“That is correct. Mr. Maple is very excited about the movie being filmed here. It’s huge exposure for Crossed Palms, which means everything needs to be perfect and everyone needs to be on their toes. Are you on your toes, Goldie?”
I go up on my tiptoes, which isn’t exactly easy when you’re wearing stiff, uncomfortable flatties. To avoid keeling over, I grab Dad’s sleeves. (Even on tippy toes I still can’t reach Dad’s height.) Dad pats the top of my head to gently position my feet back flat on the ground.
“You understand what your responsibilities are?”
“Sure do! Parking cars. Right?”
He leans in and gives me a peck on my forehead.
“I know it’s hard to contain the energy stirring inside of you. If things slow down, you can go see if Mr. Tooey needs help. Are you packed for your weekend with Mom?”
My mom, Sylvie, works nearby at the Mermaid Club, which is just a quick bike ride away. Mom and Dad are divorced, but they remained best friends after they split. The way they explained it to me is that they are way better at being friends than being married. When they divorced, I was really young, so my whole life has really been between the hotel and the Mermaid Club. Two wondrous places to grow up in.
“Yes, I’m going straight there after I’m finished with my shift. Cross my heart.”
One of the bellhops comes over to interrupt Dad’s imminent warning not to dally.
“Goldie.” Dad doesn’t seem to believe me.
“I promise!” I say.
I stride confidently toward the parking lot. As soon as Dad walks off to help quell the bellhop disaster, I take my usual detour.
Dad is busy and I still have two and a half minutes left on my break. Do you know what could happen in two and a half minutes? Just about anything! The day has just begun and the time is right for diving into drama.
Chapter Two
JUST LEFT OF THE SPACIOUS LOBBY ARE MULTIPLE corridors leading to various parts of the resort. To avoid any run-ins with Dad, I continue toward the left wing and enter the library with its oversize chairs and the fluffiest pillows. I can spend hours in this room with floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books; I love reading anything from mysteries to biographies. I also lead story time for the kids staying at the hotel, but not today. At the other end of the library, I exit a concealed side door to one of the smaller ballrooms. The walls are lined with mirrors upon mirrors that show off my reflection. The dance instructor is about to start a lesson. I wave hello and keep moving.
Crossed Palms Resort has tons of great little nooks. I especially love the Japanese garden with a koi pond. The pond is a perfect, serene spot for meditating, walking, and just thinking about things. A couple with two young kids smile at the fish. The fish are brilliantly orange this morning. I cross the wooden bridge with intricate carvings and head to one of the pools. Hammocks tied to palm trees hang over the pool for guests to lounge in. I’ve spent many a day writing in my pad and plotting schemes in so many of these hammocks. And falling asleep, of course.
The flamingos are greeting their morning in pink. The coast is still clear. I press on toward my destination.
Walter Tooey’s office is located right by the lobby, off the main hall of the hotel. I, of course, took a roundabout way of reaching the office. You have to be sneaky when you’re a detective. It’s easy to miss the door marked with a sign that reads DETECTIVE SERVICES, especially since right across from the office is the hotel’s flower shop. Before long, the smell of blooming tiger lilies fills the air. I think it’s pretty smart to have the office located across from the floral shop. Guests feel reassured when such potent fragrances blanket the air.
I greet Ada the florist. She holds out a red carnation, as if she somehow knew I was bound to appear at that very moment.
As any true budding detective would, I was only eight years old when I discovered Walter’s office. It was on one of my daily expeditions to the flower shop. Once a day—before I got too busy with my job as valet—Ada would give me a red carnation. “Una flor para la niña,” she would say. Ada is the sweetest person.
“Buenos días.” I tuck the red carnation into the lapel of my uniform.
“Buenos días, Goldie,” Ada says. She returns to arranging an oversize bouquet.
I motion toward Walt’s door.
“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you,” Ada says. “He’s not alone.”
I help Ada by handing her a couple of roses, careful to avoid the thorns.
“Who’s in there with him?” I ask.
“No sé. A man in a very expensive suit,” she says. “Muy importante.”
