by Katie Berry
Lively snapped and flashed his way across the room. Neither he nor Minerva disturbed the pile of derelict decorations, but instead stood at their edge, only marvelling at them.
“Moving anything in here feels like it would be the same as desecrating an ancient burial site,” Lively commented.
“I agree,” Minerva said, shuddering slightly.
“Look at how they form an almost perfect circle,” Lively observed. “If people had danced through them, they would have been scattered all over the place, but that obviously didn’t happen.”
“So, at midnight, a timer must have tripped, and then this confetti of happiness dropped from the ceiling onto…”
“No one,” Lively finished her thought. “It’s like between the time of the clock hitting midnight and the blackout, everyone in here would have to have been gone already. I would say that as soon as the power went out, they disappeared in a matter of a split second, not fifteen seconds like everybody believes.”
“But how is that even possible?” Minerva asked. “After all, we have verified witness reports stating that there were people inside this room minutes, sorry, seconds before the power went out.”
Lively stood lost in thought, his chin resting in a cradle formed by his left hand, elbow resting on his crossed right forearm. “I think we need to step back and look at this from a bigger viewpoint,” he said, nodding at the mound. “There’s something that we’re not seeing, we’re just too close to the event.”
“I agree. We need to look back to what happened at the hotel before the event.”
“Over the years leading up to the mass disappearance, there were many reported cases of strange things happening here.”
“I don’t remember hearing about very many other things happening here, why is that?
“That’s because they weren’t very well reported. That is to say, Edward Sinclair apparently had deep enough pockets to not have anything appear in the media that he didn’t want to appear.” Lively reached into his ever-present courier bag and pulled an inch-thick bundle of paper that looked to be a book manuscript. “But luckily, good fortune has smiled upon us.”
“And me without a lottery ticket.”
He handed the document to Minerva, adding, “Don’t worry, you’re still a winner around here with one of these in your hands, Sis.”
“My, aren’t you the industrious one,” Minerva said. She smiled at the artwork on the mock cover Lively had created — an iconic green spirit from a certain movie franchise sat behind a large circle with a red slash through the middle. The text below the infamous spook read, ‘Big Book of Ballroom Busting.’ She knew she shouldn’t have expected anything less from her brother, who, thanks to the dozen years he’d spent with CSIS, had turned what was already an organised personality into one that was now almost obsessive-compulsive in its level of attention to detail. The fact that he’d basically written a book already said a lot of his devotion to the subject of the Sinclair mystery.
“I’ve taken the liberty of compiling all of the previously documented occurrences into one, easy-to-read-while-you-investigate bundle. It’s got almost everything we know about the Sinclair Incident in one place. Hopefully, it will help us get our minds around this thing a bit better.”
Minerva hefted the document, surprised by the weight. “Can I borrow it for a while? It looks like I’ve got my homework cut out for me.”
Lively pulled out another copy of the manuscript from his bag and flashed it at her, saying, “That’s okay, I have another copy. And don’t worry, there’re lots of pictures inside,” Lively concluded with a mischievous grin.
With a smirk on her own face, Minerva swatted him on the shoulder with her now rolled-up manuscript. “Oh, you’re a funny one, you are!”
“Always.” Lively flashed a quick smile. He continued, “But seriously, I think it would be best if we split up.”
Minerva made a shocked expression. “Oh, this is serious! I never saw the warning signs we were in any trouble.” She shook her head in disbelief. “Who gets custody of the spirits?”
It was now Lively’s turn to swat Minerva with his copy of the manuscript. “You’re as bad as I am.”
“No, I am two minutes less bad than you are, Big Brother. But yes, Mr. Serious, I agree. Isn’t splitting up what everyone does in spooky old buildings?”
With a small smile, Lively said, “Yes, it is. That way, we can cover more ground and get into more trouble. I’ll start in the basement, you take the third floor, and we’ll work our way back toward each other. Oh, just so you know, I’ve also taken the liberty of breaking down the document into sections.”
Minerva flipped the manuscript open and leafed through dozens of plastic tabs along the right side, seeing such labels as Third Floor, Second Floor, Main Floor, Entertainment, Recreation, Basement’. In the ‘Third Floor’ section of the document, he had further broken it down to with sub-tabs to indicate which wing of the floor the incident had occurred. “My, but you’ve been a busy little bee. When do you find the time?”
“Sometimes, I don’t sleep very much.”
“I can believe that.”
“All right,” Lively said, clapping his hands together, “I think I’m going to finish giving this room a quick once-over and then go exploring.” He paused, then added, “Oh yeah! One more thing!”
Minerva had just started flipping through the ‘manual’ and paused, looking at Lively over the edge of the manuscript. “Yes?”
“Did you do the math yet?”
“Which math is that?”
“Well, this hotel opened on December 31st, 1946. The disappearance happened on December 31st, 1981.”
“Technically, since it was midnight, it was 1982,” Minerva added.
