by CeeCee James
What had he thrown in the trash? Was it possible it was a clue? What kinds of laws would I be breaking by checking it out?
I opened the door and stepped out, trying to shut it quietly behind me. All I knew was that it was worth the risk. I’d had two bad things happen in one week at the hotel, and my job wouldn’t survive a third. I needed to figure out what was going on.
Taking a deep breath, I threw my shoulders back and stalked up the driveway like I belonged there. With as much confidence as I could muster, I walked over to the garbage can. The lid came off with a snap, revealing a black trash bag. Holding my breath, I ripped open the bag.
Inside was overflowing with wilting flowers. Lilies, baby’s breath. White roses. I recognized the ones that I’d brought five days earlier.
I clicked the lid back on with a sickening weight in my stomach. What in the world am I doing? What did I think I’d find?
Slowly, I walked back to my car and climbed in. My head thumped back against the headrest. This is ridiculous. Something is going on. My head rolled to the right to examine the house again.
That’s when I saw it.
Propped against the garage wall was a sign that had once stated “Olsen Manor.” A black sword had been painted through the words, nearly obliterating them.
Chapter 16
I drove home with thoughts spinning crazily in my head. It had to be Caleb. It had to be.
There was just one problem with my theory. I couldn’t forget the look of raw grief on his face when I went up to his hotel room that morning. He’d looked broken-hearted. How was it possible for anyone to fake that?
Or, was it grief over what he’d done?
I shot off a text to Kristi to let her know that Caleb had been at the scene of a fire. It didn’t make sense why he would have been involved in the arson. What motive could he have had?
And what was going on with Mrs. Olsen and Mark, the tennis instructor?
This whole thing was starting to feel like a slippery slope. I wasn’t so sure I wanted to step out on it.
I examined those questions, mulling each one over again and again. Truth be told, all those thoughts were helping me avoid the most important topic—the outlet cover. I shivered at the thought. My fingers twitched to hold something to comfort me.
Instead, I drove back to the hotel. The foyer was quiet when I entered. All the guests were still watching a movie. I peeked inside—something about green screen and animation.
Sierra was at the front desk, joy of joys. She ignored me, and I did likewise. Ever since Mr. Phillips had talked with her, she seemed to have her attitude in better check, for which I was grateful.
I scanned my computer for messages and then wearily headed back to my suite. The headache was driving out all motivation.
Just as I got to my door, my cell vibrated. It was from Kristi and simply said. —On it.
I assumed it meant that Caleb was firmly on their radar.
Inside the suite, I guessed Momma was in the living room. I could hear her show, someone was crying about being abandoned by their baby daddy.
I slipped off my shoes and walked into the living room, feeling like each foot weighed a hundred pounds.
Momma’s back was to me in her wing chair, but Bingo sat up at my entrance. “Louisa May Marigold Swenson? Is that you?”
I smiled at the sound of my name. “It’s me, Momma.”
She struggled to turn in her chair. “You don’t come sneaking in here like that. I’m liable to kung-fu you!” She made a chopping motion with her hand.
“You could probably do some damage.” I sat on the floor and Bingo wandered over. Breathing deeply, I dug my fingers into his soft fur. “Hi, sweetheart,” I whispered. He raised his nose and wuffled before pressing on my leg with one of his crocodile feet to keep me scratching his neck.
“Momma, I’m not sure I can figure it out,” I muttered, not sure she’d hear me over her show.
She scrambled for her remote and pushed mute. “What are you gabbling about?”
I lay back on the floor. Bingo stood and walked closer until he was right over my face. He sniffed my cheek and then nudged me again with his paw. His neck dewlaps wobbled right before my eyes. I pulled him down and hugged him against me. Bingo responded with a wet lick on the cheek—which was a little more than I bargained for, but in the midst of this misery, I was grateful for the affection.
“Do you believe in me, Bingo?” I whispered to the dog. He rested his head against my chest and let out a nasally sigh.
