Deadly Reservation

by CeeCee James

  My eyes flickered in surprise. It was a cigarette butt. So far, I’d seen no other litter. The paramedics certainly weren’t smoking.

  Crouching, I saw there was gold striping encircling it, and the butt was bent in half as though roughly stubbed out. What made it unusual was that the paper cover hadn't faded or been worn from the weather. With the evening rain we had this time of year, the butt should have washed away or, at the very least, ended up buried in the sand.

  No, it looked fresh, like someone had dropped this recently. Someone who had been here today.

  I reached into my pocket for a tissue and picked it up with a feeling of excitement. Maybe this was a clue. Maybe it was nothing. But, just to be sure, I searched around the area some more.

  What little of the road I could see through the underbrush was sand that had blown in through various wind gusts and storms. There were the few tracks of the paramedics and sheriff, as well as tire prints. I didn’t see anything else that didn’t belong.

  Shaking my head, I walked back to my car. This probably is just a sad story of a girl on some dangerous drug. Maybe I needed to take a break from writing mysteries. I was starting to see zebras instead of horses.

  After taking one last look around, I got in my car.

  Chapter 3

  You know when you're in a rush to get someplace, that’s when fate sends a woman in her eighties who can barely see over her steering wheel, to drive in front of you. I watched my speedometer, my anxiety ratcheting up. Frustration billowed out of me in nondescript muttering, “Fifteen miles under? AHH! Seriously? Turn. Turn. Turn. Turn there. Or there.”

  It was of no use. The road was one lane with too much oncoming traffic to get around her. I took a deep breath and tried to settle in for the slow drive.

  Finally, Oceanside Hotel’s entrance came into view. I parked and jumped out. Relief energized my steps as I grabbed my notebook and the cigarette butt, and jogged to the door. I can’t wait to see Momma.

  My eyes took a second to adjust as I entered through the revolving doors into the hotel. The lobby was empty of guests. It was noon, and most check-ins wouldn’t be showing up for another hour or so.

  Sierra, my arch enemy—at least in her eyes—was attending the front desk. Her eyes narrowed as I walked up. She quickly shut down the computer browser as I walked behind the counter.

  My eyebrow rose. Wonder what she’d been doing that she didn’t want me to see? Since there were no guests around, I decided not to address it.

  “I thought you were gone for the day,” she said, her expression sour. She flipped her long, highlighted hair off her shoulder. As she lifted her hand, I saw a red puckered scar track up her arm. She always wore long sleeves to keep her arm hidden. I started to ask about it when I caught her eye. At first, she looked embarrassed, but then, with her chin out, she glared back defensively.

  That girl has secrets. I swallowed my questions, answering instead, “I had some things to do, so I came back early.”

  I walked into my office and placed the tissue-wrapped cigarette butt in the top drawer for safe keeping. Then I headed to my suite.

  “Momma!” I called as I walked in.

  No answer. That was unusual. Then, I heard her whisper, “Shoo! She’s coming! You’re going to get me in trouble.”

  My ears perked as I slid out of my tennis shoes. Did Momma have some hot liaison that I didn’t know about? I sidled quietly to the kitchen before springing through the entrance.

  “Hi!” I yelled.

  “Louisa May Marigold Swenson!” Momma yelled. Her eyes were wide, and she pointed her finger at me. “Don’t you ever do that again.” Her colored red hair—she was adamant that it was strawberry blonde—shook in tight curls. She must have slept in her sponge rollers last night.

  I glanced around for the hidden octogenarian, only to spot Bingo, the basset hound. The dog was pushing a can of tuna across the floor in an attempt to get every last scrap. Momma saw me look and her frown lines settled into a guilty expression.

  “Momma!”

  She shrugged and wiped her hands on her apron, then went back to chopping pickles. “The dog has to eat, too.”

  “He has dog food. Very expensive dog food,” I reminded her.

  “Have you seen that kibble? It looks like kid’s cereal. Who’d want to eat that when there’s tuna fish?” she snapped back.

