The Hotel Detective (A Hotel Detective Mystery Book 1)

by Alan Russell

  “The Chief and I decided we had to wish more than a hangover on the culprits,” said Barb. “Whenever we received a report of a tampered-with honor bar, we went back and recorded the names of all guests who had been in the room the previous three months. That’s about how fast you can count on most of the liquor inventory turning over. Over the last year the Chief documented more than thirty cases of minibar tampering, and one name can be linked to six of those occurrences. Mr. Harmon’s been with us six times in six different rooms during the past year, and on each of his visits someone’s fiddled with the liquor in those rooms.”

  Am had heard from some of those irate guests. Harmon had, he thought, turned water into whine. At least Harmon got his kicks only from getting free booze. What if he had decided to adulterate the drinks with castor oil, or worse?

  Indignantly Barb said, “He’d probably switch water for brandy in a St. Bernard’s cask.”

  “He’s a regular, Barb,” Am observed. Those were words staff groaned at. Hotel managers tend to forgive the idiosyncrasies of regulars.

  Barb grimaced. “Am, you’re not saying—”

  “I just need to know what you’re up to. Whatever you do, it’s sure to end up on my lap.”

  The housekeeper motioned for Am to wait a moment, then she walked out of his office, yelled, “Pablo,” and reentered the room. A tinkle of glassware receded Pablo’s entrance. The houseman’s cart was laden with little bottles.

  “Some is tea,” said Barb, “and some is cola, and some is water, and some is a little bit of everything. It should pass inspection, I think.”

  Carrie Nation wouldn’t have hesitated swinging her ax. To all appearances, the bogus booze looked genuine. Trojan horse payback. The housekeeper looked at Am expectantly.

  He knew it violated Alcohol and Beverage Control regulations. He knew it was contrary to city health codes. He knew it meant a guest, a regular, would probably want to chew his ass (or was that liver?) over this. “Okay,” Am said.

  She reached out a hand and touched his cheek, then remembered her task. The housekeeper had a mission from God. She urged her cavalry forward, and Am listened to the charge of clinking bottles.

  It was more fun dealing with adulterated beverages, Am thought, than with murder. Sighing, he returned to McHugh’s list and started going over what had been left in the room. When the list stated to blur, he leaned back on his chair and balanced the paper on his nose. That’s when Sharon walked in. Am was glad that this time he wasn’t feeling a bra. His eyes somewhat hidden by the paper, he was able to take a long and not too obvious look at Sharon. She appeared tired, as tired as he did. Odd. The night before she had left a few hours before he had.

  “Nose to the grindstone?” she asked.

  With the paper still balanced on his nose, a pose that was probably the result of too many visits to Sea World, Am told her about his morning. Then, providing his own gust of wind, he blew the paper toward Sharon, who made a shoestring catch.

  “McHugh’s inventory of six oh five,” he said. “And his dig.”

  Sharon looked over the list. Her mouth tightened slightly when she saw what Am was referring to.

  “I’ve been wondering how many people knew David Stern was in that room,” said Am, “and which one of them sent the wine and cheese.”

  Sharon’s brow furrowed. “If he was so intent on privacy,” she asked, “why would he let anyone know he was here?”

  “I don’t know,” said Am. “That was his business. I only wish we had respected his seclusion. The delivery should not have been accepted. There were excuses, naturally. The desk was busy, and T.K. took in the wine and cheese before he noticed Stern’s status. He wasn’t sure what to do, so he asked Roger, who put the whole thing back in his lap. T.K. figured that since the delivery had come with a name and an accompanying note, it was okay to have it sent up.” Am sighed.

  “You don’t sound happy with his decision.”

  “I’m not. The wine and cheese should have been held at the desk just like anything else directed to Mr. Stern. Unless otherwise instructed, he shouldn’t have been disturbed. Even his message light shouldn’t have been activated.”

  “Is that common? Guests asking for complete privacy?”

  “It happens. And it’s not always because some hanky-panky is going on. Sometimes there’s sensitive business. Sometimes it’s on doctor’s orders. Sometimes it’s a VIP who needs to find herself and not her press clippings.”

