The Roche Hotel (Short & Sweet Romantic Comedy): Season Three

by Mysti Parker

  At 10:00 AM, we head to the hospital, only to be told that Mrs. Roche isn’t accepting any visitors. Dr. Lu, a handsome man with shiny black, perfectly combed hair, meets us at the nurses’ station in the cardiac ward.

  Dr. Lu shrugs his shoulders and looks at his clipboard. “I’m sorry. I can’t say much due to privacy laws, but I can tell you she’s not going to be here much longer.”

  “That’s good, right?” One of the nurses is ogling Henry while pretending to be busy at the copy machine. I glare at her, and she quickly averts her eyes then scurries off with a pitcher, sloshing water from it as she goes. I turn back to Dr. Lu. “Oh, wait, when you say ‘not going to be here much longer,’ do you mean here at the hospital here? Or here on earth here?”

  Dr. Lu laughs. “Here at the hospital. Sorry I can’t tell you more, but I think she’s pretty far from danger.”

  “Thanks, doc. Give her our love.”

  “Will do.”

  Our next stop is The Roche. As soon as we step inside, Susan gestures us over to the front desk and hands me an envelope containing two weeks of hard-earned pay.

  “Where is everyone?” I ask.

  “Carol’s on her lunch break. I think Nick is with Brandy at the doctor's office or something. Richard’s waiting at the hospital. It’s been crazy, but it’s so exciting!”

  “The heart attack?”

  She’s taken aback for a moment. “Um, no…”

  “I’m joking. You mean the secret room, right? Any treasures found yet?”

  She giggles. “Not exactly. Come with me. I’ll show you.”

  I follow Susan down the hall to Room 12. The door is standing open, and light is glaring from it. Sheets cover the beds, artwork and other furniture, which is all pushed up against one wall. Good thing too. Drywall dust and debris is everywhere. The ragged hole cut into the wall is also lit up. Blinking into the utility lights, I see Andrew the YouTube guy with some kind of Go-Pro camera strapped around his head like a carrot leading a horse.

  Susan whispers, “I’m going back to watch the front desk.”

  “Okay, I’ll hang around a minute.”

  I start to ask Andrew about it, but he starts narrating:

  “This is pretty exciting, folks. Down here…” He steps down into the hole, looking into his camera as he goes. “…Jerry Garcia – no, not the Grateful Dead one – is investigating the find. Tell us what you’ve found, Jerry.”

  I ease over to the hole and poke my head through. Another utility lamp is hung on one of the exposed studs, revealing rough stone steps going down to something. Jerry and Andrew are blocking my view.

  “Ma num na fo,” Jerry mumbles.

  “I’m sorry?” Andrew asks.

  I interpret. “He says it looks like a phone.”

  Andrew spins around, and turns his camera to me. “That seems pretty ludicrous, doesn’t it? Why would someone hide a phone?”

  Little British jerk. Playing up the drama for his YouTube channel, I guess. I adopt my deeper, slightly macabre voice. “Stranger things have happened here.”

  “Right, like the supposed ghost. Pay special attention to our footage, folks. If you see any orbs, shadows, or other anomalies, leave a comment below.”

  Below what? I’m so out of the loop with this internet lingo.

  “Now let’s see if Jerry found a phone, like Ms. Seymour seems to think.”

  Jerry bends down to a toolbag at his feet. Now I can clearly see that he was right. There on the old brick wall where the stairs come to a dead end is an old rotary phone. I point down the stairs at it.

  Andrew follows my line of sight and whispers an f-bomb under his breath. “It is, in fact, a phone. Now this begs the question, how would Ms. Seymour know to point us to this location and know what we’d find? What is she hiding?” He turns his GoPro back on me, aiming the little red recording light at my face.

  I put one hand on my hip and hold the other in front of his camera. “Oh for goodness sakes, I’m not hiding anything. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.”

  He dodges my hand shield, pinning the camera on me again. “Oh? Then what’s the significance of the phone?”

  “If you’d keep your camera on Jerry, you might find out.”

  Andrew turns back to Jerry, who’s busily listening on one side of the phone with a stethoscope and slowly turning the rotary dial, trying one number after the other. Surely the phone doesn’t still work? It looks like something my grandmother once had in her parlor.

