Murder in the Grand Manor

by Tom Hoke

She looked at him coldly. "Precisely what legend are you looking up in what era?"

  Oh boy! She'd been reading up on how to be a librarian! Or maybe she hadn't been in the business long. He started over. "You have a Mississippi history shelf?" he asked, looking about the neatly tagged rows of books.

  She moved regally to a shelf nearest the door.

  Her demeanor indicated she didn't think much of his profession as an author. "Here are the books on southern history, going back as far as the Civil War." Apparently she too had caught the Yankee accent, and from the tone in her voice she thought he must have caused the Civil War personally. "And general information which may help you," she added.

  Her voice intimated she didn't think there was anything that could help him. But she stared at him curiously. Jim didn't think he was such an oddity. Then she insisted, "Can I help you find any particular thing?" Sure, he thought. Why don't you give me the pitch on that abandoned graveyard in Section Eight, Township Four South, and Range Sixteen West, if you know it's there, and I bet you don't. Then she said in a compromising soft voice: "The legends about this county have been over-exploited for years Mr…?"

  "Smith", he said hastily, knowing she didn't believe him, and feeling like a heel for interrupting her paperback reading in the first place. He sounded properly apologetic, but turned his head so he could read the title of her book in the drawer. He wanted to laugh.

  Shame on you, Mrs. Wharton, he said to himself and found her blushing when she caught his look at the title. She slammed the drawer. Jim grinned at her.

  "Very well, Mr. Smith," she dismissed him.

  "Let me know if I can be of any assistance to you." She abandoned the paperback and drew a sheaf of papers from the files, looking very professional.

  So here he was with a couple of dozen books on southern and Civil War history and almost no place to start. He decided to start at the beginning by searching the indices at the back.

  He was suddenly interrupted by Mrs. Wharton standing over him with her hands on her hips.

  She smelled nice, and she had a certain look not given to married females.

  "Do you want a card?" she asked. "A library card," she explained when he looked blank.

  He thought about it and nodded. She pulled a card from her pocket and put it down on the table. "What is your first name, Mr. Smith, and where are you staying?"

  Perhaps he was wrong about his first appraisal. All he could see now were fantastically long eyelashes. He might as well go along with Charlie. He gave her that and the Grand Manor and she said: "As an author, how do you feel about Artrand Bran's hitting the best seller list with his Never the Day? Her eyes widened in question. Jim had never heard of Artrand whats his name or his book, but he decided to be obliging. "Now there's a BOOK!" he exclaimed. His reply stemmed back to when he was obliged to look at somebody's baby and having not the least idea whether it was male or female, he decided the safest thing to say was, "Now there's a BABY!"

  Mrs. Wharton nodded, apparently unable to match his remark. The telephone rang loudly.

  She picked it up and announced importantly,

  "Bay St. Louis Library, Mrs. Wharton." Then her voice changed. She sounded quite rattled.

  "Yes. YES! I'll close up now. I didn't have any idea, Mayor Boggs. Thank you."

  She started locking drawers, looking flustered but suddenly prettier and more human. "Mr.

  Smith," she said, "the FLAGS are up!" She slammed the middle door shut, and added, "I have to close!"

  More flags! "What do you mean the flags are up? Everybody's got flags on their mind.

  What's with all the flags?"

  Her eyes got wide. "It's Bertha!" she gasped.

  "That's what it is!"

  "Bertha?" Jim repeated. Here we go again.

  "Who is Bertha?"

  She looked at him with exasperation. "Bertha is a Category 3 hurricane!" Mrs. Wharton replied. "She's headed right at us! The flags are hurricane flags!"

  Chapter 7

  So, now he knew about Bertha! Bertha wasn't just another female of uncertain years for him to herd under his wing. Bertha was a dandy hurricane. He should have known.

  There was Aunt Annie's concern, the scowling man fighting the plywood on Main Street, the deserted downtown area, and the empty courthouse.

  But he didn't get as steamed up over a hurricane as Mrs. Wharton. Not then he didn't. He just idly thought it was too bad Mrs.