  “But this wasn’t one of those instances, was it?”

  Am shrugged.

  “And neither one of us thinks this was a case of a burglary gone bad. Which means what?”

  His suppositions, if any, were interrupted by yet another visitor, who stuck his head into Am’s office. “Morning, Am.”

  Am introduced Ward Ankeney to Sharon. Ward was an avuncular sort who often pointed to his thinning hair as proof positive that he had been keeping the Hotel’s books for the last dozen years. His title was controller, but anyone who asked what he did invariably heard him reply, “Bean counter.” Ward never looked comfortable unless both of his hands were occupied. He always had a pipe in one hand, usually unlit, and with the other he was invariably punching away at a computer, or calculator, or a ten-key. This time he had his usual pipe in the one hand, and in the other were some papers. Reluctantly he gave up the papers to Am, leaving his right hand without a task.

  “Copies of six oh five’s charges,” Ward said, his free hand coming to life with operatic gestures and then waving goodbye.

  Am had forgotten that he had asked for the room charges. Perhaps subconsciously he was trying to black out as much as possible from the day before. Convenient amnesia. As if attempting a jigsaw puzzle, he laid the charges on his desk and bent over them. Sharon came around behind him and joined in the scrutinizing.

  “They sure ate well,” she said.

  Am didn’t comment. He picked up one of the pages, punched it slightly, and said, “That explains it.”

  “What?”

  Without answering, he punched into his computer, called up 605’s charges, and handed Sharon a printout. “Last night,” he said, “I called up this account. And that’s when a room service charge caught my attention. This one.”

  Am passed Sharon the copy. “I thought it must have been a large order, but it wasn’t. Just a solitary bottle. I was curious because of the time of delivery. Death arrived shortly after room service. It must have been some party up there, fine wine, cheese, and, to top it off, Dom Pérignon. Then a double murder. With our staff going in and out of the room, I figure there’s a good chance either the bellman or room service waiter saw something.”

  “Maybe,” said Sharon, her excitement ill suppressed.

  Her tone made Am turn around. Sharon’s face was flushed. “Notice the signatures,” she said.

  He was prepared to tell her that an individual’s signature could vary greatly, the result of everything from a guest’s being drunk to their using any handy surface (a server’s back was quite often the object of choice) to sign a check. But the David Stern who had signed three other room service checks was clearly not the same David Stern who had signed for the last bottle of bubbly. There had to be a logical answer.

  Almost triumphantly, Am announced, “The woman signed for it.”

  Sharon stared at the writing. “That doesn’t look like a woman’s signature.”

  It was Am’s turn to scrutinize the scrawl once more. The handwriting did look masculine. “Lots of women have a blocky signature.”

  Sharon didn’t appear to be listening. She handed Am a copy of another charge. “Did she sign for the dry cleaning, too?”

  Am looked at the invoice. A man’s suit had been dry-cleaned—no, express-cleaned, the one-hour service. The same hand that had signed for the cleaning had signed for the champagne.

  “Apparently so,” he said.

  “That’s funny,” said Sharon. “According to the time and date when this was signed,
she should have been dead for at least twelve hours.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Am wondered how it was that the dead kept managing to accumulate hotel charges. When he had perused room 605’s account the night before, he had assumed the laundry charge had just been a late posting, but that hadn’t even proved to be the last of the charges. The updated printout showed that the honor bar had been used. Housekeeping, which only that morning had been given permission by the investigative team to clean the room, had inventoried the portable bar and found that virtually all the food had been emptied out of it. Am supposed it was possible that the investigating team had done the eating, but he didn’t think so.

  “It’s so—grisly,” said Sharon. “Can you imagine murdering someone, then hanging around the room? And how could he have ordered champagne afterward? Have you ever heard of anything so sick?”

  Am nodded his head, then shook it, both agreeing and disagreeing. “Sick, yes. But the room service waiter said the man hardly looked like he was in the partying mood. Usually when someone orders a pricey bottle of bubbly they’re ebullient. Augustin said this man was so subdued as to stand out.”

