by Laura Briggs
Hesitating, I gave the door a little push, and heard an answering thud from the opposite end of the ballroom. The only other entrance and exit was standing ajar in the low lights. Where the twinkle of diamonds should be beneath the portrait of Lady Von Patterson, there was only a blank rectangle of black velvet. Shattered porcelain lay on the floor by the open case of Limoges.
Robbery. The exhibit is being robbed!
I stepped inside, and an alarm triggered, beeping wildly. Just as quickly, I stumbled back from the doorway, waiting to be seized by men in black armed with tasers and orders to surrender the ice, but nothing happened. Where are the security guards? Don't they know what's going on?
I ran to the gold parlor and found its door was open partway as well. I pushed it open to find one security guard lying on the floor and the other one slumped in his chair before the surveillance monitor.
My toes felt the sharpness of fractured porcelain. A broken cup lay at my feet, and another was smashed at the feet of the seated guard.
***
Chaos ensued. The equivalent of chaos for a hotel whose morning customarily begins in the wee small hours of the morning — only without everyone in dressing gowns or robes and without the local constabulary present.
"How could this happen? How?" demanded Mr. Tiller, who was half-dressed and pacing the gold parlor. "I told you never to leave your post! Not once!"
"I only stepped in to trade places with Fremell," said the guard who had been lying on the floor earlier. "That's the last thing I remember."
"Reckon the coffee was drugged?" asked Constable Pringle. He held a little plastic bag with the remains of one of the ceramic cups in it. "Maybe we should test it. Forensics and what not."
"From where did the coffee come?" Mr. Tiller glared at his security guard again.
"It was in the room, sir. A tray of it. We assumed the hotel staff brought it."
Mr. Trelawney cleared his throat. "I did request that a tray of coffees be brought to the gentleman on your staff," he said. "Before the conclusion of our porter's night shift."
He wore a red and white striped robe over a pair of pale blue pajamas, but even without his suit and pocket handkerchief, he still looked pretty intimidating, especially compared to the constable, who was younger, shorter, and looked altogether clueless as he studied the only evidence thus far connected to the crime.
"A quarter of a million pounds in diamonds — gone." Mr. Tiller's face buried itself momentarily in his hands with a deep groan. "Those smashed Limoges alone were worth nearly ten thousand — the one with the green parrot was considered one of a kind by leading authorities in the field."
"Can you put it right with a bit of glue?" Constable Pringle asked. Mr. Tiller lifted his head, a look between despair and rage on his face. The constable sobered. "Bit of a joke," he added.
"Mrs. Finny." Mr. Trelawney turned to the new housekeeper, who was still in her nightgown with a sleep mask pushed up to the top of her forehead. "Was coffee brought to this parlor as requested — and by whom?'"
"I haven't the faintest," she answered. "I was with the accounts until nearly midnight — then I went upstairs to my quarters, I'm afraid." She looked baffled by this question, and by the whole affair.
"By Riley." The concierge, sitting on the parlor sofa in a pink, frilly robe, answered his question. "He was the last porter on duty. He brought the tray at one, then left the hotel."
"Thank you, Brigette," answered Mr. Trelawney.
"Where's this Riley, then?" asked the constable. "We haven't heard from him yet."
"He won't be present until six A.M.," the hotel manager replied. "You may attempt to ring him, but I doubt you'll succeed. Mr. Bloom has a reputation for being notoriously late for his duties."
"What of this woman?" the constable pointed at me.
"Yes," said the auction house representative, emphatically. "What were you doing, sneaking around the hotel at this hour?"
All eyes were on me. Suddenly, I felt like a convict on the block. "I was out for a walk," I said. "Sometimes I — have trouble sleeping. So I go for a walk on the grounds or near the beach. Ask any of the staff or management who live here and they'll tell you it's true."
"Peculiar behavior, isn't it?" persisted Mr. Tiller. "If you were walking in the gardens, what were you doing in the hall?"
