IN ROOM 33

by EC Sheedy

  Joy's stomach headed south. She cursed inwardly, not liking the word "tie" the least bit. "Then it will be next week. It's the best I can do." She wanted her life for a while longer yet.

  Lana let more silence filter along the line. "Fine. I'll see you then."

  Click.

  Joy stared at the phone in her hand, listened to the dead connection for a second or two, then signed off.

  A hundred thousand dollars and a hotel.

  She made for the kitchen; even an inheritance didn't stem her need for her morning coffee. She fiddled with the thick pad of coffee filters, her fingers unable to do what they'd done for years—pull one from the pack.

  She rested a thigh against the red-tiled kitchen counter, set the filters back on it, and tried to level off her emotions.

  It would not process. Stephen Emerson had been her stepfather for five years, most of which she'd spent alone in that ridiculous big house arguing with the staff and growing her horns of independence by smoking cigarettes, failing exams, and, for a time, running with a damn dubious crowd. Of course, no one noticed.

  And now this insane inheritance—after one drink in a hotel bar. It made no sense. The man must have had more money than he knew what to do with or there were major strings.

  Joy hated strings.

  And that old, beat-up hotel. What in heaven's name would she do with the thing? She'd been in enough hotels to last her a lifetime—she certainly didn't need one of her own.

  * * *

  Wade stood outside Room 33, Lars and Rebecca beside him.

  "We're not kidding, Wade, something went on in there last night. Maybe two o'clock or so." Lars spoke urgently. "You should take a look at least."

  Wade wondered how the hell he'd let himself be elected caretaker, when he hadn't even run for the damn job. He'd started cleaning the place for something to do, and the next day, somebody in the hotel—he suspected it was Sinnie—dropped a set of keys off at his door and anointed him king. His dumb luck, the management company supposedly responsible for the place hadn't bothered to replace the former caretaker who bolted months ago. So here he was, standing at Room 33's door with a ragtag contingent of tenants breathing down his back.

  Maybe Room 33 was one of the things that had drawn him back to the Phil, but he never planned on visiting it with an entourage.

  "I didn't hear anything," he said. "And I'm only two doors down. And"—he tried the door—"the room is still locked. Maybe you heard me sleepwalking."

  "You sleepwalk?" Rebecca said. "Cool."

  "Rebecca, he's kidding," Lars said. Rebecca rolled her eyes. "And as for the lock," he gestured toward the bulb-shaped keyhole, "this one's original—you could open it with a paper clip."

  "Tell me again what you heard," Wade said.

  "A couple of thuds, as if something dropped, then someone rattling down the fire escape—in a big hurry. They made a hell of noise."

  "That outside fire escape hasn't been used for years. Not since they put fire stairs inside in the sixties."

  "Someone used it last night, Wade. I can't believe you didn't hear it," Lars insisted.

  Wade hadn't heard it, because he hadn't been here at two o'clock, but he wasn't about to tell Lars and Rebecca that. When he couldn't sleep, which was damn near every night, he walked, sometimes ran, until he was exhausted. Better that than counting stains on the ceiling. Counting his sins.

  Lars and the very pregnant Rebecca lived in Number 26, along with two cats, a snake-mean parrot, and ten tons of art supplies. They'd been living in the Philip for a couple of years. They were maybe twenty or so, generally broke, crazy about each other, and cause-happy. The first week Wade was here, Rebecca had proudly showed him a newspaper photo of Lars chained to a towering cedar in Oregon, where they'd spent time saving trees.

  "You think there's anything to that 'room of doom' stuff?" Lars asked.

  Wade's head snapped up. "Where did you hear about that?" He hadn't heard that stupid phrase in years.

  "Found an old clipping behind the front desk."

  "Yeah, well, don't believe everything you read."

  "I don't, but I thought maybe you did. You still haven't opened the door," Lars prodded.

  Wade's gut contracted, and something with a thousand legs crawled along his spine. But it wasn't an urban legend inspired by an old newspaper piece that was holding him back. What did was his business.

  Mike came up behind them. "What's goin' on?"