  “Explain the champagne, then.”

  “I can’t.”

  Am and Sharon had compiled a list of everyone they believed had come into contact with the suspected murderer. Everyone agreed he was of average height or less, had thinning red hair, and was on the heavy side. His age was gauged from thirty-five to fifty-five.

  Teresa Fuentes had tried to do turndown service in room 605 and had talked with him. Henry Polk, the sixth-floor butler, had picked up the man’s suit for cleaning and brought it back. And bellman Albert Slocum had delivered the wine and cheese and had happened to ride up the service elevator with a man fitting that same description. All the employees described him as soft-spoken and polite and agreed that he was withdrawn, perhaps even confused. By description, he hardly seemed to match the profile of a cold-blooded murderer.

  “So,” said Sharon, “I guess we should call the police?” Her words were more a question than a statement.

  This time they had more than a missing rubber. They had witnesses, charges, and signatures that didn’t match. They even had descriptions that were in general agreement. This time, she knew, they wouldn’t be laughed at.

  “They’ll probably get one of those police artists,” said Am. “They’ll put together a sketch. It will be on the evening news, and someone steaming carrots in some town will say, ‘I know that man.’” He sounded envious.

  “I suppose it’s the right thing to do,” Sharon said, but not very convincingly.

  “A police artist, to go along with the police photographer who’s already been here, and the forensic scientists, and the trace evidence people, and the detectives, and McHugh.” The last name didn’t settle well with Am.

  “We don’t have their . . . ” Sharon was going to say expertise but thought better of it. “Personnel.”

  “I know an artist,” said Am, brightening suddenly.

  “But what good would a picture . . . ?”

  “He’s fast.”

  “Without a name—”

  “I’ve seen him do sketches in a minute.”

  “But I still don’t see how that could—”

  “He’s a Hotel guest. The Hotel guest. Wallace Talbot.”

  Sharon remembered the name. He was the guest who had come to stay. The tour guide had pointed out his artwork around the Hotel and said that he had been a resident for more than forty years. In her silence, she assented.

  “Holden,” he said, stretching forth his hand to grasp Am’s. “Friends. Come in! Come in!”

  Wallace Talbot had checked into the Hotel California for a week’s stay in 1972; so far, his reservation had been extended for more than half a century. There was a second greeter at the door, but this one had four legs. Cinder, Wallace’s black cocker spaniel, tried to give everyone a kiss. Cinder was happiest when there was a party, and she was convinced the appearance of seven people in her doorway could mean only that.

  It had taken arm twisting, juggling of schedules, and pulling employees from the floor to assemble everyone who might have encountered the potential murderer. Am hadn’t explained the necessity for the meeting, had just termed it important and made it mandatory. He had advised Wallace of the need for his artistry but hadn’t given him any more details than that.

  “Coffee, tea, or sodas, anyone?” asked Wallace. He was genuinely delighted to have all the visitors. In any other room, and with any other guest, the staff might not have felt at ease, but everyone knew and liked Wallace. He bore a resemblance to Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., was tall, thin, and urbane, and like the movie actor seemed to manage everything effortlessly and with much savoir-faire. Wallace was one for flourishes, from hand gestures, to opening a door. He never forgot staff birthdays: flowers for the ladies, cigars for the men. Some employees called him “Peppermint” because of his daily promenades around the Hotel, where he handed out peppermint sticks to all, especially small children. Am had never had the heart to tell him he couldn’t stomach peppermint.

  “If it’s all right with you, Wallace,” said Am, “I’ll take care of the refreshments in a few minutes. But for now, I’d like the rest of you to get to work.”

  Am took a few minutes to explain why they were gathered and said he hoped a sketch of this mystery man, and perhaps murderer, might help in their investigation. He swore everyone to secrecy. He didn’t want rumors and didn’t want to involve the police prematurely. Most of all, Am said, he didn’t want the Bob Johnsons on the case.

