The Hotel Whodunit

by Lilliam Rivera

  “Walt, tomorrow is the big game. Will you have me watching the big game on the sidelines, or are you going to use your best-equipped player to strike the winning goal?”

  I’m not sure if I’m using the right sports metaphors, but Walt has never been the type who likes sports. He’s a books guy. I think he gets what I’m saying.

  “Delphine will arrive tomorrow with a cloak covering her face. She will be staying at the Alcove Suite. Only two hotel staff members will be allowed to tend to her personally. No other contact. That includes you, Goldie. No contact with Delphine.”

  There’s no way I will miss out on the biggest news hitting St. Pascal. It’s not possible. Since I don’t want to add to Walt’s reluctance, I change the subject.

  “If Delphine is the first product, what’s the second?”

  Walt starts to sweat. I pray he doesn’t give me the name of Rock Hudson or Harry Belafonte or Dean Martin. Keeping Delphine under wraps will be hard enough, but add another Hollywood star to the mix and there’s bound to be chaos. I was here when the legendary rock band the Tigers stayed here at Crossed Palms, en route to their sold-out concert at the Coconut Grove Club. I spent most of my time wrangling their fans out from hiding in laundry baskets or janitor closets. It was a bit of a drag. I mean, I’m all for being a fan but it was a lot. I couldn’t bear to watch the Tigers constantly being bombarded. Of course, I also couldn’t help arranging an impromptu concert for the waitstaff. The Tigers loved it, though. They got to eat a home-cooked meal, courtesy of our incredibly talented chefs, in exchange for three songs. A win-win, if you ask me. Unfortunately, the fans got wind of the concert and infiltrated. Soon the kitchen was overrun with screaming young Tigerettes. Dad grounded me a week for that one.

  “C’mon, Walter. I promise to leave Delphine alone and help in any way I can. You said it yourself: Crossed Palms doesn’t have enough manpower. Consider me the extra woman-power you’ve been dreaming about.”

  Walt hesitates. He squints his eyes, rubs the sweat on the back of his neck. He then opens his desk drawer and pulls out an oversize yellow folder.

  “The contents in this folder are never to be uttered, mentioned, speculated, or dreamt about. Agree?”

  I fully commit by crossing my heart and hoping to die. Slowly but surely Walt opens the envelope and pulls out one photograph.

  I whistle.

  My eyes are practically blinded by the image: hundreds upon hundreds of diamonds assembled on what appears to be a cap of some sort. It’s the most brilliant, eye-catching thing I’ve ever seen. A crown that can be found only in fairy tales about mermaids who live in vast underwater worlds.

  “What is it?” I say. I press my fingers to the photo as if the diamonds will materialize onto Walt’s desk.

  “The Bejeweled Aqua Chapeau. The crown jewel of the movie. A swim cap only befitting of the Temptress of the Ocean,” Walt says. “Dreamt up by the famous costume designer to the stars, Edna Blanchett. From what Mr. Davenport said, Edna Blanchett not only designed the cap but she oversaw that every individual diamond was secured in place using special tools, exactly to her and the studio’s liking. Days and days of work to create such a masterpiece. There are hundreds of individual diamonds on this cap worth more than a million dollars.”

  I’ve never seen anything quite like this. A swim cap covered in sparkling jewels. It’s fantastical and so over-the-top, exactly what movie magic is all about. How can one person envision such a thing and find a way of creating it? Whoever this Edna Blanchett is, she must be a genius. Now I understand why Mr. Davenport is so worried. One sneak peek at this cap and the Crossed Palms will swarm with potential sticky fingers. It’s one thing to take care of a Hollywood superstar; it’s quite another to secure a priceless piece of art.

  “Where will the Bejeweled Aqua Chapeau reside while they are filming? In the vault?” I ask. The vault is Crossed Palms’s very own secured room where guests can store their valuables. I’ve never seen the inside of the vault, but I hope this changes very soon.

  Walt closes the folder and shakes his head.

  “Any good house detective will tell you that the less people who are aware of information, the less the risk becomes of the news leaking to the public. You’ve seen the picture of the cap. You know more than most.”

