The Fat Innkeeper (A Hotel Detective Mystery Book 2)

by Alan Russell

  Ward dropped the expense report on the desk and looked the other way. Am got the idea, retrieved the report and tucked it away. As far as Ward was concerned, he had never seen Am’s initial submission.

  They talked a little bit about Brother Howard, which resulted in one of Ward’s stage stories. “Houdini was famous for exposing phony mediums and spiritualists,” he said. “I played his character in the stage version of The Great Houdini. There were lots of wonderful props that made it look like I was doing fantastic escapes. The audience applauded loudest when I was shucking off ropes and weights. I think they thought I was shedding them for real.

  “Before Houdini died, he confided in several special friends that he was going to announce his presence during a séance through a message only they would know. Though his friends attended numerous séances, and though the spirit of Houdini was supposedly materialized in those sessions, his special message from beyond the grave was never announced. Death was the one escape Harry couldn’t pull off.”

  One of Am’s few personal effects in the security hut was a picture of Houdini being lowered into water. The escape artist was weighted down by anchors and heavy metal, with chains wrapped around his entire body. The picture was an inspiration to Am, who always liked to think that there was always an escape, some solution to be found.

  There was no picture of Houdini on Ward’s walls that Am could see, no review of the play. Maybe the reviews hadn’t been very good for that production, or, more likely, there just wasn’t enough space on the walls for all of Ward’s trouper memories. The controller started in on another Houdini anecdote. While Am listened, he once again scanned the mementos of Ward’s life, his stage effects (and affects) on the office walls. For some reason, Am kept coming back to one picture, Ward’s Mutiny on the Bounty glossy. What was there about it that troubled him? Captain Bligh was being confronted by Fletcher Christian. They were on the deck of a ship looking very dramatic. Christian, played by Ward, looked self-righteous, the justice of his cause reason enough for him to go against all of his training. Like in most such photos, it was clear Fletcher Christian was wearing too much makeup . . .

  “ . . . the decision wasn’t easy for young Erich Weiss,” said Ward. “His father was a strict rabbi, and couldn’t easily give his blessing upon his son’s dreams to be a magician . . . ”

  “It all stops now, Ward,” interrupted Am.

  Larry Young hadn’t been the only GM applicant who had commented on the HRD’s strong hand gesturing, the body language of a thespian. But what made Am certain of his thoughts was the name: Mr. Fletcher. Ward had returned to his last role, that of Fletcher Christian. He had identified himself as “Mr. Fletcher” to all the young men, and for whatever reason, he had led a mutiny.

  Ward gave Am his best puzzled look. “What are you talking about, Am?”

  “You know,” he said.

  The controller averted his eyes, turned back to his pipe and started examining it. Apparently it wasn’t the right pipe. He replaced it in the rack and reached for the largest of his meerschaum pipes—the Bear. Serious business was at hand.

  “What I don’t understand,” Am said, “is why you set up those boys. Most of them were nice enough kids. Telling them they had the general manager’s job was cruel.”

  Ward ran his finger along the Bear’s head. He didn’t argue, didn’t say anything. His face was amazingly neutral, hinted at nothing. It must have been easy for Ward to fool the young men, and to give off different appearances each time. He was no stranger to painting his face, probably always kept his make-up bag handy for the next role.

  Fine actors don’t need words. Ward announced his guilt silently. He went through the ritual of preparing a smoke, of declaring his defiance. For years he had abided by the no smoking rule, but this was a final declaration of rebellion. He put a certain pomp and circumstance into the filling of his pipe. There is something very ritualistic, almost ecclesiastical, about the measuring, and placing, and filling of the bowl, the movement of the tobacco chalice up and toward opened lips. Only one thing was out of place in the production. Ward’s hands were active in a way unusual to them. They were shaking.

  Pipe smokers usually don’t inhale their tobacco, but maybe this was a time and place Ward thought his inner soul needed a baptism of smoke. He took in a long measure of his bowl, then blew the smoke high in the air.