"I heard a noise," I said. "I assumed it was the security staff, but it was the thief, apparently. Like I told you before, that's when I called Mr. Trelawney."
"I still say it sounds a bit suspicious," he answered, somewhat icily.
"Oy! The police'll be the ones asking the questions 'round here," said Constable Pringle, in an injured tone. "Though it does seem suspicious, if I do say so myself, someone walkin' along the beach in the dark."
"She does," said Brigette. "I've seen her coming from the beach again at all sorts of hours, when I've worked from one shift into the next."
If Constable Pringle was going to take me to jail, he hadn't yet removed his handcuffs to do it. He seemed unsure what to do about any of this.
"If it was the coffee, it could be someone on staff responsible," said Mr. Tiller. He looked at the constable, quickly. "I want a complete list of everyone who works for this hotel, no matter how seldom, and I want all of them questioned — every guest, including the members of my staff."
"Reckon that's the right step," said the constable. "Is there a list about?" he asked.
"I can print you one, I suppose," said Mrs. Finny. "But as for the ones who are only part time —"
"Their names are in the database in a folder marked 'additional staff,'" said Brigette. "There's a physical record of names and addresses in a file labeled the same in the drawer of staff records.
"Oh," said Mrs. Finny. "Thank you," she said to Brigette.
"The guests. I'll need the same for them, I suppose," said the constable, looking at the little notebook in which he had written my statement earlier regarding the events of the crime. "Reckon we'll have to round up this lot for questioning."
"What have you done to recover my stolen property, constable?" Mr. Tiller's tone was growing angrier.
Constable Pringle puffed out his chest, assuming an official stance. "I'll have you know, sir, that the local constabulary's taken steps already to stop the thieves," he said. "We've had the highway blocked and searched cars both coming and going. We've put out an alert in the community, and asked for any suspicious traffic or vehicle or boat to be reported by those in maritime. What's more, we've put out the word to the surrounding villages so's any thief would be hard pressed to sell the goods without our noticing."
Mr. Tiller looked slightly mollified, but not completely satisfied, in my opinion. The constable exhaled with a smothered cough, then looked at Mr. Trelawney. "I suppose I should begin knocking on doors upstairs," he said. "We'll have to search all the rooms."
"You haven't done that yet?" The auction house's representative spoke again.
"Let us inform the guests their presence is required by the police in the dining room downstairs," suggested Mr. Trelawney. "While they are assembled for questioning, you and your fellow constable can search the guests' quarters and the rest of the hotel. Miss Kinnan and Miss O' Brien will begin informing them as of now — in your company."
"All right," said the constable, adopting this plan quickly. "Don't you go nowhere," he added to me, with a touch of suspicion. "I'm not done asking you questions."
"I'll be here," I assured him. It wasn't as if I had plans to flee with my passport ... if the constable didn't confiscate it after declaring me his prime suspect.
The guests were not happy about being rounded up — a grumpy, rumpled assembly of half-dressed individuals awaited questioning for the tiny local police force. At that time, Sergeant MacEntire questioned them one by one as two other officers searched the hotel. One by one, as the rest of the staff who had quarters off hotel grounds arrived, they were taken aside for questioning also.
I was questioned
again twice by the police, as if they thought with repetition my story might change and yield a clue. I had nothing more to give him, however — it had all happened too swiftly, too unbelievably, for me to have logged any useful details.
"You saw nothing, you say? Not a bit of clothing, nor a glimpse o' the back of his head, maybe?"
"Nothing," I replied. "I heard a noise, I opened the door and saw that the door to the room on the other side had been forced open and was beginning to swing closed. I went to find the guards, and that's when I found them unconscious on the floor. By then, I suppose the thief either hid or got out of the hotel."
His radio beeped. He had a quick word with someone on it, then looked at me. "Come upstairs, Miss Kinnan," he said. "Nicholson, follow me." He addressed another constable with this remark, who had just entered the room.
