by Mysti Parker
The Roche Hotel
Season One
Mysti Parker
Copyright © 2014 by Mysti Parker
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All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and/or persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are the property of their respective owners and are used for reference only and not an implied endorsement. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Dedicated to the late King Henry VIII & his six wives:
Catherine of Aragon
Anne Boleyn
Jane Seymour
Anne of Cleves
Catherine Howard
Catherine Parr
And to that little hotel in Louisville, KY…
Table of Contents
Episode#1: No Tudors Need Apply
Episode#2: Sasquatches, Donuts & Henry...Oh My!
Episode #3: AquaNet Can't Catch a Man
Episode#4: Sewage Saves the Day
Episode#5: Business is Dead
Episode #6: Set the Night to Muzak
Episode #7: McMuffins & Scooter Wrangling
Episode#8: The Ghost & Mrs. Gonsalvez
Episode #9: Spectral Intervention
Episode #10: Henry's Queen
Notes from the Author
Connect with the Author
Episode #1: No Tudors Need Apply
The Roche Hotel, despite its unfortunate name, does have one saving grace—location. Conveniently situated just off Interstate 65 at Exit 21, it shares the block with a Waffle House. I get out of the car. The cool September breeze carries the smell of fresh paint mixed with greasy afternoon hash browns. Scaffolding spans the left side of the two-story brick building.
Two painters are whitewashing the canopy just outside the front entrance. One of them gives me an appreciative whistle as I pull open the heavy glass door. It’s musty and perfumey inside, as though someone went on a rampage with Febreze in a cave. I linger in the lobby, second-guessing my job choice. But, I’m a thirty-three-year-old divorcee with an English literature degree and nothing to show for it but a pink slip from the community college. I can’t afford to be picky. Someone’s got to pay the rent, and it sure as heck won’t be Nick. He’s kicking it up somewhere in California with a blonde actress wannabe.
Swallowing my pride, I approach the front desk. A female’s voice rings out from an open door, which I’m guessing is the office.
“Richie, you can’t hire her. I looked at her resume. She’s younger than me!”
“Ms. Seymour is not a threat to you.” I recognize Mr. Smythe’s watered-down British accent from the interview at the job fair last week. He loiters on each word as though considering the choices on a menu. “We need a third shift clerk to take in the late-nighters. Best Western has been hogging them for long enough.”
“But you have Jerry!”
“Jerry is maintenance, darling. What kind of image is that for a hotel—a maintenance man checking in guests? It’s tacky.”
I’m squirming in my pumps now, wondering how I managed to already be at odds with someone I haven’t even met. Trying to look as casual as my khakis, I scan the lobby. The area to my right is filled with tables and chairs. A long countertop lines a wall, where a petite elderly lady is rummaging through a drawer. Coffee carafes and bagel bins indicate a breakfast area. The furniture is decidedly modern—black-finished wood with defined edges and angles. But the wallpaper is a textured mauve paisley on a sickly green background. Sixties vintage, surely.
To my left is a wall that stretches from the front desk diagonally to the entrance. It shows impressive signs of renovation. The top half is painted with a flat burgundy, while the bottom is dressed in bright white wainscoting. Eight by ten headshots are arranged along the painted part. The first two pictures are black and white, and the rest are in color. Mr. Smythe’s picture is last, smiling as though he had much better things to do than sit still for a portrait.
A scraping sound draws my attention to the breakfast area. The elderly lady, who holds a cloth napkin between her teeth, is now dragging a chair toward a chalky white sculpture on a tall pedestal. It looks like a replica of Michelangelo’s ‘David’ in all his nude glory, complete with…
The woman from the office startles me. “Oh, she’s here.”
I turn back to the front desk and offer my hand to the pretty forty-something redhead who’s wearing too much makeup. I see her name tag clearly: Susan Smythe.
“Yes, hello, I’m Jane Seymour.”
“Like the actress, right?” Her eyes widen as she takes my hand and gives it a soft shake.
Mr. Smythe emerges from the office. The recessed lighting reflects off the balding portion of his head. “Or Henry VIII’s wife.”
“The one who got beheaded?” Susan asks.
“No, that was Anne Boleyn,” he answers.
“Actually,” I say, all-too-familiar with this conversation about my name, “Henry beheaded two wives.”
Susan nods emphatically. “Yes, Jane Seymour and Anne Boleyn.”
