Hotel Angeline

by Garth Stein et al.

Now what?

  What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do when the whole world is crashing around you? What to do when everything you’ve known no longer exists, no longer is true? What to do when you are alone, no one to help, no one to care? What to do?

  Hide it.

  “What?”

  Hide the disc.

  Of course. First thing. Hide the disc. Where? She surveyed the apartment, the clothes on the floor in piles, plates and cups in the sink, pots and pans on the stove with sauces stuck to them.

  Pigsty.

  “Really. You try, Mother. You try running this hotel, doing the laundry, folding the clothes, collecting the rent, fixing the plumbing, saving goldfish for God’s sake. You try doing it and keeping the room clean on top of everything else.”

  You’re wasting time, dear.

  And she was. Hide the disc.

  The couch. She’d hide it under one of the cushions.

  Good God, girl, that’s the first place they’ll look.

  And of course it would be.

  She looked to the kitchen. The refrigerator. Could she hide it in the refrigerator? She didn’t know. Does cold hurt a disc? Didn’t know. Didn’t have time to find out. OK, not the refrigerator. And not the oven. If the cold hurt a disc, heat certainly would. Couldn’t take that chance.

  She heard footsteps on the landing down the hall. Heavy feet. She could hear everything through the thin walls, and she knew the residents’ footsteps. She’d spent years identifying them. These did not belong to anyone she knew.

  They were coming. They’d want the disc.

  She looked again. Under the plant? No, the water and dirt could ruin it. The mattress!

  That’s the second place they’ll look.

  “You come up with a place, then,” Alexis said. “You’re so smart. You come up with one.”

  Switch it.

  “What?”

  Switch it with one of the movie discs.

  Brilliant. Brilliant. They’d never know. She hurried back into the living room, nearly stumbling over a pile of clothes. Her mother had bought one of those entertainment centers at a flea market in Fremont. It had a center section for the TV and side compartments for all the movies. She thumbed through them. All classics her mother had made her watch. Casablanca. On the Waterfront. Cool Hand Luke. She pulled out the first one her fingers touched. Gone With the Wind.

  As she switched the discs, another thought came to her. She had her answer to her first question. What to do?

  A heavy fist on the door. A policeman’s knock. Hard enough to rattle the door in the frame. Wake the dead . . . maybe not.

  She had time. They’d expect her to be asleep at this hour. She had time.

  What to do? Do what Scarlett did. Do what Scarlett did when her world crashed, when everyone abandoned her, when she had to fend for herself, fight off the Yankees, bury her mother and her father, run the farm.

  Fake it. Fake it so no one knows you’re vulnerable. Pretend everything is just peachy.

  Another knock. Louder. A man’s voice. “Edith Austin? Seattle Police Department.”

  Scarlett got all those men to fall for her, got them to love her. She fooled them all. Surely Alexis could fool one police officer.

  “Coming,” she said, trying to disguise her voice as if she were just waking.

  She slipped the CD into the movie case and put the movie case back on the shelf. Now she had to get rid of the movie CD. Part One. Screw it. She rushed into the kitchen and put it in the oven.

  “Ms. Austin. I need you to open this door now.”

  Alexis moved quickly to the door and raised onto her toes to look through the peephole. She was startled and nearly called out. The nose was huge—a big bulbous thing like the snout of one of those huge sea lions, the nostrils like two black caves, hairs protruding from each.

  “I’m sorry, but who is this?”

  “Seattle Police. Open the door Ms. Austin.”

  “I’m sorry but she’s indisposed.” It was a word her mother had taught her, a polite way of saying she was on the can, or in the shower.

  “Who am I speaking to?”

  Alexis looked down at her silver dress and boots. “Damn.” She couldn’t answer the door like this. She was supposed to be asleep, getting out of bed. She needed time. Needed to stall. She hopped on one leg, struggling to pull off the boot.

  “This is her daughter, Alexis.” She got the first boot off and flung it across the room, hopping on the other foot and repeating the process.

