Bath Bombs & Beyond

by Violet Patton

  “Fine. Fine.” I replied.

  A few doors down the gentleman produced a card key and slid it into the reader on the door. If they had passed through the door without opening it, I might’ve screamed. Seconds later, the door reopened and the elderly man’s hand hung the Do Not Disturb placard.

  A twinkle of light reflected in a camera hanging from the ceiling, reminding me of the constant surveillance.

  I bet the security guy was sitting with his feet propped on a desk, munching French fries, drinking Diet Dr. Pepper, watching me act like a fool outside Al’s door. What was worse, he watched a hundred gawkers a day stand outside Al’s door, acting exactly like me. Tourists!

  I put my thumbs in my ears, wiggled my fingers and blew a raspberry, hamming in the hallway at the camera. “I’m going downstairs.”

  23

  Go into the Light

  The bartender laid a cocktail napkin onto the bar. “What can I do you for?” It had been years since I’d sat at the bar, and I didn’t recognize him. Hotel employees turn over fast, especially if they discover dead bodies floating in poisonous bath bombs.

  “Ice water.” I put my chin in my palm, pretending boredom, but I was anything but bored.

  Fanny sat next to me in the empty barstool. “There’s lots of people here… dead folks I know. Some haven’t gone to the Beyond.”

  “Maybe they don’t want to go. You don’t want to go.”

  The bartender set a glass with two cubes of ice in it on the cocktail napkin along with a mini bottled water. He didn’t flinch because I was talking to myself. Most likely, he served plenty of other crazy people.

  “I want to go… just not until I find out what happened to my Willie.”

  I cracked off the bottle cap and glared at the bartender as I poured the water over the ice.

  The two pieces of ice melted. I grabbed a swizzle stick from a highball glass full of them and stirred the disappearing cubes.

  “Is the bar rationing ice?”

  His chin doubled, but he scooped ice and tossed a couple more pieces into the glass.

  “Here’s to ya.” Toasting, I sipped the less tepid water. “Since you can walk through doors, why can’t you find Willie?”

  “It doesn’t work like that. Walking through doors is nothing. I can’t read newspapers or flyers or talk to anyone but you—”

  “Can’t you just buy a ticket or find the portal?” I asked.

  “Portal?” Fanny asked.

  I chewed the swizzle stick watching her glimmer in the bar mirror. Could anyone else see her vibrant reflection? “Yeah, just pass right through. Go to the light.”

  “You want another?” the bartender snarked.

  “You’re new, aren’t you? Were you here the other night?” I asked as he cast a sideways glance, percolating interest. People loved to talk about themselves.

  “Yeah. Been around a few months.” He filled a bigger glass with ice and cranked lids off two mini bottled waters.

  “First death?” I filled the glass.

  He leaned over the low bar refrigerator. “Yep. Set the place off balance. Management went wild. Those messy bath bombs. Maids went nuts cleaning up.”

  “I bet.” I recalled Etta’s description of how awful my Woodland bath bomb looked melted.

  “She was one hot tamale.” He waved his fingers like Mike had, making the universal sign for a smoking hot woman.

  “Did you wait on her?”

  “Yeah. She drank a couple of cocktails before she sang. I served her…”

  I worked the swizzle stick, leaning my elbow on the bar and putting my chin in my palm. I didn’t have a clue about how to interrogate someone, but this guy was feeding me without much effort.

  “How was that? Her performance?”

  “She was no good. I mean… I never heard… such… a caterwauling.” Shaking his head, he paused to think and polished a glass with a towel.

  “Drowning. What a shame. In Al Capone’s suite. Terrible.” I lifted my water glass but stopped. “I thought… I thought they didn’t allow people to sleep there. Isn’t it haunted?”

  “They let out the room. At a price. Now… dignitaries and awful singers get to stay in there. Who’d want to?” He rolled his eyes. “Keep this to yourself, but that old dude stiffed us on tips. Not even a thin dime.” He rubbed this thumb and forefinger together and left to help another guest.

  “Did you hear that?”

  “Yes. He stiffed them?” Fanny flickered furiously. “No good dawster.”

  I wasn’t even going to ask what a dawster was.

