The Fat Innkeeper (A Hotel Detective Mystery Book 2)

by Alan Russell

  He threw down the phone. He couldn’t break what was broken, but it gave him some slight satisfaction anyway. “I don’t believe this,” he said.

  “Ohhhhhhh. Ohhhhhhh. Ohhhhhhh.” The sound came from next door, along with a pounding on the wall. What was going on, murder? “Ohhhhhh. Ohhhhhhh. Ohhhhhhh.” If it was, the woman was taking a long time to die.

  Bradford and Cleo looked uncertainly at each other. What should they do?

  “Ohhhhhhh. Ohhhhhhh. Ohhhhhhh.” The screams were faster and louder.

  “Oh,” said Bradford and Cleo at the same time, but neither said “Jinx” and counted to ten.

  “Well, uh,” said Bradford, trying to pretend that nothing unusual was going on, but having to speak much louder than usual to even be heard. “I’m going to go to the front desk and get some satisfaction.”

  Too late, he regretted his choice of words. He started down the hallway, and Missy’s cries followed him to the elevator. Her echoes stayed in his mind even longer. Though he was still angry, his head of steam felt somewhat, well, diverted. At the sight of T.K., his righteous indignation returned. He was tired of being played for a fool.

  “I want to speak to the general manager,” demanded Bradford. “No one else will do.”

  There were other guests at the front desk. They could hear the tenor of his anger. Even the wiseass clerk, thought Bradford, knew better than to say anything back. He merely nodded deferentially, and said, “I’ll take you to him.”

  T.K. walked around the desk and out to the lobby. “This way, please,” he said. The two of them didn’t have far to go. They stopped in front of a shoeshine stand.

  “Mr. Beck,” said T.K., “this is Mr. Toyota, our general manager.”

  The shoeshine man nodded and smiled, then motioned Bradford into the chair. Somewhat bewildered, Bradford sat down. He had heard the Japanese were incredibly industrious, but wasn’t running a hotel and the shoeshine concession a bit much?

  “Mr. Toyota’s English isn’t the best,” said T.K. “But his comprehension is good.”

  Felipe Valdez had worked as the Hotel’s shoeshine man for over twenty years, and in that time had picked up amazingly little English. But his customers didn’t come to him for conversation, they came because he put a shine on shoes that captured a full moon in leather. Felipe started in on Bradford’s shoes.

  “He likes to shine and listen at the same time,” explained T.K.

  Probably some new Jap psychology, thought Bradford. By pretending he’s a servant, he actually puts me in his debt.

  “Mr. Toyota,” said Bradford.

  Felipe looked up from the shoeshine. “Toyota,” he said, smiling and nodding. They were good cars, he had heard, even though he preferred Chevys.

  “Toyota,” said Bradford, trying to pronounce it as the man had.

  The shoeshine/general manager nodded.

  “I’ll leave you two,” said T.K.

  Bradford talked and Felipe shined, occasionally nodding. Bradford told him about the insolent front desk clerk, and the horrid condition of his room. Felipe might not know English, but he did know anguish.

  “Sorry,” he said to the man in his chair.

  The word made Bradford feel better. At least the manager cared. Bradford spoke on. Would Mr. Toyota see to another room assignment? Perhaps upgrade them to a suite for the indignities they had suffered? Or, at the least, would he have their room cleaned at light speed?

  “Okay,” said Felipe.

  “Okay,” said Bradford.

  Felipe helped him down from his chair. He smiled and said, “Five dollars.” He knew that much English at least.

  “Five dollars?” asked Bradford.

  “Five dollars,” said Felipe.

  Smart, Bradford thought. The Japanese, more than anyone, knew time was money. The general manager could listen to problems, shine some shoes, and still make extra cash. Was that a new way of doing things? It seemed a little strange, though. You come with a complaint, someone shines your shoes, and then you pay money. It was definitely different.

  “Five dollars,” announced Bradford and Felipe at the same time.

  As if programmed, Bradford said, “Jinx, you owe me a suite, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.”

  “No ten,” said Felipe. “Five dollars.”