  “What are you doing, Jerry?” Andrew asks, stepping closer to the ‘find.’ “Ordering a pizza?”

  “Nay na fo.”

  Before I can translate, Andrew says, "I think Jerry said it isn't actually a phone. If not, then what it could be?"

  Jerry takes the stethoscope from his ears and drapes it over his shoulders like a doctor. He dials four numbers in succession, very precisely for a man with such large hands. The wall shakes, swings backward, and a cloud of dust sweeps up the stairs. I retreat into the hallway just as the two coughing men scramble out behind me.

  Once the dust clears, Jerry grabs a utility lamp and descends into the dark recesses beyond the fake phone-door. Andrew follows, after wiping his camera with a microfiber cloth, and holds a handkerchief over his nose and mouth. I venture to the top of the steps and squint to see what they’ve found. Light glints off a broken glass bottle on an old brick floor.

  Andrew steps in and gasps. “What we have here, if I’m not mistaken, is an old bar.” He takes the light from Jerry and shines it around the room while turning the GoPro. “And if my American history isn’t too rusty, I’d say this is in fact more than an old bar. This, my friends, is a speakeasy. What is a speakeasy, you might ask? It’s an illegal bar from the Prohibition period back in the late 1920’s, when all sales of alcohol were, you guessed it, prohibited. Of course, you can’t keep a good drink down, so these little illicit bars sprang up in basements and cellars and closets all over the country. And quite often the only access was via false doors in places such as phone booths, Dr. Who style. Can you say TARDIS, anyone? We’ve stepped right back in time.”

  Okay, so maybe Andrew the YouTube guy isn’t half bad after all. He does put on a good show. And if he’s right, I know a certain ex-spouse that will be over the moon about a speakeasy. Then I realize something else. Uncovering a den of iniquity she’s tried to hide for decades must have been too much for Mrs. Roche’s poor dear heart. Will today’s breakthrough push her over the edge?

  Episode #29

  Drink Some, Lose Some

  Over the next week, the hubbub surrounding the new speakeasy attracted a lot of everyone: news crews, protestors from the Temperance Society, curious guests, building and health inspectors and a contingent of construction workers and contractors bidding on contracts to renovate it. The room is quite spacious, with several features like the brick bar itself, though the rotted wood plank top needs replacing. It also has a great brick floor and some cast iron stools that need a little TLC, but otherwise the place has good bones.

  One afternoon when things are relatively quiet, except for the Muzak which is stuck on Jimmy Buffet’s ‘Margaritaville,’ Richard asks Nick and me about possible decorating themes. We sit around the desk in the office.

  I, of course, want a Tudor theme. “Board and batten paneled walls, exposed beams, a flagstone hearth with an elaborate mantel, the whole nine yards.”

  Nick shakes his head. “Not everything should be Tudorized, babe. I say we do a mob theme, since it was guys like Al Capone who cashed in on the Prohibition.”

  “Those are quite different themes.” Richard pats his shirt and pants pockets, finally grabbing a tissue from the dispenser on the desk. He dabs his forehead with it. Poor guy has been a nervous wreck over this whole thing. “Here’s what I suggest. Since Jane is mostly responsible for us finding the speakeasy, we will go with her idea of Tudor décor.”

  Nick rolls his eyes. “Teacher’s pet,” he grumbles.

&nb
sp; “Sore loser,” I whisper back.

  “But,” Richard continues, “Why don’t we accessorize with mob paraphernalia? Photos and whatnot.”

  Nick covers his mouth like he’s yawning and sticks his tongue out at me, making me chuckle. It’s the first time in a long while that I haven’t wanted to poke him in the eye and tell him he could go fly a kite into Hades. It’s nice to have a bit of the old rapport we once had. Not of the romantic sort, mind you, but the friendly sort. Perhaps Nick is finally growing up to be a responsible human being after all. And maybe it took our divorce to help that along. Not every creature is compatible with every other creature. I think Nick and I are like a lion and a giraffe in a zoo – peaceful and majestic – but only if kept separated.

  Slapping his knees, Nick exclaims, “Fine, so long as I get to manage the bar.”

  Richard raises an eyebrow.

