Everybody Wanted Room 623

by Cecil Murphey

  We moved on down the path and saw a glass-enclosed area of Jerusalem cherry plants. They smell terrible, but they were made untouchable because their bright orange fruit is poison and a part of the foxglove family. I could have stayed all day as we walked among the blue, violet, and white lobelia.

  “You didn’t come out here just to wander among nature,” Burton said. “Something is troubling you. Right?”

  “Either you’re highly intuitive or you read me well—maybe both.”

  “Maybe,” he said and rewarded me with that gorgeous smile.

  “I feel as if there’s some kind of conspiracy going on around me.”

  “Conspiracy?” he asked. “Maybe. The diamonds are worth a lot of—”

  “I didn’t mean the diamonds.”

  He stopped and stared at me. “You’ve lost me.”

  “You talk to me about God—”

  “Yes, but specifically about Jesus Christ the Savior.”

  “Okay, specifically about Jesus Christ. Then Jason Omore is a Christian, and I learn that Stefan is a believer. Chops Harrison becomes the newest surprise,” I said. “Oh yes, and Ollie is one—or at least he’s supposed to be one too.”

  “You don’t think he’s genuine?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “You’re the preacher. You ought to know.”

  Burton laughed. “Long ago I stopped judging people. At best I’m a fruit inspector.”

  Now it was my turn to look confused.

  “Jesus said, ‘By their fruits you will know them.’ So I test fruit from time to time, but it’s still not my job to decide who believes and who doesn’t. My role is to encourage and help those who are open. If they are good fruit, I do whatever I can to help them grow.”

  “I like that,” I said. “Great attitude.” Immediately I thought of Uncle Rich, who always knew with pinpoint accuracy—or so he implied—precisely which people would enter the portals of heaven and those who rushed toward the pit of utter destruction.

  “So about this conspiracy,” Burton said. “Want to tell me more?”

  “I feel as if I’m getting crowded, that’s all.”

  “Am I pushing too hard?”

  “No, of course not.” I bent down and pinched the top two leaves off a chocolate mint plant and handed him one. I chewed on my leaf. He watched me and did the same. “But, Burton, it’s as if you had programmed each of the others to come in and recite their stories—their experiences of faith—just for me.”

  Burton stopped walking and grinned at me.

  “So now you’re going to tell me that it’s some kind of divine conspiracy.”

  “Is it?” he asked.

  “Is it?”

  “I don’t know,” he said softly. “I know that I pray for you every day. I want you to experience deep inner peace—the kind of peace I’ve found.”

  “You pray for me?”

  “Every day.”

  As I stared into his dark blue eyes, I knew he meant every word. “I don’t know, Burton. I think—I think maybe I want to believe all this. Maybe I will.”

  “Maybe you will,” he said, and we continued walking. We had made a complete circle, which I estimated to be about three-quarters of a mile.

  After he said those words, I didn’t respond at first. Frankly, I didn’t know what I wanted. “Maybe,” I finally said.

  Twelve

  As soon as Burton and I completed the circle around the small lake, we decided to join Ollie. We had gotten within ten feet of the room when a man came from the direction of the desk. He stopped at the door of the suite the inn had given us and knocked.

  Burton stepped up and introduced himself and me. Before he had a chance to tell us who he was, Ollie opened the door. “Come in, come in,” he said.

  We entered the room, and all three of us turned to the stranger.

  “I had a message on my cell that Detective Oliver Viktor wanted to see me. My name is Scott Bell-James.”

  Although he was probably about five seven, I estimated his weight to be in excess of three hundred pounds. His tan suit pants strained to encompass his enormous thighs. The buttons on his shirt met, but there was no possibility he could button his chocolate brown blazer. He wore a tie of yellow polka dots on a field of rich russet, which clashed with his blazer and emphasized the extraordinary circumference of his neck. His face was extremely round, and his almost-auburn eyes glinted with intelligence. In spite of his great size—or perhaps because of it—he was compulsively neat. His clothes were immaculate. His hands were pink and his nails manicured and neatly trimmed. He looked as if he had just come from the barber, with not a single strand of graying-brown hair out of place. He carried a briefcase that he clutched tightly.

