by Mysti Parker
Slack-jawed, Nick picks up the empty cage. A white feather lands on his head.
The Roche Hotel #15
Snow Time Like the Present
On Monday after Thanksgiving, I come in early for work at 2:30 p.m. Carol had worked Thanksgiving Day for me so I could spend it with Mom and Henry. So, I owed her a bit of a break. But, instead of leaving, she parks herself on the worn-out couch in the lobby, filing her nails. She lifts her feet for Mrs. Gonsalves to scoot the carpet broom under her chair.
“Why aren’t you going home?” I ask.
“Didn’t you hear?”
Obviously, I had not, hence the question. “No, what’s up?”
“WAMM says the biggest snow storm since ’78 is coming.”
Outside in the hotel parking lot, sun glints off the hood of my car. Leave it to WAMM to stir up some weather panic. The supermarkets will be out of bread and milk before sundown.
“How was your Thanksgiving?” Carol asks. “I spent mine with Jerry. He’s such a good cook.”
“Wow, he’s just full of surprises, isn’t he?”
“Yes he is,” Carol says, giggling.
Jerry’s much too hairy for me to imagine what she’s giggling about. “I cooked for Henry—if you can call picking it all up from the deli and warming it in the oven cooking.”
“You two should get married already.”
“I don’t…um…” Marriage is only a distant bleep on the radar of my future. And Carol’s the last person I want to discuss it with. Behind the closed office door, I hear Richard’s raised voice. He’s loud, though far from shouting. Instead, he emphasizes every syllable like he’s speaking to a hard-of-hearing person.
“What’s going on in there?” I toss my head toward the office.
Carol shrugs, admiring her pink nails. “I think Richard’s mad at your ex about all the drunks from the Orchid Club.”
“Really?” Dare I hope that Nick will suffer for it? Easing closer to the door, I can make out they’re saying.
“This practice of paying for all the guests’ bar tabs is not feasible. The hotel is barely staying afloat.”
Finally, Nick’s getting his just desserts. I know I shouldn’t be smiling so smugly, but it feels so good.
Henry’s voice startles me. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that eavesdropping isn’t nice?”
“Shh,” I whisper. “You’re a little early for dinner, aren’t you?”
He holds up a bag. “Didn’t want you to get stranded in the blizzard with no food, so I brought our leftovers. We can’t waste such a great homemade meal.”
“Yeah, right. Don’t forget to kiss the cook.”
Henry leans across the front desk and gives me a quick peck on the lips. “What are you being so nosy about?”
“Richard’s giving Nick what for about the bar tabs.” I tiptoe back to the office door and lean close to it again.
Richard’s still going, his voice having reached the pitch of a preacher just getting warmed up. “Think about liability. What if one guest were to drive drunk and have an accident? We could be held accountable.”
“That’s why I ask every guest to leave their keys at the front desk first, so they can’t drive unless they steal a car, and that would hardly be our fault. O’Shea’s Tavern is just a quick stroll across the parking lot, so they don’t even need to drive.”
As usual, Nick has a way of making his screw-ups sound like brilliant ideas. But, surely the money he’d wasted would be the last straw that brought my ex-husband’s scheming to the chopping block.
“Just hear me out,” Nick says. “Take a look at these audit sheets. We’re in the black, Richard.”
“We are? Let me see those…” Papers rustle, then Richard exclaims, “By Jove, we are! But, how?”
“Marketing, my friend. We pay for only two drinks each, not the whole tab. It’s enough to give O’Shea’s some business, which encourages O’Shea’s to bring business to us.”
The shrill whine of a suppressed scream whistles up my throat and through my lips. There must be steam coming from my ears. Henry chuckles, and I throw my laser glare at him.
He holds his hand up in surrender. “I told you nothing good comes from eavesdropping, Lady Jane.”
“Oh be quiet, your highness.”
****
By the time Henry and I finish an early dinner of leftovers at 4:15 p.m., an inch of snow covers the parking lot. Maybe Carol was right about the blizzard after all. She’s already made camp in Room 3.
Richard heads for the ice machine. “I’ll be in Room 2 with Susan if you need anything.”
