The Case of the Linen Pressed Guest (The M.O.D. Files Book 2)

by K. W. Callahan

  We walked back up to the pool area where we picked up a few towels that hadn’t made their way into the dirty towel bin.

  As we worked, my M.O.D. phone chirped a beeping alarm. I pulled it off its position affixed to my belt and looked at it.

  “One minute ’til midnight,” I held it up for Kristen to see.

  “Let me see that thing,” she said as I handed it over to her.

  She held it in her hand, pulling her own phone out to compare the two. “You need an upgrade.”

  “I know,” I nodded. “It’s been a couple years.”

  She continued to watch the phone’s screen. “Okay…here we go. Ten…nine…eight…seven…six…five…” she put both phones on the deck as we stood beside the pool, continuing to count, “…four…three…two…one…” and with that she lunged toward me, pushing me hard in the chest. As I reeled backwards toward the pool, I managed to grab hold of her arm, pulling her with me as I splashed down into the chilly water.

  We both came up laughing and sputtering, wiping the water from our faces. A second later, Kristen tried to dunk me, only partially succeeding as I returned the favor. She resurfaced, mascara running but otherwise makeup free. I was amazed at just how amazingly beautiful the girl was even without all the cosmetic fixings.

  Suddenly she pulled me close and planted one square upon my kisser. The kiss wasn’t too long, wasn’t too short, wasn’t too hard, wasn’t too soft – no tongue or anything like that – and conducted at just the right moment so not to appear as inappropriate or unjustified. Just a perfect kiss to celebrate the moment.

  “Happy New Year, Mr. Robert Haze!” she smiled at me.

  “And a happy New Year to you, Ms. Kristen Sparks,” I smiled back. “By the way,” I asked as a sudden afterthought while we floated treading water, the kiss leaving me thinking back to my mysterious secret admirer, “you didn’t happen to leave something in my mailbox on Christmas morning did you? A little box?”

  “No,” she frowned, shaking her head. “Why?

  “Oh, no reason…just curious.”

  CHAPTER 7

  To: allstaff.lanigan@sharedresorts.com

  Subject: 1/1 MOD Report

  THE LANIGAN HOTEL

  CHICAGO, IL

  MANAGER ON DUTY REPORT

  Sunday, January 1st

  Weather: 28/19 Heavy snow (blizzard warning)

  Occupancy: 32%

  Arrivals: 174

  Departures: 1217

  Event Resume:

  No events

  Carlisle’s Whiskey Lounge – (5 p.m. – 11 p.m.)

  Triton Club (Closed Sunday & Monday)

  ** Happy New Year!!!!!! **

  * * *

  I slept late New Year’s morning since I didn’t turn in until almost three. By the time Kristen and I had dried and redressed, it was nearly 12:30 a.m., and after handling a few more minor issues, it was close to two. By then, the ballroom events were over and most of the calls reverted back to security. Therefore, we returned to the front office to write up our managers’ report for the evening and then sent out the hotel-wide M.O.D. report.

  When I finally arose some time after eleven, I walked over and pulled my bedroom curtains (complete with blackout blinds since my hours were often erratic) aside to reveal a blur of white outside. I knew the weather forecast was calling for possible blizzard conditions, but in the Chicagoland area such predictions could be hit and miss. Due to the size of the area, stretching from the southern Wisconsin border to northern Indiana border, and with the lake effect conditions often coming into play, the weather could change drastically and dramatically in the points in between.

  I left the blinds open and flipped the television on to the local new station. There was a “special weather statement” running, and the portly, bespectacled weatherman was standing before a screen of whites and grays passing over the Chicagoland area indicating the various snowfall levels.

  Poor fella. Working on New Year’s Day. “Definitely earning your overtime,” I said to the television.

  I turned up the volume.

