by Liz Marvin
“Do you think Miss Knolhart knows?” Betty asked, her mind working fast. If Miss Knolhart knew about the affair, wouldn’t that put her at the top of the list of suspects for her assistant’s murder? But, Betty thought, that didn’t explain the theft of the loving cup, which was still missing. She remembered Miss Knolhart’s comments the first night of the competition. The doyenne was practically in love with tradition. Betty couldn’t see her doing anything to upset the tournament, no matter what relationship issues she might be having.
“That one?” George asked. “I’m sure she doesn’t! She’s oblivious. Besides, she has enough issues of her own. Did you know, her first three credit cards were declined when she checked into the hotel? She was so angry I had to come handle the matter personally.”
Betty remembered the extravagant gowns and jewelry Miss Knolhart seemed so fond of. Were they the reason her credit cards were maxed out? Or were they remnants of her wardrobe from her glory dancing days?
She couldn’t imagine the illustrious Emily Knolhart with a mountain of debt.
“Do you know why they were declined?” Betty asked.
“Who knows?” George answered. “I think they were over the credit limit. Miss Knolhart has very expensive tastes. Although, I suppose it could have been the machines. You can’t trust these electronic things you know,” he said, gesturing to the computer. “Good old pen and paper, that’s the best way! Otherwise, your information could all be lost with just one nasty virus.” He reached over to the bookcase, pulling out a thick, leather-bound book. “I still keep a log of all the transactions at the hotel, even the phone calls.” Betty’s heart leapt. That book could hold so many clues! Her hands twitched, and she clenched them together in her lap to stop herself from grabbing the book away from George. “Call me old fashioned, but I like to have a back-up system in place that isn’t plugged into a wall.”
“I completely understand,” Betty said. She told him about her online business, relating tales of miscommunication and data that had been lost. “In fact,” she continued, “I’ve been thinking of setting up a paper log book, just so that I can have everything in writing. Would you mind if I looked at that? I’d like to see how you set it up.”
George handed the book over without hesitation. “Just don’t spill anything on it,” he joked. “Ink runs, and then where would all these records be?”
“You should write them in pencil,” Betty suggested absently. “Pencil doesn’t run when wet.”
“Ah, but where would be the permanence in that?” George asked. “Pen can’t be erased.”
Betty had stopped paying any attention to his words. She was completely absorbed by the record book. It was an amazing piece of record keeping. The entries went back decades. The handwriting had changed over the years. George hadn’t been the first one to use the book, but she noticed that the entries closer to the current date were much more meticulous than those that had been kept in the 1940s. He had kept a log of every guest’s stay, from how many towels they used and what they ordered from room service, to any long-distance phone calls they’d either made or received.
Betty recognized most of the area codes as ones in the United States, but in recent months one room had received what seemed to be international calls, repeatedly. She memorized the room number and area code, resolving to research them at another time. Betty didn’t notice anything else odd in the record books, but she figured that now she at least had a place to start. And she wasn’t the only one who should see these.
“Have you shown this to the police?” Betty asked George, handing the book to him across the desk. “It’s a beautiful piece of work. They might find it helpful.”
George took the book and placed it lovingly back on the shelf. “They don’t need to see it,” he said. “The information is all in the computer if they need it. Keeping this record is more of a hobby for me. I just can’t stand the thought of this book having blank pages at the end.”
Who knew you could get sentimental about hotel records? Betty thought with amusement. As long as all the information was in the computers somewhere, she supposed that George had the right to his privacy. She’d check out the area code before deciding whether or not to tell Bill about the ledger.
It was a given she’d be telling him about the affair.
Betty noticed an internet wire running from the back of the computer to a phone jack in the wall. It took her a moment to recognize it for what it was. A dial-up connection. A dinosaur skeleton from the archives of technological history, but…
“Does that work?” Betty asked, pointing. “The internet?”
George looked at her sheepishly. “Yes,” he said, “most guests don’t know that we have that. It’s just for hotel staff, in case of emergencies.”
Betty decided right then and there that this was an emergency. “Can I check my e-mail? Please? I’ll be quick, I promise.” Betty felt like a junkie in desperate need of a fix. She was so excited at the thought of internet that she was almost shaking. Internet! She could check on her business. She could investigate the area code. She could… but George was already shaking his head.
“I can’t let you on right now,” he said.
“Please?” Betty pleaded. “I really need to make sure everything is fine with my work.”
“Well…” George hedged. “I suppose I could let you on for a little while. But,” he said before Betty could get too excited, “only for half an hour, and you can’t let anyone else know. No one! I could get fired! And,” he added, “You’ll have to wait until after the competition is over for the night. During the day the staff is using it to check online reservations. I can’t slow down the connection by using it in here.”
Betty was willing to tap dance on top of an elephant if he asked. She’d get to use the internet! Waiting would be torture, but a few hours wouldn’t make a huge difference in the long run.
George looked at his watch. “I have to get back to work. But thank you so much for the coffee and talk. Come find me tonight after the dancing, and I’ll take you back to the office.”
