by Jan O'Hara
Gill rubbed the back of his neck and shifted his feet. “Mr. Thurston was hoping you’d be available now.”
Oliver scanned the room. At least one thing was going right. Page was here, bobbing and floating among the tables. She was pale, but she was wearing the purple outfit Oliver had retrieved from the thrift store and left with Mrs. Horton. Later, Page would probably argue with him about who would pay for it, but both her presence and the minor capitulation buoyed his spirits.
She turned then and found him unerringly, raising an eyebrow at the sight of Oliver with Gill. “Trouble?” she mouthed.
So they were back in the saddle, acting as though yesterday never happened? Fine with Oliver.
He shrugged and mouthed back, “Maybe.”
This had happened before; through some magic of ESP she seemed to sense when he was troubled about Shawn or the trip or Bart. And though Oliver had put her off time and again, she’d happen by with a cup of coffee or a touch on the back. She was such a natural nurturer. Maybe that was why he’d been so quick to assume she knew about his background and was bent on his rehabilitation.
It was also why he had to keep her on the job. For the seniors’ sake, of course. For yours, too, you dummy, if you’d only admit it.
“After you,” Oliver said, and motioned for Gill to lead the way.
* * *
✽
Oliver had developed a special appreciation for the Thurston Hotel and its ability to handle a large volume of unexpected and demanding guests. In no small part, that competence was due to Ben Thurston, the general manager and grandson of the hotel’s founder.
As Gill showed Oliver into Ben’s office, Oliver wondered if the small town rumor mill had been at work. Had he been summoned to provide reassurance the hotel wouldn’t become another Wobbly Dog?
After gesturing Oliver into a leather chair, Ben moved behind his massive oak desk, undid a blazer button and sat. “This concerns one of your tour members,” he said after the preliminaries. “A Mr. Vince Lee.”
“Oh?” Oliver said, unable to disguise his surprise at the direction of the conversation. Mr. Lee? Wasn’t that the guy who made it onto Page’s radar because of his restlessness?
Oliver cast his mind back for an image corresponding to the name. There had been an elderly Asian man on the bus that first day—a guy with a mop of white hair and a thready beard. Come to think of it, Oliver hadn’t seen him since.
“Is he causing you trouble?” Oliver asked.
“Not as such. Not yet, anyway.” Ben adjusted his tie and leaned back, lacing his fingers over his abdomen—the picture of a poised executive delivering bad news. “I’m sure you’re aware of his quirks.”
Oliver smiled blandly, hoping his silence would masquerade as assent.
“In this business, we accommodate a wide variety of tastes. So when the staff first came to me with odd stories, I wrote them off to eccentricity. Frankly, Mr. Pike, that might have been a mistake. I have concerns for Mr. Lee’s health.”
Oliver expelled a breath and decided to come clean. “You’ve caught me off guard. Can you elaborate?”
“Officially, no. I’ve already said more than I should.”
“Unofficially?”
There was a pause while Ben appeared to be weighing his options. “Unofficially then, here’s what happened last night. One of the cleaning staff was walking past the fitness room when she noticed movement inside. It struck her as odd because it was dark and the room lights were off. In the past, in similar situations, we’ve caught guests using the equipment for, er, non-athletic pursuits.” A ghost of a smile traced Ben’s lips. “It’s a practice we discourage for hygienic reasons.”
“Noted and appreciated,” Oliver said with feeling.
Ben nodded. “Of course. When she went closer, she could see Mr. Lee inside. He had stripped down to his underwear—his underpants, specifically—and was standing on a weight bench in his bare feet. In the dark.”
“That’s unexpected,” Oliver said after a pause.
“Yes. She was surprised, too, so she watched him for a while. He was, in her words, ‘frozen like a statue.’”
Oliver didn’t know where to start with the questions. “How long are we talking?”
Ben straightened in his chair. “Several minutes. Long enough to wonder if he’d had a stroke. She knocked on the window. He had his back to the door, so he couldn’t see her, but he didn’t respond.”
