Rebecca paused to consider who was crazier – the old man who gave insane instructions for crawling into a dark hole or the historian who followed them. Into the shaft which lay beyond the grate hole, she shone the flashlight beam.
“There’s something in there,” she said uneasily. “What is that thing?”
“Something in there?” Max repeated, momentarily confounded. “Oh, that. Yeah, that’s some Denver Power electrical transformers. High voltage. Be careful. You should turn off into the tunnel right before them. I think…”
Rebecca tried to hand back the flashlight. “Don’t think so,” she said, moving to pick up the grate and replace it in the opening.
“Hold it, hold it,” Max said, refusing the flashlight. “I wouldn’t’ve brought you here if it wasn’t important. Important to The Keep’s history. You care about that, right?”
“You know I do.”
“Then get yer fanny in that hole and don’t be a baby.”
The historian drew a deep breath, stood on tiptoe and put a knee into the opening in the sub-basement wall as Max directed. She leaned in and pulled up her other knee. She could hear the high voltage hum of the transformers further down the passageway, like angry bees swarming.
Keeping low, she was able to crawl along the dirt-floored shaft slowly, carefully. Her boney knees ached. Then there it was, on her right -- another passage, veering off at a ninety-degree angle. She slipped out of the shaft and into the tunnel. Here she could stand. She brushed loose dirt from her black pants and beamed the flashlight all around. The walls of the tunnel were lined with stone. Limestone, she guessed. Guiding herself with a hand along one wall, she ventured into the chilly passageway she would never have dared to navigate without a compatriot watching her back. She shivered.
The series of wall-mounted lanterns spaced at 8-foot intervals surprised her. Probably kerosene-lit at some point in the past, the dead, dark sentinels marked her progress with reassuring regularity. Judging by the cobwebs, there must be spiders everywhere. Could there be rats? What the hell was she doing?
Then up ahead, on the right-hand side of the tunnel which continued further into the fathomless dark, her beam illuminated a rough-hewn wooden door. Did she dare open it? She felt like a lab mouse in a maze. Was Max trying to trap her? To scare her? Had she been a fool to trust him?
She’d come this far. She couldn’t resist the mystery. The splintery door had a cast iron handle and hinges, but no visible latch or lock. It opened at her push, and Rebecca beheld a large room, about the size of a three-car garage with a 9-foot ceiling. Aiming the flashlight into the space, Rebecca could scarcely believe her eyes.
The collection of objects cluttering wooden shelves that reached floor to ceiling dwarfed the displaced archives. The beam splashed over ten times the china and crystal pieces formerly housed in the rooftop depository. Other shelves held gilded antique clocks, ornate table lamps with fringed shades, silver coffee pots and pitchers. Against the opposite stone wall leaned a dozen filigree panels like those that ringed the atrium balconies. Beside them, rows of stained glass windows with fruit and flower designs -- from the demolished eighth-floor ballroom?
Remnants of decorative stone trim from the building’s exterior lay on the concrete floor to one side. A strangely fringed chandelier and faded red, white and blue bunting hung from wooden beams criss-crossing the ceiling. From one dark corner, the dead glass eyes of a stuffed trophy elk shone back at her in the flashlight beam. An old barber chair. A billiard table with ornately carved legs was laden with cake stands, multi-tiered trays, assorted serving pieces, and folded linens. Large trunks and wooden boxes stacked against the back wall could contain almost anything. Could that really be a music stand from the old Aladdin Room orchestra?
Who assembled all this? When? And why? It was too much to process. Max had led her here. Max would know.
Rebecca hurried back through the tunnel to the transformer shaft and scooted back through the opening into the electrical room where Max, seated on an old wooden cable spool, awaited her return.
“It’s…it’s amazing!” she said breathlessly. “How do you know about this place, that room? Was it you who collected and hid all those Griffins Keep artifacts? Does anyone else know about them?” The questions tumbled out on top of each other in a rush. She looked at Max and shook her head in astonishment. “I’m sorry. I’m just…flabbergasted!”
At this the old man smiled. He put a finger to his lips, warning her to keep her voice down, though they seemed to be quite alone. “Pretty great, isn’t it?” he said. “I know everybody around here thinks I’m just a crazy old coot, full of bullshit. But I sure as hell can keep a secret – when it’s important.”
“Why is that tunnel even here?” Rebecca pressed him. “Where did it go?”
“From here to the Capitol,” he said, “sub-basement level all the way. Guess it’s gotta be about three, four blocks long. Feels longer when you’re in it. Other end’s been caved in since before I came to The Keep. But I’m told it handled traffic right up into the 1940s. Big wigs and politicians and special interests, all that.”
