The Hotel Detective (33 page)

Am entered very slowly, very cautiously. He followed Carlton into the room and watched him sit down on the sofa. The host
motioned for Am to sit on a nearby leather chair. Am did so but positioned himself at the end of the chair, ready to respond
if Smoltz pulled a knife or a gun.

“Dear,” announced Carlton, “we have company.”

Bobbi Johnson was sitting at the table, finishing up her breakfast. She gave Am a big smile. “How do,” she said. She was a
voluptuous woman, big and meaty, and like Carlton, she had on only the Hotel robe. “Champagne?” she asked. “No, thank you,”
said Am.

Bobbi joined Carlton on the sofa. They gave each other a look that had too much significance for Am's comfort, but Carlton
disarmed his suspicions with the question: “Do you have a clergyman in this Hotel?”

Am breathed a sigh of relief. The murderer did feel remorse. Although the Hotel had a chapel, there was no Hotel clergyman
on property. “No,” said Am, “but I can get you one. As they say, confession is good for the soul.”

It took Carlton a moment before he understood. “Oh, not that,” he said. The words were uttered with a grimace and what appeared
to be all sincerity, but they were words spoken with a finality, the firm shutting of a sad hook.

Carlton regained his bearings, took a moment to squeeze Bobbi's arm. “It's just that we want to be married,” he said, “and
we can't think of any other place we'd rather have our wedding than here.”

The couple held hands. Am wasn't sure whether to be complimented or insulted. The man had murdered his wife on Thursday and
now wanted to be married on Sunday. In a roundabout way, he supposed, Smoltz believed in the sanctity of marriage.

Bobbi poked Carlton in the ribs and whispered something in his ear. Am tensed again, suspecting they might be plotting something.
“That's right,” said Carlton. “Perhaps a judge would be better. We were hoping I might legally change my name before the ceremony.
I promised Bobbi that I'd become a Bob Johnson. She's kind of partial to that name, and so am I.”

The two of them smiled at one another.

“Mr. Johnson,” said Am, “I mean, Mr. Smoltz, do you realize the seriousness of this situation?”

“I do,” he said. “I have found the woman I love, and nothing is so important as to make things right with her.” Am shook his
head. “I mean—“

“If you're referring to what happened the other day,” said Bobbi, “Bobby”—Carlton! Am wanted to scream—“told me everything.
He said he didn't want to drag me into the mud, and didn't want to woo me under false pretenses. Any other man I know would
have done his poking first and his talking later, but not Bobby. He's a gentleman, and what happened was an accident. If you
ask me, that two-timer and her no-good lawyer got what they deserved….”

“Now, Bobbi,” said Carlton.

They reached for each other's hands. “Bob still accepts all the responsibility like a real man,” she said. “But I'm telling
you, that strumpet and her Lothario forced him to act as he did. That's the way I'm betting any jury is going to see it, and
even if they don't, I'll stand by my man.”

In the face of all her clichés, Am was speechless.

“I now have a reason to fight,” said Bob/Carlton, “and to live.

His eyes teared up. He tried to rub away the tears, but instead his brushing opened up the ducts, and the dam. “Oh, Bobby,”
said Bobbi, holding him and kissing his wet cheeks. He returned her kisses, then looked to Am, slightly embarrassed.

“I am not without remorse, Mr. Caulfield,” he said. “I will forever be troubled by what I did. There is no justification for
my actions, and there will be retribution—my own, and the state's. But understand that I don't want to mourn away the few
minutes of freedom I have remaining. There will be time enough for that. For now, selfish as it seems, I want to declare my
love.”

Bobbi took his hand. “We want to declare our love.”

Am didn't know what to say. He worked in a business that had inculcated in him the primary goal of making the guest happy.
But what did you do when that guest was a murderer?

“Mr. Smoltz,” he said, “a wedding is out of the question. The Hotel cannot condone murder, nor can we cater to murderers.”

Bobbi started to cry. Carlton was more understanding. Head bent, he nodded sadly, then tried to comfort his fiancée.

The sobbing eventually got to Am. What the hell, he thought. He cleared his throat, got Bobbi’s and Carlton’s attention.

“Perhaps an impromptu engagement party,” he said, “wouldn’t be absolutely out of the question.”

