McGrave's Hotel (6 page)

“Celebrities?” James asked. Mr. Nash had mentioned newlyweds, but newlyweds seldom attracted Mr. Quinn’s interest. Privately, James wondered if this wedding couple constituted the “romance” Miss Charles had predicted.

“Of a sort,” said Mr. Quinn. “The lovely bride, born one Irma Tauber, is a very wealthy matron of German persuasion. Any ties she may have to the Nazi regime are unknown, though I would lay seven to five on which way she blows. She has been married three times before, and all three of her husbands died of what we shall call mysterious causes. The new groom, Number Four, is Rupert Doyle Grimm, who built his empire on his ability to find black crude buried beneath Texas. The new Frau Grimm fell in love with his Teddy Roosevelt mustache, his sporty waistcoats, and his seventy-five oil wells.”

The revolving door spun, spilling into the Grand Lobby the most preposterous of sights. It was Roderick, the most likely bellhop to be embarrassed under the circumstances. He carried a small basket from which he was tossing bright red rose petals onto the floor. He grimaced as Walter Quinn’s flashbulb froze him for posterity in a photo.

The door continued to revolve, and next came the happy couple. Frau Grimm entered on surprisingly long legs sheathed in black leggings. Her black limbs extruded from what James guessed to be her honeymoon dress. She wore long white gloves as well and a fur cloak with so many layers of capes and capelets that she seemed almost humpbacked. Her smile was a wide slit in an otherwise passable face, and her cheeks seemed puffy. Her hair was dull black and sculpted into a bun atop her head.

Rupert Grimm was a portly man, so preposterously round that James felt he could roll him down a hill. He reminded James of the cartoon characters he saw in animated features at the Paramount on Saturdays. Mr. Grimm wore a plaid vest beneath his topcoat, and he was puffing on a huge cigar lodged below his gray mustache. He gazed thoughtfully at the painting of Thaddeus McGrave.

Acknowledging the flashbulbs, Frau Grimm wrapped a gloved arm around her new husband and smiled widely for the shot. Mr. Grimm merely fumed.

Mr. Nash rushed to greet them. With a flick of his wrist, he signaled James to join him, a gesture that rated a jealous scowl from Roderick. The other bellhops materialized, laden with the luggage.

“Frau Grimm, welcome once again,” said Mr. Nash. “Your suite awaits you, and we wish you every happiness. Mr. Grimm, welcome to McGrave’s. This young lad with me is James Alexander Elliott. He will attend your every need.”

James attempted to look professional, but it was difficult given that Frau Grimm inhabited an invisible cloud of perfume. Was it a potent scent from Paris procured to make her alluring to her new husband, or was its purpose to mask some unpleasant smell? Somewhere beneath that sickeningly sweet scent, James could have sworn he detected the smell of spoiled meat.

“What a sweet little man you are,” said Frau Grimm. “Look at that darling little cap you have on. I could simply eat you up. Isn’t he adorable, Rupert?”

Mr. Grimm harrumphed and continued to puff on his cigar. He appeared to be a man who wanted to retire to the privacy of his room. It was then that he gulped loudly, blinked, and rubbed his eyes. Color rushed from his face, as though he had seen a ghost. He pointed a shaking finger toward the Boneyard Club entrance.

James quickly observed that Mr. Grimm had seen not one but
two
ghosts. It was the Beaumonts drifting into the lobby from the Boneyard Club for a breather. They always faded a little when tired.

“We’ve been dancing for two hours straight, darling,” said Mr. Beaumont to his wife. “Where did that fellow learn to play the piano like that?”

“I’ve never felt so light on my feet,” said Mrs. Beaumont.

“There, now,” said Frau Grimm to her new husband as the Beaumonts floated past. “Didn’t I say you would
love
this hotel?”

On the journey to the Bridal Suite, which the wedding party and the bellhops accomplished without any unscheduled elevator stops, James noticed that Frau Grimm walked with a peculiar gait, as though she had the legs of a marionette. Her new husband, by contrast, simply sort of waddled. Such an odd combination, James thought, like a reversed Jack Spratt and his wife.

