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Polly Iverson had not expected to spend her short vacation having anything to do with crimes of any kind. Yet here she was, standing in the crowded entry hall of Ethel Collins' Bed & Breakfast watching the scene on the stairs. Guiseppi Tremolorio, the world famous mandolinist, was dead, his body still on the stairs where he had collapsed. Close at her heels was her new fan, young Johnny Jacobson, who was impressed not only by the fact that she was a Private Investigator, but also that she was friends with the Homicide police. She watched as Detective McPherson scanned the room, knowing his eyes would halt when they landed on her. He acknowledged her presence with a slight wave. She watched him talk quietly with a uniformed policeman, who in turn managed to get the crowd herded back in the parlor.

Polly hung back, guessing that Mack would approach her when he had the chance. He consulted with the EMTs and the photographer, looked at the body, and then at Polly. She waited patiently as he ambled toward her. "Hi Polly. How did you get here so fast? He's not even cold yet."

"I was already here. I'm taking a little time off." she explained. "Really? Well you sure know how to pick a vacation spot! Do you know what happened?"

"Detective! Do you expect me to do your work for you?" Polly had known Mack for almost four years, and enjoyed the verbal teasing in in which they often engaged. "Anyway, I told you I'm not here to work."

Mack pinpointed Polly's eyes with a stare. The too-innocent expression on her face was not really meant to fool him, but he played along. "Oh, you misundertand. You claim to be a guest here, and I will be interviewing all the guests. You just happen to be first on my list."

The barely perceptible twinkle in his eyes amused Polly. "I might be able to help you out with a few facts. The deceased was a musician - a very famous one. But I don't suppose you have ever heard of him."

Mack consulted his small notepad. "Guiseppi Trem-o-lo-rio. No, I don't think . . . wait. Isn't there some big concert this weekend?"

"Not anymore."

Mack nodded, and then motioned to Miss Collins, coaxing her out of the parlor. "Could you show me the room Mr. Tremolorio was in?"

"Of course. He was in the Mozart room, on the second floor." Ethel Collins led the detective, followed by the private investigator, who was in turn followed by her young admirer. When they reached the landing, Mack noticed Johnny. "Sorry, son, you'll have to wait downstairs."

Johnny's pleading look at Polly gained him only a shrug of her shoulders. As he slowly turned to go, Mack suddenly said to him, "your assingment is to count the guests downstairs. Let me know if you think anyone is missing." Johnny perked up and ran down the stairs.

Ethel Collins, on the other hand, was not moving. She had stopped in front of the Mozart room, and though she was facing the door, her eyes seemed to be focusing on a distant point. "I just can't believe this is happening," she said quietly.

Mack gave her a moment, then prompted her. "Do you have a key?" "Oh, I'm sorry, I don't seem to be thinking straight." She patted her hip pocket, frowned, and came up empty handed.

"I don't mean to interrupt, but are we sure the door is locked?" Polly asked.

Mack sighed and tried the door. It turned easily in his grasp, so he and Polly entered, leaving Miss Collins standing in the hall. Mack sighed and tried the door. It turned easily in his grasp, so he and Polly entered, leaving Miss Collins standing in the hall.

"I shouldn't be letting you into a potential crime scene, Polly."

"Yes, Mack, I know. Next you'll be telling me not to touch anything."

"Don't touch anything," he said as he pulled on a fresh pair of disposable vinyl gloves. Polly grinned folded her hands behind her back. She and Mack did a visual survey of the room, their eyes and heads moving almost in unison, then they started focusing on details. The velvet bed spread was turned back, and the sheets rumpled. In front of the chair in the corner, a music stand held pages of music and an instrument case was beside it. "Looks like he was getting ready for his concert."

The word "concert" drew a sob from Ethel, who was still standing in the hall. "Oh, Minnie, how could this happen?"

Mack glanced at Polly, and they both looked out the door. Neither Mack nor Polly had heard Minnie when she joined Ethel in the hall. She seemed to be attempting to console her employer.

Mack turned his attention back to the objects in the room. "Looks like he took a nap. Maybe he wasn't feeling well to begin with. It could still be natural causes.

"I don't think so," said Polly, "and neither do you, or you wouldn't be here."

"You know something, don't you?"

"Maybe. But as I told you before, I'm on vacation."

"Yeah, vacation! But you know something, or you wouldn't be here."

Knowing he would eventually find out what Polly knew, Mack let up. He bent over the mandolin case, and undid the latches.

"Let's have a look at this." He opened the case and started to pick up the mandolin, but stopped himself. "Wait a minute." He leaned closer to the case, looked over at Polly, and then pulled back and shut the lid.

"So, Mack, maybe it wasn't so natural after all."

"Apparently not. But tell me this . . . why would anyone want to kill a mandolinist?"

End of Chapter Five