IN ROOM 33

by EC Sheedy

  In Room 33

  by

  E.C. Sheedy

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Copyright © 2004, 2012 by E.C. Sheedy. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  Cover by Angie Oltmann angieocreations.com

  eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

  Thank You.

  For Tim, always and forever.

  And Gail Crease, who gave me the you-know-what to put in the you-know-where.

  And John Hamilton, for being so smart about so many things and tolerating my not-so-smart questions.

  Finally, and especially, to the late, great Kate Duffy, my editor in heaven, who while faced with a thousand deadlines, mountains of manuscripts, and endless demands on her time—not to mention my personal contribution of writer's angst—made this business fun. I miss her.

  News Item

  THE MORNING POST CHRONICLE

  SEATTLE, Wash.

  Oct. 13, 1946

  Does the Hotel Philip Have a

  "Room of Doom"?

  (AP) Has the Hotel Philip, the luxurious hotel designed and built by Joseph Miller Emerson, had a run of bad luck, or does it have, as Mrs. Margaret Purdeen, a local spiritualist, concludes, a nest of evil spirits?

  Since its opening in 1935, the small, exclusive establishment, with its towering ceilings, marble foyer, carved oak pillars, and grand ballroom, has hosted the famous and the ultra-rich, those who happily pay for the best without concern for their pocketbooks. It has been the preferred site in Seattle for important business meetings, evening soirees, high society weddings, and intimate private dinners of foie gras and truffles.

  But neither Mr. Emerson nor his staff can explain the strange events that continue to plague Room 33, such as:

  1935—One week after the Hotel Philip's grand opening, Mr. James Enwood killed his wife, Claire, then shot himself. A gruesome murder-suicide.

  1936—Mary Ann Jenkins, 23, jumped from the room's window onto the street below. The jump did not kill the determined Miss Jenkins, who told the authorities "something in the walls told her to jump," but she did suffer two broken legs and a fractured pelvis.

  1937—A mysterious fire broke out in the room. It was put out and little harm was done. Cause never determined.

  1939—Another fire, this one serious enough to spread to the adjoining rooms. The blaze was attributed to a careless smoker.

  1941—A chambermaid discovers the body of guest Franklin Hanner, 53, who died during the night of an apparent heart attack.

  Last night there was another incident in Room 33 when Mr. and Mrs. Janeway, guests of the hotel, were rousted from their beds in the middle of the night by two armed intruders who attempted to rob them. Mr. Janeway, during his effort to thwart the brazen criminals, was shot in the shoulder. Mrs. Janeway, who "very much feared for her life and that of her husband," was unharmed in the skirmish.

  Mr. Emerson, the hotel owner, has no explanation for these events and considers them merely "a run of bad luck, unrelated and random." Mrs. Purdeen is not so convinced. "It is not at all uncommon for restless spirits to wreak havoc on the living," she says, adding, "Mr. Emerson should seriously consider conducting a séance in the room with the goal of discovering the source of such tribulation." Mr. Emerson's response to Mrs. Purdeen's suggestion was, "Fiddlesticks."

  And so, Dear Reader, it appears the unhappy events in Room 33 will be left unexplored, and it will continue to host the Hotel Philip's well-heeled guests. Although this writer humbly suggests they sleep very lightly indeed.

  Chapter 1

  Lana lifted her gaze from the gleam of the polished oak table, rested it on the serene ocean outside her window—and gripped the phone so tightly her knuckles showed bone-white through her pale skin.

  She hadn't expected him to be angry. Disappointed, maybe, but coming at her through the phone was barely leashed rage. It made her stomach ache.

  "That can't be right," he said, his words hard, tight with shock. "You misunderstood. Stephen would never do that."

  "But he did, David. I've just come from his lawyer. He told me Stephen, except for this house, left everything—and there wasn't much, really—to Joy." She kept her tone level, her attention on the sun-kissed sea.

  "Unbelievable." A harsh breath hissed into her ear. "After all my plans—" He stopped. "And why in God's name would he pick Joy? He knew you two didn't get along. You haven't seen her in—how long has it been?"

  "Four, maybe five, years. I really can't remember. I assume she's busy with whatever it is she does. Some kind of writing."

  David snorted, apparently unmoved by her limp defense of the daughter who stayed as far away from her as the planet allowed.

  "And I have a letter for her. Stephen's lawyer suggested I keep it sealed until she opens it. He says I'll be pleased, because it says something about her taking care of me." Lana wasn't sure what that meant, but she already didn't like it. Because whatever the intent, it meant trouble. She walked across her expansive living room to the window and leaned her head against the glass. The unruffled ocean stretched below her, bright and glittery in the late morning. She envied its calm. "It's all ridiculously complicated."

  "And the Hotel Philip," David said. "That, too? You're certain?"

  "It's hers."

  "Christ!"

  Lana tamped down her mild impatience. "I know this affects our plans," she said, reminding him that more than his interests were involved in their agreement. "But there's nothing I can do until I talk to Joy." Which she was not looking forward to. Her daughter was arrogant and difficult. David knew this. He should be more understanding of her concerns, less invested in his own.

