For now though, I forced myself to tend to business. Shortly after six I checked in a family from North Carolina who’d reserved the adjoining Sea Horse and Hibiscus Suites for four days. At six-thirty, while I was on the phone booking them a dolphin-watching tour for the next day, I watched “John Smith’s” Mercedes roll back into the parking lot. He got out of the car with a brown paper sack in hand, and strolled toward his room.
Fifteen minutes later, the phone on my desk rang. It was our Mr. Smith.
“Hello? Who’s speaking please?” he demanded.
“This is BeBe Loudermilk,” I said.
“Listen, BeBe, there’s a huge cockroach in my bathtub.”
“Oh no,” I said, cringing. “I’m so sorry. I don’t understand how that could have happened. We have the exterminator spray regularly.”
“He must have missed my unit,” Smith said. “Christ! I just saw two more of the little fuckers scurrying across the bathroom floor. I think you’d better get over here and do something about this. Damned if I’ll stay in a place that’s infested with bugs. On second thought, never mind. I’m packing up and getting out.”
“Don’t do that,” I urged him. I stood up and looked out at the lot. Harry’s station wagon was parked over by the unit Weezie was working on. “I’ll send the maintenance man over right now to take care of it.”
“Maintenance man? BeBe, this is pretty serious. I’m calling the health department. They need to be notified of the conditions in this place.”
“Please don’t do anything like that, Mr. Smith,” I pleaded. “I’ll be right over to take care of it myself.”
I grabbed a can of Raid and a plastic flyswatter from the utility room, gritted my teeth, and headed across the parking lot toward the Sunflower Suite. I knocked sharply on the door.
“About time,” Smith called. “Come on in.”
I opened the door and stepped into the dimly lit room. He’d closed the curtains. The only light in the room came from his bedside lamp. The room appeared empty. “Mr. Smith?” I called tentatively.
“In here.” The voice came from the bathroom. The door was slightly ajar.
“I’m so sorry,” I repeated, walking toward the bathroom. “We can move you to another room if you like. This is the first bug complaint we’ve ever had. I just don’t understand…”
But now, as I stood in the bathroom doorway, I was beginning to understand. John Smith was stretched out in the bathtub in a couple of inches of bubble bath, wearing nothing but the same pair of dark sunglasses he’d worn earlier in the day. He was holding a glass of Scotch in one hand, and his fully erect penis in the other.
“Hey!” he said warmly. He gestured toward his crotch. “Meet my friend.”
And then he did it. He wagged it at me.
“Son of a bitch!” I screamed. I held out the can of Raid and blasted him full throttle.
He screamed, covering his face with his hands. He was choking and coughing, and trying to get out of the bathtub, but he slipped and fell backward, sending a wave of soapy water over the edge.
“Goddamnit, cut it out,” he croaked. “I think I’ve got a concussion.”
“I’ll give you a concussion, you freakin’ pervert,” I cried, hitting him with another blast of Raid. He lunged toward me and batted the can out of my hand. I flailed at him with the flyswatter, raining blows on his head and arms before he managed to grab the swatter away from me.
He was standing up now, one foot out of the tub. “Little bitch,” he said, his voice low. “Fucking bitch. I’ll teach you—”
The bathroom door exploded off its hinges. Harry Sorrentino stepped into the room, and thrust a splintered baseball bat directly in my tormentor’s face.
“Teach her what, Mr. Peyton Hausbrook?”
33
“Peyton Hausbrook? That’s his real name?” My head swiveled from Harry to “John Smith,” who by this time had leaped out of the bathtub and into a pair of pants, and was now sprinting, barefoot, for the door of the Sunflower Suite.
Suddenly I was shaking so badly I had to sit down on the bed, before I fell down.
“Go ahead and run, asshole,” Harry called after him. “We’ve got your real name and address. And we’re calling the cops.”
“The hell with the cops, I’m calling your wife,” I hollered.
A car door slammed, and then we heard the powerful roar of the Mercedes’s engine as it came to life outside.