  Wade turned, looked up. Ex-wrestler, ex-con, Mike was a huge man. Mostly gone to fat, but Wade, judging from how easily the man moved, knew there was lots of muscle under the blubber. "The artists here say they heard something in here last night."

  "Yeah—me, too. Let's take a look."

  Wade decided to get it over with and turned the key in the lock, but it was Mike who pushed the door open, and it protested every inch.

  "See?" Rebecca said to Lars. "I told you I heard creaking."

  Mike gave the door one final shove to open it fully, and everybody peered in. Nobody walked in.

  Morning sun filtered through the dirt on the high, narrow, and undraped windows, and dust motes, set loose by the draft coming in from the hall, shivered and rose to dance dully in the paltry light.

  Wade immediately looked toward the bathroom. The door was ajar, open enough for him to see cracked black-and-white floor tiles and the edge of the old, claw-footed tub; its lion paws clenching grimy glass balls. His breath jammed in his throat.

  "This place stinks." Lars sniffed the air, rubbed his nose. "When's the last time someone was in here?"

  "Last night, according to you." Wade stepped into the room. "Before that? Who knows? Years." Wade hoped the questions would end there.

  "How come?" Rebecca asked.

  "Superstition. Stupidity." He shrugged.

  "The 'room of doom' thing, right?"

  "Partly." He'd give her the abridged version. "There were more incidents after that piece came out. All explainable, but the press got on it and wouldn't let it go. Pretty soon nobody wanted to rent it, so they locked it up. In the sixties, I think."

  "The 'they' being your grandfather, right?" Rebecca said.

  "Yes." No one in the Philip would even know of his relationship to the hotel if it weren't for Sinnie's loose lips. The woman knew more about the Emersons than she had a right to. Probably a hell of a lot more than he did.

  Wade walked to the window. "Broken lock," he said, changing the subject. He nodded toward the mussed bed. "Looks as if somebody came in and bedded down for a few hours." He spotted a beer can on the floor near the window and bent to pick it up. Some of its brew spilled on the threadbare carpet.

  "Could have been a homeless," Mike added.

  "Maybe." Wade took a screwdriver from his tool belt, reset the screws, and secured the window. He wanted out of here, the sooner the better. Then he spotted a few mottled stains on the windowsill. Blood. Had to be. And not that old. He ran a hand along the sill. No dust. Just more dried blood. He wouldn't have said anything, but he caught Lars watching him. "Whoever was in here must have scratched himself, been bleeding when he climbed out the window."

  "Heard somebody in the hall maybe, got scared and ran off," Mike contributed.

  "Whoever it was, they're gone now. With no real damage done." Not that he gave a damn.

  "Your grandpa sure had taste, Wade," Rebecca said, turning her head this way and that, taking in every corner of the room. "This place is something. Look at that chest of drawers, Lars. It's awesome. And the four-poster bed! I can't believe this stuff is still here. All the other rooms in the place are decorated in flea market rejects. This is really classy." She ran a finger along the marble-topped bedside table, looked at it, and grimaced. "Classy... but dirty."

  For the first time since he'd stepped into it, Wade studied the room: the faded green-and-white striped silk wallpaper, oak wainscoting, the three framed pictures of dead game hung on the wall by fine chains, the fan-shaped wall sconces. All
of it wrapped in a gauze of dust and cobwebs. Sealed off in the sixties and having escaped redecorating and upgrades, it was a thirties time capsule—and, beneath the grime and neglect, in near-perfect condition. Except for the smell, a soup of odor that hadn't had a stir of fresh air in so long, it had damn near calcified.

  It was the same the last time he'd been in here—eighteen years ago—but then the blood was fresh and there had been a lot more of it.

  So much blood.

  Wade evened out his breathing, fought the gloom descending over him like a closing curtain.

  "Look," he said, "this little tenant meeting is fun, but I've got work to do." He gestured toward the door with his head. "Let's go."

  Mike ambled out first, followed by Lars and Rebecca. When they were all in the hall, Wade locked the door. He figured no one heard the rocky intake of fresh oxygen he took to clear his head. Too bad all the oxygen in the world wouldn't make him forget how much he hated this fucking room.

