by Claryn Vaile
Remodeling workmen soon encountered unforeseen complications. Structural anomalies, electrical and plumbing problems caused delays and occasional minor disasters. Floors buckled. Pipes burst. Messiest of the malfunctions flooded the entire basement late one morning. Hotel associates had to slosh through several inches of water to clock in or out.
HR threw together an emergency pizza “party” in the mezz-level Grand Salon when the employee dining room turned estuary. The chief maintenance engineer never could provide an explanation for the high tide, which subsided as mysteriously as it had swelled a few hours earlier. But Lochlan had no doubt about the cause.
“The spirits of The Keep’s past are conveying their anger,” he said. Rebecca had confided to him her unsettling encounter with the spirit in Room 864 and had been a little disappointed at his lack of astonishment. It had seemed the most natural thing in the world to Lochlan that a spirit had not only appeared to, but had essentially shot through Rebecca.
“Rosslyn predicted the spirits would make their displeasure with these alterations known,” he reminded Rebecca as they ate their pizza. “And so it begins.”
While preparing to leave for work a few days later, Rebecca sneezed -- and swore.
“Leakage?” Mo empathized knowingly.
Her roommate grimaced. “Another lovely curse of later middle age. Incontinance.”
“Thank you, Poise pads.”
“It seems to me that if we have to undergo this monstrous metamorphosis of menopause, we should at least come out of the process with some sort of reward.”
“Reward? Like what?”
“I don’t know. Like magical powers or something.”
“Doesn’t work that way. We didn’t get any magical power for going through the agony of puberty.”
“Oh, but we did,” Rebecca insisted. “Maybe the greatest magical power of all. After puberty, women have the power to conceive life.”
“Never really thought of it that way. Probably because I never chose to use that particular magic. But I suppose it is sort of the payoff for putting up with monthly periods – if you want to reproduce.”
“So what do we get for enduring menopause?”
“Hey, you’ve seen ‘Menopause: The Musical.’ In the last act, they’re all self-confident and powerful.”
“And resigned to living out their remaining days in decaying bodies. Heartwarming stuff.”
“Hold on, now. Maybe there is some magic associated with ‘the change.’ I mean, think about all the mediums and sensitives you’ve encountered at The Keep. How many of them have been menopausal women?”
“Nearly all of them. So what?”
“Maybe there’s a basis for the long cultural association of so-called ‘crones’ and witchcraft. You know, crone used to be a respectful term applied to old wise women. When women lose their procreative powers, perhaps they gain another sort of potentiality. An aptitude for tapping into the next level of existence, to pierce the veil, bridge the gap between the earthly realm and the spiritual plane. Not all old women embrace the gift, obviously. But then, not all younger women have a talent – nor an inclination – for motherhood. In both cases, it may be a matter of choice, as well as capability.”
“You’re really reaching now,” Rebecca said, buttoning her blouse.
“Maybe. But come to think of it, you yourself may be a case in point. How many encounters with unexplained phenomena have you had since you started menopause?”
“More than I’ll admit to you – or anyone. But that’s just because of all the time I spend at The Keep, not my hormonal imbalance.”
“I propose that’s it’s the combination of the two factors – the unusual level of paranormal activity at the hotel, plus sensitivity due to physiological changes, equals a receptive dynamic previously unknown to you.”
“Your imaginative talents are wasted in university administration, you know,” Rebecca said, slipping on shoes. “Helluva try. But what about people like you who’ve had psychic abilities since childhood?”
“The exception that makes the rule.”
“What about male psychics?”
“Oh, stop being difficult. You wanted a reward for menopause and I gave you a possibility. I give up.”
By early March, Rebecca was fed up with playing Sales receptionist, a complete waste of her talents and training. Her new awareness of The Keep’s spiritual dimension made functioning on the mundane plane more difficult and ludicrous every day. She missed her rooftop archives retreat. Missed her autonomy. Missed being surrounded by echoes and traces of The Keep’s past and especially missed long talks with Lochlan. She watched the younger sales reps engrossed in their social media, pandering to potential clients, turning to her only to order their office supplies or make copies. She was grateful for the upcoming private tour, booked many months earlier, which gave her a reason to get out of the office.