  "Do you think she'll sell?" he asked.

  "I can't imagine why not. When I saw her last, she was traveling a lot and didn't show any signs of wanting to settle anywhere. I doubt she'll be interested in that queer old place. Why would she?"

  "I need that property, Lana. We had a deal."

  "I know, and I'd have sold it to you as we agreed, if Stephen hadn't dropped whatever marbles he once possessed. You know that. God knows, it's not as if I don't need the money."

  Frustrated, she tugged at a loose thread on her cashmere sweater, was dismayed when it freed a string of red wool.

  A thousand dollar sweater, unraveling, exactly like her life.

  She needed a new sweater. She needed lots of new things, and for the first time in years she worried about how to get them. Stephen was generous, always gave her everything, and promised the rest. Then he'd died on her. Just days ago, but it seemed like forever.

  She'd assumed there'd be money, and she'd simply go on as before, but there was very little, and what there was, in a truly min
d-boggling move, he'd left to Joy, the daughter who made no secret of the fact she thought her mother both calculating and selfish. And what was the other thing? Oh, yes. High maintenance—whatever that meant. If Lana had to depend on Joy for the milk of human kindness, she'd die of thirst. Thank God for David. She pressed a hand to her stomach. Their plan was simple. Lana would inherit the musty old Philip, sell it to David, and plump her sagging fortunes with a considerable deposit—ten million dollars. Now everything had changed.

  "Lana, are you still there?" David asked.

  "Yes, darling, I'm still here. But I need to rest a while. It's been a stressful morning. Why don't you come over, say, in an hour? We'll have a drink, talk then."

  "Good idea. We need to talk." His tone gentled. "You'll be fine, don't worry. I'll see to everything. Do you have a copy of the will at the house?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "Good. I'll look it over when I get there. We'll see what can be done."

  Lana pushed the off button on the phone and tossed it on the blue damask chair beside the window. She quelled the tears behind her eyes but could do nothing to calm the simmering turmoil in her mind.

  She didn't need David to confirm that nothing could be done. According to his lawyer, Stephen made certain the will would stand "any and all scrutiny." But no matter how many times she turned it over in her head, she couldn't understand why Stephen—who loved her insanely—had made her subject to Joy's generosity, when Lana wasn't at all sure Joy had any. At least toward her.

  She picked up the phone, sat in the chair, and stared at the silver receiver in her hand.

  She'd have to call Joy, of course. But not yet. First, she'd straighten herself up, freshen her makeup.

  She didn't intend to be red-eyed and puffy for David. She needed him, now more than ever. She went into her bathroom and soaked a facecloth in cold water. She draped it across her eyes for a moment, then blotted her heated face and neck.

  When she again looked in the mirror, she tilted her head, touched the faint spray of lines at the corners of her wide blue eyes. She thought about the cosmetic vacation Stephen had promised her for her forty-ninth birthday. Her expression was wry when she said aloud, "Stephen dearest, if you'd truly loved me, you'd have had the courtesy to die after the damned surgery." She stepped away from the mirror and, suddenly chilled, rubbed her upper arms. "And you'd never have forced Joy back into my life."

  She remembered what the lawyer said after their meeting. At the time it had confused her, but now she understood him completely.

  Death changes everything—and then they read the will.

  * * *

  Wade propped the damp mop against the wall, looked down the hall, and surveyed his work. Not bad. The old gent was looking better. Amazing what a little soap and water would do.

  "Mornin', Wade." Sinnie Logan stepped into the hall, waved at him, and turned to close her door. When she looked back, she sniffed the air. "Smells a lot better around here since you came along." She gestured toward the mop. "You should get help with that."

  "You volunteering?" He winked at her.

  She made a show of rubbing her lower back. "No way. I've enough trouble getting these seventy-six-year-old bones to swish a broom around old Rupert's place—and he pays me."

  Christian Rupert had occupied the Hotel Philip penthouse practically since the hotel was built. Somewhere along the line, he'd started doing the Howard Hughes recluse thing and hadn't stepped outside his door for years. He had to be ninety by now, at least. Sinnie had cleaned his place for years. "How's the old guy doing anyway?" he asked.

  "Goofy as ever and sharp as a pin. He's going to outlive the lot of us." She didn't look as if the idea particularly pleased her. She settled her felt hat closer around her head. Winter, summer, fall, Sinnie wore that hat. "What about Gordy?" she asked. "Can't he help you out? Or that new fellow, Mike, who moved in on four?"

  "Working. He got a job, part-time anyway."

  Sinnie stopped fussing with her hat, peered up at him. "A job? Doing what?"

  "Bike courier."

  She went back to tugging her hat, looked amused. "Now there's one for the books. Any bike that man sits on will flatten to scrap for sure."

  Wade picked up his mop. "It's work, Sinnie. A man needs that." Like he needed to clean this musty old hall. There'd been a time it was carpeted in rich red wool, luxurious and dense, plush enough to soften the footfalls of the hotel's wealthy guests. All that was left now was rutted and scarred oak floor, the ghost of the carpet only a creamy shadow running down its center.

