The Fat Innkeeper

by Alan Russell

  “I have to go feed the meter,” Am said. He had anted up for an hour, not expecting their visit to take longer than that, and there was still no word from McHugh. Hiroshi nodded, and Am went out to feed some quarters. The way of the world, he thought. You pay the city to talk with their so-called public servants.

  He didn’t come back empty-handed, which made him feel better for having something to do besides just waiting. Am brought along the copies he had made at the library, and to his surprise found the reading interesting. One of Kingsbury’s books documented the distribution of human blood groups around the world. “Strange is it,” Kingsbury quoted from Shakespeare, “that our bloods, of color, weight and heat, pour’d all together, would quite confound distinction, yet stands off in differences so mighty.” In the Bard’s day, no one knew about the four blood types, A, O, AB, and B. Kingsbury’s book scientifically documented the “differences so mighty.”

  Am read how anthropologists had traced migration routes through the genetics of blood-group inheritance. The “trail of blood” could be followed along the Bering Strait and other migration routes, the gene markers identified by types and factors in blood. It wasn’t light reading, with passages dwelling on phenotypes, gene frequencies, graphs, genetical shorthand, and mathematical formulas, but Am wasn’t willing to be deterred. He was on his own trail of blood.

  Preoccupation always draws attention. Hiroshi started reading the pages that Am had finished with. Though he never inquired directly as to Am’s interest, his curious glances were finally rewarded.

  “It’s probably nothing,” said Am, putting his last page of reading aside and answering Hiroshi’s looks, “but I’m wondering if Kingsbury didn’t announce his murderer when he died.”

  Am sighed, wishing he had something more dramatic to announce. It seemed a tenuous supposition even to him, but it was his only potential lead. “Dr. Kingsbury’s last words were ‘Be positive.’ We’ve all operated on that assumption. But were those really his last words? Kingsbury was a hematologist, a blood doctor. Among his peers his last words might have been interpreted very differently. A fellow hematologist might have assumed he was saying, ‘B positive,’ as in a blood type.”

  “Be positive,” said Hiroshi. Or was he repeating, “B positive”?

  “Part of this investigation has been to get to know Dr. Kingsbury,” said Am, “to try and understand how he thought and acted. What was he thinking as he lay dying? Did his medical background come to the fore? Facing his own mortality, I imagine he was scared and confused. Gasping for breath, paralyzed, he might have been at a loss to even remember his murderer’s name. That’s where his training might have taken over. Kingsbury the research scientist might have identified his killer in a way that made perfect sense to him.”

  Am didn’t sound like Perry Mason making a point. Spoken aloud, he thought his theory sounded thin. In this instance, he wasn’t even sure if blood was thicker than water.

  “How would Dr. Kingsbury have known the blood type of his murderer?” asked Hiroshi.

  “My guess is through his medical questionnaires,” said Am. “I was able to obtain one. It’s extensive, goes so far as to ask for the blood group, and has a box to check positive or negative.”

  “What medical questionnaires are you referring to?”

  Am explained how the UNDER conventioneers had filled out medical questionnaires for Kingsbury prior to their gathering, and how Kingsbury had selected sixty of them to interview during the conference.

  “B positive,” said Hiroshi. “Is this blood type that uncommon?”

  “Not in your country,” said Am. “Japan has twice as many B genes as in America. In Japan, seventeen percent of the population has type B blood.”

  Am thought about Hiroshi’s interest in the case, and for a moment felt a little paranoid. He had to ask the question: “Do you know your blood group?”

  “O,” said Hiroshi, “although I couldn’t tell you whether it’s positive or negative.”

  “Probably positive,” said Am, then glumly added, “It would have been a much better clue if Kingsbury had said, ‘B negative.”

  “Not necessarily,” said Hiroshi. “Everyone might have just assumed he was being fatalistic at his end. From what you have said, it was his optimistic final words which surprised everyone, and drew attention.”

