Talk of the Town (11 page)

The cell phone rang in my room, which was probably a good thing, because I’d just belatedly reminded myself that I was a happily engaged woman. This trip had me completely out of sorts. Not once since David and I started dating had I been tempted to check out another guy—except for the benefit of Paula, who regularly sought my opinion in restaurants, on the street, at the health club, wherever. It irritated her that these days I was detached from her informal version of
The Dating Game
.

“Guess I’d better go. That’s probably my fiancé,” I said, and thumbed over my shoulder toward my room. “Nice being arrested with you.”

“Anytime.” He waved, with a lazy wink that made me feel unexpectedly glittery. A real friend probably would have tried to get his address for Paula. Guys with that kind of charm were hard to find.

Of course, con men had charm. Con men made a living with charm. . . .

Slinging open my room door, I made a dash for the cell phone in the stream of the incoming hallway light. The door slammed shut as I grabbed the phone off the chair, where I’d dropped it when the deputy leveled his gun at me and said, “All right, lady, hands in the air. I don’t know who you are, but there ain’t supposed to be anyone in Suite Beulahland.” Shortly thereafter, I was handcuffed next to Carter in the hall, trying to decide who I’d contact from jail.

Thank goodness for Imagene Doll. She was a little quirky, but anyone living in this town would have to be.

Putting the phone to my ear, I pictured David curled up on the warm brown leather sofa that would soon be the focal point of our living room. “Hey, baby, you won’t believe—”

A pre-recorded advertisement from my cell phone company cut me off. The offer to upgrade my service for a mere $9.95 a month left me wounded in a vague way. My cell phone provider could track me down but my fiancé, the man I was pledged to marry in three months, couldn’t? What was wrong with this picture?

He’s probably out on the boat, Mandalay. He probably went out overnight because he was lonesome. Stop being such an infant. . . .

Something clicked in the corner of the room, and from the darkness near the bed, Elvis started singing “Love Me Tender.” I could barely make out the silhouette of a moving head. Imagene’s ghost story wound around me like a cold mist, and even though I don’t believe in the paranormal, a creepy crawly ran from my hair to my toes. Backing away, I yanked open the door and stumbled into the corridor. Carter was just coming out of a bathroom across the hall with a towel around his neck.

He blinked at me, surprised.

“Elvis is singing in there, and I can’t find the lights.”

Carter observed the door with a completely unsurprised look. “You’ve got Elvis?” He chuckled, as if all of this were a very elaborate joke. “I’ve got Care Bears, Precious Moments figurines, and
Dukes of Hazzard
memorabilia, and then in the bathroom, celebrity china dolls.” He pointed toward the door he’d just exited. “Marilyn Monroe loaned me a towel.”

I gaped back and forth across the hall.

“No lie,” he promised. “Have a look.”

I shook my head. “I’m scared to.”

Carter unfolded his James Dean towel and held it up, shaking it like a toreador’s cape. Dean’s velvet curves seemed to catch the light and come to life. “Classy stuff.”

“That’s just creepy,” I muttered.

Carter raised a brow. “You ought to see the rest of the bathroom. Ripley’s wax museum has nothing on this place. I don’t have Elvis, though. Elvis must have his own room.”

And I’m not staying in it.
I flashed back to the huge wall hanging that had been briefly illuminated before the lamp blew up. “I don’t know what I have. I can’t find any light switch in there. There’s a light fixture but no switch.”
And it really doesn’t matter, because I’m thinking I’ll just sleep in my car tonight, with the gargoyles
.

“Huh . . .” Carter mused, scratching his chin and surveying my door. “Hang on a minute.” Unlocking his room, he disappeared inside. I waited in the hallway and light shone under his doorway. A moment later, a pinkish glow flickered and then glowed under mine.

“That’s it!” I cheered, disproportionately excited. With proper lighting, I could handle almost anything.

Exiting his room, Carter checked out the soft crimson light slipping from beneath my door and creating a tiny laser stream through the keyhole. “Your switch is on my side. Looks like you’re in the red light district.” He leaned close to the keyhole. “Mind if I take a peek?”

“As long as you don’t do that when I’m
in
the room,” I joked.

