Nothing bad had happened, not really, and she thought about trying the whole thing again at the track with the odds and someone else’s money. But when she looked in the mirror, she saw her mother’s features as always, but now also her father’s expressions that looked like desperation, and she decided to not push her luck.
She took the packages back to the hotel (no worse from wear, she was careful about that), and claim ticket (No. 69) still intact. The man at the counter of the claim check was not the same one as had been there before, neither the first one nor the second. In fact, this man had no uniform of a hotel position and looked entirely more self-aware.
Confidence, that’s what it was—like her father when he told her about flying planes.
She said, “Who are you, and how do I know?”
She left it hanging at that, wondering if he’d figure it out. The man at the counter sniffed, nose in the air now. Gladys folded her arms and gave him a smirk—just there with the corner of her mouth, hoping her eyes seemed as cold as she felt.
Gladiola would be proud; her aunt had that distant look of disdain down perfectly. But inside, Gladys knew the woman was really raging with emotion. Gladiola just didn’t know how to let it out like Iris had, and so maybe that’s why Gladiola had always been alone, still jealous of her twin, in love with a ghost (Gladys’s father), and given to drowning her emotions through drink.
In any case, the expression seemed to work. He took the ticket, examined it—it was not false, what a fool. He then used the intercom to call the hotel manager. She only knew he was that important because the coat check clerk called him “Mr. Holden, sir.”Ó
Mr. Holden was quite polite as he examined the parcels with a great deal of care. They were not found lacking, she assumed, but he asked, “Didn’t you notice that they were not your own?”
“The bags looked like my own, so why should I? I did notice they were worse for wear, but I was in a hurry at the time, and I trusted the hotel when I checked them inside, though was distressed about the wear and tear, I must admit, and considered never coming here again.”
He demanded next, “Did you open them?”
She snapped, “It’s none of your business what I did. I had just purchased the items in question, and some were meant as gifts, so I already knew what was in them—supposedly, if they had been the right ones, that is.”
He flamed red, but said flippantly, “Well, thank you, miss.”
He seemed to think that was the end of it.
She said, “And my own parcels?”
“Do you have a claim ticket,” he said, obtuse and rude.
“I had one, but it didn’t seem to do any good. The other he already took,” she said, nodding to the clerk. She didn’t wait, her courage was fading: “Give me my parcels that I left here a few days ago, if you please.”
“You have no ticket for those, you get no packages,” the clerk (who had been hovering) said and the manager nodded his agreement.
The manager said, “Good day.”
She didn’t falter, just tapped her chin as she thought.
He hesitated, but then offered with false concern, “Was there something else, miss?”
“I was just wondering who I should go see first, the police or the city papers. I don’t suppose there’s a pay phone. Oh yes, one by the Ladies’ Lounge.”
The manager’s face turned gray—just like that—and the clerk snorted some sort of insult like “Wanker.”
Gladys didn’t know if it was meant for her or the manager, but either way, it was rude too. She grabbed the bags with the parcels again and said, “You may tell the rightful owner that if he has a ticket, I have his parcels.”
“Hey, you can’t do that,” the clerk said, looking as if he wanted to climb over the counter and pursue.
The manager even made a move forward too, but decorum seemed to win out.
Actually, it was the voice behind her who said, “Is there a problem, Parsons? Mr. Holden?”
She explained promptly without turning around, though clearly the clerk and the manager were not happy with her version of events, and in turn, interrupted with protests.
Finally, the man said, “And what part is not accurate?”
Truth was, all of it was all quite correct.
He thought for a moment. “Seems you two owe the lady an apology.”
She turned then and was taken aback by the man in the immaculate, expensive suit and an impressive facial scar.
They didn’t protest, the other men, just did as suggested.
She sighed, not bothering to accept, but murmured, “It’s so hard getting good help these days.”
The others went their way, but he stood his ground and said, “And you are?”
“Famished, and I’m afraid this sorry hotel lost my packages—“
”Ah, so you’re the one.”
She tried not to show any expression, but how could she know that it clearly showed upon her face. She said carefully, “I bought some things for my aunt who hasn’t been feeling very well.”
“Did you now,” he said softly.
She did, but it wasn’t a question. Besides, that part was true, if embarrassing for a lady to say. How could he be such a—
He said, “I know a good bit of cash went out on the ponies in the last several days.”
She snapped, “I abhor gambling, my father was troubled with such demons. He made it through the war, but it was the death of him.”
He nodded, looking a little sympathetic, she thought. She also found it annoying—even patronizing, really. It occurred to her that she should be afraid of him, but she was not.
He said, “That would explain the sure bets.”
She said carefully, “Is there such a thing?”
“Yes, of course there is.”
“Then name one.”
“I bet you will have dinner with me sooner or later, and within a year, we’ll be wed to one another.”
She blurted, “I don’t even know your name.”
He told her.
It was the same as the hotel.
She mentioned the resemblance.
He said, “I know.”
In fact, it was the same as a chain of hotels around the country and some on the Continent and in America, she’d heard.
She said, “Do you know who is the owner of those mistaken parcels?”
“The ones you brought back?”
“Brought back safe and sound, you can count it.”
That wasn’t a slip—she knew she wasn’t fooling him, and that she was also playing with fire (more of her father in her after all). He clearly had friends in the Underworld, possibly business partners too. She hoped he was too young to have anything to do with her father’s death, though he was a few years older than her, and might have been in the Service near the end of the War . . . and must have looked very fine in a uniform, before and after the scar.
It was exciting, chilling, and made her stomach feel funny.
Was it like this for her mother too, when the woman met her father, the pilot?
She added, “Your grandfather wouldn’t be in the peerage by any chance?”
“Sorry, plain stock. No Pratts in my family at all.”
So he also knew about that.
Still, she said skeptically, “What are the odds of that?”
The End
Gladys Barlow
~~~
Story from:
Shadow Reads
A Collection of Strange Little Stories
Copyright © 2005, 2010, 2012
By Marilyn M Schulz
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Also published on Smashwords
Mystery & Suspense
Ruthless in Seattle
Crooked Angels
The Colony (coming soon)
~~~
Reincarnation Series
Past Lives: Heretic
Past Lives: Ritual
Past Lives: Penitent (coming soon)
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~~
Romantic Adventure
Between Sea and Memory
Women in the West
Stories for Hopeful Hearts
Saving Grace (coming soon)
~~~
Historical Suspense
I am remembering . . .
Women in War
Shadow Reads
Cornish Legacy (coming soon)
The Rest of the Song (coming soon)
~~~~~
Mid-Century Family Life & Fantasy
Bunnies Ate My Peas (coming soon)
Keeper of the Lore (coming soon)
Moon Rocks (coming soon)
~~~~~
Copyright © Marilyn M Schulz
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A Little Romance: Stories for Hopeful Hearts Page 34