Everybody’s Suspect in Georgia: Book Two
Everybody Wanted Room 623
By
Cecil Murphey
Other Books by Cecil Murphey
The Everybody’s Suspect in Georgia Series:
Everybody Loved Roger Harden
Everybody Wanted Room 623
Everybody Called Her a Saint
The Inspired Living Devotional Series:
Devotions for Couples
Devotions for Dieters
Devotions for Runners
Revitalize Your Prayer Life: Inspired Living Series Companion
Table of Contents
EVERYBODY WANTED ROOM 623
Other Books by Cecil Murphey
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Excerpt from EVERYBODY CALLED HER A SAINT
The Inspired Living Devotional Series
About the Author
Copyright Information
One
When the desk clerk first mentioned Stefan Lauber’s death, I didn’t react. The truth is, I was only half listening. Although I came to see Stefan, I had agreed to meet him at the Cartledge Inn for my own reason. It was a good excuse to get away from the Clayton County Special Services, where I headed up the mental health unit.
Today I was in an especially low mood. The reason was James Burton. Burton, as he likes everyone to call him, is pastor of a church in this area, and we met at the Georgia coast a few months ago. He’s the first genuine Christian with whom I ever talked. That’s the trouble. I like him. Okay, more than that, I might even be in love with him, but I don’t love his God. That is, I think I love Burton—and about four days a week I’m positive that I do. It’s been a long time since any man has aroused my emotions like that curly-haired preacher.
Even if I do love him, the friendship can never lead to anything—not even a single kiss. Burton is so stubborn, he wouldn’t let anything develop in our relationship—I mean a male-female connection. I can be his parishioner or a professional to whom he refers people in need. (And he’s done that twice since we met.)
He also angers me. He’s so likeable. And kind. Okay, and he’s cute—really cute. He’s no hunk, but I’d settle for those dark blue eyes and I’d love to run my fingers through those soft, dark brown curls.
Many times I’ve wished he’d make some kind of move on me, but he’s so hung up on his religious commitment, and I’m too honest to fake the faith.
So that’s how all of this started. As I approached the desk of the Cartledge Inn and asked for Mr. Lauber, my thoughts were centered on Burton.
It was the first time I had been to the inn, which was built out of red brick that had weathered and lightened over the decades into a pale, rose-colored patina. The double front door was made of thick, dark cherrywood. The place had originally been an inn, built around 1920, just after World War I. A few years ago, the present owners turned it into a retreat center and motel. It’s located about three miles outside Atlanta’s Stone Mountain Park.
Because his words hadn’t sunk in, I said to the clerk again, “Lauber. Stefan Lauber.”
He stared at me.
“I think he’s registered here.”
“Didn’t you hear what I said? He’s dead.” He leaned forward and whispered, “Murdered.”
“Murdered?” I mouthed the word. “But how? I mean . . . I talked to him on the phone only yesterday.” My response didn’t make sense, but I was so shocked I wasn’t thinking logically.
“Someone put him away last night.” The clerk tugged at his magenta blazer. “I’ll probably get in trouble for telling you this, but he was murdered right inside his room. Room 623.”
The clerk adjusted the pin above his pocket, which read Craig Bubeck. “He was a nice man too, and had been with us for several months. He didn’t deserve to get murdered.”
I wanted to ask whom he thought deserved to be murdered, but I didn’t. Temporarily I had forgotten Burton. Right now I needed to process this information.
“He asked me to come see him this morning,” I said, although I was talking to myself more than to the clerk. “He said it was important and . . .” I stopped myself before I began to babble.
“The police were here last night for more than two hours. At least that’s what Doris said. She’s the other clerk, and sometimes she exaggerates. They came back again this morning. They don’t seem to want to stay away. Ghoulish, if you ask me. But after all, how much time do they need to search one room? A hotel room is a hotel room, and I have no idea why they searched the room again and again. I mean, how long does it take to search one room?” The fiftyish, wimpy clerk must have tipped the scales at 115 pounds. He rambled on, but I had stopped listening, to his obvious disgust.
“How was he murdered?” I asked to break his monologue.
“Shot. With a gun, you know. Right in the heart. At least that’s what I heard.” He pulled back slightly and looked around to make sure no one could hear. “I didn’t see the boy, you understand, but that’s what Doris told me this morning. You see, this month, because of vacations, we’re doing twelve-hour shifts and—”
“Do they know who did it? Do they know why someone killed Stefan—uh, Mr. Lauber?”
He shook his head. “The police don’t know anything, or at least nothing that I’ve heard. Since you’re asking, I’ll tell you what I do know. Mr. Lauber called for room service at 4:22 and asked for a meal to be brought to him at 7:00. Wasn’t that considerate of him? None of our other guests would think to order in advance. Anyway, when the waiter arrived, he knocked, and no one answered. The door was slightly ajar, so he assumed Mr. Lauber had left it open for him because maybe he was in the shower or something. Just as he pushed the door fully open, he called out, ‘Room service.’ ”
“Yes?” I asked. “And what happened?”
