The Fat Innkeeper (A Hotel Detective Mystery Book 2)

by Alan Russell

  “I think he yelled, ‘Don’t drink.’”

  “Don’t drink?” Marisa was puzzled at the words.

  “I guess I won’t offer you a refill then,” said Lady Death.

  Marisa’s glass was empty.

  “I wonder what he meant by that,” said Marisa. She was still looking down at the beach. The waves were crashing into the abandoned woody. “Poor car,” she said.

  Lady Death cleared the glasses.

  The fastest way to the Crown Jewel Suite was a service elevator on the south side of the Hotel. Am desperately pushed 7, then, breathing heavily, tried to think about what to do next. The only thing on his mind had been to get to Marisa. It was still difficult to think beyond that. He had been the dog chasing the bus. Now he was about to catch it.

  The elevator doors opened. Am ran across a walkway to the Crown Jewel Suite and remembered too late that he didn’t have a passkey on him. He knocked on the door, decided if it wasn’t opened within three seconds he would grab a keycard from one of the maids. That, or break it down.

  The door opened almost immediately. “Am,” said Marisa.

  She looked bewildered, but he didn’t care. Am reached out and hugged her, which might have confused her even more, but not so much that she didn’t return the hug.

  “Aren’t you supposed to save the embracing until after you’re out of danger?” asked Lady Death.

  It was a good question, especially as she was pointing a gun at them. She motioned the two of them away from the door, directed them with the gun to sit down on the sofa, and then closed the door behind her.

  “What’s going on here?” asked Marisa. Her question was more rhetorical than not. Guns have a way of saying a lot.

  “Your boyfriend went mad,” Angela said. “Probably a hundred people saw that. He drove his car on the beach and started shouting like a crazy man. Then you opened the door and he pushed his way into this room. The rest, I’m afraid, is going to be an awful blur. And an awful mess.”

  “Too many people know about B positive,” said Am.

  “That’s not what Marisa said.”

  Am turned to her, in a quick look confirmed his fears.

  “You know what the worst thing is?” said Lady Death. “I don’t even know my blood type. I threw away my medical questionnaire without even taking notice of it. I think it’s rather rare, Mother said something about it once, but I’m not even sure. Can you believe that? A half hour ago Marisa told me about your theory. She swore me to secrecy, of course. Since that time I’ve been going crazy trying to remember what my blood type is. And wondering what I’d have to do, if necessary, to keep it a secret.”

  “You don’t want to kill again,” said Am.

  “No,” she said, “I don’t. But this isn’t a time for rational thoughts. My wagon isn’t hitched to a rational star. It is a time to dream. I am on the verge of everything I have ever hungered for. Do you think I can just walk away from the adulation and riches? No, not even walk away. I’d be led off in shackles.”

  “It,” Am said, purposely not elaborating on what “it” was, “wouldn’t be worth it.”

  “I think we disagree.”

  Marisa had to ask the question that journalists always ask: “Why?”

  Lady Death didn’t answer, but her eyes grew more focused and her trigger finger grew whiter. Am decided to answer, decided he better keep the conversation going. He had figured out why she wanted her medical questionnaire back.

  “‘The reports of her death,’” he said, “‘were greatly exaggerated.’”

  The Twain quote had been floating around in his head waiting and wanting to come out. He had known it, and not known it.

  “She overstated the extent of her injuries,” Am said. “She had no idea that Dr. Kingsbury would be requesting medical reports and examining her records. My guess is that Angela had serious injuries, but not life-threatening. Her near-death experience was likely just a hallucination brought on by the pain medication. Or wishful thinking. Or was it greed?”

  “It was none of those things,” she said. “It was the real thing. I died.”

  “Did your doctor think so? Was there any medical corroboration?”

  “The medical community is often blind.”

  “Including Dr. Kingsbury?”

