Murdering Americans

by Ruth Edwards

  ‘Hi, Lady Ida. I’m Betsy. It’s like really great to meet you. Wow, that’s totally such a cool hat.’

  ‘Thank you, Betsy. I’m glad you approve. Now where’s the Provost? She said she’d meet me.’

  ‘Hey, she was totally pissed she couldn’t come, but she had like some crisis with her programme. She’ll catch you at the hotel. I’m your roadie for the next few days so she asked me to pick you up. It’s just as well, really, since you’re so late. She’d have been like totally freaked waiting that long.’

  ‘I’m totally freaked myself.’

  Betsy’s face fell. ‘Hey, that’s too bad. Wasn’t the journey cool? I’ll get you to the hotel quick as I can so you can chill. Can I push your cart?’

  Although the baroness was not too tired to appreciate the physical attributes that Betsy had generously on show, she was in grumbling mode. ‘I’m not Ida. I’m Jack. And not Lady Jack either, but Lady Troutbeck. I need to talk to the Provost. I’ve been travelling for 14 hours, I nearly missed my connection because of arguments about the parrot which your security people suspected of being a member of Al Qaeda, and the last 60 minutes were spent circling this airport in a toytown plane shaking in a violent hailstorm, which isn’t my idea of cool.’ Spotting that Betsy’s pretty little face was registering increasing confusion and worry, the baroness added, ‘I’m sorry. I’m tired and I’m cross. And thanks, you can look after my luggage.’

  Betsy flashed her perfect teeth. ‘Hey, way to go, Lady! You follow me and we’ll be at the car in a minute. And the storm’s over, which is really like cool.’ She grabbed the trolley and set off at a brisk trot, with the baroness treading heavily behind her. As Betsy rounded a pillar, it clipped the edge of the crate, which fell to the ground on its side. Horace emitted a series of squawks followed by an eloquent, ‘Oh, shit!’

  ‘Well you may say, “Oh, shit,” Horrie,’ remarked the baroness, as she set about putting him the right way up. ‘No, no,’ she shouted at Betsy, who was dancing with anxiety and asking if she should call for help. ‘Don’t fuss, girl. He’ll be fine. He just needs to find his bearings and have some light refreshment. Like me. We’ll go to the bar for a few minutes and pull ourselves together.’

  Betsy’s little forehead wrinkled. ‘It’s like Sunday. There won’t be like any bar open.’

  ‘Oh, God.’ The baroness failed to notice Betsy’s look of distress. ‘What? I thought this was supposed to be a civilised country.’

  ‘Sunday’s like serious in Indiana, Lady Troutbeck. It’s very Christian here.’

  The baroness gave a mighty yawn. ‘All right, all right, Betsy. Let’s get going. I’ll sort Horace out in the car.’ She looked at her watch. ‘How far are we from the hotel?’

  ‘About an hour. But, hey, that’ll be great cos we can like get acquainted.’

  ‘Cool,’ said the baroness grimly.

  ***

  She had been asleep for fifty minutes when they reached the Hotel New Paddington. A nervous Betsy shook her awake. ‘’Scuse me, Lady Troutbeck. We’re here. I hope you’re like feeling better. You’ve had a really good sleep.’

  The baroness rubbed her eyes and groaned. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Fifteen after five.’

  ‘And you said the Provost will be here when…?’

  ‘Six. She’s taking you out to a really neat restaurant.’

  ‘Can’t think why she’d imagine I’d be interested in a neat restaurant. Decent would be more like it.’ Unaware, as she climbed out of the car with Horace, of Betsy’s bewilderment, she added, ‘Fetch the bellhop,’ and beamed proudly at her grasp of local argot. ‘And tell him to be quick. I’ll check in, settle Horace, and see you downstairs in fifteen minutes for a drink.’

  ***

  The baroness shook the door of the bar fruitlessly, then marched across the ornate lobby to the reception desk. ‘What’s going on? The bar door seems to be locked.’

  The tall, perky, pony-tailed redhead looked apologetic. ‘Sorry, ma’am. It’s a shame, but the bar’s closed.’

  ‘When will it open?’

  The receptionist beamed. ‘6.00 tomorrow evening.’

