by K. T. Tomb
Paulson came around the cart and repositioned the body so it wouldn’t fall off it. He looked over his shoulder at the disheveled room. The bed was almost completely stripped and the carpet was marked with a distinct impression from the weight of the body as they had dragged it to the door. Something about the scene in there ruined the elegance of the suite.
“If word gets out that Samuel Connolly, the best investor of Masterson’s projects, died here, we could be ruined,” Paulson said. “We have to get him downstairs quickly so no one sees. This is so not what I signed up for; I don’t even know how I’m going to tell Mr. Masterson.”
Carla opened the elevator door.
“How can he have a proper burial when we’re going to stuff him in a morgue drawer for God knows how long? How’s he going to get home?”
“In situations like this, the morgue is the proper burial, for now. And the cause of the death is only as bizarre as the death itself; I’m sure I’m not the first, nor will I be the last, concierge to have a fat, old rich man die from a heart attack in the presidential suite. At least I don’t have to explain to anyone’s wife why they died naked in the arms of a mistress.”
Paulson and Carla strained to push the cart into the elevator. When they finally had it inside, Paulson pushed the button to shut the door and pressed the number for the guest services floor. Standing idly as the elevator descended, Paulson examined his clothes and then stole a look at Carla’s uniform.
“Don’t forget to clean yourself up. We still have to keep up our professional appearances here. We still represent a high-profile company and a first-class hotel.”
Carla noticed her clothes.
“Yes, sir,” she said as she peeled the gloves off her hands and dropped them into the trash bag.
A buzz sounded and the elevator doors opened.
“Excuse me,” Paulson said, positioning himself squarely behind the cleaning cart. “Check if anyone is in the hallway.”
Carla pushed her head out the door and looked both ways. She stepped aside holding them open and signaled for Paulson to push his vehicle across the hall and into the medical center.
“Nurse, this is Mr. Connolly; he is no longer among us. I’m taking him straight through to exam room 6, you and the good doctor please clean him, bag him and store him. No one is coming until after the storm.”
“Yes, sir.”
Paulson wheeled the body down the hall and offloaded it onto the examination bed. He closed the door firmly behind him and turned the sign on the door over to read ‘With a patient’. On his way back through the reception area, he said, “Could you also tell Dr. Anderson that the preliminary paperwork from the coroner’s office is with me? I’d appreciate it if he retrieved it himself since I doubt that I’ll be able to come back down here once this hurricane hits the island.”
“Certainly, Paulson.”
Paulson stripped his jacket off and threw it in the laundry bag of Carla’s cart. He went quickly along the hallway toward the staff elevators, trying to figure out what he was going to say to Mr. Masterson about Sam Connolly.
When Paulson reached the lobby floor, he stopped by his office to pick up his extra jacket, putting it on as he stepped through the door and toward the front desk. A uniformed concierge stood at the desk trying feverishly to calm down several guests at once. There was an uproar as she tried to handle the person in front of her while everyone else was shouting and attempting to storm the desk. Paulson frowned.
Now that’s just about enough, he thought. Rich, privileged people ought to show some decorum and class.
He stepped back through the door and retrieved an air horn that was meant for emergency exercises and once the door swung closed behind him again, he pushed the button and sounded the alarm. There was instant silence in the lobby.
“Mr. Paulson?” the concierge said, startled.
“Anita, it looked as if you were getting a bit flustered there. Go in the back and tell Greg to get his lazy ass out here. You go wash your face and fix your hair and makeup. Have a shot or a shot of espresso and then get back out here.”
“Yes, sir,” she said gratefully, as she went fleeing through the staff door.
“Mr. Paulson?” a guest asked from the other side of the desk.
“I am he,” he replied.
“What is the meaning of this?” the pompous man started. “How dare you sound that horn at us like a herd of sheep. We need service here. Is this what I paid all that money for? To be treated like an animal.”
“My apologies, sir,” Paulson replied, “But the first thing I am going to request is that you lower your voice. It is natural to respond to others in the manner in which they deem themselves fit to be responded to. Otherwise, wouldn’t I be disappointing you, sir? At Samsara, we aim to please. Now, how can I help you?”
The man was speechless, but apparently, the rest of the rabble weren’t as dumbfounded as he was. As soon as he was unable to speak up, everyone else began to talk over each other. Paulson slowly raised the air horn again. The din subsided.
“Form a line,” he said stiffly.
“What?” a thin, blond woman asked.
“I said form a line,” Paulson repeated, looking down at the computer screen and ignoring them all.
He heard the door behind him swing open and turned to see Greg saunter through it. Paulson pointed to the second workstation and Greg switched on the machine without a word. Soon Anita appeared also and Paulson handed her a clipboard, some check-in cards and a few pens. He didn’t have to say a word to either of them, he had trained them himself.
Anita stepped through the swing door in the counter and out into the lobby, positioning herself by the biggest bay of sofas in the lobby. A waiter stood by with a tray of champagne flutes filled with a variety of champagne, mimosas and fruit punch. Paulson turned to the neatly formed line in front of him and took a deep breath.
