by Alan Russell
And now even Murder Mayhem Weekend was back on track. That made Mary extremely happy. The next act was scheduled in three hours, another episode of murder to be performed over cocktails and snacks. She looked at her watch and hoped this performance would conclude on time. There was so much to do.
One of the doors to the Neptune Room opened. Were they convening already? No, not yet. It was only that rather dour Bob Johnson.
“Where’s the phone?” asked Bull.
It doesn’t cost you anything to smile. That’s what Mother always said. Mary smiled and pointed. “Right over there, sir.”
A minute later, and the doors again opened. But the Bob Johnsons still weren’t emerging en masse. How odd! It was Am and Sharon, carrying water pitchers and talking very intently with one another.
“Hello, Am! Hello, Sharon!”
The two of them looked up, but before approaching Mary, they paused for an ocular consultation. Apparently they came to some mutual decision. Sharon pulled out one of the copies of Wallace’s sketch and handed it to Mary. “Does he look familiar?”
She examined the drawing. “I’ve seen him,” she said.
This guy has better face recognition than the president, thought Sharon.
“Recently?” Am asked.
“Yes,” said Mary, then remembered. “This morning, in fact. He should be inside. He’s one of our Mr. Johnsons. I remember he asked for some nonfat milk. He said something about how he was now watching his calories.”
Sharon bit her tongue again. There seemed something terribly ironic about murdering and then going on a diet.
“It was dark inside,” Am mused. “Maybe too dark to make out red hair.”
“We might have missed him,” Sharon said hopefully.
Am pointed out how there were only two exits, neither one too far from the other. They agreed to take up positions and wait for the Bob Johnsons to emerge. They talked too cryptically for Mary to understand what they were saying and were so intent that she didn’t dare interrupt. It was a shame, though, because she wanted to tell them about the woman the man was with, the one with whom he was so obviously smitten. They looked quite the item.
Roger was glad of his caution. He had paused at the door before exiting the Neptune Room and had heard Am and Sharon talking outside. It was difficult to make out their words, but it was clear they were after one of the Bob Johnsons. Roger decided it would be best to leave when everyone else did. Judging by the building crescendo of the actors’ voices, that wouldn’t be long.
Bull Johnson was too far away to overhear what the Hotel dick and Miss Marple were discussing, but he was close enough to watch what was going on. The bellman with the Eye-talian name said he’d be right down. In the meantime, Bull would continue with his look-see.
Like a classroom of students waiting for recess, everyone was watching clocks, and doors, and each other. A minute passed, and another. Then the first door was kicked open, followed by the second, and the Bob Johnsons started streaming out. “Big balls here,” shouted Mary. “Anyone for big balls, line up here.”
One of Mary’s assistants was calling for mixed doubles and another for boat people. The stream of Bob Johnsons stalled, and the hallway grew congested. From their opposite vantage points, Am’s and Sharon’s heads moved side to side, scanning the crowd. Am spied a patch of red hair but couldn’t make out the face. He started to push through the Bob Johnsons, but there was gridlock. The lines started moving only when Mary and her assistants took their shouting and followers and headed outside.
Sharon had seen Am’s agitation, had watched him try to wade into the crowd, and had looked to see which individual had grabbed his attention. Then she also caught a glimpse of some red hair. The man was on the short side, his features obscured by the shoulders and bodies around him. Sharon figured out his likely route (he was with the big balls group) and made for the exit, beating the body of Bob Johnsons to the door. There she waited for him, watched as his red head bobbed closer and closer to her. She stepped into his path and managed a face-to-face, then expelled a lot of air and a lot of disappointment. He wasn’t their man.
It took Am another half minute to get to her. “No go,” said Sharon. “Not our carrot top.”
Am sighed. It seemed that just about everyone had seen this guy, but where was he? They backtracked, looked inside the Neptune Room and examined the bathrooms, but their Bob Johnson wasn’t to be found.
“What if he was wearing a hat?” Am asked. “Or what if he dyed his hair?”
