AHMM, June 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Minor abrasion,” he announces, patting the wound with gauze. “Nothing serious."

  "Ooowww!” the boy bellows anyhow, turning on the waterworks.

  I'm kneeling beside Ceepak. The girl with the headless doll is wailing up a storm and then the other girl, the one splashing like a paddle wheel in the pool, makes an announcement: “It is too poop! Joey pooped his pants!"

  "Man,” I mumble. “It's a good thing Mr. Ryan isn't out here—he'd be calling in another complaint."

  Ceepak looks up from the kid's minor cut. “Come again?"

  "Ryan. The guy who called us out here the first time."

  Ceepak leans back. Sits on his heels. “Of course."

  He has this look in his eye. My mindless mumbling has, apparently, helped his big brain make some brilliant deduction. It's why we make a good team. I mumble. He cracks the case.

  But first he examines the boy's head wound one last time. “The bleeding has been staunched. You should not require stitches. Have your mother affix this Band-Aid and stay out of the pool for the remainder of the day."

  "Okay,” the kid says. “Can I swim in the ocean?"

  "Negative. Come on, Danny. We need to talk to Becca."

  "About the ring?"

  He shakes his head. “Mr. Ryan."

  * * * *

  Becca hands Ceepak a sheet of paper.

  "That's a copy of his driver's license. My dad makes me Xerox the license of whoever is charging the room to their credit card."

  "Might I borrow your fax machine?” says Ceepak.

  "Sure. Where do you want to send it?"

  Ceepak jots down a phone number on a Mussel Beach message pad. “Denise Diego. SHPD."

  Diego is the Sea Haven Police Department's resident computer geek. She can search a database like nobody's business.

  "Kindly include this message,” Ceepak says as he rips off the top sheet with the number on it and starts writing out a note full of instructions. “I'm asking her to run Mr. Ryan's driver's license through LEADS—the Law Enforcement Automated Data System—to ascertain if Sean Ryan is a known alias for any individual with a criminal record."

  "Alias?” I say. “Who do you think Ryan really is?"

  "Someone else,” is all Ceepak offers. He hands Becca the note. She tapes it to the photocopy of the driver's license, feeds the sheet into her fax machine, and punches in the number for the SHPD machine.

  "When did Mr. Ryan check out?” Ceepak asks as the fax makes that Darth Vader static noise to signal that the connection has been made.

  "First thing Sunday morning. I guess he was mad that we didn't evict the DePinnas on Saturday night, like he wanted us to."

  "And when did he check in?"

  "Last Friday,” says Becca. “Around one or two in the afternoon."

  "When we were with you last Saturday, you called Mr. Ryan a ‘walk-in.’”

  "That's right. He didn't have a reservation, just showed up in the office. Fortunately, I had a vacancy. The people in 202 had to go home early. Their daughter back in Brooklyn was having a baby. Early."

  "Ryan was in Connie's room!” I say. “202!"

  "Precisely,” says Ceepak.

  "Jim was with me when I asked Mr. Ryan to change rooms,” says Becca.

  "Come again?"

  "Jim. Officer Riggs."

  "He'd come by for coffee,” I add, wiggling my eyebrows up and down to let Becca know that I know what was really on the menu first thing Saturday morning.

  She, of course, ignores my eyebrow waggles.

  "Jim was in his police uniform,” she says, “because, well, later he had to go to work. With you guys. On the night shift."

  "Roger that,” says Ceepak.

  "But, it was only like eleven in the morning, so he had a ton of time to kill. He hung out with me while I made my rounds."

  "Eleven o'clock is checkout time,” I say.

  "Jim and I went up to 202 because Mr. Ryan hadn't come down to the office. When he checked in, he originally told me he only needed the room for one night."

  Ceepak nods. “Then he apparently changed his mind."

  "Right. Said he had to meet some friends who had been delayed. So I offered him the room downstairs."

  "And when you made this request, you, more or less, had a police escort."

  "Yeah. Jim was right there. Looking big and tough in his uniform."

  Scary is probably a better adjective. The Gigantor bodybuilder usually wears these wrap around sunglasses that hug the sides of his shaved scalp.