  Bradford gave him the five bucks, and the funny-looking Jap thanked him loudly. Shaking his hand, Bradford wondered what, if anything, Toyota was going to do for him. But he had said “Okay,” hadn’t he?

  As Bradford walked away, he couldn’t help but admire the shine the man had put on his shoes. His loafers looked better than new.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  It was the strangest prayer Am had ever heard, if indeed it was a prayer. In the good old days a prayer usually started with some invocation to God, and ended with an “amen.” These, apparently, were not the good old days.

  Brother Howard (he didn’t call himself the reverend, or father, or rabbi, or some of the more familiar religious titles) had offered his own unique liturgy. It was an invocation of sorts, although he never used the word “God.” Brother Howard relied upon euphemisms, referring to the Good Guide, the High Host, and the Supreme Conscience, to name but a few. Contextually, it was difficult figuring out if Brother Howard’s God was the embodiment of enlightened mankind, or a deity. The ambiguity bothered Am. Purported holy men who can’t say “God,” he thought, revealed quite a spiritual stutter.

  The theme of Brother Howard’s speech centered on listening to the dead. It wasn’t exactly the séance that Detective McHugh had presaged, but it was close enough.

  Brother Howard didn’t need the prophets to back up his observations. He called upon a patchwork philosophy, managed to draw in everything from the Tibetan Book of the Dead to the kind of quotes you find in Reader’s Digest. The world had but to open their ears, said Brother Howard, to hear the voices of the dead. These voices, apparently, were that much more accessible if you bought Brother Howard’s DVDs, audiotapes, and books.

  He didn’t wear a clerical collar but a black turtleneck, and sported an ankh instead of a cross. He was modern times, believed in an earring instead of a hair shirt. The mote in his eyes was the result of bright-blue contact lenses. He had a turquoise bracelet, and a large turquoise ring. Maybe that’s why he made so many “Great Spirit” references. Brother Howard was about forty-five, and knew the crowd’s preferences better than a Bible-thumper knows chapter and verse. He was of average height, and average weight, and he knew the averages. His hair was dark, save for a silver streak that ran from front to back. Am figured in the dark it probably glowed.

  “T.S. Eliot,” said Brother Howard, “wrote these words:

  “What the dead had no speech for, when living,

  They can tell you, being dead: the communication

  Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.”

  Eliot also wrote, remembered Am, “In the rooms the women come and go, talking of Michelangelo.” Given a choice, he would have preferred conversing about Michelangelo.

  “Why is it,” asked Brother Howard, “that the bards hear what we cannot? Let me read again: ‘The communication of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.’”

  He allowed for a literary moment, a silence to let everyone contemplate the words. “I don’t need to tell many of you who are here about the great outer reach (Brother Howard also preferred euphemisms for death). But I can teach you to listen, and hear what is being said. Listen now.”

  Brother Howard let an even longer silence build. “Did you hear anything?” he asked.

  No one replied.

  “Do you know how to listen?” he asked.

  Again, no one said anything.

  “Do you want to learn how to hear the dead?”

  This time the crowd responded. Many yelled. There was head-bobbing fever. Everyone, except Am, was enthusiastic. He thought it was a rare person that liste
ned to the living, so why did everyone imagine the dead would so capture their attention?

  Brother Howard offered some “attuning” exercises. The dead apparently made themselves known in a number of ways. They didn’t exhibit themselves like poltergeists, he said, didn’t rattle or shake things, or fly around the room. The dead existed in another plane. They didn’t speak, at least not like the living, but anyone could develop an “inner ear” to sense their presence.

  And if you believe in Tinker Bell, thought Am, just clap your hands together.

  The UNDER attendees tried following Brother Howard’s advice. They closed their eyes and were instructed to “release their spirits and open themselves.” While everyone around him was trying to do just that, Am found himself thinking about the Fat Innkeeper. Hiroshi had talked about spirits, had even suggested you had to listen to them, and in some cases appease them. He wished he could close his eyes, and do as Detective McHugh had suggested, just ask Thomas Kingsbury some questions. But if the dead were talking, Am couldn’t hear what they were saying. There were only the echoes of Dr. Kingsbury’s last words, and those weren’t any help at all.

