Suite Casualty

by CeeCee James

  Julie nodded, and with a fierce determination I’d never before seen in the woman, pushed her cart out into the hall. She jutted her chin and marched down the hall, cart wheel squeaking.

  I rang up Steve. “I need you to keep an eye out for Mrs. Richardson. You’re going to need to be as persuasive as you can, but we can’t let her leave.”

  “What’s going on? We’ve been waiting all day for her to leave. Now you want to keep her?”

  “It’s complicated, but she may have something to do with Mr. Dayton’s murder. The police are on their way.”

  He eased a whistle through his teeth. “Let me guess, she doesn’t know you’re on to her.”

  “You got it.”

  “Who’s going to help you?” His lack of confidence in my ability was unsettling.

  “Sierra is on her way.”

  “Oh, good.” His voice ballooned with enthusiasm. “She’ll sort her out.”

  “I can do it, too, Steve,” I said, more defensive than I meant.

  “Oh. Yeah. I know that.”

  I hate when my employees lie to me. “You just make sure she doesn’t leave the building,” I snapped. At his confirmation, I said goodbye and hung up.

  Okay. Just need to wait for Sierra to show up. Plus I needed a cover story for when I spoke with Mrs. Richardson. A good one.

  I was pondering what to say when there was a knock at the door. A peek through the peephole showed Sierra, face flushed, hair back in a ponytail and earrings off.

  I opened the door and pulled her in.

  “Where is she? What do you want me to do?” Sierra’s eyes darted around looking for the opponent.

  “Shh, it’s Mrs. Richardson.” I hesitated, my fingers searching my wrist for the rubber band I normally kept there. Were my suspicions correct, or was I jumping to conclusions? “I think she may have had something to do with Mr. Dayton’s murder. The police are on their way. But given how close checkout is, I was worried she’d leave before they got here.”

  “Exactly how did you come to this conclusion?” she asked, her eyes narrowing. She crossed her arms and stared.

  “Wh—I, uh.” Suddenly I felt foolish. Still, I pushed on with my data. “Mr. Dayton said someone woke him up, right? That first night. Well, Mrs. Richardson was in this room. She crawled through the conduit overhead. In fact, I remember Mr. Dayton said he’d been woken up by a party going on upstairs. That was her. And whenever I had to go to the room, or there was police activity, she was there. And her coffee pot was up in the ceiling.”

  Sierra glanced at the ceiling. “I feel like I’m missing something.” Her dry tone was unmistakable. She thought I was losing it.

  “No. Wait!” I held my hand up as if I could physically keep her from jumping to conclusions. “The ironing board was down and—”

  Her eyes narrowed further.

  “Sierra, just give me a second. The ironing board was down and the ceiling tile in the closet moved. I checked up there and it connects to a crawl space that runs right past Mrs. Richardson’s suite. Her missing carafe that she’d complained to me about earlier was up there.”

  The receptionist arched an eyebrow, her eyes glued to the ceiling. “Why would she want to kill Dayton?”

  I shrugged, impatient at the small details. “It’s complicated. It has to do with something I think he stole from a courthouse in Milan.”

  Now both of her eyebrows raised. “Why would she complain about a missing coffee pot if she’s the one who put it up in the ceiling? And can you really picture her climbing up into an air vent and scurrying over, to drop into this room like some kind of ninja to off Mr. Dayton?”

  Now that Sierra put it so succinctly, it did seem absurd. But I wasn’t giving up. “That’s what spies do. They look ordinary, but….” I drew my finger across my neck.

  “You think she’s strong enough to kill him?”

  Darn it. No. No. My theory that had seemed so plausible mere seconds ago was crumbling right before my eyes.

  I opened my mouth, feeling like a goldfish out of water. “Okay, this is starting to sound crazy. Still, I don’t want her to leave until the police have a chance to question her.”

  Sierra nodded again, now all business.

  Something banged against the wall from Mrs. Richardson’s room.

  “Right. Should we go over there and chat with her now? How long until the police are here?”

  “They’ll be here soon, and with a warrant.”

