Dead Roots

by Nancy J. Cohen

  “Well, lookee who we caught trying to plunder our treasure. This be mine, Missy. The boss said so hisself. Ya ain’t supposed to be here.” He swaggered toward her, his yellowish teeth gleaming.

  “I’m your friend, remember?” she said, backing away. The steward stood between her and the stairs.

  “Oh, so ya came to give ole Harvey what he’s been after, eh? Let’s see ya get nekked, then. Har, har.” Snatching a bottle from a wood-plank shelf, he tipped its open end to his mouth and took a deep draft.

  So this is where he gets his liquor, Marla thought, watching him smack his lips with glee. Switching off her penlight, she stuck it in her purse strapped to her shoulder. Her long metal nail file might come in handy, she figured, but not yet. Maybe she could talk her way out of this sticky situation.

  “You can’t blame me for searching for my grandfather’s wealth. It’s my legacy as his granddaughter. Or perhaps you’ve already found it. Are these bottles valuable?”

  “Only to me. The boss lets me drink my fill. Couldn’t get no job anywhere else, ya know. So I do what he tells me and he turns the other eye to my helpin’ myself.”

  Butler probably encourages you so as to keep you in his pocket. “Seto Mulch was found dead. Did you have anything to do with his murder, or my aunt’s?” Hoping to provoke him, she waited to gauge his reaction. Either he was a drunken flunky or an unscrupulous killer. Sidling toward a rack of dusty bottles, she maneuvered herself to face forward while her hand snaked back to grasp one of the glass necks.

  “I ain’t no brute. Dunno who did the dirty work on old man Mulch, but I heard he’d been mouthing off in the wrong place. Mebbe one of the boys got to him. This is where Butler brings ‘em in, ya know. Through that door there.”

  Marla glanced toward the dark corner.

  “Don’t ya be thinking about runnin’ out on me.” He leered at her. “Door only works to let folks in. Butler don’t want none of the fellows gettin’ away, ya understand. Now take off yer clothes, because I don’t have all day. We’ll do it real quick-like, then you’ll stay here till I get off duty.”

  “I don’t understand. What do you mean about Butler’s boys?” She grasped the bottle, wondering if she should bash Lyle’s head now or later.

  “None of that coy stuff, Missy. I ain’t no fool.”

  “You’re right, but it’s awfully damp in here,” she said. “We could be a lot more comfortable in Butler’s office on the couch. He’s not around, so I doubt anyone would disturb us.” She sashayed closer, tickling him under the chin with her free hand. “It’ll be easier for me to please you that way. Look,” she held up the bottle, “we can drink this together. I’ll bet he has glassware somewhere in his office.”

  Ducking, she scooted past Harvey and scrambled up the stairs with him panting heavily behind her. At least this gave her a chance to escape without resorting to violence.

  Once inside Butler’s cozy domain, she pointed to the outline on the wall that traced the grooves in the wood paneling. “Is that an entrance? I don’t see a computer or any storage space in this room.”

  Harvey unbuttoned his maroon staff jacket, underneath which he wore a sweat-stained undershirt. “Ain’t no computer in there, honey buns. Watch this.” Tossing his jacket onto the love seat, he tottered toward a bookshelf and shifted one of the volumes. The entire console rotated, exposing a computer station, fully stocked bar, and collection of CDs.

  “Wow, I’m impressed.” As though eager to proceed with their liaison, she gave Harvey a sly smile and loosened her shirt from her waistband. Her other hand still clutched the dusty rum bottle. “I still don’t see any file cabinets.”

  “He keeps that stuff in the boardroom. That’s what I call his private cellar. Can’t barely make out the door, can ya?” Patting his pocket, he grinned. “I got me own key. Boring things, those walking sticks he collects. The boss gets his kicks from ‘em, though. That’s why he runs this little show. It’s right weird, if ya ask me.”

  “What walking sticks?”

  “Fancy canes, like gents used to carry.”

  They were playing a circle dance now, Harvey edging closer, Marla sliding sideways. She had to get access to that inner office. Harvey had just discarded his T-shirt, and Marla got a quick glimpse of his scrawny chest and wasted muscles.