  The baroness deliberately took a deep breath and put on her most reasonable tone. ‘Why is it not open now?’

  The tone was as irritatingly chirpy as the news was bad. ‘Indiana’s a great place to be, ma’am, but the law says we can’t open on Sunday.’

  ‘And why are you not opening during the day tomorrow?’

  ‘There’s no demand, ma’am. Folks here don’t drink in the daytime.’ She beamed. ‘But I’m sure you’ll find a bar some place.’ She paused. ‘Well, maybe you will.’

  The baroness sighed heavily, leaned forward, and read the name on the receptionist’s lapel badge. ‘Could we cut to the chase, Miss Barbara Lupoff? This is an hotel, so you can, presumably, serve a resident at any time?’

  Barbara Lupoff was delighted to have a chance to be positive. ‘Oh, sure, ma’am. We can serve residents all right.’

  ‘Right, then. We’ll sit in the lobby. What’ll you have, Betsy? I’m having a gin and tonic. Will you have the same? Or perhaps a glass of wine?’

  Barbara was downcast. ‘She’s not a resident, ma’am.’

  ‘Hey, I’ll just have a soda, Lady Troutbeck. I’m not like old enough to be allowed alcohol.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Nineteen.’

  ‘Are you serious? This place is run by Roundheads.’ She turned back to Barbara. ‘However, at least this means we need not be troubled about her residential status. Get me the gin and tonic if you think I’m old enough to be allowed the gin.’

  ‘Sorry, ma’am, I’m afraid we can’t serve you. All the alcoholic beverages are in the bar and we haven’t got the key.’

  ‘And who has the key, Barbara?’ asked the baroness, in her most controlled voice.

  ‘The barman, ma’am.’

  ‘And he is where?’

  ‘Don’t know, ma’am. He don’t live in.’

  The baroness took a deep breath. ‘We can surmount that problem. I have in my bag a bottle of malt whisky I was intending to give to my hostess, but my need is greater. Just get me a glass.’

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am.’

  ‘All the glasses are locked in the bar?’

  ‘No. It’s against the law to allow any alcohol to be drunk in a public part of the hotel unless it’s provided by the hotel.’

  The baroness exploded. ‘Let me get this straight, Lupoff. I got up at 1.00 in the morning your time, flew across the Atlantic, met in Chicago the thickest customs official in the West, transferred in Chicago to a plane that in the subsequent storm behaved like a canoe in a tsunami, was driven for an hour across a prairie, am shortly going out to dinner and have to keep my eyes open, and you tell me the bar is locked and I can’t even have a quick drink of my own whisky.’

  Barbara smiled brightly. ‘Unless you’d like to go up to your room, ma’am.’

  The baroness growled. ‘Dear God! Whatever happened to the land of the free?’ She emitted a theatrical sigh. ‘Very well, then. When in New Paddington one must, presumably, do like the New Paddingtonians. Send two glasses upstairs immediately along with the soda water.’

  ‘Could I have like a Diet Coke, Lady Troutbeck?’

  ‘You just said soda.’

  ‘But Diet Coke is a soda.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. It’s a revolting pop. But if you want it you shall have it.’ She turned back to the receptionist. ‘Two glasses and…’ she shuddered theatrically, ‘a Diet Coke. Now come upstairs, Betsy, and meet Horace…’

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ said the receptionist, ‘but we’ve just been banned by Freeman U from allowing students in the bedrooms.’

  ‘What?’ The baroness’s voice had once again risen by several decibels. ‘Do, pray, explain.’

  ‘It’s a new rule, ma’am. Dr. Gonzales from the Provost’s office called last week.’

  ‘Rules are there to
be broken. Can’t you ignore her, whoever she is?’

  Barbara shook her head and Betsy intervened. ‘Dr. Gonzales is a man, Lady Troutbeck, and no one ignores him.’

  ‘Who the hell is he?’

  ‘He…he…works for the Provost,’ said Betsy.

  ‘And why do you look like a rabbit in the headlights at the mention of his name?’

  ‘Please, Lady Troutbeck,’ said Betsy, ‘I don’t need the Coke. And like I’ve got stuff to do so I’d better go now anyway. You just go upstairs and have a drink and I’ll like see you in the morning.’

