Suite Casualty Read online

  “No, you’re fine. I’ll see you later tonight.”

  Chapter 8

  As soon as I got off the phone with Mike, I texted Kristi to share the news: —The suite’s door had opened, but Mike didn’t actually see Mr. Dayton. I ended my message with—but Mike guarded that room all night. There’s no way anyone could have gotten in!

  Her text back was more to the point. —You’d never believe how ingenious people can be. BTW We’ve notified the next of kin. They’ll be by to pick up his items.

  Terrific. I glanced at the clock and sighed. Nearly eight pm. I’d managed to miss lunch, and now dinner. No rest for the weary, I guess. I wearily stood up to go get Dayton’s stuff ready for the next of kin.

  But first, I headed to the workroom behind the front desk and picked a sandwich from the vending machine. It dispensed with a clunk. I swear my knees creaked when I bent down to get it. I peeled back the cellophane from the plastic container and a pickle fell out, but I caught it. No way was I going to waste a pickle.

  I took a bite and dialed Michelle, the night supervisor of the laundry center.

  “Hi, Ms. Swenson,”

  “Hi, Michelle. Do you have a few minutes to come pack up a room with me?”

  “Oh.” Michelle was a young mom with a long blonde braid that fell nearly to her waist. Her voice lowered in a show of sympathy. “Is it that the poor guy I heard had a heart attack this morning?”

  “Yep.” The prospect of the chore ahead of me folding the clothing that had been strewn all over the suite made me want to about drop.

  I suddenly straightened. Wait a minute. Hadn’t Mike said that Mr. Dayton told him he was finished packing?

  Michelle clucked her tongue. “Absolutely, Ms. Swenson. It’s terrible that happened.”

  Mentally, I agreed. It was cold-hearted, but the thought crossed my mind that it couldn’t have happened on a worse day with the hotel reviewer right next door. “I’ll meet you up there.”

  I headed out of the workroom, feeling like the time when I’d tried my first Zumba class and discovered that I had no rhythm what-so-ever, even with an instructor calling out the beats. It had taken all my energy just to fake the moves, and I’d been so exhausted at the end that I’d treated myself to a glorious piece of lime cheesecake at one of my favorite restaurants. That type of exhaustion was what I was dealing with now.

  And I was craving cheesecake.

  Charlotte, our night receptionist, was zoning out in front of what looked suspiciously like a computer game flashing on her screen. A man entered through the hotel’s revolving doors.

  Normally, a lone guest’s entrance would make about as much of an impact on my radar as a leaf in a windstorm. But right behind him were two other men dressed in long overcoats. The men in coats broke off and stood at the entrance.

  That caught my attention.

  He wore a fedora hat and Hawaiian shirt, not uncommon for our area. He was also one of those terminal sunglass wearers. The dark shades covered half his face. He zeroed in on me like a hummingbird to a red flower and a big smile spread across his face. His arms opened in eagerness to envelop me in a hug.

  “Ms. Swenson!” he said, his voice dripping with honey.

  I honestly didn’t know what to do. Who was this strange guy? I glanced around, but of course, none of my hotel’s security was visible. My sole help was Rob the bellhop, a kid who’d just turned seventeen and whose body mass hadn’t quite caught up with his lanky height.

  Just you and me here, Rob. Look lively.

  “Yes, that’s me. How can I help you?” I asked, throwing my arm forward for a stiff handshake and to create space between us.

  The man stopped and stared at my hand like it was a dead rat. “Ms. Swenson, I am a hugger.”

  I smiled grimly. “Allow me to shake your hand this time and formally meet.”

  “I am Mr. Stephenson, Vincent Dayton’s brother.”

  I must have looked confused at the different last name because he continued. “Half-brothers. We’re all that’s left of our family.” His animated features immediately fell into an expression of sorrow. The clash was so disjointing that I had a hard time registering that he was, indeed, a blood relative.

  “I heard you were the one who found poor Vincent?” he asked, his eyebrows creasing together, forming two red lines.

  “Yes, I am. I’m so sorry.”