“How’s her ankle?”
“Still swollen, and with the snowfall, we might as well stay for the night.”
She’d sprained it the night before in a failed attempt to remove Mrs. Roche’s shame-covering gray shawl from the David statue. Right on cue, the elderly troublemaker wanders into the lobby. Richard throws her a dirty look, but she ignores him and picks a stray thread from his jacket.
“Ice and aspirin. She’ll be fine in the morning.” Mrs. Roche sits at a table in the breakfast area with some knitting.
The d-list gothic rock band we’ve been expecting files into the lobby, dusting snow off their heads. Their jackets are emblazoned with: Lobotomy Assassins.
“Is that the name of their band?” Henry whispers.
“I think so,” I answer, trying not to stare at their black spiked hair, black nail polish, and black eyeliner. They stand at the front desk, still and quiet as the David statue. They’re certainly not rowdy…yet.
Henry gives me a sweet kiss, the tingly kind that makes me wish I was curled up with him at home instead of working at this place.
“I better go. Are you sure you’re OK here with Saint Nickolas, the jerk?” he asks.
“Yeah, I’ll be fine. You got me a taser, remember?”
“Want me to test it?” Henry grins evilly.
“Oh no, if anyone tests it on Nick, it’ll be me. I’ll see you in the morning. Surely the snow won’t be that bad.”
Henry heads out to his car while I hurry to check in the band.
Nick hands them their drink cards, good for: “Two free drinks at O’Shea’s!” he shouts like the town crier. “Even for your bus driver, there, but you’ll have to leave your keys, sir. The Roche Hotel wants to make sure you have a fun and safe night.”
They all nod and give a thumbs up, then file out to get their drink on.
Nick slides over to me. “Not exactly an exuberant bunch, are they?”
“No, and that’s fine by me.”
“Looks like we’re stuck together tonight.”
“Oh, joy.”
“Don’t sound so excited,” he grumbles, never having been a fan of my sarcasm.
I give him a thumbs up and an outrageously fake wink. “You got it.”
The front door opens, followed by a blast of cold air, a shower of snow, and an abominable snowman. Make that two. The creatures do a dog shake over the lobby rug. Goose-feather sized snowflakes fall around their boots.
Jerry knocks snow from his beard. “Gettin’ bad,” he mutters and props his snow shovel on David’s pedestal.
The other abominable snowman is Henry.
“What are you doing back?” I ask. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you.”
“Car won’t start,” he says. “Thanks for trying, Jerry.”
“I think you gotta mm na ma nam.” He lurches down the hall to the janitor closet.
Henry looks at me and shrugs. Clearly, he hasn’t learned the language of Jerry’s people.
Time for me to translate. “He says you’ve got a bad carburetor.”
“Well, I guess that means I’ll have to stay tonight. Hope you’ve got an open room.” He grants me a knee-wobbling smile and douses Nick with a “take that” grin.
Nick fires back with, “We’re not a shelter, Donut Guy. It’s $99 a night.”
“Does that make it a two star hotel?” Henry pulls out hi
s wallet and slaps his debit card on the counter. “I’d say Jane makes it three. Oh, and don’t forget my drink card.”
I can’t hold back a laugh. Looks like the whole crew will be here tonight, including my black sheep of an ex-husband and my boyfriend. And why not? It’s business as usual at The Roche Hotel. Bring it on.
The Roche Hotel #16
Murder, Michelangelo Wrote
At ten minutes ‘til midnight, the lights flicker. The Muzak squeaks through Michael Jackson’s Beat It like it’s in pain. Or maybe it’s warning us of impending doom. Carol and Jerry are deep in conversation at the table closest to the kitchen. Henry and I are snuggled up under a blanket on the mauve loveseat close to the front desk in the lobby. The springs are shot—it feels like my butt is being swallowed by a velour sinkhole, but I’m not about to sit anywhere near Nick. He’s at the large round table in the breakfast area with Richard and Mrs. Roche. They’re playing rummy with some worn-out poker cards we found in the janitor closet.
“We really should invest in some new board and card games for our guests,” Richard says, holding his cards at arms’ length because he’s lost his reading glasses again. “Perhaps some video game consoles as well. I’m sure Susan would agree.”
