I’m not normally much of a complainer, especially when I’m traveling abroad, but really, after the one a.m. Great Bedbug Incident, the dead body in my hotel bed at four a.m. was entirely too much. So I called down to the front desk to tell Charlie exactly that.
“Yes, Miss James?” He sounded testy.
“I know you said all the hotel rooms were occupied. I know you said US reservations had made a mistake telling me you had an opening, but you’d squeeze me in and give me someone else’s room. And I guess you weren’t kidding.”
“Miss James, do you have a point?”
Seriously, like this guy had something else more pressing to do at this time of night—God’s own witching hour—than talk to a paying customer?
“I’ve brushed my teeth and just took off my robe and slippers to go to bed, and I’ve made a discovery. This room is already occupied,” I said slowly and carefully. I realized the Brits sometimes had trouble with my sweet-as-honey Virginia accent.
“Impossible,” came the clipped reply.
“Fiftyish guy, gray crew cut, Caucasian, looks a little heavyset, although it’s hard to tell under the covers.”
Silence from Charlie. But I could hear his incredulity.
I continued. “Seems a nice enough chap,”—note how I used the British slang word for guy to make Charlie feel at ease—“but I can’t tell what color his eyes are, given that they’re closed. I mean, seeing how he’s dead and all.”
Some sort of choking noise erupted from Charlie. I knew that bow tie had looked a little tight. And now he was paying the price.
“Y’all might want to call the police,” I added, to spur him into action. “And I think I’d best come on down to the front desk and clear out of this room to make some space for the detectives.”
Then he hung up on me. Can you believe it? I waited a few minutes, passing the time wondering what the correct British term was for police and detectives—bobbies and chief inspectors?—until I heard the ding of the elevator (next door) (along with the ice machine) (so loud; seriously, who gets ice at four in the morning?) and a knock on the door. I reckon the man had to see for himself.
I opened the door but refused to let him in, blocking the way with arms raised in my long-sleeved Scooby-Doo-pattern pajamas—all five feet four inches of me. It was bad enough I’d spent several minutes unintentionally contaminating a possible murder scene. I didn’t want Charlie waltzing in, sprinkling his British Isles DNA over my own sweet southern US blend that was already there. That would only make things more confusing for the detective/chief inspector, once he/she showed up. And all the bobbies, I thought, just bob-bob-bobbing along.
Lord, was I tired. Scooby notwithstanding.
Charlie, six four if he was an inch, skinny as the proverbial beanpole and bald to boot, peered over my head. I’m sure he could see the figure in the bed.
“This is not my fault,” I told him. “The same as the reservation mix-up was not my fault.”
I was pre-empting the dagger stare from his steely blue eyes once he got around to seeing me in addition to the dead body. Because somehow this was going to be my fault. He was simply that kind of guy.
Sure enough, there it came. I stared back at him until he stepped away. Then I reached into my carry-on and pulled out my blue coffee-cup-pattern slippers and (mercifully pattern-free) matching robe. I figured I’d put those on in the hallway as I herded Charlie out of the doorway and toward the elevator.
I heard the room door close behind us, shutting in the poor slob who hadn’t even lived long enough to enjoy the free breakfast buffet included in the price of the room.
When we got downstairs, the police were there, which I assume meant Charlie had actually called them before he rushed upstairs. Point to Charlie.
They all disappeared into the elevator and left me cooling my slippered heels on the lobby couch. Shame my luggage was still sitting upstairs in the room. I could have done with a change of clothes and a hairbrush. But I hadn’t been thinking clearly enough to snatch my carry-on on the way out. Dead bodies probably affect most people that way.
I started to doze off but felt something crawling on my cheek. I smacked at myself, which woke me up thoroughly, then realized there was nothing there (well, other than my cheek).
Damn bedbugs.
I wasn’t even supposed to be here. Three hours before in another hotel, clear on the other side of London, a crawling sensation had startled me right out of a deep sleep. I’d smacked myself then, too, then grabbed my phone and Googled images of the bug I found in my hand. I’m no entomologist, but it looked about 100 percent like a bedbug. Maybe 103 percent. I found three more insects, dispatched them, and put them in a Kleenex, then tore off my pajamas, shook them thoroughly, packed my suitcase, and hopped into the shower—all in the space of about six seconds. That resulted in a damp, pajamaed me standing next to the desk in reception, luggage in tow, demanding Dinesh (so said his name tag) find me another hotel, a cab, some disinfectant, and a valium (okay, maybe not the valium, but I would have taken one if he’d offered). Then I made him look at the bugs squashed in my Kleenex. He raised a couple of eyebrows and told me there were no other rooms available, in his hotel or any other nearby.
“You will indeed find me another room. In another hotel. Preferably in another city. And furthermore—”
Dinesh leaped out of his seat, and I jumped backward as one of the squashed bugs suddenly showed signs of life and began crawling rapidly across the desk.
