“I know, I know, it’s not what it looks like!”
“Yeah, and it’s none of your business as long as nobody’s hurt, right? So where can we find that bag—both bags?”
“In the laundry room down in the basement. You need an employee card to get in there, so I'll escort you.”
“I want to go, too.” Mick slid the door open and stepped inside.
“I’m not so sure you should go anywhere, Mick. You do not look well, Bro. Not to mention you can’t go roaming around the hotel in a bathrobe, flashing people.”
"Don’t you have a pair of swim trunks I can put on under this thing?”
“That could work, Brien. With dark glasses, too, he might not draw much attention to himself," I sighed. "Besides, he might be able to spot that bag sooner than we can. It ought to be easy enough to find a black bag in the midst of all the white sheets staff must unload around here. But, who knows?”
“Got it. Can you wait a minute, Alex?”
“Sure.”
“Follow me, Mick.” Brien took Mick into the bedroom. Soon they were back with Mick in a pair of trunks and one of Brien’s t-shirts. The trunks fit pretty well, but that shirt was way too big. An appropriate choice, otherwise. The picture on the front of that shirt had Santa doing a wild maneuver on a surfboard.
“Good one, Brien. Maybe they’ll figure Mick’s face got hammered in a surfing accident. The glasses are a big help, too, don’t you think, Alex?”
“I guess so,” Alex replied wobbling his head back and forth in a non-committal way. Brien had slipped on a pair of sneakers and Mick now wore Brien's Rainbow flip-flops instead of slippers.
“Let’s go!” I said, and the three of us marched out of the room behind Alex. He keyed in our destination, so we went straight to the basement, avoiding stops at other floors and picking up guests.
When we stepped off the elevator, Alex led us to the laundry room and opened the door. A sea of laundry confronted us. Some piled in carts, had already been sorted, as Alex pointed out. Other sacks were waiting to be dumped and sorted. Wouldn’t you know it? Those bags included more than a few like the one I had used to stash Mick’s Santa suit!
“This is going to take a while,” I muttered.
“It better not take you too long. All the rooms are supposed to be cleaned by 1:00. They’re running a little behind because of the fire and all.” As he said that, he paused for a moment and looked at each of us. I could tell he was having second thoughts about helping us.
“The fire wasn’t even on our floor,” I said, hoping to allay any suspicions he held that the incident had anything to do with us. Those words did more for him than they did for me. I was still plenty uneasy about the all too timely coincidence. Of course, anyone watching us would surely have figured out we fled our suite in the company of a homicide detective. With any luck they'd come to the conclusion that Mick had passed that GPS device along to Mitchum.
“The laundry crew comes in after that to sort items that get laundered here from those they bag up and send out for special care or dry cleaning at a shop in San Albinus. Those smaller bags piled up over there are guests’ personal items, so probably not where you want to start.”
“Thanks, Alex.” For more than an hour, we went at it. Not a pleasant task, by the way. Housekeeping and the laundry crew are underpaid, no matter how much they make. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear the hotel catered to pigs rather than people. That’s probably not a nice thing to say about pigs.
The sad part of this latest unexpected turn of events on New Year’s Eve was that we didn’t find either bag. It was unsettling that Mick’s Santa suit wasn’t in there. Worse that despite our disgusting chore, we had not discovered that GPS device. I was beginning to hate that thing.
Was it the Maltese Falcon, like the worthless object that had kept all those bad guys in that old Dashiell Hammett story, duking it out with Sam Spade? Was Mitchum right all along? Had Owen Taylor made it up? He didn’t strike me as a diabolical mastermind. Deluded, maybe. Wouldn't Davis, and the unknown puppet master now pulling the strings, have required more than the word of a deluded dope like Owen to get on board with his scheme? There had to be something tangible and tantalizing to have set off the latest round of trigger-pulling and dead bodies.
As we dragged ourselves back to the elevator, I couldn't say which of us appeared more dejected. Trust my Brien to fight his way out of that funk first. His victory required food, of course. After all, it had been more than an hour since he had wolfed down those chocolates.