  “Dogs like kibble.”

  “Dogs like tuna fish,” she countered.

  I shook my head and climbed up on the kitchen counter stool. “Whatever. At this point, I don’t even care. You won’t even believe the day I’ve had.”

  “Did you get your writing done?” She used her knife to scoop pickles off the board where they’d been lying and dumped them into a waiting bowl already filled with chopped celery, mayo, and tuna. Quickly, she mixed it together.

  The smell brought me back to childhood—rainy afternoons where Momma made lunch and then gingerbread men. We’d decorate them together as a surprise for dad. I blinked back tears at the thought of my dad. A few years ago, I’d lost the most wonderful father in the world. I didn’t think that wound would ever heal.

  “You okay?” Momma’s penciled-on eyebrows drew together. “It’s just tuna. I promise Bingo will be all right.”

  Despite myself, I laughed. “Just remember what the vet said. Less snacks. More walking. It’s good for you, too.”

  “More walking, I know. I know.” Momma assembled two sandwiches. “Now are you going to get to your day or what? I’ve got my stories to watch.”

  Momma had been watching soaps—she called them her stories—since I’d been a little girl. I knew better than to infringe on that sacred time.

  “Well, this could be straight out of one of your stories.” I accepted the offered sandwich and took a bite. “A beautiful young woman stretched out in a coma on a rock slab in the middle of the river.” Bingo continued to clang the can around the kitchen. I shot him an annoyed look.

  “Really?” Momma said, studying me a moment to see if I was pulling her leg. “Was there an apple core nearby?”

  I smirked. “No half-eaten apple. No seven dwarves. But I did find a cigarette butt that was new.”

  “And you gave it to the police …” Momma took a bite of her sandwich and rolled her eyes, knowing the answer.

  “They’d already left, so I picked it up. It’s safely secured in my work desk.”

  “Fingerprints all over it,” Momma concluded glumly.

  “I used a tissue to pick it up, but I highly doubt that type of material can hold a fingerprint. That’s where the resemblance to one of your stories ends.”

  “So, what are you going to do now?”

  I took another bite and thought about it. What am I going to do? I don’t even know the girl’s name. “I’ll get hold of the officer that took my statement. He said to call anytime.”

  That satisfied Momma, who took her sandwich and shuffled in her slippers into the living room. Bingo abandoned the clean can and followed her, his tail wagging happily. He knew Momma was always good for a few pieces of “accidentally dropped” crusts, as well as a pocketful of vanilla wafers. She insisted the wafers were to aid in her digestion, but I watched her slip one or two to him every day.

  I finished my sandwich while looking over my notes from earlier. I just couldn’t get that poor girl out of my mind. Finally, I decided I wasn’t going to be getting any more writing done, and might as well see to the stack of guest requests that came in for the day.

  I slipped into some sandals, not professional, but I’d be in my office anyway and called to the living room. “I’ll be back later, Momma.”

  “You make it back in time for dinner! I’m making German Chocolate cake!”

  Well, she didn’t have to tell me twice. “You got it!”

  Clarissa, the very opposite of Sierra, looked up from the computer at the front desk as I headed for the office. “Hi ya, boss. How was the church?” She smiled and pulled her purse out fr
om under the counter. Digging into it, she continued, “You need any holy water?” She held a bottle out for my inspection.

  I took it and read the label. Just a tiny bottle, it had a golden cross stamped on its front. “Where do you get something like this?”

  “The internet. You can’t be careful enough,” she said. “You don’t want any?”

  I shook my head, and she took it back, carefully tucking it into her purse.

  “I probably could have used some though. You were right. That place is full of history.”

  “The kind that doesn’t want to be disturbed,” she said sagely.

  “Tell me again about the story?” I pulled up onto the stool next to her.

  “There’s not much to tell. The legend has it that a pirate, Tom Bones, and his beautiful lady, Luciana….”

  The phone rang, cutting her off. We both looked at the blinking light for a second before she picked it up.