WHAM!
That was the sound of my fist mashing the little sucker into oblivion.
I stared at Dinesh. I’m pretty sure I looked completely crazed in a way only a half-asleep, jet-lagged American who is completely grossed out by bugs can look.
“I’ll find you another hotel immediately, miss.”
Right, then.
“I’ll go wash my hands while you do that.”
And while I washed up, Dinesh began to dial.
Turns out London was on strike that night. All of it. The whole city. Buses and trains, anyway, which are vital parts of that vibrant metropolis. Transportation was at a standstill. Stranded travelers had filled up every hotel in the city and outside it.
“Nothing, miss.” Dinesh gave me a progress report every time I glared at him.
So I started dialing, too, and along about 2:35 a.m. I hit pay dirt, reaching US reservations at a hotel chain that remains nameless to protect me from lawsuits. By some miracle, they had an opening and could get me in that night—or morning, rather.
Which is how I wound up here, at this second hotel, getting out of a London Black Cab close to four a.m., wearing pajamas, dragging my suitcase, and lugging my carry-on.
I waved the cab on as a tall skinny guy in a black suit ran toward me, his icy blue eyes stabbing me with picks.
“I hope you’re not stopping here for a room. We are completely booked.” Emphasis on the completely.
What is it with snotty hotel guys? This was not a good time to be snobby with me.
“I have a reservation.” Emphasis on the have.
“Then there’s been some mistake. We are—”
“Yeah, yeah, completely full up.”
My robe fell open and Charlie (another name tag, and I had time to be surprised he wasn’t a Charles, with that attitude) looked slightly astonished at the Scooby pajamas with Shaggy embroidered on the shirt pocket.
I put myself back together, snatched my luggage, and headed toward the lobby couch.
“Take it up with US reservations,” I said over my shoulder. I sat on the couch and held up my passport and a piece of paper where I’d hastily scribbled my reservation number. “I’ll camp right here while you get my room ready.”
“I’m telling you, ma’am, there’s no room. Don’t make me call security.”
“Hey, buster! I’m the guest here. I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m tired. I was promised a room. Figure it out.”
I don’t normally embrace rude, but this guy was too much. Or maybe he was intimidated by Scooby.
I’d dozed off when I felt him standing by the couch again.
“It seems the US reservations agent has become confused with the time difference and made a mistake. There were no reservations available, but the system allowed her to book the same day anyway. No doubt that glitch will be rectified for the future. But I have been told to find you a room, even though—”
“You’re completely booked up,” I finished for him. “So what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to book you into a room where a very late arrival is expected. If he does show up, I don’t know what I’ll do then.”
The icy blue eyes stabbed me again. “You have caused me quite a problem.” He held out a room key along with my passport. “Room eight oh six. Elevator that way.”
I stood up and stretched, careful to keep Shaggy out of sight. “You’re not really going for a five-star review on the survey after my stay here, are you Charlie?”
That earned me another dagger stare, but I gathered my belongings and headed for the elevator, little knowing I’d be back on this same couch in twenty minutes. But back I was.
* * * *
Next time I came to, there stood a cute guy eyeing my Scooby pajamas. He seemed especially interested in Shaggy embroidered on the pocket. He had eyes like mud puddles. (Best eye description I can do at 4:35 a.m. with no coffee.)
It was a pretty intense stare. Apparently Brits really like Shaggy.
“Do you have any coffee?”
Molten-brown eyes twinkled at me. “Do you often ask strangers for coffee?”
I sat up, yawning, and retied my robe. “Depends on the circumstances.” I tried to fluff my stick-straight blond hair into some semblance of non-tangle, then took a good look at him. Wow. He was gorgeous, and not only because he was wearing a suit and tie and a GQ haircut. (At that hour of the morning, no less.) His smile was a killer as he stood there grinning at me. And don’t get me started on the British accent.
Our gazes locked. I looked into coffee-colored eyes with exactly the right amount of cream added. (See how much better I do with the eye descriptions as I wake up?) So handsome, really. At that exact moment I would have liked to show him the Scooby pajamas in full and let him take a better look at Shaggy. But for all I knew, he was married, I’d probably like his wife, and even in these modern times I’m not the kind of girl who would go there on short acquaintance. Neither was he, apparently, because after a while he looked away and the moment passed.
“I’ll see what I can do about that coffee,” he said. “I’m Inspector Rutledge, come to interview you about what you saw upstairs. Charlie, the hotel clerk, said I should look for someone wearing pajamas, and I can only assume I’ve found the right person.”
“That would be me,” I told him. “But you’re not a bobby? I was kind of hoping for a bobby.”
He laughed. “I keep the fancy hat at home.”
“Oh.” I probably looked disappointed because he laughed again.
