by Vicki Delany
“So you say, pal, but you’re not out of the woods yourself. Any of you.” He shoved the photo into the deputy’s hand. “Dave, talk to this guy and find out what he knows. I have to call my contacts at the FBI and let them know about this.”
“You can use the phone in my office,” I said, in an attempt to be helpful.
He sneered at me. “I know what switchboard operators are like in places such as this.”
I could have said they were far too busy to listen in to anyone’s conversation, what with the department heads placing orders; calls from booking agencies, employment agencies, and entertainers’ agents; businessmen needing to keep in touch with the office; weepy teenage girls complaining to their friends about how dreadfully bored they are; and wives grumbling that if they had to spend one more day with their mother-in-law they’d . . . Wisely, I hoped, I said nothing.
“I need a secure line,” Monahan said. “I’ll make the call from the station.” He put his hat firmly on his head.
“Uh,” Dave said. “How do I get back to town?”
“Hitch a lift. I don’t know what sort of hotel you folks are running here, Mrs. Grady, but I wouldn’t want to stay at any place where the staff search the rooms looking for something to gossip about to pass the time.”
“Believe me, the last thing I’m ever looking for is ways of passing the time,” I said as the door slammed once again.
Deputy Dave gave me a rueful grin. “Sorry about that. I’ll have a talk with this guy. Where is he?”
“Last I saw him, he was hiding behind a plant watching Olivia.”
We went back to the lobby, but Louis was nowhere to be seen. I asked a bellhop to check his room, and the man soon returned saying no one answered his knock. I then organized some of the waiters and bellhops into a search party. I went into the kitchen to ensure none of the knives or heavy pots had gone missing, and Velvet ran upstairs to check the ballroom. She reported that Louis’s sister and her party had taken a table, but Louis was not with them and they hadn’t seen him since dinner. Meanwhile, Deputy Dave surveilled the perimeter of the property.
It took a while, but one of the bellhops eventually found our fugitive at the bottom of the path that led to our house, pretending he was out for a walk but obviously hoping for a glimpse of Olivia.
He’d been escorted back to the hotel, protesting loudly and demanding to know what was going on. I showed Deputy Dave to the writing room, where he could speak to Louis in private. I’d been hoping to be allowed inside, but Dave politely said, “Thank you, Mrs. Grady,” and shut the door in my face.
I waited outside, hoping to hear raised voices. In that, I was to be highly disappointed. The interview didn’t take long, and when they came out the deputy told me Louis was not under suspicion at this time. He’d simply taken a photograph of Olivia Peters chatting to a guest. Louis vehemently denied having spoken to Harold Westenham at any time or having had any contact with the man.
“You’re taking his word for it?” I asked.
“Can’t arrest a man for taking a picture. I’ve got his name and address. I’ll be in touch with the police in New York, see if he has any record of trouble.”
Louis smirked at me, but the smirk disappeared fast enough when I told him he was no longer welcome at Haggerman’s and he was to pack his bags and be on his way. Tonight.
I stood on the veranda and watched the cab pull away. A burst of applause from the ballroom told me Charlie Simmonds had finished his second set. Moments later, people began streaming out of the hotel. Some took seats on the veranda and ordered one last drink, some went for a stroll by the lake before turning in, and some headed to their cabins and bed. Above my head, the orchestra struck up the next dance number.
“Is it safe for me to come out?” Olivia called to me.
“Yes.” The red lights of the cab turned into the road and disappeared. Louis Frandenheim was on his way to the bus station, where he’d spend an uncomfortable night before catching the first bus leaving for the city.
I’d been worried his entire family would storm out with him, but that turned out not to be a problem.
“I am so sorry,” his sister said to Olivia and me as the lights of the taxi faded into the night. “My brother’s harmless, really, but his obsessions do take control of him sometimes.” She shook her head sadly. “Poor Elizabeth Taylor.”