“What about the room with all the old stuff?”
“They used to store liquor in there before – and during – Prohibition. When they moved that elsewhere, the little museum you saw was born in that space.”
“Who started it? Why? And how?”
“It was during the Kuhrsfeld years, when they were changing everything, making it ‘modern.’ Kinda like now. Some longtime employees were sick about them removing so much original stuff, selling it or just pitching it – like it was nothing. Made it their mission, I guess you could say, to save some of it, tuck it away where it wouldn’t be found. Only a couple guys knew about it. And when they left, they passed the secret on to a colleague they trusted.”
“And eventually, you became that colleague.”
Max nodded. “About 30 years ago, right before he retired, my old Pub boss, Ernst Huber, brought me down here, just like I brought you. Every now and then I’d find a way to add something to the collection. Things that shouldn’t be lost.”
“But all those big things – the barber chair and the elk – they never would have fit through this little vent. And the room’s not even locked!”
“Course it’s not locked,” Max said impatiently. “Who’s gonna go in there? But you can bet it was locked before the tunnel was closed off, back when all the big stuff was stashed there.”
He paused for a moment and looked up at her earnestly. “So now you know about it. In case you ever need to hide anything for a while. But you gotta promise to keep this place secret. Wouldn’t wanna hafta kill ya.”
“This is so fun!” Rebecca whispered as she and Lochlan dug through the treasures hidden in the sub-basement secret room the following night. Impulsively, she wrapped herself in a gold damask drapery panel. Lochlan reverently placed an inverted sterling silver ice bucket upon her head and proclaimed, “Her Royal Highness, Queen of The Keep.”
For the first time in ages, Rebecca felt beautiful – and young.
As she continued to scan the space with her mini-flashlight, its beam glinted off something half concealed under another folded drape. Withdrawing it from the cover, she caught her breath. “It’s a sword!” she exclaimed as she examined it more closely. “In fact, I think it’s the bronze sword of the long-lost Third Griffin, the one that once guarded the lobby fireplace. God bless whoever managed to snatch it from the Kuhrsfelds when they pilfered the griffin itself for their private garden!”
She raised the bronze implement triumphantly and turned to her crusading cohort. “Kneel, Sir Knight.”
Solemnly, Lochlan obeyed and bowed his head before her. She touched the sword first to one shoulder, then the other.
“I dub thee Sir Lochlan of Griffin, defender of The Keep and guardian of her secrets.”
He lifted his gaze and gently kissed the tip of the blade without taking his eyes from hers. “The Power of the Past compels me to pledge my troth to this castle and to her Queen,” he vowed.
The vaguely remembered sensation was as unmistakable as it was unexpected. Thrilling, heady, ravenous. The flush that rose in Rebecca’s cheeks and radiated throughout her body was menopausal by no means. A furtive glance, as Lochlan slowly stood, revealed her temperature was not the only thing that was rising.
A sweep of their arms, an avalanche of folded linens, and half the billiard table was cleared.
Rebecca cast aside her weapon and surrendered utterly.
“Your mimosa,” Rebecca announced, handing her housemate the frothy drink in a stemmed goblet. “Fruit salad in that bowl. Hash-browned potatoes in the skillet. I’m just about to whip up the blender Hollandaise for Eggs Benedict. Would you like one English muffin half or two? I’m having three myself.”
Maureen took a sip, then set down the glass and tied her robe around herself. “You’re up awfully bright and early for someone who didn’t get in until after 1:00.”
“Yes, Mother.” Rebecca couldn’t stop smiling. “If you must know, I was with Mr. MacKenzie in that secret sub-basement room I told you about.”
“Doing what, may I ask?”
Rebecca turned away, slowly pouring hot melted butter into the blender. “Oh, you know. Going through rescued hotel artifacts, playing on the billiard table.”
“Must have been strenuous,” Mo observed. “You seem to have built up quite an appetite.”
“I’m famished. Haven’t eaten since yesterday lunch,” Rebecca admitted, switching on the blender. When it finished, she dipped her little finger into the sauce, licked it and beamed with satisfaction. “But I did have quite the gourmet experience last night.”
The afternoon before the archives auction, all the artifacts up for bids were displayed on long tables around the lobby for public inspection. Rebecca cringed as curious potential buyers pawed through historic banquet menus, leafed through crumbling scrapbooks, and perused the pages of guest registers with splintered spines.
Among the preview shoppers, she noticed an obviously wealthy man with his daughter. Spying the military band figures, the girl tugged her father’s sleeve.
“Look, Daddy! These dolls could be boyfriends for my Barbies.”