To be a great house detective you have to pick up as many languages as possible. Lucky for me, there are so many different people who work at Crossed Palms. I’m always adding a new word or two to my repertoire. Practice is key.
“Muy importante people always wear suits.”
Ada shakes her head. “You can always tell by the watch. His watch is not on his wrist but tucked in his pocket.” Ada mimes pulling out a pocket watch and flipping it open.
“Fancy. I better go in, then. No time to waste!”
“This is why I like to spend my days with flowers. They only want the simple things: water and sun. A little talking to. Time is not a worry.”
I add another rose to the bouquet. Ada tucks the rose in a bit more. She steps back and admires our work. I join her. The guest who receives this bouquet will surely be happy with such a beautiful display.
“Flowers are pretty great but so is adventure,” I say. “Hasta luego!”
I hesitate before Walter’s door. The decision really boils down to this: Do you knock on the door, alerting those in the room to compose themselves, or do you barge right in, giving them no time to collect themselves? Sometimes a facial expression can tell an entire story. I like the element of surprise. Walt regularly says, “My door is always open,” but I think he’s saying it to the guests, not me. But if there is a guest in need behind this door, I should be right beside him. Sometimes Walter really needs my help.
I grab the knob of the door and swing it wide open.
“Sorry I’m late, Walt. Just finished the case of the missing ring. I’m here now and I’m ready.”
At that very moment, Walt knocks over a glass of water located on his desk. Walt is forever flustered and clumsy, which is an interesting quality for a detective. He’s good at his job. There’s no doubt about that. Walt has taught me everything there is to know about being a detective. The importance of active listening. The importance of note taking. How to question people without seeming too nosy. Not only that, he’s a great friend. He’s always more than willing to help me work things out, even if I can be a little bit of a handful. I know he appreciates me.
“Goldie,” Walt says with a sigh. He digs out a handkerchief from his back pocket and blots out the spill. This gives me more than enough time to study Mr. Muy Importante, who sits across from him.
“Aren’t you the girl who parked my car?” Mr. Muy Importante says. In his hand he holds his watch. He opens and closes the pocket watch as if he marks the time by doing so. His lit cigar rests on a glass ashtray.
“I park cars and I also assist Mr. Tooey here with his house-detective duties. As you can see, this is a rather large property, and it’s all hands on deck. Right, Walt?”
Walter continues to clean up the mess on the table.
“House detective? You?” the man chuckles.
Oh.
Mr. Very Important is that type of guy. Never underestimate a girl with a pad and pen at the ready. I pull out mine and jot down the inscription on his watch. I can barely make out the letters C and J. The man has got a bit of a squat build and a long, pointy nose, sort of like the actor from the film Casablanca, Humphrey Bogart, minus the quick one-liners that would endear movie audiences.
“Goldie, this is Mr. Davenport from the studios. Goldie was just about—”
“I’m Walter’s apprentice. Goldie Vance,
at your service.” I reach out to shake Mr. Davenport’s hand. Walt was about to kick me out of his office, but there is no way I’m going to miss the opportunity to get to know more about this peculiar man.
Mr. Davenport hesitates but eventually shakes my hand. This is before he places his watch back in the vest of his fancy, expensive suit. His handshake is brief and strong. A handshake that says he’s a man of conviction. I walk over to Walt’s side of the desk.
“Like I said, I expect delivery to happen tomorrow. Nine AM sharp,” Mr. Davenport says. “We will have our own men securing the products, of course.”
“Of course, we will provide secondary backup using only our top men,” Walt says.
“Absolutely no one is to touch, stare, or make any comments about the products whatsoever. You do understand? They are very delicate.”
“Delicate?” I say. “What exactly are we talking about?”
Mr. Davenport ignores my question. Probably because Mr. Davenport is used to always having his way. I’ve seen the type. They like to bark orders to the hotel staff. Make people jump around. I realize quickly that I asked my question too soon. Mr. Davenport and I haven’t developed a trust yet. When you are a detective, you encounter a lot of different personalities. In order to get information, you must find a bridge that connects you to the client. Right now Mr. Davenport only sees me as a nuisance. I’ve got to change that real quick.