  There might be something to that, thought Am, but he still wished the doctor had done a better job of identifying his murderer. While a B positive blood type was relatively uncommon in San Diego, a B negative would have been much more rare. He had learned how all blood types are either Rh positive or Rh negative. The determination of Rh factor was done through red-blood-cell tests (they were originally done on rhesus monkeys—thus the Rh) whereby if the cells clumped, the blood was identified as Rh positive, and if they didn’t, the blood was Rh negative. The designation was particulary important in pregnancies. If mother and fetus have different Rh blood factors, complications can result. In the United States, Am had learned, only 15 percent of the population has Rh negative blood.

  “Caulfield,” announced Detective McHugh. “Sorry to have kept you.”

  The detective managed to say those words with a straight face, even if there was some giveaway in his eyes. McHugh would have preferred finding Caulfield red in the face and stomping around, but having made him cool his heels for ninety minutes was almost good enough.

  Hiroshi was already standing and bowing. “This is Hiroshi Yamada,” said Am, “of the Hotel California.”

  The Fat Innkeeper presented McHugh with his hand, and then his business card. The detective halfheartedly shook hands, but didn’t offer his own business card, merely pocketed Hiroshi’s card and looked unimpressed. He knew the Jap was the big Hotel cheese, but that didn’t excite him. As far as McHugh was concerned, the sooner the Hotel fell into the ocean, the better.

  The detective led them to an elevator. “Ground rules,” he said. “You can look over the case file, as well as Kingsbury’s notes and the questionnaires, but no copies. Not even any notes.”

  “Why?” asked Am.

  “Because this is an active homicide investigation,” McHugh said, though by the tone of his voice he might just as well have said, “Because I said so.”

  On the ride up, the detective decided to elaborate a little more. “This information is sensitive, and nothing is attributable, even to that reporter you were playing footsies with at the press conference.

  “Speaking of which, Caulfield,” said McHugh, “couldn’t you have been a little more generous with that food you served? Those reporters didn’t even leave crumbs for me.”

  They got out of the elevator and the detective led them to what must have been an interrogation room, told them to sit there, and went to get the promised material. When he returned, McHugh dropped the stack of questionnaires, loudly, onto the table. Then, ignoring Am’s outstretched hand, he tossed the investigative reports and Kingsbury’s notes atop the questionnaires. He also tossed a bone.

  “Talked with your two birds this afternoon,” he said. “That’s why I was a little late. I’d say they’re both guilty.”

  It took Am a moment to figure out that the detective was referring to Skylar and Brother Howard. “How could they both be guilty?” asked Am.

  “Guilty of being con artists,” said McHugh. “Guilty of being liars. Guilty of being greedy slugs. And it wouldn’t surprise me if one of them is guilty of murdering Doc Kingsbury.”

  He walked to the door of the conference room, warned Am and Hiroshi once more not to make notes, and said that if he suspected them of trying to smuggle anything out they’d be subject to full body searches, “including any and all cavities.” He closed the door firmly behind him.

  Hiroshi, for one, believed him. “Please do not try to leave with anything,” he said.

  “Only my dignity,” said Am, even if he suspected that was wishful thinking.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Bradford Beck had gotten a g
limpse into a world very different from the Scottsdale country-club set he was used to. It had scared the hell out of him.

  He hadn’t known that the police had no intention of booking him. They had put him in holding (along with mostly drunks), ostensibly as a preliminary to processing him. In reality, he was under observation of sorts. If he acted truly bonkers, they’d take him for a ride to county mental health. If he acted no crazier than most who were behind bars, they’d kick him.

  Bradford tried to make himself invisible to everyone in the holding tank, or as invisible as possible with bright-red pajamas. He sat in a corner and came to life only when someone resembling SDPD came around, at which time he was extremely unctuous. That was probably one of the reasons he got kicked early. Cops aren’t very fond of gratuitous ass-kissers. Better to be cursed, in their opinion, than to get too many “Yes, sirs” and “Thank you, officers.” Bradford’s release didn’t come quite in time. Before he left, one of his roommates threw up on his calfskin loafers. Though Bradford tried to wash the shoes at a water fountain, he couldn’t seem to rinse off the smell. The damnedest thing was that despite the vomit and rinsing, the shine on the shoes was still something to behold.