“Correct. So, what kind of math should you do with those numbers?”
“Well, if I add it up, it comes out to a total of seventy-four. Is there a pattern here that I’m missing?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, are you going to tell me, or do I have to get my calculator out?”
Clearing his throat, Lively said in a teacherly voice, “I’ll give you a little hint. Prime numbers.”
Minerva looked at him blankly for a moment, then said, “Okay, from when the resort opened until the incident occurred was thirty-seven years, which is a prime number.”
“Correct again. But remember, there are other prime numbers between two and thirty-seven you know.”
“Thanks, I am aware of that fact,” Minerva said, but sported a slightly puzzled expression, not looking quite sure she understood what Lively was getting at.
“Things happened on other dates around here as well,” Lively said, tapping the manuscript. “Did you know, if you add the forty-six from the year this place opened to the prime numbers seventeen and nineteen, you’d get the date of the disappearance in 1982?”
Still looking perplexed, Minerva said, “I didn’t know that. But why would you want to do that and break it up like that?”
“Because if you add seventeen to forty-six that would take us to December 1963. Then, if you add the nineteen onto it, you get to 1982.”
“December 1963? Okay, so now things add up to a Four Seasons song title. And?”
“Oh, there’s much more to it than that.”
“Okay, I give, what happened in December of 1963 that I should be aware of?”
Lively was having fun, dancing around his denouement, but took pity on Minerva and said, “Why, the death and disappearance on Christmas Eve 1963, of course. Personally, just between you and me, I think it may have been a murder-suicide.”
“Murder-suicide? I never remember hearing about that. Do we have Edward Sinclair’s deep pockets to thank for covering up that as well?”
Lively tapped Minerva’s manuscript lying on the table once more, saying only, “Read on, Macduff,” then moved toward the entrance of the ballroom.
With a slight shake of her head and a small smile, Minerva pulled out a chair from one
of the dusty tables. She reached into her purple pack and dug around. After a moment, she pulled out a camel hair bristle brush and began dusting off the seat of the chair as well as a spot on the table. Only then did she sit down and crack the spine of the manuscript.
Lively watched this operation from the ballroom entrance and smiled, feeling an overwhelming sense of brotherly love for his sister. Despite her protestations otherwise, she had almost as many personality quirks as he had.
He headed back toward the basement, not needing to refresh his memory of the events of that snowy evening as they were burned into his brain. December 24th, 1963 was the date of the very first major ‘incident’ at the Sinclair Resort Hotel, and tonight was its anniversary.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
December 24th, 1963, 1900 hours
Signifying the hour to those unable to see it, the grandfather clock in the lobby rang seven long, sonorous tones. Vincent DaCosta was one of those people able to see the large clock, and he sighed, leaning resignedly on the ornately carved front desk. He was only one hour into his twelve-hour shift, and he was already bored out of his skull. Across the lobby, the minute hand crawled toward each roman numeral on the clock face. It was going to be another long, boring Christmas Eve. In the office at his back, sat a small black and white TV. From its single, tinny speaker emanated the first lilting strains of the song, Buffalo Gals, as the local TV station down in Entwistle began to play a static-filled broadcast of Frank Capra’s classic, It’s a Wonderful Life.
Across the lobby, the bartender at the Snowdrop Lounge, Tommy Dorfman, looked back at him with a similarly bored expression. It had been so quiet over at the lounge for Tommy this evening, he’d let the barmaid go home early. Rita something-or-other — Vincent couldn’t keep track of the staff; they went through the people so quickly around this place. Sometimes, he’d just get to know someone’s name, and they’d be gone the next day like they’d never existed.
Dorfman mimed loading bullets into an invisible gun now held in one hand. He cocked the trigger and put it to his temple. After a brief, imploring look toward Vincent, he pulled the imaginary trigger and collapsed behind the bar.
DaCosta just shook his head at Dorfman’s shenanigans, as usual. He tracked his attention toward the sole occupants of the Snowdrop Lounge. To one side of the entrance sat a group of a half-dozen, sombre-looking businessmen, all dressed in black. They were quite pale and gaunt with faces that looked like they might break if they attempted anything approaching a smile. According to Tommy, these businessmen, which he was currently ignoring, had arrived around four o’clock in the afternoon and claimed a corner table in the lounge near the entrance. The whole group had been strangely silent, not speaking a word, whether by choice or a language barrier no one was quite sure. There was one, however, who spoke some English, and he ordered a bottle of vodka to share between them. However, they’d ordered no food or appetisers all evening and only sat sipping the vodka, neat.
Turning away from the group of men, Vincent eyed the key rack at his back. He noted how few rooms were rented this evening. With a sigh, he pushed back a lock of oily, dark hair from his forehead, then adjusted the thick-lensed eyeglasses on his nose, returning to the office to catch some of the movie that had recently started.