The overhead lights were off when Rebecca walked in to preview the Silver Spoon Club. She’d been oblivious to the storm raging outside until she entered the empty corner space. Only paparazzi flashes of lightning, unusual this early in Spring, lit the dim triangular room through the stained-glass windows.
Between events, the space was in disarray, with chairs stacked here and there, a rolling cart laden with plastic bus tubs of dirty dishes. Table skirts and used linens lay crumpled or mounded on the floor and atop a few tables against the back wall. She used the house phone behind the bar to call for a quick straightening up before she showed the place to guests.
Thunder shook the room. The sound of china falling from a bus tub compelled her to glance back at one of the tables. Its linen cloth had slipped to the floor, revealing the prone figure of a thin, pale woman in a crimson gown.
Rebecca froze.
One bare arm dangled limply off the edge of the table. Lightning flashed again. The head turned slowly, unnaturally toward her. Lifeless eyes opened. White lips parted.
"See me."
Clear as glass, the words hung like ice crystals in the air as their source blurred and dissolved before her disbelieving eyes.
Now that you’ve encountered one spirit at the Keep…. you’re going to start seeing more of them, Mo had predicted.
The historian told no one of the episode, and swept it neatly under the rug of rationality. But the image haunted her subconscious thereafter like a Poe story. Suddenly Mo’s suggestion to keep the horn talisman with her seemed like a very good idea.
Yesterday’s listing of Griffins Keep VIP guests revealed that Mrs. Stan Tagawa had checked in for a week-long stay -- Portia Kuhrsfeld-Tagawa.
Rebecca remembered coming across the 1964 gossip column years earlier in one of the scrapbooks kept by a Keep employee: “Debutante Portia Kuhrsfeld Weds Family Gardener.” The story detailed her parents’ shock and disapproval of eighteen-year-old Portia’s elopement with their Hawaiian estate’s young groundskeeper, Mr. Stanley Tagawa.
“We are sorely disappointed by Portia’s rash and ill-considered decision to marry without our knowledge or consent,” R. Joseph Kuhrsfeld III had told the columnist. “Her stepmother and I are frankly concerned about her future with a young man so clearly beneath our family’s social and economic standing.”
Rebecca had applauded Portia’s leap of independence. But the name Tagawa had meant nothing to her at the time. This personal history explained TITHE’s determination to acquire the Griffins Keep. Chad Tagawa’s uncle Stan must have long coveted the ultimate symbol of his father-in-law’s power and prestige.
From a historical viewpoint, Rebecca was eager to record Mrs. Kuhrsfeld-Tagawa’s memories. If nothing else, she could store them in the secret sub-basement room indefinitely. She knew just the hotel associate to arrange an introduction.
“As you can imagine, the family was scandalized when she eloped. And with a Japanese American!” veteran banquets and catering manager Holly Merriweather dished confidentially when Rebecca sought her assistance. “Her father practically disown
ed her at first. Would have nothing to do with his new son-in-law. But Portia was always the apple of Joe’s eye, and apparently, when his first grandchild was born, he lightened up and welcomed his darling daughter back into the bosom of the family. Gradually, Joe Kuhrsfeld not only accepted his former groundskeeper as kin, but actually took Stan under his wing and mentored him in the various Kuhrsfeld enterprises.”
“And just how do you know so much about this soap opera?” Rebecca asked
“Hey, you can’t coordinate the Snow Ball for 34 years without getting the dirt on all of Denver’s elite families. Portia Kuhrsfeld-Tagawa actually chaired the ball many years ago. She was a delight to work with. Very down-to-earth, not a bit snobby. But also somehow very sad, it seemed to me. She hasn’t been back to Denver in years – until now.”
“So you don’t think she’ll mind talking with me about her memories of The Keep?”
“Are you kidding? She’ll love it. And she must have loads to share. High time she sat down with a local historian for a proper interview. Come on. I’ll introduce you!”