  Wharton was married. He looked at her fumbling at the file drawer and she made him feel quite protective. Somehow she seemed to have come unglued, and it was becoming. He wondered what went on in Mrs. Wharton's head.

  "Mrs. Wharton, don't forget your paperback. It might make good hurricane reading," he jibed, watching her rustle around. "Could I take out a couple of these history books?" he asked, raising his voice to get her attention. She gave an exasperated look. "Certainly, but why don't you close the mini blinds while you're at it?"

  Meekly, he closed and fastened them and took a couple of books. She didn't ask him to even sign his name. It wouldn't have mattered if he had taken the petty cash box too. He could have trundled out the whole load of books.

  Mrs. Wharton had Bertha on her mind, not books. She hustled him out the door and he took the key from her wavering fingers, locked the door, and handed it back to her. "Can I take you home?" he asked. She started to nod

  "yes", and then shook her head decisively "no".

  "No thank you, Mr. Smith," she said and hurried off down the street. Neat figure, Mrs.

  Wharton, he mourned to himself, long legs and no swish-swish when she walked.

  The streets of Bay St. Louis were narrow, and it was difficult for two cars to pass at a time. But today he had no trouble pulling over on the sidewalk to let a big truck go by. On a busy day this must have slowed down the tempo.

  Not a bad idea if it needed slowing. But the pace really wasn't slowed today despite the lack of traffic. Quickly and grimly the store owners were boarding up windows facing the bay. Anyone could tell they had done it before, and they would do it again. They hardly gave Jim a glance.

  As he drove toward the bay, the day seemed duller and the wind had picked up a little but not alarmingly. When he got to where Main Street intersected with Beach Road, he looked to the right and there were the flags! They were flying over what must have been the local yacht club. The flags were square and red as blood, with a black square inside. Later somebody clued him in. One flag with the black squares indicated gale warnings. Two flags with the black squares meant "Look out kids! Here she comes!" in anybody's language.

  He crossed the highway where traffic had picked up considerably and returned to the Grand Manor Hotel. To his surprise, there were three other cars lined up in front of the hotel. Out of habit he checked the plates and discovered the Grand Manor all of a sudden was hosting a wide range of clientele. The small red sports car had a Louisiana plate and was decked out in Just Married signs. Another, older car, had a California tag. The last one was from Iowa.

  Some people had more sense than Jim where hurricanes were concerned. When he opened the door into the lobby, there were five distraught newcomers crowding the desk.

  Leddon, looking utterly deranged, was perspiring behind it. Aunt Annie and Lena were making like hostesses at a PTA meeting.

  The excitement seemed to have kindled their spirits. He hoped it wasn't booze at this hour of the day.

  A young, obviously newly-married couple were bracketing Leddon. "This IS the highest ground?" the young man kept asking with his arm about his wife's eighteen inch waist. She was bedraggled, but extremely pretty. She looked like one of those southern gals who managed an appearance of helplessness, but could probably clean the entire hotel on her hands and knees, cook a meal for forty people, and handle a hurricane with a martini in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Jim had met a few of them in his life, and he had learned never to sell them short.

  Aunt Annie answered for Leddon, "Of course, you
ng man! The Grand Manor is on a piece of ground thirty feet high…never got touched, even in forty-seven…I mean, by water, that is.

  There were a few branches down, but what can you expect?" She addressed Leddon. "Well?"

  Leddon seemed to be trying to make the best of a bad situation. He looked scared stiff, but whether it was the impending hurricane or the body upstairs, or what, Jim couldn't figure out.

  Leddon finally found his tongue. "I'll give you 104," he told the bridegroom. "But you'll have to carry your own bags. That's just for a night or two," he explained hastily. "We have a convention arriving in a couple of days."

  Convention! The only convention that would headquarter at the Grand Manor would be an Undertaker's Meeting. Leddon reluctantly handed the young man the key to 104, and he and his bride went looking for it after signing the register. Jim leaned over the counter and read the bridegroom's handwriting. Mr. and Mrs. Thad Collson, Baton Rouge, La.

