The Hotel Detective (A Hotel Detective Mystery Book 1) Page 9

  Sherlock Holmes never solved any cases this way, thought Sharon, but Am was right. A clue was a clue, wasn’t it?

  Am could see her doubts and decided he should quote Chief Horton: “You don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” Am said, “and you . . . ”

  He stopped himself before finishing with the Chief’s, “And you don’t fart into the wind.” The man truly wasn’t quotable. The break in his own wind wasn’t noticed, though; another voice had stepped in.

  “Am! Oh, Am!”

  Only Mary Mason could sound that excited. Am groaned. It wasn’t that Mary was a bad person. It wasn’t that she didn’t try hard in her job. But her Pollyanna demeanor would have driven Norman Vincent Peale to take a poke at her. The word perky had been invented to describe Mary. A television game show hostess didn’t have anything on her, but if ever the right person had been mated to the job, Mary was it. She was the Hotel’s social director. Mary was the one who led Hotel guests in limbo lines and sing-alongs. She organized clam bakes and passed out the wood for the beach bonfires. As she was quick to tell everyone, her job was “so much fun!”

  “I was just about to page you, Am!” she bubbled. Mary was the only adult Am knew who really bubbled.

  Am introduced Sharon to Mary and in the same breath tried to explain their need to run, but Mary wasn’t about to be denied an audience.

  “I just heard about Chief Horton,” she said, “and I can tell you that news threw me something terrible. Did you know the Chief was supposed to talk to one of my groups today?”

  “No, I didn’t Mary. Look—”

  “Then I heard that you were serving in his place, and you know what I thought? Why, Am could give the same talk.”

  She was more Valium than human, Am thought. “What talk, Mary?”

  “Hotel security.”

  Am’s first impulse was just to say no. His second was to protest that he hadn’t even had the job for twenty-four hours. He settled on his third response: What group would possibly want to hear such a speech?

  “Murder Mayhem Weekend, Am!” exclaimed Mary. “It’s upon us.”

  Shit, he thought. Murder Mayhem Weekend. Of all the artificial events the Hotel sponsored, and there were hundreds of them, murder mystery weekends were the worst. Imagine a high school pep rally going on for two days, and you had some idea of what a hotel staff endured during such goings-on.

  “Mary . . . ”

  “It’s important, Am. These things are so much fun, but sometimes they do seem a teensy bit unreal. This time we agreed to inject a little reality at the onset of the event. Besides, it’s in their contract. Hotel security talk. See?”

  Mary stuck a paper under Am’s nose. He purposely didn’t read it. “You’ll have to get someone else, Mary,” he said. “Kendrick’s gone, and we’ve had a theft, and there was the suicide . . . ”

  “Don’t you think that suicide will fit marvelously into your talk?” she asked.

  “Marvelously,” Am replied, deadpan. “Why, maybe we can even have a body thrown by the window when I’m referring to it.”

  There were some people sarcasm shouldn’t be attempted upon. Mary clapped her hands. “Oh, that’s a great idea, Am! I’ll see if I can get a dummy.”

  “I was just—”

  “The talk is scheduled at one o’clock in the Spindrift Room. You should see how they’ve set up for the luncheon! We’ve got a bunch of Art Deco props. It’s very twenties. The actors will just love it.”

  From what Am had been forced to witness in the past, the actors were about as subdued as Gilbert & Sullivan performers. They went around reciting their speeches in mock operatic form and were as subtle in their posing as a troop of flashers.

  “In fact, I’m going to help pick up the Murder Mayhem participants right now. They’re coming by train. We’re going to meet them with a hearse caravan at the Solana Beach station. That should be a scream!”

  Lily Tomlin once remarked, “I hate to imagine what the creator of Muzak is thinking up at this very moment.” Am was certain that same genius had come up with murder mystery weekends. The plots changed frequently, but the outcome was always the same. A mock murder occurred at the onset of the gathering, and the guests had to figure out who the murderer was. Various clues were offered during the course of the weekend, some valid, some red herrings. Sometimes the episodes were structured like great scavenger hunts, with each clue leading the would-be sleuths to actors, who furthered them along in the puzzle. Am had had to deal with the aftermath of misinterpreted clues and faulty detecting, had been forced to apologize for those would-be detectives who had made nuisances of themselves to guests who weren’t participating.