  I can’t believe Walt is about to hold out on me, on his only assistant! How am I supposed to do my job if he insists on taking this path of not sharing information with me? It’s not fair. Besides, how will I learn to be a house detective?

  “I think it’s way past your break time,” he says as he places the folder back inside his desk drawer. “Now I’ve got to do my rounds. C’mon.”

  “You can’t be serious?”

  He leads me toward the door.

  “I’m sorry, Goldie. I can’t let you get involved. Mr. Davenport will be eager to place blame if something goes wrong and I won’t have him do so with you.”

  “What if I am as quiet and still as a mouse? I can be a stealthy house detective, sneaking in and out of the shadows with no trace.” I lean my body up against the wall and act nonchalant while a couple of hotel guests walk past. Walt greets them and they nod hello.

  “See?” I say. “They didn’t even notice me!”

  Walt keeps walking.

  “They did notice you. They decided not to pay any mind to the strange girl pressed against the wall.”

  Sometimes Walt fails to use his imagination. I’m sure he had one back in Michigan somewhere.

  “Please, please, please, Walt. You need me. There’s no way you’ll be able to handle this and Mr. Davenport and the delivery of the products. Help me help you.”

  “You’re not going to stop asking, are you?” Walt wrings his hands a bit. He knows he needs me; he just doesn’t quite see it as clearly as I do. Crossed Palms is my life. I’ve also learned a lot from watching my dad, and I want to make sure we keep it running as smoothly as possible. “Persistent, that’s my middle name,” I say.

  “I thought you didn’t have a middle name? Oh, never mind. I’m probably going to regret this. Be here no later than five in the morning.”

  “Yes! I’m on the case. You will not regret this. I swear to you and all the jewels found on that—”

  Before I can say the word cap Walt presses his finger against my lips. Oops.

  “Cap,” I whisper. “I promise. I will be here. Quiet as a mouse, cunning as a fox.”

  Walt shakes his head. And with that, he walks off to begin his rounds, making sure the hotel is free of any drama. While he does that, I head to the parking lot to finish up my shift.

  I can’t wait to share the news with Mom and Cheryl. They won’t believe it. The Temptress of the Ocean will be here! This is major. And wait until they hear about the Bejeweled Aqua Chapeau. Mom is simply going to flip. She loves everything Hollywood and sparkly.

  Oh. Wait a minute. I’m not supposed to tell anyone about Delphine Lucerne or the lavish cap. This is going to be tricky. The biggest news that has ever landed right on my lap, and I’m forced to keep my lips sealed.

  Well, the key to being a good house detective is to know when to divulge information and to whom. As my grandmother used to say, intelligence is better than money but you have to spend it wisely. The smart thing in this situation would be to keep this stuff to myself. This is going to be a true test of my willpower. Walt expects me to keep his secret. Mr. Davenport is ready to blow a gasket at the first sign of failure. I can’t let Walt down. Quiet as a mouse. If you really think about it, mice are not that quiet. We used to have a mouse in my mom’s apartment, and I couldn’t sleep with the constant scratching and pitter-patter of its little feet. Not quiet. And where there’s one mouse there are usually more. An army of mice! How squeaky and cute it would be! But I digress.

  “Welcome to the Crossed Palms Resort, where your every wish is at your fingertips,” I say to the man dressed in a nice linen suit. He calmly waits for his guest to step out of the car. She, too, is wearing
linen, a pretty dress perfectly suited for Florida.

  “Thank you so much,” she says to me.

  “You’re welcome.”

  The man in the linen suit hands me the keys to his car while the bellhop pulls out the couple’s luggage. Then Mr. Linen offers his hand to Miss Linen, and they walk together toward the entrance of the Crossed Palms. On their way in, they run into a couple of swamp monsters with seaweed dripping from their necks and hair. Miss Linen giggles at the sight.

  I drive the car to the parking lot, this time holding off revving the engine too much. I wonder what life is like for Delphine Lucerne. She went from working the register of a store to gracing the cover of Life magazine. Whenever she steps outside, hundreds of reporters document her every move, while fans crave every little piece of her. To a fan, Delphine’s life seems glamorous, but I’ve seen what fame can do to a person. Take the Tigers. The boys in the band just wanted to eat home-cooked chicken noodle soup with a grilled cheese sandwich, the type of meal their parents made when they were feeling under the weather. But a simple ask became a whole production.