  Lady Death smiled or, more accurately, pantomimed a smile. “He was not so blind,” she said. “And he was no saint. He wanted me exposed in more ways than one. The doctor wanted to make an example of me, and at the same time he wanted to bed me. Without saying it, he implied that if I was amenable to his attentions, matters would go easier on me. When I went to his room the night before last, he thought I was his lamb for the slaughter. He never suspected it was the other way around. I brought two drinks, his and mine. He swallowed his in a gulp.”

  She didn’t continue. But Am needed to keep her talking. “And what about you?” he asked. “Did you finish your drink?”

  “Yes,” she said. “The knocking at the door frightened me, of course, but it wasn’t totally unexpected. I left with the glasses as soon as the hallway was clear. The doctor was almost dead. I actually wanted to stay to see him die, but I knew I couldn’t.”

  “If I had been a fraud like you,” said Am, “I probably would have wanted to see a firsthand death, too. Grist for the mill, right?”

  His remark stung, made her angry, which is what he wanted. He had kept her occupied while the Fat Innkeeper silently opened the door and crept up behind her. For a big man, Hiroshi was agile and fast. He grabbed the gun, wrenching it from her. During the quick tug of war he said, “Please.” Then, with the gun in his own hand, he said, “So sorry.”

  Polite even to a murderer.

  Lady Death collapsed on the floor, and there, she cried for a minute. If Hiroshi sympathized, he did it with the gun pointed at her. It was a good thing the suite had two phone lines. Am called the police with one of the telephones, and Marisa called the paper with the other.

  With the necessary phone calls made, everyone gathered again in the sitting room. The silence, and the waiting, grew more uncomfortable. Lady Death spoke first, her voice small and tremulous.

  “May I watch the sunset?” she asked.

  Hiroshi and Marisa looked to Am for an answer. “From inside,” he said, “not from outside.”

  He was afraid of her leaping. “Thank you,” she said quietly, then walked toward the floor-to-ceiling window and looked out. She stood there and stared for a minute, then broke the silence again.

  “May I have a drink, please?” she asked. She made her request to the window, didn’t turn back to them.

  Am hesitated. “I’d like the gold,” she said, “to toast the dying of the light.”

  There was another ocular consultation between the three of them, then Marisa quietly said that both of them had already had a glass of the Goldschläger. Deciding that there was no harm in her request, Am poured from the opened bottle at the bar and brought Lady Death her potion. “Thank you,” she said.

  The sky was mostly red, but there were many colors tinting the horizon, subtle hues radiating out of the clouds. “It’s beautiful,” she said.

  Lady Death raised her glass to the sunset. “Be positive,” she said. She turned to them, smiled, then shook her head and added, “Damned if I really know.”

  Later, Am would wonder about her reference. Was she musing about life after death, or her blood type?

  She swallowed her drink Kingsbury-style, with one gulp. A few moments later, she started convulsing.

  “There must have been two bottles,” shouted Marisa. She was right, but it was too late to be right.

  They watched her die. It wasn’t seppuku, but it was close enough.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Am didn’t feel much like a hero, even if Marisa’s articles made him sound like one. What seemed to be forgotten among all the PR was that Am had done just about everything wrong. It was Hiroshi who had remembered about the high tides, who had been
smart enough to jump out of Annette and get a passkey so that he could walk into the Crown Jewel Suite unobserved. And though Am had figured out who the murderer was, and why she had killed Kingsbury, and even how she had murdered him, he was dissatisfied with how he had reached his conclusions. It was like getting the right answer to a math problem, but solving it the wrong way. His answers had resulted from using the wrong formula. They worked, but they shouldn’t have.

  “Damned if I really know,” Lady Death had said. And damned if he did. As it turned out, her blood group was AB, the rarest of the four blood types. So much for his inspiration, his clue from beyond the grave. Lady Luck had delivered him Lady Death. There was bitter poison to consider, and bitter irony to swallow. But still, he reminded himself, for having gotten everything wrong, there were still things that had turned out right.

