by Vicki Delany
“Mrs. Grady!” a man called. “Is everything all right?”
I didn’t slow. “Perfectly fine. I . . . forgot to feed the dog.”
Into the lights of the lakefront path, past the empty dark courts and the quiet playground, a porch swing squeaked in the wind, low voices came through an open window, and the scent of tobacco drifted on the night air. Lights shone from some of the cabins and rooms in the hotel, but most windows were dark. I reached the intersection and ran up the steps into the hotel. Bradley, the night clerk, leapt to his feet when I came in.
“Mrs. Grady is everything—”
“Find the security guard. Tell him to go to the end of the lakefront path by the boat shed. Fast!” I reached across the desk and grabbed the phone. I looked at the clerk, staring at me openmouthed. “Go!” I said. “Then come straight back here. Wait! What’s the number for the ambulance?”
The emergency numbers were taped to the underside of the counter next to the phone. I couldn’t see them from this side.
Bradley rattled off the numbers, and I dialed the funeral home that operated the ambulance service for our area.
“Has a guest taken ill?” Bradley asked me.
“Answering for Jackson Brothers’ Funeral Home,” a voice said from the other end of the phone.
I made shooing gestures at the night clerk. I’d have a word with him in the morning about the meaning of the words go and fast. Finally he understood and ran off. I told the person on the phone what had happened, and he told me an ambulance would soon be on its way.
“I’ll have someone meet them at the main entrance,” I said. “Pull into the unloading circle by the front doors.”
I hung up the phone and took a breath. I heard puffing and looked down. Winston sat at my feet, tail thumping on the floor, smiling up at me. Winston was most definitely never, ever allowed into any of the public buildings. Also at my feet was a puddle of lake water, getting larger as I looked at it. I was suddenly, and unpleasantly, aware that I was soaking wet and freezing.
I glanced around the quiet lobby. I shouldn’t leave the desk unattended; people were always wandering in no matter the time of night to report a blocked sink or wanting a glass of milk. I ran around the counter and dug in the drawer for the registration ledger. I opened it to the most recent page and flicked backward, running my finger down the column for room numbers until I found it. Cabin nineteen. The guest’s name, Harold Westenham, was printed in blue ink with a scrawled signature next to it. Number of guests: one. That was unusual. We rarely, if ever, got people coming here on their own. Cabin nineteen was the smallest of the private cabins. It had only two bedrooms and wasn’t situated on the lakefront but nestled in the woods not far from the house Olivia and I were occupying. That cabin was usually rented by honeymooners seeking seclusion and privacy.
Someone had to be told that Mr. Westenham was being taken to the hospital. If a guest needed help right now, they’d be out of luck. I hurried toward my office, as Winston trotted happily behind me.
I came to a wet screeching halt. The office was, of course, locked. I keep staff records in there and payment details for our guests. I’d dressed for a party tonight and didn’t have the jangling set of keys tied to my belt that I usually carry around on me.
I hesitated. Wait here for the ambulance or run up to the house for my keys? I could phone and try to get Olivia, but if she’d gone to bed she’d have her earplugs in and her eye mask on and wouldn’t hear a thing. Even if she did hear the telephone she might not answer. Not at this time of night.
My mind was made up when I heard the ambulance approaching, and I ran out to meet it. No sign of the night clerk or the security guard, and Randy or Velvet had not come running to tell me Mr. Westenham had recovered and was going to be okay.
The ambulance pulled to a halt in the circle used for unloading passengers and luggage.
“I’m Mrs. Grady, resort manager. We found a man floating in the lake. Unconscious.” I pointed out the direction. “You can’t get the truck up that path. You’ll have to walk.”
Two men in white uniforms got out. They walked quickly to the back of the ambulance and threw open the doors. One man jumped in and dragged out a stretcher.
“Show us the way,” the other said to me. Winston sniffed at his shoes, and the ambulance driver said, “Nice dog.”
