Bubbles All The Way (23 page)

“We just applied for a marriage license! Isn’t that cause for celebration?”

I could tell he was surprised and pleased. “I just didn’t think you’d want to go to dinner with me, that’s all. You’re usually so uptight about that, going out with me.”

“I wasn’t talking about going out to dinner.”

He quit walking. A snowflake landed on his nose. I went on tiptoe and licked it off.

“Bubbles . . . I . . . I . . .” He ran his hand up my arm and touched my face. “I thought . . .”

“We have our marriage license, why wait? Let’s get a suite at the Hotel Lehigh and do it up right. Tonight.”

A low growl came from his throat. “A suite?”

“I already made a reservation.”

He licked his puffy lower lip. “I didn’t think you were going to, you know, be that way with me. I thought that wasn’t part of the bargain. What’s come over you?”

“Call it a sudden wave of lust.” And I kissed him to show him I was sincere and also to shut him up.

Phase I of Stiletto’s plan was under way.

A
fifteen-foot Christmas tree trimmed in red velvet bows and gold balls dominated the grand lobby of the venerable Hotel Lehigh. I was in awe gaping at the garland-festooned banisters and the dramatic flower arrangements. It was everything I imagined the Hotel Lehigh would be and then some.

Women in diamond necklaces leaned on the arms of men in formal wear as they strolled across the thick Oriental carpets. A live jazz band played a mellow version of “Winter Wonderland,” barely audible over the tinkling glasses and guests laughing in the ballroom upstairs. The air was thick with wafts of smoke, alcohol and perfume. This was what it was like to be an adult. A
real
adult.

“Must be some soiree upstairs,” Dan said, a note of disgust in his voice. “Sounds like a bunch of banshees if you ask me.”

They weren’t a bunch of banshees. They were the men who had been won at last night’s bachelor auction and their dates. I saw no reason to tell Dan this, however. It would be hard enough keeping him from spying Stiletto. Dan had a sixth sense about such things.

“You sure you want to do this tonight? Don’t want to wait until the honeymoon?”

“I’m sure.” I kissed him again and tried my hardest not to retch. “I don’t think I could stand the suspense.”

He squeezed me around the waist, too hard and too high, copping a feel to check if my breasts were still worth the hundred-sixty-nine-dollar suite plus tax. “Okay. Why not?”

I stood back as he approached the high marble counter, got out his credit card and took care of business. Carefully, I scoped the lobby, the bar to the left, the stairs to the mezzanine and the ballroom upstairs.

And that was when I saw him. Stiletto in a navy jacket, white shirt and classic gray pants. He was leaning on the banister with his hand in one pocket. In his other he held a drink. He lifted it in a salute.

My heart again. It beat hard. I knew then that for as long as I lived, even when Stiletto got into his eighties and was wrinkled and gray, he’d still be able to do that to me. I’d catch sight of him in his wheelchair and go weak.

That is, if I ever saw him after tonight.

“Done and done.” Dan dangled the room key. “Now how about some champagne to loosen our rusted bolts?”

“I couldn’t have put it more romantically.”

He leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Be prepared for a night that will leave you so spent you won’t be able to get out of bed in the morning.” Then he slapped my ass for punctuation.

I didn’t know how much more of this I could stand. I mean, really. Was Jane’s mental health and need for family security worth—dare I say it?—sleeping next to her father? What had I gotten myself into?

Dan went over to the bar to order the champagne, being too cheap to go through room service. He turned and winked. I winked back. It was all very smarmy.

The bartender was swamped and had no time for Dan, who might as well have worn a Tightwad Tipper Club Member pin on his lapel. Dan waved a hundred-dollar bill to get him snapping.

I felt an arm slip around my waist as I was pulled behind the Christmas tree by Stiletto.

“Having fun?” He brushed back my hair as if about to kiss me.

“Never more so.”

“It’s written all over your face, you saucy wench.” He smelled vaguely of scotch. I kind of liked it. “Tell me, how did the Don Juan of Lehigh, PA, manage to seduce you this time?”

“Told me to be prepared for a night that would leave me sore in the morning.”

