The Lost Heir

by Allison Whitmore

  Isabella picked up her foot to step forward but then put it right back down, staring slack-jawed at the sight before her. The hotel’s two newest bartenders, Nico, who was from Italy, and Constantine, who was from Brazil, emerged from the kitchen at the back of the lobby balancing about twenty wine glasses each. Several were upside down and several others stacked right-side up. “If my grandmother sees them, they’re dog meat. And if she finds out I called the car, I’ll be dog meat, too.” She held her breath as they wove between the patrons seated in the open dining area at the far right. Constantine side-stepped a very tall plant, and Nico looped around a waiter with a platter full of hot plates. Then they wound down the four steps that led to the Jazz Pit Bar Lounge as if they’d been doing it all their lives. “Wow. Do they do trapeze, too?”

  “Are there always so many people?” asked Pythian, sounding a little on edge. She understood. She hated crowds, too. But for some reason, it was different in the hotel. In a regular crowd, she had the added fear of getting lost, which she despised more than anything. She looked around the lobby bustling with guests, rafters trimmed thinly with garland and a smattering of holiday lights. They had not fully decorated yet. Decorating day was December 21. Though she would never tell her grandmother, that was the best thing about being a Foxworthy—the tradition. With tradition, one never felt lost.

  “It’s the holiday.”

  “The holiday?”

  Isabella looked at him like he’d grown tentacles. “You know. Christmas, Hanukkah, the winter solstice?”

  “Oh, yeah. Right. The solstice.”

  This kid was very weird. “And like I told you, Python, Theophilus left last month for England.”

  “It’s Pythian. Piii-theee-an!”

  “Oh, well. Theee-ahh-philll-uss isn't here. My Uncle Jack says he won't be back for months.” Pythian stared up at her with a plea in his eyes. “Fine. You can ask my grandmother. But don’t take too long.” She started a course toward the silver-haired woman in the Prada suit standing behind an ornate podium with a telephone at her ear. Unfortunately, a round man with a walrus-style mustache blocked her from moving swiftly in the direction she wanted to go. When she escaped his presence, a group of little kids darted by nearly tripping both her and Pythian. “You’ll be getting a lump of coal in your stockings this year! Ugh. I hate the holidays.”

  Isabella didn't fully hate the holidays. It was the time around her birthday that scared her. Beyond connecting to people more intensely than ever as each year passed, her visions from that night came to her stronger and stronger. It was as if they were trying to tell her something she could never figure out. But she didn’t want to figure it out. She wanted to be left alone.

  The only person she’d trusted to tell any of this was her best friend, Lana. Of course, Lana really didn’t know much because Lana’s family went away for the holidays. Anyway, it was time to get down to relaxing on Christmas break. Day one’s ritual: soup or a burger from Betty’s Basement; bedcovers up in her apartment, the second largest of six at the top of the hotel; her favorite holiday movie, followed by a bunch of corny Christmas cartoons or a syrupy sweet romance novel and a book light. But how was she supposed to get on with it with this weird little Pythian kid following her around?

  Well, she had a plan. She’d make sure her chowder was ready, put it away, and then do the easiest thing possible—help Elyse put the dinnertime music selections together. In fact, she would do it all for her and then head back to the kitchen, grab her food, and sneak upstairs. Now, all she had to do was quickly say hello to her grandmother and goodbye to this Pythian boy.

  “Our masquerade ball will be the toast of the town, with my granddaughter, Isabella Foxworthy, performing and Logan Blues headlining,” Catherine Bayer Foxworthy said into the phone as Isabella and Pythian approached her behind the front desk. “Yes. New Year’s Eve. We’ll be doing a homage to Renee Fox and Sinclair Worthy and their era of Hollywood. Can I put you down for seven? Fantastic.”

  “Just stopping by to say hello, Nano. I have a ton of things to do.”

  “Isabella! I’m glad you’re home. How was your day, dear?” she asked, not noticing the boy standing beside her and apparently not having heard that she’d called Archie to come pick her up.

  “Terrible.”

