Ash and Bone

by Lisa von Biela

  “Oh, sorry!” She fetched his bowls and put down some food and water for him. He lapped a little water, then wolfed down his kibbles. “Oh, it hasn’t been that long since you ate—you’re just trying to make me feel bad.” Eileen smiled and continued setting up her new home.

  Daylight began to wane and she flipped on the kitchen light, then the living room light. A glance at her watch revealed she’d been setting up hearth and home for hours on end and it was well past time for dinner.

  Eileen congratulated herself for planning ahead as she turned on the oven and pulled out the frozen pizza. With all she had to do, she didn’t want to deal with fixing dinner tonight. Then she reached into the fridge for a beer, cracked it open, and raised it in a cheer. “To the Harbor Motel—our new home.” She saluted Beau, then took a long pull from the bottle.

  * * *

  An annoying chirp burst from the alarm clock. “Damn. Morning already.” Eileen knew she had a lot of work ahead of her, and there was nothing for it but to get started. She rose, fed Beau, made herself some coffee, then showered and dressed for the day.

  Today she intended to clean and make up each of the eight rooms. Not only would this get it done and over with, but it would help her gauge how long it would take to make up the rooms if she ever rented them all on a given night. Hiring outside help was something she wanted to avoid.

  Eileen found the maid’s cart, loaded it up with her cleaning supplies and linens, then rolled it out of the office and over to #1. As she unlocked the door and pushed the cart inside, she realized she needed a little help to get through the work. She returned to her apartment for her iPod and Beau, then got busy.

  She wondered how to assess the time it took to finish a room. On the one hand, two years of accumulated dust and grime took extra time to clean. But then again, there wasn’t the trash and other stuff to deal with as if a room had been rented the prior night. She shrugged. Maybe it would even out and this was a good enough measurement to predict cleaning times. At any rate, it needed to get done, and she just put her back into it and kept on working.

  At last, only #8 remained. The rest of the rooms had taken the better part of the day to clean. When she wrapped up this one, it would be dinnertime. Given how tired she was, dinner was likely going to be another frozen delicacy.

  She slid the key into the lock and stepped inside the room before she realized Beau had disappeared. The big guy always hung right next to her as if they’d been close buddies for years. It wasn’t like him to stray off.

  “Beau? Beau? Where are you?” She left the door ajar as she headed back along the cement path, looking for him. Had she locked him inside one of the other rooms? She’d been so focused on plowing through the work while listening to her iPod, she might have closed him in and not realized it.

  Eileen was about to check inside #7 when she heard a whine and glanced in its direction. There he was, skulking around by her car, which was parked by the office at the opposite end of the motel. “What is your problem, Beau?” She marched over to him as he cowered by the car. He whined again and licked his chops. “C’mon, dude. Only one left to do.” The dog dropped to the ground in a trembling heap and stared up at her with pitiful brown eyes.

  She let out an impatient grunt. Beau didn’t look injured, and she couldn’t understand why he was acting like that. Anxious to wrap up the day’s work, she didn’t have the time or patience for his foolishness.

  She went into the office for his leash, brought it out and snapped it onto his collar. “Let’s go.” She gave a tug to get him to his feet and headed in the direction of #8. The dog’s stubby little tail snugged down against his butt, tight. He backpedalled his feet and refused to budge—and the harder she pulled, the more panicked he appeared.

  Exasperated, she said, “Okay, fine. You go back in the apartment and wait for me, then.” She let him in, took off the leash and dropped it on the office counter, then headed back to #8 to finish cleaning.

  A surprising chill greeted her as she stepped inside the room. Given all the manual labor she’d been doing today, topped with tugging on a large, suddenly freaked-out Boxer, she couldn’t believe she’d be doing anything but running sweat.

  Eileen decided to start with the wet work in the bathroom. Wrapping up with the relatively milder vacuuming, dusting, and slapping on of the linens would be a good way to finish breaking herself in as senior housekeeper of the joint. She straightened her shoulders, reminded herself it was the final room of the day, and marched into the bathroom. It didn’t look any worse than the rest of them, so she cranked up her iPod and went at it.

  The sink and toilet didn’t take long. Her knees threatened to complain bitterly tonight after all the kneeling and bending, so she set a folded towel down and knelt at the tub. She was thinking about just how good a friend the bleach in the liquid cleaner was, when she noticed something out of the corner of her eye.

  It couldn’t be real. For the briefest of moments, it looked for all the world as if there were a single green eye peering up at her from within the tub drain. She shook her head. It had to be a trick of the light.

  When she blinked and looked again, nothing was there.

  Eileen chalked it up to being overly tired and working at this all day without eating. Hell, she’d never done that much cleaning in a single day, let alone unassisted. Now that she’d experienced it, she wasn’t too sure she wanted to do it all in one day again. Maybe it wouldn’t be so great to rent out all the rooms on a single night.

  After wrapping up the bathroom, she was sorely tempted to give up for the day and get herself a beer. Or three. But she was stubborn enough to want to see the finish line. Then that beer would taste even better, right?