Stiletto winced. “The Ben-Gay approach. Never tried that.”

“And I wouldn’t start now.”

Impatient to get through this unnecessary conversation, he brought me to him, placing his hand firmly behind my head, and kissed me. For one heady moment, the sounds of cocktail chatter, soft jazz and laughter swirled and mixed with the smell of scotch and pine and perfume as Stiletto’s soft mouth hardened against mine, our tongues shyly, playfully searching for a deeper intimacy.

Then I remembered and pushed him away. “Are we crazy? What about Dan?”

“Who’s Dan?” He was looking down at me with unabashed lust, completely unconcerned what others might think should we be caught making out behind the Christmas tree. This, I decided, was a male trait, the ability to block out the world when consumed by the overpowering primal urge of procreation.

“We need to focus on what we’re doing,” I said.

“Absolutely,” and he bent down for another go.

“Not that,” I said, pulling away. “Tess. Debbie Shatsky’s murder. The Santa Clauses who are shooting at me.”

“They have nothing to do with Debbie Shatsky.”

As soon as he said it, I could tell he realized he’d crossed a line.

“How do you know they have nothing to do with Debbie Shatsky?”

He squared his shoulders, the blood returning to his brain at last. “I don’t. It’s just a hunch I have from, you know, being experienced in the field and all.”

“Right.” I scrutinized him. Once again I had the feeling Stiletto was much more aware of what was going on than I was. Like
Soviet issue.
What did that mean?

“So,” he said, all businesslike, “are you ready to go through with this?”

I glanced over my shoulder. The bartender was handing Dan an ice bucket. “Is she here?”

“Powdering her nose. She’s already sucked down three cosmopolitans like they were water.”

“Do you think she’ll talk?”

“If she doesn’t pass out first. Did you get the room?”

“I reserved 236.”

“Right next door. I’ll try to be quick.”

I didn’t know about that. When it came to Stiletto in bed, nothing was quick.

“You know what to do,” I said.

He tapped his temple. “Got it all in here.”

Then Stiletto slid something cool into my hand. It was a key.

“A copy of mine. In case you change your mind about Dan.”

Dan was in the middle of the lobby searching for me like a lost little boy. In his arms was the ice bucket, in which a green bottle leaned at an angle. Even from where I was standing, I could make out the label. Korbel. Nine dollars and fifty cents at the state store.

“Don’t I wish.”

 

Dan and I stood stiffly side by side in the elevator as a technical rendition of “Silver Bells” played on the speakers. He punched 14, the top floor, and we went up.

I tensed. “Fourteen? But I reserved 236.”

Dan winked again. If he kept this up, he was going to have to see an optometrist. “It’s a surprise, baby cakes. I got us the top floor. The penthouse.”

No, no, no! We were supposed to be next door to Stiletto. He had given me an adjoining room key.

“You look shocked.” The doors flung open. Dan stepped out holding his sweaty ice bucket and turned. “What are you waiting for?”

“Just a bit nervous.”

He held the doors open. “A blushing bride. Cute. Okay, let’s move it.”

This was all wrong, I thought, following him. The plan was that Stiletto and I would be next door so we could reach each other for quick consultations on interviewing Tess. I had a tape recorder and a mike that I was supposed to extend under the door that adjoined our rooms. It was a perfect, no-fail plan.

Except for the Dan part. Though I was pretty confident I could handle him, too. I’d been married to him long enough to know how.

“Here we are!” He stood before a set of double doors. “Want me to lift you over the threshold?”

“Uh, no, thanks.”

“Oh, c’mon.”

“We have to be married first.”

“We’re supposed to be married to have sex and that’s not stopping us.”

Geesh. “All right already.” I put down my purse.

Dan squatted and held out his arms like they were forklifts. “On the count of three. One . . . two . . . three.”

I jumped in his arms and heard a loud
craaack.
It reminded me of ice breaking on Lake Wallenpaupack in the spring.

“Oh, oh,” Dan moaned, unable to move. “What have you done to me?”

I felt a surge of hope. “Are you hurt?”

“Am I hurt? Cripes. I think you broke my back.”

“Does that mean you can’t carry me over the threshold? Are you, perchance . . . too old?”

