On the other hand, at forty-three, and wearing my warmest winter coat, I was about to tell Arthur to turn up the heat in his drafty hotel lobby. Cold air seeped around the window cases—I felt it at the back of my neck—and poured under the front door, scuttling across the lobby on its way to my legs. I hoped our rooms on the first floor were a good ten degrees warmer, but I had my doubts. Even a millionaire had limits on how much he’d spend to heat a windy old hotel during the coldest month of the year.
“The Swansons will take care of beverages and sandwiches,” Arthur said, “and the rest is up to you, Holly.”
“And there are still ten altogether?” Holly said. “Have I got that right?”
“Me, your friends, and the Swansons included, yes,” Arthur said. “The radio folks are back in the room, setting up for the broadcast.” He tossed his head toward the hall. “You’ll meet that ravenous bunch in a minute. Why don’t I show you ladies to your rooms?”
He plucked large, old-fashioned keys from hooks behind the front desk, and we followed him down the same hall he’d taken to the lobby, me carrying my tiny case and Julia and Holly wheeling their suitcases behind them.
“Holly, you’re in 105,” Arthur said. “Rachel, I’ve got you in 106, and Julia, you’re in 107.”
Julia shot furtive looks at the closed door of room 108. “It’s just across the hall,” she said, tugging at one of the curls in her gray hair.
“Yes, that’s the very room,” Arthur said proudly. “Fifty years ago tonight, Herbert Purdy died in room 108, behind a locked door. I was all of twelve years old and living in Denver at the time, but I heard about it. His murder was never solved—it was impossible to solve—and Purdy is said to roam the halls, especially on the anniversary of his death, looking for justice.”
Arthur no doubt thought he was supplying us with charmingly spooky commentary, but the more he talked, the paler Julia looked. I discreetly elbowed Holly.
“Would it be all right with you if Julia and I exchanged rooms?” she asked Arthur.
The furrows in Julia’s brow relaxed ever so slightly.
“Oh, sure, sleep in any of the three you want,” he said, handing Holly all three keys. “The rooms on the second and third floors are closed to guests until next week, unfortunately.”
“Can I see the Al Capone room later?” I asked.
“Your sure can, Rachel,” Arthur said. “It’s unlocked, so you head on up there whenever you want. Room 312 in the southwest corner of the building. Three of Capone’s men were across the hall in 311. I hear they wanted an unobstructed view of the only decent approaches to the hotel back then. It’s less isolated now, of course, but this used to be a hideaway. Well, ladies,” he added with a slight bow, “I’ll leave you to it. Get settled and join us in room 108. Holly, I’m sure your pastries are safe in the kitchen by now.”
Arthur trudged off down the hall, the palms of his large hands facing backward and his long arms slicing the air as though he were propelling himself through water.
Holly gave us our keys, and we entered our separate rooms. Julia let out a grunt that traveled up the hall. If her room was anything like mine, I knew why. The hotel’s dark and heavy decor, historical though it may have been, had foolishly been carried out in the rooms. Unpleasant was the first, and kindest, word that came to mind. A rustle at my door made me turn.
“I see yours is the same,” Julia said, looking as though she’d just taken a bite of a particularly vinegary pickle.
“I don’t understand it,” I said, laying my suitcase on the bed. “Some fresh paint and new bedding could make this a lovely hotel. Arthur can’t be making that much money from its dilapidated reputation.”
Julia wandered into the room, her eyes searching for a place to sit. She passed by a scruffy oval-backed armchair near the door in favor of my bed. “I wonder if the radio station is paying to use that room.”
“Maybe.” I unzipped my suitcase. “Or maybe Arthur isn’t charging them because he figures the publicity is pay enough.” I hung my extra sweater and pair of jeans in the room’s tiny armoire and emptied the plastic bags carrying my toiletries onto a miniature vanity in the miniature bathroom. “But don’t you think it’s odd that Arthur closed the hotel to paying guests on his biggest night of the year? Julia?”
My friend was staring ahead, her eyes unfocused as if she were lost in thought. My unpacking done, I sat next to her.
“I was just thinking, Rachel,” she said. “What were you saying?”
