Everybody Wanted Room 623

by Cecil Murphey

  “You’re kidding me!” Ollie said, followed by a series of one-word responses. “Was he obsessed with that number?” Those where the two longest statements he made before he hung up.

  I raised my eyebrows as my silent way to ask Ollie to share the information with us.

  “You’re both in the head-and-heart business,” he said. He still held his cell and turned it over and over in his hand. “So maybe you can help us with this one. It’s the number 623. That Lauber was obsessed with 623. Weird, huh?”

  “Obsessed?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said and raised his right index finger. “First, he lives here in room 623. He’s been here for months. Second,” and he held up another finger, “he rented post office box 623 in Stone Mountain and also box 623 at Decatur’s main post office.” He now held up three fingers.

  “That’s certainly odd,” Burton said.

  “Fourth, he bought a house on Royal Path Court in Decatur. He hadn’t moved in because construction isn’t finished. It’s a tract of land that will eventually have eight houses. His is the only one that’s almost finished. They plan to finish the others before the end of the year. His house won’t be finished for another month or so. But guess what the number of Lauber’s house will be?”

  “Another 623?” I asked.

  Ollie genuinely smiled. “And even crazier, he bought the first of eight large homes, and all the others—all eight—had already been assigned addresses, and all of them were four digits, but he insisted on his being 623 and said he didn’t care what any of the others were.”

  “How could he do that?” Burton asked. “The builder doesn’t assign—”

  “He paid cash. Then he turned around and bought the other seven houses as well. He spent 5.3 mil for the entire tract of completed houses. For California that might be nothing, but here in Georgia, that’s a big hunk of cash.”

  “For money like that,” Burton said, “I guess he could get what he wanted.”

  “What’s the compulsion about 623?” I asked. “Those three digits don’t mean anything to me. What about his birthday? Is it possible 6/23—June twenty-third?”

  Ollie shook his head. “His birthday is November something.”

  “Was he born in 1962 perhaps? That would account for the 62.” But I knew the answer. “Too old. He was in his late thirties, wasn’t he?”

  “Thirty-seven,” Ollie said.

  We batted around various possibilities for the number for a while, but nothing seemed to make sense.

  “One more thing I’ll tell you,” Ollie said, “but it goes no further than this room. Right?” He stared first at Burton and waited for him to say yes before he turned to me. I nodded my agreement.

  Ollie got up and paced the circumference of the small room three or four times. “There is one more thing that might have some value.” Ollie told us he had been the first detective to arrive at the inn. The two uniformed officers touched nothing but waited at the door until he arrived. “When I turned over Lauber’s body last night, his right hand clutched a piece of paper—more a fragment of a piece—ragged, but only about the bottom two inches. I don’t know what happened to the rest of it, but it fits in with this.”

  “You mean the number 623?” I asked. “It was on the fragment?”

  “Yes, and just above it a capital R and a small o—as in the word room. That was printed from a computer, and his handwritten signature was below those two letters.”

  “What does that tell you?” Burton asked.

  “Room 623,” he said. “What else?”

  For a few seconds I tried to figure out what else would fit. Nothing came to mind. Burton seemed as puzzled as I did.

  “I thought maybe you two could add some insight to that.” He rubbed the back of his head. “This obsession with 623 is nuts. Just plain nuts.”

  “Prison cell?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Good thinking, but I checked on that this morning. No connection. In fact, another detective went to the prison and asked around, trying to find some meaning to 623. He came up blank.”

  For perhaps two minutes more, the three of us sat in silence. Ollie poured himself a second glass of water. The ice had melted, and I wondered if the water would be cold enough for the group that was supposed to use the room a little later.

  I decided to stretch as I pondered the situation. I walked to the large windows and looked outside. I admired the cerulean hue of the cloudless sky as it contrasted with the hydrangea along the small path that wound from the sidewalk to the lake. The hydrangea bushes were a bright purple or a soft pink—my dad said the color had something to do with the amount of aluminum in the soil.

  I stood in silence; Ollie paced; Burton stared at the ceiling. Just then the soft noise of the air-conditioning kicked in.

  “Is it a code?” Burton asked. “You know, where each number is a letter?”

  “Okay, suppose it is,” Ollie said. “If 1 is A and B is 2, that means 6 is G, and that gives us GBC. Does GBC mean anything?”

  “Or he may have used a different base,” I said. “Instead of 1 equals A.” Then I laughed. “It’s just as confusing to try to figure that out as it is to stay with 623. After all, if we want to make sense of what went on inside Stefan’s head, we need to understand those three numbers and keep them in that order.”

  We all agreed.

  Aside from the low, indistinct sound of air moving into the room, there was no noise. Ollie reached for a fresh pitcher of water. He poured and gulped down a third glass.

  “Something has been bothering me,” I said. “It’s something Craig, the desk clerk, said.”

  “What was that?” Burton asked.

  “When that woman—Deedra Knight or whoever she was—came to the desk and asked for 623, Craig told her it was taken—”

  “Yeah, we know that,” Ollie said.