  “Sunnier. Try to be sunnier. More positive,” she said, her eyes expanding when she finally looked at her granddaughter. “What happened to your knee?”

  Isabella’s knee hurt a little, but she hadn’t noticed the blood.

  “It’s just a scratch, Nano. I’m fine.”

  “And look at your hair!” Her grandmother patted down her wayward strands to no avail. The older woman’s slight worry filled Isabella’s senses, but she was able to calm herself by breathing slowly in and out. This type of invasion was different than what had happened with Pythian—it was just a slight intrusion by another’s emotions. With Pythian earlier, on the other hand, she had felt consumed because he was in danger—that, and it was so close to her birthday. “And who is this poor child? What happened to you?”

  “This is Pythian. He says he’s here for lessons with Theophilus. I told him Theophilus isn’t here, but anyway, can you help him out? Get him a ride home or something?”

  “Oh, on the contrary, my dear, Theophilus will be here shortly. I asked him to come to help you with your music and to restore the theater. Don’t you remember?”

  “What? I thought Robert was in charge of that,” she said, shocked. She hated being wrong, especially when it came to the Foxworthy and what went on beneath its roof.

  “And don’t avoid my questions. What happened? You look like you need a doctor, young man.” Her grandmother lifted Pythian’s face and studied the scratch that ran from the corner of his eye down his cheek. “That is going to leave a scar,” she said to Pythian before turning back to Isabella, who was growing more and more annoyed by the situation. “Did you feel overwhelmed at all beforehand? As if what you were feeling clearly wasn’t your own emotions?”

  Isabella shrugged and then sighed without answering.

  “Isabella, you know very well how to keep out of danger. Use your instincts like I’ve taught you and then tuck yourself away in a safe place until those feelings pass.”

  “But we’re both fine. Is Theophilus really here?” Isabella asked through a false smile as she looked to Pythian, who shrugged.

  “Yes. Where do I find him, ma’am?”

  “Everywhere and nowhere at all, I expect, when it comes to Theophilus. But first I’m going to get someone to clean you up. You should go home. Call your mother.”

  “I don’t have a mother, and my father isn’t available.”

  “Well,” Isabella said with a sigh, feigning extreme exhaustion. “I am going to get Betty to make a cup of chowder for me.”

  “After you clean that knee and meet with Mr. Dodge.”

  At that moment, Theophilus Dodge, wearing a purple cape, swept into the room. That was new. He usually wore a top coat with tails and a pair of goggles and sometimes even a top hat. Oh wait, the goggles were not missing. He just had on a new pair. Small, black, and pushed back on his white-blond head. Today, he must have left in a hurry. The hat and tailcoat were rarely missing. Still, he had on the usual Victorian-era waistcoat and an ascot, along with a pair of pin-striped trousers. Not only did the mad piano instructor fancy himself a musician and theatrical sensation, but he also believed himself to be a master poet, philosopher, and inventor. Isabella just thought he was a lunatic.

  Grandmother Catherine pulled Isabella by the elbow toward the entrance. “Ah, Mr. Dodge. My granddaughter is ready for her lesson.”

  Theophilus removed his goggles and placed them in a small case he had at his side. “Splendid. I would like to see the theater as soon as possible, and then we can start our lessons.”

  “Your nephew is the one who wants lessons,” said Isabella.

  “Nephew?” inquired Theophilus. “I have no nephew.”

&
nbsp; Isabella looked around but could not find the boy all of a sudden. “He was right behind me. Rolf just cleaned up his scratch! He said his name was Pythian or something.”

  Theophilus opened his eyes a bit wider. “Pythian, you say?”

  “Yes. I didn’t get his last name, but he said his father was your good friend. Where the heck did he go?”

  “Indeed,” Theophilus said, snapping his fingers with both hands. “Well, I think we’ve had enough chit-chat for the moment. Now to find my other pupils.” He turned to Catherine. “But not before I see the theater.”

  “Oh, yeah, that sounds like a really good idea, Nano. Why don’t you show Theophilus to the theater while I go and get something to eat—”

  “After our lesson, of course.”