  “I did it to get back at Takei,” he said. “I wanted everyone to laugh at him.”

  “Why?”

  “You want the long answer or the short answer?”

  “The right answer.”

  “I wanted to humble Takei like he’s humbled me. I wanted him to know how it felt to have youths, callow youths, come in and say they were ready to take over his position confident they could do his job. The young men were there to show Takei that he is only a title, not a true ruler.”

  Am shook his head. The explanation wasn’t good enough. “You jacked around a lot of people, Ward, me among them.”

  “That wasn’t my intent, Am.”

  There was pathos in his voice, plenty of it, but a trained actor can produce that in his sleep. Am asked the same question again: “Why?”

  The pattern had been established. Ward sucked on his pipe, then words and smoke came out. Am needed to know the smoke wasn’t being blown up his ass.

  “A few months ago the front desk was shorthanded,” he said. “They needed a switchboard operator. Takei marched into this office and said he wanted someone at the switchboard for a few hours. Then he pointed to me, acted as if I was the most expendable person in the accounting office, and said, ‘You.’”

  Smokey sigh. “I suppose it was his way of showing that he was the boss. I had been vocal about some of the changes going on, even challenged Takei on some of his new policies. He has Mr. Matsuda cowed, so I figured it was my job to stand up to him. Controllers are usually a pretty autonomous lot, so he made sure mine was a public humiliation. I’ve kicked myself a few thousand times for not saying anything that day. I just got up and went out to the switchboard.”

  Ward blew off, and out, some more smoke. “Why didn’t I say anything, Am? I’ve asked myself that over and over. And I still can’t find any answers I like.”

  Am knew the answers. Most people do, can count them every day when the alarm clock goes off. “I hear your oldest is in veterinary school,” Am said. “That must be damned expensive.”

  “That was one of the echoes in my mind,” Ward said. “That’s what I kept telling myself, but who ever has enough money? It wasn’t my finances that silenced me. Takei made me feel old. Useless. Not financially bankrupt, but morally. He stripped away my illusion of being poor but proud, showed me to be middle-class and weak. I had to prove to myself I wasn’t as enfeebled as he thought, that I still had some bite.”

  “Next time embezzle,” Am suggested.

  “That would have been too easy,” he said with a little smile. “Too cheap.”

  Final act, Am thought, with Ward at his meerschaum pipe, me in my usual saddle on the horns of a dilemma looking for Solomon-like wisdom. The new ownership had certainly caused enough ulcers and bewilderment among the staff. One of the most common phrases to be heard was “The Japanese don’t understand.” The sentence was finished with a host of laments, including, “how we do things,” and “why we do it that way,” and “tradition.” The Hotel California was a special place with a lot of special people, and the sentiment was that the Japanese were trying to fit the property and its characters into a pre-cut pattern. You don’t, or shouldn’t, do that with a unique design. “It’s not broke,” was the staff sentiment, “so why fix it?” Ward had dared to say that out loud.

  He blew a smoke ring. Am watched the tight circle expand. It moved across the room, widened as it drifted. Then it hit a wall and dispersed to blue-gray heaven. The show continued, Am’s jury remaining out for three more smoke rings.

  “I want your letter of resignation, Ward,” Am finally said. “Don�
�t give any reasons, just make it effective two weeks from the date of receipt.”

  Ward closed his eyes, collapsed his shoulders a little more, and nodded. It was the verdict he had expected.

  “But don’t date it,” Am said.

  The patient suddenly had a pulse again, even if he seemed to stop breathing at Am’s words. “I’m going to hold on to your letter of resignation,” Am said. “And I don’t need to tell you that I better never see . . . ”

  “You won’t, Am.”

  “And one more thing, Ward.”

  The controller looked up expectantly. “Put out that damn pipe before you set off the water sprinklers.”