  “Ahh, life.” He waved his hand dramatically. “Tis but a bit of honeycomb to be enjoyed in the moment. Every bit of sweetness must be sucked out.” He lowered his sunglasses and stared at me over the top. “Because, in the end, you’re only left with an empty husk.”

  I swallowed hard.

  “At any rate,” his breezy attitude returned. “I’m here to collect his items. They are in his room, yes?”

  “I was just on my way to pack them. If you’d like, you can wait at the Oceanside’s restaurant until I’ve finished. Order whatever you want, compliments of the hotel.” I glanced at the two thugs by the door. “Your guests are included as well, of course.”

  “Oh, no. I wouldn’t want to trouble you. Allow me to go up to the room and Joe over there can pack.” He jerked his thumb toward one of the thugs.

  “If I can just see some ID,” I said. “And there will be forms to fill out.”

  He whipped off the sunglasses completely this time and began polishing them. “ID? I’m not sure I have that on me at the moment. I’ve never needed it before. Gordo drives me around. He takes care of everything.” He slipped the glasses back on and snapped his fingers. One of the goons, presumably the said ‘Gordo’ waltzed over.

  “Gordo, you have my ID?” Mr. Stephenson asked out of the corner of his mouth.

  The goon reached into his pocket and pulled out a wallet. He handed it to Mr. Stephenson, who opened it to reveal a thick wad of bills. Mr. Stephenson’s thumb ruffled them softly as he stared at me, his glasses giving the appearance of sightless eyes.

  “Will this work for now?” he asked. “I can stop by tomorrow with the real deal. Promise.”

  “Err…” I was slightly stunned. “Let me go ahead and get everything packed up. I’ll have it waiting for you down at the desk tomorrow.”

  He snapped the wallet shut and handed it back to the bodyguard. “I see. Well, there’s some important papers Vincent was telling me about. Very important. Let me at least pick those up so they don’t get lost. I know how things can get chaotic.”

  My heart did a double-beat. Good grief. How in the world had I forgotten about Dayton’s envelope in the safe? My surprise must have shown on my face because Mr. Stephenson stuck his tongue in his cheek and stared up at the ceiling like he was unimpressed.

  He dragged his gaze slowly back to me. “Don’t be difficult,” he advised, his voice low and measured. “I don’t like it when people are difficult. Besides, you’re a sweetheart. You need to smile more. Be a shame to see anything happen to make you not smile.”

  My mouth went dry. “Mr. Stephenson, I have to work by the hotel’s policy and—”

  “Who’s the boss around here?” His head swiveled as if he were really searching. “Let me talk to the big guy.”

  “That would be me,” I answered stiffly.

  “Oh yeah?” He stepped back and appraised me from head to toe. “You’re the boss lady? Hey, Joe, she’s the boss lady. Wha’da ya think of that?”

  From the doorway, Joe smirked in my direction.

  Okay. Enough was enough. “Mr. Stephenson, with the police involved—”

  “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Why you got to be like that? Who said anything about the police? No need to bring them into it.”

  “They’re already in it,” I said. “And we’ll be doing this by the book. I’ll have everything packed up for you when you return tomorrow with the proper identification. Again, I’m so sorry. There’s nothing more I can do for you.”

  The short man scowled at me, but I wasn’t budging. He must have surmised that because a second later he snapped his finge
rs. “Let’s go, Gordo.”

  The huge guy followed after his boss, with Joe following behind them like the caboose as they pushed through the revolving door.

  “Well,” said Charlotte, who mysteriously appeared at my side. “That was interesting.”

  “You’re telling me.” I breathed out. “Okay, I’m heading upstairs. Let me know if they come back.”

  “Aye Aye, Captain.” She gave me a mock salute and sauntered back to the front desk.

  I hurried to the elevator and stabbed the up button. My mind replayed the conversation I’d first had with Mr. Dayton when he checked in. He’d been absolutely frantic about the safety of his leather envelope. The envelope with the specific instructions that it go to his lawyer in the unexpected event of his death.

  How had his half-brother known about the envelope? Was it really his brother? I wondered if Mr. Stephenson would show up tomorrow with proper identification, and what would happen when I said I still couldn’t release the envelope to him.

