Weekend (23 page)

“When’s Ellen going to announce all this?” Sheriff Balbera asked as Sid hung up the phone.

“She’s in the process of gathering the executive staff together right now. When she’s finished with them, she’ll start working on the guests.”

“What about the food for dinner?”

“It’s all been ordered fresh,” Bruce said, “and to be on the safe side we’re getting it from different sources.”

“Are you so sure the people who died picked it up from the food?” Kaplow asked. He realized he knew nothing about cholera at all.

“We’re not sure about anything at this point, but we’ve got to get at the bottom of this somehow. All we know right now is that in the first instance the janitor was in his room all the time, and yet guests who had no association with him have come down with it, too.

“What about those people Jonathan sent into the city?” Bronstein asked.

“I talked to Halloran,” Rafferty volunteered. “Jonathan mentioned the Hotel Coolidge to him and I was able to locate the two Puerto Rican dishwashers. They’ve been sent to a New York hospital for tests.”

“And Margret Thomas?”

“She never checked into the hotel. The guys don’t know a thing about her.”

“It’s damn important that we find her,” Bruce said, looking at the sheriff. “She cleaned up the Chinese guy’s room and maybe …”

“We’ll contact the New York police immediately.”

Bruce nodded. There was a short moment of silence. Then he got up and walked over to the blank blackboard.

“What I want to start doing,” he said, picking up a piece of chalk, “is see if I can determine any coincidence, no matter how farfetched, tying the people we know to have been contaminated together.” He wrote Wong’s name on the board and then added Oberman and Bluestone.

“Those two children from the day camp either have mild cases,” Bronstein said, “or nothing at all. It’s not unusual for me to see kids with nervous stomachs on holiday weekends. Usually comes from too much excitement. Right now they’re resting comfortably in their rooms so I’m going to give them a little more time. No point in scaring the hell out of their parents.”

“Sandi said the little girl’s name is Myers. And the boy is …”

“Feigen. I think his parents are friends of Ellen.”

Bruce added their names and put a question mark next to each. Kaplow shook his head. The sheriff bit down on his lower lip and stared at the names as if straining to see beyond them. Just then the public health nurses arrived. The sight of them encouraged them all. Allies had joined in the fight. They wore everyday clothing but carried their uniforms in small bags, having been asked to arrive incognito in order not to alarm anyone. Lillian Sokofsky, a short, blonde woman in her early forties was recognized as the titular head of the group. She had a sympathetic, motherly face, the kind any patient could trust, but the moment the door closed behind her she was all business.

“Okay, let’s have it,” she said. “Tell us where to start and when.”

Sid and Bruce looked at each other and breathed a collective sigh of relief. These no-nonsense medical Wacs were just what the doctor ordered.

Ellen Golden sat at her bedroom vanity table in the old farmhouse and looked out the window. From that particular perspective she had a panoramic view of the outdoor tennis courts and the last two cottages. All of the courts were in use and a number of guests were waiting nearby, watching the action, anxious to get their turn. On the far court the tennis pro was demonstrating the correct way to hold a racket. He had the attention of a half dozen people. For a moment it appeared totally ridiculous to her. For anyone to be worrying about such nonsense in light of the situation exploding all around seemed almost insane. On the other hand, she reminded herself, there was no way they could know. The explosions that had already occurred were silent and only slightly noted.

She had come back to the farmhouse to think. It wasn’t that she was running away from responsibilities and decisions—there was hardly the time for such luxury—but she needed to surround herself with things familiar, to have some privacy, to cry if need be, to finger mementoes and look at Phil’s picture in hopes it would give her the courage she needed to go back and take charge.

It was at the farmhouse that she had made the major decisions of her married life and it was here that Phil and she had done their most intimate and significant talking. The house itself was an anachronism. Surrounded by the most modern of resort facilities, the turn-of-the-century structure looked like the home of a reluctant old-world tenant who refused to give in to progress. Guests who came to the Congress for the first time found it an object of curiosity. When told it was the private home of the Goldens they became even more curious. Why would a family who owned such a big resort have such a dilapidated old house? Surely they didn’t really live in it. They must maintain a penthouse apartment at the top of the main building.