  “Front desk. This is Clarissa. How can I help you?”

  I heard a frantic woman’s voice on the other end and Clarissa’s face drained of color. “Just a minute. Ms. Swenson is standing right here.”

  Her mouth open, she handed me the phone.

  I took it and quickly answered, “This is Ms. Swenson.”

  “Oh, thank God!” came the panicked voice of Julie, one of the housekeepers. “Ms. Swenson, a guest in room 360 is unconscious. I’ve tried everything to get him to wake up.”

  I didn’t waste any time. “Did you call 911?”

  “Not yet. I don’t know what to do!”

  “Don’t panic. I’ll call right now, and then come right up.”

  “Okay,” her voice wavered with emotion. “Thank you.”

  I dialed for emergency help as I hurried to the elevator, hoping the cell service wouldn’t cut out. The operator assured me an ambulance was on its way, just as the elevator doors opened.

  The ride up to the third floor was nerve-wracking. I immediately felt queasy as I replayed Julie’s words. The memory of the girl this morning flashed through my mind.

  Julie met me outside the guest’s door.

  “He's breathing and everything, but he looks like he's asleep,” she said breathlessly, following me as I headed into the room.

  The young man was splayed flat on his back across the bed. It looked like a frozen frame from a scene out of a commercial, one of those cozy ones about fabric softeners. Only he wasn't smiling, and he didn't look like he was going to jump up anytime soon.

  The housekeeper cried, “I tried shaking him and calling to him. He didn't even twitch. I’m scared …”

  “It’s going to be okay, Julie,” I murmured, sitting next to the man. I touched his slender wrist with my fingers to feel for a pulse. His skin felt cool. Frowning, I reached up to his neck and felt in deep.

  There it was, a thin and reedy but steady pulse.

  Julie was still talking. “I rubbed my knuckles across his chest like they do in the movies to see if someone is faking and he didn't flinch.” Her voice choked at the end.

  “He’s alive. I don’t know what’s going on, but he’s alive.” I sat back and studied him. He sure didn’t look alive. His dark hair lay in bed-head curls, and just a hint of a stubble showed along his pale jaw line. He looked to be in his early twenties, the prime of his life. What happened?

  Julie broke down into relieved sobs. I glanced around the room to see what might have caused this. Alcohol? Drugs?

  My eyes caught a glimpse of a white cardboard package on the nightstand. Cigarettes. I stood up and glanced in the opened box. The brand name was Premier Royal, and the same gold circle marked them as the butt I’d found out by the church.

  My brain echoed with “told you so” as I realized that perhaps the horse was a zebra after all.

  Chapter 4

  The paramedics were there within fifteen minutes, directed to the room by Clarissa. I really expected to see the same personnel as that morning, but this was a different crew. After checking his vitals, they loaded the young man onto the stretcher. One of his arms fell to the side.

  “Look at this,” the paramedic said to his partner. I leaned in to look, too.

  Entwined around the young man’s fingers was a delicate chain. The first paramedic finished adjusting the belts while the second set to work untangling what looked to be a necklace from the man’s hand. Finished, he held it up.

  At the end swung a cross pendant. The paramedic tucked it into the guest’s shirt pocket, and the medical team whisked him away.

  I could tell they’d been puzzled at what was wrong with the guest. Just like with the young woman, the man had no outward signs of what had happened. He was alive but completely unconscious.

  Julie was a mess. I gave her a hug, and she leaned against me as if exhausted. Surprised by the sudden weight, I staggered back a step but continued to hang on as she cried.

  “It’s not my fault, is it, Ms. Swenson? I was behind schedule. If I’d been on time, I might have found him earlier.”

  “Of course, it’s not your fault.” I patted her back. “These things happen.” But happen twice in one day? What in the world is going on?

  A policeman poked his head in the doorway. “Ms. Swenson?” he asked.

  I released Julie and turned in his direction. “Yes? Please come in.”

  He walked in, his eyes taking everything in like he was looking for something specific. “I’m Detective Boyle. Do you have any idea what happened here?”