“We’re
splitting
the tips,” Roderick whispered to James as the bellhops distributed the luggage. “No favorites getting too much of the pie.”

Frau Grimm required seven large bags and a trunk, while her husband brought only one small overnight bag.

“Pity,” said James, holding his ground. “I quite like pie.”

Although Roderick occasionally attempted to bully James, he had done so physically only once. Shortly after James’s arrival at McGrave’s, Roderick had thrown an arm around James’s neck in what might have gone on to become a half nelson. But James’s training in self-defense, limited to an afternoon’s lesson from his mom, had included one jujitsu throw, a trick of leverage that caused Roderick to flip over James’s shoulder and land like a sack of flour on the floor. James looked down to behold Roderick blinking distractedly, as though he were observing those little birds that cartoon characters see when they suffer a blow to the head. Eventually, to the surprise of James and the other bellhops looking on, a loud
whoosh
emanated from Roderick as he regained his breath.

“Whoa, sport,” he said looking up to James. “It’s lucky for you that I tripped.”

James was pleased that Roderick never tried any further rough stuff after that. There were far more dangerous threats to contend with at McGrave’s.

The Bridal Suite was a spacious lodging whose décor appealed more to the brides than to the grooms who occupied it. Although a wide sofa and a pair of plush chairs defined a seating area, the central focus of the main honeymoon chamber was the immense pink bed with its heart-shaped headboard. Pink light bulbs surrounded the mirror over the vanity in the lavish bathroom, and curtains of pink chiffon like clouds of cotton candy adorned windows through which the lights of the New York City skyline sparkled, a stunning view from forty floors up. Standing most prominent in the view was the Empire State Building, the world’s tallest skyscraper, though no giant gorillas had scaled it since the 1933 movie.

“Do reward these young men, Rupert,” his new wife ordered. “So sweet of them to move us in at this unfashionable hour. It isn’t even midnight yet.”

The bellhops huddled before Mr. Grimm, who seemed to glower at them over the glowing ash of his cigar.

“And you, my darling little man,” Frau Grimm pointed a white-gloved finger at James. “We shall require refreshments
schnell
. Please bring champagne, a nice Riesling Brut, I think, along with an assortment of breads, cheeses, chocolates, strawberries, and apricots. My husband’s last meal should be a romantic farrago, yes?”

“Last?” said James.

“For tonight,
liebchen
. Before he sleeps.”

James acknowledged the order but couldn’t help thinking Frau Grimm had the widest mouth he had ever seen. Plus those puffy cheeks!

“One more thing,” Frau Grimm added.

“Yes?”

“A jar of flies.”

“Flies?”

“Flies! One jar. Alive. Buzzing. Do not disappoint.”

James took a step backward, then turned to leave the suite, his strange request in hand. This is McGrave’s, he thought, where one expects the unexpected. But what in the world is she going to do with
flies?

Deadly Darling

Chef Anatole tapped the Mason jar lightly with a metal soupspoon. He and James were hunched over the jar in the hotel kitchen. A nearby bread warmer radiated heat from its red-glowing elements.

At first none of the black specks in the jar stirred. Chef Anatole tapped again. “Awake, my beauties.”

The flies had been frozen. They were on hand in the bowels of the kitchen’s freezer compartment for use by a Romanian prince, an occasional guest who traveled, to James’s horror, with a pet tarantula. Flies in New York City in December were not easy to come by, and this seemed the only hope.

“It’s the wrong season,” James had said when he broached the situation. “Bugs are a summer problem.”

“Not necessarily,” Chef Anatole responded. “This very morning I flattened a spider with a rolling pin.”

James blinked. “A spider?”

“Big,” said the chef. “And fast. The third one I saw this week. Something must be going on in spider-land, yes?”

James shivered. He would have to check his room for new web activity. Few things spooked him as much as walking into a dark room and feeling the tickle of invisible strands against his face.

