by Sharon Dunn
Ginger would never let her do an entry like that, but it made her smile. Xabier was certainly designer caliber and sweet. Next time she saw him she would have to ask him if he had any interest in the price of baseball cards on eBay.
When Ginger opened her eyes, the room was completely dark. The aroma of grease and salt made her mouth water. A takeout box rested on the table. Ginger sat up on the bed. Phoebe wasn’t beside her. She called for the cat but didn’t hear a reply. After turning on the light, she checked under both beds and in the makeshift carrier. Hmm. That cat had to be somewhere.
Her growling stomach drew her to the table by the window. She opened the foam box. Cold hamburger and french fries never tasted so good. She clicked on the overhead light to read the note beside the box.
“Sleeping Beauty, we are too wound up to sleep. Gonna hit some, of underground outlets. All the, shops are, open late. Took the, laptop. We’ll do the blog entry. The BHN.”
Ginger never thought she would see the day when she wasn’t leading the charge to an outlet store. She opened a ketchup packet, squeezed some onto the foam carton, and dipped a fry.
Feeling better equipped to deal with the convention sites after a good rest and food, she opened the curtains. The convention floor buzzed with activity. Now, where was booth 29, the booth that was supposed to be theirs? The hotel had sent her a map of the convention floor when they had first signed up. Her eyes scanned over robots, objects too small to discern arranged on display, and what looked like an ordinary washing machine, only larger. There it was. Booth 29. A man stood folding and unfolding a ladder while several other men watched.
Ginger leaned a little closer to the window. Was she seeing right? Earl, her Earl, was out on the convention floor not far from booth 29. She couldn’t make out his features from this distance. It was his straw hat with the peacock feather that she recognized, his way of standing back on his heels. He spoke to someone who was hidden behind a display board that said Wesson Electronics. Even at this distance, the slicing motion of his hands communicated anger. She gave herself one guess as to why her hubby was mad.
Ginger rested her forehead in her hands. She didn’t think he would get here so fast. The last message she’d gotten from him said he was still waiting for the plane with their lost luggage to arrive. She should have been the one to break the news to him.
Earl disappeared behind a sign.
Watching the convention floor was like picking a scab. She turned away and took another bite of burger. “Phoebe. Kitty, kitty, kitty. Mama’s got a burger.” No reply. The bathroom door was closed. Phoebe liked sleeping in bathtubs.
She finished the last bite of her burger. When she checked the bathtub, Phoebe wasn’t there. Her rib cage tightened. Okay, she was a little worried about Phoebe. The cat might have slipped out when the girls came up to drop off the food. She turned around to grab another french fry and caught a glimpse of Earl pacing the convention floor, head lowered. She needed to get down there, to be with him.
Music muffled by glass played on the convention floor, probably a march. Led by the gray teddy bear, the toys, an assortment of dolls, soldiers, and stuffed animals, wound through the convention floor. Ginger hoped Xabier was better at Shakespeare than he was at being a dancing bear. The other toys waved and twirled, stopping long enough so people could read the signs they carried.
She leaned a little closer to the window. The only word she could make out on the signs was Wind-Up. Most of the inventors had at least one toy dance past their booths. Xabier appeared at one end of the convention floor, dashed straight across the main aisle, and disappeared through the exit doors.
The music stopped. A recorded Darth Vader-ish voice boomed so loud she could hear it clearly, “Welcome to Inventors Expo.” Confetti and balloons fell from nets attached to the ceiling. The toys cheered, clapped, and jumped up and down, looking toward the glass elevator. The music from 2001: A Space Odyssey played.
The elevator did not move. The last of the balloons drifted to the floor. The toys’ leaping and clapping subsided. The elevator remained immobile. The Velveteen Rabbit gave a final hopeful hop. One of the toy soldiers kicked a balloon.
The inventors returned to their conversations, some with glances back up to the elevator. No Dustin. There must have been a change in plans.
Ginger scanned the floor again but couldn’t see Earl.
She touched her palm to her chest. She’d have to search for Phoebe later. Right now she needed to be down on that convention floor with the man who just found out his well-planned dream was not going so hot.
“The convention floor closes in less than half an hour, and you don’t have a badge.” The man with SECURITY written across his chest in white letters pointed a thick finger at Ginger’s chest where her badge should have been.
She curled her toes over the edges of her flip-flops, the only shoes she could stand to wear with feet hurting like they did. “Please, I have to get in there.” She stood on tiptoe to see above the sitting security guards flat hairdo. Activity on the convention floor didn’t show any sign of slowing down. A toy soldier sauntered by, holding the hand of a troll doll. A man demonstrated his invention by placing a cabbage on top of a device and pushing a button. The cabbage shook violently and then was sucked into the device.
“I have to find my husband.” She angled her head to one side to get a better view.
The guard rose from his stool and stepped into her field of vision. “Rules are rules.” He crossed his arms over his chest, which made it look like he was wearing a plain black T-shirt. SECURITY disappeared.