They knocked on the door of Room 523 and were greeted by a slender, well-dressed woman in her early 70s. Portia Kuhrsfeld looked casual but chic in a pale blue silk blouse and knife-pleated gray wool slacks. Her chin-length white hair was tucked behind her ears and dark brown eyes peaked over tortoise-shell readers. Her subtly regal air made one feel privileged to be in her presence. She smiled when she saw her old friend.
“Holly!” she exclaimed warmly, reaching out to embrace her. “You haven’t aged a day. So good to see you. Yours is just about the only face I recognize around here from the old days. Come in, come in. Please, sit,” she directed, indicating the sofa behind the coffee table in the corner suite’s front room. “And you must be the hotel historian Holly’s talked so much about.”
“Portia, this is Rebecca Bridger. Been with us for about five years now, and we’re very fortunate to have someone so knowledgeable and passionate about Denver history sharing our stories with Griffins Keep visitors.”
Mrs. Kuhrsfeld-Tagawa extended her hand. “A pleasure, Rebecca. What a wonderful – and unusual -- job you have! How on earth did you get the position?”
Rebecca took the grand lady’s hand and dropped her gaze modestly. “It was really just a combination of the right timing and the right skill set. I knew the last historian, and she knew that my education and experience were a good fit for the job requirements. She graciously recommended me to management when she moved back home.”
“And the rest is history, as they say,” Portia concluded.
“Well, yes and no,” Rebecca felt compelled to clarify. “The hotel historian position was recently eliminated, along with the archives. Now I’m pretty much just a sales receptionist.”
“Oh yes, I remember hearing about that. Got some TITHE email announcement about them auctioning off most of the hotel’s historical treasures. An attachment showcased some of the most valuable pieces and invited board members to pre-bid on them. Unconscionable,” the older woman sympathized. “No doubt a bit of TITHE reorganization, am I right?”
Rebecca nodded without comment.
“Nevertheless, Holly tells me that you’d like to record some of my memories of the Griffins Keep for posterity, as it were. Not sure I like the idea of being considered living history, but I guess there’s no point in denying it. The hotel I remember from my childhood was so different from the way it is today. I hardly know where to begin.”
“I think I can help with that,” Rebecca said, withdrawing several loose sheets of paper from the portfolio she’d brought along. “I’ve taken the liberty of suggesting a few questions intended to start your recollections flowing. Don’t feel obligated to answer them all, of course. Ideally, they’ll get you thinking about other aspects of Keep history that I haven’t even mentioned. They’re just a starting point, a basis for our discussion. I thought I’d leave them with you and give you a few days to jot down notes before we start any serious interviewing. What do you think?”
Portia pushed her readers into place and leafed through the pages, scanning the questions. Frown lines creased her forehead. “Gracious,’ she said with a sigh, “This is a lot. Not sure I want to get into all of it, or even that I can tell you anything about some of these topics. But I appreciate all your forethought, and I’ll see what I can offer. I’m flying home to Hawaii on Sunday. Could we plan an hour or so tomorrow afternoon?”
“Absolutely. Thank you so much for fitting me in. Whenever works for you, I’ll be there.”
“Two o’clock then. Here in my suite. I don’t mind if you take notes, but please don’t bring a tape recorder or record it on your phone or anything. That would make me too nervous.”
Surprised to hear that anything might fluster the impressively composed Mrs. Kuhrsfeld-Tagawa, Rebecca easily agreed. “I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to our conversation.”
Chapter 19
“’How have the Keep’s surroundings changed during your lifetime?’” Portia Kuhrsfeld-Tagawa read from the questions Rebecca had supplied the day before. “I guess we can thank DURA – the Denver Urban Renewal Authority – for obliterating most of the Keep’s neighbors in the 60s and 70s. Their mission statement in those days must have been ‘If it’s old, it goes.’ Multiple city blocks were razed, gorgeous old gems demolished throughout downtown. I’m sure you’ve seen photos of the Tabor Grand Opera House, the Mining Exchange building, the Republic Building, the magnificent old department stores. We shudder at those heartbreaking losses today, but in those years, few people realized how much the old buildings contributed to the character of Denver.