  People’s idea of heaven can radically change at any given time. After his experience, Bradford couldn’t imagine anything more pleasureablc than taking a bath. He didn’t care if his room was a shambles. He didn’t care if the staff at the Hotel was insolent and uncaring. After being thrown in with hardened criminals and felons (so he thought), and being afraid for his own life, he was ready to be more accepting. And besides, that itch in his groin area was driving him crazy. He had been afraid to scratch in the holding tank, afraid to give others ideas. But a bath and a good scratch—that was heaven. That was all he could ask for.

  He had a hell of a time getting a taxi to stop for him, had to show his cash and promise a sizable tip before the driver would consent to take him, and even then the man had an attitude. The cabbie kept pointedly sniffing the air, and made a point of opening his window and keeping his nose out of the cab as much as possible.

  Bradford was probably the first person in the Hotel’s history to be dropped off wearing pajamas. He ran ashamedly up to his room. When he opened the door, Bradford immediately sensed something was wrong. The room smelled… nice. There was a spring scent in the air, the fragrance of pine needles and lavender. Afraid that he was walking into the wrong room, Bradford double-checked the room number to make sure he wasn’t breaking and entering. It was 212.

  Everything was immaculate. This was the room he had expected the day before. The sliding glass doors were so clean as to be almost invisible, and beyond them was the ocean, blue, and immense, and inviting. For a moment Bradford forgot about his itch. He went to the sliding glass doors, girded himself for a mighty tug, but only had to use his index finger to throw the doors open. The ocean breeze kissed him lightly. The sun was getting lower in the horizon, was already casting a red tint to the clouds. A spectacular sunset was in the offing.

  Bradford walked back inside the room and looked around. There was a fruit basket, by God, on the table, with a card which read “Compliments of the Management.” Bradford remembered how hungry he was, and quickly chewed down an apple, then sucked on an orange. He walked around the room and was amazed at the difference. It was now light and cheery and bright and… expensive. The trappings were those of glossy magazines: solid wood and comfortable chintz and live plants and original artwork, with the backdrop of the immense Pacific. It was the picture postcard he had so wanted.

  Somewhat dazed, he ran a bath. It was like one of those fairy tales, he thought, where the elves had come and in a very few hours had transformed a setting. The sunken tub filled with water. The Hotel offered not one, but two kinds of bath gelee. Suds frothed everywhere. Before easing himself into the water, Bradford removed his offensive lizard-skin shoes and placed them on the balcony. He wanted to let the ocean breeze work its wonders on them, had the distinct feeling that in a few hours they’d smell as good as they looked. Bradford took off his soiled clothes, threw them in one of the valet bags, then sank down into the tub. This was beyond ecstasy. He scratched and scratched. Almost, he was able to relieve himself of that damned itch.

  He had no desire to get out of the tub. Periodically, with a twist of his foot, he treated himself to some more hot water. When he had left the room that morning, the bathroom hadn’t even had a towel (not to mention any toilet paper). Now there was a rackful of thick towels, and two full inviting terrycloth robes. A fat amenity basket had magically appeared, whereas before there hadn’t even been soap in the room. There was even a telephone in the bathroom, Bradford noticed. And it was apparently working, to judge by the flashing red message light.

  Bradford reached for the phone, dialed 0. “Hotel operator,” said a pleasant voice. “How may I help you, Mr. Beck?”

  This was the service he had expected. This was the pleasant and mellifluous voice he had wanted. The last twenty-four hours now seemed like a bad dream.

  “I have a message,” he said.

  “One moment, please,” said a voice. The hold music played Mozart, pleasant and sweeping passages. He didn’t have to wait long, though, which was almost a pity.

