The Fat Innkeeper (17 page)

“Be positive”—Kingsbury’s last words. After talking with most of the same people the doctor had, Am wondered at his presumption.

Les Moore (“My real name, swear to God”) had seen the doctor at one-thirty on the day he had died. “He was very upbeat, in
great humor,” Les said. “He had just come back from lunch and I think he had had a couple.”

He made a drinking motion.

“That sort of surprised me, since he was supposed to be working. How many people do you know who drink on the job?”

Am took a guilty sip of his zombie. It was his second. The first he had ordered as a silent tribute to Kingsbury; the second
drink he justified as being medicinal. Normally, he never drank at the Hotel. Then again, he’d never had to interview the
near-dead.

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Moore?”

The fiftyish, bespectacled man said, with some pride, “I’m a CPA.”

In the first minute of their conversation Am had written down his observations of “Seemingly normal” and “Very detailed.”
Two for two, he thought smugly.

“Mr. Moore, you said Dr. Kingsbury asked a number of questions about your near-death experience.”

Les nodded. “Three years ago, my family was on vacation at the shore. We’ve got a place at Bay Head, New Jersey. I consider
myself a prudent man, one who doesn’t take unnecessary risks. I’ve been swimming there forever, and never had any problems.
I usually swim out to some buoys and back. It was a beautiful July day. Everything was calm.”

He remembered a copious amount of details, offered up each once as if they were minor treasures. Am learned the names of the
lifeguards that had fished Les out of the ocean, heard how one of them had been attending Colgate, and the other Syracuse,
and how one of them actually knew his son (Les Moore, Jr.).

The distilled, very distilled, story was that Les had been brought from the water apparently dead. No heartbeat or pulse could
be found. Les said that one part of him could see the lifeguards working on him, while another part of him was “exploring
the great beyond.”

“I made some notes, actually,” said Les. “I thought Dr. Kingsbury would be interested in hearing about my experiences in death.
But I didn’t really get a chance to share—”

“What kind of things was Dr. Kingsbury interested in?” asked Am.

“The physical. How long before I started breathing again, the possible effects of hypothermia, the methodology of the medical
treatment, the drugs administered, my medical history, things like that. He had a checklist, and apparently asked the same
questions of everybody. At the time, I didn’t think that was very creative of him. Mostly he was just corroborating the information
he already had.”

“What do you mean?”

“We had to fill out an involved medical history,” said Les (he wasn’t complaining, as most had about that, but rather seemed
to relish the memory), “and sign a medical release allowing Dr. Kingsbury access to our records. I guess I never really expected
him to conduct a background search on our near-deaths, but he did. He was apparently very thorough about consulting with our
physicians and collecting all of our medical records.

“I suppose that was really the only sensible approach. Anyone doing a scientific inquiry can’t rely solely on the memories
of the patients. In our short time together, I could see he was very diligent about recording information and confirming details,
though, as I told you, I think he gave short shrift to my postmortem. I was prepared to delve into my after-life experiences,
tell him about—”

“I’m sure Dr. Kingsbury was pressed for time,” said Am, pointedly looking at his watch.

“I offered him my notes,” said Les, “but he didn’t want them. Perhaps you could use them?”

He gave Am an all-too-hopeful look. “I wouldn’t want to deprive—”

“No problem,” said Les. “I make copies of everything, just like I advise my clients to do.”

I wouldn’t doubt it, thought Am. Those who make history usually don’t care about the tracks they leave behind, whereas those
like Les could probably document every haircut they’d had in the past thirty years. But, Am considered, perhaps he could benefit
from the man’s excessive chronicling. “You didn’t,” he asked, “happen to make a copy of Dr. Kingsbury’s medical questionnaire,
did you?”

“Up in my room!” said Les excitedly. “Along,” he added, “with those notes I was telling you about.”

Am responded cheerfully to the two-for-one blackmail: “I’d love to see both of them.”

Les Moore departed with alacrity. He wanted to tell his story, and really didn’t care who was the listener, just so long as
it was a warm set of ears. That’s the problem, thought Am, with having what you think is a unique experience only to be told
by dozens of other people, “Oh, that happened to me.” The greatest tale in Les Moore’s life didn’t seem so fantastic in a
setting where everyone else had experienced similar episodes.

