The Fat Innkeeper (A Hotel Detective Mystery Book 2)

by Alan Russell

Brother Howard looked disappointed. “Nothing like that,” he said. “Human words fail in describing the nuances of communication, especially with the dead. The dialogues are meanings and meetings beyond our terminology.”

  “Can you call up any of the dead you want? Abraham Lincoln? Robert Frost? Napoleon? Martin Luther King?”

  “My techniques are not those of a séance,” said Brother Howard. “You will find the ‘who’ is not important. It is the ‘there.’”

  “Not the destination, the journey.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You didn’t answer the question, though,” said Am. “Are you able to communicate with a particular person who has died?”

  Proudly, firmly: “I am.”

  “That’s impressive,” said Am, “considering how many billions of people have died. Is there an A T and T over there?”

  “Are you trifling with me, Mr. Caulfield?”

  “No,” said Am, “I’m just trying to understand.”

  Brother Howard stared at him for several seconds. “There is no telephone system,” he said. “There is an awareness far beyond this earthly plane. It is the reality of ‘I think, therefore I am.’ The dead aren’t in hiding. They’ve merely eclipsed their bodies.”

  “The main reason we’re here,” said Am, “is that we want to talk with someone who recently died. Is it possible for you to be our intermediary and help us communicate with him?”

  It was apparent, that despite Brother Howard’s seeming reluctance he had been asked this question before. “This was supposed to be a training session . . . ”

  “Methinks thou doth protest too much” was what Am wanted to say, but instead he said, “If we have to pay extra, we quite understand.”

  “Money is not the issue,” said Brother Howard, but in the end it naturally proved to be just that. They agreed on an additional hundred dollars.

  “With whom would you like me to communicate?” asked Brother Howard, “and what is it you would like to know?”

  “Dr. Thomas Kingsbury,” said Am, “and who murdered him.”

  Brother Howard didn’t react to either the name or the request. He asked for them not to move or talk, even to keep their breathing quiet, then he closed his eyes and grew still. It was three or four minutes before his eyes opened again. He took a deep breath, sighed slightly, and shook his head.

  “Sometimes it happens this way,” he said. “The dead do not always speak. I could not find the one you wished.”

  Am noticed he didn’t say the name aloud. “Are you sure you got his right name?” he asked.

  “Thomas Kingsbury,” said Brother Howard. “Dr. Thomas Kingsbury.”

  Am nodded. “Well, since he’s not available, I guess we’ll have to ask you some of the same questions. Do you prefer that we call you the Reverend Mr. Gardenia, or Brother Howard?”

  He didn’t respond to the baiting, merely said, “Brother Howard is my legal name.”

  “But you were the Reverend Mr. Gardenia?”

  He shrugged, then said, “Since neither of you are here to learn, I think it is time this session came to a close.”

  “But we are here to learn,” said Marisa. “Mr. Caulfield is head of Hotel security. And I’m with the Union-Tribune.”

  “I have nothing to say.”

  “Did the two of you talk while he was here?” Am asked.

  “Why are you asking these questions? The newspapers reported that he died of natural causes.”

  “Never believe what you read.” This from Marisa.

  Brother Howard’s vow of silence didn’t last. “I was in the dealer’s room,” he said. “We have a booth there where we sell our material. Business was very good. There was a line of customers and suddenly there was this commotion. A man was pushing to the front of the line.

  “‘Brother Howard,’ he said loudly. Mockingly. ‘It’s so good to see you again.’ I knew at once who he was. My persecutor was there in front of me. He pretended to be very solicitous, interested in my teachings. He made quite the scene looking at my wares and acting as if they fascinated him. Then he brought out his notebook and made an entry as to when I would be speaking. ‘I’ll be there, Brother Howard,’ he said, ‘oh, you can be sure I’ll be there.’ His voice told me clearly that he would be there to crucify me, to announce what he perceived as my misdeeds of the past.”

  “And that’s not how you view your past?” asked Am.

  “I tried to help the very sick,” he said. “Do you condemn doctors for making a living doing the exact same thing?”

  “You promised cures.”