  Amateurs, he thought. Walter Mitty complexes every one. He almost said that aloud before remembering that he himself was in hot pursuit of a soiled condom. But this was different. This was real murder.

  “But it wasn’t only your speech that I needed to talk to you about, Am,” said Mary. “I just realized that there was something else I should tell you.”

  Am didn’t like the tone of Mary’s voice. She wasn’t a deep thinker. Mentioning the advent of a nuclear war would be an afterthought to her. “What?”

  “The Murder Mayhem group is taking up a hundred and twenty-five guest rooms. Right now the group is booked under the name of the Bob Johnson Society, and I’m afraid that’s where some confusion might occur.”

  Am was watching her closely. There was something that wasn’t ringing quite right in her “Up with People” act.

  “You see,” she said, “I booked all the rooms under the name Bob Johnson.”

  That wasn’t unusual. Sometimes getting individual names out of groups was as easy as pulling teeth. Conventions often committed to guest room space long before knowing the names of their attendees. Since time immemorial, hotels have been imploring groups for their rooming lists, but more often than not the individual names are turned in late, sometimes at the last minute. It’s not uncommon for hundreds of rooms to be blocked under one name. In this case it was Bob Johnson.

  “And there might be one eensie little problem.”

  Am’s eyebrows asked the question.

  “The Bob Johnson Society is just that,” she said.

  “Just what?”

  “Everyone in it is named Bob Johnson.”

  Mary kept talking. She didn’t see Am’s face changing. It looked something like Lon Chaney turning into the Wolfman.

  “As I understand it, a journalist named Bob Johnson founded the society,” she said. “Bob Johnson thought there ought to be an annual gathering for people with his name. I guess it’s about the most common name in the country, even more common than John Smith.”

  Am knew only too well that hotels had enough problems when two people with the same name were registered. Now he was facing a situation where one hundred and twenty-five rooms were to be registered under the same name. The confusion promised to be horrendous. The Hotel was projected to have six hundred and twenty-five rooms occupied that night. That meant that one in every five guest rooms would be registered to a Bob Johnson. The potential for Bob Johnson chaos couldn’t be underestimated: messages, and deliveries, and charges, and reservations were all waiting land mines. A plan had to be drawn up to mitigate the Bob Johnson effect.

  “Gotta run, Am,” said Mary. “Remember, one o’clock.”

  Am was thinking desperately. At Mary’s retreating figure he had time only for a diversionary vision: murder. And not one that had anything to do with the mystery weekend. Am turned to Sharon. She took in his despairing glance and offered sympathy in return. The solace gave Am some strength. He found his voice.

  “Find the condom,” he croaked. “Ask for Enrique. He’s the head groundskeeper. I’m going to . . . ”

  He made a feeble motion, searched for the appropriate words, then waved his hand in disgust and walked off. Ran even. Sharon felt sorry for Am. But then she also felt a little sorry for herself.

  Find the condom, he had
told her. Nothing like being left holding the bag, she thought.

  Chapter Eighteen

  While he was rifling through the remains of the dead, Carlton came to the sobering conclusion that in addition to being a murderer, he was now a grave robber. The thought was almost enough of a deterrent to stop his plundering, but not quite. Carlton justified his actions by reasoning that he wasn’t really disturbing the dead. They were still in the closet. He was just going through some of their hitherto untouched belongings that had been left in the room. David had strewn his wallet, and his Breitling watch, on the nightstand, while Deidre’s pocketbook and her nylons had been thrown on top of the dresser. The items looked as though they had been dropped rather hurriedly. That thought hardened Carlton to his search.

  David’s wallet was full of green, and credit cards, and the telephone numbers of half a dozen women. As wallets went, the inside contents were much like Carlton’s (except for the telephone numbers). There were no secret pictures, no surprises.