“Okay, inspector then. But can we make it snappy? I’ve got a breakfast meeting in about five hours and a big party tonight. I hope I can have my clothes back in time.”
“You’re visiting from?”
“Virginia, in the States,” I said. “I’m in events planning, and tonight I’ve been invited to a party. It’s a book launch for my favorite author, and beforehand we’re going to discuss his publicity needs.”
“You came all the way to London to attend a party for a writer? Must be some book.”
“Must be,” I agreed. “Great excuse to come to London, do some sightseeing.”
I abruptly realized how ridiculous this cocktail-party chitchat was when one was wearing Scooby pajamas and sporting a no-sleep look.
“I’ll need the formal printed party invitation and my lucky cocktail dress, as well as my business suit, come to think of it, so, really, how soon can I get my luggage back?” I turned it into a question, hoping I didn’t sound insensitive to the gravity of the situation. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought up the lucky cocktail dress.
“How about we start with the coffee and go from there? Why don’t you, er, freshen up, and I’ll see you back here in a few minutes. I’m sure I can find you something from the kitchen.”
I must have looked a fright if he wasn’t even willing to do an informal interview without a witness spit and polish.
I found the downstairs bathroom (pardon me, water closet) at the end of a deserted hallway and took a quick, horrified glance in the mirror. I splashed some water on my face and hair and smoothed it all out as best I could before heading into the roomy handicapped stall on the end. I locked the door and had just untied my robe when I heard the door bang open.
“Why are you following me?” A woman’s low-pitched voice and a lot of heavy breathing.
“Why did you put that dead man in eight oh six? You know not to put anyone in there. That’s our room. And now look what you did. We agreed you wouldn’t deal with Mr. Decker here at the hotel. But now you’ve gone off and killed him. In my hotel. In the only empty room I had! Why didn’t you leave him in his own room?”
It was Charlie’s voice and he sounded furious. This was a conversation I wanted no part of. I slowly climbed up on the toilet seat so my legs wouldn’t show under the door. (Thank goodness for British bathrooms and their heavy doors that don’t show a lot above or below the openings to the stalls.) I held still, held my breath, and tried to hold myself together.
“I had to hide the body, didn’t I?” The woman’s voice again. “I put him in the cart under the towels and wheeled him to eight oh six. I knew the body would be safe there till I—till we—figured out what to do with it! How did I know you’d stick that American woman in our room?”
The sound of—was that kissing? And sobbing, too? What was this, a Nora Roberts novel? I mean, normally I enjoy a good Nora Roberts book, but a time and a place for everything, right? I huddled up to make myself as small as possible and tried to pretend I was somewhere else.
“My darling, never mind.” Charlie again. “We’ll get through this. But what did you do to Mr. Decker?”
“I was cleaning his room while he was out, and I thought about how picky he is about us always providing him with fruit-flavored bottled water. It was so easy to open the bottle and put Mum’s digitalis in there. I simply couldn’t wait any longer. Not after what he did to my daughter!”
This was really getting interesting, not to mention unfortunate for Mr. Decker. But if they were capable of offing this Decker guy, what would they do to me and Scooby if they figured out I was in the stall listening to what amounted to a murder confession?
I heard footsteps at the same moment I looked down and saw the belt of my robe hanging down to the floor. I snatched it up, and it made a soft smacking noise against the toilet. I froze and said a quick prayer.
Then—running water.
“Here. Wipe your eyes and dry those tears. We mustn’t look like anything is amiss.” Charlie must have wet some paper towels and handed them to—what was her name? “My darling Jean.”
Okay, so that was one question answered. Now if I only knew what Mr. Decker did to the daughter. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. It must have been pretty awful to warrant execution.
More sobbing. More kissing. (More retching from me.)
My legs were cramping when they finally left, and I waited several minutes before I dared to leave the bathroom.
And ran smack into Charlie as I opened the door.
“I thought I heard someone in there,” he hissed, and lunged for me. I managed to dodge him by jumping aside and shoving the open bathroom door into him right as he sprang forward. His head smacked the door, and he staggered backward, grunting. I tore down the hallway, ran out to the lobby, and saw not a soul in sight.
“Inspector!” I shouted. No answer. I headed for the restaurant, running as fast as I could in slippers. Behind me I heard Charlie trip over a garbage can. Or perhaps an umbrella rack. It was loud. I kept going.
I ducked under the roped-off entrance to the closed restaurant, weaved in and out of tables, and found myself in the kitchen. Not for nothing had I seen The Shining twenty-seven times; I quickly found an empty cabinet under one of the counters and crawled into it, folding myself up to fit. I pulled the door closed as best I could and tried not to breathe hard.
The cabinet door opened and I screamed.
“Good God! Miss James?” The baffled face of Inspector Rutledge peered in at me.