Dan’s grasp stiffened. “Like hell I’m too old.”

He started to straighten, but couldn’t and ended up mincing in a half squat, like an arthritic chimpanzee. With every laborious step, he’d let out a grunt and I did nothing to ease his difficulty.

Finally, after several torturous minutes making his way across the vast set of rooms, he dropped me on the majestic king-sized bed with a “There!”

Then he collapsed himself. He lay curled in a fetal position.

I got up. “Maybe I should get some ice.”

“There’s ice in the bucket.” He grimaced. “Come on. Take your clothes off. I didn’t go through all that for nothing.”

I wagged my finger. “Absolutely not, mister. You could have done some serious damage. This needs to be taken care of fast. You don’t want to show up at our wedding like this, do you?”

And before he could argue, I pulled out the chilled bottle of champagne and shoved it up his shirt against his spine. If Dan hadn’t been crippled, I think he would have clobbered me.

“Holy Mary, mother of God, what in the tarnation are you doing?”

“Cold. It’s good for you. Then hot. Alternate every five minutes. I’ll go dig up a hot-water bottle. Don’t move a muscle.”

“Like I could.”

I grabbed the room key out of his clenched fist and ran to the door. In the hallway I took a deep breath and thanked God for finally throwing me a bone. I needed to find Stiletto and fast, before he made a fool of himself with the people in 236.

The elevator took forever. I had to listen to Karen Carpenter—AGAIN!—as we inched floor by floor to the lobby and when I got there found no sign of Stiletto.

Instead, I ran into Wendy.

S
he wore a plunging black dress that was so tight her emaciated body took on the appearance of an exclamation mark.

“Hello, Bubbles. Fancy meeting you here.” Next to her was a man I recognized from the Help the Poor Children brochure as a fitness instructor who was building a gym at the Hellertown exit of I-80. He reminded me of a Jack Russell terrier. My guess was that this was the poor schmuck Wendy had won at the auction.

“Was it my imagination,” she said, an evil glint to her eyes, “or did I see Dan at the bar a few minutes ago?”

“Yes. Dan was at the bar,” I said. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to find—”

“And, of course, Steve Stiletto’s here. With Tess. His date.”

I smiled to the terrier, who looked confused, hungry and slightly rabid.

“He’s in the room with her now,” she said. “This is when we couples are supposed to be waited on by room service for a private dinner and”—she cozied up to the terrier—“whatever else happens. Steve left with Tess minutes ago. I can just imagine what they’re doing now.”

“Flipping through the cable channels is what I’m betting.”

Wendy let out a high, wispy laugh. “It must be more than a coincidence that you’re here and Stiletto, too. Is this a tête-a-tête?”

“Oh, come on, Wendy.” I let out a high, wispy laugh myself.

“Because I could have sworn I saw you two behind the Christmas tree. Tess was very upset.”

I frantically searched for an excuse to get away from her. Wendy kept in contact with Dan over the most trivial matters—who would get custody of their Japanese sushi bowls, their latte maker, their organic cotton sheets and customized foot warmers. I could not risk her telling Dan during one of these idiotic conversations that I’d been up to no good with Stiletto.

Finally, the terrier said, “I think our chicken Caesar salad’s going to get cold if we don’t hurry.”

“Silly you.” She tapped his nose. “Salad going cold. I
love
it!”

They left in the elevator and I snagged a waiter wielding a silver tray. “Could you get a hot-water bottle? My husband’s hurt his back.”

“Sure.” The waiter took out a pen. “What room?”

I hadn’t expected that.

“Can’t you just give it to me? That’s why I came all the way down.”

“Sorry, ma’am. Hotel policy. That way we have a record of what room it’s going to.”

Damn! I told him it was the suite on the fourteenth floor and he would have to open the door because Dan was incapacitated.

“You could have just called down for it.” He tucked the pen in his shirt pocket and promised to have someone run one right up.

Which didn’t leave me much time. I turned and ran up the stairs to the ballroom. Finding a fire door, I opened to a fire hallway of cement stairs and metal railings, climbing quickly to the second floor. Room 236 was right down the hall.