There was a creak as Momma folded the leg rest back on her arm chair. “Maisie, I’ve always told you. You make hay when the sun shines, and leave the rest for the birds.”
I chuckled lightly and draped my arm over my eyes.
“Now, you listen to me, Missy. Whether we stay in this hotel, or we live in a box, we’re going to be okay. You’ve always worked hard, and you’ve always made me proud of you, girl. Whatever happens, happens.”
I glanced over at her. “You’ll still be proud of me if I lose this job?”
Her penciled-on eyebrows drew together. “Darlin’, there ain’t nothing you could do that I wouldn’t be proud of you. I was tickled pink when you were born, and I guess I’ve been tickled ever since.” She stood up, making Bingo alert. “Besides, I was born too early to be a hippy, but I always thought it’d be lovely to try. We could live on the beach and cook weenies over a bonfire.” She held up a wrinkled finger and pointed at me as if I were somehow standing in the way of her dream of being homeless. “That would be fun, and heck, times a wasting!” With a smile, she stood up and shuffled into the kitchen, with Bingo jumping off of me to follow close at her heels. “But for tonight,” she called. “I’m making pork chops.”
“Just stay out of the microwave,” I yelled back, with a grin to myself.
“Stupid microwave. That can’t be good for your health anyway,” I could hear her mutter. I counted to five, and before I’d reached it, there came the familiar ringing clatter of pans. “I’m fine!” she called to reassure me like she always did.
That night, I sat in my room with a full belly and a quiet house, determined to get some writing done. The conference had continued on throughout the day without a hitch, and all the guests seemed to be settled for the night. I glanced at the clock, just seconds before hitting one a.m.
The cursor blinked, a black line coming and going against the stark white of the screen. I was surrounded by mystery and intrigue, and yet it didn't seem to inspire me as much as I hoped. I knew the stress was to blame for a good bit of it. I was discovering that real life killers and your job and home being threatened kind of hampered the creative process.
I angled the table lamp to shine more over my notepad. Sighing, I took a few sips of my chamomile tea and reread my last few notes.
Protagonist is in the shower. Intruder breaks in and heads her way. He kills the electricity, and she is startled in the dark bathroom. She grabs for a towel … There’s a clatter…
I leaned back in the small chair and stared at the blinking cursor. My mind was still spinning in another direction, trying to connect the clues on Mr. Olsen’s death. Was it possible it was the widow? Was she having a love affair? The son? Or was it Andy, the ex-employee, or some other angry competitor I don’t even know about?
My pen bounced against my thumb as I thought. I looked at it, carefully moving it from one finger to the next, the gesture soothing me. Taking in a deep breath, I let it out slowly.
There was a creak in the floorboards in other room. Momma? I tipped my head to listen. It didn’t happen again. This hotel sometimes made funny noises at night.
Focus. Get back to the story. I sat straighter and poised my fingers over the keys. What about the insulin? And the medical bracelet still sitting next to the fruit bowl on my kitchen counter?
The sign with the weird sword drawn through it?
Nope. Nope. I’m not going to think about Mr. Olsen. I’ll never get this book done.
/>
I slowly started to type.
Feverishly. he stalked her. Miranda tried to get away. There was a flash in the air, and she threw her arm up and screamed.
I began to see my protagonist’s character unfold as the comforting ticks of each letter popped up on the screen. My mind focused on the world I was creating. It was several minutes later before the odd noises outside my room finally broke the writer's spell. There it is again. My fingers froze. Was that the front door shutting? I glanced at the clock—1:30 a.m.
A creak made me turn my head. Oh boy. I knew I heard it this time. It was closer than before. Right outside my door. Every hair on my body prickled. I closed the laptop halfway and pointed the screen’s light away from me. Keep calm. Move quietly.
The doorknob rattled. I blinked hard in complete disbelief. Get a weapon. Move! My heart galloped as I searched the desk. Weapon…weapon? All I saw was a Kleenex box and an empty teacup.