  “Why would he not tip?” That’s calling attention to yourself as much as a high roller at a roulette table.

  “Al owed me money, but he wouldn’t have drowned me to keep from paying me.”

  “He couldn’t have. You were already dead.”

  The bartender came back and poured more water over my melting ice. “And the kid pretending to be a body guard. What a joke.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Anybody could see how smitten he was. She had moxie, even if she couldn’t sing. I would’ve done her…” He blushed and turned around acting like he had somewhere important to be.

  “Moxie? Wasn’t that a soda?” Fanny asked.

  “Yeah, in your day. Now it means… style.”

  He listened as I answered Fanny’s question but didn’t bat an eyelash. “There was another older woman with them. I saw her before, but don’t know her name. Dark complexion, gray hair, kinda heavyset but still a looker. Rich, that one. She seemed pissy at the old dude over how he treated the lovesick bodyguard kid.”

  Swirling the glass, a thought crossed my mind. Was he describing Myra?

  “Did she wear lots of bangles and jewelry?”

  “Yeah, she was drippin’.” He circled his wrist with a hand.

  “And the old dude?”

  “Ah! Dressed like a clown.” He rolled his eyes. “Spats for God’s sake. You know the type. Uppity and pushy. I’d guess he was the girl’s manager.”

  Had he pegged Morris Beasley?

  The conversation piqued my curiosity. The paramedic told me to ask Myra about what she knew. The bartender described both her and Spats. Surely, there couldn’t be two uppity spats wearing men in Hot Springs at the same time? And Myra wouldn’t go out… didn’t go to the bathroom, unless she was fully decked in her clinking bangles and dangling diamonds. She looked like a gypsy and acted like one too.

  I laid a crisp twenty-dollar bill on the bar, leaving a generous tip for water. He looked at the money. “I know one thing. Nobody was happy. Bad vibes. I felt for her. Terribly remorse.”

  Remorse? The bartender had picked up the same vibe from her as I had.

  Was Veronica trapped by Morris Beasley? Maybe she was trying to break off with Spats, and he wouldn’t let her go.

  Myra and Morris were together at the bar the night Veronica Lake sang and died in the Row’s bath bombs. Since, Myra hadn’t bothered to contact either me or Sandy, she was truly missing in action. No joke about it.

  24

  Demons

  I was halfway out of the bar, and you might know, I ran into the biggest blabbermouth in town, other than Anita—Ellen Parker.

  “My goodness gracious, Pattianna Fuqua? Funny, seeing you here of all places!” Ellen hugged my neck too tight, and I almost suffocated on her perfume. She stepped back, smiling and giving me a long knowing gaze. She was dolled up. Crisp navy linen jacket, white blouse, red beads and a fresh strawberry blonde dye job on her blown out shag haircut. Next to her, I looked like Anita’s crochet tablecloth wearing antebellum grandmother. I’ve worn the same jeans for… how long?

  I sucked in a breath, puffing to cleanse my nasal passageways of her bodacious cologne.

  “Ellen, darlin’. Look at you.” She was so overdressed for the Arlington’s jazzy bar, she couldn’t be missed.

  “Sugar, I saw your picture.” She pursed her poochy red lipsticked lips. She has had a
n earful of gossip and read the Sentinel article. How could she miss those headlines?

  “Isn’t that wonderful? How are you?” There wasn’t a single wonderful thing about running into her.

  “So fine. It’s such a delight.” Her squinty eyes glittered as she smiled like she had just won the Mrs. Hot Springs beauty contest. She had entered that contest a few years back—the Sentinel printed the contestants’ photos—and she didn’t win a trophy, but she had perfected her phony pageant smile.

  Sighting me meant by midnight, she would be riding high on her witchy tattletale broom. By tomorrow morning, her socialite’s gossiping union would have me drawn and quartered, my beating heart staked to a post on Bathhouse Row. She and her cronies dressed in ritual, gauzy witch garb, dancing and chanting, would very much enjoy roasting me over an open bonfire.

  She smiled coyly toward the elevators. “I’m early. Meeting a friend. Buy you a glass of wine?”

  “Sure.” I should be running away, not sitting down for a chat.

