Annaconda stepped forward, towering over her diminutive nephew. Her gnarled hands were fixed squarely on her bony hips, which jutted out against the fabric of her dress. Gone was the smiling mask she wore in front of her husband; now her dark eyes glittered dangerously and her long face stretched into a deep snarl.
“Tell me,” she hissed. “Where is this mystery guest? What’s his room number?”
“I don’t know,” Warren said, cowering beneath her wrathful gaze. “Uncle Rupert gave him the key. I didn’t see where he went.”
“What did he look like? What did he say?”
“He was tall and thin … and he wore all black. Except for his face, which was covered with white bandages. He didn’t talk, except with picture cards, and he carried a red bag.”
“What about the All-Seeing Eye?” Annaconda asked. “Did he mention the All-Seeing Eye?”
“He didn’t say a word,” Warren said. “I think he’s just a traveler passing through.”
“He’s here for the Eye,” she whispered. “He must be! Why else would anyone come to this dreadful place? He’s looking for the Eye, and he’s planning to steal it for himself!”
Warren had heard plenty about the All-Seeing Eye, a mysterious treasure hidden inside the hotel–or so Annaconda believed. Within days of marrying Rupert, his aunt began asking about it. Warren knew the Eye was a legend, just like the giant insects that supposedly roamed the forest or the ghosts that reportedly haunted the hedge maze.
“I don’t think he’s here for the All-Seeing Eye,” Warren said.
“You are a child and you don’t know anything,” Annaconda replied dismissively. “Next time you see this mystery guest, I want you to find me right away. Do you understand?”
“I do,” Warren said.
“Then close the door and leave me be.”
“Leave you here? In the closet?”
Warren shut the closet door. He suspected that if he opened it again, Annaconda would be gone. But he was too scared to look.
Instead, he took the broom and climbed the stairs to the attic.
ANNACONDA’S TRUE NATURE
ours later, his arms aching, Warren was still only halfway through his many chores. He had intended to sweep just his attic bedroom, but after finishing he decided to sweep the eighth floor, too. And when that was done, he couldn’t help but notice the seventh floor also looked dusty. Then he decided he couldn’t leave the rest of the hotel unswept. It wouldn’t be fair to all the other floors!
Along the way, Warren encountered dozens of messes left behind by his aunt. Annaconda spent most of every day searching the guestrooms for the All-Seeing Eye, and her work was extremely disruptive. On the sixth floor, for example, Warren discovered a series of floorboards that had been pried up; he needed to hop up and down to wedge them into place. On the fifth floor, a carpet had been partially unraveled, so he knit the threads back together. Once repaired, the carpet didn’t lay as flat as it used to (a tripping hazard!), so Warren fetched an iron and smoothed away the bumps.
In the fourth-floor hallway, Warren found a chaise with most of its stuffing yanked out–it looked like a fluffy critter had exploded. Warren gritted his teeth in frustration and set to restuffing the chair, piece by lumpy piece. But as soon as he finished that job, he noticed a hole cut into one of the walls. He didn’t have time to mix fresh plaster, so instead he dragged the chair to the wall and arranged it to hide the damage. He would return later to fix it properly.
Eventually, Warren arrived at his favorite part of the hotel: the third-floor Hall of Ancestors. Hanging on the wall were portraits of the twelve previous owners–all of Warren’s forefathers–arranged chronologically. Warren walked directly to the picture of his father, Warren the 12th. He looked exactly the way Warren remembered: a kind man with warm brown eyes and a long curled mustachio framing his mysterious smile.
“Father, I have exciting news!” Warren said to the painting. “The hotel has a new guest. Our first in a long time. I thought you’d want to know right away.”
Warren often told his father about the latest events. He knew it was silly to talk to a painting, but he liked to pretend his father could hear him.
“He is a bit strange,” Warren continued. “He doesn’t say very much. And he refused to let me carry his bag to his room. But I don’t care. I’m happy just to have a customer. Business is booming!”
Warren tried to keep his updates positive. He knew that his father would be saddened to learn the true state of the hotel, so he often exaggerated the good news and omitted the bad. He didn’t want Warren the 12th to know how awful things really were.