He was a fairly young guy, and I noticed him checking me over. Before I could think he was admiring my feminine charms, he said, “Uh, ma’am? You need to do something about those feet.”
I looked down. Lake water had stopped pouring off my dress but drops of blood traced where I’d walked. Only then did I realize I’d cut my foot. Both feet. “I left my shoes in the woods with . . . with them. My friends are still there. That way. Just past the end of the path, in the woods. It’s only a few yards. If you shout, they’ll hear you.”
Lights were coming on in the rooms above our heads and in the cabins, and heads popped out of windows.
At last the security guard arrived, huffing and puffing and as red-faced as though he’d come last in a footrace. The night clerk was with him.
“What took you so long?” I snapped.
“Sorry, ma’am,” the clerk said.
“Sorry, ma’am,” the security guard said.
“I don’t want people coming out of their rooms asking what’s going on and getting in the way. You,” I said to the security guard, “follow the ambulance drivers and ask Miss McNally to come here. You”—to the night clerk—“start calming people down.”
The security guard, well into his fifties and about fifty pounds overweight, shifted his belt under his belly and trotted off down the path as quickly as he was able.
“How am I supposed to do that?” Bradley, in his early twenties, looking as though the rest of the year he was on the college football team, asked.
“You tell them a guest has taken ill, and we don’t need anyone’s help. Do you think you’re capable of doing that?”
He shrugged. “I guess.”
“You guess? Or you can?”
“I can.”
“I can, Mrs. Grady.”
He blinked.
“I’ll go inside and attempt to intercept any guests who come downstairs to find out what’s happening. When the ambulance has left, come back and resume your post.”
“Okay. I mean, yes, Mrs. Grady.”
He trotted off. I limped up the steps and into the lobby, leaving a trail of blood drops in my wake. It wasn’t too bad, so hopefully the police wouldn’t arrive and think someone had been murdered on the hotel steps.
This wasn’t the first time an ambulance had been called to Haggerman’s, and it wouldn’t be the last. A good many elderly guests stayed here, as well as middle-aged men who hadn’t exercised in years eating giant meals immediately after a game of handball, or women who forgot what too much sun can do to a bathing-suit-clad body that’s been inside all winter.
But it was the first time we’d had a guest taken ill who was here on his own, and I needed to contact his family, if I could.
Velvet came in. She gave me a quick shake of her head.
“He’s gone?”
“Randy tried, but got no response. The ambulance guys are there now, and some kid said you wanted me?”
“I need to get into my office to find the man’s booking form, but to do that I need my keys, and they’re at the house. To get to the house I need shoes, and my spare shoes are in the office. To which I don’t have keys.”
“Sounds like a brain puzzle,” Velvet said.
“Exactly. Run up to the house. I didn’t lock the door when I left, and Olivia won’t have locked me out. My bunch of keys are in the top drawer of the telephone table. Once you’ve delivered the keys, take Winston to Aunt Tatiana’s cabin. I can’t have him running around all night.”
Winston
woofed in agreement, and Velvet left without another word. The dog and I stood at the front doors watching the activity outside as the ambulance drivers loaded their stretcher into the back and drove away. They did not seem to be in any sort of hurry.
I heard a creak on the stairs and turned to see Louis, Olivia’s pesky admirer, still dressed—despite the lateness of the hour—in the clothes he’d worn to the ballroom earlier.
“Miss Peters, is everything all right here? I heard noises and looked out to see an ambulance parked out front.”
I’d checked into Louis earlier, and I knew his room was one of the cheaper ones, without a lake view. To see the ambulance, he’d have to have left his room and gone to the windows on the third-floor landing.
I didn’t bother to either point that out or to correct his use of my name. “Perfectly all right, thank you.”
“I hope . . . I hope your mother is not alarmed. Noises in the night can be upsetting to a lady’s delicate constitution. Obviously you’re needed here. Shall I go and check on her?”
He gave me a sickly grin, and I thought of the unlocked door to our house. Maybe we needed to start locking it, particularly when Olivia was home alone. Just one more thing for me to worry about.
