Suite Casualty

by CeeCee James

  Satisfied, I answered the phone. “Hello?”

  “Okay, start at the beginning. You said an uncle and a brother both tried to get Dayton’s personal effects?” As always, Kristi was direct and to the point.

  “Yeah, and they both denied the existence of the other, saying they were Dayton’s only living relative. I told them to contact the police department.” I bit my lip, thinking about the envelope. “There’s something else I forgot to tell you. Vincent Dayton left an envelope in the hotel safe under strict orders that if anything should happen to him, it would be delivered immediately to his attorney.”

  “Really?” Kristi said. “Now that’s interesting.”

  “Yes. And the uncle and brother have both asked about the envelope.”

  Kristi sighed on the other end. “Sounds like I need to get a court order then to seize that envelope.”

  I breathed out in relief. I finally had an answer.

  “As for that suite,” Kristi continued. “We’ve finished our investigation. That place is cleaner than any I’ve ever seen.”

  “Cleaner? We’d barely started to clean when you called.”

  “Fingerprints. Except for yours and Michelle’s, there wasn’t another to be found.”

  “Even Mr. Dayton’s?”

  “Especially a lack of his. I’d say that’s pretty weird, huh?”

  “Very.” I rubbed my arm. More than anything else, it proved there was foul play.

  “So take that room out of the rotation schedule. It’s definitely a crime scene.”

  “You got it.” I wasn’t worried about it getting reserved. Since Dayton hadn’t checked out, it still showed up as unavailable.

  “I’m taking his belongings into evidence and I’ll come back with that court order for the stuff in the safe.”

  We said our goodbyes, and I hung up. The man wasn’t paranoid after all. Someone had been in that room. But how?

  Mike must have left. He had to be lying to me. And what about that envelope? That had to be the reason Dayton was killed.

  I frowned harder. But if the killer was looking for the envelope, wouldn’t the room have been ransacked? Everything was pretty much how I remembered it from the trip to his room the night before when he’d been very much alive. If his belongings had been searched through, then they were placed back in the same spot as they’d been in originally. Would a murderer be that conscientious?

  Maybe if he was trying to make it look like it wasn’t a murder.

  Still, both the uncle and the brother knew about the envelope. But they clearly weren’t working together. In fact, they denied each other.

  I had to get hold of Mike again. I needed the truth. He must have left his post at some point, even if only for the bathroom. For some reason, maybe he was too scared to admit it.

  I thought about calling him now. But he had just started his shift for the night, and I wanted him to be on his A game as much as possible. I didn’t know if Mr. Stephenson would be returning, or if the uncle or some other random relative would show up, and I didn’t want Mike rattled. My number one duty was to the hotel and the safety of the guests. I’d call him in the morning when his shift was over. Quickly, I scribbled a note to myself when I heard the front door to my suite open.

  Momma called for me, “Maisie! Yoo-hoo! Are you here?”

  I got up to greet her, bringing my mug with me. “How was your night, Momma? What’d you do?”

  She was in the kitchen, man-handling what looked like a 16x20 canvas, which she propped against the fruit bowl, canvas side away from me. She also set down a bag with a red logo that looked suspiciously like our local craft store’s name. Her penciled-on eyebrows raised as if daring me to ask about it.

  I knew better than to take the bait and instead, rinsed the mug. Bingo slunk back under the table at the sight of Momma, reminding me of his guilty attitude earlier.

  What was going on with that dog?

  “Well, today we had a painting session. They had the supplies and help us with a design. And this is what I did.” She spun it around. It was a colorful scene of a bird on a tree branch with spring flowers.

  “Gorgeous!” I said, and I meant it.

  “Thank you.” She beamed. “I know just where I’m going to hang it.” She lifted it with a grunt and carried it into her room.

  I noticed she brought her bags of craft supplies with her. I shook my head and stacked my mug in the dishwasher.

  Her door opened and then she screamed. I practically threw my back out racing around the corner to reach her.

  “Momma! Are you all right?”