Am returned to his name-tag search. To expedite his inspection, he determined that he wouldn’t look at faces, only scrutinize
the name tags on chests. His technique didn’t prove to be a time-saver, however, as he spent too much time imagining the faces
above the chests. The names influenced Am’s mental pictures. He was a believer that people often grew (or sank) into their
names, and that there was a universality of features and characteristics that could be applied to certain first names. Who
could trust anyone named Don? And had there ever been a Darlene that didn’t like to party? To test that theory (and others),
Am conjured up a visage, then, of course, he sneaked a peek; on several faces he was very close; on some he wasn’t even in
the ballpark. When Am finally encountered a body with no name tag, he had to draw his conclusions not from a name but from
the polyester tie, white shirt, and wrinkled blue blazer. What he overlooked was the bulge in the jacket. Am imagined the
face, sneaked his look, and then felt very stupid. His mental image wasn’t close, though he knew the sneer only too well.
Cops aren’t big on name tags. They do like guns, however.

“What are you doing, Caulfield?” asked Detective McHugh. “Taking a census of belly buttons?”

No, Am almost said, assholes. But he had survived twenty years in the hotel business by thinking those kinds of thoughts instead
of speaking them. “Detective McHugh,” he said.

McHugh said nothing, just silently appraised Am. With no confession apparently forthcoming, the detective finally said, “A
rather interesting group of people you’ve been talking with.”

Am still didn’t say anything.

“In fact, we seem to be talking to the same people. But I guess that’s just a coincidence, huh?”

Next time, thought Am, I’ll scan the room for faces before I zero in on name tags.

“You’re meddling in areas you’re not qualified,” said McHugh. “This is a homicide investigation.”

“Have the autopsy results confirmed that?”

“You can hear the results of the autopsy tomorrow, like the rest of the public.”

“Or you can tell me now.”

The detective offered a mock laugh and shook his head. “Hear they’re holding a séance a little later tonight, Caulfield. Maybe
you should just call up the spirit of Dr. Kingsbury and ask him a few questions.”

“Is that how SDPD does it?”

McHugh’s answer was a hard stare. If looks could kill, thought Am. The detective brushed by him, his footsteps even louder
than the ersatz Grateful Dead music.

I wonder, Am thought, if that qualified as a near-death experience.

That bellman, thought Cleo, keeps leering at me. She wasn’t sure how insulted she should be. Men didn’t usually look at her
like that, at least not that she was aware. He wasn’t bad-looking, though, that is if you liked the dark, slick-haired types.

Jimmy Mazzelli gave her a wink. She turned away and pretended not to have seen. Bradford was busy talking with their newfound
friends, or otherwise he certainly would have disciplined this forward fellow.

She doesn’t seem like one of those insatiable-type women, thought Jimmy. She seems normal, even shy. He felt kind of sorry
for her, though he didn’t know why. “Where you from?” Jimmy asked.

A moment’s hesitation: “Scottsdale.”

“Oh, a Zonie.”

Every summer Southern Californians experience an invasion of “Zonies,” Arizonans fleeing the heat. It was mostly a term of
endearment, but Cleo decided she didn’t like the bellman’s familiar tone and turned away from him once again.

He’d offended her. She was kind of cute the way she turned away. The more he talked with her, the more attractive she became
to Jimmy. “What’s your name?” he asked.

Why wasn’t Bradford walking with them? He was dawdling, was at least a dozen paces behind them. She could hear him laughing.
He had never laughed that way around her, at least not that she remembered. “Cleopatra Harris,” she said.

“Like the Queen of Egypt, huh?”

She nodded.

“Jimmy Mazzelli, Your Highness,” he said, then brought his cart to a stop. “And these are your royal quarters.”

He felt a little bad for her sake, he who was regarded as not having a conscience. Jimmy opened the door to the room and motioned
for her to precede him. It would have been better if her stiff of a boyfriend were here to see this. She walked ahead, felt
an anticipatory thrill. Almost, Cleo wanted to close her eyes. If the room was even half as exquisite as the Hotel…

She stopped walking, halted by some unsavory smell. Cleo sniffed uncertainly, afraid to continue forward. Then she shrieked.
She had been bumped from behind. That clumsy bellman had run one of the suitcases into her backside. Probably purposely.