  Swallowing the bile rising in her throat, she approached him and ran her fingers up his arm. “Want to show me?”

  “Ain’t no business of yers what’s in there, but this is.”

  As he slanted his mouth over hers, Marla grabbed a strand of his buckskin-colored hair and yanked his head back. “Wrong answer,” she said, swinging the bottle at his head. Wincing at the impact, she was both mortified and grateful when he crumpled to the ground.

  He might not be out for long. Kneeling, she fumbled in his pocket until she felt the cool touch of a key ring. That was only half the battle. Where could the keyhole be hidden? Before turning to that task, however, she needed to guard her rear. Crossing to the liquor bar, she opened a decanter and poured some whiskey onto the steward’s chest, arranging props so it appeared as though he’d fallen in a drunken stupor.

  Satisfied that if anyone walked into the room unexpectedly, they’d jump to false conclusions, Marla attacked the wall. She could lock the office door behind them, but Butler had left it unlocked, and she’d rather complete her business, get out, and leave things as they were. Her probing fingers found a gap in the paneling that was evident on close examination. Sorting through the key ring, she found a key with the appropriate shape, inserted it, and was gratified to hear a clicking noise. She pushed the doer open easily and entered a windowless space with a single light switch.

  File cabinets lined the entire opposite wall, but that wasn’t what caught her eye. Glass cases extended from floor to ceiling on either of two sides, and in them was a collection of the most unusual walking sticks she’d ever seen. Not that she’d seen many, but these took her breath away. Each one bore a label giving its origin, description, and price. Marla’s eyes bulged at the numbers. That silver-handled German cane made in 1890 sold for $7,500. Next to it rested an ebony shaft topped with a carved ivory dog’s head for $5,500. A jeweled cane with enamel cloisonné from Russia listed its price as $6,000. Exotic wood, horn, bronze, silver, and gold decorated intricately carved handles, some from rare materials such as tortoiseshell.

  She scanned cases containing walking sticks with amber knobs, with silver collars on ebony shafts, with rams-horn crooks and painted porcelain handles. Did Butler keep more of these things at home? If so, his collection would be worth a considerable amount. And he’d need extra income just to make new purchases.

  Hey, this couldn’t be Andrew’s treasure trove, could it?

  She peered into a case containing antique canes that concealed a variety of items: syringes and blood-drawing needles, attack blades that shot out from handles, painter’s brushes, barber’s razors, full-length swords, inkstands, and even a ruler. Some of the more recent models made her conclude this was Butler’s stash, not Grandfather’s.

  Discovering the manager’s private collection wasn’t her purpose in coming here, however. She had to look through his papers. Reluctantly, she headed to the wall of file cabinets and debated which drawer to open first. A few random attempts left her frustrated when she found nothing relating to the property sale nor the blueprints.

  Wait a minute. If he really wanted to hide something from sight, wouldn’t he secure it inside one of those hollow shafts? Surely some of the antique canes had been used to transmit vital information. The display cases were locked, though, so it didn’t appear as though searching his walking sticks was a viable plan. Instead, she began a methodical search through the files, growing excited when she came to a section holding legal records.

  Oh yes. A chill crawled up her spine when she spied a folder labeled deed. Inside were copies of documents pertaining to the transfer of property. Quickly scanning through the sheaf of papers, she did
n’t come across anything singling out the penthouse levels. It appeared to be a clear and undisputed transfer of property from Ruth Marks to the current hotel owners. Her grandmother’s signature looked smudged, but there it was, clear as day.

  Disappointed, she rustled through the rest of the documents until her glance caught on a brown-edged, well-worn stack of drawings at the bottom. Finally, she’d struck pay dirt. Her gaze widened as she unfolded a construction plan for the hotel. The secret passages were outlined just as blatantly as the public rooms, and so was the actual thirteenth floor.

  So. Butler definitely had access to Andrew’s former speakeasy. Had he already found her grandfather’s loot? Was that how he could afford all those expensive antique walking sticks?

  Rumbling voices from the corridor made her quickly stuff the papers back in the drawer and shut the file cabinet. She rushed to exit the inner sanctum, barely having time to close its door and leap behind the sofa before George Butler barged inside his office.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “I have work to do,” George Butler announced.

