Talk of the Town (9 page)
Balancing my overnight bag, my briefcase, purse, the Dairy Queen sack, and my supersize Diet Coke, I stuck the cookies in my only remaining containment device, my teeth, and wiggled the skeleton key into the door with one hand while turning the knob and pushing the door open with the other.
The room was dark, the outline of a dresser and an ornate brass bed silhouetted by the tall arched windows facing Main Street. Setting down my things as the door creaked shut behind me, I walked through the strip of light to the window and surveyed Main Street while eating one of the cookies. It tasted incredibly good. Below, the town seemed peaceful and quiet, its old street lamps casting a Norman Rockwell sheen over the empty sidewalks and silent store fronts, making the scene seem welcoming, safe, unlike the alley out back. I took a moment to admire the view while eating the other cookie. After I’d had supper and found some light switches, not necessarily in that order, I would gather my courage and venture downstairs for more cookies.
Crossing the room, I searched for a light switch by the door. Nothing visible in the slice of window light, so I widened my reconnaissance area, using my hands. Still nothing, although I did find the door to what turned out to be the bathroom. I checked the ceiling over my shoulder. There was definitely a light fixture there—something with intricate scrollwork and several glass globes. Where in the world was the switch?
Moving around the room, I searched the walls, tipping picture frames off balance, touching heavy cloth wall hangings. Something that felt like a feather boa momentarily snagged my arm, and I jumped back, getting a quick heebie-jeebie. Finally, near the bed, I found a wall lamp, investigated it with my fingers, and pulled the chain.
The bulb came to life, made an explosive pop, and went dead. In the moment of brilliant light, I took in yards and yards of pink satin, a thick plush white furry something on the bed, and a huge black velvet Elvis crooning over the headboard.
I stood frozen in place, imagining that this was some sort of weird dream and I would wake up any moment. I would find myself home in LA, safe in my bed, with the street noises, and the hum of the air system, and the occasional roar of jets headed for LAX. There would be no velvet Elvis pictures, no hairy bedspreads, no pink satin pillows and drapes.
Or maybe I was on the boat, sailing the California coast with David. The wedding was over and the season of
American Megastar
in the bag—an unqualified success, of course. We were drifting along on the breeze, carefree, happy, in love. Hundreds of miles from Ursula Uberstach. Thousands of miles from Daily, Texas. David was standing on the bow, the wind combing his dark, perfectly trimmed hair, a shirt hanging unbuttoned over his shoulders—a very G.Q. shirt. David was so G.Q.
David hadn’t called all day. Why hadn’t David called, especially when he knew I needed . . .
A noise in the hallway sliced the thought in half. I froze, listening. The sound came again—a stair squeaking, then another.
Someone was in the building.
Breath caught in my throat. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone else in the hotel. Donetta had told me that specifically. She’d said no one would be here. But someone, or something, was coming up the stairs.
I slipped off a shoe, then bent and took off the other shoe, then tiptoed toward the door. Outside, the footsteps reached the landing.
A loose floorboard squealed under my weight, and I stopped. The noises in the hall moved closer. Holding my breath, I grabbed my purse from the chair and clutched it to my chest. Thank goodness for Prada with mace and a cell phone inside.
Inching to the wall, I squatted down, moved my face close to the doorknob, and squinted through the keyhole just in time to see a shadow pass by.
A key turned in the lock next door. Right next door. Hinges squealed as the door opened. My fingers trembled on my purse, slipped inside it, slid over my cell phone as the intruder knocked something over, crossing the room. Something rattled in the wall between my room and the next one. An adjoining door. There was an adjoining door, and someone was trying to open it.
The cell phone beeped once as I switched it to silent. Holding my breath, I crawled to the other side of the room, crouched behind the furry bed, and dialed 9-1-1.
I’d just settled in to watch that good-looking football player on
Dancing With the Stars
when Jack’s scanner from the volunteer fire department went to squawking in the kitchen. I got up from my chair, aggravated with myself for having turned it on to keep me company during supper. Tonight was mambo night, and unless my own house was burning down, I didn’t want any interruptions. The dance-off was down to only five contestants, and it was gonna be a mambo to end all mambos. Goodness, but that football player sure could wiggle. Reckon he learned that on the football field.
