The Hotel Whodunit

by Lilliam Rivera

  One of the film guys knocks into an oversize seashell that shatters to pieces.

  “You nailed it, all right. Movie madness.” Mike heads over to the workers and hands one of them a broom. The man doesn’t even question Mike. He immediately starts picking up after himself. Mike soon returns with a tray of drinks for Angie. She trots off to serve them to the table.

  “The only reason I said yes to the movie was because Mr. Maple said it would be great for both of our businesses, but I’m not too sure,” Mike says. “It’s hard for me to let random strangers take over. Set designers. Cameras. Lights. Don’t get dazzled by Hollywood. It’s just a lot of smoke and mirrors.”

  “I won’t, Mike. I’ve got a strong head on my shoulders.”

  For a few seconds we watch Mom as she finishes up her dance. She attaches herself to what we like to call “the Spinner.” It’s a contraption that looks like a pole and it spins the mermaids rapidly when they connect themselves to it. How you can go around so much without getting dizzy is beyond me, but Mom is a pro.

  “I like the new act,” Mike says before going back to man the bar. “Every girl gets their own signature move and your mom has one of the best.”

  The audience loves it, too. I wait a bit longer before heading toward the dressing room. I knock three times. Three is the secret code between Mom and me.

  “C’mon in, Goldie.” Mom’s colorful fins hang up to dry while she sits in front of the vanity table, slowly taking off the waterproof makeup.

  “Hey, babe,” she says. “Are you hungry?”

  “Yup. Today has been a day full of surprises.”

  “Really? Tell me about it while I get into my clothes.” She goes behind a wooden panel to change into her regular capri pants and matching top.

  “Walt is letting me help out tomorrow! He wants me at the hotel super early when a special delivery is, ummm, being delivered,” I say. “This may be the break I’ve been waiting for. If I can show Walt and Mr. Maple how good an assistant I am, maybe they’ll promote me.”

  “Now, Goldie. I wouldn’t place all of my bets on Mr. Maple paying attention to you tomorrow. There’s so much going on. He might be busy.”

  “Okay. You’re probably right. I’m just so excited I can barely stand it.”

  Mom laughs. “Well, if you’re excited, I’m excited for you. Hand me my cardigan, will you, babe?”

  “Besides, we get to work together tomorrow,” I say.

  Mom hugs me. “Yes, we do,” she says. Mom places her reddish-brown hair up in a ponytail. I get my thick bangs from her. “Me and you against the world. So, how’s your father doing?”

  “He’s good. He wants to make sure everything goes smoothly tomorrow. Mr. Maple is apparently on edge but what else is new.”

  “Same thing at the Mermaid Club. Mike had to post a long list of Dos and Don’ts for the workers tomorrow. This is one job that I’m almost regretting taking. So much fuss over who you can and cannot talk to. Who knows if I will even make the cut on the big screen? Baldwin Studios is really going all out on this movie. Poor Mike has to work through the night making sure the workers transform the Mermaid Club into a dazzling movie set.”

  She grabs her things and we both head out through the secret hallway to avoid anyone seeing her out of costume. This door leads out to the back of the club. Only the workers know about it. No one else. We walk over to my bike and I place it in the trunk of Mom’s car. We drive toward her apartment, only a few blocks away.

  Mom’s place is located on the top floor in an apartment complex. Some might consider it small, but it’s perfect for the two of us. I put my overnight bag in the bedroom off the living room while Mom places her bright-yellow mermaid fins and matching bikini top in the bathroom. In the living room Mom has framed pictures of us together. Mom, Dad, and me. There’s the picture of us on vacation in Niagara Falls. It was sure cold that day. It’s safe to say that I might not be made for cold weather. There are a few pictures of me on my first day of school. And there are plenty of pictures of me in front of our Christmas tree. My favorite picture is of all three of us in front of the Crossed Palms Resort. Mom had just dropped me off for my first real day of work with Dad, and the resort photographer was testing out her new camera. I love it because Mom and Dad are both holding me so tight it looks like I’m about to burst with love.