“The staff is well aware of your stipulations,” Walt says. “Arrangements will be at the ready for the arrival.”
“The entire production of this movie hinges on the well-being and maintenance of this delivery. No exceptions,” Mr. Davenport says, slamming his hand on the desk for dramatic effect.
It works. Walt jumps from the noise.
“Crossed Palms wasn’t my first choice. No, I wanted to continue filming in California, my backyard. But here we are. In Florida.” Mr. Davenport starts to pace the office, pointing at Walter. Then it hits me. Mr. Davenport is no Humphrey Bogart. No. He’s a great white shark, gliding at the bottom of the ocean, steady and menacing.
“I promise you, Mr. Davenport. Our staff has accepted many high-end deliveries,” Walt reassures him. “From the jewels of the Taj Mahal to the rarest cockatoo from a little-known Caribbean island, discretion is of the utmost importance to us.”
“It’s true. One time a hotel guest—the famous French violinist George Blanc—misplaced his Stradivarius violin. He was pretty old by then and never left home without it. Unfortunately, someone had the nerve to take it from his room. Well, we jumped to the scene. Uncovered exactly who took it and why.” I lean in toward Mr. Davenport and whisper, “It was a former student of his. Green with envy. We apprehended the culprit and delivered the priceless violin to its rightful owner. Right, Walt?”
Mr. Davenport stares at me for a few seconds. I stare back with a smile. A reassuring grin. I want Mr. Davenport to feel secure I will take care of him. Sadly, Mr. Davenport does not return my smile. Oh well. Whatever is arriving tomorrow, I will keep it safe. This is my mission, and if it means always having Mr. Davenport scowl at me, so be it. He can’t overlook a job well done, and that’s exactly what I intend to do.
“Mr. Davenport. The Crossed Palms will dedicate their blood, sweat, and tears to ensure your products are guarded and well taken care of,” I say. “We’re really good at what we do.”
“You better be.” He grabs his cigar and places it between his lips. “There will be no movie if the products are not a hundred percent immaculate. Do I make myself clear?”
Mr. Davenport’s not speaking to me. He directs his words only to Walter, who accidentally knocks the glass over again. Poor Walt.
“Yes, Mr. Davenport. Absolutely, Mr. Davenport. Yes. Yes, Mr. Davenport, yes…”
Oh boy. Walt can’t stop repeating the word yes. I elbow him hard and he finally stops. Mr. Davenport puffs a big cloud of smoke into the air and walks out the door.
Walt collapses into his chair, his hands shaking in his lap. I grab the glass, pour some more water, and hand it to him.
“Take it easy, Walt. You need to relax. It’s a good thing I arrived when I did.”
He gulps down the water and I pour another. Soon his face loses its redness and he’s back to being the Walter I’ve always known.
“Goldie. You’ve met Mr. Davenport. There’s no fooling around. He means business. Mr. Maple, our boss, called me last night at two in the morning notifying me Mr. Davenport was coming in.”
“Two in the morning!” I’m almost sure I was in my third dream at two in the morning. I usually have the same dream: me capturing the world’s largest diamond thief. The funny thing is that as soon as I’m about to take off the diamond thief’s mask, I always wake up. Dreams sure can be teases.
Walt pulls out a calendar and counts the days. The movie studio will be filming exterior shots in front of the hotel today and tomorrow morning. Later tomorrow, the studio moves production over to the Mermaid Club. Honestly, I can’t wait. Mom promised I can hang out at the club all night if need be. It pays to know the right people.
“Don’t worry, Walt. I’m on it,” I say. “Mr. Davenport won’t have time to bark any orders. He’ll be too busy smoking his cigar and driving his silver Corvette.”
Walt continues to grimace.
“Goldie. Do not be mistaken. Mr. Davenport has a reputation of getting people fired at every hotel he stays at. I know. I’ve spoken to said people.”