Olivia tucked the woman’s arm into hers. “Mr. Simmonds and I are going for a late drink. Why don’t you join us and you can tell me all about it.”
“Everything okay?” I asked Charlie Simmonds, who’d followed Olivia onto the veranda.
“If you mean regarding the cops, I haven’t heard another thing. I keep expecting someone to break down my door, but nothing. My agent’s been on the phone. It didn’t take long for him to go from mildly concerned to panicking to threatening to drop me if I miss an engagement.”
“Agents can be so tedious.” Olivia linked her other arm through his. “I’ll have a word with him, and let him know I’m delighted you’ve agreed to stay on for a few more performances.” To Louis’s sister, she said, “As for Elizabeth Taylor, I could tell you a story or two.”
They went inside, and I headed home to bed. Charlie said he hadn’t heard from the police or the FBI again, and Jim had reported the same. I dared to hope that was the end of talk of communists at Haggerman’s.
RED CELL OPERATING OUT OF ONE OF SUMMERVALE’S TOP LUXURY HOTELS?
“Thought you might want to see this.” George threw today’s edition of the Summervale Gazette onto my desk. “Hot off the presses.”
I groaned and buried my head in my hands. “I’ll sue the pants off them.”
“My dad was in the newspaper business,” George said. “He liked working with words. I prefer machinery. It doesn’t bite back. You can’t sue them, Mrs. Grady. See that question mark there? That’s called covering their—”
“Yes, yes. I know. Don’t put today’s paper in the boxes.”
One bushy eyebrow rose. “That would be censoring the press.”
“So it would,” I said.
“You’re the boss lady.” He shifted from one foot to the other, his big boots depositing clumps of mud all over my office floor. “Just so you know, Mrs. Grady. The old-timers here, guys like me, we’re happy you’re in charge. Until you got here, this hotel was going downhill and mighty fast. You’re doing a good job. For a girl, I mean.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“What I’m saying”—a grease-and-dirt-encrusted, calloused, broken-nailed finger pointed at the paper—“is we like working here and we all know this for a pack of nonsense. No one knows more about what goes on in a hotel than the guys who unplug the sink or trim the bushes under the windows. Except maybe the chambermaids. Communists in my hotel? Nah.”
“Did you tell the police or the FBI this?”
He lifted one shoulder. “No one asked me or any of my boys. I’ll see that today’s paper doesn’t get put in the boxes. Anyone asks, they didn’t have it ready for us when I did my pickup in town. Have a nice day, Mrs. Grady.”
“You, too, George. And thank you.”
Looking on the bright side, the paper had called us a “top luxury hotel.” Once George had left, depositing a second trail of mud on the floor, I went into the outer office. The clerks collectively lifted their heads from their papers or typewriters and chirped,
“Good morning, Mrs. Grady.”
“Good morning, ladies.” I took the microphone connected to the hotel’s loudspeakers off the wall. “Mr. Jim Westenham to Mrs. Grady’s office.”
I had barely enough time to read the short, scandalous article before Jim came through my door, a slice of toast in one hand and a glass of orange juice in the other.
“You’re right,” he said by way of greeting.
“I hope that’s not an entirely rare situatio
n, but what specifically am I right about today?”
“The orange juice is watery.” His eyes fell on my desk. “Oh.”
I turned the paper around and stabbed at the print. “Did you know about this? Why didn’t you tell me last night this was coming?”
“Because I didn’t know. Not for sure. The reporter I spoke to is named Martin McEnery.”
“That’s what the byline says.”
“He’s not young, not by a long shot, but he’s still mighty hungry. His days of getting a chance at the brass ring are fast running out, and he knows it. He’s got the whiff of a big story, something that’ll attract attention in New York, and he’s running with it as hard as he can. Can’t say I blame him.”
“Well, I do. My friend Lucinda told me the paper would protect the reputation of the town.”