The phone rang just as I got to the kitchen doorway. Couldn’t be one of the kids checking on me. All four of the boys knew better than to call during
Dancing With the Stars
.
For a minute, I had the odd thought that my house really was on fire and I just hadn’t noticed it yet, and Patti down at the county dispatch was calling to tell me to get out. I pictured all my things, all the memories of Jack and me and our life together, gone up in smoke, and tears rushed over me.
Oh, for heaven’s sake, Imagene,
some sensible part of me said,
call the psychiatric ward and see if they’ve noticed your mind run by, because you’ve sure enough lost it.
Grabbing a towel, I wiped my eyes as I answered the phone. No doubt, Patti had slipped up and called my number again out of habit from all the years Jack was on the VFD. Patti always got embarrassed when she did that.
I picked up the phone and answered, figuring she’d launch into a wave of apologies the minute she heard my voice.
It was Forrest, the county sheriff, on the other end, which surprised me and got me worried all over again. Something had to be wrong for Forrest to call on Thursday, which was normally his poker night with the boys down at The Junction.
“Imagene?” He sounded irritated, being as whatever call was out on the scanner had probably interrupted his game. “You know anything about someone staying over to the Daily Hotel? Dispatch just got a prowler report from a lady, said she was a guest there. In the Beulah room, no less. Patti figured it was kids playing a joke, but she can’t get ahold of Donetta.”
“Donetta’s probably on the internet.” Ever since DeDe got that yard-sale computer, she’s been addicted to the internet, eBay mostly, but she also liked to print out political gossip and warnings about underarm deodorant causing breast cancer—information she felt had been hidden until now by a government conspiracy to sell more deodorant.
“Figures,” Forrest said. “Well, I imagine it’s just a prank, or maybe kids down there lookin’ for the ghost again. Usually that ain’t a problem until Halloween or Elvis’s birthday, but you never can tell. Heaven help us if they touch anything in the Beulah room. I had Patti dispatch Buddy Ray over there with a pass key, just in case.”
“Oh, Lord have mercy! You sent Buddy Ray to the hotel?” The words exploded from my mouth just as the mambo music was starting on TV. “I’ve got to go, Forrest. I better get down there before Buddy Ray makes a mess of things. Donetta’s got guests in those rooms.” Without waiting for an answer, I grabbed my purse and hit Record on the VCR, even though that meant
Dancing With the Stars
would record over today’s episode of
One Life to Live
. Sometimes you have to prioritize.
All the way to town, four miles to the crossroad and two past that, I tried not to imagine what might be going on at the hotel.
Lord have mercy,
I kept thinking,
what a mess.
It didn’t occur to me until I pulled up behind the hotel that I was in my housecoat and slippers. By then, there wasn’t much I could do about it.
Buddy Ray’s cruiser was parked behind the building with the driver’s side door askew and the light flashing. The hotel entrance was hanging open, as if he’d burst in there like a scene from
Dragnet
, which he probably had. Buddy Ray took six months toward a criminal justice degree before he flunked out of community college. He liked to put all that higher education to use.
“Buddy Ray?” I called his name as I stepped in because I didn’t want to get shot. A part of me had been wishing to go to the pearly gates ever since Jack died, but not at the hands of Buddy Ray and his peacemaker. “Buddy Ray? It’s Imagene. You up there?”
The stairway was quiet, the hall empty except for a little plate of cookies Donetta’d left on the bureau. I pictured her home shopping on eBay while I was down at the hotel in my bathrobe, risking life and limb. “Buddy Ray? You upstairs? It’s Imagene.” Maybe he was in the beauty shop. Maybe he’d checked there first and he hadn’t bothered the guests yet. Maybe he was scared speechless because he’d seen the ghost of the Daily Hotel, which some said was Elvis and some said was a Confederate soldier.
“I’m up here,” Buddy Ray’s voice boomed down the stairs. He didn’t
sound
like he’d seen a ghost. “That you, Donetta?”
“No, it’s Imagene.” I moved up the stairs as quick as I could. Maybe Buddy Ray hadn’t gotten into the guest rooms yet.