  “…continued snow throughout the day,” the weatherman was gesturing toward the screen behind him. We’ve already received anywhere from five to eight inches depending upon where you are in the viewing area, and that’s just the start. Things won’t really pick up until around nightfall when, according to our storm model, the brunt of the storm is predicted to hit and the snowfall will really begin to intensify. Most of the Chicagoland area could see up to an inch or more falling per hour throughout the night and into the early morning when the majority of the storm will have passed except maybe for our southern viewing area around Hammond where some lighter bands of lake effect snow might linger. Meanwhile, a cold front will sweep in behind the snow bringing with it plunging temperatures that will drop into the single digits. Gusty winds associated with this front could push wind chills into the negative twenties and even thirties. Tomorrow’s rush hour could be a real mess,” he finished his report.

  “I guess we’re lucky this is all starting on a Sunday as well as a holiday. It will at least give people, not to mention road crews, some time to get started on snow removal,” one of the newscasters said to the weatherman.

  “Yes, but with most of our snow falling tonight and into tomorrow morning at such a heavy rate, it’s unlikely that road crews will be able to keep pace, so caution is advised for the drive in to work tomorrow,” the weatherman explained. “We’re already getting reports of area school closings in the northern suburbs and all Chicago Public Schools are closed as well.”

  I turned the volume on my television back down, made a pot of coffee, and dug some leftovers from the Polynesian out of my mini-fridge, warming them in the microwave. Then I enjoyed my mid-morning meal as I sat before my bedroom windows watching the storm from my cozy perch high above the ever-deepening snow.

  While I ate, still tired after last night’s late hours, I decided a nap was in order for today. I felt that with the snow coming down, the day shift would just have to endure, and it would be best to utilize my time and efforts throughout the evening and early-morning hours when the worst of storm was predicted to hit.

  After finishing my brunch, I headed downstairs for a vigorous workout in the fitness center, some soaking in the hot tub to clean out the pores, and a good swim to cool down and loosen up a few tight muscles. There wasn’t a soul around as the majority of our guests were either nursing hangovers, packing to leave after their revelry last night, or some combination thereof. For most people this morning, thoughts of exercise were best left to New Year’s resolution lists.

  Suri, the fitness center manager, met me as I dried myself after my swim, donned my Lanigan hotel robe, and prepared to head back upstairs to shower, shave, and prepare for my nap.

  “Heard we had another incident,” she leaned in confidentially, even though no one else was around to hear.

  I took a deep breath, hesitating as I decided how to respond. I didn’t like it when employees questioned me about matters involving the police because I had to tread carefully. I didn’t want to appear as though I was trying to keep them out of the loop, even though it was really none of their business; but at the same time, I didn’t want to misstep and say something that might betray Detective Marino’s confidence. As someone who was often involved in thefts, injuries, and yes, the occasional murder, it was critical to keep Chicago’s finest on my good side not only for the well-being of the hotel but to make my own job easier as well.

  “Unfortunately,” I nodded to Suri.

  “Heard he was stuffed in the linen chute,” she continued to whisper. “And you found him.”

  “I was in the linen sorting room looking for a lost and found item,” I skirted a direct answer.

  “Do they know what happened? Do they think one of the employees killed him?”

  “I’m really not sure,” I was able to answer directly this time. “The police are investigating. They don’t always communicate
everything they find back to the hotel.”

  I knew that such events were the subject of gossip and conjecture around the hotel whenever they occurred. Therefore, it really didn’t matter what was true and what wasn’t regarding the events surrounding Mr. Statler’s death, it was just a juicy non-work-related subject to discuss among employees during breaks and downtimes.

  “I heard that he was stabbed,” Suri pressed. “Was it…bad?”

  I didn’t see how being stabbed could be particularly good, but I again tried to answer without really answering, “You know, Suri, it was such a shock when it happened, I wasn’t really paying attention to the wounds so much as to whether the guest was still alive. After I realized he was dead, I was so busy calling emergency services and security that I didn’t take a lot of time to inspect the man’s injuries.”