  “Of course,” Isabella said.

  “Well,” her grandmother said, looking between the two of them, “I have set you up in the theater to rehearse, so you will both be satisfied.”

  “Satisfaction would've come with scoops of chowder and maybe even a few swigs of orange soda.”

  “Chowder?” Theophilus asked, eyes wide. “I’ve always thought you were a macaroni-and-cheese kind of girl!”

  “I told you, I don’t eat that.”

  “The photo over that fireplace begs to differ.” He pointed to a framed black-and-white picture of Isabella and her parents as she grinned over a giant plate of mac ‘n’ cheese. It had been taken on her eighth birthday. Less than a year later, her parents were dead. She looked away. She couldn’t stand that picture.

  “People change,” she said, swallowing the torment as it got stuck in her throat. Then, she held her head high. “Besides, Betty’s chowder is especially made for me. And I don’t need any lessons. I know what I’m doing.”

  “Every great musician has a great coach,” said her grandmother with a sharp glare.

  “You force me to play, and I’m good at it. Isn’t that enough?”

  “She has improved immensely since you last saw her,” her grandmother told Theophilus. “And now, she’s taken up singing. Reminds me of dear Beatrice, Lord rest her soul.”

  “Ah. Wonderful,” Theophilus said. “Not that I’d consider myself a great coach like the magnificent Hugo Varelli.”

  “Who’s he?”

  Theophilus laughed. “Lots to learn, I see, my dear. Same entrance as always, Catherine?”

  “Not quite. Isabella, please show him. Oh, and the Logan boys will be joining you as well. You heard their last performance with their parents last night, didn’t you? Lovely band name—Logan Blues.”

  Isabella turned red and then her eyes burned because she’d forgotten to blink. “Ehh—excuse me?”

  “Don’t be so judgmental. They are great boys, and they will mean more to you one day than you realize.”

  “How do you even know them?” Isabella snapped back.

  “I knew their grandmother. Don’t question me, darling. I think it’s time you get to know them.” Catherine patted her on the shoulder and turned away.

  “What for?” Isabella frowned then sighed, defeated. “So, not only am I stuck doing this performance on my birthday, but I can’t practice for it alone beforehand?”

  “We always celebrate your birthday on the first, do we not, dear?” asked Theophilus as if that should erase all her worry.

  “Yes, but—“

  “Ah, yes. Now I remember. Well, I mean no. You can’t do it alone. I have other pupils.” Theophilus rubbed his hands together. “This will be a treat for you, Isabella.”

  Seventeen-year-old Seth Logan and his younger brother, Micah, appeared wearing matching Los Angeles Lakers warm-ups. Sure, Isabella waved a Laker flag during a victory parade like any other Angeleno would, but those outfits made them look like a pair of purple penguin buffoons. As her eyes caught Seth’s, she looked away immediately. She noticed, if she looked at the tall boy out of the corner of her eyes, that he had some slightly attractive features decorating his face. Only slightly, though. The slant of his nose and blue eyes along with his olive skin made him just cute enough for her to notice. Of course, people said her skin was olive-toned, too, but it really looked more like oatmeal or maybe peanut butter on a good day. Micah was shorter and paler than his brother and had very dark almost black eyes. He had a few freckles on his cheeks but had the same oval face and good jaw-line as his brother.

  “Are those your costumes for your performance tonight with your parents?” Theophilus asked. Although some people, including Isabella, had always thought he dressed oddly enough, himself, Isabella could tell Theophilus was perplexed by the purples and yellows of their outfits.

  “No,” Seth grumbled in an arrogant tone as he laughed. Isabella did not like that one bit. Maybe he wasn’t so cute after all. “They’re basketball warm-ups.”

  “Oh, so you’re in a band and you’re on the Los Angeles Lakers?”

  “I do play basketball, if that’s what you’re asking,” said Seth. “If our parents ever let us stick around long enough in one place, I’d love to join a team.”

  “We’re just fans,” Micah said quietly. “We like to show love and support.”

  “Last night, when you performed in the lounge, your mom said you guys were from New Jersey.”