“This place is really bothering you, isn’t it?”
“No, no,” she said, shooing my words away. “I can’t shake this bad feeling, but honest to goodness, who wouldn’t feel bad in a hotel like this? It’s designed to make you feel bad. That’s what people pay for, isn’t it? I’ll be fine.”
“If you want to go home, I can take Holly’s car and drive you.”
“On those roads? With that storm picking up?” She forced a smile. “I’m not going anywhere until morning.”
“Let’s go see what Holly’s room looks like.” I rose, tugged at Julia’s cardigan, and walked next door, where I found Holly talking with Connie Swanson about the serving schedule, which I immediately gathered didn’t exist. Holly was to present her pastries, simple as that, and the hungry radio host and his tech support would devour them until they were gone.
“Bring them in two waves, I think,” Connie said, flicking back strands of brown hair. “That way we can make room by clearing the empty trays from the first wave.”
“Sounds good,” Holly said. “Better than continually carrying in the food.”
“How are your rooms, ladies?” Connie said, turning her attention to Julia and me.
“As expected,” Julia said.
Connie chuckled. “I hope that’s good, but I fear it’s not.”
“Well, it’s just a little . . .”
“Dark?” Connie suggested. “Ian and I are making headway convincing Arthur to upgrade, but we’re not there yet. At the moment we’re doing a little too much business with the ghost crowd. We had twenty Japanese guests last month—all but one of them here because of Herbert Purdy. The other was here for Al Capone. Six of them claimed they saw a ghost, so guess what? We have two dozen more coming from Japan next week. And a TV show wants to book us in February.”
“I’ve read a little about the Purdy murder,” Holly said, “but I don’t understand why people are fixated on it.”
“Well, let me tell you about Herbert Purdy.” Connie sat on the edge of the armchair by Holly’s door and launched into what I was sure was a well-rehearsed account. “He was a fifty-two-year-old businessman on his way from Sterling, Colorado to Craig, up in the mountains. His family was there on winter vacation, waiting for him, so he planned a one-night stay at the Grandview. All the hotel guests testified that Purdy seemed happy and relaxed that night. He ate dinner, talked to other travelers, and went to bed about ten o’clock. When he didn’t show up at checkout time the next morning, a maid knocked on his door. The manager had to open the door, and when he did, there Purdy was. In his pajamas, flat on his stomach in bed, a knife in his back. Your classic locked-room mystery.”
CHAPTER 2
I cleared my throat. “It’s not really a locked-room mystery,” I said, breaking the spell Connie wanted to weave. “The staff must have had access to Purdy’s room, and if the keys back then were hung in the lobby like they are now, so did everyone else. The killer had a key. He killed Purdy, went out to the hall, and then locked the door with the key.”
Connie bit her lip, squelching a grin. “Whatever you do, don’t tell Shane Rooney that. He lives for the locked-room aspect of it all. He talks about the Purdy murder every January on his radio show, hoping his audience won’t point out the glaring hole in his logic.”
“So you know it wasn’t a locked-room murder?” Holly said, dropping to her bed.
“It was just an ordinary, straightforward murder,” she replied.
“I don
’t know about straightforward,” I said. “Who would murder a stranger in an isolated hotel? Two enemies just happen to meet in the Colorado foothills in January? It’s not likely. Plus, Purdy was stabbed in the back while he was wearing his pajamas. He must have let the killer in, maybe after he’d gone to bed. It’s pretty weird, if you ask me.”
“Okay, now that’s what you say to Rooney,” Connie said with a laugh. “He’ll love you for it.” She stood and smoothed her black skirt. “Why don’t I introduce you to him and his crew? Arthur’s already in there.” Just outside Holly’s door, she paused and turned back. “I almost forgot. If you hear banging noises tonight, don’t worry. We’re not sure what it is, but we think it’s the air ducts contracting. They’re so old, they probably need to be replaced.”
Julia’s eyes widened, but she gamely followed us to meet the radio crew. I wondered seriously if she was going to make it through the night or if I’d have to make a midnight trip out of the foothills in Holly’s car.