Amazingly, at another tap of the spoon, one of the little flies in the jar seemed to twitch.

“
Sacré bleu
!” said the chef.

Within the next thirty seconds, most of the others stirred, awkwardly at first, and a couple actually took wing within the glass jar. There were little holes in the metal lid so they could breathe. James smiled as they bopped against the walls of the container.

“I wouldn’t go so far as to call this
buzzing
,” said the chef. “Merely a nice little hum, yes?”

James’s cart was laden with the requested spread of cheeses, chocolates, champagne, and fruit when he knocked on the Bridal Suite’s door. He had lingered in the wine cellar long enough to find a nice bottle from Germany, hoping to please the bride of the hour. Meanwhile the little Mason jar, now happily abuzz, stood on its own silver tray.

Mr. Grimm himself, gloriously attired in black-and-white striped pajamas, opened the door to invite James in. Frau Grimm, wrapped in a pink robe over her nightdress and propped against a hillock of pillows on the vast bed, beckoned to him with a gloved hand.

“
Liebchen
,” she said. “Come, stay with us a spell. Share these delicacies you have brought us.”

Was it his imagination, or had her smile grown even wider? James thought it peculiar that she was still wearing her long white gloves, even in bed. He shivered. He had no desire to share any more time than necessary with these strange newlyweds. And their flies.

“Oooh!” she said as she spied the jar on the cart. “You
brought
them!”

Although Frau Grimm implored him to stay, James made his escape on the plea of pressing duties elsewhere, and the elevator could not have descended fast enough. He felt like speaking to Mr. Clancy about having an overdrive mode installed for quick getaways.

At his post in the Grand Lobby, Mr. Nash seemed to take an opposite view. “James!” he said. “Back already? I thought you would have spent more time with the Grimms. In fact, I hoped you would have.”

He cast a furtive glance at the great clock, whose hands were both about to point straight to the
XII
. Something seemed to be worrying him.

“Mr. and Mrs. Grimm are a rather
unusual
couple,” James said. “Even for McGrave’s. Is there something about them I should know?”

“Anything unusual about them? No, nothing special. Nothing to be concerned about. I suppose I
might
have mentioned that Frau Grimm is known in some circles—mind you, this is but gossip—as the Black Widow. It’s something to do with her having lost so many husbands already, under mysterious circumstances. Who knows? Perhaps
this
marriage will work out better for her. We can hope.”

James still wondered what in the world Frau Grimm wanted with flies. Could any guest tonight be stranger?

“What of your VIP?” James remembered. “Did he cancel?”

“I wish he had, Jim, boy, but no.
That
party is due at midnight, any moment now. That’s why I hoped you might have lingered with the Grimms. It’s also why you need to get away from the desk
now
. Perhaps you could duck into the Boneyard Club or sit over there with Dr. Otto. It’s bad enough for the older bellhops to see what’s coming. I was hoping you wouldn’t have to.”

James understood that he should heed the warning immediately, but he was also full of questions. As he moved away, Mr. Nash’s eyes once again rose to the giant clock, his fingertips dancing nervously on the desktop.

“James, welcome,” Dr. Otto said when the boy approached him. “Please, join me, be seated. It is going to be a long night. It seems, for the first time in a while, my services will be required. Why, it’s been
days
.”

It was Dr. Otto, of course, who signed all the death certificates. His attaché case in which he kept them was at his side.

Someone was about to
die
? What did a mystery VIP have to do with that? Why was Mr. Nash so concerned?

“Perhaps not,” James said, hoping tragedy could be avoided. “Have you been talking with Miss Charles? I think something is wrong with her fortune-telling cards.”

“No, simply professional intuition. I tend to know when these things are going to occur. Like some folks know when the weather is about to change. They feel it in their bones. It isn’t so bad, knowing. It reminds me to have my paperwork and a pen handy.”

James kept watching Mr. Nash, who suddenly stood stock-still. It was midnight, and thunder seemed to emanate from the painted storm clouds overhead. The clock chimed ominously, once for each hour. One, two, three …