Harry ran to the door, but I could already hear the rain of oyster shells on concrete as Hausbrook spun the car out of the Breeze Inn’s parking lot. When the car was gone, he sat gingerly down beside me on the bed, his face anxious. “Did he hurt you? Touch you?”
“No,” I said, shakily. “He was too busy touching himself. If you hadn’t busted in here when you did, I don’t know what he would have done. I can’t believe I attacked him with roach spray and a flyswatter. How stupid. He was enraged. A crazy person.”
I was shaking all over by then, and crying. Sobbing, actually.
“Hey,” Harry said softly. He put a tentative arm around my shoulders and hugged me awkwardly. “It’s not your fault.”
“It is,” I cried. “I should have just turned and walked out. It’s not as if I’ve never seen a naked man before. But I was so shocked. And then I got really mad. I lost control. He was coming after me. He would have hurt me. Really hurt me, if you hadn’t…”
I was sobbing and blubbering incoherently now. “If you hadn’t,” I tried again, but couldn’t catch my breath.
“Shh,” Harry said, wrapping both arms around me now. I buried my face in the worn flannel of his shirt. “You were doing just fine without me. Assholes like that, they’re not really much of a physical threat. Flashers, Peeping Toms, they like to wag their weenies at women because they’re incapable of having a normal, uh, relationship.”
“But he’s married,” I said. “Remember that awful woman Sadie Troy, and her kid, little Peyton, they were here for St. Patrick’s Day? He’s her husband.”
“Peyton Hausbrook,” Harry said the name slowly. “No wonder it seemed familiar when I wrote it down. Damn.” He gave my shoulder a little squeeze. “I should have listened to you. You knew right away there was something squirrelly about that guy.”
“No,” I insisted. “It was my fault. He started hitting on me the minute he walked in the office this afternoon. I should have known he was a pervert. Hell, I’ve had enough experience with ’em. He invited me to come over here for a drink. I told him I was too busy. But he tricked me. He called the office, said there were bugs in the room. He threatened to report us to the health department. So I panicked and came running over here to placate him. God! How dumb could I be, falling for that story of his.”
“Ah-hem.” There was a polite tap on the open door. Weezie popped her head inside. “Sorry to disturb you two. But I heard a car peeling out of the parking lot just now. Is everything all right?”
Harry stood up abruptly. “BeBe had a bad experience with one of our guests.”
Weezie stepped inside and looked around the room. Hausbrook’s suitcase lay open on the luggage rack by the closet. His wallet and watch were on the nightstand, and there was a nearly full bottle of Dewar’s on the dresser.
“Did somebody run out without paying their tab?” she asked.
For some reason, I found that funny. I started to giggle, and I couldn’t stop. Harry looked at me for a minute, and then he started to chuckle. Pretty soon he was guffawing. Tears ran down his face. And down mine. Weezie stood there, her arms crossed over her chest, watching our little sideshow, until we both finally got ourselves under control.
“I’m sorry, Weezie,” I said, finally, wiping my eyes on the hem of my blue work shirt. “It’s been one of those days.”
“Apparently,” she said. “That guy was in some hurry, huh?”
I pointed at Harry’s baseball bat, which he’d left on the bed. “He was under the impression that Harry was going to use that on
him.”
“Ohhh,” Weezie said, the scenario starting to dawn on her. “A flasher?”
“My first one as an innkeeper,” I said. “I guess that’s kind of a landmark, huh?”
“Hopefully, your last one too,” Harry said.
Weezie picked up one of the crocodile loafers Peyton Hausbrook had left behind. “Hey. These are Gucci. They look brand new.” She went over to the suitcase and examined it too. “Wow. Louis Vuitton. And this is the real thing too, not that bootleg stuff they sell on the Internet.” One by one, she picked up the items in the suitcase and examined their labels, announcing them like the lineup in a baseball game. “This tie is Armani. Slacks—also Armani. Shirts are Turnbull and Asser. English. Veddy expensive.”
She looked up at us. “The cheapest thing in this suitcase is probably a Ralph Lauren couture sport coat. This guy spent some money on his clothes.” She got a puzzled look on her face. “Hey. You know what’s missing?”
