Ring-A-Ding Dead! Read online

  Ring-A-Ding Dead!

  The Myriad Mysteries #1

  Claire Logan

  Copyright © 2019 Claire Logan

  All rights reserved.

  The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), buildings, or products is intended or should be inferred.

  This Kindle ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold, loaned, or given to others. If you would like to share this book please return to Amazon and purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not receive it directly from the author for the purposes of review, did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, you may be in possession of stolen property. Please return to Amazon and purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Table of Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  1

  When they first arrived in Chicago, the couple took a leisurely breakfast at a posh little cafe in the station, then spent an hour or so shopping for new, stylish clothes, suitable for their new city. While they were out, they had their hair cut and colored in the fashion of the day.

  At first, the lady balked at displaying her ankles in public, not to mention bobbing her long hair. But afterward, she showed her new self to her new husband. “Mr. Jackson, how do I look?”

  “Perfectly charming, my dear, as always.”

  As his tight-coiled hair was pressed and her thick curls dyed, she said, “We must decide what to do. Where shall we stay? What shall we do for a living? Shall we rent rooms? Or perhaps purchase an office?”

  “Nonsense, my dear,” Mr. Jackson said. “Everything has changed. After all that has happened, we deserve nothing but the very best.”

  When the hairdressers finished their work, the couple strolled out to the street, a porter carrying their purchases. Cars bustled past as the work day began.

  Mr. Jackson flagged down a cab. “Myriad Hotel.”

  “Right away, sir.” And off they went.

  Mr. Jackson marveled at how quickly things could change. Yesterday he was a bachelor; just hours later, a husband.

  As they rode, he watched his new wife. How fortunate he’d been to follow his instincts and offer her this marriage. How grateful he was that she’d accepted!

  Mrs. Jackson peered out of the window, astonishment on her face. “The architecture is magnificent!”

  Mr. Jackson felt surprised. “I didn’t know you cared for such things.”

  “Oh, yes. I love it! Many of the buildings remind me of my home.” She paused, eyes distant. “I wonder if they had the same architects.” She leaned back on the cushioned seat. “What a wonderful place this is!”

  The cabbie glanced quickly back. “First time here, then?”

  “I’ve been here many a time,” Mr. Jackson said. “But it’s her first.”

  “What brings you here?”

  “We’re on our honeymoon,” Mr. Jackson said.

  The cabbie seemed touched. “Well, fine congrats to you both.” He glanced at the lady. “You’re gonna love it. Nice place, though it does get chilly in the winter. You arrived at the perfect time. And the nicest people you’ll ever meet anywheres.”

  The exterior of Myriad Hotel was sumptuous: gray-white marble, trimmed in rosewood and brass.

  Yet no one greeted them out front, or stood to hold the door, as Mrs. Jackson had seen done at other hotels.

  So the cab driver held the door for them, for which he got a good tip.

  “Odd,” Mr. Jackson said. “This hotel normally has such fine service.”

  Mrs. Jackson gaped at the lobby of Myriad Hotel: marble floors, rosewood paneling, Art Deco murals, and brass trimmings. In the center of the magnificent hall, an exquisitely carved fountain twice her height shot water past the second floor railings towards a glittering chandelier high on the vaulted ceiling. She turned to Mr. Jackson. “Oh, this is lovely!”

  He beamed. “I so hoped you’d like it.”

  Yet for all its splendor, the lobby was empty.

  The couple went across the wide hall to the front desk, a gleaming paneled affair, and rang the fine silvered bell.

  No one answered.

  So they stood there, waiting.

  After a time, Mrs. Jackson called out. “Hello! Is anyone there?”

  They waited a while more, but there was no answer.

  “This is quite odd,” Mr. Jackson said. “The last time I came here, the place was full at all hours of the day and night! Where could everyone be?” Mr. Jackson took her arm. “Come, my dear, let’s sit.”

  Gratefully, she followed him to brass chairs cushioned in black velvet to rest herself, while Mr. Jackson (carrying their many packages) sat to her left.

  Weariness washed over her. With everything that had happened over the past twenty-four hours, she hadn’t slept — she couldn’t.

  A clock chimed ten. Good smells came from across the way, and from far off behind frosted doors of beveled glass, the sound of a dining room’s chatter. But other than that, the place seemed deserted.

  Mr. Jackson gestured at her right arm, which was in a sling. “How do you feel? Shall I find someone to help us?”

  She patted his hand. “I’ve survived worse.” She smiled at him. “Someone will be along soon. Let’s just rest a while.”

  So they waited.

  After a few moments, a stout woman with dark curls walked past. She wore a standard maid’s uniform, black with a white apron and hat, and a white tag ringed in brass with dark lettering which read: Maria. “Have you been helped, sir?”

  “Why, no,” Mr. Jackson said. “We rang some time ago, but no one’s answered.”

  The woman frowned towards the front desk. “That clerk has left his post again!”

  She stormed over to a side door, then appeared at a doorway behind the counter. She looked down, then recoiled, eyes wide, letting out a startled scream.

  Leaving their packages, the couple rushed to the desk, peering far over the counter.