  ‘Thanks to the mysterious Gonzales, the moment has passed,’ said the baroness. Her face brightened. ‘And, besides, here comes the Provost.’

  Chapter Four

  ‘I love that suit,’ said Helen Fortier-Prichardson. ‘Is it tweed?’

  The baroness looked down at her skirt complacently. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s a light tweed and it’s supposed to remind you of heather.’

  ‘Who’s the designer?’

  ‘Holland and Holland. They’re my gunsmiths.’

  The Provost looked shocked. ‘You shoot?’

  ‘Sadly, not these days. I’ve been too busy. Perhaps I’ll get a chance to do some hunting while I’m here? What’s the local game?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ said the Provost stiffly. Then, remembering that she was supposed to be wooing the baroness for professional reasons, she softened her tone and said, ‘I can find out for you and see if we can fix you up.’

  ‘That would be excellent. I’d like to have a gun again.’

  ‘But now you must be starving,’ said the Provost. ‘Server!’

  A young man appeared beside the table, handed them both menus, and poured into their glasses water and ice from an enormous jug. ‘I’ll be your waiter this evening,’ he said. ‘I’m Randy.’

  ‘You may very well be,’ said the baroness, guffawing, ‘but isn’t it a bit early in our relationship to tell me that?’

  ‘Randy is a given name here, Jack,’ said the Provost, who seemed on edge.

  ‘How odd,’ said the baroness. ‘Be careful if you ever go to England, Randy. You could get more offers than you’d like.’ She took a healthy swig of water and spat it out again. ‘Ugh! It’s chlorinated. ’Orrible. Get me bottled water.’

  ‘Sure, ma’am,’ said Randy, and sped off before the baroness could demand an alcoholic drink. She and the Provost began reading the menu.

  ‘The desserts here are to die for,’ said the Provost. ‘Make sure to keep room for the Banana Enchilada.’

  The baroness cast a despairing look down the menu. Having ascertained that she was expected to feel tempted by a banana deep-fried in a tortilla with lashings of cream, ice cream, and toffee fudge sauce, she returned to reading incredulously the descriptions of the appetisers.

  The Provost looked at her sympathetically. ‘Still not decided, Jack? I know it’s tough. Everything’s so good. I’ve had a hard time choosing, but I’m going for the Mozza Melts.’

  ‘This Mozzarella will not be authentic artisan, Helen,’ said the baroness.

  ‘How do you mean “authentic artisan”?’

  The baroness looked at her gravely. ‘Proper Mozzarella is made with milk from buffalos that have grazed in the malarial swamps south of Rome. It must be made—not in creameries or factories—but by the hands of the buffalo farmer himself.’ She paused. ‘Or, of course, his wife.’

  The Provost pursed her lips in irritation. ‘I guess this won’t be authentic then,’ she said, ‘but Mozza Melts are just delicious.’

  ‘I can’t myself see that a dodgy cheese is improved by being fried in beer batter, whatever that is.’ The baroness put down the menu. ‘I’ll just have a rare steak.’

  ‘Aren’t you hungry?’

  ‘I seem to have lost my appetite.’

  ***

  ‘Of course it wasn’t rare,’ grumbled the baroness later that evening to Mary Lou, whom she had pursued by phone from office to home. ‘And it hadn’t been properly hung. And would you believe the madwoman wanted me to order it with something called battered prawns? Why would I want to put prawns on my steak? And they had no green vegetables. And the portions were so enormous the food was falling off the giant plates. And when I finally got a drink, the tonic was sweet and I had to send it back and get whisky and water instead and the glass was crammed with ice and the water was chlorine-ridden so I had to send it back as well and get neat whisky and bottled water. And all the wine on their list was so young, drinking it was infanticide. And I asked for the cheeseboard, and it consisted of a huge piece of sweaty, processed, orange, alleged cheddar.’

  ‘I warned you about American food.’

  ‘Not enough. Anyway, that wasn’t the worst of it. Once she finished exclaiming over the menu, the bloody Provost got down to telling me about campus life, and apart from the obscenity of talking about students as customers and dons as service providers, I couldn’t understand anything she was saying because of the vocabulary she uses—resource-allocation models and leading-edge paradigms and recalibrating and recontextualising interfaces and cutting-edge programmes.’