“No,” I said.
“It’s no bother.”
“I said no.” It was late, my feet were sore, we’d had a guest die on the premises. I was in no mood to be polite.
Randy came down the path, walking slowly. The night clerk and security guard were with him. I called to Bradley. “Please escort Mr. Frandenheim here to his room.”
“That’s not necessary,” Louis said. “I can find my way, if you’re sure I can’t be of help.”
I gave him my most unfriendly smile. The one I used in an attempt to keep new, young, inexperienced staff in line. “It’s no bother. Off you go now.”
I nodded to Bradley. He gave me a blank look. I jerked my head toward Louis, and finally comprehension dawned and he took a step forward. Louis headed for the staircase, and the night clerk followed.
I went outside, accompanied by Winston. “You okay?” I asked Randy.
His face was grim. “Yeah. Guy didn’t make it.”
“The ambulance drivers said they’re calling the cops,” the security guard said.
“The police? Why?”
“Guy was fully dressed, Elizabeth,” Randy said. “And . . .” He glanced at the guard.
“And . . . ?” I asked.
“He’d been hit on the back of the head. The ambulance guys said that means he probably didn’t slip and fall off the dock in the dark.”
Velvet arrived in a flurry of pink, waving my keys. Her hair had come out of its clip and hung in wet strands around her face. Pink tulle, I decided, didn’t fare well submerged in lake water. If any of our more imaginative guests saw her, they’d think they’d seen the Marsh Monster of Delayed Lake. Not that there is a marsh monster in Delayed Lake, but it doesn’t take much to get legends started.
“Sorry I took so long,” she said. “Olivia was up, demanding to know what’s going on.”
“You two need to get to your cabins and get changed,” I said.
“So do you,” Velvet said.
“I’m drying off.” I suppressed a shiver. I should have asked Velvet to grab a sweater for me along with the keys. “Take Winston to Aunt Tatiana’s first, please. Do you think the police will be coming tonight?” I asked the security guard.
“Probably,” he said. “They’ll want to have a look at the scene.”
“Wait here for them. I’m going into the office for a minute. If the police arrive while I’m still here, come and get me. If they arrive after I’ve gone home, phone up to the house.”
The security guard glanced at Randy. Randy shrugged.
“You’re new here,” I said.
“Yeah. Started last week.”
“What’s your name?”
“Edward Smith. Folks call me Eddie.”
“Ex-army or ex-police?”
“I was in the army. Served in Europe.”
“Well, Eddie, let me tell you something. My mother owns Haggerman’s, and I run it for her. That means we pay your salary. Are you okay with that?”
“Huh?”
“What I mean is, if you’re going to take money from us, the deal is you do what I say. Got it?”
“Huh?”
“You don’t ask the lifeguard for permission.”
Behind his back Velvet’s eyes opened wide and a slow grin spread across her face. Randy cocked one eyebrow at her.
Finally, comprehension dawned, and Eddie said, “Yeah, I got it. Ma’am.”
I didn’t often have to assert my authority, but when there seemed to be any doubt about who was in charge around here, I’d soon learned I had to ensure there were no misunderstandings and do it quickly. Unlike most other businesses, in most other places, it’s common in the Catskills for women to be in positions of authority. The hotels are family businesses, sometimes generations deep. Mothers, wives, daughters run the hotels and the departments, usually with iron fists, which means they boss the workers.
Occasionally we get men from the army, the police, or businesses in the city forgetting that.
The matter settled, hopefully, I went inside, conscious of my sore feet, trying not to limp too obviously. Winston followed, despite Velvet’s attempts to call him to come. I shut the door firmly in the dog’s face.