  “Thank you for holding, Mr. Beck,” she said. “The message was from a Ms. Cleo Harris. She called at eleven-fifteen this morning, and left no forwarding number. Her message is, ‘Don’t ever try to communicate with me again, you swine.’ “

  There was a long silence between the operator and Bradford, before she said, “There are no other messages, Mr. Beck.”

  Another silence. “Can I be of any other assistance, Mr. Beck?”

  “Can you put me on hold for a while?” he asked. “I’d sort of like to listen to that music again.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Beck.”

  The damn itch was back. To the strains of Mozart, Bradford scratched mightily.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  “It’s hard being positive,” said Am, “with only one B positive.”

  Hiroshi didn’t seem to be sharing his gloom. They were driving back to the Hotel and the Fat Innkeeper was once again intent on seeing the scenery.

  Les (“that’s my real name, honest”) Moore had been the only B positive in the entire group of questionnaires. Am didn’t see how the New Jersey CPA could have had anything to do with Dr. Kingsbury’s death. Boring people to death would have been Moore’s way, not poisoning them.

  Am had thought there would be several B positives (statistically there should have been two or three out of the sixty, dammit), and had hoped the identity of the murderer would suddenly be obvious, would jump out at him. Now the only thing jumping out at him was his gloom. It was time to bring his investigation to a close and hope the police could do better. He’d go through the process of interviewing Moore, probably be forced into hearing more details of his near-death experience, then he’d slip into a deep depression. Intuitively, Am knew Moore hadn’t killed Kingsbury. He wished he’d been as intuitive about B positive.

  “The gold rush,” said Hiroshi, “occurred in California in 1849, did it not?”

  “Uh-huh,” said Am distractedly. “Not here, though. It happened in northern California, around Fort Sutter.”

  “San Diego has no gold?”

  “Not too much of the ore variety,” said Am. “There are a few tired veins around Julian and Campo. That’s about it.”

  “How is it then,” asked Hiroshi, “that in Dr. Kingsbury’s room they found traces of gold?”

  Am looked at the Fat Innkeeper. While he had been busy going through the questionnaires, and trying to decipher Kingsbury’s illegible handwriting, Hiroshi had started reading the investigative reports.

  “Traces of gold?” Am repeated.

  Hiroshi nodded.

  “Where were they found?”

  “In the carpeting. Several flakes.”

  Am wished he had read the case file. He had thought his answers would be foun
d in the questionnaires or the doctor’s notes, hadn’t considered they might emerge elsewhere. “Did the police theorize where the gold came from?”

  “There was no conjecture in the pages I read,” said Hiroshi.

  “The doctor was fond of a certain drink called Goldschlager,” Am said. “There’s actual gold flakes in it.”

  “Gold in a drink?” asked Hiroshi. It didn’t make sense to the Japanese man, but then he probably wouldn’t have understood about pet rocks either.

  “You’d have to try it,” Am said, but he was thinking about something else, something he should have considered earlier. Just how had Thomas Kingsbury been poisoned?

  “Gold flakes in a drink,” repeated Hiroshi. “Isn’t gold toxic?”

  “It damn well can be,” Am said.

  Someone must have doctored Kingsbury’s bottle of Goldschlager. No, that wouldn’t have been certain enough. Someone must have hand-delivered him a potassium-cyanide cocktail. With all the gold floating around, the doctor wouldn’t have noticed a few white flakes. By all accounts, Kingsbury didn’t sip this particular drink. He would have downed the poison and the drink in a single gulp.

  Annette responded to the gas. The speedometer rose from sixty to seventy, then to eighty, and kept rising. She started to make sounds. For the last ten years she had never been pushed beyond sixty-five. Hirsohi looked at Am with alarm.

  “I think I know who murdered Dr. Kingsbury,” Am said. Then, to Annette, “We’re going to the beach.”

  The old woody rattled but held. Anyone who regularly travels Southern California freeways is used to seeing unusual sights, but this one was worth taking notice: a woody that was almost half a century old was racing for all she was worth toward home. Most of those in the fast lane gave the right of way to Annette. It was a good thing. Her brakes had always been iffy, and no one would mistake her handling for that of a sports car.