Am tried not to dwell on what he was doing. At odd moments he realized that facilitating the engagement party of a murderer
was, well—criminal. But that murderer, at least until the police took him away, was still a guest. Am took some solace in
the fact that he wasn’t organizing an engagement party so much as a going-away party.

It took him less than an hour to set everything up. In attendance were Am and Sharon, a lawyer Am had recommended for Carlton,
a photographer, Philip the banquet waiter, Dorothy from catering, and Wallace Talbot. Carlton was delighted that Wallace was
in attendance, saying it was wonderful to have a celebrity in their midst. For his part, Wallace went around and handed everyone
peppermint sticks.

The party was bittersweet, tears with laugher. It reminded Am of a bon voyage party he’d once attended, when a friend of his
was shipping out to ‘Nam. Everyone tried to maintain the fantasy of happiness, but reality arrived with the toasts. Even champagne
bubbles can’t suspend illusion indefinitely. Carlton left Bobbi’s arms for his lawyer’s, and Am walked both of them to room
208. McHugh and the police had arranged for a late check-out, ostensibly because they wanted to make sure the murderer didn’t
show up, but it was the start of the football season after all. When Carlton knocked on the door (late in the third quarter),
Am was sorry he hadn’t brought along the party photographer to document McHugh’s expression. It was almost vindication enough.
Sending the detective the engagement party pictures, he decided, would even the score between them.

Am had expected a feeling of freedom to accompany the resolution of the case, but it was more of an emptiness. He had been
so involved, withdrawal was hard. He sat at his desk and tried to attend to piled-up work, but he found it difficult, trivial
compared to his case. His mood didn’t improve when he heard that Kendrick had returned to the property. His impulse was to
leave, but he resisted that. Kendrick would only call him at home or, worse, torture him by not calling. Better to face up
to him sooner than later. He was sure Kendrick wouldn’t have any difficulty finding fault with everything he had done.

The telephone rang. Kendrick, thought Am. But it wasn’t. The display showed the housekeeper’s extension.

“You were right, Am,” said an excited Barb Terry. “We kept a watch on his room, but no one got the chance to go in until just
now, what with his half-day rate, and his Do Not Disturb sign up all day, and his not wanting no maid service. But I had everyone
watching for him. Soon’s he left the room I had one of the room checkers run in. She just called me and said he’d done some
serious damage.”

“Who?” said Am, then added, “What?”

Barb sounded disappointed that Am didn’t know what she was talking about. “Why, Ducky Duckworth,” she said.

Just how many straws does it take to break the camel’s back? thought Am, not for the first time. “Thanks, Barb.”

“Better grab him, Am. He’s about to check out.”

Am grabbed his coat and name tag; it wasn’t quite the statement of a sheriff’s badge and his six-shooter, but when confronting
a guest he knew it was always best to look as official as possible. He hurried to the lobby, hoping to intercept Ducky before
he checked out, but the pitcher was already at the front desk. He was trying to casually read the sports section, the same
sports section that played up his signing with a banner headline. How had one sportscaster put it? “How much is the right
hand of God worth? About what Ducky Duckworth signed for today.”

T.K. was checking Ducky out. The desk clerk looked grim. If T.K. couldn’t joke about it, the situation had to be serious.
He saw Am and heaved a sigh of relief, motioning him with his head to join him at the desk. It was too late to head off Ducky
anyway, so Am made his way behind the front desk and followed T.K.’s finger to the credit card terminal. The word
declined
was flashing.

Ducky’s bill was for almost twelve thousand dollars. Most hotels process credit cards for the expected amount of a guest’s
stay upon check-in. The clerk who had obtained the initial approval hadn’t anticipated Ducky’s expensive party and had received
authorization only for two thousand dollars. T.K. had apparently tried to get the additional amount approved, but without
success. So how do you explain to the thirty-million-dollar man that his credit is no good?

There were other guests at the front desk, most of whom had already identified the pitcher. There are celebrities who love
being noticed, and Ducky was one of them. He was a big man, about six feet three, with eyes as hard as his fastball. His face
was thick and square, which made the bulge in his cheek stand out all the more. Am hoped he was doing his hamster act with
bubble gum rather than chewing tobacco.