  Brother Howard’s listening session came to a close. An UNDER dinner banquet awaited. For those interested, he said, communing with the dead would continue after dinner. Brother Howard also mentioned he was available for private consultations, and, of course, his “exploration and listening guides” could be had in the dealer’s room. Words from the grave apparently didn’t come cheap. The dead were a much bigger business than Am had ever imagined.

  In any enterprise, there are the sincere, and those who attempt to exploit the sincere. Brother Howard spoke the New Age message well, but there was something about him that indicated the language was a new one to him. But if he was a wolf, thought Am, at least he knew to wear natural fibers.

  A familiar face passed by and awakened Am from his musing. “Clara,” he called. “Clara.”

  She chose not to hear him, tried to lose herself in the crowd. Am pursued her, finally caught up, and then blocked her path.

  “Oh,” she said. “Hello, Am.”

  He shook his head. “Clara, you know better.”

  Clara Appel tried to pretend she didn’t know what he was talking about. For years, she had been persona non grata at the Hotel. To look at her, you would have thought she was an honored guest. Clara’s clothing was always immaculate, her makeup impeccable. She was in her late fifties, to all appearances a well-heeled La Jollan. Once, she had been just that. But she’d been divorced a dozen years, and the settlement she had received was now spent. You can take the woman out of La Jolla, but not the La Jollan out of the woman. Clara had never been able to adjust to her new circumstances. The Hotel had always been her playground, her place to spa and dine. Even though she was destitute (she spent the year going from friend’s house to friend’s house, though never acknowledging her financial straits), Clara didn’t see any reason to give up the Hotel. She just “adopted” groups. Clara had participated in countless conventions, had sipped the choicest liqueurs at hosted bars, had dined on the finest banquet food, all at the expense of the group and/or Hotel. It was hard not feeling sorry for Clara. She didn’t attend the gatherings merely for the free eats and drinks. Clara was convinced that she would meet her future husband at a group function. In her fantasy, they would live happily ever after—in La Jolla, of course.

  “Let me walk you out, Clara.”

  “That’s kind of you, Am.”

  “Breeding” and appearances were important to Clara. If she was ever reduced to a shopping-cart existence, Clara would probably put a Mercedes medallion on the grille of the cart.

  The Hotel had tried to dissuade Clara’s frequent appearances, using tactics that ranged from psychological to confrontational. Everyone from the police to counselors had been brought in. Clara had been threatened and cajoled, had spent time in both jail and county mental health, but her brief incarcerations didn’t seem to bother her. She always returned to the Hotel. One manager had even tried bribing her, had offered Clara complimentary lunches on a periodic basis if only she wouldn’t keep crashing functions, but she couldn’t be bought off.

  When asked to leave, Clara never resisted, but that didn’t stop her from coming back the next day. Though the banquet staff would never admit it, many of them turned a blind eye to Clara’s presence. It was easier to ignore her, to treat her like the other conventioneers. She was a chameleon that fit into every group function, and was especially good at weddings. Am wondered how many times she had ended up in wedding albums, with the puzzled bride and groom both at a loss to figure out who the mystery woman was. “But I thought she was your Aunt Doris . . . ?”

  “Did you enjoy the talk tonight, Clara?”

  She offered Am a slight, regretful smile, and shook her head. “I am afraid I did not, Am.”

  That surprised him. Clara invariably expressed delight at all the gatherings she attended. It didn’t really matter what the event was. Clara had sat through more presentations than most figurehead royalty, had listened and happily mingled with gatherings of butchers, and bakers, and candlestick makers.

  “Why didn’t you like it?”

  “I didn’t care,” she said, with patrician dignity, “for Brother Howard.”

  Am nodded agreeably. Brother Howard certainly didn’t offer old-time religion. “His message was a little bit different,” he said.

  “His words didn’t bother me,” said Clara firmly. “It was the man himself.”

  Her vehemence was unusual. Clara’s conversations always tended toward the pleasant. She was invariably polite (even on the one occasion when the police had handcuffed her and led her off the Hotel grounds for trespassing, vagrancy, and violating a restraining order, as well as a few other charges that Melvin Carrelis had insisted upon).

