Ring-A-Ding Dead! Page 2
Mrs. Jackson felt impressed. “It sounds quite an adventure.”
“It has been, ma’am.”
“Will your husband’s illness cause problems with your schedule?”
“Oh, no, ma’am. He was injured in the war, then he had that horrible flu, then pneumonia after. He still doesn’t breathe well, but he can take care of himself just fine.”
This woman seemed competent enough. “I’ll need you to help with my bath, and dress me for breakfast and dinner,” Mrs. Jackson pointed to the sling, “so long as I have this on.”
“Yes, ma’am. And I’ll put away your packages. Would you like a bath? The manager said you’d just arrived.”
“That would be wonderful.”
The bathing room was large, decorated in black and white tile with brass trimmings. The tub was white porcelain, legs and all. The fittings for the sink and tub were brass, and the tub had three black ceramic handles.
Mrs. Knight took off Mrs. Jackson’s sling and put it to soak in the sink. The maid tsk’d and shook her head at the large, newly sutured wound in the bend of Mrs. Jackson’s right elbow. But she never asked about it, for which Mrs. Jackson felt most grateful.
Mrs. Knight said, “What good fortune that you’ve chosen this place!” She pointed at the center tap.
“The Myriad has mineral spring water piped in — just lovely for healing wounds and all sorts of sickness.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes! People come from all over the world just to bathe downstairs at the spa!”
Could this be the reason that Mr. Jackson chose this hotel? If so, it was certainly quick thinking!
And it showed a care for her welfare that she found touching. If I only would have known, she thought, remembering their bitter battles in the past.
She felt an instant’s hesitation to be undressed by a stranger. And in all the commotion, she’d completely forgotten about the gun in its holster just below her right knee until the maid saw it, eyes wide.
Mrs. Jackson felt amused at Mrs. Knight’s expression. “There’s no need to touch the gun. Unbuckle the holster from my leg, if you will, and place it on the dresser.”
To her surprise and relief, the maid never asked why she had it.
It felt wonderful to soak in the hot water while her sling was being washed and dried. But the injection the surgeon had given her was wearing off, and her arm began to hurt in earnest.
Mrs. Knight gently patted the wound dry and applied an ointment, wrapping it with the bandages she’d brought with her. “Changing this once or twice daily should do just fine.” She slipped a cotton day dress over Mrs. Jackson’s head, then measured out a dose of pain medication. “That sling will be a while drying. Do you need help putting it on?”
“Mr. Jackson can do that if needed.”
“Very good, ma’am.” She glanced around, then took a wide-toothed comb from her bag. “Come into the other room and I’ll comb out your hair.”
While the maid dried and combed her hair, Mrs. Jackson surveyed her bound arm. She’d had little experience in such things, but the bandaging seemed at least as professionally done as when applied by the surgeon’s nurse the night before. “I’m glad to have you, Mrs. Knight — you’ve done fine work.”
The maid curtsied. “Thank you.” She began to collect her things. “I’ll be back at seven to dress you for dinner.”
Whether from the medication or the bath, Mrs. Jackson felt quite sleepy. “No need: we’ll be staying in. Perhaps tomorrow morning at nine?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll see you then. Rest well.”
Once the maid left, Mrs. Jackson put her holster and gun in the top drawer of the dresser, placed a shawl atop it, then lay in bed with her day dress still on.
***
While Mrs. Jackson was being attended to, Mr. Jackson went to his room on the far side of the parlor and set down his packages by the wall.
Collapsing into a chair, he surveyed the room. Everything had changed since the last time he’d been here. And the last twelve hours had gone differently than he could have possibly imagined.
A few moments later, his manservant arrived, a Mr. Norman Vienna. Brown hair and eyes, pale skin. A well-cut black silk suit.
Quite the looker, indeed.
“Good morning, sir,” Mr. Vienna said. “May I enter?”
Mr. Jackson felt a bit flustered, and berated himself. None of that here, not now. “Yes, please, do come in.” He gestured towards the room, and the man came past. “I presume you’re sent by the management?”