  “A warrant? Is there more evidence against her that you haven’t shared yet?”

  “No, it’s for something Mr. Dayton stashed in the hotel vault.”

  Sierra nodded as she remembered. “Oh. That envelope.”

  “I think it’s what he was killed for. So far, three people from his life have tried to pick it up.”

  There was a knock on the door. I squared up to the peephole to see who it was. A police hat blocked the hole.

  Kristi. Relieved, I opened the door.

  Immediately my mouth dropped and Sierra squealed.

  It wasn’t Kristi.

  Chapter 18

  The police hat’s brim rose as the man slowly lifted his head. Mr. Dayton’s lawyer, Austin, stared out from underneath. Austin’s pupils sharpened to pinpoints at my gasp.

  Anger and fear pumped through me and I shoved the door to close it. He pushed his way into the room. A second later, my brain registered his hand reaching into his jacket. He pulled out a pistol.

  “Get back!” he yelled, brandishing it at us.

  I let go of the door and backed up. Sierra held her hands up. Her face was pale but her eyes glowed with defiance.

  That’s right, girl. Stay strong.

  Austin chambered a round in the gun. My mouth went dry at the metallic click. Honestly, the whole room started spinning. He directed us farther into the suite, and I moved on legs whose muscles felt like liquid.

  He locked the door and then smirked at me. I realized the cap on his head wasn’t a police cap, but one made to look like it, that said security. He took it off and flung it to the floor. “I heard all the commotion downstairs. Something about calling the police? Don’t let a certain guest check out? I was watching. I heard your receptionist on the phone with you. I thought she wasn’t at work, hmm? As soon as I saw her get in the elevator, I followed. I guess we have all the keys to the safe, now.”

  Adrenaline raced through me. I fought to remain calm.

  “You got your key?” he asked Sierra.

  She pressed her lips together and didn’t respond. Grinning, he walked over to her. Sierra turned her face a few inches away as he leaned close. He reached around her neck for the flash of silver chain that peeked out from under her shirt collar. She gasped as he dug for it and slapped him.

  His head froze in the direction of her slap. Slowly, he turned toward her, the gun raising as if to pistol whip her.

  “Hey!” I shouted, stepping in their direction. “Austin! The police are on their way. Just get what you want and get out of here.” I swallowed, trying to conjure up spit in my mouth.

  He continued to stare at Sierra. It was as if I hadn’t spoken.

  “Austin! Here’s my key!” I pulled it off and dangled it toward him. My fingers trembled, and I balled my hand into a fist to stop it. “Take it!”

  He licked his bottom lip. His eyes dragged from hers to the lanyard I held out. He leaned over and yanked it so hard the lanyard made my fingers burn. He jammed it into his pocket.

  “Hands up,” He faced toward me.

  I raised my hands in the air. Something was odd about his beard. One corner appeared to not be lying flat.

  It was fake. The slap must have disturbed the glue.

  It was then that I realized where I’d recognized him from. The photo in the news article of the badge from the security officer in Milan. Austin Maricio.

  “Now, back up. Get in there.” Austin jerked his head toward the bathroom.

  I backed up with my hands held high. My ankl
es felt weak.

  “Go on!” he yelled.

  I walked down the hallway and into the bathroom.

  He turned back to Sierra. “You. Sit on the bed.”

  Just then we heard knocking. Hope exploded in my heart. We were rescued! A half a heartbeat later, I realized the knocking was next door.

  Austin put a finger to his lips. He wrenched Sierra over by her arm and pressed the gun to her skull above her ear. “Be very quiet,” he hissed. “A lot of innocent people’s lives are in your hands right now.”

  We stood there like ice-statues, listening. I held my breath as I heard the other suite’s door open, and then Mrs. Richardson’s voice. The walls were too thick to make out words, but I could tell Kristi was there too.

  My stomach writhed with frustration. Austin pressed the pistol harder against Sierra’s head. She whimpered, and immediately any impulse to shout for help died in my throat.

  Sierra tried to pull away from the end of the barrel, but he jammed against her skin again.