  “New York,” Seth amended. “And we’re more like nomads, so we aren’t exactly from anywhere.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll do Renee and Sinclair’s legacy proud,” said Theophilus.

  “Who are they?”

  Isabella sighed heavily. “My great-grandparents. The whole event is about them. Even the mayor is coming because it’s so important. Not to mention, like, everybody will be there, which is why I can’t skip my performance, even if I don’t really want to do it.” She sighed and turned to Catherine. “Are you telling me these two have to be in the show, Nano? I thought you said you’d hired two good bands.”

  “Yes, and one of them is Logan Blues which includes these young men and their parents, though it is not your concern. Your concern is only the end of the show and, of course, the countdown to the stroke of midnight.”

  “I don’t see why you can’t do that part,” Isabella said, feeling her stomach tighten.

  “It isn’t right when I do it. You’re old enough now and the only true heir.”

  “I really think it’s a bad idea, Nano,” she said. Her grandmother lifted an eyebrow. “Fine, but why can’t I rehearse alone?”

  “Don’t do us any favors,” Seth said. “I could be spending valuable time with my bass or guitar.”

  Isabella snapped her head toward the boy, who hovered about a foot above her and wore an expression that begged her to challenge him. The younger one, Micah, smiled as if embarrassed by what his brother had just said. “Why don’t you do that then?” Isabella challenged. Her eyes cut deep into his as she glared in his direction.

  “I think people will enjoy seeing you perform together, and you could use a little support, Isabella,” her grandmother said. “Seth and Micah have been nice enough to volunteer.”

  “If by ‘volunteer’ you mean forced by our parents,” Seth muttered under his breath.

  “I didn’t catch that, dear,” Catherine said to him.

  “Nothing, ma’am.”

  “Well, thank you, boys. We can use your musical talents and gorgeous little faces. Yes, people love it when young people perform. Theophilus, see to it that they get off on the right foot. Well, I’m off. Isabella, be cooperative,” she said, kissing her granddaughter’s cheek and then moving in the direction of the two new bartenders, who were now juggling silver cocktail shakers between them. “Nico! Constantine! This is not an underground nightclub off Hollywood Boulevard. Be mindful of the guests.”

  “Let’s get this over with.” Isabella stormed off toward the small elevator across from the grand lobby that led to the entrance to the underground stage.

  Chapter Three

  Theophilus Dodge

  They rode down in silence. Well, what could have been silence
if Theophilus hadn't kept humming tunes that Isabella didn't recognize and then mumbling incoherently to himself. She sighed as the door chimed open and then walked down the dark corridor. They emerged through the theater's main door and marched down rows of red velvet chairs that each held a thick layer of dust captive in its fabric. The theater had been Renee Fox's pride and joy and the place where her daughter, the beautiful Beatrice Foxworthy, made her first and last public performance before dying at the age of twenty-one. Some kind of childhood illness took her life, or so everyone said. They also said Beatrice was a little wacko. Isabella didn't believe it, though. In fact, she liked to think of Beatrice Foxworthy as being just like her—a little sensitive and sometimes grouchy. They had the same thick, wavy, black hair, but Beatrice's green eyes had been anything but dull, like Isabella's were. Even in old black-and-white photos, they seemed to sparkle.

  The stage had long, red curtains, knotted at the middle; a grand piano—Beatrice's piano—sat center stage. Isabella looked up at the crown moldings and high ceiling, more appropriate for an opera house. At that moment, she reveled in how much she loved this hotel and the legacy she'd been left.

  Theophilus sat down at Beatrice's piano, removed his goggles from their case, and snapped them on.

  Isabella, Seth, and Micah sat in chairs facing him, backs to the wide-mouth theater.

  "Now, children! We will cover singing and a bit of piano today. Next time, you can bring your instruments, and we can go from there. You are a bass guitar man, Seth, am I right?"

  Seth grinned as he lifted an eyebrow and nodded. This was not really a gesture of modesty, Isabella noticed. Seth Logan was obviously the type of guy who needed to be knocked off his self-imposed high horse.