“No…um…” I clear my throat, remembering why I’m here. “Excuse me, Mr. Smythe, where should I start?”
He’s studying the end of his tie, licks his finger, and rubs an invisible smudge. Finally, he looks up at me. “Oh, I suppose you could…” His gaze jerks toward the breakfast area. “Catch her!”
“What?”
I look over my shoulder. The elderly lady is standing on the chair she dragged over a few seconds ago. She’s teetering on her tip-toes with the cloth napkin in her hands, reaching around the naked statue’s waist.
She lets out a little squeal as I rush over, just in time to catch her in mid-fall. Now, she’s draped across my right shoulder, with her black clogs flailing too close to my face.
Her bony hands smack my back. “Let me down, you Amazon!”
Gently as possible, I set her on her feet. I’ve never considered myself overly tall, but compared to this tiny lady, I must look like the Green Giant’s wife.
She smoothes out her beige skirt and matching blouse, takes a safety pin from the corner of her mouth and glares at me. Her gray hair is tamed into a tight bun, with a few wiry rebel strands sticking out.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
“That thing,” she hisses, gesturing to the statue, “is unseemly. Mr. Roche would be rolling in his grave if he saw this.”
The Smythes make their way to the scene. Red-faced and sweating, Richard takes the failed loincloth from Mrs. Roche and dabs his forehead with it.
“My dear Mrs. Roche, your late husband wanted this hotel to succeed. We are doing our best to bring culture
and sophistication to this establishment.” He shrugs at me as though apologizing for the tiny woman’s behavior. “We bought this struggling hotel two years ago from Mrs. Roche, but we don’t always agree on how to proceed with the renovations.”
“Hmph.” Mrs. Roche storms out, hitting the scaffolding with the door. A bucket falls. White paint splatters all over the glass.
A painter screams, “What the f-?” The door thankfully closes before this PG-13 day turns Rated R.
I turn back to my tentative employers. “So, can I assume the job is still mine?”
Susan swipes the napkin from Richard and waves it in the air with a satisfied smile. “I think she’ll do, Richie. I think she’ll do.”
Episode #2: Sasquatches, Donuts, and Henry…Oh My!
It’s my first graveyard shift at the Roche Hotel.
“It’ll be a breeze,” Susan had said that afternoon. “Just keep the doors locked and only admit guests if they buzz in through the intercom. Jerry will be here patrolling the grounds, and he’ll show you how to do the nightly auditing.”
“I thought Jerry was maintenance.”
“Around here, everyone is maintenance.”
Two hours into my shift, I’m so bored I can barely keep my eyes open. We have five guests tonight in the 50-room hotel. The phone hasn’t rung once. Couldn’t someone at least ask for a spare pillow or something?
To stay awake, I rearrange the key cards, pens, and staplers at the front desk. I bend to pick up a paperclip from the plush burgundy carpet, stand back up and come face to face with a Sasquatch.
I let out a shriek. Pens and keycards go flying. The Sasquatch doesn’t flinch or blink—at least I don’t think so. Bushy eyebrows hide his eyes. A thick graying beard nearly covers his cheeks.
He does apparently possess the gift of language. “I’m Jerry. You Jane?”
I peek at his plastic name tag before I pick up the items I’ve thrown in my panic. It reads JERRY in engraved Arial font, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I don’t want to be accosted by a Sasquatch or anyone else, especially on my first night here.
“Yes, I’m Jane. It’s nice to…meet you.”
“Uh-huh. Susan said to show you how to do the bookkeepin’.”
“Right, oh—you can do that?”
“Yeah, just let me in the side door over there.”
“OK.”
I open the door that leads to the office. Jerry shuffles in and sits at the large wrap-around desk. I follow, pulling up a spare chair beside him. With his dark blue maintenance uniform and hunched shoulders, he doesn’t look like anyone who is gifted at computer work. But Jerry pulls a tiny pair of reading glasses from his front pocket and perches them on his bulbous nose. His sausage link fingers punch the keys like a resurrected Liberace.
“First…” His mustache flutters like it might take flight at any moment. “…you gotta do a print-out. Then, you gotta mm na ma nam…”
Either I’d fallen asleep or his voice has dwindled to an inaudible murmur.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “I didn’t catch that.”
“You gotta count,” he grumbles, and I hope I haven’t angered the beast. “You count up the cash in the register and all the credit card receipts, and compare it to mm nam mum na…”
“What?”
