by Katie Berry
He still hadn’t said anything to Minerva about what happened with the mirror before he ‘went to bed’ last night. He wasn’t sure what to make of it and decided to observe his behaviour for a while. Lively reasoned if he saw or felt anything out of the ordinary, he would let his sister know. But then another little voice inside his head wondered, what if he lost that piece of himself somewhere inside this hotel? The piece of him that was aware enough to seek help? Or would it be too late by then?
“My, it looks like the gears are grinding away in there. I’m surprised not to see smoke pouring out of your ears!” Minerva said, studying Lively’s expression.
Lively came back to the world, giving his head a slight shake. “Sorry, just thinking some thoughts.”
“Anything you’d like to share?”
“Not right at the moment. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Well, make sure you do. I think around this place, the smallest detail could make the biggest difference in whether we can figure this out, or not. Remember, sharing is caring!”
“Yes, mother,” Lively said, smiling. As those words exited his mouth, he received a piece of toast crust Minerva had torn off of a slice and expertly flicked into his coffee cup in return.
“Hey! I’m not done yet!” Lively fished the bread crust out of his cup and took a gulp of coffee. He held his sandwich in the other hand and took another huge bite, almost succeeding in jamming the entire thing into his mouth. He munched for several seconds. “Wow, that is really, really good. But who do we have to thank for it?” He looked around the kitchen but saw no one in sight.
Minerva shook her head and took another sip from her cup of coffee now that it had cooled a moment. The brew was full-bodied and rich, and she thought she detected notes of dark chocolate. With a small smack of her lips, she said, “Ricardo Montalban would be proud.”
“Good to the last drop, isn’t it?”
Minerva nodded. She took the crustless piece of toast she held and spread a thin layer of jam on top. After nibbling delicately on the corner for a moment, she added, “And good to the last crust, because you’re right, this is delicious. It’s like when you’re high, and you have some post-blunt snack that tastes just amazing because you have the munchies.”
“Well, speak for yourself,” Lively said, shaking his head. “I was part of the establishment, remember? The Man? CSIS? I was recruited young, and I was regularly tested for drugs because of my job level. So, I never had the opportunity, or wanted, to have anything more mind-altering than Moose Head or Barq’s.”
“Just two beers, huh? One alcoholic, and one not. Hmm… How boring.” Minerva took another small bite of toast, and a dribble of strawberry jam ran down onto her fingers. She licked the sticky coating from her digits, then pulled the jar of peanut butter across the countertop toward herself, studying its label a bit more closely. She stopped chewing abruptly, a frown creasing her brow.
Lively observed this and asked, “Speaking of grinding gears, what’s the matter?”
“Well, nothing, I think, but I was just looking at this jar, and I haven’t seen one that looked like this before.” She slid it toward him across the stainless-steel tabletop. It spun like a puck on ice.
Lively grabbed for it just before it sailed off the edge to its doom. He examined the green foil label. A pair of twin, blonde bear cubs relaxed on the front, declaring it to be a jar of Kraft Peanut Butter. But the label looked all wrong, like something from the fifties or sixties. Not to mention it was made of glass, not PETE plastic as most peanut butter jars were these days.
“The weight on the label says eighteen ounces, not five-hundred grams, or whatever they weigh these days. I wonder if it’s American?” He turned it around in his hands. “Nope, says ‘Made in Canada’. Hey, there’s an expiry date on it.” His eyes widened as he read it. “Where in the heck did they get this jar?”
“How long ago did it expire?”
“December 1963.”
Smiling, Minerva said, “Glad I chose the jam.”
“Well, I think it must be the mountain air. Keeps things fresh longer. And makes everything taste better, too, even expired food.” Lively loaded up another couple of slices of toast with peanut butter, then threw in several pieces of bacon, skipping the jam altogether. He took a big bite, and a look of bliss crossed his face.
Minerva cringed slightly she watched her brother partake of his latest creation.
After a moment of chewing, Lively saw Minerva’s expression and said, “Hey, look it up! It’s a thing. And it’s delicious!”
Minerva did not look convinced. Around another delicate bite of toast, she said, “I’ll take your word for it. So, what’s on the agenda for today, Big Brother?”
Pulling a linen napkin from a stack in the middle of the table, Lively said, “First thing we need to do today, as I see it, is to scope out the hotel, just to verify we’re the only ones here.” He wiped some bacon grease and peanut butter from the corner of his mouth with the napkin. “As far as I know, this building has remained sealed for almost forty years now.
“So was this area, supposedly. But it’s so clean in here it looks like they’re ready to start serving guests at any minute.” Minerva ran her finger along the surface of the table and then examined it. It was completely dust-free.
“Say, who is this cryptic new special friend you mentioned earlier?”
“Oh, you mean Thumper?”
“Thumper? Like Bambi’s friend? Are you sure you don’t mean Harvey?” Minerva asked, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips.