  “He also said 621 and 625 were occupied. We know 625 is Lucas Lauber’s room. Who’s in 621? It also has a connecting door, you know. I checked and it was closed. Even so—”

  “Wait here!” Ollie hurried from the room. In less than a minute he returned. “Scott Bell-James from Muscatine, Iowa, is what the registration says.” He walked around the room and then said, “Sounds like a dead end to me.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “The name doesn’t mean anything to me, but from the way Craig talked, I felt it meant more than just somebody taking the room by chance.”

  “I think you’re right,” Burton said. “Almost the clerk’s first words to me were, ‘Everybody wants room 623.’ ”

  “Right!” I said. “When Deedra Knight asked for room 623, Craig insisted that everyone wanted that room and went on to say that 621 and 625 were taken—”

  “As if they chose those rooms because they couldn’t get 623,” Burton said.

  “Maybe we need to locate Scott Bell-James,” Ollie said.

  I wondered what took him so long to figure that out.

  Seven

  Ollie Viktor asked us to leave the tracking down of Scott Bell-James to him. He reminded me—not too sweetly—that he was the professional detective and we were in this only because he allowed us to participate. “And as long as you have something of value to add, you can stay.”

  He didn’t add a threat, but the tone of his voice made his meaning clear. He left us and said he’d be back within half an hour.

  That left Burton and me alone.

  “I suppose you can start your retreat now,” I said without enthusiasm.

  He laughed and shook his head. “Now? And not stay involved in this? Don’t you know me better than that? Besides, this might be a good diversion for me.”

  “Diversion? I thought you wanted rest.”

  “Change. Time away is what I want—what I need.”

  “I don’t know much about how you preacher types work, but I assume you holy Joes have immense theological problems to grapple with so you can make thunderous pronouncements from the pulpit.”

  “You real
ly love to play the ding-a-ling, don’t you?”

  “Do I? Do I really?” It was my best Southern accent and my most innocent look.

  “Enough of that.” He took my arm and said, “Let’s go back into the garden area. Ollie will figure out where we are. You don’t object, do you?”

  Why would I object to walking with Burton?

  As we walked out of the room, Ollie stood near the desk. He talked on his cell, but Craig hovered and didn’t miss a word. Burton signaled that we were going out to the benches again and that we would turn right instead of left as before. Ollie waved us on.

  We walked slowly down the path. By then, of course, he had released my arm, and I couldn’t think of any way to get him to take it or to hold my hand. We found a small alcove with two benches that faced each other. On three sides of us grew an assortment of daylilies—some bright yellow, a few tiger lilies, and a variety of tall pristine white. Around the flowers the gardeners had planted sage and mint. I closed my eyes. Instead of being overpowering, the fragrance was just enough to enjoy.

  This time we both sat on the same bench, and Burton leaned forward. “I want to tell you something.”

  I started to make a crack about liking to have him tell me anything, but the seriousness in those deep blue eyes told me to keep my mouth shut.

  “You’re the reason I’m here,” he said.

  “Me? You found out I was coming here?” I knew that wasn’t what he meant, but I wanted to hear him say it. I liked the way this conversation had started.

  “No, that’s not what I meant.” He turned away from me and played with his watchband for several seconds. “It’s more than that. I’m in a dilemma . . . a real dilemma. I felt I had to get away for a few days to think.” His voice became softer and lower so that I had to strain to hear the last few words. “It’s you I need to think about.”

  “Me?” I asked. I loved hearing that but decided to play naïve. “Why would you need to think about me?”

  “You know I like you,” he said.

  “And I like you.”

  “A lot. I like you a lot.”

  “And I like you a lot too.”

  “There you go with that ding-a-ling thing again,” he said. But the hint of a smile made me know he liked it when I did that. He turned his face toward me. “I have feelings . . . strong feelings toward you, but—”

  “But I’m a fallen woman, and you’re the pure gentleman—”

  “Don’t, Julie.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “No game playing, at least not for a few minutes. Please,” he said. “You know what I mean.”

  “Yes, I do.” And of course I did. “I had no idea—really—that you felt, you know, that you liked—”

  “It’s this way. God is truly the most important thing in my life. He comes first. I—I, well, you’re not a Christian, and—”

  “Okay, I’ll help you with this one,” I said. When we met at the coast, I had told him about living with my religious-but-legalistic uncle. More than anyone else, my uncle Rich had turned me against the church, preachers, and Christianity. Burton had started to rebuild some of that destructive mind-set. I visited his church several times, and to my immense surprise, I liked the people. They were friendly, and I enjoyed the warm atmosphere. I had never felt that before inside a church building. Best of all, no one cornered me or tried to get me to rush down to the front and cry out for salvation.

  “You mean you understand what I’m trying to say?” Burton asked.

  I held up my hand. “My uncle had a saying. Okay, he had a lot of sayings, and most of them were aimed at me and my waywardness. One time a certain young preacher visited him and I liked him. Tall, blond. You know, a real hunk. And best of all, he wasn’t married. He and I hit it off rather well, and I flirted with him.”

  Burton cocked his right eyebrow as if to ask, “Where is this story going?”

  “After the man left, my uncle told me how shameless I had acted. He was correct, of course. I wouldn’t have used the word shameless, but I knew what he meant. He raised his right hand. He always did that when he was getting ready to preach for my benefit.”