  Ollie approached him silently and appraised him for several seconds in a way that probably would have intimidated most people. “Yes, Mr. Bell-James. I’m Oliver Viktor.” He pointed to a chair and asked the man to sit. “It’s really quite a small thing, sir.” Ollie sounded as if he were trying to imitate Peter Falk as Columbo.

  “Certainly, Mr. Viktor. Just how may I help?”

  “You are booked in room 621?”

  “That is correct.”

  “You asked for 623 first?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Why did you want 623?”

  “Is there a crime against requesting a particular room?”

  “Oh no, sir, of course not,” Ollie said quietly. He scratched the back of his head. “It is a bit unusual, but not illegal.” Ollie’s hands were no longer shaking, and he seemed calmer than he had been since we first met.

  “But why did you want 623? Why didn’t you ask for, say, 519?”

  The man stared at Ollie for what seemed like a long time. He blinked a couple of times. “That information is not quite correct. I did not ask for 623.”

  “Well then, the information I have contradicts that, and this whole thing seems confusing to me,” Ollie said.

  “No, I might as well tell you. I asked about 623—but that was only to verify that Stefan Lauber had that room.” He took several deep sighs as if he felt relieved to explain. “If the room had been vacant, then I would have known he wasn’t there. I knew he had been there the week before. You see, I, uh, hired a private investigator to locate him for me. Very simple, right?”

  “Go on.”

  “Once the clerk informed me that Mr. Lauber was in room 623—I pointedly asked him, and it cost me a small bribe to get the information—I requested the room next to 623.” He held up his hand and said, “I did not explain my reason, and I’m not sure what I would have said if the clerk had asked. He didn’t.”

  “And he gave you room 621.”

  “That is correct.”

  “When did you check into room 621?”

  “Three days ago.”

  Ollie sat in silence as if waiting for Scott Bell-James to add more. Outside a mower started up at the end of the building.

  “Why did you want room 621?”

  “I didn’t care if it was 621 or 625. Either one would have been satisfactory.” As he spoke, not only was his pronunciation precise, but I detected the slightest British accent.

  This time Ollie sighed. “Okay, Mr. Bell-James—”

  “Please call me Scott.”

  “Okay, Scott, why did you want the room next to Stefan Lauber?”

  “It is quite simple. In fact, the reason is very, very simple. I came to the Cartledge Inn to kill him.”

  Thirteen

  All of us were so shocked by Scott Bell-James’s confession that he came to murder Stefan Lauber that for several seconds we simply stared at him.

  Ollie recovered first and said, “You admit you killed Lauber?”

  “I did not say that, and I made no such confession.” Scott straightened up as if to make his short stature taller. “I came to the Cartledge Inn for the precise purpose of putting an end to his miserable existence. However, I did not commit the deed.” He smiled. “I was quite fortunate, because s
omeone took care of that untidy task for me.” He walked over to the wingback chair. Without being asked, he sat and carefully pulled the creases on his slacks to avoid wrinkles.

  “Okay, I want to be sure this is correct,” Ollie said. He pointed to Burton and me, introduced us, and explained who we were. He emphasized that we were not police but were professionals. He didn’t say what kind of professionals, and Bell-James didn’t ask. We sat on the couch and turned so that we could face Scott.

  Ollie sat on the opposite couch and pulled out the ubiquitous notebook. “If needed, they will act as witnesses to this conversation. Do you have any objections?”

  “Of course not. Ask whatever you wish. I have absolutely nothing to hide.”

  “Okay, let’s review this.” Ollie went through all the information Scott had given us and ended with, “You admit you came here to kill him. You were here two nights before the murder, and you claim you did not kill him.”

  “That is correct. I did not murder Mr. Lauber.”

