Suite Casualty Read online

  Suite Casualty

  CeeCee James

  Copyright © 2018 by CeeCee James

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For my Family

  Contents

  Blurb

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Also by CeeCee James

  Blurb

  Maisie Swenson has seen a lot of strange things in her career as a hotel manager, so when Mr. Dayton insists there are ghosts in his suite, she handles it with her usual aplomb. And when he demands she visit his room to show her the items that have been moved, she suspects the two empty wine bottles and a half empty brandy bottle might be where the “ghosts” come from.

  To reassure him, she posts a guard outside his room but in the morning, Mr. Dayton is found dead. With nothing removed from his suite, and no way in, rumors fly around that maybe he really was killed by ghosts after all. Or his own fear of them.

  Maisie hopes the police will handle the investigation discreetly while she deals with an anonymous hotel critic who’s threatening to tear down the Oceanside’s reputation. But everything falls apart as Mr. Dayton’s relatives start to show up—each one calling the other an imposter—demanding a letter Mr. Dayton was supposed to have on him. As they start to threaten each other, and then Maisie herself, she starts to suspect the spirits that killed Mr. Dayton are still contained in living bodies.

  Chapter 1

  It wasn’t every day that started with a slice of Texas sheet cake for breakfast. Mmm. I took a bite, juggling the plate in one hand while standing like a flamingo in the kitchen doorway, watching TV. My mother had left it tuned to that crazy crime station that she was addicted to, and the announcer was solemnly advising us, “There are no coincidences when it comes to murder.”

  I hummed again as the frosting’s rich chocolatey-butterness melted in my mouth and turned back to the fridge to get out the milk.

  A shuffling sound made me realize I wasn’t alone. Momma had come into the kitchen from the other side, wearing a pink housecoat and worn slippers. Her strawberry-blonde hair recently had been “rinsed” by her favorite stylist, Genessa, and was springing out in fluffy curls. “Rinsing” is what Momma called getting her hair colored. She sniffed at the term ‘dyed,’ believing the word was entirely too uncouth.

  “Louisa May Marigold Swenson. Just what do you think you’re doing?” She stared at me over the tops of her glasses.

  “Eating the most delectable thing on earth since God sent manna,” I took another bite and mmmed again.

  Momma blinked at my explanation. I could practically see her wheels spinning since I’d offered her so many directions to go with her response.

  Finally, she settled on, “I hardly believe it’s charitable to compare what the good Lord made to that lard-covered kaka. And heaven knows she used about a pound of it.”

  The “she” Momma was referring to was her old friend, Alice Bernsky, who had popped in for a visit the day before. Alice and Momma went way back to high school, and there had always been a friendly rivalry between the two them. So imagine Momma’s displeasure when Alice showed up with a homemade cake whereas Momma had only prepared a snack of sweet tea and cookies. Alice had known she’d scored the win, and Momma was still salty about it.

  I scraped up the last bit of frosting and licked the fork. It was so good. I would have been tempted to lick the plate if Momma hadn’t been standing there. But, by the narrowing of her eyes, I realized I’d better do some fast back-tracking, or I’d never hear the end of it.

  “Definitely not as good as yours, Momma. I bet she even used store-bought frosting. Probably used a boxed cake mixed too, all dolled up with an extra egg.” I carried my plate to the sink and rinsed it.

  She stared at me for a moment, suspicion gleaming from behind her wire-rimmed specs, before her ire settled down. She shuffled over to make a cup of coffee. “You better believe it. And I wouldn’t doubt about the extra egg. That entire cake was much too heavy.”

  Crisis averted, I changed the subject. “So what do you have planned for today?”

  She ignored my question and brought her mug to the table with the kind of quiet that always made me wary. I waited for a second to see if she’d volunteer anything.

  Nope. Nothing.

  I groaned. “All right, fess up. What’s caught your eye on Pinterest this week?” I asked, sticking the plate in the dishwasher. Bingo, our Basset Hound, sniffed the door as I shut it and stared up at me with terribly sad eyes. I could tell he was disappointed that he didn’t even get a crumb.

  “Pinterest!” Momma gasped as if I’d just dared accuse her of bank robbery.

  “Mmhmm,” I answered.

  She scowled at me. I held her stare with my hands on my hips and then, slowly, I drew my gaze up to the ceiling where a pink stain remained from her last Pinterest craft attempt.

  She threw her hands up with a defeated sigh.

  I was about to press her for an answer when my cell phone rang.

  It was Sierra, one of the Oceanside hotel’s receptionists.

  “Ms. Swenson.” The young woman’s voice was low, indicating to me that not only was there a problem, the problem was more than likely to be standing straight in front of her. “Can you come to the front desk please?”

  “I’m on my way,” Professionalism slipped over me like a heavy wool coat. The Oceanside hotel was a five-star hotel, and I was the on-site manager. Time to gear up into rescue mode. I could feel it.