“Call for backup, Imagene. I got perpetrators up here.” Buddy Ray was breathless with excitement. “Tell Patti to radio Forrest.”
So much for hoping he hadn’t disturbed the guests yet. “Buddy Ray,” I hollered as I crossed the landing and hurried up the last few stairs. “You leave them people alo—” When I rounded the corner, there was Buddy Ray, with his hand on his gun. He had that sweet girl who wasn’t particular and Carter, the darling boy with beach shoes and pretty blue eyes, handcuffed and spread-eagle against the wall. That poor boy wasn’t wearing his Hawaiian shirt anymore. In fact, he wasn’t wearing anything but some silky boxer shorts. Apparently, Buddy Ray had caught him in the middle of changing clothes.
“Buddy Ray, you turn those people loose!” I said, and all three of them looked in my direction. Staggering backward a step, Buddy Ray swung the pistol around. “Don’t you point that gun at me, young man. You put that thing down and unlock them handcuffs. For heaven’s sake, Buddy Ray, you might ask a few questions before you go dragging some fella into the hall in his boxers.”
“Exercise shorts,” Carter corrected, and grinned like he was getting a kick out of the whole thing. I had to give him credit for steady nerves, being as there was a certified idiot behind him with a loaded gun. The girl, whose name I couldn’t remember right then, looked terrified and no small bit embarrassed, standing there in her nice suit with her hands braceleted behind her back. She was a good three or four inches shorter without the high heels. Kind of a petite little thing with curly reddish-brown hair and the prettiest brown eyes. Cute as a bug, but red as a beet.
“These folks are paying guests,” I said, but Buddy Ray didn’t look like he was ready to give up his prisoners just on my say-so. “Donetta’s gonna have your hide, Buddy Ray.”
“Donetta d-don’t rent r-rooms anymore,” Buddy Ray stammered, feeling the need, I’m sure, to defend his powers of crime scene investigation.
“Well, she does now, as of this afternoon.” I pointed toward the Beulah room. Buddy Ray’s eyes got wide and he froze up for a minute. “Unlock them cuffs,” I said, to get him back on track.
“Oh . . . okay, Mrs. Doll, but-but-but . . .” He gaped toward the Beulah room like he was afraid Beulah herself was gonna step out and turn him into a pillar of salt. I reckon he was thinking he’d rather haul two innocent folks off to jail than risk the wrath of Beulah. “Does
she
. . . does she know about this?” His eyes cut toward Beulah’s name on the door again.
“Donetta said it was okay.”
Buddy put a hand to his mouth and whispered out the side, like he was worried all the little statues in the Beulah room might hear, “But does
she
know?”
“Donetta said it was all right, Buddy Ray. Turn these folks loose.”
Buddy Ray shrugged and shook his head. “Okay, but I didn’t have nothin’ to do with it. . . . If Beulah asks, I mean.”
“True enough,” I agreed, to ease Buddy Ray’s nerves. He’d had a run-in or two with Beulah before. Every time she came to town, she was sure thieves had snuck into and heisted some of the priceless collectibles in her suite. About the time poor Buddy Ray came around to investigate, she always found her lost treasures hidden under the chair cushions or behind the curtains or tucked under the bed covers. She usually blamed it on the ghost, but the truth was that before she left, Beulah always hid her favorite things, then forgot about it by the time she came back. The ghost got credit for a lot of activity that was really just Beulah being Beulah. Even if there was such thing as ghosts, I doubt if they’d have the guts to mess with Beulah’s stuff.
The keys rattled in Buddy Ray’s hands as he took the cuffs off that cute little girl, then turned to set Carter loose. Standing there in his exercise shorts, Carter looked like the cover of
Yoga With Yahani,
only with shorter hair. Anyhow, he cut a fine figure. The girl noticed that, even though she was busy rubbing her wrists and trying to shake the blood back into her hands. She looked away when Carter turned around, so he wouldn’t see her watching. I reckon she forgot for a minute that I was standing behind them both, because when she saw me there, she blushed. I pretended I hadn’t seen her looking at Carter. Her being an engaged girl and all, that would be a little embarrassing.