“Any chance he was wearing earphones?” Oliver said. He had no idea what the senior’s hearing was like, but he couldn’t recall any red flags about communication.
“Not as far as she could tell. At this point, instead of calling security, she decided to investigate on her own.”
From Ben’s expression, Oliver doubted she would repeat the error.
“She used her badge and the lock disengaged, but the door wouldn’t budge. That’s when she finally decided to step away and call me. I was taking care of a matter on the grounds, but I headed back immediately. By the time I arrived, Mr. Lee was gone and we weren’t able to locate him on the hotel premises. I had a look around the gym, Mr. Pike. I’m fairly certain he used an exercise bike to barricade the door. Those machines aren’t light.”
Oliver rubbed the stubble on his chin. “And there’ve been other incidents?”
“Nothing this alarming. I’ve been trying to speak to Mr. Lee since—to ensure he’s all right and explain our policies—but he’s ignoring my messages. Since it’s nearly impossible to catch him indoors, I initiated this conversation.” Ben spread his hands.
In other words, Ben would like to leave the matter with Oliver.
Oliver stood and offered his hand. “I’ll take it from here, but I appreciate the heads-up.” He smiled. “The unofficial heads-up.”
“Let’s hope it’s nothing,” Ben said as he walked Oliver as far as the door to the lobby. “All I know is you’re about to head south of the border. If he were my responsibility, I’d want somebody to say something.”
* * *
✽
Oliver scanned the ballroom, looking for a sign of Mr. Lee, coming up empty.
Page was right where she belonged—sitting, eating with a group of seniors, smiling and looking happy. Oliver would pull her aside after breakfast to fill her in on the conversation with Ben.
As he filled his plate, Oliver’s eye was drawn to another guy Page had mentioned as a going concern. But then, Paul Dubois always had a way of earning attention.
It wasn’t that the other seniors were sloppy dressers, exactly, but Paul took the art of male grooming to an artisanal level. This morning he was wearing red pants in a plaid pattern that would have looked like pajamas on any other man. Combined with his long, groomed beard, mustache and hair, and black motorcycle boots, his style was gangsta Santa—and clearly catnip to the ladies. He was having an intense conversation in the corner with Mrs. Jarvie, who was dabbing at her eyes with a napkin.
Come to think of it, hadn’t Paul been with Mrs. Erickson yesterday morning?
On his way to join Page, Oliver passed by the couches. The normally placid knitting ladies were quarreling over something to do with needles, and it sounded downright heated.
He stopped, then, and looked around the room—really looked and listened. On top of the knitting ladies’ crankiness, the men gathered around the chess board looked stressed. And Paul Dubois’s date was headed out the door now, her face wet with tears.
Where was the sense of ease and peace that normally dominated the room? Oliver might have Page back, but the place was falling apart with gossip and infighting.
There had always been potential for drama with the Stingers, what with the rigorous travel schedule, performance pressures, and strong personalities. It had taken a strong coach to keep them in line. A strong coach, common purpose, and a full timetable.
Score another one for Page.
Oliver took a bite of bacon, dumped his plate on the nearest table, and grabbed his coff
ee cup on the way to the podium. He adjusted the mic and waited until every face had turned his way.
“Ladies and gentlemen, a brief announcement: You might have noticed our tour bus is back in the parking lot. We have transportation. We have a driver.” He gestured to Buck, who looked startled, but offered a quick wave to the group. “We have plans. Meet Page and me in the lobby at one-thirty.” Oliver leaned forward and paused for a beat. “Road trip.”
While a buzz of excitement filled the ballroom, Oliver pulled an extremely annoyed Page aside.
“I saw what you did there,” she said, folding her arms over her purple sweater, distracting him as the fabric stretched across her chest. “Speaking for my involvement when we haven’t discussed last night. Oliver?”
He blinked and let go his momentary flashback to her time onstage. “You’re right. I’m taking you for granted again,” he said smoothly, in a not-quite apology. “But I need your help. Have you done a profile of Mr. Lee yet?”