  Mom pulls the casserole she made the other day from the fridge and turns the oven on to heat it up for us. Even without all the sequins and over-the-top makeup she has to wear as a mermaid, Mom is still the most beautiful woman in a room. I really wish I could tell her about Delphine and the Bejeweled Aqua Chapeau. I’m never one to keep things from Mom, especially news of this magnitude. How to tell her without telling her? Now, that’s the key.

  “Mom, what do you know about filming tomorrow? Did they tell you who will be on set?”

  “Oh no. They are keeping everything under wraps. Hush-hush. I’m sure it’s some big movie star. I just hope she’s not too much of a diva. The Mermaid Club is already filled with divas. One more and the tank might shatter.”

  “You don’t have any idea who it might be? No guesses at all?”

  “Hmmm. Well, who do you think it is?”

  “Who me? Oh, I don’t know,” I say with the goofiest grin plastered on my face. “It could be anyone. I mean, let’s deduce the possibilities. The actress must be a pretty strong swimmer and not be too afraid to spend hours in the water. There aren’t that many actresses out there who would be willing to do that, to be a queen of the ocean, so to speak.”

  Mom raises her eyebrows and serves us both a generous amount.

  “A queen, huh?”

  I nod.

  “Well, whoever it is, she will be well taken care of by you,” she says. “You are the best at making people feel at home in St. Pascal. You’re our very own welcoming committee.”

  “Thanks.” I let her words wash over me, but I can’t seem to shake this tiny thing nagging at me. I try to forget about it while eating Mom’s delicious casserole, but it’s not working.

  “Mom, what do you do when you are so nervous you know you’ll be unable to sleep?”

  She takes my empty plate, places it in the sink, and leans against the kitchen counter. With the sun setting behind her, the light creates such a radiant glow around her.

  “What are you so nervous about? I thought working with Walter is what you wanted.”

  “Oh, it is. Definitely. But what if I make a mistake or something?”

  She opens the fridge and takes out a bottle of milk. In a saucepan she heats the milk up and sprinkles just a pinch of cinnamon on it.

  “First, warm milk is known to cure insomnia. Drink this up. Now, the only thing you can do to ensure tomorrow works in your favor is simply show up. Your dad and I raised you to be a strong, hard worker. A person who loves to help. Just show up tomorrow ready to be of service. If you do your best, you can’t go wrong. Being afraid is good, but letting fear stop you from doing what you love, that’s not good.”

  “Okay, I’ll try to remember that,” I say.

  “Now, don’t stay up late. What time are you meant to be at the resort tomorrow?”

  “Five in the morning.”

  “Five in the morning! Drink this milk and head straight to bed. Tomorrow is going to be a long day for both of us.”

  “I promise I won’t stay up,” I say.

  Mom heads to her bedroom, where she will place her hair in tiny braids to maintain the curl. She’ll then wrap her hair up in what I like to call her sleeping scarf.

  I sip the warm milk and pull out my pad. I make a list of the things I want to remember to bring with me tomorrow. At the top of the list is my magnifying glass. Mom gave it to me when I was seven years old. Back then, I was obsessed with the ants that suddenly invaded our kitchen. I wanted to investigate everything. When she gave me the magnifying glass, I patiently followed the line of ants to the tiny hole that led outside and finally located their home. Some of t
he neighborhood kids wanted to use my magnifying glass to do evil things to the ants. Not me. The magnifying glass showed me how hard the ants worked together. If you take your time and look closely, you can find the truth about things.

  I’ll listen to Mom. Tomorrow I’m going to show up to work ready to do my best.

  Chapter Five

  ALTHOUGH MOM’S CALL TIME ISN’T UNTIL TEN AM, SHE still wakes me up at four in the morning to make me a little breakfast—scrambled eggs and roasted asparagus—before I head out. I appreciate it so much. The butterflies stirring in my stomach are working overtime, but this home-cooked meal from Mom helps calm them down.

  It’s rare to see St. Pascal so quiet. The sky is still dark, but it is slowly breaking. The birds are already chirping, and in the distance, I can hear a rooster or two. I won’t be the only one coming into work so early. The kitchen staff will already be at the hotel baking their scrumptious breads and muffins for the breakfast crowd. The hotel staff will still be checking people in. And down below, loads of laundry will be washed by the cleaning staff.