Inspecting them briefly and noting the starting bid, her father disagreed. “No sweetheart, they’re old and dirty. Look, there are little holes in their jackets, their hats and boots are coming apart. Their arms and legs don’t even move.”
“I don’t care. I want them. They’re just Barbie’s size and they’re handsome. Pulleeeze, Daddy? Pretty please?”
“We’ll see, Vanessa. Now put that one down.”
“I can’t watch anymore,” Rebecca whispered to Dawn. “You take over guard duty for a while. I’m begging you.” She had been directed by Ms. Jordan to be on hand to answer any questions about the items. Rebecca had had enough. She went in search of a place to disappear.
Some of the things are safe, she reminded herself. Some of them are safe – Thanks to Max. How was she ever going to make it through tomorrow’s auction when she would be expected to supply historical context for The Keep’s treasures and to watch without comment as they were carried from the building that gave them meaning, likely never to return?
As she fled the lobby, Rebecca stopped at the far side of the Front Desk and looked up to the seventh-floor atrium corner where the mediums had reported sensing powerful entities that oversaw the hotel in some mystical fashion. She folded her hands together, as if in prayer, and whispered, “Help.”
No bolts from above. No divine intervention. No paranormal prevention. Despite Rebecca’s desperate plea, The Keep’s guardians, whatever they might be, did nothing to stop the public auction of hotel artifacts the following evening. More than 200 invited guests took their seats in the Grand Salon. Champagne was served, hors d’veoures were passed. Denny, one of the hotel’s five talented pianists, entertained before the proceedings got underway.
“Despite the festive face they’re trying so hard to put on this travesty, it’s a sad, sad day for the Griffins Keep,” Denny confided quietly to Rebecca when he finished playing. “I’m so sorry you have to go through this.”
Rebecca had to excuse herself after the first half-hour, claiming she was ill. She was.
“I know you’re in no mood to hear more about the auction,” Lochlan said the next morning, touching her gently on the shoulder, “but after you left last night, there were a few positive developments.”
When Rebecca said nothing, he continued. “The Colorado Historical Society bought the old registers in one lot. And the set of blueprints – the remaining blueprints,” he added with a conspiratorial wink, “went to the Western History department of the Denver Public Library. Great news for researchers, right? And they’ll be digitally scanned and preserved professionally, just as they should have been all along. Oh, and Denny outbid everyone for those old record albums by the Griffins Strings.”
“Could be worse, I guess,” the historian conceded sullenly. “I’m almost afraid to ask…What about the military bandsmen? Did that little girl get them for her Barbies’ beaus?”
“No…wait, what?” Lochlan said, confused. “I don’t know about any little girl. But I can tell you for sure that the bandsmen weren’t auctioned off after all.”
“What are you talking about? They were expected to draw the highest bids of anything from the archives.”
“That they were. But apparently someone with very deep pockets made such a generous offer before the event that management agreed to sell them outright, without even putting them on the block, so to speak.”
Rebecca tilted her head quizzically. “That seems very weird. Who would want them that badly? They must have had some sway with the management, as well as ample funds.”
“It’s a mystery, to be sure. But I have to believe they’ve found a loving home, and that’s what really matters, right?”
Rebecca smiled despite herself. “You make them sound like rescue dogs.”
“When you think about it, they are like pound pups, in a way. Saved from an uncertain fate, adopted by someone who can obviously afford the professional care they deserve.”
At that, Rebecca managed a slight smile. “I hope they live happily ever after, wherever they’ve gone.”
Lochlan gave her a reassuring squeeze and seconded her sentiment. “To the lads!” he said, raising his coffee mug. “We shall never see their like in the Griffins Keep again.”
His premature conclusion was, as it turned out, wrong.
Once again, the beast emerged from hibernation -- just in time for the holidays. The decorating team wrangled the holiday chandelier in the center of the lobby. Drifts of glitter scattered across the floor evidenced their struggle. A sturdy cable attached to its crown suspended it from a winch in the center of the steel support frame below the skylight, eight stories above. Six ropes restraining its uppermost arms spread out across the space in a hexagonal web as the team endeavored to keep it level. Other workers festooned its appendages with dangling lantern-like fixtures, gigantic red balls and bows. Only when balance had been achieved was the LED light fixture raised a few more feet for the next round of assembly.
Rebecca documented each step of the installation with photos snapped from multiple angles over several hours. Lochlan offered to take a few views looking down from the skylight as he worked the winch in the center of the steel support grid beneath the stained glass. He cranked it up incrementally over the course of the full-day process. Guests often asked how the behemoth was put up, and the pictures would be worth the proverbial thousand words.