  Under the counter, a man lay there — dead.

  2

  At once, the lobby filled with people rushing around: maids, bellhops, busboys, and door men. The couple retreated to their seats to view the commotion.

  Yet Mrs. Jackson felt disturbed. The man had been lying there, dead, the entire time!

  After a while, police and coroner’s men entered the lobby. These men, carrying black leather cases, strode towards the crowd milling around the front desk.

  One, a stern older man in a cheap brown suit, focused on the couple. “You found the body?”

  “The maid saw him first,” Mr. Jackson said, “but we sat here for at least twenty minutes before that. We wanted to check in, but no one answered the bell.”

  The man gestured to a uniformed officer, who stationed himself at the end of the row of chairs.

  “Stay here until you’re called.” The man went to the door beside the front desk, disappearing behind it.

  Beyond that, the dining room’s doors opened, confused guests pouring out. They stared at the scene, curiosity on their faces, before being waved past by uniformed men.

  Mrs. Jackson
had never seen anything like this happen in a hotel before. She turned to Mr. Jackson. “What do you think?”

  “The man seemed quite uncommonly pale.”

  She had to agree: his face was much too pale, even for a dead man. And there was a familiar smell, one she couldn’t quite place. Grief came from, it seemed, nowhere. She didn’t even know the man! “The timing of this is distressing.”

  Mr. Jackson took her good hand in both of his. “My poor dear. I never wanted this to greet you on our arrival.”

  She clung to him, trying to put past memories of death behind her. There seemed to be nothing they could do but wait.

  Men photographed the body, dusted for prints. Others marked and cordoned off the whole lobby this side of the magnificent marble fountain as the couple watched. Far past them, near the entrance, patrons milled about. Some stood in front of the gift shop staring across the lobby in their direction. A crowd peered through the beveled glass front windows behind them.

  Mrs. Jackson felt exhausted. Her injured arm ached, tingled. She wanted nothing more than to lie down.

  But first the police wanted to speak to them.

  The stern-looking man brought the couple to a side room. A polished wooden table with four chairs sat in the center. “Never did see such goings-on here before,” he snapped.

  The man sounded annoyed with the whole affair!

  He made a quick, dismissive gesture towards the chairs, so they sat. Then he sat across from them, opened a notepad, and frowned at them. “Sergeant Benjamin Nestor, Chicago Police. And you are?”

  Mrs. Jackson didn’t know whether to laugh at or be angry with his tone. But she stayed still, curious as to what bothered the man so.

  Mr. Jackson extended his hand. “Hector and Pamela Jackson.”

  Sergeant Nestor ignored Mr. Jackson’s hand, instead making notes on his pad with a jerking motion.

  “Your occupation?”

  Mr. Jackson appeared unruffled by the man’s sharp tone and angry demeanor. “I have lands and investments throughout the country. Well, to be honest, I have a small property overseas as well.” He spoke of this wealth as if it were quite modest. He relaxed, leaning back. “I live off the income, and travel whenever the need arises.”

  Sergeant Nestor’s jaw tightened, and he scratched on his notepad. “Your business here?”

  “We’ve only just arrived,” Mr. Jackson said, as if having embarked upon a grand adventure. “We’re on our honeymoon.”

  The sergeant’s face turned sour, cynical. “Congratulations.” Then he frowned. “Tell me what you saw.”

  They recounted the little they did see: an extremely pale, dark-haired man lying dead, a bone-dry teacup and saucer on the floor beside him. “It did seem odd,” Mrs. Jackson said (when asked), “that the door-men were absent.”

  “That is odd.” Sergeant Nestor seemed to honestly consider the matter.

  Mrs. Jackson had the sergeant pegged: uncomfortable with those above his station. A perennial chip on a pugnacious shoulder. A man who preferred being in control.

  He probably hated being called to such an opulent hotel.

  The sergeant frowned at her sling as if it offended him. “What happened there?”

  She decided simple candor was the best option. “I had surgery.”

  “Before your wedding?”

  “It was somewhat of an emergency.” She shrugged, unsure how much more to say. “It couldn’t be helped.”

  He scowled at this, but apparently could find nothing more to ask.

  Mr. Jackson gave her a quick glance. “We both have experience as private investigators. If you —”

  “Both?” The officer seemed dubious.

  “Why certainly,” Mr. Jackson said. “I’ve only ever been an amateur. But my wife was a professional investigator for some time. Before our marriage, of course.” He turned to her with a fond smile, and she nodded. “You might say that’s how we came to know each other.”

  Mrs. Jackson felt amused, both by Mr. Jackson’s words and the sergeant’s expression. “Do you not have woman detectives here?”

  “Well, uh ... of course!” Sergeant Nestor glanced between the couple as if at a loss. Then he frowned, straightening. “Certainly.”

  Mr. Jackson said, “I’m sure you have your own people for such things, but if we can be of any assistance —”

  A hint of sarcasm laced the man’s tone. “I’ll be sure to ask.” The sergeant rose, handed Mr. Jackson his card. “If you remember anything else, call.”