I fell out, quite literally into his arms. “It’s Charlie! And the maid! They poisoned Mr. Decker!”
The inspector rocked back. “How did you know his name was Decker? What are you talking about?”
“Look out!” I shoved Inspector Rutledge away from me as hard as I could. Since he was kneeling, it wasn’t that tough to knock him off his feet. The heavy skillet Charlie was swinging missed him and crashed into the counter. I threw myself at Charlie’s knees, and he fell backward, dropping the skillet and howling when his head hit the tile floor. Then he lay still.
“Oh, no! Charlie!”
I looked up. Jean was hovering in the doorway, wailing. At least, I assumed she was Jean. Wow, she was a looker. No wonder she had Charlie so bamboozled.
I pointed at her. “Get her, too!”
I have to hand it to the inspector. He flew past me and grabbed Probably Jean without hesitating or asking any questions. Quite possibly the fact I’d been hiding in a cabinet had made him realize the situation was serious.
And the rest of the morning was taken up with my statement and people hustling and bustling, in and out of the hotel. As Mr. Decker’s body was wheeled away on a stretcher, I didn’t know whether to feel sorry for him or not.
Charlie’s replacement, Alfred, found me a deluxe two-bedroom suite and brought me my luggage personally. I had missed my breakfast meeting, but I cleaned up, got a nap, and even received a free spa appointment, compliments of the hotel, to get my hair and nails into shape for the big book-launch party downtown at a swanky nightclub.
It was everything I had hoped it would be. I was wined and dined, introduced to everyone with great fanfare, encouraged to toast the writer repeatedly, and arrived back at my room at two a.m. wearing a party hat and bearing a prized satchel filled with signed books.
Scooby and Shaggy and I, mercifully uninterrupted by either insects or dead bodies, slept soundly until mid-morning.
The next day the strike was over, London was on the move again, and so was I—because of unfinished business with that dead guy. It seemed to me nobody was concerned enough about what he’d done to the daughter, and I was getting curiouser and curiouser. Had Decker deserved to die?
Did anyone?
After a quick scan of the morning papers, which revealed nothing new to me, I set out to do some research.
The receptionist at Inspector Rutledge’s office at the metropolitan police station recognized me when I gave her my name. “Oh. Yes. Miss James. With the Scooby-Doo pajamas, yes?” What, are cartoons new to the Brits or something? I looked down to make sure I wasn’t still wearing them while she paged the detective. I thought about my career. Freelance journalist. Travel blogger. Event planner. Paid book reviewer. Yet I was to be remembered best in this country for my Scooby pajamas.
(Or pyjamas, rather. I love pure English spelling, don’t you? But I digress.)
The inspector was out. (I hated to admit how sorry I was not to see him.) I left my card in hopes he’d call me, but he never did, and it was the following week before I found out more about the murder. I was back at home when the London Times online edition told a sad tale of a young housekeeper at a chain hotel in London who had reported being raped by a regular hotel guest a few months ago. She was never taken seriously and wound up in a hospital, suffering depression. Her mother, who had gotten her the job at the hotel, was filled with anger and remorse, and took matters into her own hands.
Would they have gotten away with it had I not overheard the conversation in the water closet? Maybe not. Forensics were remarkable these days. The inspector might have put two and two together. But I certainly hurried the process along—and I was sure the whole event had taken years off my life.
Two days later I got an invitation on social media to befriend Inspector Rutledge. Three days after that I was invited to work on publicity for my favorite author. I started wondering how soon I could get back overseas. Purely for business reasons, you understand.
And a couple of months later I got yet another invitation—not the one I was expecting from my new author client, but from someone I formally call Inspector Robert Rutledge. (But informally, he’ll always be Bobby to me.)
It was a handwritten note. On Scooby-Doo stationery. (So cute. It says “Ruh Roh” at the top.) This was a different kind of invite: An open invitation to come stay for a few days in a B&B run by his family in Royston, next time I’m in London. He guaranteed it’s bedbug free. He said his sisters would dig me and take me shoe shopping. He swore the food is good and the coffee is fresh. (It’s like he knows me.)
And yes, he’s single.
So if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some pyjamas to go pack now, and then I’ll just be bob-bob-bobby-ing along.
Eleanor Cawood Jones began writing in elementary school, using Number 2 pencils to craft crime stories starring her stuffed animals. She is the author of twenty-two-and-counting short stories, including “Keep Calm and Love Moai” (Malice Domestic 13: Mystery Most Geographical) and “All Accounted For at the Hooray for Hollywood Motel” (2018 Bouchercon Anthology, Florida Happens), as well as “O Crime, In Thy Flight” (Crime Travel). A former newspaper reporter and reformed marketing director, Eleanor is a Tennessee native who lives in Northern Virginia and travels often. You’ll find her rearranging furniture or lurking at airports. Learn more at http://www.girlsgonechillin.com/.