“Up to a point. But they seem to be a legitimate newspaper, although small, and they’re not going to bury a valid story. Martin might have threatened to take the story to another paper in one of the other Catskill towns. They wouldn’t want that to happen.” He popped the last of his toast into his mouth, put down the orange juice, picked up the paper, and read quickly. I leaned back in my chair and studied his face. He was freshly shaven, his dark hair damp around the edges, and he was casually dressed in light-colored pants and an open-necked blue shirt. The corners of his mouth turned down as he read, and his eyes narrowed.
He finished reading. “Okay. Maybe I will blame him. This is a heck of a lot of innuendo disguised as facts. You and your mother, as the hotel owners, weren’t asked for a comment. Were you?”
“No.”
“The police are quoted but not named. He makes it sound as though there was an FBI raid in the dead of night, not two guys carrying away a box of papers while the little kids splashing in the pool watched. Uncle Harold never cared about public opinion or his reputation, but I do. This is verging on libelous, except that he disguises a lot of his statements as questions. I’ll make a few calls, Elizabeth. Find out if this is spreading to the city papers, and if it is, I can tell them that, so far, it’s a load of nonsense.”
“I’d appreciate it. Thank you. Not many of our guests go into town, and they don’t usually have any interest in the local news, but I do not need people checking out of my hotel because they’re afraid they’re going to be murdered in their beds. If they do that, they’ll tell all their friends why they came home early, and the story will grow in the telling. I don’t need cancellations, either.”
He gave me a smile. “Do you ever relax, Elizabeth?”
“Sure, I relax. I have a couple of hours free every Tuesday between October and April.”
“You’ll relax tonight. I’m taking you out to dinner.”
“I can’t—”
“If you want to hear what I learn from my contacts in New York, you’ll have to have dinner with me. Otherwise . . .” He pouted and shook his head slowly. “You’ll be kept in the dark.”
I felt a smile creep across my face. “Put like that, I have to agree.”
“Seven o’clock in the lobby. I’ll ask around, find a nice place.”
“We can eat here.”
“Absolutely not. I suspect that would be the opposite of relaxing for you. Seven o’clock.”
He saluted me and left my office. He left his orange juice behind.
“A date!” Olivia squealed. “Did you hear that, Tatiana? Elizabeth has a date.”
“But a newspaperman, O,” my aunt said. “Not good.”
I’d come home to dress for my dinner not-a-date and found my mother and her sister relaxing on our porch with a stack of sandwiches and glasses of icy vodka for their dinner.
“A man is a man,” Olivia said. “Are you sure he’s unmarried, Elizabeth? A lady can’t be too careful.”
“It is not a date,” I said. “We’re going out to . . . discuss the case.”
“What case?” Aunt Tatiana said.
Winston sniffed my shoes.
“The death of his uncle, of course. That reminds me. Do you not instruct your chambermaids to be on the lookout for . . . shall we say odd things going on in the guests’ rooms?”
Aunt Tatiana chuckled.
“I don’t mean that sort of odd thing. If we scolded everyone in our hotel who’s tiptoeing between rooms, we’d be out of business. As would every other place in the Catskills.”
“I have no idea to what you are referring, Elizabeth,” my mother said.
“Sure you do, and you don’t need to pretend you don’t. I am, that is I was, a married woman, Olivia.”
“Rosemary tells me one of her waiters has suddenly become quite popular with some of the temporarily single ladies,” Tatiana said.
Olivia wiggled her eyebrows.
“The chambermaids?” I prompted.
“If you’re referring to the photographs in room three nineteen, the maids on that floor have been spoken to. They didn’t seem to think it was a problem.” Aunt Tatiana offered Winston a piece of cheese, and he snapped it up. As usual, Aunt Tatiana shared liberally with Winston. That is, she shared her sandwiches with Winston, not her vodka. Although nothing would surprise me.
“It should have been up to you to decide if it was a problem, not them,” I said.
“About that, they have been corrected. No more needs to be said, Elizabeth.”