  "Maybe that's why Mr. Ryan didn't give me any guff,” says Becca. “He just grabbed his bag and followed me down to the first floor."

  "One bag?"

  "Yeah. A small one too. Like a gym bag, you know?"

  "Curious,” says Ceepak.

  "Yeah. Usually, I have to help people lug all sorts of suitcases and ice chests up and down those steps."

  "Suggesting that Mr. Ryan was not here for the purposes of vacationing."

  "Guess not. Oh, this is weird: When he was checking out, he told me he needed to go back up to Room 202 to look for his electric razor which he forgot to pack when Jim and I ‘gave him the bum's rush.’”

  "Did you let him?"

  "Of course not. The DePinna girl was in that room Sunday morning. I told him if the maids found his razor when they were cleaning, we'd work out a way to ship it to him. We always do that. You'd be surprised what people leave behind in motels. One time, I was cleaning rooms, found somebody's dentures in a plastic party cup."

  "We need to talk to Connie DePinna again,” says Ceepak.

  "What's up?” I ask.

  "We need her permission to search her room."

  "You think we can find her ring?"

  "Perhaps. That or whatever Mr. Ryan left behind."

  "We're looking for his electric shaver?"

  "No, Danny. I suspect it was something much more valuable."

  We march out of the motel office.

  Connie and Mrs. DePinna have joined the other females of their family poolside.

  "Miss DePinna?"

  "Yes?” says Connie.

  "We'd like your permission to search your room."

  "Go ahead. I already tore the place apart."

  "Do you have the passkey, Becca?"

  "Yeah.” She reaches into her pocket. Hands us the key card.

  Then she gasps.

  "What. Is. That?” She's pointing at the pool and what looks like a bloated jellyfish made out of bright blue plastic decorated with cute yellow fish, red seashells, and green dolphins.

  It's floating on the surface of the water.

  "Looks like little Joey's swimming diaper,” says Mrs. DePinna, very nonchalantly. “You should probably get it out of the pool, Ms. Adkinson."

  Donna agrees. “It's not very sanitary. Do you have a net or something?"

  "It's disgusting,” adds Jackie.

  I can tell: Becca so wants the DePinnas to leave. But, she doesn't say anything. She simply sighs and stomps off to retrieve the aluminum pole-and-net deal from the tool shed.

  "We're sending a letter,” says Mrs. DePinna. “To the BBB. This motel is repulsive."

  "The rooms smell,” adds Jackie.

  "They were all out of chocolate-covered doughnuts in the lobby at ten.” This from Donna.

  "And,” says Connie, “they really shouldn't hire Mexican maids who steal diamond rings out of people's rooms. I mean it."

  Mercifully, that's when Ceepak's cell phone rings.

  "This is Ceepak. Go."

  He nods a few times. “Roger that. Thank you, Officer Diego.” He snaps his clamshell shut. Turns to Connie, who is slathering her skin with some kind of cocoa butter.

  "Miss DePinna? We're going upstairs to search your room now."

  "Whatever.” She's too busy rubbing oil on her thighs to care.

  We bound up the steps.

  "What did Denise dig up?” I ask.

  "Sean Ryan is a known alias for one
John ‘The Jeweler’ Reynolds. He has major underworld connections and is often called in to verify the value of stolen gems prior to their resale."

  "He stole Connie's ring?"

  "Doubtful, as he checked out several days ago and the ring only went missing this morning."

  "Oh. So what are we looking for?"

  "Whatever else Mr. Reynolds left behind."

  We use the key card Becca gave us and enter room 202.

  "I'll check the dresser and closet,” says Ceepak.

  "I'll check the air ducts,” I say. In the movies, that's where the bad guys always hide stuff.

  "Danny? There are no air ducts in this room. All the HVAC functions are supplied by that single unit under the window."

  The rattling air conditioner.

  Ceepak and I both stare at it for a second.

  "Well done, Danny!"

  We rush over to it. Lift off the front panel.

  There's a small Nike duffel jammed in under the fan motor.

  Ceepak pulls it out, works open the top.

  The black bag is filled with jewelry. Diamonds, emeralds, necklaces, rings, watches, brooches, bracelets—an entire display window full of sparkly stuff.