Why don’t I keep more weapons around this place?
I stood unsteadily and tiptoed over in my slippers. Slowly, I walked to the side of the door, my inner voice cursing for not having at least a candlestick holder available.
And you call yourself a murder mystery writer! The inner voice hissed.
Shut up.
The doorknob twisted more, wiggling a bit as if checking to see if it was locked. I held my breath and grabbed my slipper off my foot, the only thing in sight. This was going to be a pitiful last stand.
Then, just like that, the doorknob stopped moving. I slid along against the wall and held the slipper over my head and waited. Nothing. I strained to hear, holding my breath. Was that shuffling? Footsteps moving away from my door?
Who could have gotten in here? Into my inner sanctuary? Past the security code at the front door?
I chewed my lip and waited, unwilling to release even a slipper when that’s all I had to wallop someone with. After a minute, I pressed my ear to the door.
That’s when I heard it.
Laughing.
The sound of male laughter faded away. There was a clack, sounding as if it came from the front door. My hand trembled as I grabbed the doorknob. Slowly, I turned it and opened the door a crack.
The light from the kitchen cast a lot of shadows but also illuminated the main rooms enough to see if anyone was there. The master suite door where Momma slept was opposite me. Her room still seemed dark. Where was that dog? Probably asleep on his bed next to Momma’s.
There was a dull thump out of my line of sight, and a scream nearly ripped out of me. My pulse thundered in my ear and tension knotted my stomach. I pulled out my phone and pressed the button to activate the flashlight, took a deep breath, and finished yanking the door wide open. I flashed the beam towards where the sound had come from. The small, but bright, LED lit the kitchen.
The bracelet was missing off of my counter. And my front door was left open.
Turning, I raced across the hall to Momma’s room. I flung it open, terrified at what I might see. My hand ran along the wall in search of the light switch.
“Momma?” I cried as I snapped it on.
Bingo lifted a lazy head off of the plush dog bed and blinked at me sleepily.
“What in tarnation is it?” Momma grumbled. She sat up, her hair wound tightly around pink sponge rollers. “Don’t you know I need my beauty sleep?”
I jumped on the bed, making her squeal, and grabbed her in my arms. She didn’t say anything, maybe feeling my heart thunder against my chest in both relief and fear. She patted my back, and after a moment stroked my hair from my face. I snuffled into her shoulder before looking at my phone. Quickly, I dialed 911 and summoned the police to the hotel for the third time in just over a week.
Chapter 17
“Yes, Mr. Phillips. I understand.” The hotel owner’s voice came through the phone with stern undertones. I held the cell slightly away from my ear, wanting to sink through the floor. Inside my suite, the police were canvassing the entire area in search of clues. I had Momma bunked in an empty hotel room two floors up, with Bingo by her side. Hopefully, she’d get more sleep. Ruby was also staying with her. I was terrified to leave her alone.
Kristi wasn’t working tonight, and instead, I was surrounded by a sea of blue-uniformed, unfamiliar faces.
An officer walked up to me as I nervously paced the hallway with the phone.
“Sir,” I said, interrupting Mr. Phillips, “The police want to speak with me right now.”
“I’ll wait,” my boss grumbled.
I held the phone to my chest. “Yes?”
“I’m Officer Peterson. If you could just follow me for a moment,” The officer directed, leading me back into the suite. “So, the only thing you’ve noticed that’s missing is a medical bracelet?”
I swallowed and nodded.
“And it had been sitting right there,” he pointed with his pad of paper to the kitchen counter.
I nodded again.
“And just when were you planning on turning over that piece of evidence?” he asked, his brows furrowed in disapproval.
“I actually did inform one of your detectives,” I answered, a bit defensively. “It was determined that it most likely belonged to another guest since it was a man’s size.”
He let out a long, nasally exhale. “What did the bracelet say?”
“It said Diabetes—On Insulin. On the back were some numbers.”