  Between Am, Hiroshi, and Marisa, a triangle of understanding had emerged. Am wasn’t sure which of them had suggested the ceremony, but they had all known it was the right thing to do.

  A day after Angela Holliday’s death, the three of them walked in procession from the central Hotel gardens to Am’s (and Hiroshi’s) special place. It was twilight when they started, but the sky grew progressively darker. Hiroshi led the way with a lantern. What they were doing was somewhat eastern, and somewhat western, but it was mostly Californian.

  Hiroshi had told him that during the Festival of the Dead, during Obon, family members led the dead forward with lanterns to the temple graveyard. Hiroshi, with his lantern, was leading Dr. Thomas Kingsbury and Angela Holliday to their place of rest. The dead were supposed to be appeased by members of the household. The three of them were that household. The Hotel had always been generous that way with extended family. Hiroshi considered what they were doing was more than ceremonial. He thought of it as insurance of sorts, a way to ameliorate the curses and placate the gaki at the Hotel California. Maybe they should have included Stan the ghost in the ceremony, but he seemed to be having too good a time haunting the place.

  Am had never been to his special place at night. It was even quieter than he expected. Hiroshi’s lantern illuminated the setting, but around them was more shadow than not. The three of them stood in front of the rock. They had brought nothing with them, no memorial markers, carried only their feelings. Without having discussed it, Am knew he was to be the speaker for the dead.

  “Thomas Kingsbury’s last words were ‘Be positive,”’ Am said. “I’d like to believe that he didn’t die angry, that he had a last momentary glimpse of insight and found his dying peace in that. His words are best accepted at their face value. It is not necessary to interpret them as the words of an afterlife, for they work just as well as being wonderful advice for the here and now. It would have been better had Thomas Kingsbury and Angela Holliday come to this revelation earlier rather than later. Let us hope they have both found this peace now.”

  Brother Howard wouldn’t have given a similar talk, thought Am, but the words seemed right for everyone, and everything, there.

  Hiroshi extinguished his lantern. He didn’t want the spirits to follow him. They were home. The three of them found the path through the light of the moon, walking in silence and contemplation. No one spoke until they entered the lobby of the Hotel.

  “I need a minute of your time, Am-moo,” said Hiroshi.

  Am knew that the Japanese liked to add an “oo” to any word that ended in a consonant sound, but he wasn’t sure if it worked with his name.

  Hiroshi bowed to Marisa. “Hotel business,” he explained. Marisa was grateful not to be included, and excused herself to go and sit near one of the fountains.

  The two men went to Hiroshi’s office. Even before they sat down, Hiroshi asked, “What is her prognosis?”

  The tow truck had arrived soon after the ambulance had left. In the dark night, hauling Annette out from all the mire, she had seemed like another body being dragged away.

  “They tell me Annette’s going to be just fine,” said Am. The unsaid part: For about four thousand dollars.

  As if reading his mind, Hiroshi said, “The Hotel will pay for her repairs.”

  Am hadn’t expected that kind of generosity. “They are not insignificant,” he said.

  “The only terms,” said Hiroshi, “are that I would like to drive her every so often . . . ”

  Am could live with that, though he wasn’t sure if Annette could.

  “ . . . and she must be available to use in promotions. I have decided Annette is better than a sea worm.”

  They both smiled, but Hiroshi wasn’t through with his surprises. “Mr. Takei is leaving,” the Fat Innkeeper said.

  Am felt a surge of excitement that he tried to suppress. All too nonchalantly, Am asked, “Did you tell him that no more imposters were going to be showing up looking for his job?”

  “He knows that,” said Hiroshi. “But he is not happy here. He wants to go home.”

  The Fat Innkeeper pressed his fingers together. “I think you are the right person for the job.”

  Am refrained from getting up and dancing a jig. “I am not sure if I am that right person,” said Am. “I think you have already noticed that I am not very Japanese.”