  “If you came to kill him,” Burton said, “why didn’t you do it the first or second night?”

  “The first night, Monday, I wasn’t ready. Although I am a man of great determination, I am not a person of great courage, you see, and I had to work up the courage—the ability—to commit the deed.”

  “And the second night?”

  “Tuesday night, I was almost ready. I knocked at his door, but he did not answer. I went to the lobby and used a hotel phone to call his room. He did not answer and I left no message.”

  “Why didn’t you call from your room?”

  He smiled. “Perhaps I’ve watched too many episodes of Law and Order or reruns of the old NYPD series, which was my favorite, but I assumed there was the bare possibility that the Cartledge Inn might maintain a record of calls from room to room. I knew they would not have a record from the lobby.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “You’ve been so open about all this, why were you devious about that?”

  “Oh, that is extremely simple,” he said. He tugged at his tie to loosen it slightly. “I had not settled on whether to make my crime public. I had planned to shoot him, but I had yet to decide if I wished to go to the police and confess or attempt to hide what I did. That does take considerable thinking, would you not agree?” He stood and took off his blazer. He folded it neatly and carefully laid it on the arm of the chair. “Would you mind if I had a bottle of that water? I am quite parched.” Burton was closest to the cooler, so he grabbed one and handed it to Scott. The man drank greedily. The three of us sat and watched while he finished all eight ounces.

  “Would you like another?” I asked.

  He shook his head. He laid his briefcase carefully on the floor, walked over to the cooler, picked up a paper napkin, wiped the bottom of the water bottle, and set it on the table. He came back to the chair and sat. For a man of his girth, he moved gracefully. “So what is your next question?” Scott asked.

  “Well, perhaps it’s too obvious,” Ollie said, “but why did you want to kill Lauber?”

  “Oh, I apologize, I truly do. You see, I’ve never been interrogated before. This is quite an adventure. I assumed you knew all of that and that was the reason you had asked me to come in for an interrogation.”

  “All of that? What do you mean?” Ollie leaned forward as if this were the most fascinating witness he had ever questioned. I wondered what kind of role he now played.

  “Permit me first to explain my background,” Scott said. “Please indulge me and try to be patient with me. My late wife said that it sometimes takes me a grand loop around Piccadilly Circus before I make my point.”

  He told us that he was British by birth and an American citizen by choice. He went into lengthy detail to explain why he had a hyphenated surname, and it had something to do with a family named James that was disreputable and it was his father’s way to distinguish between them.

  I was already bored, but I wanted to watch and see how Ollie handled this. To his credit he said nothing, although he crossed and recrossed his legs three times.

  Scott Bell-James told us, eventually, that his wife of twenty-three years had died of cancer a year earlier, and she had been his total life. “Without Edna, I really have little else to live for.” He said that during her lingering illness of more than two years, he diverted himself by thinking about the terrible crimes committed by Stefan Lauber and that he ought to be punished “for his dastardly deed.”

  “But why that crime?” I asked. “It seems, well, so offbeat. I’d think you’d focus on something more—more like rapists or—”

  “Again, I need to make myself clear. You see, Edna’s brother was Jeremiah Macgregor.”

  The three of us stared at each other. Ollie raised his hands and shrugged.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Jeremiah Macgregor,” he said. “May I have another bottle of water?”

  He went through the same ritual again, including drying the bottom of the plastic bottle. After he was seated again, Scott said, “Oh, perhaps you did not know or you did not make the connection. Forgive me. I live with such inner pain and become quite obsessive, and I quite forget that others do not know. You see, Jeremiah Macgregor was my late wife’s brother. That may not sound like a strong bond, but I wish to assure you that he was far, far more than my brother-in-law. He was more like my own brother. No, he was more than that. In my entire life, I have never had such a friend, someone who understood me so well, accepted my faults, and truly, truly loved me. I often said he was the brother I never had. For almost twenty years, the four of us spent our holidays—sorry, our vacations—together and were the closest friends.”

