The Hotel Detective (7 page)

“But then we didn’t have too much trouble tracking you down,” said Kendrick. “You were at that party.”

He made it sound like an orgy. Not that he was off the mark by much. Nonetheless, Am tried to imbue the party with a dignity
it didn’t deserve.

“It’s an annual event,” he said.

“It’s a tradition I undah-stand you started.”

“End of summer,” said Am. “A full house every night for more than two months. It’s a safety valve for all the staff, a way
for everyone to blow off the pressure.”

“It’s a disgrace,” said Kendrick, “an irreverent display that I fear our guests might hear about.”

Everyone agreed it had been the best Come as a Guest party yet. Character assassinations had reached new heights.

“I noticed your sign-up sheets,” said Kendrick. “Half the staff or more must have ah-ttended your party. And they registered
under the names of some of our most prestigious and influential patrons.”

And some of our biggest assholes, Am thought.

“I didn’t notice your name on the list, Mr. Caw-field.”

Am looked distinctly uncomfortable. “As the unofficial master of ceremonies,” he said, “I didn’t find it necessary to dress
up as a guest.”

Kendrick stared at him. “Nevertheless,” he said, “I’m curious as to whom you did dress up as.”

Am started sweating and made minor medical history. As dehydrated as he was, perspiration should not have been possible. He
wiped his brow and changed subjects with about as much finesse as a semitruck moving through city traffic.

“I’d really like to hear about that suicide,” he said.

Kendrick let him sweat a few more seconds, then slowly passed a manila folder his way. “A guest noticed the body on the beach
a little before three this morning,” he said. “The front desk assumed it was just some drunk but called security anyway.”

Am read the report. The deceased was identified as Tim Kelly. He was part of a contractors group staying at the Hotel. He
had been staying in room 711. That was the extent of the security guard’s report. Am thought it was better than usual.

“Have we gotten any background on the leaper?” Am asked.

Kendrick shook his finger in Am’s face. “Sir,” he said, “I expect you to expunge that word from your vocabulary. I will not
have anyone on the property use the word
leaper.
He is to be referred to as Mr. Kelly, or the deceased. We will be especially sensitive in the presence of the media.”

Leapers don’t enhance a hotel’s PR effort, and the Hotel California constantly preened its public feathers. The worst thing
about leapers is that they attract other leapers, and while hotels love walk-in business, they’re not too keen about the walk-out
trade. Am had heard how one San Diego high rise had dealt with a rash of suicides. The staff had requested a suicide hot-line
number be posted on all guest room phones, but the GM had instead decided to have new room service menus made up. Employees
called them the “Don’t Kill Yourself—Call Room Service” menus.

“Do we know anything about the le—man?” Am asked.

“Yes,” said Kendrick. “He’s dead.”

“I asked because there have been instances where hotels have been held liable for suicides.”

Kendrick shook his head and gave Am a baleful look. “Mr. Caw-field, I am asking you to be neither a lawyer nor a policeman.
Mr. Kelly is dead. We don’t need any legal hysteria. Detective McHugh is handling this case. He has agreed to meet with you
this morning at ten-fifteen.”

Am looked at his watch, then stood up. His scheduled meeting was almost three hours away, but it seemed as good an excuse
as any to leave the office. Am had learned it was never wise to linger around Kendrick.

“But even without that unfortunate death,” said Kendrick, “it would have been necessary to call you in anyway. Developments
have occurred which will force me to leave town and be incommuni-cah-do until Sunday. The owners have arranged for a two-day
retreat. I will neither be able to make any calls nor to receive them.”

The Hotel was family owned. The principals usually only got together for a three-day annual meeting, time enough to renew
old hatreds and supply vitriol for the rest of the year. It was highly unusual for them to be gathering other than for that
meeting.

“Anything up with the owners?” Am asked.

The GM chose not to answer. “Regret-ah-bly,” he said, “my absence leaves you in tit-uh-lar charge of the Hotel for the next
three days. I hope it will still be standing uh-pon my return.”

Kendrick knew only too well that Am had been the acting general manager for the two months prior to his getting the job. He
also knew that Am had aspired to his position.