  “He’s definitely not your usual man of the cloth,” said Am, fishing for more.

  Clara didn’t respond. They continued walking, were almost to the lobby when she spoke again. “Not long after I separated from my husband,” she said, “I went to visit my mother, who was very sick at the time. She had emphysema. She was not very accepting of her . . . situation.

  “Perhaps,” Clara said with a small smile, “it runs in the family.”

  Crazy, thought Am, like a fox.

  “My mother,” she continued, “started doing things very unlike her. She had always prided herself on being very proper, but her illness changed that. She started looking desperately for a magic cure, made a point of visiting everyone who claimed they were a healer. Brother Howard belonged to that unsavory ilk, even if he didn’t go by that name at the time.

  “I accompanied her to his . . . spectacles. The sessions were called ‘The Healing Within.’ He offered a very slick snake-oil show. God had given him the power to teach others how to heal themselves, he said. He strutted around holding the Bible like he was the author. Apparently, he was on some healing circuit, went around the country offering his courses. That was smart of him. By being a rolling stone, he never stayed long enough for the funerals. My mother signed up for his three weeks of lessons. Some took to his healing very well. The deaf heard, and the crippled walked, that is if seeing is believing. But what I witnessed most was Reverend Gardenia doing very well by himself.”

  “Gardenia?”

  “Not a name easy to forget. Sometimes he was even referred to as the ‘Gardenia of Eden.’”

  That, thought Am, was reason enough to distrust him.

  “At the end of the course the Reverend Mr. Gardenia pronounced my mother on the road to recovery. That good news cost her around five thousand dollars. She was dead within a month of paying that out.”

  Clara thought for a moment, then offered another of her soft smiles. “I prefer his current racket,” she said. “Now he preys on the dead. Better them than the dying.”

  Michael the doorman opened one of the lobby doors for them. With his deep bass he wished them a good evening. Clara
didn’t usually exit or enter through the central portals of the Hotel. She knew the Hotel grounds better than most employees, was well-acquainted with all the back doors.

  “Thank you for seeing me out, Am,” she said.

  “I’m sorry I had to get in the way of your dinner plans, Clara.” He reached for his wallet, pulled out a ten-dollar bill, and tried to give it to her.

  “Don’t be silly,” she said, her pride preventing her from accepting the money.

  Am tried to think of some words that would make the money acceptable to her, but couldn’t come up with any. Next banquet, he decided, he’d make sure the staff turned a blind eye to her presence. Clara always seemed to know which functions offered prime rib, apparently her favorite meal. He’d make sure she got a heaping portion.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “What the hell is the matter with this place?”

  Cleo had not bothered to respond to Bradford’s first dozen pronouncements, but she was getting tired of hearing the same rhetorical question over and over. “A watched pot never boils,” she said.

  “Watch me boil,” muttered Bradford.

  He was waiting for some, any, satisfaction. That funny-looking Japanese manager Toyota had told him everything would be “okay,” but not a damn thing had changed. He and Cleo had waited around for an hour now. Most of that time they’d had to listen to Missy’s lovemaking. The woman put a steam whistle to shame. You’d think she would have been worn out, but no sooner was her screaming done when a party started up in her room, a party, by the sound of it, that was loads of fun.

  Not that they hadn’t been invited. Doug and Missy had yelled for them to come on over, but Cleopatra was still sulking. Bradford had tried to make it right for her, to smooth things over. He’d flagged down that damn leering bellman, asked him to get them a bottle of bubbly. The bellman had returned with the champagne a short time later, had even set everything up nicely. Bradford had thought their luck was changing. But then that bellman had asked that damnable question to Cleopatra. “How old are you?” Bradford had told him she was twenty-six, but the bellman insisted upon seeing identification. You’d think Cleopatra would have had the sense to have had a fake ID, but no. She was three months shy of being twenty-one, reason enough for that prick bellman to take away the champagne. What galled Bradford most was that he had already paid for the champagne and given the man his tip.