“Please, by the time I find someone who can issue me a badge, the floor will be closed. I saw my husband from the window of my room. He looked upset, and it’s my fault. I didn’t think he would get here this fast. I just need to talk to him. Please.”
Except for a bulge in one eyebrow, the mans square face showed no reaction. “Look, lady, I was told not to let anybody in without a badge. Those people paid a fee to be in there.”
“I paid that fee.” Ginger tapped her lobster red toes. No matter how long she stood here pleading, this guy wasn’t going to budge. She slammed her fist on her hip. Budge, smudge. There had to be another way in. She glanced around and considered options. “I don’t suppose you saw him leave. He was wearing a straw cowboy hat with a peacock feather in it.”
The elevator doors opened and a small man in a bathrobe stepped out.
“Lots of oddly dressed people come and go in this place. I can’t say that I remember him,” the security guard said.
The short man in the bathrobe made a beeline toward them. He brushed past Ginger.
Water dripped from his fuzzy hair. He wrung his hands while he talked. “Someone has taken my Binky.”
The security guard cleared his throat and added the extra measure of massaging his Adam’s apple, as if trying to force the words out. “Your … umm … umm, pacifier?”
Under normal circumstances, such comments would have confused Ginger as much as it had the security guard. These were not normal circumstances. “You mean the water-skiing squirrel, right?”
“Yes, my Binky is missing.” He cinched up the belt on his bathrobe. “Both him and his exercise wheel were not in the room when I got out of the shower. Someone has taken him. He’s got a big performance tomorrow.”
Ginger was having a hard time imagining what the motive would be for squirrel abduction. “I haven’t seen him. I’m so sorry.” She did feel empathy for him. Phoebe was missing too. But telling him that her hunting cat was also loose in the hotel would only increase his fear.
The security guard checked his watch. “Why don’t you report your problem to the hotel desk, Mr. ah—?”
“Simpson. Alex Simpson.”
“Mr. Simpson, why don’t you inform the front desk of your loss?” He made the suggestion as though he were reading it from a cue card. This guy probably checked his watch every twenty minutes, counting down to when his shift in Weird
ville would be over.
She imagined he had a very normal life: playing golf on the weekend, mowing his lawn. She pictured him with two kids, named Hannah and Joe, and a wife who drove their Volvo to her part-time job at Cracker Barrel. His world was not filled with men racing through lobbies in bathrobes, kidnapped squirrels, and romantic interludes between troll dolls and toy soldiers.
The short man untied his bathrobe belt and cinched it up even tighter. “This isn’t a diamond necklace that’s been taken.” He slapped his arm with the ends of the belt, increasing the intensity as he talked. “This is Binky, my Binky, a live animal. Have you tried to get help from the front desk? Half the time there isn’t even someone there. You have to do something.” He clamped a hand onto the security guard’s shoulder. “This squirrel is the centerpiece of the convention.”
With Squirrel Man occupying the security guard’s attention while beating himself silly with a bathrobe belt, Ginger slipped away. There had to be another way onto the convention floor. Xabier Knight, a.k.a. Steiff bear, had run from one end of the floor to the other and then disappeared from view. Maybe there was another entrance. She slowed her pace. And probably there was just another cranky security guard at that entrance who would explain that the rules were the rules.
She passed a murky room where four men and one woman sat at a table playing cards. The elevator doors caught her attention and caused something to click in her brain. The only other way onto the convention floor was that glass elevator. She’d watched the glass elevator for a long time waiting for Dustin to make his grand entrance. She estimated that it was one floor above her room. She hesitated, remembering her last ride on an elevator. This was for Earl. She stepped inside the lobby elevator and pushed six. The numbers sped past without a glitch.
The doors opened, and she stepped out into another lobby area, very different from the walls of doors that led to hotel rooms on the fifth floor. Plush Victorian couches lined a wall done in antique red and gold roses. The carpeting was a rich red with gold threads running through it. Wooden doors occupied either side of the waiting area. The intent of the decorating was probably to create an effect of tasteful sophistication, but overkill made it come across as gaudy. One of the wooden doors was slightly ajar.
“Dustin, is that you?” The voice lilted slightly. “Did you bring me my Belgian chocolate?” The voice was almost singing. The door swung open. A woman of about sixty held her hands aloft theatrically. She gave Ginger a quick head-to-toe and then let her arms fall by her side. “You’re not Dustin.”
“No, I umm—” Ginger scrambled for an explanation. To come clean or try to find a way to get to that elevator that had to be on the other side of the door? That was the question. She had the feeling she had stumbled onto a private residence. But Xabier had said that Little Vicky lived on the second floor. Yet, something about this woman screamed former child star.
The woman had thinning, dark hair that had been teased to give it volume and unsuccessfully hide bald spots. For an older woman she appeared to be in fairly good shape. Her tight-fitting purple jogging suit revealed no extra pounds. Except for the penciled-in eyebrows and long purple fingernails, she wore no makeup. Washed-out features and pallid skin gave the impression of a soft-focus photograph.
Honesty seemed the best choice. “No, I’m not Dustin.” Okay, vague, stating-the-obvious honesty. “You were expecting him?”