He glares at me through those thick eyebrows and buries his fingers in his beard as he scratches his chin. “Ma’am, you better get a cup of coffee. It’s gonna be a long night.”
By 3:00 AM, I finally learn enough Sasquatch language from Jerry to muddle through the audits until all the figures add up. He wanders off somewhere to do whatever it is he does. I dust things that don’t need dusting and clean the leaves on the silk plants in the lobby until 5:00 AM, when Jerry unlocks the front doors. I go back to sit at the office desk with a cup of coffee, resting my head in one hand. Surely someone would soon wake up to check out or ask for toothpaste or even a stick of gum for all I care.
My eyelids feel so heavy...
“Ahem.”
I’m startled awake and bump my coffee with my elbow. A brown pool of cold Folgers and congealed half-n-half flows across the audit sheets. “Crap.”
The man at the front desk laughs. “Sorry to startle you.”
“It’s fine,” I say, not bothering to look at him because I’m searching for paper towels instead. Finding none, I grab my sweater from the back of the chair and blot the papers.
“Need some tissues?” he asks.
“No, I’m fine.” Embarrassed for being such a klutz in front of a guest, I keep my head down and drag my sleepy self to the front desk. Finally, I look up and am met with a stunningly handsome smile. “Oh, how can I help you?”
“Where’s Jerry?” He holds up a small paper bag. There’s a stack of white boxes beside him.
“I don’t know. Would you like me to page him?”
“No need. I’ll just leave these here. Custard-filled. He loves those.”
I notice his shirt, embroidered with Hermann’s Bakery in a simple script font on the right pocket. His hair is a dusty brown and has that trendy bed-head look which I usually consider lazy, but on him, it’s rather adorable. He’s clean-shaven and reasonably tall.
His eyes crinkle when he smiles again. “I’m Henry. You new here?”
“Yes, it’s my first night.” I point to the temporary name tag with my name written in black sharpie. “I’m Jane.”
“Nice to meet you. They call me the ‘Donut Guy’.”
He offers his hand, and I take it. His grip is warm and strong, and jump-starts a few sleepy neurons. Henry. And Jane Seymour. The third wife of Henry VIII, as legend says, was reportedly the love of his life. Why does my mind have to venture there, of all places? I’m not ready to heal my broken heart over Nick with Henry the Donut Guy, no matter how Tudorific our names are.
I let go of his hand and take the paper bag. “I’ll be sure to give these to Jerry.”
“Would you like one?”
“I probably shouldn’t…” My stomach rumbles in disagreement.
“They’re complimentary. The hotel orders more than enough, trust me.”
“Oh, then I’ll take a donut with chocolate icing if you have one.”
“Sure do.”
He opens one of the boxes and holds it within my reach. I pick up a donut and take a bite. Still warm and melt-in-your-mouth good.
“Mmm, this is delicious.”
Henry closes the box and takes a tissue from the Kleenex dispenser beside the wall. Why hadn’t I noticed those before I sacrificed my poor sweater? He reaches across the front desk and wipes the corner of my mouth. Warmth crawls up my cheeks.
“You had a little icing there,” he says with that knee-weakening smile. He takes a pen from his pocket and scribbles something on a Roche Hotel sticky note. “Here’s my cell number. Give me a call if you’d like to grab a bite to eat sometime. There’s a great Chinese place just down the road. Or you can text.”
“O-ok,” I stammer.
“I better fill up the pastry cabinets. See you later.”
“Wait!”
He picks up the boxes, but remains where he is.
“Your last name isn’t Tudor, is it?”
He laughs and heads toward the breakfast area. “Nope.”
“Well,” I whisper, admiring his well-fitting Levis as the first guest emerges from the elevator. “No one’s perfect.”
Episode #3: Aqua Net Can’t Catch a Man
I have an unspoken rule that goes something like this: If you’re standing so close I can tell exactly what you’ve eaten for breakfast, you’re definitely standing too close.
The woman invading my personal space obviously isn’t aware of this rule. She arrives at 6:55 AM to relieve me of the night shift at the Roche Hotel and stops about three inches from my face.
“Hi, Jane. I’m Carol Tanner. How was your first night?” On her breath, I smell coffee, toast, and an omelet with sausage, cheddar, green peppe
rs, and too much basil.
“It was fine.” I bravely hold her gaze without grimacing.
My back is pressed against the front desk. The only way to escape is to push her away or crawl over the desk and into the lobby. Neither option would be professional, especially with guests mingling over donuts a few feet away.