  “Alexis, I need you to open the door.”

  “I’m not allowed to,” she said. “My mom won’t let me.”

  She looked back through the peephole as she struggled to shimmy out of the silver top. The man had stepped back from the door, but he still looked distorted, like one of those images you saw in a circus carnival mirror. He wore a suit and tie and ran a handkerchief over his forehead and head, red in the face. The climb up the four flights looked like it had nearly killed him.

  “I’m Detective Hillary Francolini and I’m with Seattle Homicide.”

  “You’re still a stranger,” she said, the skirt falling to the floor. She kicked it away. “I’m not supposed to open the door to strangers. I’m not even supposed to talk to strangers.”

  “I’m not a stranger. I’m a police officer. Didn’t your mother tell you that it was OK to open the door for police officers?”

  “You could be lying. It could be a trick. Then when I open the door you knock me on the head. Then you kill me and cut my body into pieces and put me in Ziploc bags and stuff me in the freezer. I read that one time.”

  “OK, kid. Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to hold my badge and identification up to the peephole for you to see, OK?”

  She found a pair of basketball shorts in one of the piles and slipped them on. “OK.”

  She looked through the peephole and saw the badge, but couldn’t read anything on it. “It could be fake,” she said. “With the Internet people can fake anything.”

  He pulled back the badge, his face contorted in a scowl and red again. “OK, how about I slide it under the door and you look at it that way?”

  “OK.”

  She heard something sliding on the hardwood and looked down as the black wallet came under the door. She opened it and looked at the identification. Hillary Francolini. What kind of a name was Hillary for a man?

  She looked through the peephole again. She had thought the man’s image distorted, but after viewing the picture in the wallet she was no longer sure. Francolini was shaped like a bowling pin, or one of those Russian nesting dolls her mother collected and kept on the shelves of her bedroom. It wasn’t all distortion. Part of it was poor genetics and likely overeating. He had a face like a basset hound, ears as big as two iceberg lettuce leafs, jowls that hung to the collar of his shirt and bags under his eyes as big as suitcases. He had one of those bad comb-overs, the kind that started just above the ear and revealed more scalp than hair.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “OK. I guess you’re all right.” She had put on a gray Garfield High School sweatshirt to go with the shorts. She pinched her cheeks. She wasn’t sure why, but Scarlett had done it in the movie, so what the heck.

  She undid the deadbolt and pulled the door open just far enough for the chain to catch.

  “Alexis Austin?”

  “Hi. Sorry about that. You can never be too sure, my mother says.”

  “No, you can’t. May I come in please?”

  “Um, what’s this about?”

  “I’m going to need to come in.”

  She knew she had stalled as long as she dared. She closed the door to remove the chain and pulled the door open, stepping back.

  Francolini stepped forward, then paused at the threshold, surveying the interior of the apartment.

  “Sorry about the mess,” she said. “My mom’s been sick and I’ve been taking care of her.”

  “Can I speak with her, plea
se?”

  “She’s not home.”

  Three lines formed on Francolin’s forehead. “I thought you said she was indisposed.”

  “I did. That’s what I say so the person doesn’t know she’s not home. Like you said, you can never be too sure.”

  “Where is your mother?”

  “She’s . . . she’s at the doctor’s office.”

  “The doctor’s office?”

  Alexis realized her mistake. At just seven in the morning it was doubtful too many doctor’s offices were open.

  “She works downtown,” she lied, “and she has to go to the doctor before work because her boss is really mean and he said he’d fire her if she missed any more time at work.”

  “What’s wrong with your mother exactly?”

  “Exactly? Well, I wouldn’t know exactly. I am only fourteen, Detective. But I think she has that thing, you know, the gout.”

  “Gout?”

  “And amnesia.”

  “Amnesia?”

  “You know, she doesn’t have enough iron in her blood so she gets really tired all the time.”

  Francolini thought about that a moment. “Oh. You mean anemia.”

  “Isn’t that what I said?”