“Okay. Welcome to the Samsara Resort and Spa! My name is Paulson, your Head Concierge. Firstly, I apologize for the delay but as you may all know by now, Hurricane Freda is well on her way and there is a lot going on to ensure that the property is ready. So, if you have just arrived and are checking in, please proceed to the sitting area over there. Concierge Anita will get you checked in and Steward Oliver has a welcome drink for you. Residents, we will attend to your needs right here at the desk. While we agree that every concern is an important one, we have to insist that we all treat each other with the utmost dignity and respect. Thank you.”
About half the people congregated at the desk moved away toward Anita.
“Greg, deal with the reservations as the guests come to the desk with their information cards. The key cards are all ready and stacked to your right.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Residents with a request or a question, please see Concierge Greg, those with a problem, I’m here to help.”
Again the line split up and reformed and suddenly, the lobby was running smoothly again. Paulson was about to leave the desk to succumb to the whiskey bottle in his office desk when he heard someone call his name.
“Mr. Dennis Paulson?”
“Indeed,” he replied, turning around, “How may I help you?”
He was met by a tall, man with a graying beard accompanied by a slender brunette woman with an ample bust and a too-tight blouse.
“Agent Daniels,” the officer replied, displaying his badge and tucking it back in his pocket. “This is my associate, Roberts. May we enter your office for some privacy?”
“Of course,” Paulson replied, heaving a long sigh.
This was all he needed after disassembling the lobby riots, two nosy cops asking him about a fat man’s heart attack. He decided he wasn’t going to let them interrupt his drink. They could join him or leave. The three entered Paulson’s office, where he gestured to the chairs at his desk so the officers could sit while he sat down in his chair across from them.
“May I offer you a drink, officers? Whiskey, coffee?”
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“Nothing for us,” Daniels said curtly.
“Well, if you excuse me, I will be drinking.”
“Don’t you think it’s a little early for that, Mr. Paulson?” Roberts interjected.
“Ms. Roberts,” Paulson replied, “I don’t ever leave this place. I’m on duty every day of the year, every minute of the day; I eat when I can, I drink when I please and I work all the time.”
“Fair enough, Mr. Paulson,” Daniels interrupted. “We’d like to talk to you about some deaths that we believe have occurred in ‘or in the vicinity of’ your hotel.”
“How may I help you with that?” Paulson asked. “I only have one dead guest here and I already reported that to the authorities. In fact, I thought you were here about him.”
“Oh, we aren’t local P.D., sir. We’re FBI. Over a year ago, some bodies were discovered washed up on the shores of the Florida Keys. Residents down there called local police, who in turn called us. It’s taken quite a while, but based on the DNA tests, we’ve determined the men aren’t from the United States, but we traced them to Jamaica, where we got matches for missing persons’ reports and dental records.”
“Okay,” Paulson said.
He was getting somewhat uncomfortable with what the agents were telling him but nevertheless, narrowed his focus on sipping his drink and controlling his nerves.
“A third body was also found.”
“I see.”
“In the belly of a shark that some sport fishermen caught off the Bahamas around the same time that the bodies were found in Florida. When the fish was opened up on shore there, human body parts were in its stomach contents. Police in Nassau were able to track that man to Tennessee through dental records.”
Paulson looked at both agents with a blank expression.
“We identified the three as construction workers employed by the company that built this resort. Afterward, we sought out the men’s families. All of them confirmed that the men were working as construction workers, building this resort when they went missing.”
“I admit we had some on-site issues in the latter part of the construction. We had a foreman here who was discovered to be quite shady in his management of the workforce and he was dismissed. In fact, he was arrested because he couldn’t account to Personnel where some of his men had disappeared to. The local authorities were involved and all the families were duly notified. Arrangements were made and proper reparations given, but with all due respect, I’m not the person to talk to. You need to see Mr. Steve Masterson.”
“We did try to get in touch with his people. We’re going to talk to him as well. Since you’re an employee here, and a member of upper management, we’re just interested in anything that you might know.”
“Agents, honestly, there is nothing happening here that I don’t know about. But anything that transpired before the hotel opened, I am not privy to.”
The concierge steadied his body language so as not to betray himself. Agent Daniels extracted a small folder from his inside pocket and opened it.
“The next of kin of the three victims claim that they were never informed of what happened to their loved ones and that all efforts to contact the company have ended in a stalemate.”
“That’s odd. We basically make it our policy to tell relatives the whereabouts of our residents or whoever is on our premises in a case of emergency.”
Agent Daniels tucked the photos away in his coat.
“If you’re hiding anything from us—anything at all—there will be consequences that includes some serious jail time.”
Don’t let him see you’re unsettled, Paulson thought.
“I understand, sir,” Paulson said.
“My associate and I are here to investigate these matters fully. I trust you will offer us your full cooperation and assistance.’
“Absolutely!” Paulson said, putting his glass down. “But even if you weren’t planning on staying, there’s a storm on the way. I’ll get you checked into one of our double rooms—it’s the best I can do, we’re fully booked—and arrange for you to meet with Mr. Masterson this evening. He’s the person you really need to talk to.”
Both officers stood up as Paulson rose from his chair.