  "Why don't they simply go back to Baton Rouge?" Jim asked Aunt Annie, interrupting her conversation with a thin perspiring man in shorts who seemed rather fond of his skinny, hairy legs. "No time," Aunt Annie explained patiently. "By now the roads north are bumper to bumper with cars and we are safer right here. Unfortunately there are some bayous that flood if we get any particularly high tides, and that stops everything." Aunt Annie seemed to have taken over public relations for the Grand Manor. "No sense in leaving," she assured the man in shorts. "Highway 90 will soon be half under water whichever way you go." She again addressed Leddon. "Give this man a room, immediately!"

  Leddon seemed to go for direction at this point. He handed over another key. Aunt Annie swallowed a couple of times. "Is George in the bar?" she asked. The desk clerk hesitated. Then he said, "Yes, but he's the only help we have left in the entire hotel. The kitchen help and the maid went home to take care of their possessions." He didn't seem to be as impressed by Bertha as the rest of the assembled company. He offered the trim man in shorts a key and turned to the remaining man dressed in a rumpled seersucker suit.

  Aunt Annie and Lena slipped out of the room and headed for the bar. About this time the front door blew open and in came a couple of salesmen, obviously jovial. They must have made a few stops along the way to fortify themselves. They approached the desk after Leddon had the latest refugee located. Leddon paused, then indignantly handed them each a key. All the keys he'd handed out were on the first floor. This proved he wasn't totally stupid.

  The tall salesman leaned over and whispered.

  At least, he thought he whispered, but it was the loudest whisper ever heard. "Say, where are the girls, bud?" The short one looked eager. They were going to have a grand old time with this hurricane. Jim guessed he misjudged Leddon. The man had one iota of humor: "In the bar!" he whispered back suggestively, and waggled his thumb in the right direction, adding a wink to cinch the statement.

  The two salesmen almost clicked their heels together. They pitched their bags in a corner and stumbled across the lobby toward the bar.

  Jim was right behind them. As far as he knew the only girls in the bar were Aunt Annie and Lena, and he wanted to see their faces when they located the girls.

  It was too dark in the bar to get your bearings in a hurry, especially if you were already sloshed. Getting their bearings would be difficult no matter how they went about it.

  They tried peering around, and then decided to go straight to the bar where George was mixing something with his usual disgust. The unholy light didn't make his square face more interesting. I supposed the concoctions were Camilles for my lady friends.

  "Hello!" The short one greeted George with the ease of a man who had spent many a night enjoying conviviality in some such surroundings. His tall pal put a foot on the railing and said, "How about a couple of bar bourbons and water, huh?" He jingled money in his pocket. They looked like Don Quixote and Sancho Panza from where Jim stood in the doorway.

  George didn't look up. "All right," he managed to growl. "Gimme a chance to make these drinks." They were Camilles. He brought them around the bar to Aunt Annie and Lena who were seated at their usual table. The salesmen turned in unison and watched him.

  Their eyes, now accustomed to the darkened room, found Aunt Annie and Lena. The tall one nudged the short one who emitted a weak but audible "WHEE!" Jim went to sit with the girls, not to protect them, but to get a little juice in him. "George, how about a bourbon and water after you serve the customers?" he asked.

  George nodded and went back to the bar.

  "My, my," Jim chided Aunt Annie and Lena.

  Shouldn't we be boiling water or something with the hurricane on its way?"

  Aunt Annie took a firm grip on her glass. She wrinkled her brow furiously and gave him a scathing glance. "Young man, you are being impertinent! Boiling water is entirely unnecessary at the moment, and you know it."

  She sipped from her glass. "Of course, if the water becomes polluted later, we may have to boil it. At the moment Lena and I are fortifying ourselves. We are the only people in the place who are up on hurricanes.

  Obviously, someone must take command."

  She cocked her head to one side. "At least we seem to be rid of our watchdog. In fact, even the fat bellboy is missing. According to my weather radio, we have four hours before Bertha moves onshore. After we have consumed our drinks we will go immediately to the kitchen and check the food. Then we will gather the guests together in the lobby."

  George brought Jim a much needed drink and turned back to the salesmen, who were whispering and puttering over their booze.

  Hurricane or no hurricane, Jim needed some answers before the ladies went to the kitchen.