  “Hmm,” she frowned, pondering. “I think I would have looked closely. I’ve always been interested in things like that…murders and stuff. I love watching murder mysteries on PBS. I think I would have made a good detective. Have you ever seen the show…”

  She went on for the next ten minutes discussing various detective shows that I just had to see, describing characters, detailing certain favorite episodes, and giving me times and channels said shows were airing.

  “I’ve got to get upstairs and get showered, Suri,” I was finally able to break in. I was starting to turn into a block of ice standing there in my wet swim trunks and robe.

  “Okay,” Suri smiled. “Have a happy New Year,” she called after me as I retreated from the pool area.

  “You do the same!” I called back over my shoulder, pushing my way outside into the 7th floor hallway where I was greeted with a blast of even chillier air.

  “Ugh,” I shivered, hurrying to the back landing and taking the service elevator up to the 23rd floor where my warm shower and cozy king bed awaited.

  25-minutes later, I was snuggly beneath crisp white linens that housekeeping had placed upon my bed while I was at the pool. I fluffed my pillow, inhaled deeply of that freshly-laundered linen smell, and pulled my billowy comforter up around my neck in the blackout-curtained darkness of my bedroom.

  I was asleep in a matter of minutes, not to awaken again until after five o’clock, at which point I found my stomach rumbling angrily, out of sync with my odd schedule of the past day and in turmoil after not being tended to following my rigorous workout.

  I arose, dressed, and dialed room service. Most of the hotel eateries were closed for the New Year’s Day, and I didn’t mind eating in my room, especially on cozy days like today when my homey little hovel was a welcome environment in which to hunker down.

  I was in the mood for something warm, yet filling, so I ordered the white bean and artichoke potage topped with bacon and shaved Asiago cheese to start. I followed up with the prime filet medallion trio which consisted of three, three-ounce steak medallions each with an individual topping that included crab meat stuffed jumbo shrimp, bacon and blue cheese, and marinated mushrooms. The dish was served with butter-laden shallot mashed potatoes, and bourbon sauce marinated green beans.

  While I ate, I watched the storm coverage on television beside my little electric fireplace in the living room. Downtown was already up to 12 inches of snowfall, and certain southern and far west suburbs had already hit the 14 to 15 inch range. But my mind eventually turned back to the murder of Mr. Statler. Suri’s prodding had stirred my mental pot, but I didn’t have much to work with. Detective Marino had given me some basic background information, but from the sound of things, he didn’t have a lot to work with either. Therefore, I decided to do a little digging of my own and see what I could come up with. But first, I needed to make sure the hotel was ready for tomorrow after the night’s storm. While Tom might not have looked like it from his outward appearance, he was a stickler for attention to detail when it came to his hotel. The last thing I wanted when he came downstairs Monday morning was for him to see his baby not looking up to par. Even a blizzard of epic proportions wouldn’t keep him from expecting the best of the best for his precious property.

  After dinner, I turned the television down and pulled out a copy of Charles Dicken’s, Bleak House. I’d been bouncing back and forth between this tome and a copy of Upton Sinclair’s, The Jungle – both of which I’d been making slow but steady headway on for the past couple years. The two somewhat depressing novels just seemed to fit my reading itinerary for the long Chicago winters.

  At a little after nine, I closed my tome, put on my suit jacket, and headed downstairs.

  Sitting down at my desk, I flipped on my computer and immediately checked the “View Totals” page. All our departures had been checked out, most of our guests having fled earlier in the day in an effort to beat the worst of the storm or having extended their stay to ride it out. We only had 22 remaining arrivals, most of whom I wasn’t counting on actually making it to the hotel due to the severity of the storm. Our occupancy had risen by about 100 rooms since yesterday with the storm stayovers that I was sure housekeeping hadn’t planned for and likely wouldn’t have attendants to clean. But most of the rooms had only extended their stay by one night, and moving forward, the hotel wasn’t booked over 60 percent at any point during the seven-day occupancy forecast. This meant that housekeeping could “hang” some of the vacant dirty rooms if necessary.