Whenever a guest’s credit card is declined, that news is usually conveyed to the card holder by the clerk in low, funereal
tones, but in this instance even a whisper would have been overheard. Am thought it best to spare the pitcher the embarrassment
of having his private life made public and decided to steer him quietly to his office.

“Mr. Duckworth, I’m Am Caulfield, the assistant general manager of the Hotel, and—”

“How do you spell your name?” said Ducky, his tone bordering between boredom and annoyance.

Am pointed to his name tag.

“Well, give me a paper,” Ducky said impatiently.

“For what?”

“You want my autograph or not?”

“Actually, I was hoping if you had a moment, we could talk in my office.”

Ducky’s crowd of admirers was getting larger. He yawned and stretched. “Don’t really have a moment, son. Got a plane to catch.”

The pitcher was probably a dozen years younger than Am. His pronouncement was likely meant to discourage other autograph seekers,
but Am still didn’t like being referred to as “son.”

A little more firmly, he said, “If you’ll just step this way…”

“Listen, son, I really got better things to do than discuss baseball with you. I’m just trying to pay my bill. That okay with
you?”

There were about twice as many rubberneckers as before. Speaking softly, Am said, “It’s a matter of your credit, Mr. Duckworth.”

“What?”

His shout took in most of the lobby, brought absolute quiet to the entire front desk area. Ducky was looking at Am expectantly.
Everybody was looking. Anything Am had to say was going to be heard by all. So be it.

“Sir,” Am said, “your credit card has been declined.”

At the best of times that news is embarrassing. This was not the best of times. Those who could contain themselves, smiled.
Those who couldn’t, started laughing. Here was a man who in essence had won the lottery, who had just been signed to a contract,
and a lifetime, few could imagine. And now, for a moment, at least, he had to descend from his cloud.

Ducky didn’t adjust to gravity very well. He glowered at the laughers and silenced everyone. “What the hell are you talking
about? Did you see the fucking headlines today?”

“I did.”

“I think I’ll buy this Hotel,” said Ducky. “It could sure use some changes.”

Having announced he was a bigger man than everyone, Ducky straightened, picked up his bag, and started to leave. Calling after
him, Am said, “Defrauding an innkeeper is a felony charge in this state, Mr. Duckworth.”

That stopped the pitcher. “What?”

“You have an outstanding bill. And I understand there was considerable damage done to your room. If you walk out on those
charges, I can only assume you are trying to defraud the Hotel, and I will be forced to call the police and ask them to put
a warrant out for your arrest.”

Ducky used his famous stare on Am. He gave him a look that would have made a cleanup hitter tremble, but when Am didn’t blink,
didn’t show an inch of give, the pitcher suddenly capitulated. Ducky, after all, was a fine hurler. He was known for his smoke,
but he did have an effective change-up. He walked back to the desk.

“Uh, is a personal check okay?” he asked. “How about I just leave it open, and you can figure out whatever’s right?”

“That would be fine,” Am said.

He ripped out a check, scrawled his signature, and didn’t wait for a receipt, or a thank-you, just quickly walked away. Then
Am heard an unfamiliar sound. Applause. And it wasn’t for Ducky, it was for him. Perhaps two dozen guests and staff were clapping.
At first Am was embarrassed, but that feeling passed. He pretended to step out of the dugout, doffed his cap to the crowd,
then disappeared from sight as heroes are wont to do.

There was little time for Am to savor his small victory. He was told there was someone holding on the line for him, and the
sinking feeling returned. Kendrick. But it was a female voice that returned his greeting.

“Am, this is Kris Carr.”

“Ms. Carr. How are you?”

“I’m fine, Am.”

She paused long enough to make him doubt that. “Not again?” he asked.

“Afraid so.”

“I’ll be right up.”

Kris Carr was waiting at her door. She was wearing a terry-cloth robe and nothing else.

“He went for the frilled jobs again,” she announced.

Am tried to maintain a serious demeanor. “Any idea when they turned up missing?”

“That’s the thing I don’t like. I wonder if someone’s been watching me. I went down to the pool around three o’clock. The
pervert must have come in between then and now.”

Am looked at his watch. It was a little past five. “And you’re sure your door was closed and locked?”