Turning around in her swivel chair, Ellen couldn’t help wondering what Phil would be doing if he were in her place. Beyond a question, his first concern would be the safety of the guests and staff. He had a certain resiliency about material things. “They can all be replaced.” And as far as money was concerned he was convinced that what the hotel lost one year, it would regain the next. In this instance it was likely he’d have been proven wrong, but …

The irony that everything the Goldens had created and everything her husband had worked for and probably died for was on the brink of collapse due to events beyond anyone’s control was not lost on her. All along, from the moment she had had to take the symbolic reins, the one thing she was most afraid of was that she, herself, would do something that would bring the hotel to ruin. That was why she began with a soft voice and a gentle hand, why she leaned on her staff so much, and why she maintained her dependence on Jonathan despite her instinctive dislike for the man. And now … her grandmother would probably have called it
beshert.
Fate. The only word Ellen could think of was sad.

The one emotion curiously missing from her reaction was self-pity. Pity for the people who were sick, definitely. Pity for those whose financial future might be at stake, of course. Pity for those who had given so much of themselves to the Congress only to see it all possibly fall apart, yes. But for herself, no. She was comparatively young, healthy, please God, and no matter what, she and Sandi would make a life for themselves. Of that she was sure. But she wasn’t yet ready to give up on the Congress.

She thought of the men who were waiting for her in her office, probably expecting her to crumple, withdraw, fall apart. She was determined not to let it happen. Yes, she would be afraid, and in the privacy of her bedroom she might even cry, but this was
her
hotel, hers and Sandi’s, and she would be in on every damn decision that affected it and the people in it. She would be visible everywhere as much as possible. She’d even sleep in the damn lobby if she had to. She was a Golden too and no one was ever going to accuse her of being a coward.

She was just getting ready to leave when the phone rang. It was Magda.

“You wanted me to come to the farmhouse?”

“No,” she said quickly. Originally it had been her intention to ask Magda to come over so they could commiserate together. Magda would pat her on the hand and they would both be dramatically distraught. She had looked forward to the comfort and consolation of that mutual mourning but now there was no time, or need, for such indulgence.

“What is it?”

“We have a serious problem. I’d appreciate if you could be in my office in ten minutes.”

“Billy Marcus told me he saw Sheriff Balbera here. Does he have something to do with it?”

“Yes. I’ll see you soon,” she said and hung up.

She went over to check her face in the mirror, brushed some loose strands back over her ear, wiped away a smudge on her cheek, and started to leave.

She opened the door the exact minute Sandi opened hers.

“Do I have to stay here?”

“Yes. At least until we straighten things out.”

“But you’re going over there.”

“I’m not exactly excited about the idea, but you know I’ve got to go.”

“I should be there, too. That’s what daddy would have wanted.”

“That’s the last thing in the world he’d have wanted, and you know it.” She shook her head. “It’ll be better for both of us if you stay. You’ll have to have dinner here, too.”

“Oh, mom.”

“Don’t you understand? I’m not trying to punish you. But they think it may have something to do with the food.”

“But I heard Mr. Solomon say he was ordering all new food for the dining room.”

“Even so, there’s no sense in taking any chances. It’s going to be bedlam over there anyway. You’d only get in the way.”

Sandi slammed the door and Ellen hesitated outside. She was about to ask if she wanted Alison or maybe her new friend Grant sent over but thought better of it. If possible, she didn’t want her near any of the guests. At least until it was safe. By that time, she thought, unfortunately, there probably won’t be any guests hanging around. She tapped lightly on the door.

“If you want,” she said softly, “call Mike’s Taxi in Ferndale later and have him pick up some Chinese food for you. He can leave it at the gate and I’ll ask one of the guards to bring it over.”

“I don’t want Chinese food.”

“Sandi, please, don’t add to my problems. I’m only doing this for your own good.” She picked up her alligator bag and started down the stairs. “I’ll call you in an hour and let you know what’s happening. Whatever you do,” she yelled over her shoulder, “don’t go out and don’t invite anyone from the hotel over here.”