He nodded and wrote it down. “And you didn’t hear anyone break in?”
I shook my head. “I heard a little bit of noise, but I thought it was the hotel creaking at night. Later, I heard someone leave. He was laughing.”
“You’re sure the laugh was a man’s?”
I nodded again, the motion of my head throughout this interview making me feel like a puppet. Just pull my strings to make me move … “It was very deep.” A shiver ran up my back. “Sinister. I already shared all of this with your partner a few minutes ago.”
“I’m just double-checking,” he answered. “We’re not seeing any evidence of a break in. Did either you or your mother lose your key card?”
“No.” That wasn’t good news. Only Momma and I had keys.
“How hard is it to program a key?”
“Not hard …” my mind was whirling with possibilities. Could Mark Everett, the tennis instructor, have done it? Was he working with someone else?
“We’re going to be spending some time interviewing the staff.” He glanced around the room. “This place has been pretty popular lately.”
“It’s been crazy, that’s what. And, I have someone you might want to look into.” Quickly, I filled him in on my suspicions on Mark and Caleb, ending with, “Mark works here so it wouldn’t be out of the normal to see him behind the front desk for some reason.”
“Do you have some other place to stay?” he asked, this time his forehead wrinkled in concern.
“We’re in another room now. I have it off the system, so no one knows where we’re at.”
He shut his notebook. “If you can think of anything else, please call us right away. Be cautious.” He glanced over at his partners who were packing things up. “Looks like we’re just about done here. Want me to walk you to your room?”
I shook my head. Somehow, I still felt safe, lulled by the daily repetition of walking the halls of the hotel. Maybe it was denial.
“You’d better get back to your phone call then,” he gestured.
My eyebrows ratcheted up in surprise. I’d completely forgotten my call. Giving the officers a wave, I bought the cell to my ear. “Hello, Mr. Phillips?”
“Ms. Swenson?”
“Again, I am so sorry.” My hand ran along the back of my neck. “I am horrified that all of this is happening.”
He sighed. “You and me both. This is my dream hotel. Starting to feel more like Bates Motel these days.”
“The police are getting to the bottom of this.” My voice rose at the end of my sentence with a hopeful lilt.
�
�Kind of makes me wonder who that guy really was to cause such a ruckus,” my boss mused.
I winced at the word ruckus. Despite everything that had happened, there still was a man whose life had been cruelly ended, and who had left behind family, friends, and a charity that did care about him. “Yes, sir.”
“Well, go on to bed. Try and get some sleep. I’ll be there tomorrow.”
Lovely. As if the fire didn’t feel hot enough already, my boss would be overseeing my work day.
“Yes, sir. Goodnight.” I hung up.
The officers had left in the midst of my talk, with just Officer Peterson waiting by the door. “Everything okay?” he asked.
I nodded and followed him out as he shut my door.
After a night of less than refreshing sleep, and with the day being already packed full, I wasn't sure a large mug of strong coffee would be enough. I even pondered how possible a straight IV of caffeine would be.
Momma had snored all night, but she’d never admit to it. She always blamed it on Bingo.
Speaking of Bingo, it was an extra-long walk down two hallways and an elevator, but he had his time with the dog park. I sent room service up with orange juice and toast for Momma while I scrounged the Breakfast Den for myself.
What I ended up with was a granola bar. I can’t say what made me grab it because I’m more of a cream cheese and bagel kind of gal. It wasn’t until after I unwrapped it that I remembered the bar sticking out of Mr. Olsen’s mouth.
I crumpled it and threw it into the trash, wanting to vomit. Sierra eyed me with her nose in the air.
“Wasting food?” she asked.
I took a sip of coffee to wash down the queasy feeling. “I was just thinking about Mr. Olsen. And what he’d choked on.” I fanned my face, suddenly feeling light-headed.
“Oh, that wasn’t a granola bar that was stuck in his throat,” she responded, shuffling papers. She didn’t add any more, letting the silence build between us with her know-it-all air.