  The mood of the room changed. With the purpose of their gathering revealed, an excitement built, ancient hunting instincts brought to the fore.

  Wallace seated everyone in front of his easel and brought out a sketch pad and pencils. He usually worked in oils, could often be seen painting from the wraparound balcony of his fourth-floor room. There, he had a panoramic expanse of the Pacific as well as a sweeping view of the Hotel gardens. Fully half of his paintings were seascapes. He truly knew all the moods of the La Jolla Strand and loved to capture the human element at play on the beach, the children at their sand castles, the adults with their pants legs rolled up, walking along the surf. He was a popular artist who commanded high prices for his works, but at the same time he was a very skilled painter, a combination that often doesn’t go together.

  Many people still regard San Diego as a navy town, but that’s a designation that is at least a generation removed. What had brought Wallace to town, though, was to do illustrations for the defense industry. Wallace was supposed to stay in the Hotel for only a week, but he said that from the moment he checked in it felt like home to him. Rather than move into an apartment, Wallace remained. He could afford to, being the only child of wealthy parents who died and left him a sizeable inheritance. His ultimate artistic success supplemented his inheritance money and deferred the necessity of his ever having to check out. Wallace had never expected to live out his life at the Hotel, but whenever he thought about leaving, thought he should get a home and have all the normal trappings, he always asked himself, “Why? Why leave what I love?”

  A local paper had recently interviewed Wallace. He had said, “Most of my money has gone to the Hotel California. It’s an investment I’ve never regretted.” In many ways Wallace paid rent to be a resident manager. He made rounds every day, walked all over the Hotel grounds, and saw that everything was as it should be. He took it upon himself to help guests and act as a goodwill ambassador. Many children had grown up on his peppermint sticks and came to him now as adults with open hands and big smiles. To date, he had never run out of either peppermint sticks or good cheer. This morning he needed the latter.

  The seven blind men describing the elephant were more in accord than the four witnesses (the fifth witness, T.K., was early on convinced that the deliveryman could not have been the mystery man) describing whom they had seen. Though everyone agreed to the same general de
scription, finding the common ground of a face proved tough work.

  How do you describe a nose? How do you remember the direction of the part of the hair? Were the eyes close set or far apart? And how chubby were those cheeks? Was it really a double chin, or was the chin just not very well defined? Did he wear glasses or not?

  A room attendant, a butler, a room service waiter, and a bellman opined, argued, confessed to ignorance, and called each other blind. In between the collaborating and the bickering, a desk clerk inserted attempted comedy sketches and an artist tried to work. Am thought the cast of Clue had nothing on these characters. He tried to organize what Wallace wearily called “the artistic charades.” Only Cinder seemed totally happy with the situation. She went from lap to lap. Even though the hotel had a “no pets” policy, the black cocker spaniel had been grandfathered into Wallace’s stay, and was now referred to as a “service dog.” How had Cinder managed to live so long? The dog that was happily trading up laps, and lapping up faces, was really Cinder IV. Other GMs had turned a blind eye to the situation, but not Kendrick. He had vowed this would be Cinder the last.

  “Holden,” said Wallace, “would you mind getting that other pencil? Thank you.”

  Wallace called Am “Holden,” after Holden Caulfield in The Catcher in the Rye. He insinuated that Am was the incarnation of Holden, now grown up and gone west. The confusion of youth, Wallace had noted more than once, was translating nicely into Am’s midlife crisis. Wallace insisted that Am was the Hotel’s catcher in the rye. “You are he,” said Wallace, “whose job it is to wait for the innocents to fall off the cliff and be there to catch them.” Am had always liked that job description better than assistant general manager.

  The bickering gradually quieted. In their mind’s eye all of the witnesses had a picture of their man: he was younger, he was older. He had small lips, he had lips like a clown. But an overall description was hashed out, and expanded upon, and agreed to, even if the consensus wasn’t quite true to their individual vision. One by one the witnesses came around to the sketch and offered their suggestions. When Wallace finally knew the direction he wanted to go, he banished everyone to their seats and worked out his own finishing touches. Between penciling, he talked.