  Yes, it was one of those memories that sticks inside the brain and never seems to diminish.

  Uncle Rich stood in the middle of the room. Usually his voice started low, and as he warmed up, it rose in pitch and volume. This time he started on a high octave, and anyone in the house could have heard him. “You’re shameless. You’re a hussy. You’re a tempter sent from the devil himself.”

  I had heard Uncle Rich so many times that his preaching had begun to wear thin, and I had become immune to his insinuations. He had the amazing ability to read the vilest intention into everything I did. I wasn’t quite ready to leave his house—that came about six weeks later—but I was tired of all his accusations.

  “And what did I do this time?” I sighed loudly, but I knew that gesture was lost on my uncle.

  “You have to ask? You flaunted yourself! You think I didn’t see you lean toward him? You touched his hand! When you came back with the iced tea, you sat so close to him that I couldn’t have put a piece of paper between you!” He raved on for at least a full minute.

  “Really? You were watching me and all the sinful things I was doing? I thought you were listening to his talk about sanctification and the need for people to turn from idols of iniquity.” I smiled at my uncle. “You see? I listened.”

  “How dare you mock me! You—you Jezebel! You temptress! You seductress! You wanton woman!”

  “My, my, Uncle Rich, you must think about sex and sin a lot.” I had overstepped that time. His face filled with anger, and I wondered if he was going to hit me.

  “Let me warn you, young lady. You may end up corrupting that innocent man, but—”

  “Corrupt? We had iced tea together in your presence. What kind of mind do you have?”

  “He invited you to church, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, he did. And he said they had three hundred members.”

  “It’s a beginning. I know how women like you work. You’ll go to church and you’ll play up to him and then trap him like a spider traps a fly.”

  “Can you really see all of that in my future?” I laughed. “I like him. Yeah, I like him a lot.”

  Uncle Rich came up to me and stopped only inches from my face. He stared into my eyes and said, “If a man marries the devil’s daughter, he’ll certainly have trouble with his father-in-law.”

  “That’s a good one! Probably the best one-liner you’ve ever come up with!”

  I actually laughed. He must have heard that line somewhere, because Uncle Rich wasn’t clever enough to think of anything original.

  He slapped me.

  I stared at him in surprise. It was the first time he had struck me. Several times in the past I had expected it, but he’d restrained himself.

  “I hate you,” I said calmly. “I hate you, and I detest your religion and despise your god and everything else you talk about.”

  “That’s because you are of your father, the devil.”

  “Okay, that’s fine. So it’s a family issue. I’m the devil’s child and you’re my uncle.”

  He slapped me again.

  I ran from the room. That’s when I determined I had to get away from there. I was still a college student and had no place to go. But I knew I had to find a place—any place. If he struck me and I put up with that, where would the abuse lead?

  Two weeks later I met Dana Macie, had a quickie romance, married him, and a few weeks after our wedding, I learned he was into drugs. Later Dana died in a car accident.

  As my mind came back to the present, I knew exactly what Burton struggled over. “If you marry the devil’s daughter, you’ll have problems with your father-in-law,” I said. “Isn’t that what you mean?”

  Burton winced. “That’s a bit strong.”

  “But the principle is right, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” he said softly. “Yes, I suppo
se—”

  “So you came here to the inn because—”

  “Because I had to figure out what to do. I care about you—I care a lot—a lot more than I ever thought I would—”

  “So that’s bad, is it?”

  I’m not sure he heard my smart reply. “Julie, Julie, I’ve tried to hold back, but my feelings for you . . . well, I’ve never felt this strongly about a woman. Any woman. Ever.”

  “And the problem is?”

  “Don’t do that,” he said. “You know the issue.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “I’ll also tell you that I like you a lot, more than I ever thought possible. I don’t know if I love you. I’m afraid to think about loving anyone.” I was lying when I said those words, because I knew I did. “You know, one time down the chute with Dana Macie—”

  “I remember your telling me.”

  “But it’s more than your feelings, isn’t it?” I asked. “Okay, I’ll make it easier for you. According to your religion, we have no common foundation. You’re committed to—to your God, and I’m a—”

  “Yes, but you make it sound petty—”

  “It is petty—and cruel—to me,” I said, “but I also know it’s absolutely serious to you.”

  “I could never marry a non-Christian.”

  “My uncle Rich was right about one thing. You’re a son of God, and I’m a daughter of the devil.”

  “Now you’ve gone from sounding petty to harsh.”

  “Maybe that’s my protective barrier you’ve just crashed into. I don’t want to be hurt. Not again.”

  “I wouldn’t want to hurt you, Julie. Not ever,” he said softly. “I hope you believe me.”

  “I know that.”

  “It doesn’t have to be like this—”

  “You mean if I turn to Jesus and—”

  He stared at me, and I knew he wanted to take my hands, but I couldn’t let him. I stood up. I wasn’t ready to hear a long lecture on what I needed to do to get my life right with God. “I don’t believe—at least not like you do, Burton. I’d like to believe. I’m open, or at least I try to be.”

  “What’s the problem?”