“Thank goodness last-minute local landmark designations saved Pinnacle Church, the Silken Rose, and The Keep. Before all these skyscrapers surrounded the place, there were various small businesses, and several other hotels in the neighborhood. None to compare to the Keep, mind you. But several fine hotels for less affluent travelers. All knocked down, imploded, vanished without a trace. Hard now to remember when The Keep was the one of the tallest buildings in downtown. Can you imagine the views of the front range, the eastern plains, Capitol Hill and the Civic Center that used to visible from the hotel’s upper floors?”
Rebecca could. “It must have been amazing.”
“Guess you can tell I’m not a great fan of ‘progress’ as far as the Denver cityscape goes. Next question: ‘What aspects of the hotel’s interior have changed?’
“The front desk used to have cages, like teller cages in a bank. There was a newsstand where the concierge desk is now, a flower shop in the lobby, a beauty parlor and a gift shop on the mezzanine level. For years, a photography studio occupied the space where the spa reception area is today and where the old Grand Fireplace once stood. There used to be a third griffin, like the two in the fountain, mounted above that fireplace.”
“I’ve seen a picture of it in one of the old scrapbooks. The griffin was turned sideways, with its sword pointing toward the right. Do you know what might have happened to it?”
“My grandfather took it to our estate on Oahu, where it still stands guard in the back garden. Lost its sword somewhere along the line, though. I have no idea where that ended up.”
Rebecca knew exactly where it was.
“I’m sure you know about all the drastic changes my grandfather made in the ‘30s. Moving the main entrance from the Grand Avenue side to the Carson Street side. Replacing the original public elevators with new ones, and demolishing the second grand staircase in the process. And most heinous of all, the conversion of the top two floors into those dreadful deco apartments.”
“The Parapet Apartments,” Rebecca said.
“I never saw what the eighth floor looked like before that remodel, but my Aunty Gretchen did. She used to tell me about the two-story Grand Ballroom and Banquet Hall – the beautiful onyx wainscoting, the magnificent chandeliers, the stained glass in the ninth-floor windows. I’ve only seen a couple photos of
it.”
“A couple is all we have, I’m sorry to say.”
Portia shook her head sadly. “Aunty Gretchen’s favorite childhood memory of the space was the vast polished dance floor. She remembered sliding across it in stocking feet, laughing and pretending she were ice skating or waltzing with her best friend, Henrietta, Harrison Griffin’s grand-daughter. Poor Hennie died of scarlet fever while still a girl – right here in a quarantined eighth-floor room of the hotel. So tragic.”
The name pricked something in Rebecca’s memory. Henrietta…Hennie? Could she be the ghost Miranda had encountered near 864, the one who had warned of a ‘bad’ spirit nearby?
“No wonder my aunt never forgave Grandfather for destroying that magnificent ballroom.”
“What do you remember about your Grandfather Kuhrsfeld?” Rebecca asked.
At the question, Portia appeared pained. “He was a very intense person, a very cold person – even to his own grandchildren. My sister Patricia and I were terrified of him. He had no tolerance for playful children or for anyone who did not fall in line with his dictates. I guess that’s what made him such a successful businessman.”
She looked down at the floor before adding, “It probably won’t shock you to learn that he was a Nazi sympathizer and a founding member of the Colorado Klan, along with my great-grandfather.”
Rebecca had made both discoveries about R. J. Kuhrsfeld about a year earlier. “I know the twentieth-century KKK started with a meeting right here in the Griffins Keep in 1920. Not surprising, since the hotel had always been a bastion for wealthy, exclusively white clientele. Management characterized The Keep as offering ‘no accommodations for Coloreds’ until Civil Rights legislation of the 1960s forced them to abandon that policy. One of the less illustrious aspects of our past,” Rebecca noted, “invariably omitted from glowing Keep histories.”
“Grandmother Kuhrsfeld was no better,” Portia continued, referring to Lilah. “I don’t think she loved anything but money and status. We hated going to their house. Had to dress in our Sunday best, sit quietly, even call our grandparents ‘sir’ and ‘ma’am.’ I often wondered what my father’s childhood in that atmosphere must have been like.”