  “I offered hope. I can show you hundreds of testimonials . . . ”

  “And now you listen to the dead?”

  Self-righteously: “Yes, I do.”

  “But you couldn’t hear Dr. Kingsbury?”

  “It might be that his spirit still lingers around here,” said Brother Howard, “and hasn’t passed over yet.”

  One of the Fat Innkeeper’s shiryoos, thought Am.

  “Or maybe,” reflected Brother Howard, “he just didn’t want to talk with me.”

  If that was the case, thought Am, he really couldn’t blame Kingsbury.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Skylar’s presentation (in his contract he forbade it to be called an “act” or “performance”) was just ending when they arrived. The grand finale was a bunch of forks and spoons turned into Dali-like flatware. The crowd clapped enthusiastically, and Skylar, dressed in black, frowned at them, bowed very formally, and then walked off the stage.

  Getting backstage was easy, but getting to see Skylar was not. His manager provided interference, claimed that Skylar was always exhausted after his “demonstrations of the mind” and never talked to anyone. Marisa acted disappointed, said she was a “big fan,” and, “Oh, isn’t it a shame that I won’t be able to interview him.” The manager perked up at her words, asked a few questions, then verified her journalistic credentials. He was suddenly willing to help, and went to talk with Skylar. It was apparent that reporters were no longer clamoring to interview the mentalist, but Am didn’t think that was what got them inside. While they were waiting a door opened, and an enormously large brown eye stared at them—or rather, stared at Marisa. Why, wondered Am, hadn’t the mentalist just conjured a picture of her up in his mind from inside the room? The door opened in about the time it took Skylar to get his eyeful.

  “Open Sesame,” said Am.

  Skylar kissed Marisa’s hand and managed to ignore Am completely. He led Marisa to a chair, offered her a drink, and said he was so pleased they could have this time to chat.

  “I do not allow photos,” he said to Am, not bothering to look at him but assuming he was the photographer. “Do not set up your cameras. My manager gives out publicity shots. Talk to him if you’re interested.”

  Am made no move to leave, instead found a chair. Skylar looked momentarily disappointed, then turned his attention back to Marisa. He was a handsome man, had been born and raised in Lebanon, had the good looks of a prince straight out of One Thousand and One Arabian Nights. Skylar had the reputation of being a ladies’ man. He did have a certain charisma, Am had to admit, a personality that demanded attention. His eyes could have qualified for lakes. He had straight white teeth, and a mocha complexion set off by very black hair. Too black, Am thought, looking a little closer. Yes, it was dyed. And those enormous dark eyes of his had eyeliner around them. Making those discoveries made Am feel a little better.

  He wondered if Marisa had noticed those things. It didn’t look like it. The two of them were laughing together over something, Skylar’s hand lightly touching her arm. He said something, and then squeezed her shoulder. Am was sure Skylar’s voice had been worked on as much as his hair; it was deep, full-throated, and had a mysterious echo to it, as if it emerged from a great cavern. He kept offering Marisa his white teeth. Probably capped, thought Am.

  “When did you discover your gift?” asked Marisa.

  “I will present
you with my book,” he said. “It will tell you how I came from a family renowned throughout our country for our powers.”

  Why was it, Am wondered, that everyone they talked with seemed to have an autobiography on hand? Wasn’t it enough to have a business card anymore?

  “I’d rather hear it from you,” said Marisa. “It’s so much nicer hearing things firsthand.”

  She giggled. She actually giggled. The woman knew how to flirt. Here she was, intelligent and motivated and self-directed to write important words, and she knew how to flirt. To Am’s way of thinking, that didn’t seem right. To Skylar’s, it was just fine.

  “I will tell you anything,” he said. “Anything.”

  She was as good at asking questions, thought Am, as she was at stroking Skylar’s immense ego. He watched her rope him in. A man who was out for answers would have tossed the lasso and fought like hell to bring him down. She didn’t work that way. Skylar was roped, caught, and tied up and he didn’t even know it.

  “You have fans around the world,” she said.

  “Everywhere,” he agreed.