  “Please,” I whispered, begging. Cold sweat trickled down my back like spiders.

  “Not a word,” he hissed. He stroked the beard and his fingers found the spot that had come unglued. He pressed it back, watching me as if he dared me to say anything about it. He turned and his profile was highlighted by the window behind him, showing his nose long and sharp like it had been chiseled out of rock.

  For what seemed like an eternity, we waited. My pulse thundered in my ears, blocking any sounds from next door.

  Sierra’s legs shook. Austin squeezed her arm, the same arm that was scarred by her abusive boyfriend, and leaned in toward her ear.

  “Shhh,” he whispered, almost kindly.

  She shied away as though his breath smelled of putrid meat. He smiled at her reaction.

  Minutes ticked by, each second holding us prisoner. I heard the suite’s door shut.

  My heart sank as I visualized Kristi moving away, step by step. But my crushing hopelessness was offset by Austin’s removal of the gun from Sierra’s head. I felt an irrational gratefulness toward him for moving it.

  “Now, we wait.” He gestured to the bed.

  I walked back, and Sierra and I sat stiffly next to one another. He watched us for a second before pushing the pistol into the top band of his pants.

  Little sounds broke the room’s silence. A ticking of a clock from somewhere. Austin’s deeper exhales. Soft rustles as Sierra pulled her sleeve down over her scar.

  Austin paced across the living room. When his back was turned, I patted Sierra and gave her what I hoped was a strong smile. Her lips were very chapped, and she chewed on one anxiously.

  “Don’t worry,” I whispered.

  “I said, be quiet!” Austin growled from where he stood by the couch, his hand touching the butt of the pistol. He watched me for a moment, his eyes appearing flat and cold. They reminded me of the eyes in a wanted poster for a serial killer. I shivered and looked down.

  He started pacing again, back and forth, back and forth. A clear path of footprints was pressed into the carpet.

  I found a thread to unravel on the blanket and wound it on my finger so tightly my fingertip turned white. I did it over and over, the simple motion helping me to cope.

  Time stretched out like a long rope of pizza dough. My heart cycled through periods of calming down and speeding up as panic hit me again. Sierra didn’t move. She reminded me of a wounded animal whose only protection was to play dead.

  Austin walked up to us. “You.” He pointed to me.

  Ice shot through my veins.

  “Get up. Get in the bathroom.” And then to Sierra, “No funny business or your boss gets it.”

  My legs felt disconnected to my body as I tried to command them to stand and walk. I moved toward the bathroom. As I passed down the hallway, he grabbed the back of my shirt.

  “Where’s your phone?”

  I reached into my pocket with fingers that felt wooden and passed it over.

  He glanced inside the bathroom and spied a phone on the wall.

  “Go sit on the floor over there,” he said, driving me toward the shower.

  I moved in that direction, my hands held up, and clumsily sat on the cold tile. He ripped the receiver from the wall and then turned toward me. Not a drop of sweat or a stray hair marred his appearance. I was surprised at how in command he looked, like he did this type of thing all the time.

  “You’re going to stay here. This can go nice and easy or you can try to escape and get people killed. It’s your choice. I’m taking her down to the safe to get what belongs to me. If you both cooperate, no one gets hurt. You do anything to cause trouble, I’ll take her out, along with a few more.” He stared me down. “Little lady, I suggest you do what you do best, look out for the hotel guests. You don’t want a mom crying over her dead child, do you?”

  My mouth went dry. I shook my head.

  He left. I heard the door slam at the end of the hallway. There was a rattling noise, I assumed he was somehow tying the door so it couldn’t be opened.

  And then nothing.

  I stood, my knees crackling from stiffness, and hurried to the end of the hall. I wanted to catch the sound of them leaving.

  Taking a few slow breaths to calm my nerves, I tip-toed over and pressed my ear against the door.

  Nothing. I eased my breath out slowly.

  Bam!

  Chapter 19

  I reeled back from the alcove door. Frantically, I patted my body to make sure that I hadn’t been shot.