“Let me guess,” I said. “Underwear?”
“There’s a week’s worth of clothes in here, and not a single pair of drawers.”
“Eeeewww,” we said, in unison.
Harry got into the act now, picking up Hausbrook’s billfold from the dresser. “Six hundred bucks in cash. American Express platinum, Diner’s Club, Visa, Neiman-Marcus, MasterCard. Driver’s license. And this.” He held up a slim gold wedding band.
“Slimebag,” I said. “Sadie Troy and Peyton Hausbrook. I would say they deserve each other. But nobody deserves a sicko like him.”
Harry put the ring back in the billfold. “What are we gonna do with all this stuff?”
I made a face. “Ship it all back to him,” I guess. “I don’t want him calling the cops and accusing us of stealing from him.”
Harry snorted. “I’ll call the cops myself. My buddy on the Tybee force can put out a BOLO, and he’ll get pulled over before he gets halfway to Macon.”
“What’s a BOLO?” I asked.
“Be on the lookout,” Weezie piped up. “Don’t you ever watch television?”
“No cops,” I said. “They wouldn’t do anything anyway.”
“I’m calling the cops,” Harry said, picking up the phone on the nightstand. “Look, if he flashed you, he’ll flash somebody else. What if he picks a little kid next time? You want somebody’s kid seeing something like that?”
“It wasn’t all that impressive,” I said.
“BeBe!” Weezie said.
“Sorry. I know it’s not funny. Harry’s right. Peyton Hausbrook is a scary guy. But, you know, it wasn’t seeing his little tallywhacker that scared me, it was how angry he got when I fought back. He was coming after me. Until Harry showed up.”
I shuddered, thinking again about the possibilities.
Harry put his hand over the telephone receiver. “Adam Thompson, my buddy, is out on another call. But he’s going to stop by later and take your statement then. Okay?”
I nodded.
“Come on,” Weezie said, tugging me to my feet. “You need a change of scenery. And I want you to see what I’ve done in the new suite.”
“Go ahead,” Harry said, putting the phone down. “I’ll lock up here. Adam may want to take a look around.”
“Get him to take inventory and write a receipt for all this stuff, will you?” I asked, giving a backward glance at Hausbrook’s belongings. And then I had a sadistic thought.
“I’d like to see the look on Sadie’s face when she opens a package containing her husband’s clothes, his driver’s license, and his wedding ring.”
“I’d like to see the look on his face when the cops knock on his door,” Harry said. “Not a pretty picture.”
34
Weezie
I waited until we were out of Harry’s line of vision to ask the question burning in my feverish little brain. “So,” I said, drawing BeBe closer. “What’s going on with you two? You looked pretty cozy when I walked in on you back there.”
BeBe stopped dead in her tracks. “Nothing! Nothing’s going on with us. Give me a break, Weezie. I’d just escaped assault by this lunatic, and I was hysterical. Harry was just trying to calm me down. God! The man works for me, you know.”
“I know,” I said, grinning. “But the two of you have been practically living together for weeks now. It was inevitable.”
“Stop looking at me like that!” she demanded. “There is nothing going on between me and Harry Sorrentino. You, of all people, should know better. He is so totally not my type that it doesn’t even bear discussing.”
“BeBe, when it comes to men, everything bears discussing. Anyway, I think he’s adorable.”
“He’s too old,” BeBe said. We were approaching the unit I’d been working on all afternoon. BeBe had her hand on the doorknob.
“He’s not old at all,” I protested. I clamped my hand over hers, to keep her from spoiling my surprise. “How old do you think he is?”
“I feel sure he’s pushing fifty,” BeBe said. “It’s obscene to even think about it. Are you going to let me in there now? So we can stop discussing this ridiculous subject?”
“No,” I said, blocking the doorway. “I bet Harry’s not even forty yet. He just looks older because he’s one of those rugged outdoors types. Not like all those pretty boys you usually go for.”