  I shook my head. “But I was at a very similar scene this morning.”

  “The girl found at the church?” he asked, and I nodded in response.

  Then I showed him the cigarette pack. “I found a cigarette butt at the church after they took her away. It was this brand.”

  “Don’t touch that!” he yelled as my finger gestured. Even though I was no where close, I jumped and jerked my hand away.

  “Sorry,” he amended, a little gruffly. He slipped on a pair of gloves and grabbed a plastic bag from his belt, and bagged the item. Running his fingertip along the nightstand, he tested the drawer and slid it open. Nothing inside but a bible. He pulled it completely out and looked underneath. Grabbing his flashlight, he used it to examine inside the empty space.

  He flashed the light behind the head of the bed and soon had the pillows out of their cases. He studied along the sides of the bed, then down by the small fridge and coffee maker counter. After a few thorough minutes, he disappeared into the bathroom.

  I heard the clang of the toilet tank lid being lifted, and then noise in the shower. Drawers opened and shut. On his way out, he flashed the light into the closet and along the wall of the air conditioner.

  Which left only the young man’s suitcase.

  “We’re going to seal this room for the forensic team. They’ll be going through that,” he indicated the suitcase with a sweep of the light’s beam. “In the meantime, why don’t you give me all the details of who he is.”

  I nodded and turned to Julie. “Go take a break to collect yourself. Get something to eat. You’ll feel better.” She nodded gratefully. The three of us exited the room, and Julie left her service cart and headed for the stairs.

  I hung a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door handle. “Can we get this room sealed without the crime scene tape?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Sorry. It’s protocol.”

  I couldn’t keep the grimace from my face. Nothing deterred guests from a hotel more than yellow crime scene tape.

  “But we shouldn’t take long. Maybe twenty-four hours,” he reassured me.

  I nodded again and punched the arrow on the elevator. We rode down silently. I stared straight ahead. He cleared his throat.

  At the ground floor, we disembarked, and I led him to the front desk.

  “By the way,” he said. “Can you tell me where the cigarette butt is located at the church?”

  I felt my cheeks heat, and my fingers spun the bracelet around my wrist for comfort. Whenever I
was uncomfortable, I needed something to fiddle with. “It’s in the top drawer of my desk.”

  His eyebrows rose.

  “I was afraid a storm might carry it away.” What had sounded like a good theory this morning now sounded lame in my ears.

  “Next time just leave what you find where it is and call us,” he suggested with a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

  “Yes, sir. Right this way.”

  My heart squeezed in my chest. Saying “sir” reminded me, I needed to call my boss and hotel owner, Timothy Phillips. Thinking of the yellow tape about to be strung upstairs, I dreaded making the call.

  I retrieved the cigarette butt, and he bagged it, still wrapped in the tissue. Then I walked over to where Sierra sat in front of one of the computers, the other two not being booted up. She looked at me, and I looked at her. Reluctantly, she moved out of the way so that I could access the computer system. Within seconds we knew who the guest was.

  William Clarke, twenty-three years old, had checked into the hotel yesterday morning. He was reserved for two nights.

  My gaze cut from the screen to the detective. “Do you think this is related to the girl?”

  He hesitated, then his eyes caught mine. “On or off the record?”

  “Off, of course.”

  “It’s quite odd that two people would be found on the same day, in the same condition, and in the same town—only miles apart. And I don’t believe in that kind of coincidence.”

  “And the cigarette butt.”

  He nodded. “So, if you hear or find anything else, call me.”

  “You or the other officer?”

  “Call me.” His lips pressed together humorlessly, and he had a steely glint in his eye. Okay then.

  His head jerked toward the hotel doors at the approach of the forensic team. “We’ll get to the bottom of this,” he said as a way of goodbye to me. He nodded to Sierra and walked around the counter to meet the other investigators.

  As I watched them leave, I picked up the cell for the task I’d been avoiding. With a deep sigh, I dialed the hotel’s owner.