  “You said amnesia. That’s when someone can’t remember something. Anemia means not enough iron in the blood.”

  “Anemia, yeah. Sorry.” She slapped her forehead. “Amnesia . . . I guess I forgot.”

  “You were asleep?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What time did you go to bed?”

  “Regular time, you know. About ten.”

  “So you weren’t out.”

  “Out?”

  “Yes, out. The opposite of in.”

  “It’s a school night, Detective. My mom doesn’t let me go out on school nights.”

  “Do you know anyone named Lynn Robinson, Alexis?”

  “Lynn Robinson?” she asked. She furrowed her brow, the way Scarlett had when she wanted to look like she was thinking hard about something. “I don’t think so.”

  “No? He’s a tenant here.”

  “A tenant here? I don’t think so . . . wait. LJ?”

  “LJ?”

  “We have a tenant named LJ. He lives in a room on the top floor. He makes perfumes. I think his first name is Lynn.”

  “Right. Well his real name is Lynn Robinson. So you know him?”

  “Sure, of course.”

  “When’s the last time you saw Mr. Robinson?”

  She scrunched her face again. “I’d have to think about that. I’ve been pretty busy with school and all. Maybe a week ago. I think he came to tea.”

  “Tea.”

  “Yes. It’s sort of a tradition my mother started here. Every day at four she serves tea for all the residents. It’s a way to stay in touch, to find out if there are any problems, you know, like leaks or something. That way my mom says they won’t report us to the health department and stuff.”

  “So you think that’s the last time you saw Mr. Robinson?”

  “LJ.”

  “Yes, LJ.”

  “I think so. He doesn’t always make it to tea. But that’s what I remember. Why do you ask? Is something wrong?”

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news, Alexis.”

  “Bad news? Should I sit down?”

  “You might want to.”

  Alexis moved to the sofa and sat, trying her best to keep a blank face. She leaned forward. She thought that would make her look interested. Somebody says they have bad news, you want to look interested. Otherwise the police will think it’s suspicious.

  “There was an explosion in Fremont tonight at a warehouse. Have you heard anything about that?”

  She shook her head. “I was asleep.”

  “It was a big explosion, Alexis. It caused a lot of damage. Mr. Robinson was in the building. I’m afraid he’s dead.”

  Alexis didn’t have to fake this. Just hearing the news again caused the tears to well in her eyes. “Dead?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  She lowered her head and covered her eyes. After a moment she looked up. “I guess I’ll have to let my mom know.”

  “I think you should. I need to get into Mr. Robinson’s apartment,” Francolini said. He pulled out a piece of paper. “I have a search warrant here, signed by a superior court judge, to search his room.”

  “I don’t have a key,” she said. “My mom keeps the keys.”

  “And she’s never told you where she puts them? What if there’s an emergency? What if a tenant gets locked out of their room?”

  She shrugged. “I’m only fourteen, Detective.”

  “Right,” he said, but it sounded almost as if he didn’t believe her.

  He reached into the pocket of his suit coat and pulled out a plastic bag. Inside, Alexis recognized the silver charm, the one that LJ had in his hands just before the flash of light and the fireball. The last time she ever saw him.

  “Have you ever seen this before, Alexis?”

  She shook her head.

  “Never?”

  “No.”

  “We found this at the site of the explosion, Alexis.” Francolini stood over her, waiting, and Alexis realized he wasn’t as stupid as those men in Gone With the Wind who fought with each other over who was going to get Scarlett her pie. He was smarter than that. He had evidence. It wasn’t what he thought, but what he thought was worse than it actually was. What he thought, she knew, was that the charm belonged to Alexis and that it had come off at the warehouse. That it proved she had been at the warehouse.

  “I’ve never seen it,” she said.

  “And if anyone told me that they saw a young girl outside the building just before it exploded? Would that be a lie?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t there. Maybe there was a young girl there.”

  “But that wasn’t you.”