“Here’s an idea, guys. Why don’t we stop by that Duds for Dudes shop here at the hotel and get Mick clothes that fit him? After that, I could use a burger and beer. We need real food. Man cannot live on donuts alone!” He pointed a finger at the sky as he said that. Duds for Dudes wasn’t the actual name of the clothing store. It was something classier as you might expect to find in a five-star resort like this one.
“I could use a burger and beer,” Mick replied. “Uh, but guys, I’m a little short on cash for duds and suds.”
“Don’t worry about it. You’ve been through a lot, Mick. Consider it a gift from us to get your gnarly New Year off on the right foot, okay?”
“Wow, shoes too? I dig those sneakers you have on. Do they sell those at that store?” Give him an inch, I thought. My Brien could not have been happier.
“Yes, they do! Shoes too, that’s an excellent idea isn’t it, Kim? Let’s go shopping.”
What the heck? Jessica Huntington had set up a humongous credit for us at the hotel. It would be rude not to use it. She’d get a kick out of Mick’s story when we told her about it later. There was a lingerie shop nearby with a name I couldn’t recall. Silk Dreams, or something like that. While Brien took care of Mick at the men’s clothing store, I’d find a little bit of nothing that would inspire Brien to make all our dreams come true.
We agreed to meet up again in half an hour or so. Mick looked much more like the old Mick when I caught up with the two of them later. Even better in some ways, wearing the snazzy new outfit Brien had helped him pick out. Chinos and a silk Aloha shirt gave Mick an air of something close to respectability—especially with classy new sunglasses that hid the worst of his battered face from view. I waved, getting a big smile from my Brien. As Brien swooped me up into his arms, I glimpsed a guy standing in the doorway of the shop. When he saw me looking at him, he fled through a set of doors that led outside the hotel shops.
“Who was that?” I asked. Brien turned quickly, but all that could be seen was a pair of Golden Goose sneakers. I described the man to Brien.
“I know who you mean. He was in the store shopping, too, like us.”
“Yeah, I remember those sneakers. That’s what made me want to get a pair like them—put some stars on my feet. See? Are they ever comfortable!” Mick took a look at the shoes, then checked himself out in the reflection of the store window. “Sharp, aren't they?”
“Yeah, they are.” I felt a wave of paranoia creeping over me, still not convinced the guy who almost ran out of the building was just another shopper.
“He sure was in a hurry. If he was shopping, Brien, where were his bags?” Mick and I were both carrying colorful bags with corded handles and emblazoned with logos.
“Hang on a second.” Brien dashed back into the store and had a brief conversation with the clerk. “It’s cool,” he said as he rejoined us. “The shop is sending the guy’s stuff up to his room. He didn’t want to carry it around with him.”
“That was easy,” I said, marveling at another of Brien’s super powers. I’d never be able to get a clerk give up information like that. It could have something to do with his good looks, but he also radiated a sense of innocence. Mostly, that was the real him. At times, though, I could have sworn he played that friendly Labrador thing for all it was worth! No matter. I felt relieved. Mitchum’s warnings about being targeted by a mastermind and his stooges had left me edgy. Not to mention the possibility that we had
been robbed!
“Robbed, right!” I chuckled, mumbling those words under my breath. I could imagine filing a police report about a stolen, filthy Santa suit. Even telling Mitchum wasn't likely to get us very far.
“Let’s drop off our packages upstairs and then we'll get lunch, Guys!” As we marched back down the corridors from the shopping area toward the bank of elevators in the lobby, Mick came to a sudden halt. So sudden the rubber bottom of his sneakers squeaked on the polished marble floors. He stepped up to one of a dozen framed pictures on the wall. The series of photos depicted key events in the building of The Sanctuary Resort and Spa, starting with the ground-breaking.
“That’s him! The rich dude in a suit I saw talking to Larry. There he is!” Half a dozen well-groomed men in expensive suits stood around in that photo. Each wore a hard hat and posed with a foot on a shovel about to break ground on the resort.
“Which one, Mick?”
“That one,” he said pointing to the rich guy almost in the middle. The caption on the photo listed the names of the men, left to right. I had my cell phone with me and called Mitchum. He picked up on the first ring.