“Of course, I still have a mountain of work,” Warren continued. “There’s so much maintenance to do before winter, so many windows to repair and heating ducts to clean. And those pesky ravens keep clogging the chimney. But I remember everything you taught me, and I won’t let you down.”
That was the main reason Warren worked so hard: because he knew his father had worked hard, and his father’s father had worked hard, and his father’s father’s father had worked hard, and so on. Twelve generations of Warrens had shaped the hotel into one of the grandest destinations in the world … and it had taken just five years of Uncle Rupert’s incompetence for everything to fall apart.
“I’ll be happy when I turn eighteen and can officially take over. You’re going to see big changes around here!” Warren said, smiling at the portrait of Warren the 12th.
The portrait of Warren the 12th winked back.
Or seemed to, anyway. With the afternoon sun streaming through the windows, lights and shadows bounced off the portraits in curious ways. Warren knew the wink was probably just a trick of his imagination, but he felt better nevertheless. He always felt better after visiting with his father.
Warren sat there daydreaming about happier days until the grandfather clock at the end of the hall began to chime. Soon all the clocks were clanging and gonging and bellowing, a cacophony that echoed noisily throughout the hotel.
It was four o’clock! Time to prepare dinner!
Warren hurried downstairs to the basement and ran into the kitchen. He ducked under an arc of flying carrot slices spraying from the knife of Chef Bunion and landing in a soup pot at the other end of the room. “Sorry I’m late,” Warren said.
“No problem, my boy!” said Chef. “Have a seat while I finish this prep work.”
Chef was the last of the family’s old employees; he loved the Warren Hotel too much to leave. A burly man with thick arms, his strong hands were as big as bear paws but they moved with grace and dexterity. In fact, according to a longstanding rumor, Chef Bunion had once been a member of the circus. One of his favorite stunts was to chop an onion, scramble an egg, and carve a turkey all at the same time. It was as if he somehow possessed four hands instead of two.
CHEF BUNION’S KITCHEN
“Whatever you’re cooking smells great,” Warren said.
“I want you to try it,” said Chef. “We’ll serve you a big helping before your auntie comes sniffing around.”
Warren was forbidden from eating what the rest of the family ate. Soon after marrying his uncle, Annaconda had placed Warren on a strict diet of porridge for every meal: breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
She claimed that boiled oats was the only nutrition a growing boy needed. Uncle Rupert was too love-struck to disagree, but Chef Bunion was outraged. He believed a growing boy needed vegetables and fruits, cookies and caramels. So he sneaked them to Warren whenever Annaconda wasn’t hovering around.
“Tonight we have a zesty beef goulash,” Chef exclaimed. “Peppers, tomatoes, eggplant, zucchini–all your favorites in a single delicious dish!” He thrust a ladle under Warren’s nose.
“Mm-mmm,” Warren said, savoring the smell before tasting the stew.
Chef Bunion slid a bowl across the counter and tossed Warren a hunk of bread. “Now eat up. As much as you want.”
“I better leave some room for porridge, oth
erwise Auntie will be suspicious.”
Chef Bunion just laughed. “When you’ve finished, chew on a mint leaf so she won’t smell garlic on your breath.”
Within minutes, Warren had wiped the bowl clean with his bread and was happily licking his fingers. He realized that Chef Bunion was watching him and seemed sad.
“What’s wrong?” Warren asked.
“Nothing,” Chef said, clearing his throat. “I was just thinking that your father used to adore this meal, too.”
“He did? Really?” Warren loved learning anything about his parents, no matter how trivial the information might be.
“Oh, yes, absolutely. After your mother died, when you were just a baby, he ate it every night. It was his greatest comfort.”
Warren looked down at his empty bowl and treasured the warm feeling in his belly. “No wonder I like it so much.”
Chef dabbed at tears with his big pawlike hands. “Lousy onions are making my eyes water,” he grumbled, turning back to the cutting board. “You better finish up and serve dinner. You don’t want to be late.” And with that he tucked a treat in Warren’s pocket–a pudding cookie, Chef’s signature dessert of creamy chocolate mousse tucked inside a hard shell–and then sent the boy on his way.