“That’s it.”
“What do you mean by ‘That’s it’?”
“The body. Once he had stepped into the room, he spotted Mr. Lauber’s body sprawled on the floor, facedown. Blood. Lots of blood.”
“That must have been horrible.”
“It certainly is. They’ll have to replace the carpet. The owners hate it when the inn incurs unexpected expenses like that. He was shot. Didn’t I mention that? Shot right in the heart with a .38. I don’t know anything about guns, but Doris—”
“The other clerk—”
“Right, Doris told me. I didn’t see anything myself, you understand, but this morning one of the detectives stopped at the desk and we talked. He told me a few other facts.”
“Really?” I didn’t mean anything by the question. I was processing information.
Craig must have assumed I doubted him, so he leaned forward again and whispered, “All right, he didn’t actually tell me, but I overheard him on his cell phone when he told someone else. I was clever at it. I kept my back to him so he wouldn’t think I was listening, but I heard every word. Every single word.”
Stunned, I couldn’t say anything, and I must have looked like an utter fool with my mouth hanging open.
“Mr. Lauber didn’t suffer, so that’s a blessing. I’m sure of that fact, because on his cell
, the detective said he died instantly.”
I wondered why people thought that the news of instant death was supposed to comfort anyone. Whether they suffered three seconds or ten minutes or died instantly, they were still dead.
“Dead,” I said. I finally had enough presence of mind to move away from the front desk. I walked toward two sofas upholstered in apricot-colored fabric. The antique tables matched the walls. The lobby definitely had an elegant look about it. I sat on the end of the sofa and pondered the situation. How odd that Stefan had been insistent—almost demanding—that I come to the inn to see him. He had apologized for asking but said it was extremely important. Now I wondered what “extremely important” meant.
I didn’t know Stefan that well. I’m a therapist, and he had started to come to our mental health center. Because I’m the director, I don’t see many clients. His coming in itself was odd because he could afford a private therapist. Most of our clients come because they have no insurance and they pay on a sliding scale, which goes all the way down to five dollars a session. Stefan said a friend had recommended me—a psychologist named David Morgan, whom I respected. Stefan freely admitted he could pay, and we billed him at the rate of $60 an hour, which is our highest payment level. The fee hadn’t seemed to faze him. Later I realized that money was certainly no problem for him.
At first he came once a week, and then he asked for twice-weekly appointments. “I have a number of things to think through,” he said. “Business issues mostly, but being with you pushes me to return to my room and think seriously.”
I studied him to be sure he wasn’t flirting with me. Not that I would have minded, but I’m a therapist and nothing else, and now and then a man thinks he has to hit on me. I wouldn’t have been able to date him if he had asked—which he didn’t—but he was still quite a hunk. A little old for me by maybe ten or fifteen years. The wrinkles of wear around his eyes and mouth made him appear to be in his late forties—about ten years older than his actual age—but he could still get any woman’s attention when he entered a room.
A week ago he asked if he could see me privately and if I would come to the Cartledge Inn. I don’t usually do that, but I sensed he had serious problems—the kind that he was determined to resolve—and I was willing to provide individual attention to such clients. At our center we’re moving toward a behavior-model therapy for everything, and we’ll eventually do only group counseling to save money. Consequently, we’ve been mandated to accept fewer individual patients. Even though I granted Stefan personal sessions, he paid the center. I don’t do private counseling as a sideline; that had never seemed ethical to me. Because of our policy change, the board of directors encouraged us to take a limited number of private patients if we felt they needed special help.
For the next few months, we’ll still be able to accept patients who can pay the minimum scale or more if we believe they’ll benefit. I felt Stefan Lauber was one of those individuals who had made amazing progress and wouldn’t need a therapist long.
“Stefan is dead,” I said to myself.
I was so caught up in the shock of the news that I didn’t notice when someone walked past me to the counter, which was perhaps fifteen feet away. Only when I heard his voice did I look up.
“I’d like a room, please.”
“I suppose you want room 623,” Craig, the clerk, said.
“Sure, that’s fine.” His back was to me, but I would have recognized his voice anywhere. Sometimes I hear it in my sleep.
“Everybody wants 623,” the clerk said. “And I can’t let you have that one.”
He chuckled. “Okay, give me something else.”
Impulsively I got up and walked toward him. “Burton!”
He turned around and smiled. I hate that smile—it melts me every time. And those dark curls ought to be illegal on a man.
“Julie West!” he called out. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see someone, but he’s not in,” I said.
“He’s not in because he’s dead,” the clerk said. “Murdered.”
“What’s going on?” Burton looked from me to the clerk.
“That’s why you can’t have room 623,” Craig said. “The police won’t let me give it to anyone. With blood stains all over the carpet and the room all torn up, I have no idea why anyone would want it anyway.”