“Ha, ha. No, I did not see a six-foot tall rabbit like Elwood P. Dowd did, but thanks for asking.”
“Actually, Harvey was a Pooka, and he was six feet, three and a half inches tall,” Minerva corrected, still nibbling away. “And they can supposedly appear as anything they want, anyway, not just a rabbit you know.”
“Well, Pooka’s are Irish, and the parts of the castle that Sinclair brought over were from Scotland, not Ireland. So, I guess it can’t be a Pooka.”
“Sure it can! The Gael’s mythology influenced almost all of the United Kingdom, as you know. Most of that part of the world’s Celtic folklore shares variations of those same legends.” Minerva finished her toast and had a large gulp of her rapidly cooling coffee. “I mean, look at the Kelpie in Scotland. It’s very similar.”
“Well, thank you, Professor History,” Lively said, smiling. Minerva stuck her tongue out at him in response. He continued, “So, it’s possible that when Sinclair moved that castle from Scotland over to here, either by accident or intentionally, and this Pooka…”
“Or Kelpie,” Minerva interjected.
“Or Kelpie,” Lively nodded with a smile, then continued, “came along for the ride and it got incorporated into this hotel. But how does that play into the disappearance, I wonder? Are they related?”
“That’s why we’re here. To figure this out.” Now finished with her coffee and toast, Minerva stood and wandered briefly around the kitchen looking at the appliances and peeking inside the ovens. A short corridor led to a series of latched cooler and freezer doors. She peered inside each one, but all were empty. “Well, I don’t know where the food came from for our breakfast, since Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboards are bare at the moment.”
Lively walked up behind her, still wiping crumbs from the corners of his mouth. “Not surprising, I didn’t expect you’d find anything.”
“What? Why?”
“I have a theory, but I am going to hold off on sharing it for the moment.”
“That’s not playing fair! You need to tell me what it is,” Minerva said with a small pout.
“Very soon, but I want to verify a few things first. Let me just say this for now; our reality here in this hotel is, quite possibly, not the only one.”
“Multiple realities coexisting here at the same time and interacting with each other? Sure, why not?” Minerva asked facetiously as she closed the final pantry door at the end o
f the short hall.
“I’m glad you’re on board with the concept,” Lively said with a grin. “Shall we make like a leaf and blow?”
“Absolutely! But the first place I’d like to gust toward is the ballroom!”
“You read my mind, Sis.”
“Don’t I always?”
“No, not always. I bet you can’t think of what else I’m thinking right now.”
“You’re thinking of meatloaf and want to bring in your MREs,” Minerva said.
“Lucky guess.” Lively mock-scowled at her.
Now at the door, Minerva smiled sweetly at Lively, then turned and called back into the empty kitchen, “Thanks for the breakfast, mystery chef! For lunch, I’d like macaroni and cheese!”
Lively shook his head and said nothing, moving down the corridor to the stairs. As he walked, he saw there were many more rooms in the basement that would require exploration, in addition to the suites and other areas. But the ballroom was key to everything that happened here, or so he believed, and he was excited to go there first. As his high-top sneakers slapped up the carpeted stairs, he noted that the dust clouds formed by his footfalls were much less dense than they had been the night before when he’d climbed the main staircase. While not as spotless as the kitchen, it was definitely cleaner. He paused for a moment on a short dogleg in the stairs about halfway up and stamped his feet on the carpet a few times to verify.
With the sound of boot heels tapping up the carpeted stairs at his back, Minerva said, “Aww, what’s the matter, didn’t you get your way?”
“Hardy-har-har, you’re too funny. Actually, I just noticed something.”
“Thank you, I’ll be here all week.” Minerva grinned, then looked down at Lively’s feet and asked, “Okay, what did you notice? That your footwear is seriously out of style?”
“Hey, that’s retro fashion, I’ll have you know.” He looked back down at his feet and said, “While I realise it’s the maid’s day off around here, I think these steps look a little cleaner all of a sudden as well, don’t you think?”
“Well, maybe what happened in the kitchen is spreading from the basement throughout the hotel? I don’t know for sure, but things certainly do seem to be happening around here since we’ve arrived.”
“I know, it’s like now that we’re here, the hotel is waking up after decades of dormancy,” Lively added quietly, still lost in thought.
“So, you think our timer has started ticking?”
He turned to Minerva, a grave look on his face, and said, “That it is. And I think our time is running out.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
January 2nd, 1982, 0605 hours
Tossing and turning, John had eventually fallen into a restless sleep, punctuated by dreams of a ballroom full of revellers spinning and swaying to an unheard orchestra, forever dancing, and never, ever stopping.
John snapped awake with that image in his head, then lay staring at the ceiling for what felt like a long time.
‘Snick’. The analogue clock radio on the night table next to his head flipped the next digit over on its display.