  Hiroshi refused to argue, but then anyone Japanese wouldn’t have anyway.

  “I haven’t liked some of the changes going on at the Hotel,” Am said, “and I’d find it hard not to speak up.

  “There are some hotels that were never meant to be a Marriott, or a Hyatt, or a Hilton, or a Sheraton. There are some hotels that don’t operate by the same set script, and shouldn’t operate by that script.

  “I think of the Hotel as an eccentric relative, a crazy but wonderful old aunt who is loved all the more because of her quirks. Would you like your beloved relative to suddenly be humorless, to wear only dark clothes, and act formal and proper to the point of being boring?”

  Could eccentricity translate to the Japanese mind as being something positive? Am had read that the Japanese lived by the social standard that the nail sticking out should be hammered down.

  “Our guests expect this wonderfully different aunt,” said Am. “They have come to love her. Who wants an old friend to change?”

  Hiroshi didn’t say anything for a minute, seemed to be immersed in thought. By the time he answered, Am was already kicking himself for having gone too far and said too much. “I will listen to any of your concerns,” said Hiroshi, “but I think they should be voiced in private.”

  Am kept the smile off his face. His major worry had been answered. “What will my salary be?” he asked.

  “The same,” said Hiroshi. “You are the most overpaid security director in the country.”

  And I’ll be one of the most underpaid managers, Am thought. “At least I won’t have to worry about security anymore,” said Am.

  The Fat Innkeeper shook his head. “For the foreseeable future,” he said, “you will assume both positions.”

  Hiroshi spoke before Am could speak. He left no room for argument. “The Hotel needs its samurai,” he said.

  Chapter Fifty

  “We better celebrate tonight,” Am said to Marisa, “before I realize how much work’s waiting for me tomorrow.”

  Klaroshi, he thought. Death by overwork. It was a Japanese phenomenon, a way of life—and death. It was one Japanese import he hoped America would not buy into.

  Am felt good. Impending doom had been staved off for at least another day. All the swingers had checked out (and had left with smiles, according to the staff). Most of them had even announced that they were looking forward to visiting the Hotel again. Am tried not to dwell on that future threat.

  Only one guest had expressed unhappiness with his stay. Upon paying his bill, the man had said the Hotel had “ruined his life” and “cost him millions.” It was the same guest who had attacked Felipe the shoeshine man. The poor fellow was obviously psychologically unbalanced.

  The staff had seemed unusually cheery that day. Jimmy Mazzelli, for on
e, had been positively glowing. He had told Am he was off on a vacation tomorrow, going to Arizona to see a “special someone.” Romance was definitely in the air. Am was not immune to it himself.

  He had his arm around Marisa. They were walking aimlessly around the Hotel smiling at one another. “How do you want to kick up your heels?” she asked.

  Am considered her question, then stopped walking. “This,” he said, “for starters.”

  He kissed her. It was a long time before either of them came up for breath.

  “I think,” she said with a happy sigh, “that’s a question I’ll ask you more often.”

  “Let’s celebrate with dinner,” Am said, “and maybe a movie, and . . . ”

  How did he want to kick up his heels? Am remembered something.

  “There’s a grunion run tonight,” he said.

  About the Author

  Critical acclaim has greeted bestselling author Alan Russell’s novels from coast to coast. Publishers Weekly calls him “one of the best writers in the mystery field today.” The New York Times says, “He has a gift for dialogue,” while the Los Angeles Times calls him a “crime fiction rara avis.” Russell’s novels have ranged from whodunits to comedic capers to suspense and have been nominated for most of the major awards in crime fiction. He has been awarded a Lefty, a Critics’ Choice Award, and the Odin Award for Lifetime Achievement from the San Diego Writers and Editors Guild. A California native, Russell is a former collegiate basketball player who nowadays plays under the rim. The proud father of three children, Russell resides with his wife in Southern California.