She bats false eyelashes and leans in so close I can feel the wind from them. She appears to be in her mid-thirties, slightly plump, and wears her brown hair in a tight perm that resembles a helmet.
She whispers conspiratorially, “Did the maintenance man creep you out? He used to be in the service.”
“Not really. He seems nice.” Should I admit that close talkers creep me out more than hairy ex-servicemen?
“All that hair! It’s absolutely repulsive. Anything else happen? You’re really brave to work the night shift. I’m afraid I’ll get raped.”
Highly unlikely, I’m thinking, but I figure it’s best to play nice and talk about something else. “I met Henry, the Donut Guy.”
Carol titters and whispers in my ear, “He’s a cutie patootie. I asked him out once, but he turned me down. I think he’s…you know…”
“Oh, I see.”
Behind my back, I hide the sticky note that Henry left his number on. Her hair tickles my cheek. My nose twitches. She uses Aqua Net hairspray. Lots of it, apparently, from the sneeze I feel coming on.
Luckily, the phone rings and Carol steps aside as I ‘Achoo!’ into my sleeve.
“Bless you,” she says. “Go home, honey, and get some sleep. I’ve got this.”
I clock out at precisely 7:00 AM, pour a coffee to go, and drive the familiar five miles to Shady Serenity Retirement Home. The note with Henry’s number lies on the seat beside me. I’m torn. It’s not like I’ve never thought about dating again, but after Nick…it’s too hard to trust anyone just yet. Besides, what man wants the responsibility of an elderly parent to care for? Nick sure didn’t.
I grab my purse and leave the napkin on the seat. It’s a sunny morning, and I’m going to enjoy it with Mom.
Sandy looks up from the reception desk as I pass by. “You’re early today.”
“New job. Working nights. Is that breakfast casserole I smell?”
“Yes, and it’s actually good this time. Enjoy your visit.”
“Thanks.”
Mom’s already up and sitting in her armchair. She smiles as I plop my purse on her bed.
Nurse Sonya has just set her breakfast tray on the rollaway table. “Oh, you’re early. You want to eat in the dining room together?”
“I’d love that.” I turn to Mom. “Want to go eat in the dining room?”
She scrunches her brow and gives me that confused look. It’s going to be one of those days, I see.
Sonya bends down to look her in the eye. “Mrs. Stevens, it’s your daughter Jane. She’s going to take you to breakfast.”
Mom nods, and her hoop earrings sway. She still likes her jewelry and is still a lovely woman at sixty-five. Early stage dementia, they say. At least she’s still physically fit for now. I hate that she can’t live with me anymore, but after she started a kitchen fire and wandered naked down the sidewalk last January, I knew it was impossible.
Over breakfast, Mom is quiet and picks at her food while I chat about one thing after another. Mr. Reynolds, who sits beside us, tells about his time in Korea again. Peaches are stuck in his dentures and flop around as he talks about hiding in a foxhole. His war memories aren’t funny, but it’s hard to be somber when dancing fruit is involved.
Pointing to my own teeth, I lean close to Mr. Reynolds. “You’ve got a little something…”
“What’s that now?” He smacks his lips together, dislodges the fruit and swallows it. “Where was I? Oh, me and Tex, we was hunkered down real low-like…”
He starts snoring midway through his adventures with Tex. I hide my laugh behind a napkin.
After breakfast, Mom and I walk arm in arm down the garden paths outside. Everything’s in bloom and Mom stops to pick a bright yellow daffodil. She tucks it behind my ear and smoothes my hair with shaky hands. I smile and kiss her forehead.
“Where’s Nicky?” she asks.
I bristle at her question, but try not to show it. She can’t remember who I am half the time, but she’s never forgotten my loser ex-husband.
“He’s on vacation,” I lie as calmly as possible.
She frowns and takes my arm once again as we walk. “He promised me a rummy game.”
“Maybe he’ll be back soon.” She’ll get upset if I remind her about the bimbo he ran off with. Nick was always like a son to her, since I’m the only child and Dad died when I was five.
We make a few laps around the garden, letting Mom stop to pick a few more flowers, before we settle on a garden bench by the concrete bird bath. She squeezes my hand and looks at me intently—one of her moments of recognition. “Jane, you’re too pretty to be alone. You should go out with that orderly I told you about. He’s got six fingers on one hand, but you’d hardly notice unless you really look.”