“Yeah,” Sandi grumbled.

Ellen decided not to say anything else. There wasn’t time anyway. Instead she hurried out of the house and rushed back to her office.

∗ ∗ ∗

“Shit,” Bruce said. He had just realized he was twenty minutes late for his date with Fern. No one in the office had any idea what he was referring to and chalked it up to the frustration they were all feeling. He looked about self-consciously but everyone had gone back to what they were doing. I better call and make some excuse, he thought, but I won’t tell her the real reason until later. He made a mental note to catch up with her before Ellen met with the guests, then picked up the phone and asked the operator to ring her room. When no one answered after a dozen rings, he assumed she had gotten tired of waiting and left.

In fact, she had gotten such an intense attack of stomach cramps it was all she could do to get her entire body onto her bed. She had been lying like this for nearly fifteen minutes, clutching her abdomen in agony and praying for the pain to subside. It didn’t—and each time she tried to straighten up or stand it intensified. It felt like a workman’s pneumatic drill riveting from within, the tip of it ripping and cutting at the insides of her body. Waves of nausea swept over her and her face grew alternately flushed and dry. Her eyes seemed to want to roll back into her head and whenever she opened them, the room started to spin.

It took what seemed hours to turn her head so she could look at herself in the mirror. When she did, what she saw was almost comical. Dressed in her brand new tennis midriff with the bright yellow trim, her hair cut into its new style and frozen into place with sprays and pins, she looked like a twisted gargoyle. Her arms were flung askew over her stomach, her legs drawn up unevenly to her chest. Her skin had taken on a newer and even sallower shade of white and the mascara was smudged all over her eyes.

When the phone began to ring she assumed it was Bruce and tried with the very little strength she had left to get to it. She straightened out her legs and with great effort pushed her upper body off the bed. For a moment she sat dazed. Then she tried to put her full body weight down but her feet buckled under. The phone was still ringing and she made another effort to stand. The strength it required made extra demands on her stomach muscles. The pain increased tremendously but this time she didn’t even care. She just wanted to talk to Bruce, to tell him … Then it happened.

It happened so quickly and came so unexpectedly she panicked. It was as though her entire body had opened up, as if her entire bowel system was flushing out. She had no control. The demonic forces working within had assumed full management of all her physical powers. Her digestive and excretory systems were in total revolt.

And still the phone kept ringing. With the little energy remaining, she screamed her outrage and frustration but it made no difference at all. The backs of her legs, extending down to her sneakers, were soaked with a smelly brown liquid. Her hair, her face, her tennis outfit were totally ruined. Desperately she lunged forward in the direction of the bathroom. At one point she was actually forced to crawl. When she got there she stripped away as much clothing as she could. The pain seemed to have subsided somewhat but she was too frightened to be grateful.

Unable to pull her panties down, she stepped into the shower. For a few minutes she started to feel better and was relieved enough to begin telling herself that everything would ultimately be all right. Somehow she would fix everything up and it would be good again. She told herself she should have paid more attention to the stomach-aches she had all morning. She should have taken an Alka-Seltzer or something. But now the worst was over. Whatever it was, would pass.

“I’m going to be all right,” she mumbled. “I’m going to be all right.” She let the water hit her face. Then she opened her mouth and drew some in as she washed her back and legs. After that she sudsed her stomach and ran the soap under her breasts as she continued the chant. “I’m going to be all right. I’m going to be all right.”

Then the pain started anew, rising from the tips of her toes and centering in just below her waist. This time it came like a hammer, pounding, pounding, crashing against the inside of her stomach. She clutched at herself with both hands. The soap slipped out of her fingers. The pain made her crumple again. She squatted in the shower stall and then, despite her every effort to prevent it from happening, the deluge reoccurred. It was impossible to maintain her balance and she fell backward against the tile. The shower poured down over her limp body and she realized she had no choice. She closed her eyes and surrendered totally in the direction her body insisted on taking her. In the recess of her mind, she vaguely realized the phone had long since stopped ringing.