  Sinnie looked down the hall, as if she, too, remembered, and nodded. "What you're doing here? It's good, Wade. These old halls haven't been clean like this in too many years to count. Your granddad? He'd a been proud." She cocked her head, fired up her dog-with-a-bone look. Wade knew it well. "Have you thought any more about what I said?"

  Sinnie was on him about the hotel. His legacy, she called it."I think about what you say all the time, Sinnie," he said, not above a lie if it made her happy. "Now, you better get on your way. You'll be late for your gin rummy game." He knew that would get a rise out of her—and change the subject. Family and legacies weren't up for discussion in these scabby walkways.

  "You kidding me? Gin rummy!" She snorted. "That's an old lady's game. It's stud poker, and you know it." She marched the few feet down the hall to the Hotel Philip's ancient and unreliable elevator. She pushed the button, looked back at Wade, and raised her voice. "You fixing to stay, Wade Emerson?"

  "A while yet."

  "That's what you said a couple of weeks ago, when you landed on the doorstep like a bird tossed from its nest. You haven't left yet."

  "No, I haven't." He'd come to see Sinnie, sure. God knows, he owed the woman. But he had no idea why he was still here or when he'd leave. A shrink would have a field day with that mental waffle.

  "So what's a 'while' in Wade-speak?"

  "A slice of time somewhere between yesterday and whenever."

  "Humph." The elevator came and Sinnie stepped in. She held the door open. "That's no answer, boy. Time you figured out what you're hanging around here for. Time you made plans. Got yourself involved in something other than mops and buckets." She let the door go and it closed.

  Wade listened to the elevator clatter its way down.

  Sinnie was right. It was time for him to make plans. Too bad his brain wouldn't oblige, but it, like the rest of him, was jammed in neutral. He reached for the mop and picked up the pail of brackish water. The irony of his situation wasn't lost on him. Wade Philip Emerson, high-flying mergers and acquisitions specialist, on the business end of a mop.

  Nobody could tell him life didn't have a sense of humor.

  He stowed the mop and pail in the fifth-floor storage room and headed for the stairwell and the third floor. On his way to his room, he glanced at the door to Room 33. In his grandfather's day the numbers were raised, gleaming forth from a shiny brass plaque anchored to the door with matching brass screws; now they were scratched into the wood and filled in with black felt pen, the words "KEEP OUT" scrawled under them.

  Wade hadn't yet gone in there. Would. One of these days. Not today.

  The door to Room 36, his door, was open. He didn't bother to lock it, because he had nothing in there anyone would want. Pointless during the day anyway, because most of the remaining tenants didn't bother to lock their doors either—or knock on someone else's. They just streamed between rooms as the mood hit.

  "Gordy. That you in there?"

  "Yeah, it's me." The voice lifted over the chatter of cartoon dialogue and the sound of warring spaceships—at least the whirrs, beeps, and roars that TV sound technicians had decided sounded like spaceships. Nearly boiled his ear drums.

  When Wade stepped into his room, a dog barked, then stopped when it recognized him and wagged its tail furiously. "Aren't you supposed to be walking him?" Wade switched off the TV, ruffled the soft fur on the mutt's back. Part terrier, part poodle, part hound,
Melly was a stew of a dog with the disposition of an angel.

  "Uh-huh. Want to come? Melly and I've been waiting for you." Gordy looked at him expectantly, a bright smile on his face. "Mr. Rupert wants me to take him 'a good long way.'"

  "Not today, sport, I'm bushed. You and Rupert's mutt are on your own."

  "Please, come. Please," Gordy begged.

  "Nope." Wade flopped down on the sofa he'd bought from a local garage sale. Not bad. He stuffed a cushion under his head. "My plan is to grab a twenty-minute nap, a sandwich, then start on the sixth floor."

  "I can help." Again the bright expression, the expectant stare.

  Wade eyed him. Gordy was a big guy, over six feet, with more than enough muscle to man a mop. And the help would be appreciated, but he hesitated. Maybe it was the eight-year-old brain in the twenty-four-year-old body that made Wade uncomfortable—some weird thing about using child labor.

  Or maybe he wanted to be alone in the dark, dusty halls, think of better days, better times.

  He had to go a long way back for those.

  "Please," Gordy begged. "I work good. Honest."

  "Okay," he said. "Why not? You can give me a hand on six. Fair enough?"

  "How much?" Gordy turned all business.

  "So now you turn union on me?"

  "Huh?"

  Wade laughed. "Standard rate, Gordy. It's the best I can do."

  "Okay." Gordy looked pleased, even though Wade guessed he had no idea what standard rate was. Wade also knew he'd take a handful of quarters if that was the offer. "Now beat it. Go walk Mr. Rupert's dog, and when you're done come back here, and we'll go to work."

  When Gordy was gone, Wade got up and walked into his tiny kitchen—added to the suite sometime in the seventies. He'd spent hours repairing the cupboards and painting. Hell, since he'd come to stay at the Philip, he'd become a regular home engineer. But he'd barely scratched the surface of what the Phil needed.