Drawing back, he gave me a flirty look over his shoulder, then said, “My mama raised me better than that, darlin’.” He could turn on the southern accent when he wanted to. He sounded like a character from
Gone With the Wind
. It was nice.

I turned the knob and opened the door a crack so he could see inside. He gave a long whistle. “Woo-wee, you’re in for a night.”

I can imagine
. “Any ghosts in there?”

He pretended to check, swiveling his head back and forth. “Not that I can see. Looks like Elvis has the place all to himself. That’s an anatomical King of Rock and Roll alarm clock in the corner making the noise. Just think, in the morning, you can wake up to a rubber bust of Elvis singing ‘Love Me Tender.’ You might want to add one of those to your wedding gift list.”

I blushed and a giggle pressed my throat. “Not likely.”

“It might grow on you.”

Closing my fingers over the doorknob, I opened the door a bit farther as Carter stepped out of the way. Peeking through, I took in the giant black velvet Elvis wall hanging above the bed, the heavy pink satin curtains trimmed with feather boa, the red chandelier with
Graceland
printed in gold on the globes, the bed topped with pink satin pillows and a three-inch white fur plush . . . something I hoped was synthetic.

“I’m afraid a lot of things in there might grow on me,” I muttered. Fortunately, I was too exhausted to care. “I’m goin’ in.” Giving the door a yank, I took a step across the threshold. The door came back with surprising speed and knocked me in the rear when I turned to thank Carter.

“I’ll come back and check on you in a little while,” he said, wrapping James Dean around his shoulders. Together, they sauntered off down the hall. “If you don’t find another switch in there, just tap on the door when you want the lights turned out.”

“I’m leaving the lights on,” I called after him. “All night.”

Sending back a salute, he disappeared onto the stairway, whistling an old seventies song, “Knock three times on the ceiling if you want me . . .”

I listened as the sound faded away, then I wished Carter would come back. The Elvis room was even creepier now that I was alone. After bolting the door behind me, I turned off the singing alarm clock. The swish of the suitcase zipper seemed deafening as I opened my bag and took out my sweats.

While investigating the fifties diner–themed mini-shrine of my bathroom, I changed into my comfy sweats, a navy and white set I’d bought on an unexpectedly cold day at the marina, pulled on my fuzzy slipper socks, then hung my used clothes on a towel hook in the shape of an electric guitar with
Blue Hawaii
emblazoned in rhinestones. The light flickered overhead as I reentered the Beulah room and sank into a chair, taking in Elvis memorabilia of every possible description and trying to work up the energy to move the “yeti hide” away from the bed. Far, far away . . .

A noise by the window caused me to jerk upright just as I was dozing off. My arm flew out, knocking over something on the end table. Blinking the fog from my eyes, I checked the room, taking in the velvet wall hangings, the feather boa draped around a reproduction gold album on the wall by the bathroom, the collection of miniature Elvi in a glass-fronted case by the door.

The heavy pink satin curtains stirred and puffed outward as if someone were pushing them from behind, and I sat up, shivering, a rash of goose bumps traveling over my skin. I glanced at the door to Carter’s room, hoping for light underneath, but there was nothing. I’d probably only been asleep for a minute or two. No doubt he was still downstairs.

My stomach rumbled, bringing to mind the Dairy Queen takeout I’d been forced to abandon during my arrest. Soggy fries and a cold burger by now. I reached for the bag on the end table, but it was wet. Everything was wet, because I’d knocked over my drink while waking up, and diet soda was slowly oozing out, drenching the food and dripping onto the white shag carpet. Fortunately, the pile of Dairy Queen napkins had caught most of it.

Turning the soda upright, I rescued the last dry napkin, sopped up the drips from the floor, then scooped the remainder of the mess into the bag and tossed it in the trash.

Lying back in my chair, I contemplated the cookies downstairs and let my eyes fall closed again. Once I was groggy enough, I could probably convince myself to move to the bed. The pillow in the shape of a rhinestone shirt with a hairy chest inside would have to go. . . .

For the first time, I found myself regretting the laser eye surgery I’d had last year. In the past, I could have taken off my contacts and turned everything into a nondescript pink and white blur. I wouldn’t have been able to see the curtain swirling outward, the feather trim ruffling as if someone had just walked by, but I still would have felt the whisper of cold air moving across my head and down my neck. . . .