  “Let’s take the table. The bar’s getting crowded.” She picked a table in the far corner next to the band shell. A few nights before, a whole room full of people watched Veronica sing on that very stage.

  “Sit here.” She made sure my back was to the hotel’s entrance. “My word, did you hear about that singer gal?”

  I didn’t let Ellen’s seat get hot before I asked, “Did you watch Veronica sing?”

  “Sugar, I did. Poor thing. I just happened to be here.” She glanced in the direction of the stage, ready to gab.

  Happened to be here? Pfft. I just bet.

  Locals don’t see the entertainment at the Arlington. Elvis Presley would need to perform, and I’m not talking an Elvis impersonator, before the locals would venture out during high tourist season.

  “Oh, heaven’s yes. Jim insisted we come out.” Jim was her husband. Too bad he wasn’t here to confirm Ellen was with him at the bar last Tuesday night.

  “Myra was here, you know.” Ellen’s leg jiggled under the table, bumping into mine. I didn’t flinch because like all the rest of my acquaintances, everyone knew Myra and I were good friends.

  A heavy-eyed waitress stopped by our table. “Bourbon neat.” Ellen smoothed her necklace.

  The waitress glanced at me. “Water. Lots of ice.” My stomach growled. I still hadn’t had anything to eat and ordering wine at the point would be a mistake.

  Ellen tsked. “Such a tragedy.” She was primed for a tell-all.

  Veronica’s death set the town ablaze. It wasn’t everyday a beautiful woman died in bath bombs. Come to think of it, I don’t remember a single incident like this while I typed the sheriff’s reports.

  Rampant scuttlebutt raced along Central Avenue. Not telling what misnomer Ellen has heard and spread. A dead woman in a bathtub would be hard to top. Etta will be infamous—the girl who found the woman floating in an icky green Woodland bath bomb. Her firsthand witness reports went to the moon and back. The bartender knew plenty about the mess in Al’s suite, and he wasn’t keeping quiet. Hotel maids had a clique keeping tabs on the crazy problems guests created. Willa’s text messages were so public, they now bubbled up from the caldera beneath the streets. Those two sisters are bigger gossipers than Anita, less experienced but albeit entertained by other folk’s problems.

  “Girl, what are you and Sandy gonna do? Marvell said Dick shut you down.” Ellen tsked, enjoying using her genuine fake smile again. Busted! Ellen was one of Marvell’s spies.

  Marvell’s cronies were out in force hunting for information. She was probably boiling a cauldron of false information to use against the Row.

  My nostrils flared but I produced my best icy tone. “Minor inconvenience. Did you hear I fell off a ladder five-seconds after we opened?” I rubbed my goose egg. “Back here. But my face has been hurting ever since I knocked my noggin.”

  That was too much information, but she leaned forward titillated. “You don’t say? Did you get an MRI? A knock on the head can be—”

  Before she finished her cocktail, she would have me in a coma.

  “I have a subcutaneous hematoma. I’ll never be the same again.”

  She leaned back, sublimely pleased by my tragedy.

  A subcutaneous hematoma is fancy terminology for a bruise, which is what I had. Now that I can see dead people—the images inside the Southern Club were multiple dead people—I wouldn’t ever be the same. So, technically, I was honest.

  “Girl, sounds dreadful.” Ellen chuffed, enjoying this moment too much.

  “It is dreadful. My head hurts all the time.”

  The waitress carried a bar tray with one neat bourbon and another mini bottle of water. She set the bourbon and water on the table and narrowed her eyelids at me. She gazed off in the direction of the elevators.

  “Thanks.” Ellen dove into the glass before it made a ring on the cocktail napkin. Squirming, I fingered by my napkin, dreaming of a quick way to end our tête-à-tête.

  “How’s Sandy holding up? And Teddy? Her darlin’ little brother.” Ellen salivated, rolling darlin’ around on her tongue.

  “They’re great.” Telling Marvell’s spy any inkling of what was really happening wasn’t a good idea.

  The waitress lingered, cleaning a table beside us. Ellen waggled a finger at her, and the girl nodded. Ellen pointed at her highball glass and then drained it. “I’m surprised she let Teddy help.”

  “He’s a good guy.” I shouldn’t allow this broad to rankle me about Teddy.