“Excellent idea,” Nick says, slapping down a card. “If there’s anything I can do for you while she’s recovering, let me know.”
Henry whispers, “What a brownnoser.”
He kisses that spot under my ear that makes me quiver, which spawns an evil look from Nick.
Mrs. Roche puts her knitting aside, goes to the counter and rummages through a drawer in search of her nightly tea. “Cards are the devil’s playthings. And alcohol. Horrid stuff.”
Either she’s forgotten her night with the stripper and her red Solo cup of ‘special’ punch, or she’s feeling guilty about it. Finding the lobby TV remote between the cushions, I decide to flip on the news and see how bad the snowpocalypse has become.
The smiling, high-heeled meteorologist delivers the somber news like it’s the Best Day Ever: “…currently estimates 3,000 customers out of power. We’re looking at a total of fifteen inches possible with this snow event. If you don’t have to go out, don’t.”
“I could sure use a drink right now,” Carol says. She holds up her hand, orange press-on nails quiver and mismatched bracelets jangle like she’s in a state of withdrawal.
Mrs. Roche plops a teabag into her cup of microwaved water. “You’ll never find a man if you’re a drunk.”
“I have one mimosa a night, thank you very much.”
Jerry mutters something and pulls a silver flask from his coveralls. I think he winks, but it’s hard to tell with all the hair. He pours a little into Carol’s soda. She giggles.
Settling back into her seat at the table, Mrs. Roche takes a few sips of tea. In five minutes, her head’s on her chest, snoring loud enough to wake the dead.
The gothic rock band had returned from the bar over an hour ago. But, their drinks must have turned them from stoic statues to party animals. Electric guitar music, shouting, and curses ebb and flow from down the hall. A glass shatters on the wall, making me cringe.
Richard glares at Nick, who laughs nervously. “We may need to tweak that drink card idea.”
Mrs. Gonsalves emerges from the office, where she’s been scooting her floor sweeper for the past half hour. The lights flicker again, then go out. The Muzak whines to a halt on a Celine Dion high note. Expletives from the band echo down the hall. The only light left is the emergency EXIT sign over the entranceway, except most of the bulbs are shot, and only the X is lit up. Everything is silent in the lobby for about two seconds.
Then there’s chaos. Mrs. Gonsalves rattles her rosary and recites the Hail Mary prayer. Carol gasps. Her bracelets jangle like a dinner bell. Chairs bang against tables.
Nick yells, “The fuse box! Jerry, where’s the fuse box?”
“Power’s out. Fuse box ain’t gonna work.”
“We have a generator out back. It’s enough to make power for the lobby. Jane, can you hear me?” Richard yells, as though darkness has made me deaf.
“Yes, I can hear you fine.”
Henry chuckles, and I elbow him.
“Can you make your way into the office and find the flashlight? It’s in the top desk drawer, I think.”
“OK, I think I can.” Being the responsible employee I am, I jump up and promptly bang my shin on the end table. “Ow, ow, ow!”
Henry’s phone lights up, and he wraps his arm around my waist to keep me from falling. “Whoa there, Lady Jane. Take this so you don’t kill yourself.” He hands me his phone.
“Thanks, my liege.” I use the backlight on Henry’s phone to light the way. It buzzes in my hand. I look at the screen. It’s a text from Anne. Henry’s former fiancée? Surely not, but then I read the text: Thanks for letting me crash at your place. The snow is terrible. Are these your girlfriend’s undies? A picture pops up with the next buzz—it’s a lacy Victoria’s Secret panty I’d bought on clearance in the lonely void between Nick and Henry. They’d been stuffed into the back of my messy underwear drawer. Until recently. And now they were apparently in the hands of Henry’s ex. Before I can properly register what that means, another text buzzes in: How big is this girl? I could fit two of me in these.
My mouth hangs open in silent shock. I forget how to breathe.
Henry breaks the spell. “What’s wrong?”
I start shaking all over, registering at least 6.0 on the Richter scale. The cell phone backlight jerks all over the place—illuminating the carpet, the couch, Henry getting up, his hand reaching for mine. He catches my wrist and stops the earthquake in my arm.