“Excuse me,” said Jimmy. He hadn’t expected her to stop. Hell, he hadn’t expected her to be anything like what she was.

Where was Bradford? Breathing through her mouth, Cleo ventured a little farther into the room. She wanted to cry out again,
this time at what she saw. The room was… awful. Surely there was some mistake.

“Where do you want the bags?” asked Jimmy.

“But the room…” she said.

Jimmy looked around. His expression didn’t change. “What?”

“It’s a mess,” she said.

“The maid might have been a little hurried,” he explained. “The maid should be fired,” said Cleo.

“What about her family of twelve that she’s totally supporting?” asked Jimmy. “What about them?”

Jimmy immediately regretted his lie.
Announcing
the imaginary brood of children had made Cleopatra uncomfortable. She had feelings.

Cleo opened her mouth to say something, decided silence was best, and closed it. Maybe if she did the same with her eyes,
closed them for a second, and… No, nothing had changed. Everything was as bad as before. There were sand footprints in the
carpeting; there were crumpled newspapers on the floor; there was a pair of panty hose resting over a chair that was on its
last legs—literally. She cast a glance at the bed and looked away. The bedspread looked as if puppies had been birthed on
it, and a big litter at that.

Cleo felt faint. Even though she was breathing through her mouth, the odor, perhaps the poisonous fumes, were still getting
to her.

“I need air,” she said.

Jimmy walked over to the sliding glass doors. He gave a mighty heave, but couldn’t get the door open. Surprise, surprise,
he thought. Jimmy tried again, then apologetically turned to her. “Sometimes they stick,” he said. “I’ll have to get maintenance
up here.” As if, he thought, they hadn’t been there already.

The glass had a layer of grime, looked as if someone had been cooking bacon for a few years without bothering to clean. Through
it, Cleo could barely make out the ocean. The vision taunted like a mirage.

She walked out of the room to the hallway, Jimmy following her. Bradford would deal with this. He had made the reservation.
Cleo looked around for him, saw him in the doorway of the next room. Only half of his body was visible. That was probably
just as well. The half she could see had a woman’s hands embracing his buttocks.

“Bradford!”

He jumped a little, and the hands reluctantly released their hold. As he walked back toward their room, Bradford straightened
his tie, then patted down his suit, especially the area around his hindquarters.

“Getting rid of fingerprints?” asked Cleo.

Bradford pretended he didn’t know what she was talking about. Jimmy was leaning on his cart, watching the scene with apparent
pleasure. The preppie had been busted bigtime. Bradford didn’t like being scrutinized, especially by the peons. The staff
certainly could use a course on propriety, he thought. They had crossed over that line between friendly and familiar. Hell,
they acted as if they were intimates.

He tossed the bellman two dollars. Implicit with the gesture was the unsaid word “Dismissed.” Bradford would explain the misunderstanding
to Cleo, but in the privacy of their room. Missy was just a bit exuberant—that was all. He motioned for Cleo to go inside
the room, but she wasn’t about to be herded. Her sudden independence might have bothered Bradford more if he hadn’t caught
a whiff of something awful from inside the room. What is that smell? he wondered.

Jimmy slowly uncrinkled the dollar bills, made a show of looking rather forlornly for more, though no one was paying any attention
to him. It would have been smarter if he had hightailed it, but he liked watching his Cleopatra. The woman had gumption.

Cleo’s eyes were on Bradford. He kept moving his nose around and sniffing. It annoyed Cleo that he wasn’t more concerned about
what she had seen. “What was going on there?” she asked shrilly.

Bradford kept sniffing. “Nothing,” he said. “Missy’s just rather high-spirited.”

“Is that what you call it?” asked Cleo.

“Yes,” said Bradford. “That’s what I’d call it.”

The smell, he determined, was coming from inside their room. Bradford decided to investigate.

Good time to leave, thought Jimmy. He was out of sight, but not earshot, when he heard a loud “What the hell?”