  A deep breath and a last burst of energy got her through vacuuming up the floors and the dust in record time. On went the sheets and the bedspread, and it was done. With a great sense of accomplishment, Eileen closed and locked the door to #8.

  Funny, after all that, she still felt chilled. She hoped she wasn’t coming down with something.

  SIX MONTHS AGO

  “That’ll be forty-five bucks all in.”

  “What if I pay in cash?” The man’s eyes darted back and forth. His worn jeans and button-down shirt looked like they’d seen better days—a long time ago.

  Eileen stole a quick glance outside at his car, a beat-up old Ford pickup. It looked like there was someone in the passenger seat. A female someone.

  “Forty. Cash. Take it or leave it.” She knew she’d have to strip the bed entirely after these two were done with it, and didn’t want to short herself the pay.

  “Cool, thanks.” The man fished in a pants pocket for his wallet and produced two crinkled twenties.

  She handed him the key to #3. “Checkout is ten in the morning. No excessive noise past eleven tonight, okay?”

  “Sure, thanks.” He left the office like his ass was on fire and hopped into his truck. With a burst of blue smoke from the tailpipe, he started it and moved it to the spot in front of his room.

  Eileen watched the pair exit the truck and dash into the room. The passenger was definitely a female. Looked to be of the cheap persuasion.

  She shrugged and tucked the money into her jeans pocket. Didn’t matter to her. As long as no one disturbed the other guests or caused the cops to pay a visit, she couldn’t care less. Wasn’t her job to be the morals police. And she’d just as soon not meet up with any cops anyway, given her own background.

  The place had been doing well enough since she opened the doors. Business wasn’t insanely brisk, but it was sufficient to keep her in the black, and that’s all she wanted. She rented maybe three or four of the rooms each night, and that sustained her—along with those who wished for whatever reason to pay cash that she could keep from the clutches of the tax man. And she was just fine with not having to clean all the rooms every day.

  Of course, her reputation as someone who would take cash and look the other way had gotten around. That didn
’t bother her one bit as long as it didn’t attract any attention from the cops. Hell, it was more effective marketing in these parts than would have been fancy advertising, given the locale.

  Some prostitution probably went on in her rooms on occasion, likely some small-time drug dealing, too. Maybe some underage action or extracurricular activities for the married folks.

  Live and let live. Long as they keep it to themselves.

  She’d only had a problem once or twice, and had been able to handle it herself each time without calling the cops. Once a couple of guys got into fisticuffs in the parking lot, likely over some sleazy broad. Eileen discovered that Beau was quite the effective deterrent. She’d marched on out there with him, and the guys came to their senses pretty damned quick. She smiled and stroked his head as he sat behind the desk with her. He stayed by her side all the time, and she never had to fear.

  Except when she had to go clean #8. Beau steadfastly refused to go anywhere near that room, and she still had no idea why. Dogs can be strange, but overall he was a great buddy and watchdog.

  Funny thing about #8. More than once now, she’d put a guy in there, and he’d come back and asked for another room within a couple of hours. She always shrugged it off. Maybe some people just didn’t like being in an end unit. But still. It was annoying, because it forced her to do a mini-cleaning before she could rent it out again. More work for no extra money sucked.

  Eileen checked her roster. Counting the dude who just checked in without signing, she had four rooms rented out tonight. Good enough. Deciding to give herself the rest of the evening off, she switched on the No Vacancy sign and closed up the office. She loved being her own boss.

  * * *

  Maybe a week or so later, Eileen sat in the office drinking her morning coffee and waiting for the rooms to clear out so she could get started cleaning them. Beau was nearby, munching down his bowl of kibbles as if he hadn’t been fed in weeks.

  The guy she put in #8 last night made his way toward the office. He looked different than she remembered him. Last night he’d looked, well, normal. Today he looked ghastly pale and rather unsteady. Maybe he’d been up doping all night, who knew. She took another sip of her coffee.

  He opened the office door, wobbled in, and set his key on the desk with a trembling hand.

  “Everything all right?” she asked, not expecting an actual answer.

  “Um, I don’t know. I didn’t sleep so good.” He ran a shaky hand through his disheveled hair. It didn’t look like he’d showered yet.

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” she said with disinterest.

  He put both hands on the counter and leaned forward. With some effort, he locked his bloodshot eyes on her. “Something isn’t right in there. I had the most…horrible dreams.” He looked off into space as if replaying the dream in his mind right then.

  Eileen didn’t quite know how to respond to a comment like that. Sometimes her guests complained they couldn’t sleep because of the bedspring noises and accompanying vocalizations in the next room, but this had to be a first. How was she responsible for his dreams?

  “Well, maybe it was something you ate. Did you eat at The Cannery? Sometimes their food—”

  “No. It wasn’t what I ate. There’s something wrong with that room.” His eyes grew wider and his face paled further, if that was possible. He clenched his hands into fists and slammed them on the counter.

  “Well, I don’t know what I can do about that. Are you saying you want a refund?” This would be a novel reason for one, but the guy was starting to creep her out and she just wanted him to be gone, sooner rather than later.