Room 108 was a hive of activity. Connie pointed out Shane Rooney—a tall, blond-haired man—and his three assistants before leaving with Holly to rustle up the crew’s pastries, but Julia and I remained just outside the door, trying to stay out of the way. Two of Rooney’s crew were hooking up various pieces of equipment—some of which I suspected had more to do with ghosts than with broadcasting—and the third was talking with Rooney over a computer on the room’s desk.
Arthur Jago, looking like a proud papa on the verge of handing out cigars, was perched on the room’s substantial windowsill and was watching the proceedings while gobbling one of Holly’s eclairs.
“Air ducts, my foot,” Julia whispered.
“Don’t think about it,” I whispered back. “What’s that satellite-looking thing by the window?”
One of the crew wheeled back to me. His hands stuffed in his jeans pockets, he smiled broadly, showing me his large and perfectly spaced teeth. “That’s an antenna, which is hooked up to our transmitter,” he said.
“You have good hearing,” I said. “I’m Rachel Stowe and this is my friend Julia Foster.”
He took two long strides toward the door, stepping over cables and surge protectors, and greeted us with a handshake. In his mid-thirties, he was good looking in a male model kind of way. His brown hair was cut in one of those short but high-rise styles that I imagined took a mountain of gel to maintain and collapsed at the first sign of humidity. “It pays to have good hearing in radio,” he said. “I’m Dustin Littlefield, the engineer. We go live in forty-five minutes. Staying?”
“If we can squeeze in here,” I replied. The room was sparsely furnished, and the only places to sit, aside from the windowsill, were at the desk or on the rumpled bed.
Dustin smiled again and rocked back on his heels. “I think we can get you in. But you have to shhh.” He held a finger to his lips.
“We’ll be so quiet you won’t know we’re here,” Julia promised, visions of abandonment to the dark halls of Grandview while the radio crew sat in warmth and light preying on her mind, I was sure.
I pulled my eyes from the bed. Surely that wasn’t the bed? The hotel must have replaced it since Purdy’s murder. “How long is the show tonight?” I asked.
“Four hours,” Dustin said. “Normally Shane broadcasts for three, but we allotted an extra hour for the ghost to show up. Spirits are seldom punctual. It’s rude of them, but what can you do?”
“I guess they don’t have to be punctual anymore,” I said. “They can’t be fired.”
Julia smiled wanly, playing the good sport as best she could. I had never known my neighbor to be anything less than level-headed—even hard-nosed—when it came to what she called superstition, but this evening she was on edge. Connie’s remark about the air ducts hadn’t helped.
When Dustin returned to his work, I leaned close to her, keeping my voice low. “You know this is hype for a radio show, don’t you? If they hear the ductwork contracting, they’ll say Purdy is roaming the halls.”
“I’d better not hear the ducts. Or creaking floorboards or anything else.”
“This is an old place, Julia. You’re sure to hear things.”
“Thank you very much. I’m so looking forward to this.”
I heard a soft clinking sound and turned to see Holly, Connie, and Ian making their way toward us, each bearing an overstuffed tray—Holly’s and Connie’s brimming with pastries and Ian’s weighted down with two full coffeepots and a dozen cups.
“Holly brought your favorite raspberry scones,” I said, hoping to distract Julia from thoughts of ghostly apparitions. “Let’s get scones and cream puffs before everything disappears.”
Before Holly could maneuver her way into the room, Julia grabbed a scone and I snatched napkins and a cream puff from her tray.
“I brought extra cream puffs in my suitcase,” Holly said.
“I knew I liked you,” I said with a grin.
As quickly as they entered, Connie and Ian exited the crowded room, excusing themselves and inviting those who wanted more coffee to seek out the kitchen on the other side of the hotel. There were murmurs of appreciation from around the room as Shane, Dustin, and the others dove into the trays, ignoring the coffee in favor of the pastries.
“It’s like watching a pack of coyotes,” Julia said.
“Hungry, hard-working coyotes,” Shane said, sidestepping to the door.
It was becoming clear that however quietly Julia and I spoke, we were bound to be overheard. Either the acoustics in the room and hall were fantastic or people in the radio business had exceptional hearing.