  ‘They learn it at Provost school, I guess.’

  ‘Well this half-wit seemed to think it would all make sense to me as I was the head of St. Martha’s. The bloody woman is a crashing bore. I don’t even fancy her any more. I wouldn’t dream of sleeping with someone who thinks battery chicken covered….No, let me get that right…battery chicken slathered with melted cheese is the food of the gods.’

  ‘So lust has fled?’

  ‘It most certainly has.’

  ‘You must wonder why you’re in New Paddington in that case.’

  ‘There are other possibilities,’ said the baroness coyly.

  ‘Really? Already? Who?’

  ‘Never you mind.’

  ‘Sometimes I’d like to slap you, Jack, but there’s not much I can do about that at this distance. Didn’t you find out anything at all from her about the university, or is that another secret?’

  ‘I learned that she has two interests: getting ever more bums on classroom seats and making sure that their owners think the right—that is, the left—way. She confided she’d had problems with a couple of right-wingers. Silly bitch. What does she think I am? And that her first year here was blighted by a humanities dean called Godber who was so “last century” that he was resistant to her profit-maximization schedules, which I presume meant he wouldn’t dumb down to pull in more punters. Worse still, he was apparently unsound on diversity, whatever that means here.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘She got him replaced as dean by someone called Diane who apparently is “now-centred.”’

  ‘So you’ll be seeking Godber out as soon as possible, I guess.’

  ‘I certainly will. There are also, I gather, though she was vague about this, some troublesome students, but she says she’ll tell me more about that later. Additionally, she said if all went well there was an even more distinguished visiting professorship paying mega mega bucks that might be on the cards next year. If I didn’t know there was no reason to bribe me, I’d think that was what she was doing.

  ‘However, I’m knackered and I’m off to bed for a vigorous sleep. I’m going to need all my strength to take on this place.’

  ***

  ‘Reception. Can I help you?’

  ‘This is Jack Troutbeck. What the hell is going on? I keep being woken by what I presume is a train shrieking “Whoo! Whoo! Wah! Wah!” I thought the entire hotel was taking off for Chicago. Is this going to go on all night?’

  ‘’Fraid so, Mr. Troutbeck. Would you like to move to another room?’

  ‘At 4.00 a.m.?’ With a muffled sob the baroness slammed down the phone.

  ***

  ‘Did you enjoy your breakfast, ma’am?’ asked the head waiter.

  The baroness took a deep breath. ‘No, I most certainly did not enjoy my breakfast. In fact I sent everythi
ng back except the salt, and even that was sub-standard because it wasn’t sea salt. The toast was sweet and under-done, the butter frothy, the orange juice iced, the fruit salad freezing and unripe, the coffee was filth, the bacon fatter than a sumo wrestler, and the tasteless eggs appeared to have been fried in baby oil.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say…’ he began.

  ‘Try sorry,’ she barked, as she stalked out of the dining room.

  ***

  ‘Hi, Lady Troutbeck,’ said Betsy. ‘So how are you this beautiful morning?’

  ‘Exhausted, starving, cross, and in an uncustomary mood of self-pity.’

  ‘Oh, gee, I’m really sorry. Is something like wrong?’

  ‘Apart from being unable to sleep because the Chattanooga Choo-Choo went through my bedroom all night and being unable to eat because everything is unfit for human consumption, all is fine.’ She paused. ‘Mind you, it’s also unfit for animal consumption, come to think of it.’

  Betsy’s little brow furrowed. ‘What’s the Chattanooga Choo-Choo?’

  ‘What’s the Chattanooga Choo-Choo? Dear God, I thought you were an American.’ She burst into loud and tuneless song: ‘Pardon me boy, is that the Chattanooga Choo-Choo? Track 29, boy, would you give me a shine?’

  Betsy looked around nervously and blushed when she saw they were being regarded with interest by two receptionists, the porter, and three guests. ‘You’re talking like about the train, I guess.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So are they like giving you a quieter room?’

  ‘They most certainly are, and it’s better than the one I had last night, but it’s still not satisfactory and will have to be improved on when the hotel manager is back on duty tomorrow. I’ve been supervising the move for the last hour.’

  ‘So you’ve got better accommodation because of the train. That’s cool.’