The chandelier was a joint venture of The Keep and the Denver Symphony Snow Ball committee. Since 1950, the Snow Ball had been the biggest annual event hosted by the hotel. Because it was traditionally held right before Christmas, the committee dictated the decorations and colors. They were not known for moderation, as the chandelier demonstrated. Its glitter alone weighed more than 500 pounds. Dripping with LED lights and suspended directly above the hotel’s 20-foot crystal Christmas tree next to the Griffin Fountain, it evoked a stalactite-stalagmite effect.
“It looks like a giant squid,” Rebecca declared to Lochlan.
“Some people say a spider,” he said, studying the completed contraption hoisted into its final position between the third- and fifth-floor levels of the atrium. “I imagine it as a sort of carnival ride.”
Every Keep associate had his or her own opinion of the holiday focal point.
“Absolutely beautiful.”
“Gaud-awful.”
“Something out of a fairytale.”
“Tacky as hell.”
“Magical!”
“An insult to the architecture.”
Revered or reviled, the chandelier dominated the heart of the hotel throughout the holidays. TITHE management loved the thing, and even temporarily removed the lobby papier mache griffins to maximize its impact.
“I still say it looks like it should be hovering over Devil’s Tower,” Mo declared the next time she visited Rebecca at The Keep, alluding to the alien Mother Ship in Close Encounters.
The holidays found the new management in over their heads. Because they knew nothing of Griffins Keep traditions and the hotel’s role in the larger Denver community, they were caught completely off guard by the huge demand for Thanksgiving dinners, holiday teas and holiday parties. Temporary staff on loan from other TITHE properties had no idea what they were doing. The “alien overlords” – so dubbed by the few remaining veteran Keep employees – had yet to realize that the Griffins Keep was unlike any other hotel.
The Snow Ball was a debacle. TITHE, with no concept of the privileged patrons’ expectations for the event, disappointed and dismayed the entitled elite at every turn. Insufficient staffing. AV equipment malfunctions. Mediocre food on chipped china. The society scions, who had always demanded perfection in every detail, discovered that under a TITHE regime, perfection was no longer anywbere to be found. Ball organizers and guests alike vowed never to return to the Griffins Keep and resolved to take their lucrative soiree elsewhere in future.
Management shrugged off the failure as if it were nothing. “We’ve got the Extreme Skateboarding Con coming next month,” Branson bragged. “Who needs Denver’s ‘old money’?”
Margaret and Molly the mediums met Rebecca in the lobby when they came for Holiday Tea the first Saturday in December. They were both stunning in fabulous hats, but Margaret was livid.
“We made these reservations last January,” she said, “And now we’re told they’ve run out of scones and tea sandwiches and are discontinuing service for the rest of the day – and it’s not even 2:30!”
Molly shook her head and added, “They offered us a beer and fish-and-chips in the Pirates Pub as a consolation. I ask you, do we look dressed for fish-and-chips?”
“It’s not so bad for us,” Margaret relented, surveying the disconcerted queue, “We’re flexible. But look at all these disappointed little girls in their fancy Christmas dresses. Look at the older ladies with their walkers and their wheelchairs, who’ve probably come here with family or friends every year for decades. We’re all just out of luck today.”
Rebecca was not about to defend the mismanagement, but she tried to make the ladies feel better. “Shutting down Tea early is a terrible shame. I’ve never heard of it happening before. Confidentially though, you might have been unimpressed if you had been served. All The Keep’s pastry chefs have been let go. The fresh-baked scones, pastries, cakes, and breads for which the hotel has always been renowned have been replaced by day-old goods from outside cut-rate vendors. We’ve gotten lots of complaints.”
The mediums looked at each other, then back at Rebecca. “No wonder the old spirits are so distraught,” Molly said.
“We sensed it right away when we came in,” Margaret explained. “Harrison Griffin, Edward Brookings, and countless spirits from the hotel’s uncompromising early years – employees and guests – are terribly upset by recent developments. I keep hearing the phrase ‘erosion of excellence.’’
“The spirits aren’t alone in their concern,” Rebecca told them sadly. “The special, thoughtful touches that have always defined the Griffins Keep as exceptional are disappearing at an alarming rate. And, not surprisingly, so are a great many longtime devoted patrons, sometimes angered and sometimes broken-hearted by the changes TITHE cuts had wrought.”
“The spiritual and the corporeal planes co-exist closely in this place,” Molly reminded her.”The distress you and your fellow employees are feeling is reflected in the hotel’s spiritual realm, and vice versa. This is very worrisome. A shortage of tea items only hints at the larger dilemmas soon to unfold.” She glanced up at the seventh-floor corner above the concierge desk, “The Keep’s essence is in very real jeopardy, and The Keep’s ghosts are preparing to push back.”