  When I got to her room, one of her hands was on her hips, mouth open in indignation, and she was pointing.

  “What is going on?” I wheezed, relieved to see she was okay.

  “Just look.At.What.That.Dog.Did.”

  I turned to follow her finger. Her bedside table drawer was open and everything pulled out and onto the floor. On top of the pile was a box of vanilla wafer cookies. It had been torn open with bits of cardboard scattered everywhere.

  Momma had been known to slip a cookie or two to the Basset Hound for a treat for years. It looked like the act had caught up with her.

  “Oh, my gosh, how many cookies were in that box? Tell me it wasn’t new!” I spun to go search for the pudgy dog, certain the poor thing had bloat.

  “About five,” Momma called dryly after me. “I’ve been rationing them, and he’s been mad at me. That’s why the box is ripped open. Bingo couldn’t get them out.”

  Bingo came around the corner then, eyes drooping sadly.

  “Did you do it, you naughty pup? Did you eat all the treats?” Momma scolded. She eyed the dog and patted the bed. “Aww, come here and give me a kiss.”

  “Momma, you are so easy on him.”

  “I can’t be mad at your brother! Do you see that face?”

  It’s not the first time she referred to the dog as my brother. I couldn’t help but wonder what that meant. Excited to be forgiven, Bingo bounded over with his tail whipping back and forth. He climbed the stairs, huge toenails scrabbling and lay next to Momma with his head on her leg with a happy whuff.

  “Well, if you’re sure you’re fine, I’m heading to bed.”

  Momma blew a kiss and I shut the door. I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer, and I had to be up early the next day. Who knew what was waiting for me tomorrow. After the craziness of today, I didn’t even dare to even whisper that question out-loud.

  But as I rested my head on the pillow something niggled at my mind. I clenched my eyes, making white stars shoot across the backs of my eyelids. The thought wasn’t coming to me.

  I dreamed that night. In every dream was a suitcase. Big ones, small ones. They lay around like open mouths waiting to devour anyone who walked by.

  Chapter 12

  The next morning, I woke up feeling like my eyes had been used as a preschooler’s sandbox. I squinted into the darkness and rubbed at them, then stared at the black streak across the back of my hand.

  It was then that I remembered that I hadn’t washed my face before I’d gone to bed the night before. My eyes never were happy about me sleeping in mascara.

  I stumbled to the bathroom. Brilliant light made me wince. I’d forgotten Momma had the maintenance man install LED bulbs in all the sockets. I glanced in the mirror and jumped. There was a certain reality of one’s facial features that shouldn’t be experienced illuminated like a microwave oven the first thing in the morning.

  I groaned and began to splash water on my face. The crispness of it awakened me enough to go stumble into the shower.

  Thirty minutes later, I was clean, conditioned, and my hair blown dry. I felt alive and ready to start the day.

  A scratch at my door proved that Bingo realized I was awake. I opened it and he waddled in. Yep. Definitely too many snacks. He climbed into his favorite spot under my desk and heaved a contented sigh.

  I applied some mascara, trying to remember what was on m
y to-do list this morning. Seeing my laptop open reminded me of my dream. Suitcases.

  What was it about suitcases?

  It came to me like a flash. That label on the handle had said Milan, not Madrid like Dayton had told me. And I’d wondered if it were a simple slip of the tongue.

  Or had he been hiding something?

  I yanked my chair out and sat, with Bingo grumbling that he had to scoot over to make room for my feet. I felt like I needed to look into these two cities. Call it a hunch, but whenever I got that gut feeling I paid attention to it.

  Come on. Come on. I drummed my fingers on the desk as I waited for my laptop to wake up, my foot dancing up and down to rub Bingo’s neck. Finally, the search engine opened. I typed in Madrid in the engine, chewing the inside of my cheek, not at all sure of what I was looking for. A list popped up of travel sites, with a few news stories sprinkled among them.

  I scrolled down the list. Nothing stood out to me.

  I typed in Milan and waited for the results. A new list populated, showing the same things as before. Quickly, my eyes scanned the lines. Tour site. Population information. A fight broke out at a restaurant.