Bradley had returned from his errand and was back at his post. I crossed the empty lobby, dim and silent, and slipped into the hallway and then into the outer office. Moonlight streamed through the windows, so I didn’t need to turn on the light. Desks were tidied, ashtrays and coffee mugs emptied, silent phones resting in their cradles, drawers closed, cloths thrown over typewriters. I found the key to my office, unlocked the door, and switched on the light. It flickered, as though trying to decide if it wanted to work at this time of night, and then it came on. I opened the largest of the metal filing cabinets and flipped quickly through the papers inside. The registration ledger kept at the front desk was filled out when guests arrived and it recorded only their name, number of people in their party, room number, and dates they’d be with us. When the reservation had been made, either by the guests themselves or through a booking agency, we would have asked for more information, such as a name and phone number or address to contact in case of an emergency. Being found floating in the lake unresponsive counted as an emergency. I quickly found the page I was looking for. Harold Westenham from Newburgh, New York, had given Jim Westenham, with a New York City phone number, as his contact.
It was coming up to two a.m. Late to be calling anyone. But if this Jim was Harold’s son, as was likely, he’d want to know his father had had an accident. But first . . . I sat in my chair, lifted my right foot, rested it in my lap, and studied it. I brushed gravel, dead pine needles, and bits of grass off it. The small cut in my big toe had stopped bleeding. I then examined the left foot: much the same, but for a bigger cut across the heel. I’d live, I decided. I put on the black-and-white sneakers I keep under the desk in case of a sudden need to run somewhere, and then I picked up the receiver and pressed a button.
“Yes, Mrs. Grady?” Bradley said.
“I want to place a call to New York.” I rattled off the number on the booking form, and the phone clanked and whirled as it did whatever phones did. Then it began to ring at the other end. I crossed my fingers hoping someone would answer. Otherwise, I’d be up all night trying to deliver my message.
I let it ring ten times, and I was about to hang up when the ringing stopped midnote and a man growled, “Who are you, and what the heck do you want at this time of night?”
“I’m sorry to bother you. Are you Mr. Jim Westenham?”
“You’re not bothering me. I never mind being woken up by a lady.” His voice
was deep, sounding of late nights in smoke-filled jazz bars. “Yeah, that’s me. Who are you?”
“My name’s Elizabeth Grady, and I’m the manager of Haggerman’s Catskills Resort.”
The deep voice turned wary. “My uncle Harold’s staying there.”
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Mr. Westenham had an accident a short while ago. He’s been taken by ambulance to Summervale General Hospital. You were listed on his registration card as his emergency contact.”
“An accident? What sort of accident? Is he okay?”
“He was found in the lake. I . . . I don’t know any more than that.”
“Sure you do. You know a lot more. I can hear it. What are you not telling me?”
“I’m sorry. That’s all I can say. Summervale General Hospital. That’s in the town of Summervale. Good night.”
“I’ll grab a pool car and drive up tonight. After I’ve seen him, I’ll want to come to your hotel and have a look around. My uncle didn’t swim.”
“Good night,” I said again as I put down the receiver.
A pool car? What did that mean? Who did he work for that had pool cars available at this time of night? As for knowing I wasn’t telling him the whole story—I don’t have much experience in lying outright, but as a holiday resort manager I can prevaricate with the best of them. I closed my eyes. Had that last comment—Harold Westenham didn’t swim—been meant as a threat? Was even now Jim Westenham thinking up reasons to sue us?
Cold settled over me, and again I realized I was shivering. I needed to get home, into a hot bath and warm pajamas before I froze to death at my own desk.
Chapter 7
Bath and pajamas would have to wait. I was still mulling over that phone conversation when a light came on in the outer office and Eddie the security guard called, “Mrs. Grady! Cops are here.”
I stood up quickly, wincing as the rough inner soles of the tennis shoes scraped the sore places on the bottoms of my feet. I switched off the light and locked the office door behind me. I had no place to put my keys, so I stuffed them into my bra. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror one of the clerks kept on her desk. The keys were a big bunch, and I looked dangerously lopsided. Oh well, couldn’t be helped. My legs were bare, my shoelaces dragging behind me, my beautiful new dress drying into a mass of wrinkles, my neat poodle cut ruined, the curls sticking out in all directions, my lipstick smeared.