  “No. Doesn’t matter. Something wrong with that room.” He staggered out, still mumbling to himself, and drove off with a squeal of his tires.

  Eileen frowned. She didn’t put much stock in haunts and things like that, but this guy wasn’t the first one to comment about #8—though he was the most disturbed and emphatic about it. Come to think of it, what was up with Beau and #8—and why was she always chilled in there, even though the thermostat registered a normal temperature?

  She opened the desk drawer and rummaged around for the Realtor’s card. She wasn’t sure what Shelley would be able to contribute to the situation, but it seemed the best place to start. She picked up the phone and punched in the number.

  “Hey, Shelley. Remember me? Eileen Maroni. I bought the Harbor Motel out here a few months back.”

  “Yes, of course I do. How’s business?”

  “It’s good, thanks. Say, I have a question about the property, and I don’t quite know how to ask it.”

  A note of unease crept into Shelley’s usually upbeat Realtor voice. “What’s that?”

  “Well, it’s strange. I’ve had customers—more than once now—complain that there’s something weird about the last room at the end. My dog refuses to go near it. I realize this sounds all Stephen King-ish, but when I’m in there cleaning, doesn’t matter what the weather, I’m always a little chilled.”

  “Nothing reportable happened in the motel.” Shelley’s tone turned downright clipped.

  Shelley’s abrupt change in attitude startled Eileen so much she pulled the phone from her ear and briefly stared at the receiver while she absorbed the odd response. “What do you mean?”

  “The seller is only obliged to disclose if something happened on the property as it exists.”

  In other words, there is something I need to know. “Look, I’m not trying to void the sale or anything like that. The place is working out well for me. I’m just trying to see if there is something that might be causing some customers to have some weird feelings about that room, is all.”

  Shelley hesitated for several moments before answering. “The Harbor Motel isn’t the first business to exist on that parcel. About thirty years ago, I think, there was a sawmill out there. It was Cromwell Bay’s main industry back then. It burned down in a terrible fire.” Her tone softened. “Everyone inside at the time died. They never did rebuild. The land was vacant for quite a while, then eventually someone built the motel.”

  “Wow, must have been a big deal back then.” Goosebumps rose on Eileen’s arms.

  “Yeah. It was before my time, of course, but people around here still talk about it occasionally. I’m not one for ghost stories, either, but it does seem an odd coincidence that some of your customers have strange experiences—especially after all this time. I’m not aware that the prior owner had any issues with it, but since he’s deceased, I can’t really say.”

  Eileen suddenly wanted to set this whole bit of information aside and not think about it. “Well, thank you, Shelley. I appreciate your help.”

  “Sure. Continued good luck with your business.”

  Done with the call, she glanced through the plate glass window at #8 for a moment, then squared her shoulders. The day wasn’t getting any younger while she entertained ghost stories, and there were rooms to clean before customers came calling later on.

  TWO DAYS AGO—DAYTIME

  Frank Foster stared down at the hat he gripped in his hands, trying to cut himself off from the scene before him, if only briefly. Using all his strength, he willed his tear ducts into submission, kept his face impassive and his emotions to himself.

  He couldn’t bear to watch as they lowered his best friend into his grave.

  Roger and he had been friends since they started grade school together back in L.A. nearly forty years ago. For some reason, other friends had come and gone over time, but they’d remained close. Life and geography tried to separate them, but their friendship proved too strong.

  Roger went on to UCLA Law School and had done quite well for himself negotiating contracts for high flyers in the movie industry. He’d married a beautiful, successful fashion designer, and they’d had the requisite pair of beautiful children, a boy and a girl. They lived in an elegant, yet not over-the-top, home in Malibu Canyon. Roger really had it all.

  Frank, on the other hand, hadn’t done
quite so well for himself. Everything he touched seemed to turn to crap. His grades hadn’t been nearly as good as Roger’s, so there were no scholarships showered upon him. He had to work his way through school, and between those demands and his poor study habits, he barely managed to finish his undergrad degree. His shot at marriage had been a bust, too. Oh, things had started off all right, but there was nothing like a few failed jobs—and a few miscarriages—to sour an already unsteady relationship. One day Kathy announced she’d had about all the failure she could take, and off she went. That was the last he’d heard from her.

  Now he had a crappy job as a newspaper reporter at a small local rag in a town near Oakland.

  Given how they’d each turned out, it was a testament to the strength of their friendship that he and Roger were still so close.

  Were.

  What a goddamned waste. There was Roger, at the top of his game, happy as hell. Kept himself in good shape, was a helluva guy to everyone he met. Good, kind, honest, hardworking.

  Then one day, he stops at a C-store on his way home to pick up some little thing. Wrong place at the wrong time, the cops said. He just happened to walk in and stumble upon an armed robbery in progress. Even worse, the robber was young, nervous, and twitchy. So when Roger walked in the door, it was just too much for him. He swung his gun around, panicked, and shot Roger right in the head. Then he bolted out of the store, perhaps never to be found. The clerk called 9-1-1 right away and tried to help Roger, but there was nothing to be done.

  That’s it. A split second. That’s all it takes to lose everything. No matter who you are, no matter what you do.