“You needn’t worry,” said Am, walking toward the door. But he didn’t escape so easily.

“I understand I am your role model, Mr. Caw-field.”

Am froze. “I don’t understand,” he said. But he did.

“I heard you didn’t dress up as a guest last night. Instead you opted to portray me.”

Am had made him a cross between Hitler and Attila the Hun—with a southern accent, of course, and preppie attire.

“Uh, as southern hospitality is renowned, and as you could not attend the party, I thought it might cheer the spirits of the
staff to represent you in an, uh, jocular vein.”

Kendrick let the silence build, let Am twist for the longest time. Then he smiled, and Am’s stomach became acquainted with
hitherto unknown biles.

“You made,” said Kendrick, “some rousing speeches on my behalf. You gave, I understand, new meaning to ‘the South will rise
again,’ equated my management techniques to those used to operate Auschwitz, and said that I was giving serious consideration
to turning the Hotel California into a hot pillow joint.”

“Uh, sir, you did say that you were looking at new revenue-enhancement possibilities.”

“Yes, I did, didn’t I? So you interpreted that to mean I would turn a historical landmark into a no-tell motel. Is that correct?”

“I was attempting a form of levity….”

“You are supposed to be the assistant general manager, Mr. Caw-field. I don’t remember having made you my comedic spokesman.”

“No, sir.”

“This insubordination will be noted in your file. Included will be a full account of what transpired last night. That might
be grounds for dismissal. It is a matter I will have to consider at my leisure over the weekend.”

“Yes, sir.”

Kendrick looked at his nails for a long moment, then returned his eyes to Am. “Don’t forget your appointment with Detective
McHugh, Mr. Caw-field. Let me reit-ah-rate that you’re to leave the matter entirely to him. Your only involvement should be
ah-sisting the bereaved, and working with the Contractors Association group leader. Send a fruit basket or two if you feel
it necessary.”

Fruit baskets, thought Am, the ultimate hotel weapon. If a guest is unhappy, send him a fruit basket. If a couple is celebrating
an anniversary, send them a fruit basket. Got a VIP coming in? Send up a fruit basket. And now Am had learned that if someone
dies, by all means, send a fruit basket. The only question was, where to?

Am sipped at his third cup of coffee, hoping to find a few operational brain cells. Employees did not drink the coffee for
pleasure. The staff brew was a different blend from that offered to the guests. The Hotel’s four restaurants featured haute
cuisine in oceanfront dining rooms that were constantly being displayed in slick magazines, while the staff meals were served
in an employee cafeteria that had last been remodeled during the Harding administration. Employees were frequently offered
fare the chef no longer deemed fit for guest consumption. On a good day, the employee meals were referred to as “road kill.”
Usually the raging debate was whether it was fresh road kill, hit by some car that day, or whether it was road kill that had
been left to stew in its own juices on asphalt for a few days.

“Ham, Ham.”

Am knew the accent, even if he cringed at the executive chef’s interpretation of his nickname. Marcel Charvet was in his late
sixties but was the antithesis of Southern California mellow. You can take the chef out of France but,
Mon Dieu,
not the French out of the chef. If that were possible, French chefs would be a more popular export item. Am faced Marcel
reluctantly. He knew he was in for an oral shower. Marcel had been in America for thirty years but still struggled with the
language. What he lacked in words, however, he made up in spray. He enthusiastically spat out his broken English, and he always
did it at close range. There was also his ever-present aroma. It was quite clear to Am that Marcel had been preparing bouillabaisse
all morning. That, or bathing in it.

The chef's chief claim to fame was that he had served meals to four presidents. His kitchen crew also knew he had served two
years in jail. Marcel had once decisively settled a difference of culinary opinion by thrusting his chef's knife—a Sabatier,
no doubt—into the stomach of a dissenting cook. His time in jail hadn't tempered his opinions.

Am was surprised that Marcel didn't immediately start in with his talk/spray. He motioned for Am to follow him into the kitchen,
which for once was relatively quiet. All Hotel meals were created out of the central kitchen. On a busy night, with all the
Hotel restaurants and banquet rooms full, thousands of entrées were turned out. It was always an amazing sight, organized
chaos reigning for hours on end, scrambling servers, flying plates, orders shouted out in half a dozen languages, and food
with continental names and flowery descriptions being tossed on plates like Big Macs to go. The magic was that the trick usually
worked. The food came out and almost lived up to all its cedillas.