  * * *

  Lana looked across the outdoor table at David Grange.

  The night was warm, the barest of breezes drifting in from Lake Washington, and the restaurant was comfortably casual. She was glad to be away from the house, pleased David had insisted on taking her to dinner this evening. But she wished he'd stop talking about the will and that awful hotel. There was nothing to be done until Joy arrived, and Lana had other, potentially more satisfying, things on her mind.

  "I still can't understand Stephen's rationale," David went on, shifting back in his chair. His brow furrowed as he sipped his "very fine" merlot, a wine selection he'd discussed ad nauseam with the wine steward. There'd been a time Lana would have been impressed with a man who spent so much time on a wine list; now it bored her. But David Grange, despite his occasional lapse into pretension, didn't bore her at all. He was handsome, amusing, clever, ten years younger than her, and necessary.

  "Perhaps the letter will explain it. Joy will be here next week. We'll know then." She twirled her wine, watched the rich fluid make ruby waves against the sides of the long-stemmed glass. "For now there's nothing to be done."

  He studied her curiously. "You're so calm about all of this. Aren't you angry?"

  Her shrug was slight and elegant and made her scoop-necked silk sweater slip over her shoulder. David's eyes slipped down with it. Lana was pleased. "What good will anger do? It won't change Stephen's will."

  "But you need money to live on." He stopped. "The house is yours, isn't it? He did do that much." His questioning gaze returned to her face.

  "Yes."

  "Thank God for that." He went on, "But cash flow? In that respect you could be in serious trouble. You do understand that, don't you?" He stared at her as if she were an exotic plant, not a woman with a brain. Joy had often looked at her the same way but with more disapproval. And Lana may have a cash flow problem, but she also had a solution—sitting across the table from her.

  She reached over and stroked his hand."You worry too much, and I appreciate that, but I'll be fine. As you said, I have the house. If I have to, I'll sell it." The words were calculated, brave with just a hint of pain on their edges. But the truth was, Lana's stomach quavered at the thought. She'd spent months with the builder and decorator, going over every detail of its construction and design until it was perfect. Exactly how she wanted it. Nothing would make her leave it. Nothing. Holding David's hands tightly in her own, she lifted her eyes to meet his. "But honestly, darling, I don't want to think about such... unpleasant things right now."

  David's expression darkened, and he leaned forward. A swag of his heavy blond hair shifted over his forehead. He played his index finger on her palm. "No matter what happens, what that damned letter says, I'll take care of you. I want you to know that."

  "I so needed to hear that." She touched his cheek. "And there are so many ways of being cared for, aren't there?" She loved him when he was like this, so intense, so committed to her. Men. She adored them. They were so... handy. And David touched her in a way no other had. At times her feelings for him made her faintly anxious.

  "Are you wearing sandals?" she asked, lowering her voice to a near whisper.

  He looked confused. "Yes, why?"

  "Because I'm not wearing underwear." She moved her hips forward on the chair. "And I'm spreading my legs... just so, under the table. You can't see—but you can feel." She narrowed her eyes, blew him a kiss. She was already warm and dewy.

  David glanced around the restaurant. When he brought his eyes back to meet hers, they were hot and hooded. "You're crazy," he said in a low, ragged tone.

  "Just the tiniest bit. Do you mind?"

  "Not at all." He slid his bare foot between her thighs. She picked up her wineglass; he picked up his. And while Lana concentrated on keeping her eyes open, David concentrated on making her happy.

  Things were, as always, exactly the way Lana wanted them to be. The way she intended them to stay.

  * * *

  Joy paid the cabbie, and when he drove off, she turned slowly to survey her mother's recently completed palace: the serpentine driveway, wide ocean view, a brick facade with walls of artfully draped glass, and a cathedral-style entrance with oak doors and hammered black iron hinges that would have been at home in a medieval castle. All of it set in an immaculate garden in full glorious bloom. Down the path, a gardener weeded a brilliant show of geraniums.

  Feeling as though some of that hammered iron had made its way to her stomach, she stood at the front doors. Before she had a chance to knock, Lana opened the door.