  "That's who was banging on the door at night,” says Ceepak. “Other members of Mr. Ryan's crime ring. He told them he had to abandon the stash they had hired him to evaluate. They came here attempting to retrieve it. Most likely, this is from that string of robberies the FBI is investigating in Philadelphia."

  "The YACS?"

  "Roger that."

  Geeze-o. “They could've busted in and killed Connie!"

  Ceepak nods. “Or Becca. When she came up with her flashlight and scared them off. Our friend was extremely lucky."

  "But who stole Connie's ring? You think one of the thugs casing the motel saw her flashing it around the pool, decided to steal it instead of picking up the drop bag?"

  "It's a possibility, Danny. We need to ask the DePinna women a few more questions. Try to determine if they noticed an unknown individual or individuals lurking around the motel this week."

  We head out the door.

  That's when Becca gets lucky again.

  "I found it!” she shouts. She's kneeling near the edge of the pool, her arm in the water, burrowing into one of the overflow drains. “I found it!"

  Mrs. DePinna and her three daughters are up out of their lounge chairs. The kids swarm over too.

  When Becca's hand comes out of the water, Ceepak and I are nearly blinded by a laser-like glint, even though we're still up on the second floor, leaning against the railing.

  "This is the missing ring, right?” we hear Becca say to Mrs. DePinna.

  "Yes!"

  Connie grabs it. Slides it onto her finger.

  "It must've slipped off this morning when I went swimming!"

  Possible. The girl slathers on a lot of suntan oil.

  "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

  Connie hugs Becca.

  "You're welcome."

  "I suppose I owe you an apology,” says Mrs. DePinna.

  "That's okay. The ring has tremendous sentimental value. Everybody got emotional. I understand."

  "I'm tearing up that letter to the BBB!"

  "Really?"

  "Of course! This motel is marvelous. You're marvelous. Who is your manager? I'd like to write a letter of commendation."

  "You don't have to do that—"

  "I insist!” says Mrs. DePinna, who now sounds like she wants to adopt Becca. “And, if there is every anything you need . . . ?"

  "Well,” says Becca, “since you mentioned it . . ."

  "What?"

  "No. It's not your problem."

  "What?"

  "Well, somebody goofed and double booked your rooms. The O'Malley family is on their way, coming down from Metuchen."

  "But we're here for another week!"

  "I know. Like I said, it's my problem. However, I could get you guys rooms over at the Sea Breeze."

  "Really?” says Donna, sounding very impressed. “The Sea Breeze is a four-diamond resort."

  "I know. But my friend Eric is the manager, and he owes me a favor and says he has all the rooms you guys need. He'll even match the rate you're paying here."

  "For a four-diamond resort?” says Mrs. DePinna.

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Well, seeing how you helped us out . . ."

  "Great!” Becca gushes. “The O'Malleys will be here in, like, three hours. I'll help you guys with your bags."

  "Does the Sea Breeze have a safe?” asks Connie.

  Becca nods. “A huge one. Right behind the front desk."

  "Awesome!"

  The DePinnas scurry away from the pool.

  When they do, I can see the bright blue wad of a swimming diaper nestled in the net of Becca's pool cleaning pole. She wants everybody to think she found the ring when she went diaper fishing.

  I, however, have a different theory.

  * * * *

  Ceepak takes the sack of jewelry back to headquarters. The FBI will probably give us both a medal.

  With Ceepak's permission, I hang at the motel. Make sure the DePinna Family Reunion packs up and takes its show over to the Sea Breeze, which is huge and has security guards who know how to handle unruly conventioneers who've had one too many umbrella drinks. They can probably handle the DePinnas too.

  When they're all gone, and Becca's looking semihuman again, I bop down Beach Lane to this veggie place to pick up a couple fruit smoothies and a freshly sliced organic cucumber.

  "Thanks, Danny boy,” Becca says, lying back on a poolside recliner, putting two cucumber slices over her eyes. Her whole body relaxes. “They're gone. They're really, really gone."

  She sips her smoothie through a straw.

  "So,” I ask, “where are the O'Malleys? Stuck in traffic?"