“Thank you.” I went to my room, had a quick bath, and attempted to rearrange my hair. I studied myself in the mirror, and as always I cursed the curly red locks my father had given me. My mother and Aunt Tatiana have thick wavy black hair that looks fabulous piled on top of their heads in a French twist or a chignon. Velvet’s blessed with fine, sleek blond tresses that drape so elegantly over her shoulder. My mess of red curls curdle in the heat and humidity of a Catskills summer. Hair attended to, I decided it would be safe to wear the new green dress I’d worn Wednesday evening. It had been laundered since I’d jumped into the lake with it on and had turned out better than I’d dared hope. Jim hadn’t seen me in it.
Rosemary had joined Olivia, Tatiana, and Winston on the porch. She’d brought a pitcher of martinis with her. The sandwiches were finished, and so was the vodka. Winston stood on the top steps, his blunt nose sniffing the soft evening air for any sign of intruding squirrels or chipmunks.
“Fancy!” Rosemary said when I came out.
“You think I’ve overdone it? It’s just dinner.”
“You haven’t overdone it. You look nice. You’ve got a date with our handsome young newspaperman, Olivia tells me.”
“It’s not a date,” I said.
“Sure looks like it,” Rosemary said. “I stopped in at your office but you’d left, so I grabbed this”—she pointed to the tray containing the pitcher—“from a passing waiter, as I figured you could use a nice drink.”
“Excellent plan,” Olivia said. Rosemary had brought two martini glasses. Olivia sipped from one, Tatiana had the other, and Rosemary was drinking her martini from a water glass.
“Not tonight,” I said. “He said seven and it’s almost that now. If we’re going to one of the hotels, we’ll want to be there in time for seating.”
“You’ve got a couple of minutes,” Rosemary said. “You never want to be early. Makes you look too eager.”
“As it’s not a date, I don’t need to worry about looking eager. I want to look punctual. Like the professional hotelier I am.”
“If you say so, Elizabeth. I have something I need to talk to you about.”
“Okay, if it’s quick.”
“Francis Monahan, one of the dishwashers.”
“What about him?”
Rosemary let out a long breath. “I can’t keep him on. He’s just about the clumsiest guy I’ve ever met. At lunch today he knocked over a cart. Dishes and glasses went everywhere. Maybe twenty plates were broken, as well as gla
sses and cups and saucers. The kitchen looked like a disaster area, and I thought Chef Leonardo was going to have a heart attack.”
Tatiana grunted. “Fool of a man threatens to have a heart attack if the milk turns. Why have you brought this to Elizabeth? You’re responsible for the staff in your department, as are we all. Fire him.”
Rosemary glanced at me.
“He’s Chief Monahan’s son,” I said.
“Yup.” Rosemary nodded. “I thought there might be political considerations.”
“Did anyone see this accident happen?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Does it matter? Francis was taking the cart to the sinks, and it’s not the first time he’s broken things or tripped over his own feet. A busy kitchen can be a dangerous place, Elizabeth, you know that.”
I thought about what Lucinda had told me, the other boys making fun of Francis when they’d been in school, and what I’d seen and heard myself when the college-boy waiters had mocked and laughed at him.
“What are you thinking?” Olivia peered at me over the rim of her martini glass.
“I’m thinking you’ll have to hold off, Rosemary. Regardless of what happened, this is not a good time to fire the son of the chief of police. I get the feeling Monahan’s a man who knows how to carry a grudge.”
“After a previous incident, I told Francis he had one more chance,” Rosemary said.
“Maybe the kitchen is not the best place for him,” Aunt Tatiana said.
“Mario told me he needs to hire a new gardener,” I said. “He’s lost a couple to Kennelwood. This heat’s making the grass and the plants grow like weeds. It’s making the weeds grow like weeds. Let’s move Francis Monahan. Get him out of that crowded kitchen.” And away from those college boys, not that the groundskeepers were likely to be any kinder. “Into the fresh air. The only damage he can do with a pair of garden shears is to the geraniums.”