  It was his morning, Am thought, for having to discipline rebellious smokers. For putting out fires.

  As Am was leaving the office, Ward called out to him. Once a ham, always a ham. The man hadn’t forgotten how to close a scene.

  “‘Reputation, reputation, reputation! O! I have lost my reputation. I have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial.’”

  After an appropriate spell of silence, Ward announced, “King Lear.”

  You don’t overstay your scene. You exit, stage right. And that’s what Am did.

  Chapter Forty-One

  It felt good to solve a mystery, even if it wasn’t the case Am was actively working on, and even though he had more stumbled upon the answer than not. At least his “real” investigation wasn’t going to be hindered anymore by young men announcing themselves as general manager, and he wouldn’t have to deal with the subsequent eruptions of Mount Fuji-Takei.

  There were two piles on Am’s desk: one was the paperwork and the deferred duties of his job, and the other was the information he had gathered on the Kingsbury case. The job pile was higher, but not by much. It needed to grow some more.

  The problem with any kind of collecting is that eventually you have to confront the monster you have gathered. Am picked up the investigative pile and started sorting through it. Among the fallout was the copy of Les Moore’s medical questionnaire. While Am wasn’t particularly interested in the details of Moore’s demi-demise, he was interested in the questions on the form. Judging from the questionnaire, it appeared the doctor was looking for common denominators in both the pre-near-death and near death experiences. Kingsbury’s inquiries did seem to be excessive—sixteen pages worth of questions. Why had the doctor felt the need to probe so deeply? And what was the point of his exploration?

  Am questioned the questionnaire. It was divided into three sections, including general background (a hodge-podge of social, political, and religious questions); medical history; and the near-death experience itself. There were a number of psychological questions, enough of the “leading” variety to make Am wonder if Kingsbury was trying to make a case that those having “near-death experiences” were mentally unbalanced to begin with. There was even greater emphasis, though, on the subject’s physical history, in particular the “death.” Kingsbury’s hematological roots were evident, with several questions dealing with blood, one of which Am had hoped he would find. His pale theory still had some flesh—or blood, as was the case.

  Dreading it though he was, Am knew that the only possible way he’d get a look at the UNDER questionnaires and Kingsbury’s notes was through Detective McHugh. The information wouldn’t come cheap. For the detective to grant that boon, he’d have to think he was on the serious receiving end of getting more information than he was giving. Am dialed the detective’s number with the same enthusiasm reserved for making a dental appointment, and was half-relieved when he was told McHugh wouldn’t be returning until mid-afternoon. He left his name and number, and the message “Please call.” Already he was having to truckle.

  Am hung up the phone, not gently. Its revenge was that it almost immediately started ringing. The display identified the call as coming from the utility room. Why would anyone be there?

  “This is Am.”

  “This is Cotton.”

  The maintenance man’s voice was low. He was still in his secret-agent mode, probably would have preferred if they had communicated through decoder rings.

  “What is it, Cotton?”

  “Were you aware that the efforts to neutralize the Neptune Room have been countermanded?”

  What the hell was he talking about? Am stifled a sigh. “I don’t understand what you’re saying, Cotton.”

  “The engineering department,” he said, “has orders to make the Neptune Room operational by oh-eleven hundred hours today.”

  There was an echo to Cotton’s words. In his mind’s eye Am could picture him hunkered down in the darkness and confines of the utility room, his whispered voice playing off the concrete walls. “Are you telling me,” said Am, “that engineering is fixing up the Neptune Room this morning?”

  “Shit,” muttered Cotton, the enclosed utility room doing a good job of shouting the word around. But Cotton remembered that Am had once been a manager and probably couldn’t help himself. “That is affirmative.”

  The repairs didn’t make sense. The Swap Meat wouldn’t be checking out until tomorrow—unless the Hotel’s tactics had finally gotten to the swingers and they were all leaving early. “Thanks, Cotton,” said Am. “I’ll check it out.”