“Thank you so much,” Betty said. “And for goodness’ sake, take care of yourself, will you? Don’t let the Mrs. Finklesworths of the world run you into the ground.”
CHAPTER 20
By the late afternoon, all the amateur dance rounds were finished and the heavy competition was set to begin. It was the first elimination round to determine which dancers would make it to the final round and compete for the $100,000 cash prize. Even with the loving cup taken the prize was staggering, and tensions ran high. Watching the dancers prepare, Betty was infinitely glad that she didn’t have to compete here tonight. Most of the dancers had been coiffed in elaborate dancing costumes designed to enhance elegance while allowing for maximum movement. The dresses stopped at the knees or calves. No more floor-length evening gowns were to be found among the competitors. In fact, most of them seemed to be wearing outfits modeled after fashions that had been popular in the fifties.
When the music started, Betty understood why. The dancers were competing with the Jive, a dance that had been popular at the same time as poodle skirts and beehive hairdos.
Again, Betty found a spot close to the front line of spectators, so that she could watch the dancing as much as possible with her impaired vision.
The first thing she noticed was that there were far fewer dancers in this round than had been in the amateur round. That made sense. These were the people who had been dancing for years, possibly since they could walk. These were the professionals, the ones who were competing not just for the fun of dancing, but for their paychecks. In all, there were about a dozen couples. And they were all magnificent.
Better could hardly believe the speed with which the couples moved. Around and around the floor they danced, feet flying, hands moving, the girls spinning under their partner’s arms. They never stopped, never paused.
The tango seemed lazy in comparison.
The music came to a close, a
nd the crowd clapped and whistled. The couples headed off the floor, breathing heavily. Now, they had to wait while the judges deliberated. Only half the couples would be moving on to the next round.
Betty noticed a small group of gentlemen in the corner, including the past and present Mr. Knolharts. Moving closer, she watched as money traded hands and the bookie wrote down their latest bets. It occurred to her that here was another source of information, if she could just convince the men that they should tell what they knew. She knew for a fact that everyone betting in that pool had a firm grasp on who was who in the competition. They knew all the ins and outs of the dancers.
Mr. Foone and Harry left, heading over to the buffet tables just as Betty went to insert herself into the group. That was good. It meant that no one besides the bookie would know her. And she doubted the bookie wasn’t about to explain to the others who she was. Information was money, and bookies knew that better than anyone.
“Hello gentlemen,” Betty said. A waiter passed by with a tray of champagne flutes. Betty selected one from the tray and took a small sip to wet her suddenly dry throat. “What are the odds tonight?” Betty asked, recklessly diving in head first. She’d think about the consequences of suggesting she’d like to participate in what was surely illegal gambling later. She had an angle to work now.
“Why do you want to know?” one of the men asked. He was a shrewd, elderly gentleman, dressed in a black suit with a red tie.
“I was just wondering if you let girls into your little gambling club,” she said. If Miss Knolhart or her assistant had been gambling, there could be suspects in the gambling ring.
The elderly gentleman laughed. “What, think we’d let you in?” he asked, eyeing her department store dress with disdain. “I think it might be bit… rich for your blood.”
Betty smiled sweetly. “I didn’t say I wanted to join,” she said pointedly. “I said I wanted to know if you let girls gamble with you.”
“What are you getting at?” the bookie asked.
Betty was suddenly tired of playing coy. She looked him dead in the eye and said, “I want to know if Marissa, Miss Knolhart’s assistant, or Miss Knolhart herself, has ever placed a bet with you.”
The men traded looks with each other. Betty waited.
“Little girl,” the elderly gentleman said, “you don’t know what you’re talking about. Why don’t you just run along and find something else to do?”
Betty stood her ground. “But I’m doing what I want to,” she said. “I’m talking to you.”
“Listen,” he hissed, grabbing her arm with a grip so tight it was almost painful. He steered her a few feet away from the other men in the group. They looked pointedly away, talking quietly amongst themselves. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you keep your nose out of our business.”
“Or what?” Betty asked flippantly. The rush of adrenaline must have gone to her head. The moment the words were out of her mouth, Betty’s brain caught up with her mouth. What was she doing antagonizing this man? She didn’t even know who he was. For all she knew, he was the murderer! And here she was, pushing his buttons.
Smart, Betty, she thought sarcastically to herself. Really smart.
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t test me.”
Betty jerked her arm away from his, squaring her shoulders. “Is that a threat?” A rush of fear led her to play her one trump card. The one that said: Don’t kill me next, or you’ll be in trouble mister! “You might want to know that I’m friends with one of the cops heading up the investigation.” Even if Bill wasn’t in charge any more, it wasn’t quite a lie. He’d been in charge until Mr. Stick-Up-His-Butt state detective arrived. “Chief Owens wouldn’t take kindly to anyone threatening me.” She looked the man up and down, noting his diamond cufflinks and pretending to be very unimpressed with what she saw.