  Wait. What was this?

  Judge reprimands courthouse security.

  The article was from a few days prior. I clicked the link to read.

  Judge Corroley called out courthouse security, Austin Maricio for failing to guard evidence gathered against one of the mob bosses, Dario Torino. The diamonds, estimated in the millions, disappeared overnight. Judge Corroley was forced to drop charges against Mr. Torino in light of the missing evidence. Torino was accused of having a long reaching arm clear to NY with affiliations with third circuit judge Martin Davis.

  There was a picture of the guard, taken from a security badge. He was a thin man with black-and-white hair and was clean-shaven. His hair was slicked back, accentuating a long nose, and a lined forehead.

  Maricio has since disappeared. He was last seen at the courthouse with an unidentified man in his late fifties. Images from courthouse cameras give us this picture.

  Below it was a fuzzy picture of two men of nearly indiscernible features. One was clean shaven—presumably Maricio although the black-and-white photo made it impossible for a positive identification—while the other man was dressed in a plain Oxford shirt. What stood out to me was how the other man stood, with his shoulders rolled forward and his hand on his head as if he were trying to slick back a comb-over.

  Was it possible that was Vincent Dayton? I closed the laptop, feeling my forehead wrinkle. So who were those men coming in to look for the envelope, really?

  My cell buzzed, cutting off my thoughts. “Hello?” I answered.

  “Ms. Swenson?” It was Clarissa, and she sounded stressed.

  “Yes. What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine. There’s a gentleman here to speak with you.”

  “Okay. I’ll be right down,” I said, trying not to visualize another disaster awaiting for me.

  “Wonderful. He’s anxious to talk with you.” Her normally bright voice grew muffled. “I’ve called Mike to come up as well.”

  My skin prickled at the mention of the hotel security. Something was up. “Understood. Can you have Mike escort the gentleman into my office and then wait there with him?” It sounded like trouble and I wanted it as far away as the guests as possible.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Thanks, Clarissa.”

  I scooted Bingo from my room and shut the bedroom door behind me. After a hurried greeting to Momma, I ran from the suite. My fingers itched for something to fiddle with. Who was down there waiting for me? And what had he done to make Clarissa already call for security?

  As I walked down the hall, I fanned my shirt a bit to conceal any nervous sweating. I wasn’t sure of what I was about to see. People were leaving the hotel for their day’s activities. I didn’t want a ruckus to happen in their midst. Why did this all have to be happen when the hotel critic was here?

  I heard him before I saw him.

  Mr. Stephenson.

  “Are you getting the manager here or not? You do have someone who runs this joint, don’t you?” The man’s offended voice echoed.

  I walked briskly into the foyer to be faced with Mr. Stephenson scowling at Clarissa. It was a good thing Sierra wasn’t working, or she’d be giving the attitude right back to him.

  But, then again, seeing Clarissa, who was soft and sweet, cower from the man kind of made me wish Sierra was there to give it to him.

  “Mr. Stephenson,” I called out in a stern tone. “I’m right here. How can I help you?”

  “Well, it’s about time!” he snapped. “I’ve been waiting forever.” He strode toward me, his loafer heels clicking against the floor. “Will this work for you?” He brandished his wallet, which had his driver’s license in the plastic ID pocket.

  I glanced at it. Mr. Vito Stephenson was his given name. Squeezing my hands into fists, I braced myself. It was time to give him the hard news.

  “There seems to be a discrepancy on who Mr. Dayton’s family members are.”

  The short man’s face flushed, making his ruddy skin appear purple. He sputtered, as if out of words. “What?” he finally barked out. “Who’s saying this?”

  I swallowed hard. “Another family member called yesterday to claim Mr. Dayton’s personal items.”

  “Another…?” Mr. Stephenson’s mouth dropped in astonishment. He spun around to his bodyguards. “Are you hearing this?”

  They solemnly nodded. Mr. Stephenson turned back to me and puffed out his chest. “Now listen here, missy.”