  “What? It’s like, my lifelong dream.”

  “I thought you wanted to be a movie director,” I say.

  He waves me off. “That was number two on the list.”

  “Not a bad idea. It’ll get you out of my hair at least.”

  “Seriously, babe, am I that repulsive?” At my what-do-you-think look, he adds, “Never mind. Don’t answer that. So what are we waiting for? There are a lot of bidders waiting to get this show on the road.”

  I know what Richard’s thinking before he answers. Between the chef battle and the speakeasy discovery, hotel finances have gone from red to black in a few short weeks, which is good. There’s only one thing holding us back from fully committing to the renovations.

  “It’s Mrs. Roche,” Richard says. “I cannot in good conscience continue with this bar without first getting her approval.”

  “Oh come on!” Nick jumps up and plants both hands palm down on the desk. With his black hair and intimidating stance, it’s as though he’s channeling his inner Capone. “She doesn’t own the hotel anymore. You do. Make with the decisions, already.”

  To Richard’s credit, he doesn’t take Nick’s big dog act sitting down. He slowly stands, locking eyes on his assistant manager. Nick stretches to his full height…well, as tall as his five foot nine Italian build will allow. The Muzak interrupts with Tiny Tim's terrible, warbly rendition of Tiptoe Through the Tulips as though it's trying to keep the peace.

  Richard speaks each word with the deliberate force of an angry sloth. “I will speak to Mrs. Roche. She’s been transferred to Shady Serenity. Jane, perhaps you’d like to accompany me and visit your mother?”

  “I’d love to.”

  ****

  I offer to drive, and Richard doesn’t object. He’s quiet all the way to Shady Serenity. Poor guy – his worry for Mrs. Roche reminds me of how much I worried about my mom not so long ago. We pull into the parking lot and head inside.

  “Hi, Jane!” Sandy waves from the reception desk. “What brings you here this time of day?”

  “Just visiting.”

  She gives Richard a suspicious glance. I’ve been at the retirement home with both my ex and my current beau, so she probably thinks Richard’s now taken Henry’s place.

  Richard clears his throat. “I’m here to see Mrs. Roche. I’m Richard Smythe, owner and manager of The Roche Hotel. Could you direct me to her room?”

  “Oh!” Sandy brightens up, looking more than a bit relieved. “Yes, she’s down the south wing, in 145. It’s a really nice room. Jane’s mother is down that way too.”

  “Thank you. After you, Jane.” Richard waves his arm toward the corridor.

  We continue down the hall. Richard stops at Room 145, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief.

  “It’s okay. You got this.” I give his shoulder a reassuring squeeze and head toward Mom and Julius’s room at the end of the hall.

  The door is open, so I poke my head in. She and Julius are deep in thought over a game of chess at the table by the window. They’re such an adorable couple. I wonder if Henry and I will be as cute when we’re that age. Then my jaw drops at the thought of actually letting myself think that far ahead. Is that a good sign? Or am I just looking forward to retirement? This wing is like a four-star hotel compared to Mom’s old room.

  She looks up and smiles. “Jane! Come on in. I just about have Julius checked or whatever you call it.”

  He chuckles. “It’s checkmate, sweetheart.” He motions me inside. “Your mother is already whipping my tail. I just taught her how to play a few days ago. So what brings you here?”

  “My car.”

  Mom and Julius laugh.

  “Have a seat, Jane,” he says. “Care for a soda? All they let us have is diet.”

  “Because of his diabetes,” Mom whispers.

  “Yeah, but I sure do miss a good Moon Pie.”

  I pull up a velvet cushioned chair. “Sure, I’d love a soda.”

  Julius goes to their mini fridge and pulls out a Diet Pepsi. “Should I leave you two girls alone?”

  I take the can he hands to me and pop it open. “Nah, I just brought Richard over here to visit Mrs. Roche. I’m technically still on the clock.”

  Mom nods. “Oh, right. She’s been here a couple days. We had dinner with her last night. I’m not even sure why she’s here.”

  “She had a heart attack, remember?”

  Julius sits back down with a sugar free pudding and a Diet Dr. Pepper. “Well…if she had a heart attack, she sure recovered quickly. She’s been flitting all over the place, fussing with the housekeeping staff about dust on the pictures in the hall and scuffs on the floor.”