  Does Delphine feel the same way? Does she think about her hometown? Does she wish to be like the woman in the linen suit, freely laughing at scary costumes without having a cloak covering her smile? Delphine’s life must feel like being in a bowl of water, like a goldfish. Everyone staring at you, tapping on the glass, when the only thing you want to do is swim.

  Regardless of her circumstances, I will make sure to treat Delphine with the utmost respect. Just because she’s on the cover of every magazine out there doesn’t mean she doesn’t want hot soup and a grilled cheese sandwich, just like everyone else. Tomorrow, Delphine Lucerne will get the Crossed Palms Resort treatment. We treat every guest like family.

  I continue parking cars and thinking about the Bejeweled Aqua Chapeau, Delphine, and tomorrow until it’s time to punch out.

  Chapter Four

  I CLOCK OUT OF WORK AND HOP ON MY TRUSTY BIKE, Big Blue. The first St. Pascal landmark I pass is the Deep End. Cheryl and I have shared many a burger and shake at the Deep End. She’s probably there right now eating with Rob. Rob works with me as a valet and we’re basically a trio. Cheryl, Rob, and me. Although our thing is usually to meet there after work to go over the highs and lows of our days, I won’t go in today. I’ve got too much to prepare for tomorrow’s main event. Besides, Mom is expecting me. I navigate Big Blue toward Lime Street. If I ride straight along Lime Street, I’ll eventually hit the Mermaid Club, where Mom should be just about finishing her shift.

  “Hi, Goldie!”

  “Hi, Jim!”

  I wave to Jim of Jim’s Emporium. Jim’s Emporium is a massive department store where people can basically shop for whatever they need. If you’re looking for a television, you can buy one there. A nifty state-of-the-art fridge? Yup, they’ve got an entire row of ’em. In this month’s catalog you’ll find Mom posing in front of a new living room set. Mom does modeling for Jim from time to time. Unfortunately, we did not get the fancy living room set as payment.

  As I pedal down Lime Street, I say hi to so many people. That’s the great thing about living in St. Pascal—everyone knows everyone. I learned how to ride my bike on these streets, and now the shop and restaurant owners see me almost every day riding back and forth, from the resort to the club or nearby to where Mom lives. Although my preferred mode of transportation would be a racy Alfa Romeo, my trusty bike has gotten me into places most cars can’t.

  In the distance I see the one store in town that stands out more than any of the others on Lime Street. My feet automatically slow as I approach it. Wax Lips. It’s the only record shop in St. Pascal, and for such a small shop, Wax Lips has an incredible selection of music, from hard-to-find jazz albums to the latest rock ’n’ roll. Impromptu dance parties erupt at any time. But the best thing about Wax Lips isn’t the albums or dance parties. No. What truly makes the store unique is the person working the cash register.

  Diane.

  Diane is by far the coolest person on Lime Street. Correction, Diane is by far the coolest person in all of St. Pascal, and she works at Wax Lips.

  Before I realize it, my face is pressed against the glass window of the record shop, searching for Diane. She has short black hair and the coolest demeanor. She knows all there is to know about music, and she lines her eyes with dark eyeliner. She’s taller than me but I don’t care. Did I mention how cool she is? Very. Cool.

  The record store is jam-packed with people wanting to buy music. Right in the midst of the commotion stands Diane, reigning supreme like a modern-day Joan of Arc, guiding the customers to their melodic choices. Even in all the craziness, Diane still manages to stop for a second and wave hello to me.

  Like a fool I take a look around to make sure Diane is waving at little ol’ me and not someone else. I wave back. She gestures for me to enter with a quick nod, but I say no by rubbing my belly to note that I’m hungry. I wonder if my gesture is kind of ridiculous. Then I start to get a little flustered and begin to question everything. Is my wave a little goofy? Does she understand that I promised my mom I would meet her at the Mermaid Club? Does Diane think I’m a weirdo standing in front of the store communicating with my hands?

  While all this processes in my head, a customer asks Diane a question and she heads toward the stack of albums. Before she goes, Diane gives me a warm smile.

  Sigh.