With bleary eyes, John stared at the clock face for several seconds. It was now 6:05 A.M. As he watched, a number six plopped down on the right side, where only moments before it seemed the five had been revealed.
No matter how far past his bedtime when he went to bed the night before, John’s internal clock awoke him, rain or shine, just about six o’clock every morning, seven days a week. After his late-night research, he felt informed but groggy. When sitting down at the computer last night, he knew he’d have to pay the price this morning. He smiled and mentally chided himself, ‘last night’ and ‘this morning’ were still the same day, only four hours later. It was always surprising to him how a brief break in one’s consciousness made it feel like a new day had started, even though you knew better. But he’d had similarly long nights before, and in his experience, it wasn’t anything that a hot cup of coffee or three couldn’t cure.
John closed his eyes again for a brief moment before getting out of bed. Lying there, he enjoyed the cocoon-like warmth of the heavy blankets over the two of them, and almost fell asleep again. But The Sinclair was already gnawing away at his mind, needing to be investigated and solved. And yet, he paused a moment longer, relishing the feeling of his wife’s warm body next to his, snoring ever so gently. Before creeping from between the covers, John tenderly kissed Helen’s forehead, and his heart broke. A slight smile played around one corner of her beautiful mouth, and he felt a pang of guilt, knowing they would have to spend yet another day apart. With a faint smile, he placated himself with the thought of his retirement coming up in the next five years. Once he made it to that point, he would have plenty of time to make up for his previous absences in Helen’s life, of that he was sure.
As he dressed, he mulled his experience in the ballroom over and over in his head. It all felt like a jumble. What he’d thought he’d seen in the mirror had to have been caused by exhaustion — his mind playing tricks on him. He was an open-minded man, but what he thought he’d witnessed last night was stretching things to his mental limit.
The automatic timer on the Mr. Coffee machine clicked off just as John walked into the kitchen. With several small plops, the last few drops of liquid dripped from its filter basket into the carafe below. “Perfect timing,” he said, inhaling deeply of the caffeinated air. He grabbed the pot while the final few drops dripped, and they sizzled loudly as they hit the warming element. After pouring two-thirds of the carafe into his massive travel mug, John slid the pot back onto the still sputtering element. With a huge splash of cream and a quick stir, he took several satisfied slurps of his first bracing brew of the day.
John was a creature of habit, always transcribing his day’s shorthand notes and audio recordings into a journal each evening. Except for last night, he had been far too tired after his research. He hoped to catch up later this afternoon if he got a chance. Someday soon he would have to forgo this old-fashioned paper trail and begin typing his notes into his new computer, saving them for posterity on it’s five and a quarter inch disk drive — very high tech indeed. He shook his head, marvelling at the thought and smiling slightly. The way things were going these days, soon he’d be using optical data cubes or some such thing like on Star Trek to store his data.
Stepping outside his front door, John embraced the chill of the new day. His Suburban’s windshield was thick with frost after sitting for less than six hours. The day was crisp and clear, with a cold wind that nipped at his nose and cheeks. Fortunately, his head and ears were quite toasty, thanks to the winter-issue RCMP muskrat fur hat on his head. While he waited for the Chevy Suburban to warm up before heading back up the mountain, he pulled his microcassette recorder from his briefcase. He wanted to listen to the second tape recording of his interview with the bartender who’d been covering the ballroom during the evening of the disappearance, James O’Malley.
Harder also wanted to examine the mysterious box in the ballroom further today and knew that the bartender had had some involvement with it, due to his own admissions. It had been a very interesting conversation to be sure, but especially so now, in light of his own experience in the ballroom last night. He needed to hear the man tell his tale again. So much more could be gleaned listening to a person talk rather than reading a transcript of a conversation. With a blow into the microphone, John heard his own recorded voice as he began O’Malley’s interview.
***
“This is the second interview with Mr. James O’Malley, conducted by John Harder, January 1st, 1982. Mr. O’Malley, please continue with your recounting of the events in the Snowdrop Lounge on December 24th, 1981.”
“Sure, okay. Well, the Drop, that’s what we call the Snowdrop Lounge around here, had been really quiet that night. After I’d only served about four customers in four hours, I decided that since Judy, the waitress, didn’t have much to do, there wasn’t much point in having two people on when it wa
s so slow, so I sent her home. It’s usually my call like that if it’s quiet. Being Christmas Eve and all, Judy didn’t mind getting off early, let me tell you. I’ve never seen her smile so much! And anyway, I’d heard the storm was going to pick up, so I thought it best to let her off early because of that as well. Anyway, she was out of here by about seven o’clock and heading back down the mountain.
So, that left me standing behind the bar, looking at Baldwin over at the front desk. I tell you, he looked as bored as I felt. It’s company policy to leave the door to the lounge open, and I didn’t mind, even during the winter like this it’s really not too drafty. I tell you, the baseboard heater at my back always feels nice and toasty as I stand back here and serve drinks to people.