“We were supposed to meet. This is his place.” She traced her collarbone with her finger and then tugged on her ear. “We had something rather important to discuss.” She glanced at the wall clock. “Our meeting was for ten. He should be here by now.”
Dustin seemed to be missing a lot of appointments tonight. “He was bringing you chocolate?”
“He knows Belgian is my favorite.” She clasped her hands together and shrugged. The woman took a small step back, and a shadow crossed her expression. “I’m sorry, who did you say you were?”
“My name is not important.” Only my mission. Oh please. She sounded like 007. “I came up here because I need to ride the glass elevator down to the convention floor.”
“But the glass elevator is not for public use. This is a private residence.” A tone of hostility entered the child star’s voice. “How did you get up here?”
“I just rode the Ordinary Joe elevator up and stepped out.” Ginger’s feet pulsated. She slipped out of her flip-flops and rubbed one foot against her calf, which did nothing to alleviate the sunburn pain.
The woman shook her head. “I’ll have to tell Dustin his alarm system is malfunctioning again.”
“I’m sorry, but I have to sit down. My feet are killing me.” Ginger hobbled over to the couch and plopped down. “So this is Dustin’s place?”
“Please don’t get too comfortable. I will have to ask you to leave. Dustin should be here any minute. We have important things to discuss.” Again, she tugged on her ear.
Ginger pulled a travel-size Aloe vera out of her purse and slathered it on her smoldering feet. “If I could just ride down that elevator, I would be out of your hair.” She closed her eyes and enjoyed the cooling effect of the gel.
“I can’t let you do that. This is not my place. I’m on the second floor.” She pouted. “I don’t have a glass elevator that descends to the convention floor.”
Second floor. She’d had a feeling. Ginger pulled out the last ace up her sleeve—flattery. “Oh, I know who you are. You’re that famous actress. I heard there was a celebrity who lived in this hotel.”
Victoria shifted her weight slightly and batted her eyes. Her lips pursed. “Yes, that is me. I am Little Vicky.” She squared her shoulders, tilted her head, and placed her feet in second position.
Echoes of Sunset Boulevard and someone being ready for their closeup streamed through Ginger’s head. Kind of creepy. Victoria eased across the carpet so the ceiling light washed over her face. “Please, let me ride down on the elevator. I don’t have much time before that convention floor closes. Earl might be so upset he won’t come back to the hotel room for hours.”
“You have to know the code to get the elevator to move.” Victoria stepped out of her spotlight. “Far as I know, only Dustin knows the code.”
Ginger slumped down on the couch. She wasn’t going to get to Earl, they had no booth, her cat was missing, and she wanted to amputate her feet to end the pain.
“Who is Earl?”
“He’s my husband. We came here from Montana for this convention.”
“A husband. I never had one of those.” Victoria placed both hands on one hip and lifted her chin. “Had a lot of things. But never one of those.”
Victoria talked about spouses like most people talked about bread machines. An item to acquire. Just a little something to display on the countertop. “Can I just look out on the floor and see if I can spot my husband?”
Giving Victoria her closeup moment must have opened some kind of hospitality door. She didn’t seem so anxious for Ginger to leave. Victoria glanced at her watch. “I guess that would be okay. Dustin is late anyway.”
She ushered Ginger into the suite. Dustin’s place also had a wall of glass that looked out on the convention floor. The uncluttered simplicity of the apartment caused her to stop. Neutral tones, solid country-style furniture with clean even lines, no neon, no glitz, no trendy accessories. Nothing that said money, money, money.
She passed a bookshelf that had an extensive collection of motivational books. Books on positive thinking and how to be a millionaire in three days. She recognized some of the tides from the books Earl had been reading. There was also an assortment of larger books on decorating, art, and architecture. An entire shelf was devoted to books and magazines about Donald Trump. A computer stood in a corner; papers were neatly stacked in folders labeled Outgoing and Incoming.
“It takes most people by surprise,” Victoria said.
An open door revealed a queen-size bed with a tattered quilt on it, a nightstand with a lamp, and two books
. “After meeting the guy, it’s just not what you expect.” An old black-and-white movie played on the television in the living room. She picked up the DVD box on top of the television, A Stolen Life. “Are you in this one?”
Victoria giggled and touched her cheek to her shoulder. “No, Dustin and I both like old movies. I just started watching it while I was waiting. He doesn’t let very many people up here.” Victoria trotted behind Ginger while she circled the simple apartment. “He’s got a fancy office on the main floor where he conducts business.”
Ginger turned slowly to face the child star. “But he doesn’t mind if you wait for him in here?”
“Dustin and I are friends”—she ran her finger along a counter-top—“old friends.”
The word friends had a ring of untruth to it. Something bonded Dustin and Victoria together, but it wasn’t friendship.
Ginger glanced out at the convention floor. The activity had slowed. No potential distributors strolling around from booth to booth. Only inventors and family members lining up their products and straightening their booths. She scanned the floor from one end to the other. The entrance and exit doors had been closed. No Earl. No Earl anywhere.