“Pretty boys!” BeBe exclaimed. “All the men I’ve ever been involved with have been totally virile. Maybe a little on the young side—unfortunately, where Reddy was concerned. Anyway, you never met Reddy, so it’s not fair for you to make any generalization at all concerning him.”
“Daniel told me all about him,” I said. “And if I had met Reddy, you can bet I would have warned you against him. I know his type. BeBe, forgive me for saying so, but he’s the kind you always fall for. Handsome, slick, sophisticated. Style over substance. Maybe you should vary the menu a little? Considering your unfortunate history with that type?”
“I think I should just skip men altogether, after my last unfortunate involvement,” BeBe admitted. “Hey, can we just look at the room now?”
“Close your eyes first,” I ordered. “I want you to take it all in at once.”
“Ridiculous,” she muttered. But she closed her eyes anyway, and I opened the door and gave her a gentle push.
“Now open,” I said.
“Oh my,” BeBe said, stepping farther inside.
Her reaction was a letdown. I’d been planning this room ever since the first day I’d seen the Breeze Inn. Even before that, from the first time I’d seen my favorite Elvis Presley movie, Blue Hawaii.
“We’ll call it the Tiki Suite,” I told her. “Do you love it?”
“Wow,” was all she said. “Where’d you get all this stuff?”
“I’ve been buying Hawaiiana for ages,” I told her. “But I never had a place to put it till now. It’s not the kind of stuff I can sell in the shop. It’s a little over the top.”
I pointed out the four-poster bed, which was made up of huge bamboo poles, nailed and lashed together with raffia strips. “Daniel copied this from an old movie still. I added the palmetto thatching on the top. Kind of my take on Tybee on the Pacific.”
BeBe pinched the gauzy fabric of the bed curtains. “This is nice.”
“It’s the cheapest unbleached muslin I could find. I got the bolt for twenty bucks. Then I washed it in really hot water and draped it while it was still damp, so it would keep that crinkly look.”
She ran her hand over the bed’s hand-stitched coverlet, which was a brilliant splash of tropical color against the limeade-colored walls.
“Mama made that,” I told her. “I’ve been buying old Hawaiian shirts for ages at thrift stores and yard sales. I think she did a nice job, even if she did claim all those clashing prints were starting to make her hallucinate.”
“It’s wonderful,” BeBe said. “An heirloom.”
“If you decide to sell the place, I’m taking that quilt back.”
“Indian giver.” She
drifted into the bathroom, and broke out laughing.
“Honest to goodness, Weezie,” she said, her voice echoing off the tile walls. “Only you could have thought of this. I love it. I really do. It’s nothing like I expected. Nothing I ever thought I’d like, but I could move in here tomorrow.”
I poked my head around the bathroom doorway. She pointed at the grass hula skirt I’d hot-glued to the edge of the pedestal sink. “Where on earth did you get that?”
“Thank God for Chu’s department store,” I told her. “I picked up all the Chinese paper lanterns in the bedroom there too. And the seashells I hot-glued around the mirror frame.”
She burst out laughing again when she spotted what was hung over the bathtub.
It was a matted and framed album cover. Don Ho’s Tiny Bubbles.
“The inspiration for the whole room,” I told her. “I’ve been looking for it for years, and I finally resorted to an online auction. It just came in the mail today.”
She gave me a hug. “I love it. I can never repay you for everything you’ve done around here. You and Daniel. And yeah, even Harry. You guys literally saved my life.”
“I haven’t even come close to paying you back for everything you did to help get me through my divorce and then that mess with Caroline DeSantos,” I said, squirming out of her grasp. “And as for Harry, I think you need to relax your standards a little bit. Hell, just relax in general. That one’s a keeper, babe.”
She crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. “I am not interested in Harry Sorrentino. I am not interested in any man right now. I am only interested in wringing some profits out of this money pit so I can sell it and get back to my real life downtown.”
Speaking of keepers, we could both hear Harry’s voice booming from across the parking lot. “BeBe!” he hollered. “You’ve got a phone call in the office.”
Savannah Breeze Page 22