  Crouched behind the sofa, Marla heard him thunk down a stack of papers on his desk. “I can’t be bothered with this right now. Take it up with Miss Glass.”

  “She’s not in her office.”

  Marla’s pulse leapt into her throat. That whiny voice belonged to her irksome cousin, Rochelle.

  “Ask the front desk to locate her,” the manager ordered.

  “Aren’t you worried about why the police want to question people? I mean, you’d think it would be bad for business.”

  “Young lady, may I suggest you enjoy your vacation and let me get on with my job?”

  “I mean, like, it’s bad enough that my great-aunt Polly kicked the bucket while staying at your hotel. I can’t imagine what kind of publicity that will generate when word gets out. Stay at Sugar Crest and join the spirits? This place is spooky enough, if you ask me. Just take a ride in the tower elevator.”

  “People want to believe in ghosts, so they exaggerate events to make them more exciting. You’d be surprised how quickly stories spread.”

  “Oh yeah? I think it’s so cool how you hired those ghostbusters. Watching them act, like, so serious makes this haunted-resort thing seem real, doesn’t it? Very clever.”

  Marla had to give her cousin credit for this intelligent observation. While Rochelle was distracting the manager, she realized it gave her the opportunity to slip from his office unnoticed. Darting to the love seat, she merely had to round the armchair to reach the door, which had been left partially ajar.

  “What’s this?” the manager snarled. “I didn’t leave my computer station open.”

  While his attention was diverted, Marla scampered out and into the hallway, hiding behind a near corner to continue eavesdropping.

  “Maybe one of your ghosts got in here,” Rochelle offered. Then, “What’s that smell? It’s coming from over there….Omigod, it’s a dead man. The ghost is for real!” The teenager must have bolted for the door because soon Marla heard her streaking down the corridor. At the corner, Marla shot out a hand and grabbed her by the elbow, yanking her into a recess.

  “Dammit,” they heard Butler complain, “Lyle is drunk again, the idiot. He probably hit the switch for the turnstile accidentally. Look at that mess. I’ll kill him myself.”

  “Rochelle,” whispered Marla, “take a chill pill. Harvey isn’t dead. I knocked him over the head with a bottle.”

  Her cousin’s wide eyes took in Marla’s disheveled state. “Marla, I saw you heading in this direction. When I spotted Mr. Butler in the parking lot, I tried to keep him away.”

  “You did well, cuz. You bought me enough time to escape.” She’d done her cousin an injustice and now regarded her in a newly respectful light. Releasing the young woman’s arm, which clinked with a tangle of silver bracelets, Marla surveyed her denim shorts, tank top, and sandals. Instead of playing at the beach, the girl had done her job as lookout.

  “Where is Detective Vail?” Rochelle asked, tucking a strand of highlighted brown hair behind her ear. “We should tell him you’re safe.”

  Marla gave her an affectionate smile, no longer considering the teen competition for Vail’s regard. “Let’s go find him. Have you heard about Seto Mulch?” She told Rochelle the news.

  “Oh no. You mean two people have been murdered?”

  “That’s right, since Polly didn’t die from old age or illness. But I want you to promise that you won’t say anything to our relatives. I’m not completely sure they’re all innocent.”

  Rochelle’s eyes rounded. “You suspect one of us?”

  Leading the way outside, Marla hastened to reassure her. “Not necessarily, but the police will want to question everyone, and it’s best not to reveal what we know.”

  “Oh, I get it. So if someone blurts how awful it is that Polly was done in, we’ll know they’re guilty.”

  “Something like that,” Marla agreed.

  As soon as they reached the main lobby, Marla dialed Vail’s cell phone number.

  “Are you free yet? I just discovered a storeroom behind the manager’s office. Before I conked him on the head, Harvey told me that’s where Butler brings his boys in. Wait, don’t interrupt. I want to follow the tunnels to see if they lead there. Oh, and I found the papers for—”

  “What tunnels?” Rochelle said, eagerly listening.