  “Don’t test me,” Austin growled from the other side. He slammed his palm against the door again. I squatted down and held myself to stop from shaking.

  A moment later, the front door shut.

  I squashed my face against my knees. Think, Maisie. Think.

  There was a man armed with a gun headed to the lobby. Who knew what was about to happen, or what Sierra might resort to in a moment of panic. Nausea gnawed at my stomach at the thought of the potential disaster. I had to figure out some way to warn someone.

  But how?

  I headed back to the bathroom and searched the area. There was nothing. I couldn’t even bang on the wall to attract attention because Mrs. Richardson was no longer there. By the time housekeeping came to clean her room or even mine, it would be too late. What was I going to do?

  I covered my face in despair. Hearing my breath hit against my palms focused my attention. I breathed in, out and concentrated on the rhythm.

  I can do this. There has to be away.

  I hurried back out and listened again at the alcove door. When I was sure no one was in the suite, I tested the doorknob. It twisted, but the door wouldn’t open. I pulled back with all my strength. My tendons and muscles screamed under the strain.

  I’m not going to let this beat me!

  I pictured innocent children in the foyer and braced one foot, and then the other, on the bottom of the wall beside the door and pushed with my legs as I tugged and turned. My sweaty palms nearly lost their grip, but the door didn’t budge.

  I stopped, panting. A feeling of hopelessness threatened to swamp me.

  “No! No! No!” I yelled. My voice echoed in the alcove’s hallway.

  I’ll figure this out. I have to.

  It was then I caught sight of the closet. The ironing board! I ran into the closet and yanked the board down. I got my belly on it, and then my knee and climbed up. Carefully, I balanced the other knee up there and, with one hand sliding along the wall for balance, rose to my feet.

  The board bounced under my weight. I couldn’t think about that, couldn’t think about anything but psyching myself up to climb into the ceiling.

  I shoved the ceiling tile out of the way. Dust and drywall crumbles showered down on my face, making me spit. I grabbed the rim and tested the strength of the opening. The metal of the conduit was cool and slippery to my fingers.

  This is it. I can do it.

  With a grunt, I jumped up. Catching th
e momentum in my hands, I pushed myself as high as I could go. My legs pinwheeled under me. One foot connected with the wall. Using it to brace myself, I heaved my body into the crawlspace.

  The back metal of the opening scraped against my back, making my skin burn. I squirmed and wiggled and panted, trying to get my legs through. There was nothing to grab onto. The metal sides were slick and the sweat from my fingers squeaked as I tried to keep from slipping. My weight dragged me down and I started to slide backward. Panicked, feeling like a manatee trying to squeeze through a car tire, I slowly clawed my way in.

  Once inside the conduit, I lay there for a moment and tried to catch my breath. Then I army-crawled forward, following the tracks in the dust from the person before me. Had it been Austin? Or possibly someone else?

  The soles of my sandals slid along the metal. I kicked them off and inched forward. I had to hurry or this would all be for nothing. There was a thin strip of light coming from the ceiling hatch in the suite next door, and I wriggled toward it. Sweat trickled down my face. It was hot in the duct, hotter than I could have ever imagined.

  After thirty or so feet, I was at the next opening. The coffee pot was to one side of it, along with a cup holding a tiny brandy bottle.

  I dug my fingernail around the crack of the ceiling tile. After a few tries, I was able to wedge the tile up enough to get my fingers under it. With a grunt, I slid it off and pushed it down the conduit, being careful to avoid the carafe.

  Now, how to get down from here. I peered through the hole. The only way was to lower the ironing board, which meant that once I started climbing down, I had to commit.

  My imagination tried to play out a scene where I tumbled through the hole and onto the floor with broken legs, but I forced it away. I just had to do it. So, without another thought. I lowered my body through the opening.

  My legs danced in the air in search of the wall that held the ironing board. Finally, I found it. I slipped my big toe into the crack—taking a moment to thank my dad for his long banana-peeling toes I’d inherited—and pulled the board down. When it was lowered enough, I climbed on it to stand.