  I pride myself on being able to talk to just about everyone. I’ve never been the type of person to get nervous. Never. Diane is different. I get tongue-tied whenever I’m around her. Cheryl thinks it’s funny to see how I act around her. She says I should get the nerve and finally ask her out. I don’t know what’s stopping me. I am fearless. Brave in the face of adversity. There is no obstacle I am not willing to overcome. But asking Diane out on a date? I’m going to have to find real courage for that one. Besides, a girl as cool as Diane probably has her calendar full of dates.

  I pedal away and continue down Lime Street.

  IT’S NEARLY IMPOSSIBLE TO MISS THE MERMAID CLUB. Just drive straight down Lime Street until you see the gigantic mermaid lounging across a building with a bright neon MERMAID CLUB sign pulsating on and off above her head.

  I climb off my bike and walk toward the back of the club to avoid the small crowd lining up to enter.

  In order for a club to stand out, sometimes you need a gimmick. The gimmick of the Mermaid Club is that the club is filled with actual mermaids living their lives in a large tank. People can sit down and have a meal while watching mermaids swimming around their underwater homes. Mermaids combing their long, luxurious hair. Mermaids exercising. Mermaids dancing their elaborate water ballets. I love everything about the club. It’s magical and wondrous and beautiful.

  Like every kid, I, too, believed mermaids existed. I thought there must surely be scores of mermaid families living in the deep blue sea, dropping off their mermaid kids at their mermaid schools before heading to their mermaid jobs. But I can’t truly recall when I discovered mermaids didn’t exist. I do remember that soon after Mom started working at the club, I realized that the true magic doesn’t exist solely when the mermaids synchronize swim, but can also be found behind the scenes: the workers maintaining the tank so that it’s not too cold or too hot, or the hidden oxygen tanks where the mermaids swim to inhale and then float back out. I love illusions like this. We all need a break from reality sometimes.

  I also remember seeing Mom’s mermaid fin at home one day and thinking, So that’s what Mom’s been doing. Mermaids no longer were these mythical creatures; they became amazing alchemists creating wondrous feats in the water and making audiences believe. They are up there with Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny.

  TABLES AND BOOTHS FAN OUT IN A SEMICIRCLE, FACING the large tank of water. In the tank, breathtaking mermaids swim about in choreographed underwater movements. At the far left of the tank I spot Mom. She twirls in the water with such grace. Her movements enrapture the entire
audience. I sit at my booth off to the side, marked with a RESERVED sign, and wait, thinking of Diane, Delphine, and beauty.

  “What’s with the long face?” Mike is the bartender/co-owner of the Mermaid Club. He’s like a mountain with big broad shoulders and large hands. Mike told me he used to be the Strong Man in a traveling circus. When people first meet Mike, they usually think he’s menacing, but not that many people know that Mike is a poet. Like me, he always travels with a tiny pad in his back pocket, ready to jot down a new verse or two.

  “Hey, Mike. I’m okay—just got a lot on my mind,” I say. “Are the words flowing today?”

  Mike pulls out the pad.

  “The ocean reminds me of your eyes, endless and…” he says in his deep baritone. “Still trying to figure out what goes after endless.”

  The pencil in his hand looks like a toothpick.

  “I’m sure the word is right at the tip of your tongue,” I say. “Are you thinking of reciting at the coffee shop on Friday?”

  Mike tucks the pencil behind his ear. “I think it needs a little more cooking before I debut my new poetry in front of a crowd. Besides, this week I’m working overtime.” He points to the crowd of men offstage unloading equipment.

  “Business must be booming.”

  Mike nods. “It’s been nonstop.”

  “Mike, I’ll need a couple of root beers for table four.” A woman dressed in blue, matching the interior of the club, approaches the table. It’s Angie, Mike’s girlfriend. Angie used to be a dancer on Broadway but an ankle injury ended her chorus line days. She’s now in charge of the mermaid choreography. “Goldie, I didn’t see you there.”

  She gives me a hug. The club is about to pick up. A lot of workers come to the Mermaid Club to unwind.

  “Tomorrow is going to be a nightmare,” Angie says. Mike nods in agreement.

  “What do you mean? I can’t wait for tomorrow,” I say. “This is the best thing to happen in St. Pascal. Movie madness!”