I scrunch my nose. Why would anyone want to get people fired? Power-crazed men are so silly. I shake my head.
“Well, I won’t give him any reason to do so. I promise.”
“We don’t have enough manpower to work as security while also making sure the actors and crew are well fed and getting what they want as well as tending to our own hotel guests.…”
Walt begins to mutter to himself. He’s spiraling again.
After high school, Walt worked at a tiny bookstore in Michigan, where he’s from. He loved reading all kind of books, researching all kinds of topics, and helping customers locate their literary wishes. He had quite the knack for it. It’s funny how Walt ended up at Crossed Palms. It was a total lark. His best friend, who was a great musician, applied to work the summer playing piano and convinced Walter to join him in Florida with a guarantee of sunshine. Walt ended up trying out a bunch of different hotel jobs, but it was house detective that ultimately fit his superb research skills. He always says if it weren’t for the ivories, he probably would’ve dedicated his life to working at the tiny bookstore. His musician friend eventually joined a jazz band and now travels the world. One of their tour stops was at Crossed Palms last summer. They can bop!
“Walt, I’ve got one question for you: What exactly is arriving tomorrow? I want to map out the route and make a list of the people who will be engaging with it. From what Mr. Davenport says, he doesn’t want just anyone accepting delivery. The less handling, the less chances of mishandling. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“It’s not a what I’m afraid,” he says. “But a who.”
“Huh? You’ve lost me. Who is one of the products?”
Walter slowly points his finger to the cover of the Life magazine on his desk. I can’t believe it. He can’t be serious.
“Holy Temptress of the Ocean!”
Chapter Three
HER REAL NAME IS JOSEPHINE WALTERS, BUT EVERYONE knows her by Delphine “the Temptress of the Ocean” Lucerne. Delphine packs a quadruple threat. Not only can she act, sing, and dance, but she’s a professional swimmer. Glamorous can’t even begin to describe her beauty. What’s really great about her is that she has long dark hair, which is really rare for Hollywood starlets. Big studios always want their leading ladies to be blondes. Delphine changed that when she entered the movie studio system. Rumor has it she was a regular girl at a small five-and-dime store owned by her grandparents. Her parents died in a terrible car accident, and the only solace she could find was when she swam at the nearby public pool
in her home of Youngstown, Ohio.
One day, a talent scout walked into the five-and-dime to pick up a pack of cigs and left declaring he’d found the next big star. Soon enough, the young, innocent Josephine Walters transformed into the glorious Delphine Lucerne.
“Wowza. Who would have thought the Temptress of the Ocean would be staying right here at Crossed Palms? She may be our biggest hotel guest yet,” I say. Then it dawns on me. “Wait a minute. Mr. Davenport is calling her a product. I don’t like that at all. She’s a human as far as I know. Why is Mr. Davenport doing that?”
The more I think of it the angrier I get. Walt gets up, pours a glass of water, and hands me the cup this time.
“That’s not very nice,” I say.
“You met him. Mr. Davenport is very particular. No one knows about Delphine starring in the film,” Walt says. “They’ve kept any mention of her name out of the papers in the hope of making the big reveal closer to the movie release. Since Baldwin Studios practically stole her from Powerhouse Productions, the whole studio is riding on this movie being their biggest seller. Or something like that. I don’t know a thing about Hollywood.”
I scratch my forehead.
“Is Mr. Davenport calling her a product because he wants to keep the mystery intact, or does he really think she’s an inanimate object? Because if he does, Mr. Davenport has got a lot to learn, and I intend to educate him every chance I get.”
I write down on my pad:
Examples of Products
* Yo-yos
* Cars
* The nifty watch in your pocket
* The stinky cigar you smoke
What Are Not Products
* Women
* Girls
* Humans
* And anyone whose name is Delphine Lucerne
“Now, wait a minute, Goldie. You are not to start any trouble. Mr. Davenport is a powerful man and it’s important we keep the mystery intact.”
Sometimes I wonder if Walt knows me. Discreet is my middle name. Well, actually, I don’t have a middle name.
The Hotel Whodunit Page 2