Sharon shook her head. “He just wasn’t here,” she said.
“What about Mary’s remembering his request for skim milk?”
“Are you saying Mary’s infallible?”
Am wasn’t inclined to argue that point.
“Or, let’s assume he was here,” said Sharon. “We didn’t do a head count, but I’m willing to bet a number of Bob Johnsons skipped out after the breakfast, and our man was one of them.”
“Then it’s time,” said Am, “to figure out what room he’s staying in.”
For most of the twentieth century registration racks have been a part of every hotel. When the guest checks in he fills out a registration card, and that card is inserted into his room number slot on “the rack.” The registration rack is a desk clerk’s guide in a glance to knowing which rooms are taken, which are out of service, and which need to be cleaned. Color-coded tabs affixed to the registration card advise the clerk as to which room is checking out or which is being moved. Different properties disseminate information in a variety of ways, often using these tabs to identify who is a cash only customer, who is disabled (in the event of an emergency, the guest might need assistance in evacuation), who is a walk-in, and even who is a VIP. Am had never heard of a color-coded tab for a murderer, but he hoped the registration cards would help him find one.
These days registration racks are being phased out. As hotels have grown larger, as computer printouts have become push-button referrals and front desk space had become increasingly crowded with terminals and machinery, the racks have been supplanted. The Hotel, being proudly behind the time, still hadn’t retired its rack. The Hotel guests still registered, if not with a quill pen, then with large desk pens that weren’t even attached to chains.
Incompetence, for once, helped Am and Sharon in their hunt. Groups the size of the Bob Johnsons were invariably preregistered, their paperwork processed ahead of time to avoid the kind of madhouse check-in that had occurred. Because each of the Bob Johnsons had registered personally, there were handwritten references instead of the typed handiwork of some secretary. T.K. had checked in thirty-four of the hundred and seventy-six Bob Johnsons staying at the Hotel. Out of that number, five of his Bob Johnson check-ins had opted to put down a cash deposit instead of presenting credit cards. Figures, thought Am. The vast majority of guests usually used plastic, simplifying check-ins and checkouts. And in this case, that might have simplified who was the murderer. Leave it to the Bob Johnsons to make nothing easy.
Am and Sharon pulled the five registration cards from the rack and examined their handful of potential murderers. There was Bob Mayfield Johnson, Bob William Johnson, Bob Carlton Johnson, Bob Thorp Johnson… and what was this? Ah, yes, Bob “Sleepy” Johnson. One of the Seven Dwarf Johnsons.
“Bob William Johnson is with his wife,” Sharon noticed. “Still doesn't rule him out.”
They compared the writing on the registration cards with the David Stern champagne and dry cleaning signatures. Bob Thorp Johnson and Bob Carlton Johnson looked like the closest matches, but after examining letters, loops, and slants, they weren't able to proclaim an identical match. The comparisons became odious, and the signatures started blurring, similarities emerging with all of the handwriting.
Outside Am's office, Roger wished he had X-ray eyes like Superman. It was something he had been fervently dreaming about since puberty. Roger had stationed himself around the front office for much longer than usual, hadn't left it for
almost half an hour, which was a new record for him. He had watched Am and Sharon going back and forth between the front desk and Am's office and had surreptitiously spied on them while they pulled the registration cards from the rack. But for the last five minutes Am's office door had remained closed. Roger had been forced to wait and wonder about what was going on.
Keeping tabs on Am and Sharon had made Roger visible to the front desk staff. The PBX operator flagged him, saying that someone on the line was mad, someone asking for the manager. Usually Roger ran from angry calls. He directed them to anyone but him. But this was one time he agreed to take the call and was actually glad to be on the receiving end of a temper tantrum. The caller insisted that the GM and hotel security be immediately dispatched up to the Montezuma Room, as a major burglary had occurred and immediate action was required.
Roger now had the opportunity to interrupt Am and Sharon's closed-door tête-à-tête. Am would be forced to handle this call, and that would give Roger time to snoop around and find out what they were up to. He went and knocked, rather loudly, on Am's closed door. “Oh, Am,” he said. “Sorry to bother you, but you're needed.”
