“Patrice.”
“Am, darling.”
Patrice Rushton fancied herself the leading lady of the Grande Dame. She had been hired as a concierge before it became de rigueur for all properties aspiring to airs to have a French title on staff. In the French tradition the concierge was the “keeper of the keys.” Am had come to believe the English translation was “extortionist.” The Hotel California’s concierges had trained local restaurateurs into inviting them over on a regular basis. When the restaurateurs failed in that duty, the guest referrals disappeared magically. Patrice referred to her concierge department as the “diplomatic corps.” Such titles, Am thought, begged for an international incident.
“Patrice,” Am said, “I need to enlist the skills of your diplomatic corps.”
Patrice beamed. She might have even attempted a blush, but only X-ray vision could have penetrated the layers of her generously applied makeup. Patrice was around sixty, but she let it be known she was in her forties.
“Guest services is our middle name, Am,” Patrice said proudly.
If that was true, then gratuity had to be their last name. Patrice had her hot lines to what she called power people, those who could get her the window tables, the tickets to popular events, the eight o’clock dinner reservations, the golf course times, and the seats on sold-out airline flights.
“You’ll be hearing from a Mr. Daniels in room five twenty-two,” he said. “I told him we’d help him ship some belongings.”
She nodded confidently, gave the barest touch to her short, well-coiffed hair. So far so good. Am cleared his throat. “I also said you’d assist him in a delicate matter.”
The touch of the hair again. “That’s what we are here for.”
“You might have heard about Mr. Daniels’s friend,” Am said. “Former friend, that is. Tim Kelly. He was in room seven eleven.”
It was undoubtedly a popular name that morning. Patrice suddenly didn’t look so comfortable. Kelly, she knew, wouldn’t be wanting tickets to the symphony.
“I told Mr. Daniels you’d take care of arranging the shipment of Kelly’s body.”
“Am…”
He knew better than to stop speaking. “You’ll probably have to work out the release of the body with the medical examiner or the police department. Apparently it’s in the morgue now.”
“Am—”
“Mr. Daniels will be finding out who’s handling the funeral services up north. That’s where you’ll need to send Mr. Kelly.”
“You must be—”
“If a local mortuary can’t help you ship out the body, I’m sure some airline will be able to assist in its transportation.”
Makeup always looks out of place when plastered to an angry face. In Patrice’s case, she looked like a hateful clown. “I am a concierge,” she said. “I am not a ghoul.”
“I’ll be putting you up for employee of the month, Patrice.”
And if she won, her picture would be posted in an area where even bored guests never nosed around.
“I am not happy about this, Am,” she said.
Probably because dead men aren’t the best tippers, he thought. “Delegation, Patrice. We don’t have marines, but we do have our concierges.”
Patrice stormed off. She looked ready to take Iwo Jima single-handedly. From behind him, Am heard clapping. Jimmy Mazzelli was his audience.
“Lady’s got a stick up her ass,” he said, then minced around in an amazingly accurate parody of Patrice’s walk.
Am didn’t let his amusement show. Jimmy didn’t know it, but he was due for a lecture. Besides, Jimmy didn’t need the encouragement. He had been a bellman at the Hotel for the last dozen years and always managed to straddle that fine line between being crudely funny and being fired. Sometimes you couldn’t be sure whether Jimmy was hustling a guest or just working a tip. He was in his mid-thirties, had lived the last half of his life in Southern California, but his formative years had been in New York City, and that showed both in his accent and in his manner. When Jimmy wasn’t running a comb through his long, slick hair, he was running the Hotel betting pools. The surest bet in the Hotel? That Jimmy had a Racing Form somewhere on his person.
“Got an interesting note yesterday, Jimmy,” said Am. “It was from a Mr. Edward Bell. Does his name ring a bell?”
Jimmy’s blank face was perfection, his innocent and arched eyebrows making him a candidate for some cherubic order. “Can’t say it does, Am.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Bell checked in a few days ago. You helped them up to room four sixty-five.”
Still no overt glimmer of recognition. Jimmy liked to play poker, too.
“They were honeymooners.”
Jimmy produced a thoughtful lip. “Lots of honeymooners, Am. Must help twenty, thirty a week.”
“Do you remember taking their luggage?”
“Four sixty-five? Coupla days ago?”
“Woman wearing a white dress?” Am said in his most sarcastic voice. “Man in tuxedo? Sparkling new rings. Maybe some wedding cake crusted around their noses. Honeymooners, dammit.”
“Yeah, yeah, I remember, Am. Now I remember.”
“Let’s test your memory a little more, then. Mr. Bell thought he should fulfill the tradition of carrying his bride over the threshold, but he didn’t want to ruin his wedding night, either. He has a bad back. So he turned to you and asked for a helping hand. He wanted you to assist him in carrying his wife over the threshold. And you did.”
Jimmy remembered. He remembered very well.
“Mr. Bell gave you a tip, a generous tip. That’s usually a signal for the bellman to leave. But for some reason you chose to linger around long enough to say, ‘I’d be happy to help out in any other marital duties you can’t perform.’ Is that an accurate quote?”
Jimmy started rolling his eyes around. “It was just a joke, Am.”
“Mr. Bell didn’t like your joke. He said you were leering at his wife when you made your comment.”
“I was smiling at her, Am. And she was smiling at me. That’s probably why he didn’t like it.”
Jimmy thought most women had the hots for him. They exhibited this desire in a number of ways, all of which only Jimmy could discern.
“You were asked to pick up a bride, not put the make on her, Jimmy.”
“Just a joke, Am,” he repeated.
“Verbal warning,” Am said in his sternest voice, then added the lamest words in management’s vocabulary: “It better not happen again.”
The worker response, in time-honored litany: “It won’t.” Then, changing subjects or, more likely, already having forgotten the warning, Jimmy said, “Package arrived for you, Am. I stuck it on your desk.”
The large box Jimmy had left on his desk was plastered with “Rush” labels. Am couldn’t think of anything that would have necessitated so much postal signage, not to mention postage. Cautiously he lifted up the box. The contents were light. Am did some mild shaking and couldn’t come up with a guess. After opening the box, he became acquainted with some very visible reminders of one of his open cases. Memories of mammaries: Kris Carr’s bra shipment had arrived.
Am punched housekeeping’s extension, and the executive housekeeper answered. “Any bras turn up?”
Barbara Terry laughed. “None the size of which you’re looking for. You sure you’re not pulling my leg, Am Caulfield?”
“No. Cross My Heart bra and hope to die.”
Cradling the phone, Am dropped his gaze to the opened box. Curious, he hoisted out one of the bras. It wasn’t weight lifting, not exactly. He felt the fabric, ran his hands along it. They lingered for just a moment, a stretch of time almost imperceptibly brief, but long enough for Sharon to walk into his office and observe the placement of his hands.
Am dropped the bra as if his fingers had been scorched. Then he picked it up again, his face red and defiant. “It’s the Carr case,” he said, trying his damnedest to sound official.
“Looks like you have your hands full,” she said.