I laugh. “That’s ok, Mom. I need to sort myself out first before I date again.”
“Well, don’t wait too long, dear. You’re not getting any younger.”
She goes back to being quiet, and by the time I return her to the room, I can tell she’s confused again. I kiss her cheek and whisper, “Bye, Mom.”
Back in the car, I put the key in the ignition and look over at the note with Henry’s name and number written in blue ink. My cell phone’s lying beside it, fully charged. I pick up both phone and note and sit there holding them until a gray blur bangs against my windshield. Heart thumping, I watch as two mating birds regain their footing on my hood. They squawk at each other like they’re fighting over who’s at fault for the untimely crash.
All that noise brings back nights of endless fights between Nick and me. I put my phone and Henry’s note back down on the seat and start the car.
Not yet. Not never, but not yet.
Episode #4: Sewage Saves the Day
After two weeks working the graveyard shift at The Roche Hotel, I’m slowly adapting to the life of a nocturnal creature. On a rainy Tuesday afternoon, the phone rings, jarring me from sleep.
I answer with a mumbled, “Hello?”
“Jane?”
“Yes?”
“The most wonderful thing has happened,” the excited female voice says.
“What? Who is this?”
“Oh, silly me. It’s Susan Smythe from the hotel. I need you to work a double shift.”
“OK. What’s going on?” I squint through the sun coming in through the closed shades and look at the clock. It’s 2:05—prime sleeping time for us night owls.
“Horrific sewage backup at the Best Western. They’ve had to turn away guests by the droves. We’re getting a lot of the overflow. Isn’t it wonderful? Can you be here by 3:00?”
“Sure. I’ll be there.”
I yawn and hang up the phone. More business is good. Sewage problems, not so much. Nevertheless, I shower quickly, get dressed, and manage to get to the hotel by 3:02.
The lobby is abuzz with out-of-sorts guests and rolling suitcases. I walk into the office, clock in and hurry behind the front desk. Carol Tanner is still there from the first shift. Her fingers fly over the computer keyboard as she checks in guests. Every few seconds, she pats her helmet-shaped perm, though with all the Aqua Net, not a strand is out of place.
Susan mans the other station. She hands a key card to a tall businessman. “Thank goodness you’re here. Isn’t this exciting?”
“Looks like it.” From the expressions on the newcomers’ faces, I’d say they don’t share the sentiment.
The Smythes must have issued an all-hands-on-deck bulletin. Richard greets all the new arrivals, while he and Jerry help them with luggage. Richard’s eyes are in constant deer-in-the-headlights mode as though he’s not entirely sure how this all came about.
>
Maria Gonsalves, the hotel’s lone housekeeper, pushes a squeaky floor sweeper over the rug at the entrance. Her lips move silently and she gestures with one hand like she’s carrying on a riveting conversation. She doesn’t even own a cell phone. Crazy or not, she does a good job keeping the hotel looking nice. She’s also an excellent cook who brings me leftovers. I’m willing to overlook any multiple personalities or imaginary friends in return for enchiladas and homemade salsa.
Old Mrs. Roche walks through the lobby with a lint roller in one hand and a feather duster in the other. The tiny widow tiptoes to make a quick sweep over the shoulders of Richard’s tweed jacket with the roller. He doesn’t seem to notice. She continues on to the curtains and blinds, solemnly doing her part to nurture the hotel’s good fortune.
When she passes the feather duster over the David statue in the lobby, I notice his new loincloth. She gives me a victorious grin. I chuckle, knowing she must have taken advantage of the hubbub and covered his ‘shame’ without her plan being thwarted.
Susan claps her hands. “I’m going to fire up the popcorn maker! We have to go all out to make these guests feel special.”
“Good idea,” I say and take her place in front of the computer. I consider telling her about the lipstick on her teeth, but don’t want to ruin her moment.
Next in line is a couple with two energetic toddlers. The tops of their blond heads bob up and down, along with excited mentions of the hotel pool. Too bad we don’t have one. I decide to let their mom handle that issue.
“Jane Seymour?” the woman asks, looking at my name tag. “Just like that actress.”
“Or Henry the Eighth’s third wife,” I say, smiling.
“Yeah, he cut off her head, didn’t he?” The man makes an off-with-your-head gesture with his finger across his throat.
“Um…no.” I decide there’s no time for an in-depth history lesson with a lobby full of evicted Best Westerners. “Welcome to the Roche Hotel. How can I help you?”