XLII
In just twenty-four hours Sharon figured she had progressed up the company ladder. Instead of searching the trash for condoms, she was now just searching the trash. Adriana Dominguez, one of the room checkers, was trying to help her, even if she wasn’t sure what Sharon was looking for. But Adriana was also reluctant to ask. As a room checker, Adriana was used to examining guest rooms to make sure everything looked and operated correctly, inspecting how the towels were folded, checking under the beds, testing out televisions, and acting as the last line of quality control between the hotel room and the guests. Adriana couldn’t figure out why Sharon was looking in the garbage, in the closets, and in the drawers, but she played along with her game. She also helped translate for Sharon, who kept holding up a sketch of some man and asking staff whether this was the guest currently occupying the room (the rooms changed, but her questions didn’t). Nothing she did made much sense, but gringos were always doing strange things, especially this one. She had a reputation already. Some of the men said she was a nymphomaniac, while others said she was just crazy. Adriana had been warned not to talk about condoms with her. It was a subject that was said to fascinate her to no end.
Sharon was glad Adriana was so amenable in assisting her. After Roger had interrupted them and given Am little alternative but to deal with a new problem, he had calmly, too calmly, suggested, “Why don’t you get a room checker, Sharon, and look into the situation. Then we can meet here and discuss your findings.” His cryptic suggestion to take along a room checker had been a good one; going in and out of rooms, and scrutinizing them, was their job. They would have a feel for what looked right and what didn’t.
She was also pleased, even though she didn’t want to admit it to herself, that Am had shown some concern over her safety. As she was leaving he had called out to her and said, “Just the facts, ma’am. Nothing else.” In his eyes she had seen his care and his caution. It was clear he didn’t like her going into a murderer’s den without him, but Roger had made the other situation sound like a matter of life and death.
Sharon hoped this was not another wild goose chase. Ruling out two of the Bob Johnsons as murderers had proved easy. The maids said the occupants weren’t the man on her sketch. A third Bob Johnson room also looked doubtful. The guest had been tentatively identified by a carpenter as a tall, dark man, which didn’t sound like their Bob Johnson. The carpenter was sure he was not the man in the sketch. Well, almost sure.
There were still two rooms with unidentified Bob Johnsons. No one had seen the guests, at least no one Sharon could find. Perhaps not coincidentally, they were Bob Carlton Johnson and Bob Thorp Johnson, the two guests whose signatures had most closely resembled the forged David Stern’s.
Under Adriana’s questioning eyes, Sharon carefully searched both of those Johnson rooms, looked under the mattresses, tilted the lampshades, and felt in the upper reaches of the closets; but she didn’t find anything conspicuous. On the face of that, the lack of clues might have seemed discouraging, but in the case of the Bob Carlton Johnson room less seemed to be more, and Sharon was convinced she was on to something. The very absence of items in his room made it stand out. He had virtually no luggage, only a shirt, a three-pack of new boxer shorts (one of which was removed), and two pairs of socks. Both the underwear and the socks looked new. According to Adriana, they were brands sold in the Hotel haberdashery.
“All I can tell you,” said Roger, “is that a lot of costly food was taken out of the Montezuma Room.”
Like most of Roger’s emergencies, a call to 911 didn’t look in order. “What food?”
“I didn’t get details. The man was so mad that he didn’t want to give them. But I said you’d be over right away.”
The caller wasn’t the only one who was angry. Am was tired of being offered up as the daily sacrifice. He wanted to shout that he was on a murder case, dammit, but he refrained. He would have delegated, but there are times when you know it’s a mistake to send a subordinate. But taking along company wasn’t out of the question. He gave Roger a speculative look. Maybe he’d need a go-fer, someone to run around and do the busy work while he returned to tracking down a murderer.
“You’re coming with me,” Am said.