  Sounds about right. I take a drink of my soda. “Do you think she’s got some dementia?”

  “Oh, no,” Mom says, shaking her head. “I have dementia. What she has is ornery. She told us at dinner last night that she’d stay here until that…what did she call it?”

  “That den of iniquity,” Julius answered with a chuckle.

  “Yes, that. She said she’d stay here until Richard got rid of it.”

  “Ah, now we’re getting somewhere.” I take a drink of soda and rub my chin. “I think I’ll go talk to Richard. See you guys later.” I stand, give mom a kiss on the cheek, and whisper, “Queen to H5.”

  She grins and squeezes my hand. As I walk out, I hear her declare, “Checkmate!”

  I reach Room 145 in time to hear Mrs. Roche moaning. The door is cracked, so I open it a little and poke my head in. She’s lying on her bed, propped up with several pillows, looking very much like a frail old woman.

  Richard pours her some water from a clear plastic pitcher and hands her the glass. “My dear Mrs. Roche, I assure you the bar will be top notch. We’ll cater to only the best, well-behaved clientele.”

  She takes a sip and presses her fist to her chest. “It’ll be the death of me, Richard.”

  He looks up and notices me. I put a finger to my lips and motion him over.

  “Excuse me for a moment,” he says. “I need to find the men’s room. Could I get you something from the cafeteria?”

  “Just some tea, thank you,” she says feebly.

  I step out of view as Richard comes out. “Let’s walk to the cafeteria. I think there’s something you should know.”

  We order two coffees while I relate everything that Mom and Julius told me. Richard’s lips press into a thin line. “I really should have known. She’s bound and determined to have her way, even if it means faking a heart attack. What would you suggest, Jane?”

  I think for a moment while sipping the diesel fuel they call coffee. “Well, you could tell her to stuff it, but then she’s stubborn enough that she might make herself have a real heart attack just for spite.”

  He shrugs and nods.

  “Or…you could compromise. What’s the one thing that Mrs. Roche despises almost as much as that old speakeasy?”

  He sips his coffee, grimaces, then smiles brightly. “The David statue.”

  “Yep. Offer to relocate him to the new bar. With it all being downstairs, she need never see it at all. Her
room at the hotel is on the opposite end of the building, so she’ll probably not hear any noise either. Out of sight, out of mind.”

  “That’s brilliant, Jane. Do you think she’ll agree to it?”

  “There’s only one way to find out. And if not, I guess you can tell her to stuff it.”

  Richard laughs. “Let’s hope she agrees. I’d rather not tell her to stuff anything.”

  I get Mrs. Roche a cup of Earl Gray before we return to Room 145, where she’s now asleep with her head drooped on her chest. Her thin, wrinkled lips vibrate with soft snores. Richard knocks on the open door. She startles awake, sitting up straight, her dark eyes as sharp and stern as ever. She looks like she’s ready to rip us a new one until she recognizes us. Then she wilts back onto her pillows and clutches her chest.

  “Oh, you gave me such a fright,” she whimpers. “Jane dear, is that my tea?”

  “Yes.” I hand the cup to her. “I hope you’ll like it here. My mother said it was a pleasure to meet you.”

  She takes the cup, a shaky hand making it rattle on the saucer, and sets it on her blanketed lap. “Thank you. She’s lovely. No wonder you’re such a beauty, and so considerate too, unlike some people.” Her narrowed eyes slant toward Richard.

  He just smiles and wipes his forehead. “My dear Mrs. Roche, I have an idea that might ease your mind.”

  She perks up a bit, her teacup no longer shaking as she takes a sip. “Do you? Go on.”

  “I know you’ve been less than pleased about the statue of David in the lobby…”

  “That hideous white monstrosity? What about it?”

  “We’d like to relocate him to the new tavern. Then, you won’t have to see him at all, really. We will soundproof the walls and door to the tavern, so you’ll never be disturbed by any noise. And of course, it will close promptly at midnight and will only be available to registered hotel guests. Mr. Seymour has assured me he will enforce a cutoff to anyone who begins to show signs of intoxication. A dedicated security staff will also be present at all times. I promise you, this will be good for the future of the Roche.”