“We’ve got a name for you, Mitchum. Mick says the rich guy in a suit having that heart-to-heart with Davis and the diver was Albert Simpson. That's what it says here on a photo hanging in a corridor at The Sanctuary Resort.”
I braced myself, ready for Mitchum to chew us out for snooping. I even prepared a defense. For once I could even do that with a clean conscience since we had stumbled upon this photo by accident. “Kismet,” Jessica would have said. She took full advantage of such fortunate accidents. Her detective pal, George Hernandez, hated the idea that chance, rather than police work, played any role in solving a mystery. To my surprise, Mitchum didn’t go off on us at all.
“Albert Simpson, that's the Sanctuary's big shot lawyer! How do you like that?”
“Do you mean Davis’ lawyer?” I asked, glancing at Brien as I spoke loud enough for him to hear my question.
“No, Simpson’s not his personal attorney. He’s a member of the firm that represents the development group that built the resort. Guess who provided the funds to bail out Davis though?”
“Albert Simpson.”
“Yep.” That wasn’t all the news Davis had for us.
“Guys, let’s order from room service.” I looked around. “I have news from Mitchum that I'd better share in private.” My uneasiness about that disappearing routine we had just witnessed outside the hotel men’s shop returned. If Albert Simpson was our mastermind, he could have eyes and ears anywhere.
“So tell us. What’s up?” Brien asked, as soon as we had closed and locked the door to our suite. I dropped my packages on the sofa in our sitting room.
“Mitchum had the owner of that store in San Albinus—Nonesuch Nautical—take a look at Owen's stuff they hauled out of the cave. Not all of what they found is junk. Well, it’s junk, but some of it is debris from a shipwreck.”
“Like a pirate ship? You told Mitchum the book you bought at Nonesuch Nautical said there could have been pirates in Corsario Cove.”
“Pirates, maybe, but not that old, Brien. The remnants are from a boat that went down in the 1980s under suspicious circumstances. It set out from Miami for San Francisco and never made it. The Dade County Police and the DEA had the owner of that boat on a watch list.”
“Miami in the 80s—as in Miami Vice? You know, Don Johnson, fast boats, contraband…” Mick stopped talking. I must have looked blank. I knew more about that show than Sea Hunt, but not much more. I love watching vintage television show reruns in syndication. Old movies too.
“That’s not my era, Mick. I’m more a fan of the fifties and sixties. Not only those Beach Blanket Bingo and Gidget movies, featuring hunky surfers like my Moondoggie. Those shows starring women with classic style, like Lucy, That Girl, Laura Petrie.” My turn to shut up. Mick’s face had gone slack.
“Too bad,” he said. “Miami Vice was one slick show. Those dudes knew how to deal with vice. The good old-fashioned kind of contraband, too—cocaine and other drugs. Money, too, of course. None of those fake purses and CDs that Opie was stealing from Davis and his crew of pirates.”
“Wow! If Owen located a sunken boatload of drugs or money, that would have been a real score. Enough to get guys with deep pockets interested in retrieving it, don’t you think?” Brien exuded the excitement that you feel when a piece of a puzzle falls into place. A big honking motive for murder is an important piece, too.
“Yeah, it could be. The cops are all over it, already. Mitchum seemed a little more interested in that GPS device, too. He didn’t refer to it as the Maltese Falcon even once and asked if Mick had remembered where he left it. I told him we had tried to find it, and that Mick’s Santa suit is now in the wind, too.” Brien’s enthusiasm fled.
“Too bad we didn’t find that GPS thing down in the laundry room. I hate sitting around doing nothing. It's a bummer waiting for police investigators to catch those bogus dudes before they can come after Mick again.”
And maybe after us, too, I thought but did not add. Who knows what Curly and Larry had in mind for us before they spotted poor Goddard when he stuck his head out the back door of Corsario’s Hideaway? They had smacked him like they were playing a game of whack-a-mole. Two down and who knows how many more to go? I wondered as I dialed room service to order lunch.
“Did Mitchum say when they’re sending someone to take Mick into protective custody?”
“No, Brien. He was still at the scene where they found John Doe. A big guy with a bald head, shot at close range. Whoa, Mick, when you said Curly was bald, did you mean totally bald, as in a shaved head? Tattoo on that bald head?”