The Monday morning announcement from Mickey Branson was chillingly officious:
Please be informed that effective tomorrow, Surf’s Up Safety and Security Services will assume all of the hotel’s security functions.
By outsourcing our security efforts, we will be able to enhance guest and associate safety, accountability and emergency response through state-of-the-art technology from a trusted firm long associated with the TITHE family of companies.
The hotel is grateful for the service the current security team has provided to our community.
By the time Rebecca saw the email blast, the changeover was already a fete accompli. “Did you have any warning that this was coming?” she asked Amy when she encountered her in the coffee shop.
The engineering assistant shook her head. “None. The Security layoffs blindsided everybody.”
“So Salma’s gone? Chuck? Franklin?”
“Kevin was the only one kept on.”
“What about Max?”
“That was the worst,” Amy confided. “Max looked like they’d just unplugged his life support. He was actually crying when the new guys escorted him out. The Keep has been everything to him for 54 years – especially since his wife passed away. His job here is the only reason he has to get out of bed in the morning. It was so sad. I can’t imagine what he’ll do now.”
“You’d think they could find something for him to do here, just part time,” said the barista. “He’s like a living history of this place.”
“You’re right about that. Could I get his home contact info from you?” Rebecca asked Amy. “I could invite him to come visit me to share his Keep memories and stories. Do you think that might make him feel better? Knowing he’s leaving a sort of legacy?”
“I think it’s a really nice idea. I’ll email you his home number as soon as I get back to my desk. I just hope he’s going to be OK.”
Max Barnes sounded okay when he finally responded to Rebecca’s three voice messages five days later.
“Punk kids marched me outta there like some kinda criminal. Company’s got a helluva way of showing their great ‘appreciation’ to long-time loyal staff.” His tone, more bitter than sad, reassured the historian that Max was still full of vinegar.
“It was a rotten way to break the news to you,” she said, “and I’m so sorry it was such a rude surprise. Like when they took over the archives. I think I understand, at least a little, how you must feel.”
“Yeah, maybe you’ll get it after you’ve been there 54 years.”
Rebecca hurried on. “Max, you know how we talked before about my doing a sort of oral history interview with you, so we could record all the things you remember for future Keep histories? I’m really hoping you’ll still consider that. Nobody else has all your personal knowledge about the old days at the hotel.”
After a pregnant pause, Max said, “Yeah, well, maybe I could do that, if you think what I have to say is worth anything.”
“Oh, absolutely!” Rebecca assured him, then couldn’t help but tease, “Of course, I’ll be using my bullshit detector on your more colorful recollections, as always.”
She could almost hear him smile on the other end of the phone. “All right. Sure. So when do you want me to come do this thing?”
The historian had already given the question some thought. It was bound to be awkward if he returned to The Keep too soon. “Let’s wait a few weeks and then talk again about a good time. Things are really hectic in the hotel right now with Chad Tagawa and all the TITHE big wigs hanging around and stressing everybody out.”
“Tagawa’s there, huh?”
“Through next Friday, I think.”
“Hmmph. Branson, too?”
“Of course. They always seem to be in meetings, cooking up something, along with Chad’s uncle and the other TITHE guys.”
“Next Friday,” Max repeated before falling silent for several moments.
“So I’ll call you again in a couple weeks,” Rebecca said. “We’ll figure out an interview date then. Thanks so much for agreeing to let me pick your brain. I’m sure you have a lot of valuable info and insider insights to share for posterity.”
“Yeah, OK. Whatever you say. Hey, promise you’ll guard our secret stash in the tunnel, no matter what.”
“Of course I promise. Max. Talk to you soon, and take care.” Rebecca hung up with the self-satisfaction that she had set something good in motion.
The huge man shambled into the busy Pirates Pub at 12:37 PM the following Friday. He plucked a napkin from a table and draped it over one crooked arm, old-fashioned waiter style, as he headed directly for the corner spot occupied by the hotel owner and the managing director. With a sweeping gesture of his other arm, he bowed grandly before them.
“Messrs. Tagawa and Branson,” he pronounced loudly and clearly. “Damn you, gentlemen. Damn you both to hell.”
All conversation ceased.
“Should I call Security?” the hostess whispered to a server, who simply shrugged.
“I was serving this hotel before either of you was born, and I will not be dismissed,” he declared calmly. “I’m gonna haunt you sonsabitches to the enda time.”
Before anyone could react, he withdrew the small revolver from inside his jacket and raised it to his temple. With a squeeze of the trigger, Max Barnes went down in Griffins Keep history.