  I was the impatient one this time. I was ready to say, “Stop circling Piccadilly Circus.”

  He must have read my face. “Please forgive me,” he said and nodded my way. “I shall attempt to condense this. Edna and I were never able to have children. Jeremiah and Roberta . . .” He paused and smiled before he added, “Roberta is my younger sister. I have two sisters but no brothers—”

  “Yes, we understand,” Ollie said.

  “Well, this is important, I think. You see, I married Jeremiah’s sister, and he married my sister. Is that not rather amazing? Actually, I have two sisters—”

  “So you’ve already told us,” Ollie said.

  “Oh yes, so I did.”

  “Just get to the point before I die of old age.” Ollie had stopped being Columbo and now segued into a bad-cop routine.

  “Yes, yes, of course. But you see, Jeremiah and Roberta have sons—three wonderful boys—and I have had to assume some degree of responsibility—”

  Ollie got up, walked over to Scott Bell-James, grabbed his tie, and jerked him forward. “I don’t care about Roberta or Jeremiah or their five sons—”

  “Three sons.”

  “Two. Five. So what?”

  “Oh yes, but of course that would not matter to you,” Scott said. He didn’t seem the least bit uncomfortable that Ollie had yanked him forward, although that quick jerk must have hurt his neck.

  I got up and walked over. I removed Ollie’s hand from the man’s tie and straightened it. “Scott, please forgive us for our impatience, but your late wife was correct. You’re taking a long time to get to whatever it is you want to tell us. Can you be just a little more direct?”

  “Yes, yes, I can do that.” He reached for a third bottle of water, and Burton tossed it to him. He drank the contents and thanked us for being so accommodating. As soon as he finished, I took the bottle, and he watched me wipe away all moisture. He rewarded me with a smile.

  Ollie was ready to blow up in anger, but I laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you sit back down, Ollie? I’ll help Scott tell his story.” I got down on my knees next to him.

  “Okay, help us with the connection. Who was Jeremiah Macgregor, and what does he have to do with Stefan Lauber?”

  “Why, he was the courier. Weren’t you aware of that fact?”


  “The diamond courier?” Burton asked.

  “Yes, of course. That is the reason I have been so—so compulsively antagonized. Edna was his sister, and my truly beloved wife. First I lost Jeremiah, who was my best friend. My best friend in the—”

  “Yeah, I know, the best in the world,” Ollie said and let out an extremely loud sigh. “Finally.”

  I held up my hand to Ollie and said to Scott, “Go on, tell us.”

  “As my beloved wife declined in health, I realized I would soon be deprived of the two people I loved the most in the world. As her cancer progressed, I became obsessed over Jeremiah’s death. Perhaps it was the only thing I could do at that time to cope with her illness. By allowing my mind to focus on repaying Stefan Lauber for his odious crime, I could find a reason to continue to live. Finally, Edna died. I had lost two of the dearest people in my life, my sweet, adorable Edna and my very best friend in—”

  “In the world.”

  Scott stared at Ollie and back at me. “Is he angry about something?”

  “He’s a policeman and he suffers from acid reflux,” I said. “He wants information quickly. Just go on.”

  “One evening I listened to the local news on the NBC affiliate. I don’t like the Fox Channel because—” He stopped and cleared his throat. “That is, I heard that Stefan Lauber had been released from prison. He had served less than two years. Two years for accepting stolen goods—but worse—two years for a crime that included the murder of Jeremiah, my best—”

  “Your best friend in the whole world.” Ollie rolled his eyes.

  “I could think of nothing else—I don’t mean that almost literally, you understand, because although most people use that word, they only mean it as a figure of speech that—”

  “Yes, it’s a figure of speech,” Burton said.

  “Anyway, I decided I had to have justice. I searched online for a private investigator.” He smiled as if pleased with himself. “I remembered how they did such things in the TV shows. I actually interviewed three, but I finally settled on Terrance Waylin. He is local, you see, and his office is located on—”