“That’s very generous of you. We’ve heard this place is supposed to be indestructible even in the worst natural disaster.”
“It is, Agent Roberts. And to be honest, with almost two thousand residents this weekend, I’m more than grateful to have some extra law enforcement in the place.”
“Why’s that?” Agent Daniels asked.
“Didn’t you see that spectacle of human behavior at my front desk a moment ago, Agent?”
“We sure did. You were amazing!”
“Well, that’s ‘Human Nature 101’. When the shit hits the fan, it’s always every man for himself. If there was ever the possibility of the shit hitting the fan at Samsara, it will be this weekend when her staff and residents experience their first hurricane. I’m glad you’re on board.”
“We’ll help however we can.”
“Thank you for stopping by,” Paulson said. “Greg will get you checked in.”
The two officers turned their backs without saying a word and left the office.
Chapter Six
Let’s see, it’s already 10:30, and I usually don’t get up this late for anything, he thought. I must really be starting to relax a little.
Karl was heading up to the Lido floor for a serving of the much-talked-about Samsara continental breakfast. He’d settled into the comfortable leisure of the hotel overnight and felt strangely soothed as he made his way to the hotel’s main restaurant.
Too bad Rebecca didn’t want to come with me. Then again, after the fight we had again last night, now might be a good time for me to keep my distance.
Karl walked into the restaurant and was about to take a seat when he glanced at the bar to his left. The light above the bar was off, but in Karl’s mind, the lights were shining as brightly as a Friday night at happy hour. He shook his head as if to clear his mind and looked again. He wasn’t hallucinating; he was looking at an optical illusion. The rays from the sunlamps overhead illuminated the space so well that a rainbow of colors shone off each of the bottles lining the shelves against the wall.
But still, in his mind, he saw patrons gathered there: chatting, laughing, and throwing their heads back and drinking. Glasses clinked, liquor poured and classy background music played at a pleasant volume that made conversation easy and fluid, unless the patrons shouted at each other. Karl could smell the liquor on their breaths as the alcohol pulsated through their veins. He wanted so much for the soothing effects of the liquor to calm his nerves, embolden him and allow his tongue to loosen so he could say what was on his mind. He turned and sat down on one of the bar stools, carefully studying the rows of bottles. He closed his eyes and imagined the glory he’d find at the bottom of a shot glass.
If I could have a drink right now, first I’d order myself a beer, preferably German. Then I’d work my way up to a couple of shots of vodka. One time, on my 25th birthday, I had a few jaegerbombs—that was a crazy night. This is why I started drinking in the first place, so I could get away from the stress and the misery of working a routine life.
“Good morning, Mr. Winfred.”
Karl snapped back into his surroundings. He opened his eyes and realized it wasn’t a crowded late night at the bar, but still morning and breakfast time. The bar was closed, and Karl looked up to see Paulson standing next to him.
“I said ‘Good morning’, sir,” Paulson repeated, smiling.
Karl moved in his seat and faced Paulson. “Morning.”
“Did you have your breakfast already?”
“Not yet,” he replied softly.
Karl’s eyes were still trained on the bottles over Paulson’s shoulders.
“You’d better hurry before all the food is gone.” Paulson laughed and watched the look of concern spread over Karl’s face.
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nbsp; “I was just joking, sir. We don’t ever run out of food at Samsara.”
Karl’s mind was still zeroed in on the alcohol.
“Is that so?”
Paulson looked over his shoulders to see what was distracting the man so much.
“Oh, fascinated by our bar, are you? Again, my apologies to your wife. You have a wonderful woman to look out for you as such.”
“She … has her days.”
“Understandable that you can’t have any drinks near you, but just to let you know, as a potential investor of course, our bars are never stocked with any second-rate liquor, beers or wines as you might find at the other supposed inclusive hotels. Our choices tend to be more elegant, more refined, more sophisticated. That’s what sets us apart from other establishments.”
Paulson went around the bar. He stooped down then stood back up with a bottle in his hand.
“Our liquors are aged for many decades, some even centuries. Once in a while, we import rather rare ones to satisfy the discerning palette. This one, for example, is vodka imported from Scotland. Usually it fetches about half a million dollars, but we struck a deal with the distillery for us to serve this liquor here because Mr. Masterson and the CEO of the vodka company go yachting together.”
Karl reached out to touch the bottle.
“Crystal encrusted and everything. This is interesting.”
“Want a sip?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve been in recovery for two years now, attending the programs, reading all these self-help books, praying the serenity prayer. Let me tell you—I’m not a praying man, that’s how much I’ve worked to overcome my addiction.”
“It’s only a sip. It won’t hurt you.”
“What about my wife? You and her aren’t exactly on good terms with each other at the moment either, you know?”
“She … she doesn’t bother me. I understand that she comes from a place of love. She doesn’t think you can control yourself.”
“I am doing this for her—for us. Investing in this hotel will help to set us up for life. We don’t even have children because we’ve never been sure if we’d have the resources to raise them the way we want to. But now, with Samsara Hotel, we might start planning to have some as soon as it starts to generate some real revenue for us.”