Roger looked apprehensive. Self-preservation, and the proximity of those interesting registration cards on Am’s desk, were double incentives for him to try to beg off. “I think the desk is going to be busy, Am. Maybe you ought to call someone from security, someone official.”
“Consider yourself deputized. Now you’re official.”
While Roger mumbled and dissembled, Am called over to sales and catering and asked which group was gathered in the Montezuma Room. Usually only the largest of events were held there. It was a stand-alone hall often touted as the Hotel convention center.
“I should have remembered,” said Am, getting an answer to his question. “Thanks.”
Am gave Roger a look. A fire this wasn’t. “Dessert Festival,” he said. “Sampling’s set to begin this afternoon. Let’s go.”
The Dessert Festival was an annual event that featured the confectionary talents of San Diego’s chefs, with the proceeds benefitting charity. Every year dozens of restaurants and hotels, and chefs and kitchens, contributed to the extravaganza.
“I think the caller was a chef,” said Roger, his memory suddenly clearing up as they walked. “He had the voice of one, at least. I hope he’s not carrying a butcher knife. Marcel scares me when he’s waving his butcher knife.”
Marcel was scary enough without a butcher knife, thought Am. But he didn’t say anything. Though still an eighth of a mile from the Montezuma Room, Am was already being seduced. He could smell cinnamon rolls and apple tarts. Gracious winds deposited the delectable aromas of fudge and brownies. And there were other, even better, smells. His nose was bonding with olfactory wonders never before scented but instinctually welcomed. Brothers! Sisters! Where have you been all my life?
The Dessert Festival didn’t short-change any senses. The meeting room doors were open, and if what was waiting wasn’t the Promised Land, it was at least Candyland. Stepping into the room, Am felt like Dorothy going from black-and-white Kansas into Technicolor Oz. The Montezuma Room had been transformed into a huge candy store for kids of all ages. The entryway was lined with chocolate statues, jelly-bean edifices, and gingerbread houses. There were tortes, cakes, pies, cookies, and candies. The ice carvings looked like giant candy canes. Willy Wonka would have been proud, even if his representatives were not.
The chefs were all wearing their white hats, but they didn’t look much like good guys. This is what the West has come to, Am thought. No more cowboys in white hats, just chefs. There were seven of them, and they stood like Kurasawa’s seven samurai; their spokesman was the heaviest in the lot. There are still those who believe you can’t
trust the food of a thin chef. Fortunately, this one wasn’t French. He resembled an older Pillsbury Dough Boy, was white, pasty, and rounded, and his yeast was rising.
“We’re very upset,” he said. “Look—” He swept his arms around. “Look at all that’s missing.”
In the sea of desserts, Am hadn’t noticed the bare patches. But a casual look revealed that some Goldilocks had liberally sampled more than porridge.
“Most of us have worked all night,” the chef said. “Thousands of people will be coming this afternoon to witness this showcase and sample our creations.”
Am didn’t bother to mention the obvious—that some sampling had started a bit early.
“The media will be here. But now we’re missing a good many of our designer desserts.”
Designer desserts. The next thing you know, thought Am, pastry chefs will be signing their bon-bons. “What exactly is missing?” he asked.
“Between eight hundred and a thousand desserts.”
Am took a little stroll. All of the confections were identified by small signs. There didn’t appear to be a pattern as to what was missing; all areas showed signs of having been raided. There were bare patches in the creamy fondants, almond paste and marzipan, peanut-brittle creams, truffle pecan squares, maple charlottes (what are those? Am thought), chocolate divinity, penuche clusters, candied kumquats, bittersweet mousse (what was the plural—mice?) with Häagen-Das liqueur, macaroon raspberry bombe, baklava, and caramel parfait. The thirty-nine varieties of cakes (the chocolate decadence looked particularly tempting) and twenty-six different kinds of pies had all been sampled, just as the cookie jars had been raided and the dozen cheesecakes tested. One variety had proved particularly popular: Margarita cheesecake. Only one piece was left. Am picked up the survivor.
“Margarita cheesecake,” he said. “Never heard of it.”