In reality, she was terrified. What sort of man was rich enough for diamond cufflinks?
The man laughed, a sound with no humor in it whatsoever. “Chief Owens is just a small town cop. You set him on my back, and I’ll see to it that my nephew, who is a sen-a-tor,” he said, drawing the title out as though she were a simpleton, “makes life more than little difficult for him.” Betty’s eyes widened in spite of herself, and the man laughed again. “Don’t play with me little girl. You’re way out of your league.”
He turned and sauntered back to the group. If he’d been a cat, Betty would have been willing to bet that his tail would be held high, as though he’d just killed and eaten a tasty bird. No, Betty thought, she wouldn’t compare him to a cat. That would be insulting cats everywhere. Cats had more class.
Betty wasn’t sure what trouble his nephew could actually make for Bill, and if she were honest she didn’t think it made a difference. Bill could handle himself.
What she found alarming was the way that everyone in the group seemed to back the man. They’d all refused to answer her questions, and they’d let him corner her.
What were they hiding?
CHAPTER 21
After her run-in with the gambling crew, Betty decided it might be best to lay low for a little while. She found Bill, letting him know what she’d learned so far. As she expected, he was exasperated with the risks she’d taken, but immensely grateful for the information she’d discovered. Officer Park was making Bill go over and redo all their investigating, citing shoddy record keeping as the reason. Bill suspected he just wanted to be a pain.
Thanks to Park’s policy, they hadn’t been able to move forward at all in the investigation. No new information meant there were no new leads, and Bill was chomping at the bit. Once the roads cleared, it would be much more difficult to keep guests in the hotel. If even one person made it out, their suspect, and all the evidence of their guilt, might disappear for good. Betty’s information was the only break in the case they’d had so far.
After listening to Bill’s tirade on the need for her to be careful with her investigation and not raise any more red flags, Betty returned to the dance competition. All that Bill’s lecture had accomplished was to cement her desire to investigate. If the real detectives were tied up with busy work, someone still had to ferret out information. And, while by now most of the crowd knew she was here with Bill, Betty felt that people were more likely to come forward with information to her than to a police officer. For one, she was much less imposing than a six-foot man in uniform. And, for another, people who didn’t want to be seen talking to Bill might feel more comfortable talking to his friend.
Betty pointedly refused to think about how she’d like to be more than Bill’s friend. That would either happen or it wouldn’t. And, since they were in the midst of an investigation, the “wouldn’t” was far more likely in the immediate future. All the more reason to help Bill solve this murder, she thought with determination.
If there was one thing Betty had learned from reading the “Gossiping Grannies” page of the Lofton newspaper, it was that the best information came from the people that were normally overlooked. Betty was willing to bet that no one else had considered how valuable a source of information George might be, and yet he knew everything there was to know about everybody in the hotel. If he wanted, Betty was sure that George could retire on blackmail money alone. Not that he’d ever take advantage of information like that, Betty thought fondly. Not when he was so free with his gossip. What good was blackmail if you’d already told other people?
Betty didn’t want to risk talking to any more of the dancers or more wealthy patrons of the arts who frequented the gambling club. She had the distinct impression that investigating any further on that front could be hazardous to her health. But, there were plenty of other sources of information at the competition.
Betty took advantage of the next round of competition and hovered near the buffet table. Everyone’s attention was on the dance floor except for the servers’. They were taking the opportunity to change out serving dishes and meal options. Betty grabbed a glass of club soda
and stuck herself in an out of the way corner. She focused her vision on the blurry crowd in the middle of the hall. For once, the lack of distance vision was helpful to Betty. She could “stare at” the blurs, and yet stay completely focused on her other senses. Namely, hearing.
“We’re almost out of the chilled white,” one server muttered to another as they rearranged dishes on a table situated near her perch. “Can you imagine? I’ve never see the wine cellars this low before!”
“We’ve never been snowed in on a delivery day before either,” another server returned. “Just bring out more of the red and champagne. We have plenty of that. Tell them the champagne is a special vintage grown just for the hotel and that they can’t get it anywhere else. They’ll eat it up, and I guarantee you the white wine will last another few days.”
Betty fought to keep a smile from her face. It seemed like she wasn’t the only one who thought that sometimes a guest just needed to hear what they wanted to hear. She wondered if hotel staff received special training in using white lies to placate guests, or if was something that came naturally.
But knowing the hotel was running low on white wine wasn’t something that Betty considered high priority. She casually pushed away from the wall, moving to another spot with a different set of servers.
All that she learned from that pair was that they were concerned about what having a body in the walk-in-freezer would mean for hotel visits. If fewer people came to stay at the hotel, they were concerned that their jobs might be in jeopardy. Betty was tempted to jump into the conversation at that point. Didn’t they understand anything about the American psyche? The more murders at a hotel the better! All the staff had to do was make mention of seeing a young, female ghost with one shoe a few times, and the hotel would become a hot spot for psychics and ghost hunters everywhere. They could even get on tours of haunted hotels.