  “They must have been as disappointed as I was when that awful man said those lies about you. What kind of a world is it when someone has to try and tear down a being of your stature just to make himself look good?”

  “He’s dead!” said Skylar. The words were offered in glee, then slightly reconsidered. “I knew he would die,” he said.

  Am wondered if Marisa was as short of breath as he was. “You did?” she asked.

  “Yes. When he made up his . . . stories . . . three years ago, I sued him. And I foresaw . . . ”

  He touched his index fingers to his temples.

  “ . . . that he was going to die a tragic death because of what he had done.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Marisa.

  His large, dark eyes were hooded, cloaked by his eyelids. “Kismet,” he said.

  “Kismet,” repeated Marisa.

  “Allah punished him for his lies. And he did it right in front of me.”

  Am couldn’t resist. “Right in front of you,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Skylar dramatically. “The man died in this Hotel last night. And he thought he could laugh at me. I like that old saying: He who laughs last, laughs best.”

  “I can’t imagine anyone ever laughing at you,” said Marisa.

  She missed her calling, thought Am. She should have been an actress. And then a nagging doubt: She wasn’t performing with him, was she?

  “Just the night before last,” he said, “he had the nerve to challenge me in front of a crowd. I was on stage, halfway through my demonstration, when he presented himself. I knew who he was right away. I wanted to call security and have him thrown out. But I could not interrupt my mental exhibition.

  “Standing beneath me, he called up a greeting, acted as if we were old friends. In a loud, mocking voice he said that he’d be having a few magic shows of his own before the week was through. Then he looked at his watch, shook it a few times as if it wasn’t working, and said he must be going, that he had a date with a deceitful destiny, or some such nonsense.”

  “What an awful man,” said Marisa.

  “He now tells his lies in hell. He had no idea what trouble his evil would bring him, and couldn’t know that by attacking me he wrote his own epitaph. My enemies all die horrible and mysterious deaths.”

  “Dr. Kingsbury wasn’t the first of your enemies to die in a suspicious manner?” asked Am.

  Skylar smiled, as if remembering fond memories. Any potential answer was interrupted by a knock at the door. Skylar let a room-service waiter enter. On his tray was a pot of coffee. The server was surprised that Skylar had company.

  “I can get more cups, sir,” he said.

  “That is not necessary,” said Skylar in a magnanimous voice. “I have extras.”

  The waiter nodded and left. “Will you have some coffee?” Skylar asked Marisa.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “It is a special Turkish blend,” he said. “I have it served to me after my last nightly demonstration everywhere I go. Some people say they can’t sleep if they drink coffee. I find I can’t if I don’t drink it. Cream? Sugar?”

  She shook her head. “That is how I like it,” said Skylar. “Leaded, as I hear some people say. Or in this case, super-leaded.”

  He handed Marisa her cup, and then poured himself one. They both sipped appreciatively.

  “Excuse me,” said Am, then pantomimed his own cup.

  Skylar sighed, then poured. “With cream and sugar, if you don’t mind,” added Am.

  The mentalist did, but provided them anyway. Skylar was sipping, and looking into Marisa’s eyes, when Am spoke again. “And a spoon, please.”

  Skylar didn’t disguise the malevolence in his look. He was not a man who liked to be interrupted. To challenge him, he had said, was dangerous.

  He handed over a spoon. Am thanked him, and started to stir, then noticed the metal was twisted, bent in half.

  On Skylar’s profile, Am noticed, was the smallest of smiles.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “So,” said Cleo, “what you’re really saying is that I haven’t been arrested.”

  Jimmy nodded. “I kinda thought you just needed to get away for a little while and think about what you’re doing to yourself.”

  They were sitting in the employee’s cafeteria drinking coffee. Cleopatra’s eyes looked as if they had a permanent puffiness to them. She kept sniffling, and Jimmy kept offering her napkins.

  “But we just came here for a getaway,” she said. Then, emphatically: “It was supposed to be romantic.”

  “Romantic to me,” said Jimmy, “is walking along the beach at sunset hand in hand with my special lady. Romantic to me is dancing by moonlight. Romantic to me is finding a special view and sharing it with a special someone.”

