I returned to the counter just as the man ahead of me finished checking in and crossed to the elevators. I moved up to the desk. Given the decor, I expected the clerk to be wearing a wimple or a corselet at the very least. Instead, she wore a regulation hotel management ensemble: white shirt, navy blazer, and a plain navy skirt. Her name tag read Vikki Biggs, Night Clerk. She was in her twenties, probably new to the staff and therefore relegated to the graveyard shift. She gave me a form to fill out. I jotted down my name and address and then watched while she ran off a credit card voucher.
She glanced at the address as she stapled the voucher to the registration form. “My goodness. Everybody’s coming in from California tonight,” she said. “That other woman was flying in from Santa Teresa, too.”
“I know. We’re together. She’s my sister-in-law. Is there any way you could put me on the same floor with her?”
“We’ll sure try,” she said. She tapped a few lines on the ubiquitous keyboard, watching the monitor, her expression studious. Sometimes I want to lean across the desk and take a look myself. From Vikki’s perspective, the news wasn’t that good. “I’m sorry, but that floor’s booked. I have a room on eight.”
“That’s fine,” I said. And then as an afterthought, “What room is she in?” As if Vikki Biggs had just mentioned it and it had slipped my mind.
Ms. Biggs was no dummy. I’d apparently just crossed over into hotel management no-no land. She screwed her mouth sideways in a look of regret. “I’m not allowed to give out room numbers. I’ll tell you what, though. You can give her a call as soon as you get to your room and the hotel operator will be happy to connect you.”
“Oh, sure. No problem. I can always check with her later. I know she’s as tired as I am. Flying the red-eye is a drag.”
“I’ll bet. You here for business or pleasure?”
“Little bit of both.”
Ms. Biggs put my room key in a folder and slid it across the counter toward me. “Enjoy your stay.”
Going up in the elevator, I was treated to symphonic music while I stared at myself in the smoky-glass mirror. “You look disgusting,” I said to my reflection. Once on the eighth floor, the lighting was dim and it was dead quiet. Thieflike, I padded down the wide carpeted corridor and unlocked my door. The medieval affectations hadn’t extended this far. I found myself transported from fourteenth-century England to the wild and woolly West, decor left over from some previous ownership. The room was done up in burnt orange and browns, the wallpaper textured like wood paneling. The bedspread was patterned in cactus and saddles, with a variety of cattle brands stitched across the surface. I did a quick roundup survey, circling the room to appraise the accommodations.
To the right of the door was a double closet containing four wooden hangers, an iron, and an ironing boardlet two feet long with short metal feet. Across from the closet was a dressing area with a mirrored vanity and sink, with a hair dryer affixed to the wall on the right. On the counter was a four-cup coffee maker with packets of sugar and nondairy creamer. A basket held small bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and lotion, plus a little mending kit and a shower cap in a box. In the bathroom, there was a fiberglass tub with a shower nozzle extending from the wall at about neck level. The plastic shower curtain was patterned with horseshoes and bucking broncos. There was a toilet, three bath towels, a bathmat, and one of those rubber tub mats designed to reduce the chances of a nasty spill and an even nastier lawsuit.
There was no minibar, but there was a jar of cellophane-wrapped hard candies in four gaudy flavors. Well, hey. What a treat. I’d also been blessed with a telephone, a television set, and a clock radio. In the morning, I’d call Henry and get an update on the situation in Santa Teresa. In the meantime, I closed the drapes and peeled off my clothes, which I hung neatly on my meager allotment of hangers. In the interest of sanitation, I laundered my underpants while I had the chance, using a dollop of hotel shampoo. In a pinch, I could use the hair dryer and the iron to dry them before I put them on again. A quick call to American Airlines showed no flights of any kind out of Dallas to Palm Beach until later that day, which meant Laura should be in for the night.
It was close to three-thirty a.m. when I put out the Do Not Disturb sign and slipped between the sheets buck naked. I fell almost instantly into a deep, untroubled sleep. If Laura Huckaby pulled a fast one and checked out any time within the next eight hours, then forget it. I’d put myself on a plane and head home.
I woke at noon and used my travel toothbrush to get the fur out of my mouth. I showered, shampooed my hair, and got back into yesterday’s clothes, using my spare underpants since my newly laundered panties were still damp to the touch. I then enjoyed a wholesome meal of hot coffee with two packets each of sugar and whitener and four hard candies, two orange and two cherry. When I finally opened the drapes, I staggered back from the harsh Texas sun. Outside, I could see dry, flat land all the way out to the horizon, with scarcely a tree or a shrub in sight. Light blasted off the only other building in view: an office complex with a mirrored exterior on the far side of the cul-de-sac. To the right, a four-lane highway disappeared in two directions with no clear indication of the destination either way. The hotel seemed to be built in the middle of a commercial/ industrial park with only one other tenant. As I watched, a group of runners appeared on my left. They looked to be kids, maybe middle school age, that stage of adolescence where body sizes and types are all over the place. Tall, short, squat, and thin as rails, knobby kneed they ran, with the slower ones bringing up the rear. They were dressed in shorts and green satin singlets, but they were too far away for me to read the school name on their uniforms.
I pulled the drapes shut and went over to the bed, where I stretched out, propping pillows behind me while I put in a call to Henry. As soon as he answered, I said, “Guess where I am.”
“Jail.”
I laughed. “I’m in Dallas.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. I talked to Chester this morning and he said you were off on some kind of wild goose chase.”
“What’s the latest from Bucky’s? Has anybody figured out what was stolen last night?”
“Not as far as I know. Chester did tell me the kickplate at the bottom of the kitchen cabinet was pried off. It looks like the old man constructed some kind of hidden compartment when he put the sink in. The space might have been empty to begin with, but more likely somebody walked off with whatever was in there.”
“A secret compartment in addition to the safe? That’s interesting. Wonder what he had to hide.”
“Chester thinks it was war documents.”
“He told me about that. I can’t believe it, but I intend to find out. The fellow I saw passed the duffel over to his wife or girlfriend, and she carried it with her on the plane last night. The guy wasn’t on the flight, but he probably intends to join her. She was booked through to Palm Beach, but she got off in Dallas, so naturally I did, too.”
“Oh, naturally. Why not?”
I smiled at his tone. “At any rate, you might have the police check the Capri motel. I didn’t have a chance to tell Chester about that. I’m not sure about the number, but it was the second unit on the right. Her pal might still be there if he hasn’t taken off by now.”
“I’m making notes,” Henry said. “I’ll pass this along to the police, if you like.”
“What about Ray? Do they think he was in on it?”
“Well, he must have had some connection. Police tried to question him, but he clammed right up. If he knew anything about it, he wouldn’t say.”
“Sounds like somebody pounded on him for the information about the kickplate.”
“That’d be my guess. One of the officers took him over to the emergency room at St. Terry’s, but as soon as the doctor finished treating him, he disappeared and nobody’s heard from him since.”
“Do me a favor. Go over to the Lexington Hotel and see if he’s there. Room 407. Don’t call first. He may not be answering his phone—”