  “Hanging” was a process in which housekeeping would temporarily wait to clean rooms for a day or two after the guests had checked out and once a few additional room attendants could be scheduled to cover the extra work load.

  Room attendants are the workhorse of any hotel, but they can only clean so many rooms. Sometimes extra rooms would be “sold” to room attendants for additional pay if the attendant could handle the work. But housekeeping managers had to walk a fine line between quantity and quality. A room attendant might be able to handle 20 rooms if they were all stayover rooms or they had some guests who refused service, but “churning and burning” when it came to cleaning rooms could leave a lot to be desired when it came to quality. With the Lanigan at the top of the charts on guest room cleanliness surveys, guest satisfaction wasn’t something we liked to chance. It was better to put off cleaning a few rooms to ensure that they were handled properly by room attendants who weren’t pressured to get in and out too quickly.

  I sent a quick email to Marian in housekeeping to let her know about our pickup in room count due to the storm. With the other items appearing in my email inbox and the several voicemails I’d received in my absence easily handled, I decided to walk our most heavily trafficked areas and see how they were holding up against the storm.

  I started by heading down the lobby’s main entry stairs, the carpeting of which had been heavily soiled and was looking dingy from a mixture of snowy slush and residue from the ice melt we’d been using to keep the hotel entrances clear.

  I walked through the main entrance’s revolving doors, noting the ice-melt stained entry mats. Outside, a wet, storm-driven snow instantly began affixing itself to my suit jacket the minute I stepped outside, and the icy wind cut me to the bone, taking my breath away. We were at shift-change, and in the interim between when second shift wrapped things up and third shift began, at least an inch of freshly fallen snow had covered the sidewalks. The remnants of the ice-melt the second shift had put down had kept the main entrance relatively clear, but it looked as though the snow was starting to get a foothold in certain spots. I knew it wouldn’t be long before that area was covered too.

  I ducked back inside, walking the street level’s arcade shopping area. As I did so, I noted the level of mucky debris and footprints that dulled the typically glossy gleam of the honed white travertine floor with diamond-shaped black marble inlays.

  “Tom’s not going to be happy,” I mumbled to myself as I hit a button on one wall to open a set of black double doors that blended in almost seamlessly with that portion of the arcade’s hallway wall. I made my through them and up a ramp and around a corne
r near the hotel’s dock area to the service elevators. I then rode an elevator upstairs, calling John Rodgers, the night housekeeping manager, along the way.

  “This is John, go ahead,” he answered his radio.

  “Hi, John, it’s Robert. You in your office?”

  “Just got here,” he answered.

  “Copy that. I’m going to stop by.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  As I stepped off the elevator on the 25th floor, I almost bit it in a puddle of water left standing on the back landing floor. Marian Marshall, the director of housekeeping loved to use floor wax. She’d have any floor surface she could find sealed or waxed. Marian wore thick glasses and blinked a lot, often squinting. If Mr. Magoo had a wife, Marian would have fit the bill. I often wondered if she used the shiny layers of floor wax that she had her floor techs constantly applying and buffing to eye-blurring shines as a way to guide her around the hotel. She even had them wax the granite entrances outside the hotel. It made these surfaces look great but turned them to ice skating rinks whenever they got wet.

  I looked down at the floor. There must have been ten coats of floor wax on the back landing’s concrete surface. “Jesus,” I shook my head. “We ever strip off all this wax and the hotel’s going to collapse.”

  I found a rag, wiped up the wet spot, and made my way down the hall to John’s office.

  There I found him in his office that offered a glimpse of Lake Michigan (on a good weather day) if one looked through a tiny porthole-shaped window and past a large skyscraper. He sat sorting a pile of paperwork at his desk, a brass library lamp with green glass shade serving as his only light.

  “What’s up, Robert?” he looked up as I entered.

  “Well, this storm for one,” I nodded at his little porthole, the sill of which was half filled with snow.