  I rubbed my throat, remembering his leer when he’d talked about my smile. I really didn’t want to find out what he would do.

  But I was about to.

  Chapter 9

  Every wisp of my fatigue had vanished as I stomped down the hall to the 360 hotel suite. My steps were half-fueled with anxiety that there was more trouble ahead, and half from anger at the way Mr. Stephenson had tried to push me around.

  Michelle was already waiting outside the suite with a cleaning supply cart and a cardboard box. What wouldn’t fit in the suitcase would be boxed up for the next of kin.

  I opened the door and flipped on the light. The room was in the same state of disarray that I’d remembered from that morning with the police. Dayton’s clothing was strewn across the couch. There was a half empty bag of chips, two wine bottles, and more clothing on the tables and floor.

  I walked into the alcove past the closet—noting that the ironing board was pulled down—and into the bathroom. Immediately, my eyes squeezed closed.

  Housekeeping must be one of the most under-appreciated aspects of vacation travels. They dealt with things I never wanted to see, and without them, this hotel would be in shambles.

  The first thing that hit me was the stench of vomit. Had Steve done that? The second, stale cigarette smoke. A coffee cup sat on the counter. Cigarette or maybe cigar ashes spilled about it. Peeking into the cup proved it was a cigar, dunked out in tobacco-colored water.

  The toilet paper spindle held an empty cardboard roll. Two more rolls sat on the floor, each half-used as if Dayton couldn’t decide which roll he liked better.

  But the toilet. The toilet. It was covered in some type of body fluid. I gagged and backed away.

  As I stepped back over the alcove threshold, my attention was caught by a clump of something on the floor. What was that? Hair? This man was disgusting.

  “Sometimes a mask works the best,” Michelle said from behind me, with a scarf over her face. “Or I use my scarf. I put peppermint oil in it.”

  I shuddered weakly. “I don’t know how you do it,” I admitted.

  “I don’t have a choice. I have a family to feed,” she said, flipping her braid off her shoulder.

  Stomach rolling, I walked back in the bedroom and lifted the suitcase onto the coffee table with a grunt. I unzipped it and flopped the top half open. The case was already semi-filled with clothes, none of them folded. Curiously, I examined the tag on the handle.

  I bent closer to read it again. What was this? Milan? Didn’t Dayton say he’d just flown back from Madrid? How had he mixed those up? Did he just get confused?

  Eyeing the suitcase, I had half a mind to rifle through it and see what I could find. Maybe a clue to the real reason he died.

  I glanced at the alcove and was startled to see Michelle standing in the doorway.

  “What?” she asked. And then nodding to the suitcase. “I don’t see anything. Besides, I have a mess to clean.” With that, she walked back to her cart and wheeled it to the alcove. After checking that her scarf was firmly in place, she donned a pair of rubber gloves. With one of the cart’s wheels squeaking, she entered the bathroom.

  That woman deserves a raise.

  I dragged my attention back to the suitcase. It was obviously expensive, the attention to detail impeccable. There were scuff marks on its corners to indicate heavy use.

  Several of the inside compartments were zippered. I hesitated only a moment, and then unzipped one, reasoning that I needed to catalogue what I was giving to the half-brother, after all.

  The first pocket contained a card from the Hotel La Habana with a phone number scrawled on the back. There were only eight digits, seeming to prove it was a foreign number. Seeing it made me glance around for Dayton’s cell phone. Where was it at?

  A sense of unease started to flare when I didn’t spot it. Everyone had a phone now-a-days, and not finding his nearly made me interrupt what I was doing to go search for it. But instead, I continued my foraging.

  The next pocket had some lint and a papery item. I pulled out the paper to see a cigar band. I slid it around my pinky to read it. Camacho. I wondered if the one in the bathroom was this brand. The yellow and black band brought back memories of my dad who at one point decided that he was a cigar aficionado. He tried it for a while before that fad lost its luster for him.