As he had hoped, the change of subject completely diverted her. “Profile him?” she said, dropping her arms. “I barely know what he looks like.”
“I know. And I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you earlier.” Oliver filled her in on the conversation with Ben, watching as the wheels began to turn, relaxing at the evidence of her investment in the seniors. “See if you can rope him in for a talk today,” he said. “And before you let him go, call me. I want to meet the guy.”
“And if I can’t find him?”
“Pump the others for what they know, starting with Mavis.” Odds were her sharp nursing eyes had formed a professional opinion. “And, Page,” he said, now he was sure she wouldn’t be disappearing, “I’m really glad you’re back with m— With us.”
After a pause she said, “Me too. But in the future—” she poked a finger into his shoulder “—no more rescue parties involving the oldsters. That was a dirty trick.”
Oliver suppressed a triumphant smile and crossed his heart as he backed towards his plate, intending to reclaim his cold breakfast.
“I mean it, Oliver,” she called after him.
“So do I,” he said. Of all the promises he’d given in his life, that should be the easiest to keep.
Chapter 15
If you ignored the no-show status of the elusive Mr. Lee, as Page was beginning to think of him, the outing had been a stroke of genius on Oliver’s part. Buck had consulted with the Thurston’s event planner and taken them on a driving tour of the local sights. The oldsters had been as charmed by the town as Page.
Then they had descended upon the bakery, Whimsy, and with the perplexed and harried proprietor’s help, cleaned out a display case worth of cupcakes.
Between the fresh sights, activity, and food, the fractious air that had been settling over the seniors had dissipated. Now, in an effort to cling to the feeling of freedom, with most of the oldsters back at the hotel, the more mobile in the group were exploring the town on foot.
The only sour note to the day was presently walking alongside Page.
Avis, usually energetic and vital, was feeling off, so she and Page were bringing up the rear. Earlier, she’d taken one bite of a coconut confectionery and pronounced herself full.
“I can’t believe I’m suggesting this, but should you see a doctor?” Page asked, as Avis paused with one hand anchored on a street lamp, the other covering her belly. Their progress had been halting as she paused to deal with gas pains.
“When I’ve got Mavis?” Avis straightened as the grimace evaporated from her face. “Stop worrying. This is typical for me when I travel, remember?”
It was true they had originally met in an Edmonton drugstore, where Avis had been purchasing so many laxatives and medical supplies that she struggled to carry them. Page had volunteered to help, which was how she had wound up near the bus at departure time.
But Avis had been panting. Surely that wasn’t normal for travel-related constipation. “I still don’t—”
“I hate to interrupt, dear,” Avis said, distracted by something behind Page. “But you better intervene before that ends up in pieces.”
Page swiveled her neck. Just ahead, Paul Dubois, Buck, and Oliver stood on the street corner outside Tech and Tock. The men had been leading the way at a ground-eating pace. Every block or so they’d catch themselves and pause, waiting for Page and Avis to catch up. Oliver had apparently used the last interlude to fetch the laptop.
Page cupped her hands to her mouth. “Oy! Oliver!” His head came around. “Watch the juggling.”
His gaze went to his hands, which even now were spinning and rotating the computer box in a feverish blur. He sent her a sheepish grin and tucked the box under an arm.
“How did I not pick up on his sports background?” Page said, as Avis resumed walking. Now she knew to look for it, the evidence of his athleticism was pervasive: the smoothness of his gait, the sculpted muscles, how his every move spoke of contained energy.
“With that body and the money? What did you think he did?”
“I figured him for the Wall Street type. What?” Page asked when Avis broke into laughter. “He’s got a lawyer on speed dial.”
“He’s not quite that bad,” Avis said, but she sounded doubtful, probably because of the consent form she’d been asked to sign prior to today’s outing.
“Why is he so connected to the legal community, then?”
Avis’s eyebrows disappeared under her bangs. “You don’t know about the nasty split from his ex-girlfriend? She’s suing him for abandonment and palimony?”
