную книгу автора (Nixon Joan Lowery)

"I'll probably be on camera duty," Tina said. "Give me a call if any good-looking hunks come in."
"I know you. You'll find them before I do," I told her. I followed Tina down the corridor and into the lobby.
As Tina headed for the elevators, I went toward the back of the hotel and out through the employees' checkpoint. I guess all big hotels have a certain amount of theft from employees, but—according to Tina—the Ridley had been having a higher rate than usual. Lamar had set up both rules and equipment. We could take nothing out with us except small, clear plastic handbags; and we had to exit and enter by one door only. We walked through a metal detector, and a swiveling camera followed us through the door to the parking lot.
I turned in my keys. The metal detector remained silent as I passed through, so the elderly guard at the desk reached for my handbag, examined it, and handed it back, nodding me through.
I thought about what Tina had said about unresolved conflicts and what Dad had said about going for what I wanted and not accepting anything less. The symphony orchestra was too far out of reach, but the tall, handsome guy? Maybe Dad was right. I could give it a try. Why not?
The employee exit was near the outside kitchen door and the huge trash containers. There was a car parked next to the containers. The driver's door was open, and the inside light was on. As I approached, something my size leapt up from the dark plastic bags of trash and squeaked in fright.
Fortunately I recognized one of the assistant chefs in the main kitchen, and just as fortunately, he recognized me. His face had a kind of yellow color, and it wasn't from the car lights. "You scared me to death!" he mumbled.
"What were you doing in the trash bags?" I asked.
"Emptying my ashtray!" he snapped. "I didn't know I had to get your permission!"
Without waiting for me to answer he whirled and leapt into his car, and drove off with a squeal of tires. Apparently I wasn't the only employee who was ready to chew fingernails, but I couldn't understand why I had frightened him so badly.
The roofs of the cars, row after row in the hotel parking lot, gleamed a weird green-blue under powerful arc lamps. I had parked as close to the hotel as I could, but the tar Dad had lent me, Old Junk Bucket, was off to one side, the fifth row back. I looked around nervously. I was the only one in the parking lot.
I tucked my car and house keys between the fingers on my right hand, so that they faced outward like small daggers, and made a fist. Tina had shown me how to do this. "Self-preservation is our basic instinct," Tina had said. "If some bozo wants to give you trouble, this will change his mind."
I began walking briskly toward Old Junk Bucket, but soon broke into a run. As I got to the car I was embarrassed to realize that I was making that darned fish noise again. I dropped my keys, scooped them up, and tried to find the one that would open the car door.
I dropped them again.
Where were they? I squatted to find and retrieve them. But my fingers were shaking so much, it was hard to pick up the keys. I tried that relaxing thing again, squeezing my eyes shut and taking two deep breaths. Then slowly I said, "Mary Elizabeth Rafferty, there is nothing to be afraid of."
I opened my eyes and found I was staring at a pair of dark trousers and shoes with somebody in them.
I screamed.


2

Somewhere, high above the shoes, someone yelled, "Don't do that!" and the shoes jumped back.
I shot to my feet, slamming against the side of the car, and stared down at a guy who seemed to be as scared as I was.
He was small-boned, with light-brown hair that stuck up in a cowlick, making a point at the top of his head. He had a pug nose and a narrow chin and looked something like I had imagined Puck ought to look when I read Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's Dream.
"What are you doing here?" I screeched at him.
"Room service."
"In the parking lot? You're crazy!"
"Hey, I'm just telling you what I'm doing here. I work in room service. I was on my way home and saw you drop your keys and thought I could help."
I leaned against the side of the car and tried to calm down. "I'm sorry I yelled at you. I was scared."
He looked around, then back at me. "Those arc lamps make the lot bright enough. There's nothing to be scared of."
"I know," I said. "It's just that a few minutes ago somebody came up from the bottom of the pool and grabbed my foot."
He gave me kind of a strange look. "Yeah? Well, I suppose that could scare some people, although I've done that in swimming pools—when I was younger."
I shook my head. "You don't understand. Everybody had gone home, and the pool was dark, and he sneaked in somehow. Oh—forget it."
"You're very pretty," he suddenly said.
It took me by surprise. I dropped my keys again.
He picked them up. "You're really unstrung, aren't you? If you'll wait until I get in my car, I'll follow you home."
"I don't even know you," I said.
"I was going to tell you my name, but when you screamed at me I forgot to."
"I didn't scream! Well, it wasn't a real scream."
"Francis Liverpool III."
"What?"
"That's my given name. Given, meaning I didn't choose it. Call me Fran."
"Okay. I'm—"
"I know who you are," Fran said. "We're in the same class at Memorial High."
"We are? But—"
"I know. Because I'm short you think I'm younger than you are. Right? Well, I'm not. I didn't choose being short either."
"I didn't—"
"I don't think lack of height is necessarily genetic. I've got two younger brothers who are going to be tall. One of them is taller than I am already. I think shortness of stature is a direct result of stress. As a matter of fact, someday I'm going to be a geneticist and prove that stress in the classroom inhibits growth."
"Stress in the classroom? But everybody has—"
"Some people more than others. That's going to be part of my study. Does it affect the sincerely conscientious and the creative more than the others? For example, look at football players."