Stop that, Mandalay. This is juvenile.
I forced myself to take a deep breath and sink toward sleep again.

Something moaned low and deep, and my eyes flew open.

I sat listening, taking in sounds, searching for confirmation that the noise was only my stomach growling, not a dead Confederate soldier roaming the halls, collecting lost gold, Care Bears, and Elvis memorabilia.

The sound came again—a long, low groan. I was out of the chair, into the hallway, and headed down the stairs before a conscious thought could register.
That was not me. I did not make that sound
.

In the hallway below, I stood for a minute and listened. Nothing. On the lamp table, the cookie plate was empty, unfortunately. A little food might have helped me relax and get to sleep. Ever since I’d joined
American Megastar
, and especially the last few months with the pressure of wedding plans, I’d had trouble falling asleep. Even though my body grew exhausted by ten o’clock, my mind raced until two or three in the morning. My mother had wanted to send prescription sleeping pills along with the ulcer medication, but I’d told her no. Maybe I shouldn’t have.

The sharp clash of metal on metal echoed against the silence, and I listened, recognizing the rhythmic sound of reps on a weight machine. Carter was still in the exercise area. I moved toward the noise, traveling down a short hallway and through a swinging door into another storeroom of wigs and heads. The next swinging door deposited me into the back of the old hotel lobby, and I stood by a heavy oak stairway that probably led to the west end of the second-story hall.

Near the front windows, the beauty shop was dim except for the glow of a chrome floor lamp on the counter by the cash register. The pink gooseneck hairdryers with their cone-shaped heads took on an alien countenance in the low light, their dual adjustment knobs watching me like glassy eyes as I came closer, moving toward the exercise area. From my vantage point, I could see the weights moving up and down on the machine, but the person moving them was hidden behind an old hotel counter converted to serve as a coffee bar. I hoped that, when I rounded the partition, it was Carter and not some ghostly Confederate soldier trying to stay in shape.

The weights paused, and I stopped where I was. Maybe he was coming back upstairs now. If I knew there was someone—a living, breathing someone—in the next room, I could probably relax and turn in.

I heard metal slide against metal as he loaded up a barbell—my best guess—and then after another minute heard him exhaling at regular intervals. I swallowed my pride in one big lump, then walked around the corner. Carter lay face-up on a bench, doing chest presses with his eyes squinted shut. An impressive amount of weight moved smoothly up and down as his chest tightened and strained beneath the SPCA shirt.

“Hi,” I said, so as not to startle him.

Letting the bar drop into its rack, he bolted upright and screamed, “Ahhh!”

I stumbled backward, my heart bouncing into my throat.

“Just kidding,” he said wryly. “I heard someone coming in the door.”

Slapping a hand over my chest, I caught my breath. “I think you just gave me a ministroke.”

“Sorry.” Grabbing his towel off the partition, he wiped the perspiration from his forehead, then dried the fringes of his hair, creating something between a mess and a Shirley Temple. His hair turned from wavy to curly when it was wet. “Change your mind about using the exercise equipment tonight?” He took in my sweats and fuzzy blue socks.

I considered lying and saying that I’d come down to exercise. But if there’s one thing they hammer home in Episcopal school it’s that lying, especially the kind of lies that you think about ahead of time and still decide to tell, is wrong. “I couldn’t sleep,” I told him, feeling pathetic and inept. “I’m not stalking you, I promise. It’s just kind of weird up there.”

“It’s a little weird down here, too,” he admitted, probably just to make me feel better, because he didn’t look scared. “You’ll be happy to know, though, that Buddy Ray has the front of the building staked out.” He pointed toward a police car moving slowly down Main Street. “You might not want to dress near the window up there.”

“I’ll be careful,” I answered, and for a minute we just stood there watching the car pass out of sight. When it was gone, I shifted uncomfortably, feeling like the dorky girl at a middle school dance. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“You’re not.” He motioned toward the TV in the corner, where a salesman was advertising aluminum siding on some late-night cable channel. “Turn up the sound and stay a while if you want.”

“Okay.” The word rushed out far too quickly, sounding terribly uncool. “I mean, if you’re sure I won’t be in the way.”