  “It’s Ms. Swenson,” I said.

  “I don’t care who you are. I’m Vincent Dayton’s older brother. There ain’t no one else. Just the two of us.”

  From the corner of my eye, I noticed another man walking up to us. He wore a three-piece navy-blue suit and silk tie. His salt-and-pepper hair, more black than white, was styled in a tall swoop. He had a trimmed beard that followed a strong jawline, and a beak-like nose that didn’t detract from his subtle handsomeness.

  “Ah, Ms. Swenson,” the new man said when he realized he’d caught my attention. His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Finally, we meet.”

  Chapter 13

  “If you could just give me one moment, sir,” I said to the new person, holding my hand up. My mind was whirling. “Maybe wait just over there, and I’ll be right with you.” I pointed to an impressionist painting on the far wall.

  The new man took a step back, dipping his chin in respect as he watched me.

  Okay. Back to the first fire. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this. Mr. Stephenson, but the Starke Springs police department are the ones you need to be in contact with about Mr. Dayton’s personal items. They’ll probably require proof of your relationship with Mr. Dayton,” I said.

  “Proof! You keep asking for proof! I came back with what you asked for the first time!” Furiously, the short man shook the wallet at me. Then he seemed to try to control himself. He closed his eyes, his chest heaving as he took a deep breath. Clenching his teeth, he gritted out, “My brother died here. You are making it very difficult for me to move on. This is preposterous.”

  It was here the second man stepped forward again. “Ms. Swenson, it’s vital that I talk with you. This man is an imposter.”

  The entire foyer seemed to be collectively holding their breath at the salt-and-pepper haired man’s announcement. I could have heard a pin drop.

  Mr. Stephenson slowly swiveled on one loafer until he faced his accuser. His face showed no emotion as he stared. But the threat was there. Unmistakeable.

  The other man seemed unperturbed. Ignoring the shorter man, he thrust forward his hand to me. “Mr. Dayton has told me all about you.” He smiled and his green eyes twinkled.

  Oh no. Not another Dayton relative. They seem to be multiplying like mosquitos at sundown. I hardly knew what to do with the offered hand, with Mr. Stephenso
n fuming next to me. I gave it an uneasy shake, waiting to hear the story.

  “I’m Devin Austin, Vincent Dayton’s attorney.” He released me and began patting himself down. “Oh, yes. Let me get this.” With that, he pulled out a leather wallet and flipped open to a Connecticut driver’s license.

  I leaned over and scrutinized it. Hmmm, David Austin. Five-foot-nine inches. Gray hair. Brown eyes. One hundred and sixty pounds. His smiling face stared out from the photograph.

  I glanced up at him and he smiled again. His hand stroked his beard and explained. “I go by my middle name. After my grandfather.”

  “You’re kidding me. Are you just going to let this guy waltz in here and schmooze you? He’s the imposter!” Mr. Stephenson yelled.

  I was hardly paying attention to Stephenson’s protests, I was staring so hard at Mr. Austin. Where had I seen him before?

  The lawyer didn’t bat an eye at the short man pontificating before him. He reached into his jacket and retrieved a folded document. “I know Mr. Dayton has something in your safe. It was meant to go to me in the unexpected event of his death. Sadly, that event seems to have happened. I have verification right here.” He handed over the document.

  Mr. Stephenson pushed between me and the lawyer. “What in the world? Are you just going to let this bozo call me, Vincent’s only flesh and blood, an imposter? What kind of hotel manager are you, anyway? You couldn’t manage to keep flies off a picnic basket.” He flourished his open wallet in my face again. “Isn’t this what you were asking for?”

  I stepped back with the papers, my head swiveling between the two of them like I was at a tennis match.

  “You’re a liar,” Mr. Austin said mildly. And then to me, “Go ahead and read it. It’s all there.”

  I opened up the paper and scanned it. It was signed and notarized a few days prior, decreeing that Mr. Dayton bequeathed all of his effects, including a document to be found in the hotel safe, to his attorney, Devin Austin, in the event of his death during his travels.