“Yep.”
“Make that three down,” I mumbled. Brien tilted his head and had this adorable, curious puppy dog look on his face.
“Did you say something, Kim?” I opened my mouth to respond when I was interrupted.
“Room service,” a voice said on the other end of the line. I held up one finger, and Brien tilted his head the other way. I smiled.
“I’d like to order lunch.” Brien nodded like he got what was going on.
“Of course, Ms. Reed, what can we bring you?” Addressed by name, this place never missed a beat! Our profile must be up and at the ready. I let them know I’d be ordering for three of us, starting with Brien’s favorite, the Sanctuary Mission Burger. A burger on a mission alright. Two huge Wagyu aged beef patties with cheddar cheese on a freshly-made sourdough bun. They topped it off with a Brandied Mission Sauce and served it with hand-cut French fries. Brien had tried to sell Mick on the idea of ordering one too, but the thought of anything boozy was still off limits. He even passed up the opportunity to order a beer. That had to be a first! A bison burger for him instead, made with a grass-fed bison patty, barbecue sauce, Emmental cheese, and a bunch of other good things.
A burger sounded delicious. One of the temptations I often faced now that Brien was in my life. I’m not quite a believer that “meat is murder” but strive to stay on the veggie side of the foodie fence. I’d already strayed into carnivore territory with that bacon this morning. It’s as though the guy on the other end of the line read my mind!
“If I may make a suggestion for you, Ms. Reed, the chef has a special today. A spicy mushroom quinoa veggie burger topped with Monterey Jack cheese and an avocado and tomatillo relish…”
“Say no more! You've made a sale.” I added house salads for the three of us. My effort to counter Brien's overdependence on junk food and exert a positive influence on his eating habits. The salads made here at the resort are delicious. Lots of fresh ingredients, including herbs and greens grown in the monastery gardens. I hung up the phone and picked up the conversation where I had left off.
“I said, ‘three down’—Owen Taylor, Bob Goddard, and one less stooge to worry about.” I looked directly at Brien as I spoke. “From Mitchum’s description of the dead guy, I’m fairly sure it�
��s Curly.”
“Whoa, terminated. That’s brutal. Not that Curly didn’t deserve it after helping Larry do sick stuff to Goddard. And for what he helped him do to me, too.”
“Hey, what if Larry’s dead, too, Mick? Maybe their boss has called off the hunt for Owen’s GPS and is tying up loose ends,” I offered, hoping beyond hope that this latest ordeal was over.
“You could be right, Kim. Davis could be next. Having him in custody has to be a problem for whoever’s behind all this. How big a problem depends on how much Davis knows and how willing he is to spill the beans to the police.”
“And, if he gets the chance to do that before he becomes the next loose end that’s tied up. Davis must realize he’s vulnerable. You’d think if he had any useful inside information about what’s going on he’d use it to play ‘let’s make a deal,’ but what do I know? Mitchum didn’t offer any updates about Davis, and I didn’t ask.” I shrugged.
“I wish there was something we could do to figure out why they thought that GPS device was worth killing people. Sitting around here, after we’ve had our lunch, sounds like a bummer.”
“I don’t like sitting around here either. What if we don’t?” It could be Simpson was closing down his operation and had whacked his last mole. Of course, if I was wrong about that, doing nothing wasn’t going to get us off the “whack-a-mole” list if there was one. I pitched my idea to Mick and Brien. Neither of them offered a bit of resistance. While we waited for lunch, Mick switched out of those new slacks and silk shirt. He put on jeans and a sweatshirt, another of the outfits he bought in the men’s shop. Where we were going it would be better to dress down.
9 chamber of heinousness
Twenty minutes later we pushed our way between those bushes at the top of the cliffs overlooking Corsario Cove. Then we descended those steps Mick had described. That seemed like it took forever, but it was no more than another twenty minutes until we arrived at an opening cut out of the stone wall. Call it cleithrophobia or claustrophobia—I don’t care which—something disturbing crept over me as we made our way down those steps.
Gnarly New Year (Corsario Cove Cozy Mystery #2) Page 7