  After the sergeant left, a young uniformed officer poked his head in. “Wait here.” He pulled the door shut.

  The couple glanced at each other and shrugged.

  Mrs. Jackson said, “Call?”

  “This place is a marvel. It has telephones in every room!”

  “Telephones in every room?” She shook her head, astonished. “A far cry from home, I must say.”

  “Indeed it is.”

  ***

  Mr. Jackson surveyed his wife. She looked pale, with dark circles under her eyes. He needed to get her to their rooms.

  He wasn’t used to this. All his life, he went where he pleased, when he wanted, and it’d been rare that another person was dependent upon him.

  But the situation was out of his control. These police would take anything which caused a break from their protocol as suspicious, and the last thing they needed right now was to fall under suspicion.

  A few moments later, the manager came in. He offered credit to their account for a full week’s stay, which seemed quite generous. “Do you need anything else? Anything at all.”

  “Your best two-bedroom suite,” Mr. Jackson said. “Money is no object. And my wife needs a lady’s maid. Preferably one with experience in caring for wounds.”

  The manager glanced at her arm in its sling. “I’ll send for one right away.”

  “You’re too kind,” Mr. Jackson said.

  “And will you be needing a valet, sir? To assist you in dressing.”

  This was the first time staying in Chicago that he’d been offered one. “Why, if one is available, of course.”

  “Most certainly, sir. Never fear, we only use the finest procurement services. You may hire by the day, hour, or week.”

  “We’ll be here at least a week,” Mr. Jackson said, amused. “But I’ll meet the fellow first.”

  “Of course, sir.” the manager said, and began to rise. “Now, if you’ll —”

  To Mr. Jackson’s surprise, his wife said, “A question, if you please, sir.”

  The manager blinked. “Why, of course.”

  “Was your clerk scheduled to work today?”

  “No,” the manager said, and he also seemed surprised. “Certainly not. I’ll have to look into it, but it seems another fellow switched with him this morning without notifying me. He’ll get a stern talking-to.”

  “The poor man,” Mr. Jackson said. “To help a fellow out, then die? A pity.”

  “Indeed it was,” the manager said, but he didn’t sound sincere. “Now, if you’ll return to the lobby, I’ll have someone show you to your rooms shortly.”

  By the time the couple stepped into the hallway, the body of the young man had been carried away.

  Yet the lobby was full of commotion. A dark wooden rectangular folding table laden with many paper bags and one pale yellow folder had been set up off to one side. Sergeant Nestor stood behind the table, conversing with a man in a similar suit.

  Uniformed men moved back and forth between the table and the front desk. Some carried baskets filled with sealed brown paper sacks, which they placed on the table. Others carried documents, which they placed in the folder. Still other men stood, clipboards in hand, making notes and flipping pages.

  Shades had been pulled over the windows against the late morning sun, which streamed in through the glass front entryway.

  To Mr. Jackson’s relief, reporters were being kept outside by uniformed police. He moved his wife and their package
s to a seat well away from the doors.

  They hadn’t slept the entire trip, and his wife must be weary. She’d made no complaint about her injury, but it worried him just the same. He put his arm around her. “Rest your head on my shoulder.”

  To his surprise, she did so without protest, but her eyes stayed open.

  The trip to their suite was a noisy affair. Maids and bellboys followed them with questions all the way to the elevator.

  Mr. Jackson turned to face them. “My dear people. We’ve had a long, tiring journey. Might we discuss this another time?”

  “Of course, sir,” they mumbled, moving away.

  The bellboy pushing the cart with their packages clearly wanted to ask more but fortunately stayed quiet. For that, Mr. Jackson gave the man a good tip.

  Their suite was on the thirty-second floor, and the rooms were even finer than he remembered. Two bedrooms, freshly painted, with new bed-covers. They had separate baths and a generous parlor with its own door to the hallway. The rooms held fruit, flowers, a stunning view of the lake, and every amenity one might hope for.

  Once the door closed, his wife sagged onto a bed. “At last.”

  He sat, wrapped his arms around her, lay her head on his shoulder. Kissed her forehead with a tenderness which surprised himself. “We’ll be safe here. We can finally rest.”

  3

  At first, all Mrs. Jackson wanted was to sleep. But alas, it was not to be: the lady’s maid, a Mrs. Octavia Knight, arrived soon after. Mr. Jackson had retired to the other bedroom with his packages, leaving her to deal with the woman.

  However, when she stood, she found that she felt refreshed. So she interviewed the woman, who was perhaps forty, at a small table of polished rosewood which lay near the window. “How long have you been a lady’s maid?”

  Mrs. Knight smiled to herself. “A little over a year. But before that I was nurse to one of the great families. Been taking care of injury all my life. Don’t suppose you’d know any of them, being from out of town as you are.”

  Mrs. Jackson felt a bit embarrassed. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Your accent.” Mrs. Knight stopped, face puzzled, then continued. “But their children are grown and gone. The older ones are down at the heels, so I was let go.” She let out a regretful sigh. “It caused some trouble with the finances at first as my husband’s ill. I’m busy enough now with this temporary work. I’ve come to meet many a fine family this way.”