  “I told you, I was asleep. What kind of mother do you think I have, Detective? Do you think she’d let me stay out all night? How would I even get to Fremont? I don’t drive, you know, and I wouldn’t get on the bus. There are weirdos on the bus and crazy people on drugs.”

  Francolini turned his head, surveying the room again and Alexis looked with him. She knew he was considering the garbage can overflowing with empty cans of Chef Boyardee and tuna fish and boxes of cereal. What kind of a mother? Not a very good one by the looks of things, that was for sure.

  “When do you expect your mother home, Alexis?”

  She shrugged. “Tonight, I guess.”

  “Where does she work, exactly?”

  “She works for the water department. I don’t know exactly what she does. She does administrative-type stuff.”

  “You have her phone number at work?”

  “Of course,” she said and made up a number. That would buy Alexis a bit more time but not much. She couldn’t underestimate Francolini, not anymore. Alexis had been stupid to say that her mother had a job at the water company. Now he would follow up, and it would reveal another lie.

  “Alexis, I’m going to leave now, but I’m going to come back and I expect to talk to your mother and get into Lynn Robinson’s apartment. In fact, I’m going to go back and get another search warrant, and when I come back here I’m not just going to search Mr. Robinson’s apartment. I’m going to ask the judge for a warrant to search the entire building. Do you understand? So if you have anything you want to tell me about Mr. Robinson, I’d suggest you do so now.”

  Alexis shook her head. “No,” she said. “Nothing.” She looked at the clock on the wall. “Are we almost done? I’m going to be late for school if I don’t get going.”

  “We’re done,” Francolini said, slipping the charm back into his pocket. “For now.”

  He walked to the door and opened it, but he didn’t immediately leave. He turned and considered the mess again. Then he looked at Alexis.

  After the door shut, Alexis hopped to her feet. Her heart was pounding and she felt lightheade
d. She took two deep breaths. Now was not the time to panic. Now was not the time to faint. Francolini was coming back, coming to look for evidence that Mr. Robinson was some kind of terrorist, that he had chemicals stashed all over the building, and that included the basement. They’d look everywhere and it would be a thorough search. They’d open the casket and—surprise!—there’s dear old Mom, lying there. And that would lead to a whole lot of other questions for Alexis. They’d likely think she murdered her own mother and was trying to hide the body.

  Too much. It was too much to take. Too much for an adult. How was she supposed to handle it at fourteen? She was supposed to be worrying about things like the math test she didn’t study for or what color to dye her hair next. She was not supposed to be worrying about dead bodies in caskets in the basement and terrorists blowing up buildings in Fremont.

  “Enough,” she said. “Enough whining. Now you’re really starting to sound like Scarlett. One thing at a time.”

  You have to get rid of me, she heard her mother say. I’ve liked being so close, but it’s time for me to go. Kind of morbid anyway, dear, don’t you think? I mean, you knew it couldn’t last, right? You couldn’t keep me in the basement forever.

  “OK, so what do I do? It’s not like I can just open the back door and put you in a garbage can at the curb.”

  No, that wouldn’t do. The garbage men would report it.

  “Maybe I could donate your body to science.”

  They’d have to ask a lot of questions, first. You can’t just drop off a body at the science lab.

  “I’m open to suggestions, Mother.”

  You’re a clever girl. Think. Surely you can think of someone who knows what to do with a dead body. This was after all, at one time a mortuary. . . .

  And then it came to her. Of course. How could she have not remembered Clovis? Clovis Lynch, the cremator. He’d owned the building when it was a mortuary and had stayed a family friend after he sold the building to Edith’s parents. Where had he gone? Some little Podunk town in the country, her mother said, where he ran a cemetery. She rushed into her mother’s bedroom and fumbled through the desk, opening and shutting drawers. Her mother kept a Rolodex with everyone’s name and personal information. The computer age had never been for her. She moved a stack of books and found the black metal box and flipped it open. The cards were on a spinner. She spun the knob to the L’s, then went through them by hand. Lamont, Lowman, Lupes, Lynch.