  “Be quiet a minute, will you?” Over the phone, Vail’s curt voice hushed Marla. “I followed up on what you said about Donna Albright. Let’s meet, and I’ll tell you about it”

  “It’s getting late, and we have to change before dinner. I’ll see you back in our room. We were supposed to meet there at six anyway,” she said, noting it was nearly five-thirty. “By the way, Rochelle’s here, and she tipped me off that Butler had returned. I was in his office, so she saved me from being discovered. We owe her one.”

  “That’s great. See ya.” Click.

  “What did he say?” Rochelle eagerly awaited Marla’s answer.

  Marla patted her arm. “He’s very grateful for your help. I don’t want to keep you from your friends any longer. They’re probably waiting for you on the beach.” Impatient to leave, she took a step backward.

  Rochelle’s face fell. “Can’t I come with you?”

  “Not now, honey. Dalton and I have a lot to discuss. It will be safer for you if you stay with your group. I’ll look for you at the pool party later. Thanks again for everything.”

  Vail wasn’t ready to talk when he pushed into their room an hour later. Marla had already taken a quick shower and blown out her hair. She sat in her underwear on their bed, Polly’s stack of letters in her lap.

  He glanced at her, his face flushed and sweaty. “I’m going into the bathroom. Be with you shortly.” Dumping the contents of his pockets on the bureau, he tossed his perspiration-stained shirt and pants on the floor and marched into the lavatory. She noticed he hadn’t removed the ankle holster he wore holding his spare weapon.

  She had so much to tell him that for a moment, she considered skipping the family dinner. Biting her lower lip, she stared at the fireplace and wondered when they’d be able to explore the passages again. How did she know someone wasn’t behind there now, ready to listen in on their conversation?

  Jumping off her perch, she proceeded to the recess and twisted the stone that unlatched the panel. A quick glimpse inside the dank darkness showed her no one was present. Tempted to explore on her own, she held herself back when a chill curled around her neck like a beckoning tendril.

  Pounding the stone, she watched with relief as the panel shut. The cold dissipated, but not her sense of unease. She spun around, heading for the closet to select an outfit for that evening. She chose a conservative pair of khaki slacks and a burgundy sweater. After dressing, she was approaching the bed when she noticed a paper lying on the floor. Had that been there earlier? Shaking her head, she decided it must have dropped from Polly’s pile
that she’d thrown aside in her haste to check the fireplace.

  Hearing the shower turn off, she grabbed the paper and flopped onto the bed, where she could read in comfort. But this was no letter, she noticed, unfolding it with care. It was a promissory note indicating that the bearer owed Polly the sum of twenty-five thousand dollars.

  “Dear Lord,” she whispered, squinting at the signature. Michael Shorstein. Her brother had borrowed money from their aunt. So this was where he’d gotten his loan.

  She felt ashamed at her next thought. Did he have to repay the loan now that Polly was dead?

  Wondering if anything else of significance was stuffed between the letters, Marla fanned out the documents. Another item stood out, lacking the browned edges of Polly’s letters. Marla slid this from the bundle and opened it slowly, her eyes widening as she scanned the contents.

  Vail entered just as her jaw gaped in surprise. “What’s the matter?” he said, pausing in the act of towel-drying his hair.

  “You won’t believe what I just found. Oh gosh, sit down.” She flicked her glance at him, dressed only in his boxer shorts. “It’s a copy of Polly’s will. If this is valid, she leaves everything to me. It’s fairly recent, too.”

  He reached her in two steps. “Let me see.” He flipped through the document, several pages long. “Looks legit. It gives the lawyer’s name if you want to look him up when we get home. He may have the original.”

  She gazed into his clear gray eyes. “Should I tell Ma?”

  “If you think it would put her mind at ease. So these are Polly’s letters. Have you looked through them all?”

  “Hardly. I keep getting interrupted.” Her glance dropped to his chest. “Maybe you’d like to put a shirt on. I can’t concentrate when you’re half naked. Want me to blow out your hair?” She itched to run her fingers through his silken strands.

  “No time,” he said, rustling through the drawer where he’d laid his clothes. “Remember I said I spoke to the councilwoman? She admitted that Jeffrey Levine was one of her campaign donors.”