  I put the cigar band on the coffee table and continued to explore the pockets. When there was nothing more of interest, I turned my attention to the contents inside. It was partially filled with jumbled up clothing. Obviously, he didn’t care enough about what he owned other than to make them fit inside the case. There were a few polos and jeans, most worn soft from long years of wear. Underneath the pile was a pair of black jeans. They’d been rolled into a log and were stiff as though they’d just been purchased and hadn’t gone through the wash yet. Crammed into the bottom was a button-up bright blue Oxford. I shook it out. Although wrinkled, it also appeared new.

  Interesting.

  Frowning, I replaced it and started in on the sweatpants slung over the back of the couch. A harsh bang, like the toilet lid being dropped, clanged from the bathroom. My heart squeezed with sympathy for Michelle.

  I spotted a pair of dirty underwear under the table that impressed on me the need for my own rubber gloves. I went in search of the cart.

  The bathroom was considerably cleaner in just the short time that I’d been packing. Michelle had a bottle of disinfectant and was spraying the walls around the toilet as if she were a graffiti artist. I snagged a pair of gloves and left.

  As I passed the closet again, I spotted the ironing board again. Normally, the board was in an upright position in a pocket in the wall. It struck me as odd since all of Dayton’s clothes were balled up and wrinkled. In fact, I wasn’t sure I’d even seen anything that would need to be ironed as I was packing.

  There was that one blue shirt, but it had the appearance of being forgotten the way it’d been balled up at the bottom of the suitcase.

  Did he use the iron for bacon…?

  After Julie brought the problem to me, I did some internet searching. She’d been right, there was a video about hotel cooking hacks that had gone viral. I walked over and checked the bottom of the iron for grease. Nothing. Feeling kind of silly, I brought it to my nose to sniff. It smelled more like the scent of scorched clothing than anything else.

  Puzzled, I returned to the living room and folded more clothes.

  Michelle came out with a plastic bag filled. “Toothpaste, a brush, a pair of socks, that sort of thing,” she said as an explanation.

  I opened the bedside table to make sure I wasn’t missing anything. There was nothing inside but the Gideon bible. I was about to close the drawer when I noticed a corner of a piece of paper peeking out from between the pages of the bible. I pulled it out. It appeared to be a note.

  I read out loud, “In the event of my death please give all my personal items, including the envelope in the hotel safe to my
….”

  The next line was the start of a cursive letter A. I turned my head trying to guess what it was for. Was he trying to write the word “attorney?” I tucked the letter and the plastic bag into the suitcase and closed it. It zipped with a little coaxing.

  “All right, then.” I brushed my hands off. “That’s all ready for Mr. Stephenson. Assuming he comes back with the proper identification, that is.” Remembering his interesting entrance, I decided to send a text to Kristi to ask if the name, Stephenson, rang a bell, just in case.

  I heaved the suitcase off the couch and onto the floor. Something greasy from the handle smeared on my palm. It smelled like cinnamon. I had no idea what it was, but I was incredibly thankful I was still wearing the gloves.

  Kristi wrote back. —Leave everything alone. Forensics are on their way.

  I froze while reading it. And then furiously typed—A little too late for that. We just packed the suitcase and Michelle is cleaning the bathroom as we speak.

  Kristi’s response was immediate—Stop!

  “Uh, Michelle!” I called, typing back. —You told me to get the things ready for the next of kin?

  The housekeeper poked her head out, her face still swathed in the scarf. “Yeah, boss?” she muffled.

  “We’ve got to stop cleaning. Apparently, the police want to search this room.

  She rolled her eyes. “Always something. I did find this.” She held out a half of a watch band.

  The strap looked like it had been broken and was black and fairly thin. It was the piece that had the holes, and the fourth hole was clearly bigger with a worn line delineating where the metal clasp had been used.

  “Where did you find this?” I asked.

  “Just inside the bathroom entrance.” She pointed a rubber-gloved hand in the direction she meant.

  I set it on the nightstand, spotting my own rubber gloves. With a sigh, I rolled my eyes. We hadn’t worn them the entire time we’d been in the suite, and with Kristi’s demand, I was guessing both Michelle and I would be asked to come down to get fingerprinted.