Page dropped back a step. Somehow, with everything that had happened in the last few days, she’d stopped noticing Oliver’s declined phone calls. But they hadn’t altered, she realized; she’d merely become oblivious. And hadn’t she entertained an earlier suspicion about an attachment?
Then she thought of Oliver’s kindness with the seniors, his devotion to his brother, how he’d refused to give up on Page when she tried to go AWOL yesterday.
She caught up to Avis. “Nice try, but Oliver would never abandon his child.”
Avis looked at her sideways as a grin split her face. “Got you for a minute, didn’t I? And now you know your heart.” She nudged Page with her shoulder. “He’s one hundred percent single and childless, so you can rest easy when you indulge your filthy mind.”
Of course Avis uttered this last as they caught up with the men, and Oliver overheard.
“I like the direction of this conversation,” he said. “Who’s going to elaborate? Page?” When she remained silent his twinkling eyes shifted. “Avis?”
Avis looked ready to cause trouble, so Page opened her mouth, prepared to create a diversion, when she heard her name called from across the road.
A thin brunette woman stood outside a store called Sleek Chic. She was on tiptoe, one hand affixed to the shop’s doorknob, the other straining to wave. When she was certain she caught their attention, she stepped to the curb, checked for traffic, and tap-tapped her way across the street. Her boots had heels like pencils.
“Excuse me, are you Page and Oliver?” she said brightly.
“We are,” Page said, as Oliver nodded.
“You’re probably wondering why a strange woman would flag you down.” The woman gave a self-conscious laugh. “Butternut. I’m making a mess of this, but you’ll understand why I’m nervous in a minute—that is, if you come with me.” She offered her hand, which they took turns shaking. “Chastity Howell. Mrs. Arbuckle spotted you walking and sent me after you. To be blunt, we need backup. Are you free?”
During this convoluted speech, Oliver shot a glance at Page. She had a suspicion he was trying not to laugh at the woman’s earnestness.
Page shrugged and said, “Sure,” at the same moment Oliver said, “Why not?”
“Do you want the rest of us?” Avis asked.
“Reinforcements? Excellent,” Chastity said, and she led the way, tap-tap-tapping her way across the street.
* * *
✽
Page smiled at Buck’s obvious revulsion upon learning their destination was the interior of Sleek Chic.
“This is where I get off, kiddies,” he said with a salute.
“Fashion not your thing?” Paul held the door and bowed the ladies in.
Buck pointed to his battered, misshapen parka in a self-explanatory gesture. “I’ll be in the lounge, enjoying a pint. Look me up after—if you want to restore your manhood.” Then he was off, whistling down the street.
Oliver slapped Paul on the shoulder. “My masculinity can handle this. Let’s do it.”
Chastity led them through vanilla-scented air, between racks of women’s clothing, to a raised, circular dais at the rear of the store. It was flanked by three mirrors on one side, and a pair of sofas on the other. A rack of white, frothy gowns stood near the change rooms.
They had been summoned to referee a dispute over bridal dresses, as it turned out.
Chastity went to the left sofa and stood behind its two occupants, one of whom rose with a welcoming smile and outstretched hands.
Page had yet to see Madeline Arbuckle when she was anything less than immaculately dressed. Today she wore a black linen dress with a rope of pearls and matching earrings.
“How sweet of you to come. Allow me to introduce my companions.” Mrs. Arbuckle pointed behind her. “You’ve met Chastity, Riley’s maid of honor.”
Chastity performed a tiny finger wave. In Mrs. A’s presence, she already seemed calmer.
Mrs. Arbuckle’s sofa-mate was in her late sixties, very slender, with smooth white hair and a relaxed manner. She was introduced as Mrs. A’s dear friend, Emily Thurston Jamieson.
“Thurston? Like the hotel?” Page said.
Emily inclined her head, a gold heart at her throat winking with the movement. “My father was its founder.”
“Emily managed the Thurston for years,” Madeline said. “She recently retired and passed the baton to her nephew.”