  “I also have it on good authority that the normalization of the occupation rooms is occurring today.”

  That translation, Am supposed, was that the swinger rooms were being put aright. “I’ll find out about that also,” said Am.

  “You should know that the Neptune Room could easily be”—Cotton paused dramatically—“deactivated again.” Then he hung up.

  Deactivated, thought Am. I’ve created a monster.

  Kate Kennedy was apparently well over her waterworks, judging by her overly (even by her standards) effusive greeting.

  “Kate,” said Am, cutting her good cheer short. “I hear that the Neptune Room is being made—” (to his annoyance, he had to stop himself from saying “operational”) “—up now.”

  “That’s right, Am. It appears we overreacted a bit yesterday. The Swap Meat has accepted the fact that they couldn’t have the meeting rooms, but even without them, they’ve been just as happy as peas in a pod.”

  “I wonder what Gregor Mendel would have said about those peas,” said Am.

  “Gregor who?” Kate asked very cheerily.

  “Nothing,” he said. “I also hear that the Swap Meat guest rooms are being fixed up.”

  “We were going to call you,” she said. “It’s just that we all agreed this morning that there was no need to treat the group so badly.”

  The we again. “Who’s we?” he asked.

  “Janet, me, and Melvin. We really think we made much ado about nothing.”

  Am had a distinct feeling that the first “we” was the unholy triumvirate, and the second “we” was he. “We think we should treat them like normal guests,” she said. “Don’t you agree?”

  It was getting more difficult figuring out which “we” was which, even with Am’s new understanding that he was an overreactor whose draconian measures had been deemed unnecessary.

  “You’re saying it’s time to kiss and make up?” he asked.

  “Exactly,” she said.

  And the Swap Meat would be the last group ever to object to that.

  “Why the rush to get the Neptune Room fixed up?”

  “We’re doing it as a favor to the San Diego Police Department. It’s comped.”

  She offered the last sentence as if she was doing her patriotic duty. Swingers are our friends, she had all but told him, and now she was saying the same thing about the police. Am wasn’t sure which supposition was easier to accept.

  “Why do they want the room?”

  “Apparently they’re having a press conference.”

  The bad feeling, the one that had temporarily left him after figuring out who was hiring all the young GMs, returned. “Who’s in charge of this press conference?”

  “Detective McH
ugh,” she said happily. “He’s in our office now . . . ”

  What better place for him to announce that Dr. Thomas Kingsbury had been murdered than at the very Hotel where it happened? Maybe the “we” sentiment was right. Perhaps Am had overreacted. A simple orgy didn’t sound like such a bad thing now, at least not when compared to a more public humiliation.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  McHugh was just leaving the sales and catering office when Am arrived. He was chewing on something, no doubt one of the food samples left out for prospective clients. “Did you tell them,” asked Am with righteous indignation, “why you wanted the meeting room?”

  The detective appeared amused at Am’s anger. “Of course I told them. I said we were having a press conference.”

  “Where you are going to announce that Dr. Kingsbury was murdered?”

  “That’s right. And I would have told them that, too, except they never asked.”

  Damn, thought Am. Sales still wasn’t asking the right questions. You’d think by this time they would have learned. He didn’t make their same mistake. “What was the cause of the doctor’s death?”

  “Show up in a couple of hours, Caulfield. I’ll save you a ringside seat. Hell, maybe I’ll even introduce you to the media.”

  “I don’t think the Hotel is the proper place for your press conference.”

  “Why not?” asked the detective. “This is where the investigation is taking place. Besides, it’s publicity for you.”

  “Sure,” said Am. “Maybe you can announce our two-for-one May Murderer’s Special. Two people check in and only one leaves.”

  “You’d probably make a killing,” said McHugh. His wit inspired him to smile momentarily. It inspired Am to fantasize about giving Cotton orders to “deactivate” the room during his press conference.