Moments later, Warren had loaded the dumbwaiter with covered meal trays for the hotel’s other occupants. First he rode up to the fourth floor and delivered a tray to Mr. Friggs, his private tutor and the establishment’s only permanent guest. Mr. Friggs had been a resident for as long as Warren could remember but he never left the library, not even to venture to the dining hall. He found Mr. Friggs sitting at a desk, his face buried in a book. “Oh, is it suppertime already?” he asked, rubbing his eyes. “I do believe I’ve spent all day lost in this tome about the old wars of Fauntleroy. I’ll have to tell you all about it in our next class. We’re still meeting tomorrow morning, yes?”
“Of course!” Warren said. Meeting with Mr. Friggs was one of the highlights of his week. The old man was always quick to teach him about the extraordinary history of the hotel and all twelve of Warren’s fore-fathers. He seemed to know everything about everyone.
“I heard your uncle calling for you this morning,” Mr. Friggs said. “He seemed to be in a state of panic. Was everything all right?”
Warren nodded. “The hotel has a new guest!”
“A visitor! Is that so!” Mr. Friggs exclaimed. “And what is this person’s name?”
Warren told him about Paleface and then explained the curious circumstances surrounding his arrival. “I’m afraid I don’t have a lot of information. Not yet. But Aunt Annaconda is convinced that he’s come to steal the All-Seeing Eye.”
“Not that nonsense again!” said Mr. Friggs. “I have told her a thousand times: the Eye is nothing but a fairy tale. It simply does not exist!”
Mr. Friggs gestured around the library, with its thousands of journals and ledgers, its towering reams of paper. “I have the complete history of the Warren family at my disposal and I assure you, there’s not a single mention of an All-Seeing Eye. There’s no such thing!”
MR. FRIGGS
“I believe you, Mr. Friggs,” Warren said. “But that won’t stop Aunt Annaconda. She’s convinced that it’s real.”
Mr. Friggs shook his head sadly. “I hate to say it, but sometimes I think the only reason she married your uncle was to get her hands on this imaginary treasure.”
Lately, Warren had found himself thinking those very same thoughts. His aunt could be as sweet as a kitten when his uncle was watching. But as soon as Rupert turned his back (or fell asleep on the lobby couch), she started tearing through cabinets and ripping apart pianos. And she never even cleaned up after herself. She didn’t seem to care about the hotel at all!
“Sooner or later she’ll have to give up,” Warren said. “She’s already searched every room and hallway. There’s nowhere left to look.”
“I hope you are correct,” Mr. Friggs said, glancing at the clock. “But right now I suspect the only thing she’s searching for is her dinner. You mustn’t keep her waiting!”
Warren realized he’d once again lost track of time. He hurried back to the dumbwaiter and descended to the first floor, where he placed the meals onto an old cart that, like everything else in the hotel, had seen better days. He turned and headed for the main dining hall. In the middle of the room was a large mahogany table that once sat up to twenty guests for banquet-style feasts. Warren could still remember when dinner was the highlight of every evening. All the well-dressed guests would come down from their rooms amid lively conversation and tinkling wineglasses while a live band played cheerful music in the corner. After dinner, dancing ensued and usually lasted well into the night.
But now the dining hall felt cavernous and cold. Warren pushed the squeaky cart, its wheels rattling noisily. Above his head hung the room’s once-sparkling chandelier, now kept dark to save on the electric bill. Candelabras were lit instead, and their flames sent eerie shadows jittering across the walls.
Warren set a bowl of goulash and a basket of bread at each end of the table, one for his aunt and one for his uncle. Between the two he placed a tiny bowl of porridge for himself. Just as he was pouring a bottle of sarsaparilla (Rupert’s favorite drink) into a glass, he heard footsteps and looked up to see his aunt and uncle entering the enormous hall. It was five o’clock on the dot, and their arrival was accompanied by the clamor of the hotel’s many clocks.
With a gallant air, Rupert pulled out his wife’s chair, its clawed feet scraping hard against the floor, and then scurried to take his seat all the way at the opposite end of the table. Almost immediately he began digging into his meal and making exuberant smacking noises. Flecks of tomato dotted his double chin.
