“Sweet Annette Funicello! I found it!”
I leap out from the back seat, my fingers clutching the brilliant ring. A half-swamp thing, half man with sandy-blond hair who’s talking to an older woman with severe bangs looks over my way for a second, but they return to their intense conversation totally unfazed. Miss Dupart is elated.
“Goldie, darling, you truly are a godsend,” says Miss Dupart while she places the ring on her wrinkly finger alongside all her other rings. “I’d better make my entrance. You never know if they’re looking for another damsel in distress.”
Miss Dupart hands me a dollar, and I tuck the crisp new bill inside the pocket of my scratchy uniform. This time, Clementine’s bark is one of approval.
“Break a leg, Miss Dupart,” I say.
The Crossed Palms Resort is a sprawling estate with three—count ’em—three pools. There are cabanas, cabana boys, a lounge with a piano, a cigar room, and an extravagant ballroom for weddings and fancy parties. Guests can learn how to cha-cha-cha or be left alone to stroll on the beach looking for seashells. We even have honest-to-goodness pink flamingos roaming around. Anyone who is anyone ends up staying at the Crossed Palms. Starlets, families, and mambo singers straight from Cuba. You name it, I’ve seen it all.
So that’s what you see when you’re checking in, but what you don’t see is the behind-the-scenes magic that makes this hotel run so smoothly. I know every secret hallway—including the one that will lead me to Chef François (where he will let me sneak a taste of his famous onion soup) or the one that takes me to where a high-stakes game of cards is starting. As a kid I played hide-and-seek in the laundry room and was taught how to Hula-Hoop by a magician. I think I “borrowed” my first golf cart at eight? (Don’t tell anyone.) The Crossed Palms Resort has been my home ever since Dad got a job working here ten years ago. Now that I’m sixteen, I get to work here, too. All I need is that one big case to make me an official detective. It will happen soon enough. I can feel it in my bones; just need to keep my eyes and ears open. Actually, I need all my senses working in order to make my private-eye dreams come true!
When Mr. Maple, the owner of the Crossed Palms Resort, alerted us that the Baldwin Movie Studios was planning to shoot their film at the hotel, I had no idea it would mean a full-on convention of movie monsters and serious movie-business types. Mr. Maple warned us to treat every single person arriving at the hotel like royalty. His actual words: “Each demand by these Hollywood types, no matter the case, must be met with expediency and a smile. Understood?” Mr. Maple can be a bit demanding himself, but that’s beside the point. Message was received loud and clear. Demands must be met!
A silver Corvette pulls up to the valet tent. What a beaut. A 1951 original. On first impression, the guy pulling up definitely falls in the demanding-movie-business-type category, especially with the large cigar he’s chomping on.
“Welcome to the Crossed Palms Resort, the hotel where your every wish is at your fingertips!” I say.
Mr. Very Important barely grumbles.
“Find a shady spot,” he says, and tosses me his car keys.
“Of course, sir.”
The thing about being a good detective is that you have to pay close attention to details. For example, I notice how his car is immaculately polished. It is as shiny as if it were new. This can mean one of two things: Either Mr. Very Important likes things to be immaculate, or maybe he doesn’t want to leave behind any evidence of his recent whereabouts. But next I notice that he collects matchbooks, which reveal exactly where he’s been. Aha. I note that one matchbook is from New York, courtesy of the Empire State Building illustration. Another one is from Malibu, Los Angeles. You can tell by the surf. The last item I notice is a small pink handkerchief, smelling of a strong perfume and peeking out from under the front seat. Is it from his wife? Or a movie star? Or is it his? Who knows?
While I let everything percolate in my brain, I’ll flex my driving skills in this beautiful silver baby. I pop the clutch and hit the accelerator. I’m sure Mr. Very Important won’t mind if I really test his car, make sure it can handle hairpin turns. After a couple of loops around the lot, I finally find the perfect shady space.
What do you know? It’s break time.
I head inside the lobby, which is bustling with guests checking in. It’s Monday morning and the excitement is simmering.
“Hey, Cheryl,” I yell across the lobby. “Can you believe it? You must be in heaven studying these sea creatures.”
Cheryl Lebeaux is by far the smartest girl I know. She wants to be an astronaut; that’s how smart she is. Who else would read a five-pound science book for fun?
“Ha! If only they were real. Just a bunch of actors in rubber costumes. Anyway, I want to study actual stars, as in hydrogen and helium, straight from the cosmos,” she says dreamily, staring up at the ceiling. I try to decipher the diagrams in the oversize science book she has open on the counter. It’s so complicated. I don’t know how she does it. “And speaking of space, you need to stop using the cars you park as your personal spaceships.”
“Well, I figured if I find the right velocity timed with the right pressure and x factor something something, I’ll be the first person to land on the moon.”
“Be serious, Goldie.” She grabs the science book from me. “Don’t let Mr. Maple see you or you’ll be toast.”
“Why? Is he here?” I look around. I must confess: I didn’t stop with golf carts. I’ve been known to “borrow” cars once in a while. I consider each one its own unique tutorial. I mean, if I continue to be a solid driver, then I can only be that much more valuable to the resort. Right?
About the Author
Lilliam Rivera is an award-winning writer and author of the young adult novels Dealing in Dreams and The Education of Margot Sanchez. Her favorite TV detective is Columbo, and she wishes she could be half as smart and adventurous as Goldie! Lilliam lives in Los Angeles, California.
Goldie Vance--The Hocus-Pocus Hoax Page 14