  Deidre’s purse held more interest for him. Women and their handbags had always been a mystery to Carlton. At another time he would have derived pleasure from doing just such a surreptitious search. What was in purses that produced so many bulges and made them look so weighty? Carlton had never seen anything useful, like a Swiss Army knife, emerge from a purse. His observations had yielded him glimpses of lip-stained Kleenex, fuzzy key holders, and appointment cards. Trembling slightly, Carlton dumped the contents of Deidre’s purse on the bed. She had been traveling with a cosmetics counter. There were also tissues, gum, jewelry, hair bands, tampons, pictures (none of him, just of her sister and parents), pens, combs, lotion, sunblock, and a checkbook/wallet.

  Carlton knew where Deidre carried her mad money. She had dug through her purse on more than a few occasions in search of her hoard. He had never understood her logic. Why hide money away when you know it’s there? He opened the compartment and took out her store of mad money. Usually there were a few bills inside. This time there were a number of Ben Franklins. He counted ninety-six, almost ten thousand dollars.

  Hundreds (or was that thousands?) of ideas popped into Carlton’s head, plots and snippets from every hackneyed police show he had ever seen. He could flee with the money and end up in Mexico. It was only a half hour drive south, and there was enough money to keep him in margaritas for a long time.

  Or better yet, he didn’t even have to flee. He could bury the dead, and no one would be the wiser. There was plenty of room on the Hotel grounds. Or in the sand. People were always digging holes in the sand for one reason or another. Or what if he just flew back home? The police would have a hard time proving he was a murderer. Wouldn’t everyone say he was the last person in the world who could have done such a thing?

  Enough, he thought. Carlton told himself the schemes were too repulsive to consider. He had never been the type to root for the bad guys. When good didn’t triumph in the films, he got downright annoyed. It wasn’t right that the bad guys should ever win. In his estimation the movie business had gone downhill ever since John Wayne had died. But that was Hollywood, always twisting things, and thighs, around.

  He would give himself up. That’s what he would do. But when Carlton left the room, he made a point of posting the Do Not Disturb sign on the door. He also didn’t leave empty-handed. He took Deidre’s wallet, and all of David’s money, with him.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Enrique Albanil had been tending the Hotel’s grounds for twenty years. He was a swarthy man, his naturally dark complexion baked an even darker brown from the long hours he had spent out of doors. All of Enrique’s workers were Latino, as he was. His English was minimal, which was why Enrique had kept repeating, and amplifying upon, this strange woman’s request. What she was asking didn’t seem to make sense in either Spanish or English, though.

  The lady, he could see, was in considerable distress. The more he tried to understand what she wanted, the redder her face had become. They were repeating the same words to each other, each trying different variations of the same linguistic formula. Their lingua franca seemed to center over one word: condom. Just getting that far had taken some interesting pantomiming.

  “Am Caulfield,” Sharon said, uttering the name with considerable vexation, “wanted me to find out if any of your grounds crew found—it—while cleaning the beach.”

  Why wasn’t she saying it now? Could he have misinterpreted? “A condone?”

  “A condom,” said Sharon, struggling in her attempt to be a dispassionate diplomat. “Yes.”

  Enrique spoke in Spanish to her, his words slow and deliberate. Why had she taken French? Let’s see, thought Sharon, concentrating on what he was saying. Playa meant beach. She knew that. Everything in San Diego was playa this and playa that. And día was day. Even the gringos went around saying Buenos días.” And she knew the other word. By this time she knew it only too well. “Yes,” she said, answering in English to his Spanish. “A condom on the beach this morning. It was probably dropped from room seven eleven.”

  Enrique pondered the situation. There was a lot going on here that he still didn’t understand. He’d been asked to have his crew look for many things before, such as watches and wallets and keys. But nothing like this. There was much to think about.

  Sharon alternated between embarrassment and anger. A condom, dammit, she thought. It wasn’t like Galileo had been doing a test on falling objects. Or condoms.