“I’d shake your hands, but mine are covered in powdered sugar,” he added. “I heard Holly say your names a few minutes ago. Rachel and Julia?”
“Yup,” I said. “And you’re Shane Rooney?”
“Guilty as charged. Are we ready for some spooky fun tonight?”
“No,” Julia said flatly. “I certainly am not.”
“Oh, come on now,” he said. “I promise you’ll have a good time. You stick with me and you’ll be fine. No worries. It’s going to be a blast.” He chuckled gently as he spoke, turning the donut over in his hand as though trying to decide where to bite next. He was about my age—younger than I’d imagined a veteran radio host to be—with dark brown eyes, an athletic build, and short, curly hair.
“A long time ago I saw a horror movie that started just like this,” Julia said.
Shane let out a belly laugh, and to my relief, Julia cracked a smile. Her first since we’d arrived at the Grandview. But just as she opened her mouth to speak, he threw his hand in the air and called for quiet. His crew froze, and Shane stood with his head tilted, listening.
A moment later, I heard it too. A distant clanging sound.
“Conyer, Maria, go get that,” Dustin ordered. “The basement door is at the other end of the hall on the left.”
Conyer, a red-haired young man sporting round wire-rimmed glasses, set off immediately, taking a microphone and recorder with him, but Maria, a short, slight woman in her early thirties, didn’t budge.
“Gimme a flashlight,” she said, her hand out, waiting. “I’m not going anywhere without one.”
“You’re a wise woman, Miss Hall,” Shane said.
Dustin handed her a flashlight and told her to hurry before the noise stopped. “I want recordings,” he called as she darted out the door.
“What is that?” Holly said.
“Air ducts contracting?” Arthur said, sounding rather unsure. “Connie said when they turn the heat down, the ducts start banging.”
Turn the heat down? I thought. Isn’t it already down? I was going to need a blanket in a minute.
“That doesn’t sound like contracting ducts to me,” Holly said. “It’s too rhythmic and constant. Ducts bang once and then you don’t hear anything for awhile. I assume there’s a basement?”
“Sure is,” Arthur said.
“Let’s just say it’s the ducts and be done with i
t,” Julia said, her eyes riveted to the floor.
Shane let out another laugh, but this time Julia didn’t join in.
“I challenge you to find a building this old that doesn’t make strange noises,” I said, more for Julia’s benefit than Holly’s.
“Are you a skeptic, Rachel?” Shane asked.
“Only about some things,” I answered. “Can I have half a cheese Danish, Holly?” Maybe the sight of me indulging in too many pastries would take Julia’s mind and ears off the banging sound. Since I’d started dating James Gilroy, Juniper Grove’s police chief, her comments about my eating habits had grown more vociferous. Not that I was about to change. I loved my cream puffs, and that was that. Besides—and this was quite astonishing—James Gilroy liked me just the way I was.
But even as Holly sliced a Danish in two and handed me half, Julia continued to stare at the floor, struggling to identify the noise and paying scant attention to everything else around her.
“How long have we got?” Shane said.
“What do you mean how long have we got?” Julia said, clutching her breastbone.
“The show, Miss Julia,” Shane said with a wink. “Nothing more deadly than that.”
“Half an hour,” Dustin said.
“Is it all right with you if I go listen, Arthur?” Shane said. “Recordings don’t do it for me. I want to find this noise and talk to it in person.” He popped the rest of his donut in his mouth and wiped his hands on his jeans.
“Be my guest,” Arthur said.
With that, the rest of the crew took off, leaving a smiling Arthur to contemplate the pastry trays.
“Do you mind if we go too?” I asked.
Julia was aghast. “I’m not going anywhere,” she declared. “I’m not stepping foot outside this room.”
I was thinking of history, not ghosts. I had a feeling Al Capone’s men, and some of his bootleg liquor, had been in that basement, and I wanted to see for myself. But I had another purpose in mind, too. If Holly and I discovered a humdrum, ordinary source of that noise, we could put Julia’s mind at rest.
Juniper Grove Cozy Mystery Box Set 2 Page 14