I rose from the table, glancing around as if I was afraid everyone assumed I was being led to the gallows. But they were all too busy being questioned or sitting bored and anxious as they awaited their turns. The lady tourist in white wore a lace robe with a dramatic train, and was giving the PC questioning her far more color in her alibi than he probably wanted; one table away, the Hollywood buyer was talking on his phone until the aforementioned constable snapped at him to disconnect the call.
The staff rooms were being searched, including mine — my printed book chapters were scattered all over my bed, and my computer — my files — were being searched by a local constable. Constable Pringle stood at attention as his superior officer entered the room.
"I think we may have the makings of a spy here, sir," he reported.
The sergeant looked incredulous. "What?" he answered.
"Those are my things!" I said. "Don't mix them up, they're supposed to be in a certain order."
"There are files on here keeping track of the hotel employee's movements, and a complete description of the stolen merchandise," the constable reported.
"Miss Kinnan?" the sergeant turned to me. "Are you keeping tabs for someone? Or is there a better explanation for all this?" He pointed to my screen, where the open document was my last journal entry, or more specifically, notes on what happened that day.
"These are just bits from a story, sir." The other constable lifted one of the pages from the bed — the scene from my novel where Annabel attempts to break free of her tower prison. There was my portfolio from the Ink and Inspiration program — my application to the Tucker Mentorship — everything that was private and meant for my eyes only was now sprawled across my bedspread.
"I'm not spying on anybody," I said. "I'm a — a writer." I hesitated before admitting it. Until now, it had been a secret, the reason I came here in the first place — not to be a hotel maid, as my coworkers all assumed. "I'm writing a novel. And that computer file is my private journal, which I would prefer not to have read publicly, thank you very much." My voice was snappish as I reached to close the computer file.
"Have you found anything of actual value?" the sergeant asked. The second PC snapped to attention again.
"No. 'Fraid not, sir. We've searched all the staff quarters — PC Jones is searching the guest's rooms, but he's found nothing at present."
"You're a writer?" The voice that asked this question was that of Molly, who was standing in the doorway of my room. A touch of confusion in her voice. "You mean, like — novels and stories?"
My secret was out, even if I wanted to keep it under lock and key for months more. "I am," I answered. "This is my novel ... sort of." I lifted one of the sheets from chapter twelve, which was now mixed in with chapters three and seven, judging from the smattering of paragraphs that caught my eye.
"Miss, you need to return to the questioning room downstairs," said the sergeant.
"But I was sent to tell you that the detective has arrived," said Molly.
"What detective?"
"The private one. From the insurance company," she said. "Mr. Tiller contacted him and he's just arrived. Do you want to speak with him?"
The sergeant glanced at his constable. "If you're finished searching up here, go downstairs and help locate the rest of the staff."
"Yes, sir."
"I suppose I had better go find out why the insurance company feels the need to stick themselves into this affair." The sergeant disappeared, leaving me with my novel's scattered self and Molly. I gathered it up, but not as hastily as before. Too late now to tuck the secret out of sight.
"Why didn't you tell anybody?" Molly asked. "All this time, you've been writing a book and didn't tell anybody? I never dreamed it, Maisie. I did wonder why you spent so much time on your own, of course, and why you typed such long letters — did you know that writers stay at the hotel sometimes? That woman with the funny haircut only last January wrote a mystery novel."
I knew well that writers stayed at the Penmarrow, including a certain famous, reclusive one with his own personal writing suite on permanent hold. "I didn't want to tell anybody," I said. "It — it makes people a little odd, sometimes, knowing that someone writes novels. They're afraid they'll end up a character in your book, I guess. Or they like the idea of being one, so they keep trying to get you to put them in a story."
"Writing a book must be a bit fun," said Molly. "So that's why your little tablet's always locked, isn't it? To keep your novel from being stolen?"
"That's one way of putting it," I said. I gathered my mixed-up chapters into a stack again.