  ¿Cómo se dice . . . ? thought Enrique. How do you say . . . ? He searched his mind for the English. “Was it broken?” he finally asked.

  “Broken?”

  He could see she didn’t understand. That wasn’t the right word. “The condone—new or used?”

  He was looking at her as if she should know. As if she had been a participant! “I don’t know,” said Sharon, stifling an urge just to walk away. She held her hands up and out, the universal signs of incomprehension. Then she reconsidered her body language and nodded. “We think so.”

  Enrique was more confused than ever. But he pulled a walkie-talkie from his belt and paged Angel Jimenez. Angel had done the beach cleaning that morning. In staccato Spanish, they discussed the situation.

  Sharon was able to make out one word during their conversation. It was repeated a number of times. Condones.

  Chapter Twenty

  His change felt like a metamorphosis, thought Carlton. He had gone to the Hotel haberdashery and bought some new outfits, and now he felt like a new man. The colors were vibrant, much richer than the browns he had traditionally worn. He felt like an emerging butterfly.

  He was also glad to be rid of his other suit. Not that the Hotel dry cleaning hadn’t done a good job with the cleaning, but there were too many bad memories associated with the suit. He had thrown it away, had dropped it into a trash can, and immediately felt better for doing so.

  The shopping had made Carlton hungry, and he had selected the Courtyard Cafe as his dining spot. The cafe was just off the lobby. He could look at all the guests coming and going, could wonder about their activities and their plans. It was a pleasant morning, sunny and warm. The cafe was trellised with flowers, red bougainvillea, and pink mandevilla. Jasmine snaked around the supports and scented the air. Carlton sniffed appreciatively.

  Wouldn’t it be nice to start over, he thought. To take on a new life just as he had his new clothes. He wouldn’t make the same mistakes again. He would enjoy life, just like those around him.

  The daydream swept into a pleasant reality. Everyone was on vacation. They were laughing, and eating, and looking content. They were alive.

  The word echoed in Carlton’s head. It made him ashamed. If only he could take back those few crazed moments. If only he could just be a guest at the Hotel California, be someone else, be free again.

  He could get cash advances on his credit cards. Maybe he could even clean out his bank accounts. La Jolla was to plastic surgeons as Silicon Valley was to high tech. He could put on a new face. It cou
ld be as vibrant as the teal sports jacket he was wearing. He could have hair plugs and liposuction, a new body to go along with his new thoughts.

  In the bright cafe, with the aromas of espresso, and jasmine, and the Pacific, with the rainbow colors and his own peacock plumage, these thoughts were possible.

  Like all the other guests, Carlton was vacationing from reality.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The best definition for a hotel that Am had ever heard was “a circus without a tent.” He knew his role at the moment was to be the ringmaster to the clowns, the performers, the wild animals, and all the acts. Even the high-diving one, he thought ruefully.

  Kim Yamamoto, convention and sales director, met him at the door of her office. “I know,” she said, cutting short his tirade. “We’re working on Bob Johnson right now.”

  “How did it happen?” asked Am.

  She shrugged. Kim didn’t like to levy blame on others, even when they deserved it. “It just fell through the cracks.”

  For the last four months Kim had been on maternity leave. Her absence had been a daily demonstration to the Hotel of her value. Even though Kim had been back for two weeks, enough land mines had been set in her absence to make damage control an almost daily event. “The cracks,” as Kim had put it, were closer in Am’s mind to the Grand Canyon.

  “Because of the Murder Mayhem Weekend angle,” Kim explained, “the group was sloughed off on Mary. No one even thought about getting a rooming list until yesterday. I told Mary we needed one right away, and she turned it over to me about half an hour ago. Needless to say, I was disconcerted.”

  Am wondered if the rooming list had come with one name and a bunch of ditto marks. When even Kim sounded exasperated, you knew the situation was serious. She was unfailingly polite, had a tiny voice, but always managed to make herself heard when the situation called for it. Some middle linebackers could have taken notes from her.