  "Joy, I'm so glad you've come." The requisite hug was executed, then the two women separated as if they'd been caught performing a lewd act in public.

  "Mother," Joy said, and knowing she should add something, she opted for the expected, and the truth, adding, "You look wonderful."

  She touched her face. "The odd wrinkle creeps in no matter how good the fight. But come in," Lana said, glancing downward. "No bag?"

  Here we go, Joy thought. "I checked into the Marriott. Left it there."

  "I see."

  "It's my business, Mother. It's comped. I have a zillion hotels I can stay at for free. I figured I'd stay out of your hair by taking advantage of it for once." And keep some distance between us.

  For a moment Lana looked confused."Your business?"

  "I'm a travel writer, remember?" Joy felt better already, reminded of just how little anything she did ever mattered to Lana. Hold that thought, she told herself.

  "Of course, I'd forgotten." She stepped aside. "But come in. No need for us to stand on the doorstep."

  The foyer was, as Joy would expect, suitably grand. "Nice house. You must be happy here."

  "Yes, Stephen and I built it about five years ago. I told you that, didn't I?"

  Joy nodded, dimly remembering one of those post office change of address cards being forwarded from her old address.

  "Come into the living room," Lana said. "There's someone I want you to meet."

  The living room would seat twenty, but held only one man. He rose when the two of them stepped into the room and smiled to display perfect white teeth. Joy looked him over—tall, fair-haired, and sexy. Not bad at all. Mom was doing okay.

  He put out his hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Joy. I'm David Grange." His gaze swept her, and his eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed. "You're as beautiful as your mother. You could be—"

  "Twins, I know. Thanks."

  "You've been told that before?"

  "On occasion." About a million of them, and she still hated it. She'd even dyed her hair brown for a while, but the root thing, along with her travel schedule, proved to be more of a hassle than she needed, so she'd let her natural blond come back.

  "David is my very dearest friend," Lana cut in, going to his side and locking her arm in his, the gesture overly possessive. "I couldn't have done without him since your father died."

  "Stephen Emerson was not my father." The familiar knot of anger tangled in Joy's che
st.

  "Stepfather, then," Lana corrected smoothly before walking to the bar. "Can I make you a drink?"

  "No, thanks. But I'd appreciate your telling me why I'm here."

  "You may not need a drink, but I do." Lana looked at David Grange. "Could you do the explaining? You'll make it clearer than I can—and at least there's a chance Joy will actually listen."

  David gestured toward the mile-long sofa opposite the fireplace. "You might as well take a seat, Joy. This will take a minute or two."

  Joy sat, relieved it was him who'd do the explaining, saving on the emotional brakes she always had to engage during any interface with her mother. David took a place at the other end of the sofa.

  Two wide cushions between them, he began, "Your mother has already told you Stephen left you money and a hotel property. What she didn't tell you is he left her absolutely nothing."

  Joy knew her shock slackened her jaw. "Nothing?"

  "The house, of course, but other than that—no. Nothing at all."

  "I don't get it."

  "That's just it. Neither do we." He pulled out an envelope from his inside suit pocket."We're hoping this will explain it."

  She took the letter, noted her name on it along with a string of attorneys' names, and turned it over. Lana handed her a letter opener.

  Joy started to read, and with every carefully typed line her heart beat faster. Anger, dread, and outright panic made her hands shake. "This makes no sense." She looked at the two people who were watching her as if she held the key to paradise. "He wants me to look after Mother. He says"—she scanned to the second page—"'while you, Joy, have a practical nature, Lana is too utterly feminine and soft-hearted to care for herself financially.' He says if he puts the money directly into her hands, it won't last long enough for her to be 'ensured of the future she deserves.' He says I'm to do whatever I want with the inheritance as long as I take 'appropriate financial care' of my mother. "Joy looked up, stunned. "He wants me to be your financial babysitter."

  "Did he say anything about how much he loved me?" Lana asked.

  Joy blinked, confused by the jump from money to heart. She glanced down at the letter. "Yes. And I quote, 'insanely.'"