“Jane—what is it?”
“What is it?” I repeat dumbly. “What is it? Nothing much, just this!”
I shove the phone at his face. He jerks back so it doesn’t hit him in the eye. Gently, he takes it from my hand.
“What’s the hold up?” Nick calls out from the darkness. “Now’s not the time for a lover’s spat, Donut Guy.”
Henry and I both yell, “Quiet!”
After a few flicks of his finger across the screen, Henry’s mouth is drawn in, his eyes narrow. “She’s nuts. I can’t believe she did that. I’m sorry, Jane.”
Even in the dark, I can feel Nick’s prowling eyes on us. So, I lower my voice and whisper, “Sorry? Really? Just how many nights has she been at your place while I’ve been here at work?”
“It’s not what you think.”
“Then what is it? Seems pretty obvious to me.” I tap the picture. “She’s in your apartment, holding my underwear! I’ll have to burn them now. And she called me fat!”
He shakes his head. “She works a block away, and the snow was so bad, she couldn’t drive home. I knew I’d be snowed in here at the hotel when she first texted me, so I told her she could stay. That’s it. Anne and I are done.”
“But she has a key?”
“No, I keep a spare hidden under the rug.”
“That’s really stupid.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Hello? Flashlight!” Nick yells.
“Quiet!” Henry and I yell back.
Henry takes my hand and puts the cell phone back into it. “Here,” he whispers, “take it and get the flashlight. But please don’t burn the underwear. You look awesome in them.”
“Whatever.” I have a mission to complete, though, so I hurry to the office, open the desk drawer, and find the silver flashlight. Flicking it on, I stand there ruminating for a second as the yellow beam sheds light on the stained office carpet. Either Henry is lying or he’s too nice to tell his ex to buzz off and take her chances in the snow. I really want to believe the latter, but…
Kaboom! A horrible crash comes from the lobby.
“Everyone ok?” I yell.
“Yeah,” answers the chorus of familiar voices.
“Si,” says Mrs. Gonsalves.
Walking back out with the comfort of an old
flashlight beam to guide me, I scan past Henry to the tile floor at the entrance. We have ourselves a victim, all right. The flashlight shines across the crime scene, where the David statue—the bane of Mrs. Roche’s existence—lies on his back, fallen from his pedestal. His head is a few feet away, along with a few bits of stone he lost during the mishap.
Richard picks his way through the chairs and over to me. “How did this happen? None of us were close to the statue. Flashlight please.”
“Mi fantasma,” Mrs. Gonsalves gasps. “Very mad.”
“Nonsense,” he says.
I give the light to Richard, and he sweeps it over the suspects. Nick’s got his arms crossed. He rubs his chin and glares at Henry and me with a scheming scowl. Mrs. Roche blinks into the light, breathing hard. Her hand is on her chest like the fright has almost induced a heart attack. Richard lets the light linger on her for a moment, until she frowns at him. He continues sweeping the light until the beam lands on a sasquatch.
“Ah!” Richard jumps. “Jerry, you gave me a fright.”
“Mm hmm. I’ll go flip the switch.”
Richard hands him the flashlight, and he ambles away. In a couple of minutes, the lobby lights come back on, followed by the beeps of the computers. The Muzak squeals to life with Pink singing, Let’s Get This Party Started.
But poor David’s partying days are over.
Jerry comes back in, grunts at the murder scene, and picks up the head. “Super glue,” he mutters and heads for the janitor closet.
“So…” Nick says, strutting over to me. “I think I know who the culprit is. It was the Donut Guy, in the lobby, with an angry girlfriend. Am I right?”
“Shove it,” Henry and I say in unison. At least we’re on the same wavelength when it comes to silencing Nick. Where we stand beyond that, I don’t know yet.
“I’m going to bed,” Mrs. Roche says. “You can mourn that hideous thing all you want.”
She scoops up her knitting and shuffles down the hall.
Richard turns off the flashlight, looks down at the decapitated statue, and shakes his head. “If I had to guess, I’d say it was a little old lady, in the lobby, with the perfect opportunity.”