“What's the road kill today?”

A busboy with his back turned to Am and Marcel shouted the question to one of the line cooks. The cook pretended not to hear
but gave an almost imperceptible signal that alerted the busboy that other ears were present. Marcel might not be making his
points with steel anymore, but his temper was still legendary. So was his hearing.

“Ham,” he said, “what is zis road keel I keep herring about?”

“It's just, uh, slang,” Am said.

“Slang,” said Marcel, apparently satisfied. He had worked with Southern Californians for long enough not to be worried about
slang. Am hid his relief, glad that yet another Gallic war had been averted.

Marcel's office was his private domain, a holdout from days of old when to enter a chef's lair was to risk the wrath of a
butcher's knife. Urging Am inside, Marcel shut the door behind them, then looked around suspiciously.

“I just talk with Misteer Kendrick,” said Marcel. “He tell me our food costs are up. He wonder if zee employeze are stealing.”

That figures, thought Am. Any of a dozen factors could have accounted for the food costs going up. But the easiest scapegoat
was always the employees. Employeze.

“Misteer Kendrick said I should talk with you. He say you now are in charge of ze-curity.”

Am nodded reluctantly. He suspected Kendrick had encouraged Marcel to seek him out as a way of having a proxy spit at him.
“You have a suspect, no doubt,” Am said.

“Yes,” Marcel said conspiratorially. “Ted.”

Am wasn't exactly surprised. Ted Fellows had the title of sous chef, but he actually ran the kitchen. He worked with a computer
more than he did a whisk, much to Marcel's disdain. Ted was reasonable and steady and could turn out consistently good plates
while maintaining organization in the kitchen. He was the first to admit he was not a culinary artiste and not the person
you'd want to create a repast for heads of state. When it came to the pièce de résistance, that was Marcel's domain. He was
the oohs and ahhhs department. Ted was the kitchen's glue, and Marcel always got stuck on that point.

“You’ve seen something?”

“Two night ago, he carry a big bag out. Everyone zee him.”

“But no one saw what was in the bag?”

That point didn’t mean much to Marcel. He was more interested in describing the special he had created on the night in question,
going into rapturous descriptions, and giving out the kinds of details that only Nero Wolfe would have considered germane
to an investigation. The upshot of his narrative was that truffles, ” ‘eavenly and divine” truffles, had been the key ingredient
in his special, a risotto made with white truffle and pork kidneys. Marcel claimed that his stock of truffles had disappeared
the same night Ted had walked out with the bag.

“The spezal was saved,” he said, “because zee rice always needs to breath in zee ezzenze of zee truffles a day before you
make zee risotto. But zee bag of truffles I not put in zee rice iz gone.”

Am was only half listening to Marcel’s story until he heard how expensive the missing truffles were. The fungi cost more than
most illegal drugs. Promising to look into the matter, Am began easing away from Marcel’s theories and fish cologne, but the
chef followed him.

“I will zave you a taste of tonight’s spezel spezel,” Marcel said. “I know how you love zee spezel spezel.”

Every night Marcel made a special, but he only made his “spezel spezel” on auspicious occasions. Am tried to think who was
in house to merit such a spread, then remembered that one of the country’s leading food critics had flown in from New York
just to dine.

“That critic’s coming a long way to try your fare,” Am said.

Marcel’s chest expanded. “I know,” he said. “He will not be dis-a-ppoint-tid.”

Marcel was his own Michelin guide. He had decided a long time back that he was three-star material. Having tasted his creations,
Am couldn’t disagree.

If you’ve got it, Am thought, flaunt it. Or better yet, flambé it.

Carlton felt guilty about having slept so well. It would have been more proper if he hadn’t slept a wink. But there was something
about the Hotel that lulled and soothed. He hadn’t meant to sleep, had stopped just to listen to the ocean, then had sort
of naturally worked his way over to the bed, all the while telling himself that he would only be unwinding for a few minutes.
That was ten hours ago.