"Are you going to publish it? Have you written a whole novel, or are these only bits and pieces of one?" Molly picked up one or two pages, then dropped them hastily back on the bed. "You might not want me to see it, of course," she said. "Sorry. I didn't mean to. I didn't read any of it, I promise."
A thousand questions, followed by the fear of invading my privacy — I was probably making poor Molly feel as if she was in an ogre's lair, since I didn't seem terribly thrilled at the prospect of sharing my story or the details behind my supposed hobby with anybody.
"No, it's okay," I said. "You can look. Cat's out of the bag, right?" I smiled.
"It's all right, then?"
"It's fine." I spoke assuredly this time. "Besides, these aren't really the novel. This was just the rough draft chapters from when I first began writing. But ... the novel itself is almost finished now, so I suppose I should print a new copy."
Even though I was still tweaking it, I knew its first draft had come as far as I could bring it, as I had hinted to Sidney before. "Someone ... a friend ... made notes on them to help me figure out some changes I needed in the story." Those notes were Sidney's, of course, the only person to whom I had told my secret.
"May I read it, sometime?" Molly asked, shyly. "If it's not a bother, I mean."
I hesitated. I could think of no good reason to refuse, although it meant that everybody who didn't find out right away would then know in a matter of weeks, when Molly began reading the novel's first full draft.
"Sure," I said. "I'll make you a copy. You can tell me if you like the heroine's adventures." I tossed the pages into the bottom drawer of my bureau, where they had been stored originally. This time, however, I didn't bother to turn the key in its lock.
"This is quite exciting, really," said Molly, enthusiastically. "I wish you'd told us before. We've never had a writer on staff. We had a German porter once who was an aspiring concert violinist ... but this is a bit different. Maybe we can suggest something that becomes part of a story you write — no, wait, that's the sort of thing you don't want, isn't it?" She frowned. "I forgot. That's why it was a secret. But ... if we said something and didn't know it ... that wouldn't be the same, would it?"
Molly thought the novel was exciting, but I wondered what she would say about the contents of my Misadventures manuscript, which was full of personal details about the staff, including her romance with George the somewhat-eccentric astronomer. Riley's near-sacking was detailed, as were countless details about guests, tourists, and various staff who came and went over the past year.
Molly would find that less enchanting and would tell me so if she found out — if she wasn't too offended to stop speaking with me, of course. It would be bad enough to lose one of my friends here because of a wild idea they inspired some fictional character, but I would probably lose them all over my writer's journal.
"Are you coming, Maisie? The constable still wants us all present for questions, but Brigette says we need to serve breakfast to the guests. Ligeia's brewed coffee, and there's some pastry in boxes meant for tourist tea."
"Coming," I promised, as I slipped the cover page printed with my real name — Maisie Clark — into the drawer face-down. As soon as Molly was gone, I opened my computer's file and moved the diary to locked file status.
Not good enough, not anymore. I paused, then dropped the folder into the rubbish bin's icon on my desktop. Farewell, journal, to all your reflections on my undercover life. I hated to do it, but I didn't have a choice. So much for Sidney's once-inspired adventures of Maisie herself.
I retrieved my maid's apron and went downstairs to serve breakfast to the grumpy guests in the hotel's new interrogation room. Halfway down the stairs, I was confronted with the view of the second PC and the sergeant in conference in the foyer, with a new person I hadn't seen before, a man wearing an expensive suit, carrying an old-fashioned hat and coat.
At this time, Riley made his entrance through the terrace side of the hotel, an hour and a half late for work. His tie was unfastened and draped around his collar, his uniform jacket unbuttoned, and a waterproof slung over one shoulder. Whistling as he stubbed his cigarette out in one of the potted ferns — an utter violation of the hotel's rules — before he noticed the crowd in the grand lobby, and that their eyes were on him.
"Mr. Bloom?" enquired the sergeant.
Riley's pleasant smile faded away. "You're not from the credit company, are you?" he asked. "I swear, I sent the payment already — it's only been four months since the last one —"
The constable laid a hand on his arm. "These gentlemen need a word with you."