Thirty-nine

The ninth-floor hallway looked like the hotel was conducting a fire drill.

Straight-backed, stern-faced men in suits mixed with baffled guests in a variety of dress and undress. Above the confused chatter of the milling mob, I heard a loud animalistic cry—and I mean literally.

The man inside the locked suite was doing a spot-on imitation of a wolf baying at the moon. As the howl faded, I heard one of the men in the hallway exclaim—

“That’s it! I’m making the call!”

“Please, give me another minute,” a young woman said, her tone more demanding than pleading.

“You’ve had your minute, Ms. Woodbridge. By my watch, you’ve had thirty minutes, and you still haven’t been able to coax him out of there. Tell your boss I won’t risk a lawsuit against our own security. That’s why I’m having her nephew and his drugs removed by the authorities.”

“Please make way,” I said, gently pushing through the hallway crowd. As the bodies parted, Madame followed me forward.

The last guest stepped aside, and I saw the man who had spoken. Small of stature, with beady eyes and thin lips, he wore a Manager badge on his black jacket, and his mustache—as dark as his funereal suit—twitched like a caterpillar in its death throes.

He was forcefully arguing with a model-tall young woman in a Versace split-thigh gown of a silvery aqua. Though slender, she looked like she could hold her own with her tanned, toned arms and a stiff spine to match.

“A. F. Babcock is a guest at your hotel, a guest who has agreed to financially compensate the hotel for any inconvenience,” she declared with a toss of her loose brunette curls. “The least your hotel can do is extend your guest the courtesy of—”

Another animal howl interrupted her, this one accompanied by shattering glass.

“Uh-oh!” called the voice inside the suite. “I guess that’s seven years’ bad luck!”

The young woman opened her red lips to speak again, but the manager shut her down with a wave of his open palm.

“No more talk, Ms. Woodbridge! It’s past time I call the police—”

“Excuse me!” I stepped forward, my mind working fast. “I can help with that. Calling the police, I mean.”

They both stared.

“And who are you?” the scowling manager demanded.

“Someone who’s concerned about this situation,” I declared, channeling the haughty confidence of Sherlock Holmes.

The manager was not impressed. “That’s not an answer.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I mean, Ms. Woodbridge here is Ms. Babcock’s assistant. The crazy man inside that suite is Ms. Babcock’s guest. Why in the world should this matter concern you?”

“Because I can get one of the top narcotics officers in the NYPD here in minutes. He’ll bring his whole squad. They’ll be happy to canvass the floor. That is, bang on the doors of every room and interview each guest about what they may have witnessed in connection to the drug crimes you’ll be reporting.”

The manager opened his mouth. I closed it again, this time by channeling good old Perry Mason—

“This incident began at the Wordsmyth Awards Dinner, correct?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Then the narcotics detectives will want to clear all the guests who attended as well.”

The manager blinked. “Clear?”

“Apologies for the police jargon. In plain language I meant interview. You see, if another guest or a member of your staff sold drugs to the professor, the detectives will want to find out. Oh, and I understand that an underage female from a Sweet Sixteen party was involved. She’ll have to be interviewed, too. And since she’s a minor, I believe the law requires that her parents be notified, which presents another problem. For the hotel, I mean. You see, this underage girl consumed narcotics right under the nose of your staff. It was your bartender who served her alcohol. That is a serious offense, sir, which could lose this entire establishment its liquor license.”

The glamorous assistant in Versace turned to Madame. “Who is this, Mrs. Dubois? A lawyer friend? If she is, please inform her that she is not helping!”

“I agree,” the manager said. “I think we’d all be better off with a hostage negotiator.”

Madame gave them a wily smile. “Clare is much better than a lawyer. Or a negotiator. She runs my downtown coffeehouse.”

The caterpillar on the manager’s lip was really twitching now. His beady eyes glared at me. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“It’s no joke,” I assured him. “The head of the NYPD’s OD Squad is my fiancé.” I leaned closer. “And he’s very zealous.”

The manager’s already pale skin blanched even whiter. “All right, miss. What exactly do you want?”

“I want to solve your problem for you, but discreetly. I plan to remove the professor and any drugs in that suite from these premises as soon—and as quietly—as possible. Or we can handle this another way—” I tipped my head toward Madame. “I can escort this eyewitness to the whole embarrassing affair back down to the ballroom’s bar, where she can relate the entire sordid story to her reporter friend from Page Six.” I shrugged. “I’m sure the newspaper account will be fair and not show the Grande Maison in too bad a light.”

The manager was now fuming, but I could see in his knitted brow and shifting eyes that he was also worried. “Fine!” he said at last. “If you’ve got a plan, we’ll try it your way.”

“I assume the front door to Professor Humphrey’s suite—”

“It’s locked, chained, and barricaded with furniture,” the manager said.

“Is there a door to a connecting suite?”

“Yes. I was going to let the police in that way.”

“Give me the key and I’ll deal with the professor,” I said, sounding far more confident than I felt.

“If I do,” said the manager, “how soon can you get that crazy man out of here?”

I didn’t have a clue, and unfortunately that fact might have been written on my face. When I didn’t answer right away, the manager called my bluff. Tapping the stopwatch app on his phone screen, he warned—

“I’ll give you fifteen minutes to remove that animal, or I’ll call your boyfriend myself!”

As I took a deep breath, the irony struck me. This wouldn’t be the first time I herded a beast from a room—and twice in one day had to be a record for someone not working for animal control.

Meanwhile, the manager waved over someone in the crowd. One of the security men, a giant in dark slacks and a gray blazer, stepped up.

“Take her to the door of the adjoining suite,” the manager told the guard. “Let her in, but do not follow. This is her plan; let her execute it.”

The guard nodded and led the way. Madame caught up with us and took hold of my arm.

“Clare, stop. I appreciate what you’ve done thus far to help, but I never meant to put you in harm’s way.”

“You’re not. I want to do this. And you know I can take care of myself. I’ve handled drunken frat boys, drug addicts, and Village eccentrics for years. You managed the Blend. You’ve done it yourself.”

“That’s true enough. But I’ll feel better if you put this in your pocket.”

Madame reached into her beaded evening bag, pulled out a small, black rectangular item, and pressed it into my hand.

“What is this?”

She leaned close. “Pepper spray. It’s quite effective, and I’ll feel better knowing you have it.”

“All right.” I slipped it into my pants pocket. “Now go back to the group, and I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

As the guard continued to lead me down the hall, I spotted a room service tray that had been left outside a door for the staff to collect. The food was picked over, the coffeepot empty, but that didn’t matter because I had a plan.

“Wait just a minute!” I called out to the guard.

I peeled off my coat, revealing the Village Blend apron that I still wore underneath. Working quickly, I did what I could to make the used room service tray look new. Finally, I said—

“Okay, I’m ready.”

The guard unlocked the main door to the suite and handed me a key card for the connecting door inside.

“Good luck, ma’am, and stay safe.”

His ominous tone on those last two words gave me pause. Clearly, he was convinced I’d be leaving the hotel on a stretcher.

“Don’t worry,” I said, tray in hand. “I can handle this.”

And if I couldn’t? At least I’d finally get some rest.