  After placing my bike behind the valet tent, I pull out my white gloves from my back pocket and put them on. I adjust my vest and make sure my hair is not too windswept. It’s time to make my appearance.

  “Let’s do this,” I say to myself.

  Walt stands in front of the entrance of the Crossed Palms. There are security staff lined up behind him with the most serious of faces. Pacing in front of everyone is Mr. Davenport. He holds tight to his unlit cigar.

  “Good morning, everyone!” I say. “It’s a beautiful and perfect day. Can you feel it?”

  Mr. Davenport gives me quite the scowl. I guess he’s not a morning person. Walt shakes his head. I stand by him.

  “Where is she?” I ask.

  “En route but there must have been a delay at the airport,” Walt says.

  Mr. Davenport pulls out his pocket watch, snaps it open, and then places it back in his vest. He does this a couple of times. He might be just as nervous as I am, maybe even more.

  “Good morning, Mr. Davenport. Anything I can do to help? I can get you a cup of coffee, or perhaps breakfast might help ease your nerves.”

  Mr. Davenport tucks his watch back in his vest. He continues to pace and I join him.

  “There is nothing you can do unless you have the ability to teleport,” he says.

  This subject is much more up Cheryl’s alley than mine. “Hmmm. Nope, I definitely don’t think I have the power to do that, but who knows. Maybe if I concentrate really hard.”

  Mr. Davenport stops pacing and just stares at me.

  “What did you say your name was again?” he asks. His voice is all gruff.

  “Goldie Vance! My full name is Marigold Vance, but everyone who knows me calls me Goldie.”

  He points at me with the hand holding his cigar. “Well, Goldie Vance. I don’t like to chitchat in the morning, so if you can…” He points to where I should line up.

  “The St. Pascal airport is exactly ten point three miles from here. That’s roughly thirty minutes,” I say. “There will be no traffic to hit unless they get caught behind a produce truck. The chances of that happening are really fifty-fifty. It’s a small airport.”

  Mr. Davenport responds with a “harrumph.” Then he says, “Thirty minutes. They should be here by now.”

  We both stare at the empty driveway. Mr. Davenport begins to pace again.

  “On bike it would take me sixty minutes to get to the airport. I timed myself once. Watching the planes fly in and out is a favorite pastime of mine. You probably travel all the time. Do you like the window seat or the aisle seat? I have a theory about that. If you like the window seat, you want to enjoy the view. If you like the aisle seat, you prefer doing work. Where do you land on this theory, Mr. Davenport?”

  I’m pretty certain I already know the answer to where Mr. Davenport prefers to sit. But I figure if I distract him, he won’t be so overwhelmed with anxiety. It works for me sometimes. He is literally missing the hummingbird flying right above him because he is staring so intensely, waiting for Delphine Lucerne and the diamond cap to arrive.

  “Has anyone ever told you that you are unrelenting?” he asks.

  “Nope, not a soul,” I say. “So, you’re an aisle person, am I right?”

  Before he can respond, a fleet of cars makes its way up the resort driveway. One car after another, driving up at a steady pace as if this were a presidential caravan. Walt pats me on the shoulder and directs me to stand alongside the other workers. But Mr. Davenport doesn’t seem to be distracted by my presence, so I stay put. I’ve got the best view.

  The first three cars park farther down the driveway. The drivers step out and bellhops immediately start to unload the trunk. There are so many pieces of luggage. It is endless. I can’t imagine traveling with so much baggage. My favorite pieces of clothing are my capri pants and worn-out loafers. Lucky for me, the hotel has a uniform that I have to wear. I don’t really have to think about it. But if it were up to me I would live in my capri pants all day long. They have deep pockets, perfect to stash my pad, my magnifying glass, other knickknacks, and any evidence I might uncover. My uniform isn’t ideal but it does the trick, too.

  “What are you waiting for?” Mr. Davenport barks. “Get those into the suite immediately!”

  Walt, in turn, quietly directs the bellhops to be careful with the suitcases. If Mr. Davenport would just politely ask for things, I’m sure he would get better service. Thankfully, the staff at Crossed Palms is extra professional. They work in unison, taking the luggage out of sight and to where it needs to be. By the time Delphine Lucerne enters her suite, the clothes will already be hanging in the closet and tucked in the drawers.