  I clicked the phone off and turned to Momma. Desperation made me want to beg, so I purposely lightened my tone. “Please don’t do anything crazy until I get back. I can’t afford to keep redoing the apartment.”

  She waved her hand at me and muttered, “Pish posh.”

  I gave her a quick hug before running to find my heels I’d kicked off the night before. Before leaving the suite, I checked myself in front of the hall mirror for any stray cake crumbs and straightened my business jacket, then hurried for the hotel’s foyer.

  My heels clicked against the flooring as I walked. On my way, I eyed the oak wainscoting lining the hall. Everything must be perfect, from the polished wood surfaces to the lush Egyptian carpets.

  The foyer was crowded with guests, and I could hear them mulling around as I approached. Crowning the hotel’s entrance like a queen’s scepter was a massive chandelier, with its hundreds of cut prisms throwing out tiny rainbows against the ceiling from the sun that peeked through the vaulted windows.

  I walked over to the front desk. Sierra glanced up at my approach. The blonde receptionist wore a fitted business dress suit similar to my own. Her thin eyebrows pinched together in anxiousness.

  Standing across from her was a slightly overweight gray-haired man. His hair was long, and he wore it slicked back in a pompadour across his scalp, presumably in an attempt to hide a balding patch. His arms waved about as he spoke.

  Sierra nodded at his words, but he seemed to be fru
strated by her reaction because he punctuated his thought with an emotionally wrought, shrill, “It’s true, I’m telling you!”

  I sidled up to the desk. His gaze jumped to me. “Ms. Swenson! You’re just the person I’ve been looking for!”

  I recognized him right away. He was Mr. Vincent Dayton, from the suite on the thirty-first floor. His lawyer had made the reservation for an early check-in, and Mr. Dayton arrived yesterday morning. He’d just returned from a business trip and would be leaving tomorrow.

  His check-in had been a bit of a curiosity because of a few specific demands he’d made. For instance, his reservation was under a false name. That was quite common for our celebrities, as well as other guests who abided by the “what happens at the hotel stays at the hotel” rule, so it was something I normally didn’t think too much about it. But he’d coupled it with a clear stipulation that no one was to enter his room, not room service nor the turndown crew. And the strangest of all was the instructions he’d given when he put a leather envelope into the hotel safe. He’d said that the item inside shouldn’t be touched by anyone but him, and could only be released to his attorney in the unexpected event of his death.

  I took a step back to avoid one of his waving arms. “Good morning, Mr. Dayton,” I said briskly to take control of the situation. “What can I do for you?”

  He glanced around the foyer before leaning in close to me. I stifled my natural reaction to step away at the boozey odor that swam around him like a cloud of smog.

  “Someone’s been in my room,” he hissed. “My clothing… it’s been gone through. And I thought I saw—” He bit back the end of his sentence with a gulp.

  I nodded firmly so that he understood I was taking his statement seriously. “I see. Let’s go take care of that. Why don’t you come into my office?” I suggested.

  The wrinkles around his eyes deepened momentarily as if he were confused by my suggestion. Then, after my words had a moment to sink in, his face relaxed as if he were relieved.

  “Yes. Thank you. That would be perfect.” He gave another furtive glance around the foyer at the other guests milling about.

  It was normal to see so much commotion. Our hotel was just off the beach, and near one of the biggest amusement parks in the country. At this time of day, most of the guests were either heading for breakfast or leaving for their planned excursions. Still, I could see the other guests’ presence really bothered him.

  “Right this way,” I gestured to my office door behind the desk.

  He followed me with his shoulders hunched in as though he were trying to hide.

  I unlocked the door and went in, touching the armrest of one of the two guest chairs to welcome him to sit as I passed. Then I took my chair behind my desk.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, folding my hands, my face settling into a serious expression. “Who’s been in your room?” Because of his explicit instructions, I knew it couldn’t be any of my staff.

  His head swiveled as he studied my office, his gaze jumping from picture frames to the bookcases. “Have you had this room debugged recently?”

  A laugh almost escaped me at the absurd statement, but I managed to wrangle it back. I smiled calmly while my fingers went searching for a rubber band I normally kept by the keyboard. Finding it, I slipped it around my wrist and twirled it. Keeping my fingers moving was somehow a stress reliever for me.

  “No, I can’t say I have,” I answered. “But no one has access to this office except who I allow.”

  “Oh, you think they can’t get in?” His bloodshot eyes locked with mine. My breath caught at his intensity. “They go where they want. There’s nothing you can hide from them.”

  I nodded, wondering if I was going to have to call security. Still, it was my job to diffuse these types of situations. “Who is ‘them’ exactly?”

  He jammed his thumbnail into his mouth and bit viciously at it. “Them. Anyone they want to be.”

  I nodded again. “I see. Well, I’ll check into that. But in the meantime, what can I do to help you feel more secure?”

  His eyes darted to the wall safe. “Is my stuff still in there?”