The last couple of Christmas Eves at the Sinclair, Vincent had the misfortune of having been assigned to work the front desk, just like tonight. But now that he knew what to expect, he planned accordingly. This evening, he’d brought along a thermos loaded with his ‘Finest’ holiday coffee to help pass the time. Mixed in with the java, cream and sugar were several healthy splashes of Ballantine’s Finest Scotch Whiskey. Despite not being with family and friends tonight, at least he knew he could get comfortably numb. Hopefully, it would make some of the holiday drivel on the TV a little more entertaining.
With a smile and a flourish, Vincent poured the evening’s first fistful of festive coffee into the twist-off cup that the thermos provided. He took a slow, savouring sip as he settled into a thickly padded office chair. The whiskey was already doing its job and burning its way down his throat. On the desktop TV, a young George Bailey was diving into icy waters to rescue his little brother, Harry. Vincent inhaled the vapour swirling up from his coffee and sighed complacently while he watched the drama unfold onscreen. It looked like George was going to save Harry again, just like last year, and the year before.
Brown penny-loafers sitting on the floor beneath his chair, Vincent made a small groan of pleasure as he stretched his legs out and rested his stocking feet on a second office chair facing toward him. This was so comfortable; he’d have to be careful he didn’t fall asleep.
The front desk bell made three sharp dings. “Of course,” he muttered. “Never fails.” He begrudgingly stood upright, slipped his shoes back on and exited the office. Across the lobby from the front desk, a mirrored wall surrounded the lounge entrance, making the interior of the Sinclair appear quite a bit larger than it already was. With the angle he’d been sitting at, he should have been able to see any waiting customers reflected in this mirror, but tonight he hadn’t seen anyone, which was very strange.
DaCosta stepped from the office alcove and saw that there was indeed a customer waiting to be served, an extremely tall and dangerously thin gentleman. He was well dressed in a deep-black pinstripe suit that definitely hadn’t come off the rack at Woodward’s Department Store. Atop his head, a bowler hat was perched at a jaunty angle. The man just stood there, not saying anything, studying Vincent, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.
Vincent looked at the man, confused. If this man had come from the upper floors of the hotel, he should have seen him. When drinking his Christmas Cheer, DaCosta liked to have a clear view of the elevator and stairs from his seat in the semi-darkened office, just in case someone wandered up to the front desk, such as right now.
“Good evening sir, welcome to the Sinclair. How may I assist you?” As he spoke, he wondered how this man had entered the hotel without him hearing the front doors open and close — the TV wasn’t up that loud. And he wasn’t part of the sombre-looking group of gentlemen from across the lobby, since all six men still sat there, staring blankly at their drinks. His confusion mounted as he took in the man’s clothing. Why wasn’t he covered in snow? It was falling fast and thick outside the office window. How did this guy get up the mountain in the first place? His ride would have had to pull right past the office window where Vincent sat, and there had been no vehicle. Plus, even someone stepping from their car under the covered entrance would still have had a bit of snow on their person. But this man did not have a spec of snow on him, nor was he wearing an overcoat, just a regular business suit despite the sub-zero weather.
In a low, grave voice, Mr. Bowler Hat said, “Starting your Nativity celebrations early this evening, my friend?”
“I’m sorry?” Vincent said, unsure of what the man meant, but suspecting it was the obvious thing.
The man in the hat continued, “I have a very sensitive nose, young man, and right now, I can smell the distinctive aroma of some very fine Scotch Whiskey — Ballantine’s, I believe it is, and it’s coming from you.” The man pointed one long, rather bony finger in Vincent’s general direction.
“That’s an excellent nose you’ve got, sir. But it’s just a little something to take the chill off — with the time of year being taken into account and all,” he said apologetically. Vincent really didn’t want to get in trouble for drinking on the job on Christmas Eve.
But he need not have worried, as the man said, “Far be it for me to suggest anything otherwise, my fine fellow! I’m all-in for a man having a bracer or two and enjoying himself on Christmas Eve! And I’m quite sure it’s brightened your evening already, hasn’t it?” the man inquired with a crooked, toothy smile.
Under the recessed lights of the front desk, a large diamond stickpin sparkled in the centre of Bowler Hat’s crisply knotted, red silk tie, dazzling Vincent with its brilliance. Averting
his gaze slightly, he asked, “What can I do for you, sir?”
“Oh, it’s not what you can do for me, it’s what I can do for you!” the thin man exclaimed grandly.
“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know what you mean.” Vincent figured maybe this guy had already been in his own cups tonight — or perhaps it was because his mental elevator didn’t quite make it up to the penthouse. Either way, he was an odd duck.
“It appears that things are rather slow this evening, is that correct, Vincent?” The man watched DaCosta’s eyes widen slightly, then added, “I am so sorry, may I call you Vincent?”
Feeling taken aback, DaCosta looked down at his chest and realised he didn’t have his name tag pinned to his shirt. He must have forgotten. “Of course not, sir, but h-how did you know my first name?”