  Another car rolls up to the driveway, and by the way Mr. Davenport increases his screaming, I just know Delphine Lucerne is in it.

  “Everyone, turn away!” he yells, and I am at once reminded how ridiculous men with loud voices can be. There’s really no point. If he had truly paid attention to his surroundings, he would have noticed that the remaining staff was already facing away from the car. The only two people looking straight ahead are Walter and Mr. Davenport. Oh yeah, and me.

  The car slows down right in front of Mr. Davenport. He tosses his ever-present cigar onto the ground. One of our workers rushes to clean it up but Walt stops him from moving. No one is to move from their spot. Mr. Davenport looks around one more time before opening the door of the car. Everyone at Crossed Palms holds their breaths in anticipation. This is it.

  “Goldie, turn away,” Walt urges me to comply. How am I supposed to get a glimpse of Delphine Lucerne if I’m facing the hotel? No way.

  “Goldie!”

  To appease Walt, I finally do as he says. Fortunately, I have a nifty compact mirror Mom gave me a while back. It’s super handy whenever I’m trying to spy while still remaining casual. I pull it out and position it so that I can see exactly when Mr. Davenport opens the door.

  Delphine’s hand is the first thing to appear from the car. Against Mr. Davenport’s large hands, hers look so tiny and fragile. The next thing I see is her strappy heels in bright red. Mr. Davenport helps her step out of the car. Oversize sunglasses practically conceal her whole face. Delphine also wears a scarf tied around her head that shields her profile. She is dressed in a simple black dress. There is no doubt that she is a star of the highest magnitude. It’s true what they say—some people just have got “it,” a magnetism that shines bright. Delphine simply glows.

  She doesn’t say a word. No one does. We wait for her to take the lead.

  Suddenly, there is a commotion near the bushes located by the far end of the entrance. A rustling of sorts. Oh no.

  “Walt! Over by the bushes! Ten o’clock!”

  Walt immediately sees it: a photographer angling to take a picture of Delphine Lucerne exiting the car. Walter runs over to the photographer. Mr. Davenport notices him, too.

  “Hey, you!” Mr. Daven
port barrels toward the man, leaving Delphine on her own. He looks like he’s about to pulverize the photographer. Delphine, appearing a bit lost, takes a step in the direction of the entrance. But the first step ends up being a doozy. She seems to trip over something. Instead of a gracious walk, Delphine Lucerne is about to fall. I rush to her side, helping her before she completely hits the ground.

  “Oh my goodness!” she exclaims.

  “Don’t worry; I’ve got you,” I say.

  “Well, thank goodness for quick recoveries,” she says.

  I’m surprised by Delphine’s accent. There’s a bit of a twang in her voice, one rarely heard when she appears on-screen. She has the biggest smile with the whitest teeth ever.

  “It’s my job,” I say. “To be quick, that is.”

  “You just saved me from a heap a trouble. My legs are my most prized possessions.”

  Although I could have sworn she would be ten feet tall, Delphine is very petite, not much taller than me. She bends down and picks up the cigar. The one Mr. Davenport so callously dropped.

  “It looks like this may have been the culprit,” says Delphine.

  “It sure does. Cigars are pretty gross, don’t you think?” I ask.

  “It’s a nasty habit some people can’t seem to quit,” she says. “Don’t ever pick it up.”

  “Hey, you, get away from her!” Mr. Davenport now directs his anger at me. He rushes to Delphine’s side, placing himself between us as if I’m the photographer or an annoying fan asking her for an autograph. “You’ve got to be more careful. Can you just imagine how much money it would cost if anything were to happen to them?”

  Mr. Davenport points to Delphine’s legs as if he’s pointing to a priceless work of art, which I guess in a way he is. He goes on reprimanding her as if she had tripped on purpose.

  “Oh, Cecil, please stop this nonsense. Can’t you see… Excuse me, what is your name?”

  “I’m Goldie Vance.”

  “Can’t you see Miss Vance is only trying to help?” She hands the cigar to Mr. Davenport. “And if anything were to have happened, it would have been your fault. You are being quite silly.”