Burton moved forward and hugged me. It was a nice, friendly, brotherly kind of embrace. “Nice to see you again, Julie.”
I hated that I had worn my lime green four-inch heels today. I’m five ten in bare feet and about half an inch taller than Burton anyway. Now I towered above him. But my colors were right. My hair is a shade of red someone called titian, after the painter, and it sounded exotic to me, so I tell everyone that’s my color. Red is so, well, mundane. I wore a lime green suit with short sleeves. It wasn’t formfitting, but I felt it made the best of my assets. Any shade of green seems to flatter me the most. For jewelry I wore only a copper-and-green malachite bracelet that complemented my complexion and my light brown eyes. I may not have looked chic, but it was my best outfit.
“She wanted to see Mr. Lauber,” Craig said. “But then, everyone either wants to see him or wants his room. If you ask me, this is a strange place today.”
I stared at the unprofessional clerk. He held a pen in his right hand, but it was shaking. “This has rattled you, hasn’t it?” I asked.
“Rattled? That’s all I can think about. My nerves are shot. Absolutely shot. I know I won’t sleep tonight.” He wasn’t loud, but his voice had hit the higher registers, signaling that he was near hysteria. “It’s bad enough to be a clerk in an inn where someone was murdered, but everyone keeps asking for that room—his room—for room 623. What kind of ghoulish people come here?”
Burton touched the man’s hand gently and said, “You have had a bad time of this. I’m sorry.” That was Burton in action. I’ve told him twenty times he ought to be a therapist instead of a pastor, but he has never listened to my advice. Burton’s soothing voice worked its magic. “Can you take a few days’ vacation or—”
The clerk snorted. “And miss all this action? Nothing like this has ever happened before.” He spoke in a normal range again.
“But you are upset,” I said. “Don’t you think it would help if you took at least a day off?”
“My nerves are shot,” he said, “but I’ll . . . well, I’ll carry on.”
Burton continued to speak softly to the clerk, and I nodded at everything he said. That Burton is a natural at getting people to open up to him. Within two minutes the poor man told Burton all his other problems. He said something about his mother, who was in the early stages of senility, and added that he was an only child. He had dated a woman for nine years, and she’d finally called it off. “But as long as I had to take care of Mother, I couldn’t have a wife too, could I?”
I thought it would be more discreet if I moved away, so I went back to the sofa and sat down. I couldn’t hear the rest, but within several minutes the man smiled. He grabbed Burton’s hand and shook it vigorously.
Burton then came over to the sofa, sat on the other end, and turned toward me. “It’s such a surprise to see you.”
“A good surprise? Or a shock?” I love to say things like that.
“Good. Always it’s good to see you.”
“I suppose you want to know why I stopped attending your church.”
“Not unless you want to tell me,” he said. “But I have missed you. You came five Sundays and attended three of the new believers’ meetings.”
“You keep score on everyone?”
He grinned, and those perfect, movie-star teeth gleamed. “Sorry. I meant only that I was aware of your not being there. That’s all.”
“What are you doing here?” I asked. “Okay, I changed the subject, but—”
“I’m here for a private retreat.”
“A private retreat? I don’t get it. It sounds like something a priest or a monk wo
uld do.” As I said, I love being a smart-mouth. I knew differently, but it also kept him talking to me.
“It’s something I do at least once a year. Ben and Marcia Cartledge, the couple who own this place, are wonderful Christians, and they’re members of an inner-city congregation. They offer free facilities for ministers of any denomination who need to spend a few days alone.”
“Oh,” I said. That’s always an appropriate response when I don’t know what to say.
“Occasionally I need to put my life on hold while I rethink my priorities,” he said simply. “It’s nice—really it is—to see you again.”
“You’ve already said that. So it means we must be near the end of things to talk about.”
“Or maybe we just need to get beyond the awkward stage,” he said. “I’m absolutely surprised to run into you here.”
“Remember when we met?” I asked. “That involved a murder, too—Roger Harden.”
He aimed that powerful smile at me before he said, “You know, I just thought of the same thing.”
Burton and I had been involved in solving the murder of Roger Harden at Palm Island off the coast. It was because of our meeting that I started to attend his church. I never told him, of course, but I was more fascinated by him than any of the things he said. He was probably a fine preacher. That hadn’t been the reason I attended.
Just then an attractive woman in her early thirties brushed past us and stopped at the desk. “I’d like a room,” she said. “I’d like room 623, please.”
Craig glanced at us, shrugged, and rolled his eyes as if to ask, “See what I mean?”
Two
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the desk clerk said to the woman in a controlled voice but loud enough for us to hear. “Room 623 is not available.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. I spent my honeymoon here,” she said. “I love that room. Are you sure it’s not available?”
“Positive, but I can give you an excellent room on another floor.”
Whatever Burton had said to the poor clerk had changed him into a quiet, controlled professional.
Everybody Wanted Room 623 Page 1