Annaconda looked at her meal with displeasure. “What is this slop?” she whispered menacingly to Warren so that Rupert could not overhear. “It looks unfit for a peasant!”
“It’s goulash, Auntie,” Warren said. “It tastes good.”
Annaconda’s eyes narrowed. “And how would you know, Warren?”
“I … um … ”
“Did you try some? Without my permission?”
“My love!” Rupert cried from across the table. “Isn’t this delicious? Chef Bunion has done it again! C’est magnificentique!”
Annaconda’s frown vanished. “Yes, my dear!” she chirped back. “Chef Bunion is a treasure! But I’m afraid I have an upset stomach and I must send mine back.”
“No, no! Have Warren bring your serving to me,” Rupert said. “There’s no need to waste a good meal.”
And so Warren picked up Annaconda’s plate and carried it over to his uncle, who dived in to his second helping without a moment’s hesitation. As Warren returned to his aunt’s end of the table, he passed by his bowl of porridge and realized it was turning cold. And cold meant gummy. Yuck.
“I’m sorry you don’t like goulash,” he said to Annaconda. “May I bring you something else from the kitchen?”
Annaconda leaned closer and sniffed the air around Warren’s face.
“Is that garlic I smell?”
Warren quickly cupped a hand over his mouth. He’d forgotten to chew the mint! “I–I don’t think so–”
DINNER IS SERVED
Annaconda extended a scrawny finger and flicked a speck of carrot off Warren’s tie. “How did you manage to eat this slop? Has Chef Bunion disobeyed my orders?”
Warren blanched. He certainly didn’t want to get Chef Bunion in trouble. Annaconda was always looking for an excuse to fire him. “N-no, Auntie. Chef didn’t do anything wrong. I tried the goulash when he wasn’t looking.”
“Then you will have to be punished.”
Warren bowed his head and waited while Annaconda tapped her chin. Thinking up new punishments was one of her favorite things to do. Like the time she sent him off to fill a sack with bear dung from the forest. Or the time she forced him to paint her fingernails and sharpen them into triangular tips. The toxic ste
nch of her nail polish (not to mention the stinky dung!) had nearly made him puke.
“Ah-ha!” she exclaimed. “I have a good one! Your punishment is to walk the hedge maze and find its center. You’ll be lost in those passageways for hours!”
The old hedge maze behind the hotel was choked with thorns and populated by wild creatures. Even during the hotel’s most prosperous era the labyrinth was a scary place, and rumors soon spread that it was haunted. But that didn’t keep Warren from exploring its every inch. He’d spent hours playing in the dark evergreen hedges, and he knew every turn and path like the back of his hand.
“Not the hedge maze, Auntie, please!” he begged, dropping to his knees and trying his hardest to look forlorn.
“You’ll go at once!” she said, her smile widening ominously. “And there’s no returning until you’ve found the center!”
“But how will I prove it?”
“In the middle of the maze is a statue of Warren the 1st,” Annaconda said. “At the base of the statue is an inscription. I want you to copy it, word for word, and bring it back to me. Don’t you dare come home until you’ve written it down!”
At the other end of the table, Rupert’s chewing and gulping continued nonstop. Oblivious to their discussion, he had moved on to dessert, stuffing Chef’s pudding cookies into his mouth at an alarming rate. Soon he would be fast asleep; he liked a good “digestive” nap after a meal.
“Now, go!” Annaconda snapped.
“Yes, Auntie,” Warren said, managing to conceal his smile until he was out the door. For once, her dreadful punishment would be easy!
* * *
!HCTIW TERCES A
f one could see inside Annaconda’s bedroom [which one rarely did, because she kept the door triple locked], one would find it quite obvious that Warren’s aunt was no ordinary woman. She was a witch! Scattered about were old scrolls and books, written in strange and ancient languages. Jars of smelly oils and herbs and fish teeth cluttered every inch of the shelves. She even had a large cast-iron cauldron set squarely in the center of the room; mysterious wisps of smoke could be seen rising from within the large vessel, though it always appeared to be empty.
Warren the 13th and the All-Seeing Eye Page 2