  I followed his gaze. “Of course. Unless you’ve removed it.”

  “Can you check?” His hands were shaking and he gripped the armrest.

  I eased out a silent sigh. Best just to reassure him. “Yes. Of course, I can. Let me get Sierra. It takes both of our keys to open it.”

  “And you haven’t done that?” His voice raised at the end of the question.

  “No, Mr. Dayton. And once it’s opened, you must sign the log book. We have several safeguards. No one has been in your safe deposit box here at the hotel.”

  He leaned back in his chair from where he’d been perched on the edge. His eyelids fluttered closed. “I’m so tired, Ms. Swenson.”

  “I can see that. Would you like me to make an appointment with a massage therapist for you? We have an excellent one here at the hotel.”

  His eyes flew open, and I was startled to see how blue they were. “No. I want no one to go into the room. Remember? Including housekeeping. Understand?”

  I nodded. “Of course. Whatever you want. All the staff knows your wishes.”

  “You’re absolutely sure?”

  “Yes, Mr. Dayton.” I softened my voice. “Why don’t you tell me what brought you down here this morning? You said someone had been in your room? Was there a particular reason why you thought this?”

  He licked his lip and rubbed his hands together. I waited for a response. Finally, he gave me an uneasy smile. His teeth were yellow. “I must have been mistaken. It’s been a long night. I’m still tired from my trip back from Madrid. Sometimes I get confused. I’m sorry to have bothered you.” He rubbed his whiskered face and slowly rose to his feet.

  I was taken a bit off guard at the sudden reversal of his panicked attitude. I stood also and placed my hands at my back. My fingers spun the rubber band.

  “That’s absolutely no problem,” I said. “It’s what we’re here for, to make your stay as comfortable as possible. If you have any other concerns, please don’t hesitate to let any one of us know.”

  He walked to the door, barely lifting his feet, looking every bit sixty-plus years that I guessed he was, and then some.

  “Thank you,” he said and opened the door.

  I breathed out in relief as he exited, feeling a little surprised that he was letting go so easily, given how worked up he’d been. But just before the door completely closed, it was shoved open again.

  His head poked around the corner, eyebrows raised. “Do you know if this hotel is haunted?”

  Chapter 2

  I blinked hard at his question. Normally, I was able to hide my emotions, but his question threw me off guard.

  “Not that I know of, Mr. Dayton. Is there a reason why you ask?”

  His eyebrows lowered and his head drooped heavily. “Just something I thought I saw last night. Must have been a shadow.” He sighed and shut the door.

  At the latch’s click, I slumped back down into my chair. Okay, this guy needs to be watched. He was definitely acting out of the realms of normal. I picked up the phone and dialed security.

  “Mike here,” one of my guards answered. His deep voice brought quickly to mind the hulking guard. He worked the night shift and was built like a house, making Mike easily one of the female guests’ favorite employee here at the hotel. And among the employees as well. Remembering how a group of housekeepers had giggled when he walked by made me realize I needed to keep a sharp eye on him.

  “Good morning, Mike. Do you remember our guest up in suite 360? His name is Mr. Dayton. Came in on Monday.”

  It was part of the job for the guards to know who was checked in at the hotel, especially in the expensive suites. So, each morning, security had a meeting to go over the guest list.

  “360. Okay, got it,” he said. I presumed he was looking at his list on the tablet.

  “He came down this morn
ing saying that someone had been in his room. He was quite agitated.”

  “The room no one’s supposed to enter,” Mike clarified.

  “Yes. We had a talk in my office, and strangely, he recanted his story. He seems unpredictable, and I’d like to keep an eye on him. So please let the guard know who’s taking over your shift.”

  “You got it. Sent the alert out now.”

  “Thanks, Mike. Also, I’d like to be informed if and when Mr. Dayton leaves the hotel.”

  He agreed, and we hung up.

  I pushed back from the desk and twisted the rubber band as I replayed the conversation with Mr. Dayton. My mind zeroed in on his shaking hands and paranoia. It could be nothing. He could be affected by jet lag, or some use of medication, prescribed or otherwise.

  But something about his actions nagged at my intuition. And if there was one thing I’d learned during my thirty-five years on this planet, it was to pay attention to that small inner voice.

  Well, Mike and the rest of security were aware of the issue, now.

  My phone vibrated with a text, interrupting my thoughts. It was from Mr. Phillips, the hotel’s owner. I hit the button to read, —Call me.

  I dialed immediately.

  “Ms. Swenson,” Mr. Phillips’ deep, somewhat pompous voice cut to the chase. “I’ve heard a little rumor that there will be a hotel critic posturing as one of our guests sometime in the next couple days. I don’t need to tell you that it’s imperative that everything runs perfectly. We want to keep our five-star rating.”

  My stomach dropped at the word critic. Having experienced a few as a manager, I knew it wouldn’t be hard to tell who he or she was. They were the worst and set every employee on edge.