  "Oh. I forgot. They called while you were gone. Cancelled."

  "Uh-huh,” I say. “Too bad."

  "Yeah."

  "I'm glad you gave it back."

  Becca peels a cucumber slice off one eye.

  "What?"

  "The Galuppi diamond. You tossed the ring into the pool so you could be a hero. Ask the DePinnas to leave."

  "Says who?"

  "Me. You snatched the ring off Connie's bedside table this morning when you were hauling around the fresh linens. You used your passkey. Went in. Found the ring."

  "Prove it."

  I shrug. “I don't have to. I figure people lose things in motels all the time. When you find them, you return them. Right?"

  "Always."

  "It's like the motel proprietor's code or something."

  "Yeah.” Becca sits up. “Are you going to tell Ceepak? You know he won't lie or steal or tolerate people who do."

  I smile. “That's his code. I've got my own."

  "Really?"

  "It's a little more loosey-goosey. And includes this one clause that overrides all the others."

  "What?"

  "Friends are family."

  Becca grins. “Does that mean we have to start screaming at each other?"

  "Nah. We'll leave that to the DePinnas."

  Like I said, some guys have very rigid codes they live by.

  Other guys are more like trees. They know when to bend a little.

  Copyright © 2010 Chris Grabenstein

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: MADAME SELINA by Janice Law

  * * * *

  Edward Kinsella III

  * * * *

  After Pa died, the farm sold up, and the debts paid, there was just enough left to send me by train to the orphan farm, where I lived on thin soup and old bread until Madame Selina arrived. Naturally, she wasn't Madame Selina that day, but Mrs. Hiram Bickerstaff, and she wanted, as I heard her tell Old Farquhar, the overseer, “a likely, capable boy less than five feet tall.” She was very explicit on that last point and the first thing she did when I was brought into the chilly visitors’ rece
ption room was to pull out a measuring tape and check my height.

  "A very healthy boy,” wheezed Old Farquhar. “Very healthy” was his description of all but the terminally consumptive.

  Mrs. Bickerstaff gave me a close look, and I returned the favor because she wasn't the usual harried wife looking for a cheap farmhand or a sturdy girl of all work. She had a wide black hat with a plume big enough for an undertaker's horse and a fur-trimmed black cape like a war widow's, but her skirt was a deep maroon, and her blouse, shiny as ice, was the color of thick cream.

  She asked if I could read and write, which Old Farquhar answered in the affirmative, and then to see my hands, which I produced for myself.

  "Yes,” she said, “I think he'll do."

  Before I knew rightly what was what, I was sitting in a carriage opposite Mrs. Bickerstaff with my Sunday clothes and my extra shirt done up in a bundle with the last of Pa's books, and the orphan farm buildings were flying backwards into the distance. I was frightened and excited, the more so when I realized that we were headed into the city, although not my wildest imaginings could have prepared me for the job Mrs. Bickerstaff had in mind. Which only goes to show that I lacked the outsized imagination of my new patron.

  Imagination was not required from me in any case, for Mrs. Bickerstaff, whom I must now call Madame Selina, had enough for the whole household, which included Hilda the cook, Maddie the chambermaid, two tortoiseshell cats, and a large, savage green parrot. More important than all of us, although I did not meet him immediately for the very good reason that he'd been dead nearly seventeen hundred years, was Aurelius, short for Marcus Aurelius, who'd lived in Rome, Italy, and been an emperor and written a book—all of which seemed almost equally wonderful to me.

  But Aurelius was for down the road. As soon as I joined the household, I was put to work learning the peculiar arts Madame needed. I must fit myself into a big upright cupboard that backed up against one wall of what she called her salon—that's salon, not saloon, which, thanks to Pa, I was more than familiar with. My entry was not as you'd imagine through the door but via an opening cut in the wall from a small closet.

  For reasons unclear to me, I had to get from hall to closet to cupboard soundlessly and in pitch darkness. Whenever I was set to practice, Madame, the cats, and the parrot listened in the room beyond for the slightest little bump or rustle. One of the felines was particularly keen, and had Madame not been kind and the food good, I would have made sure something befell Sir Benjamin Cat.