  He gave her a clueing look. She could be that special someone. Not that Jimmy had ever done any of those romantic things he had described. Up until now he had never even thought about doing them. Most of his relationships had been short-lived. For some reason the women he had dated hadn’t liked staying up all night getting the sporting scores from around the world.

  “All of that sounds nice to me,” admitted Cleo.

  “I know a special view,” he said. Mount Soledad, he was thinking. From there you could see half the world, but most people just went up there to make out.

  She reached over and patted his hand. “You’ve been very special to me,” she said. “But I’m in a relationship.”

  “One relationship I could understand,” said Jimmy, “but multiple . . . ” He shook his head.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know.”

  “No, I don’t know.”

  Jimmy looked at her. She really didn’t. It was worse than he had thought. “Your boyfriend’s trying to get you involved with a bunch of swingers.”

  “Swingers?”

  “Adam and Eve and Dawn and Steve. Mate-swappers.”

  With total incredulity, she said, “You’re wrong.”

  “I wish I was. They call themselves the Swap Meat.”

  “Bradford is not a—a—swinger,” she said. “He has been as upset about everything as I have.”

  “He didn’t look too upset back in the room.”

  Like most low blows, it worked. A thoughtful look came over Cleo’s face. She remembered their initial meeting with the other couple. Could it have been planned? Did that other man actually think that she . . . ? How disgusting. How absolutely repugnant. Cleo stopped accepting napkins. She was mad.

  “I don’t believe any of this,” she said.

  Words invariably uttered, Jimmy knew, by those who did believe.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  They sat discussing murder in the Lobby Lounge. Bars that are located directly off hotel lobbies traffic mostly in the captive-audience market and the spontaneous-purchase category, with guests either wa
iting to get into their rooms, or wanting to get a drink without having to bother going very far. It was a better place than most to be discussing murder. The Lobby Lounge was very tropical, with lots of green foliage, running water, and fountains. Maybe there was too much water. Marisa had excused herself three times to go to the bathroom. On her most recent outing she had explained, not a little embarrassed, that “the running water keeps giving me less than subliminal messages.”

  It was almost midnight. The lounge wasn’t very crowded, but it wasn’t a place to hide either. It was a spot to see, and be seen, with only floral barriers between the loungers and the lobby. Am was drinking a mineral water. One cup of Skylar’s Turkish coffee had been enough electroshock therapy for the night. He’d tried to return the mentalist’s favor, had left him a somewhat unbent spoon.

  The cocktail server interrupted Am’s thoughts. “Would you like another?” she asked.

  “Uh, no, thanks,” Am said, his smile covering up for his having been startled.

  It was slow, so she wasn’t in any rush to leave. Am looked at her name tag, confirming the first name he wasn’t sure off. Tracy, it said, and in smaller letters, Mission Viejo, California. She’d been at the Hotel for less than a year. Am remembered they had talked one time about her graduate studies at San Diego State.

  “Did you have a good night?” he asked.

  “The good thing is my shift is almost over,” she said. “I have a date with a hot bath.”

  “I think I have that same date.”

  “Will your friend want a refill?”

  Marisa was drinking cranberry juice. A diuretic, as if she needed one. Her glass was still half-full. Am was afraid the sight of a full glass might immediately send her back to the bathroom.

  “No, thanks,” he said. “I’ll close out the bill whenever you’re ready.”

  “Thought you might say that,” she said. Tracy presented the bill on a little tray with two peppermints.

  “Enjoy your bath,” he told her.

  “You, too,” she said.

  He looked at the bill, and not for the first time was glad he didn’t have to pay the Hotel prices. Because he was entertaining someone from the Fourth Estate, he would charge this to advertising and promotion. The Hotel policy afforded the servers only an eight-percent gratuity on such accounts, so Am added a few dollars of his own. He placed the bills atop the bar charge. Just a few hours back, he remembered, he had been examining Dr. Kingsbury’s bar charges. Come to think of it, one of the doctor’s tabs had come from the Lobby Lounge.