  He still wasn't up-to-date on hurricanes. He might have laughed if somebody had told him the next twenty-four hours would scare the pants off him. He said conversationally, "What about the dear departed Mrs. Benning, the gal who owned the hotel? What was her maiden name? Was she tall or short? Did she have any money? Did she dye her hair and drive a Rolls Royce?" Now he was being cute. But he was exasperated. With Jerry Duprey lying in state upstairs, he had only these two sources of information and they were elusive.

  Lena, who had seemed to be the leader of the two before had taken a back seat. She gazed quizzically at the ceiling with her mouth firmly shut.

  Aunt Annie folded her arms. "I don't think Mrs. Benning had much money, only the hotel.

  Her husband left it to her when he died some years ago." Her voice became waspish. "Mrs.

  Benning was small and didn't need to dye her hair. It was coal black. And, as I told you, she didn't drive at all, especially a Rolls Royce.

  The bellboy drove her for groceries and to the country. Lately he would take her out there and leave her and pick her up later. Now, don't ask me where they went. I don't know."

  Then Aunt Annie added, "Young man, you must have gotten out of the wrong side of the bed this morning."

  This was fascinating because the bed was jammed into a corner of the room. The wrong side must have been the only side one could get out of in the morning or any other time.

  Aunt Annie continued, "Lena can tell you more about Mrs. Benning than I can. She's known her for a much longer time. I told you she used to have long conversations with her before…before toddies," she explained. She addressed Lena. "Do you know, Lena, I bet she used to go for those toddies way back. She was so violently opposed to them."

  Lena ignored the last remark. Then she said reluctantly, "Mrs. Benning lost her husband fifteen years ago. He came from somewhere in the east."

  Jim asked, "Did she come with him?" He already knew the answer.

  "No…," Lena glanced at Aunt Annie. Jim guessed she had a lousy memory, because it took her so long to come up with the answer.

  "No, she came from around here," Lena finally said, waving her arm vaguely. "Her maiden name was Dupree. Edith Dupree." She acted like Jim was dragging it out of her. "Edith Dupree?" he said, trying to put one and one together, and she nodded.
Lena's accent was different, but he had the connection for a long time. A child of seven could have come up with it. "How do you spell it?" She told him.

  So Jerry's last name was Duprey and what was the difference. A little French dressing!

  "Mrs. Benning was of French extraction?"

  Lena looked at Annie. She seemed surprised.

  "Well, I guess partly," she allowed. "Annie, we have to go to the kitchen!" She finished her drink hurriedly and rose. Annie looked at Jim.

  "There's a painting of Mrs. Benning in her living room. But this is hardly the time for running it down. We have things to do. You have things to do. We will meet you in the lobby in thirty minutes, Charlie."

  Lena, looking somewhat relieved, led the way out. Jim guessed the old girl had a soft spot in her heart for Edith Dupree Benning. He stared at his drink. He wanted to have a look at that painting. Probably because Lena hadn't mentioned it and didn't seem too crazy to have him see it. Then he picked up his two history books and went through the deserted lobby.

  He could hear Leddon whispering, probably to himself, in the little room back of the desk.

  He creaked up the stairs and went to his room, noticing the wind had picked up and was beginning to batter the window at the end of the hall. He stuck his key in the lock and opened the door, flipping on the light.

  There, stretched out on his bed was Jerry Duprey, a very much alive Jerry, who shifted his weight to look at him. Jim closed the door hard with his foot and locked it.

  Chapter Eight

  It took only one glance to realize Jerry Duprey was polluted, plastered, stoned, crocked, and totally smashed. He was also scared stupid. Beside him on the floor was half a bottle of dubious whiskey. Considering his contours, it was hardly a feat of great detection to realize the guy whose remains graced the room upstairs must have been the fat bellboy instead of Duprey.

  Duprey looked like he'd been dropped from a bungee jump without a cord. "Hello" says the man Jim had chased from Fort Worth, Texas to Bay St. Louis, Mississippi. Now this was an understated salutation, considering the situation. Then he said something far more interesting. "It's there…it really is. I know she found the marker!" He was staring at the wall, talking to himself.