  “Honey, you don’t need to tell me. I know how good he is.” She winked. Burning gall rose in my throat. I had fallen into her witch’s cauldron. “We worked at the county together. He’s an old friend.” I tried to claw my way from her bubbling brew.

  She grinned, cocking her chin. “Girl! I heard about your longtime, unrequited love affair.”

  “What?” Where did she hear such a thing?

  “He’s not my type, but he is an excellent carpenter.” I lowered my eyelids, squashing even the slightest twinge of emotion. I tried not to fidget under Ellen’s scrutiny and the less reaction I had the better.

  She let my statement pass, but continued with her trivial pursuit. “I heard how wonderful the Row looks… or should I say, looked.”

  Wow! My arm twitched. I hadn’t slugged Mike like I wanted to, but clipping Ellen’s chin might satisfy my twitch. I cast my gaze down and gathered my wits. Dick did not want me in his jail tonight for assault.

  Instead of smacking her, I pulled a subject changer out of the air. “So, you were here for the performance?” She had to know more about Myra’s appearance in the bar on Tuesday night.

  “I was.” Ellen fingered her neckline. “It was… how should I put it—?”

  “Did you talk to Myra?”

  “We air-kissed and said hey. Lemme tell ya, she was flustered. The man she was with…” She smirked, shaking her head.

  “Uh-huh?”

  Morris Beasley and Veronica couldn’t have been an aside for Myra. I’m certain she hadn’t accidentally bumped into the pair.

  “Was Myra with a strange looking man? Wearing spats?”

  “Ha! Oh yes. I saw that man. Sweaty too. Kinda made me sick. They were together, though. Friendly like. He was some weirdo, though. Honestly, I thought he was part of the show. Gonna tap dance or something.” She pointed at the band shell. “They sat right by the stage. I think he was holding her hostage.”

  “Myra? Was she tied up?” I rolled the cool glass over my forehead to distract Ellen.

  She smirked at my remark and asked, “Darlin’ you’re in pain, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, in more ways than one.”

  The waitress put Ellen’s second bourbon on the table and pushed the tab toward me.

  Something behind me caught Ellen’s eye, and she smiled. I didn’t turn around to see who she was smiling at. Honestly, I wanted to stay out of the reason she was drinking at the Arlington’s bar for the second time in a week.

&nb
sp; She blinked at the bill, draining her second neat bourbon in one gulp and stood. “Look at the time. I must meet my friend… friends. As soon as you guys reopen, I’ll be by. I’m dying for a sexy bath. Save something good for me.” She smiled and hurried away. I held myself together and did not peek at who she was meeting.

  I picked up the tab, and underneath it laid a damp cocktail napkin with a scribbled message: Meet me in the ladies’ room.

  This evening was informative and worth every penny. If there’s one thing I learned by typing the endless words of the sheriff’s reports, it was to never leave behind a soggy napkin with a mysterious message written on them. No telling who was spying on me, and who was spying on them, spying on me.

  Going to the ladies’ room before I left the Arlington was a requirement, even if I our waitress hadn’t given me the note.

  Everything in the hotel had an Art Deco flair, even the antique bathrooms. The bathroom’s wooden door was heavy, and passing through solids like Fanny would’ve been handy. The empty marble room echoed. The walls and floors were laid with one-inch square black-and-white checkered tiles. A fainting couch occupied one corner of the room, beside it a small table held tissues and lotions.

  Note to self: Donate lotion to the Arlington. I bet Marvell hadn’t thought of that cheap marketing plan.

  The wooden stalls had authentic brass handles and locks, and I squatted on an original 1920s toilet. The stall door beside mine creaked open. A rustling happened, and I held my breath.

  “I saw the bartender with the dead girl.” More rustling happened. “She was flashing a wad of cash.”

  “Uh-huh. He’s trouble.” Shuffling, she took advantage of her break.

  “What kind?”

  “Dunno. He likes putting his hand on me. If I report him, I’ll get in trouble. I need this job.” A string of toilet paper rolled onto the floor.

  “Yeah. Don’t do that.” I was finished with my bathroom business, but waited to flush. I didn’t want to miss a word.

  “Later, I saw him get on the elevator. We ain’t supposed to go on the guest elevators.”