“Yes, sir, I work for the Howell-Green procurement agency, contracted by the hotel. You pay the hotel for my services once I send them the bill.”
He seemed quite young. “How long have you done this work, if I may ask?”
“Several years now, sir. I began as valet to a young man who died of malaria while on vacation.” His gaze fell. “He was much loved. His death broke the family, sad to say. I was let go when the property was sold.”
“How dreadful!”
Mr. Vienna shook his head, not meeting Mr. Jackson’s eye. “It was, sir. The young master was only seventeen. He never would have wanted things to end so.” Then he straightened. “After that, I served as valet to a medical officer in the war. I have excellent references, sir, and will do you well for as long as you stay here.”
Mr. Jackson felt touched by the man’s tale. “I don’t have much here.” He pointed at the packages along the wall. “But I’ll require you before breakfast and dinner, for a dress and a shave. And perhaps a trim here and there.”
At the last, the man raised an eyebrow. “How long do you plan to stay, then, sir?”
“Our plans are open at present.” He gave a quick glance at the closed door leading to his wife’s bedroom.
“How many are in your party, sir? If I may ask.”
“Just my wife and I. She’s speaking with her maid now.”
“Very good, sir. I’ll put away your things then, if we’re done here.”
Mr. Jackson sat watching the young man work with a sense of loss. So much death.
Why did the clerk downstairs die? Could it have been natural for such a young man to fall dead on the job? Something about it felt wrong.
After Mr. Vienna left, Mr. Jackson knocked softly at his wife’s door. Hearing no answer, he peeked in.
She lay upon her bed, eyes closed, black curls spread across her pillow.
He pulled the covers over her shoulder, feeling a surprising fondness for her. He kissed her forehead, then returned to his rooms to lie down, falling asleep at once.
A small noise woke him.
His wife peered in through the door to her room. “I’m sorry to bother you.” She looked abashed. “But I need your help.”
It took him a moment to remember where he was. “I’ll be in momentarily.” He pulled on his trousers and a shirt, then went into his wife’s room.
She stood in the middle of the room fumbling with her sling. The late afternoon sun streamed golden onto the floor. “I can’t seem to manage the straps.”
For a moment, he sat on the back of a chair, trying to make sense of the task at hand. Adjusting the straps, he fit the sling to her arm.
Their eyes met, and she turned away. “Thanks.” She took an apple from the bowl on the dresser. “Did your manservant arrive yet?”
“He did! Ever so congenial fellow. Not that I have a great many things with me, but it’ll be nice to have someone else fuss over them.”
“And they call them valets here.”
“Indeed. And the men who bring the cars, too, although you must never confuse them.” He laughed at the thought. “To ask a personal manservant to fetch your car would be most offensive, and vice versa.”
She sat at the table by the window. “I suppose never leaving my town makes me quite unaware of the world beyond.”
He remembered the first time he’d traveled. This place must be quite different than what she was used to.
He slumped into the chair across from her. “We can go anywhere you wish.”
“How long do you think we should stay here?”
He shrugged. “We have a week’s credit. But we can stay as long as you like.”
Fear touched her eyes. “It’s just ... I don’t like all the police about.”
“Let’s stay in our rooms tonight. I’ll call room service for dinner.” He’d more than half expected to find her gone when he woke. A change, but a fortunate one. “We’ve given our statements, so they should have no further use for us.” He grinned. “Just the way I like it.”
She smiled to herself at that last bit. “You made it sound that you were a busy man. Do you not have a schedule?”
He stretched back, hands behind his head. “I’m on my honeymoon, don’t you know?” He gave her a wink and a smile. “Unless some disaster occurs, I don’t need to be anywhere.” He chuckled. “Perhaps not even then. I have men in every city, capable of handling most situations.” Which was fortunate, as none of them knew where he was.
“I never realized.” She sounded both awed and impressed. “Perhaps someday I’ll have a retinue of my own.” She raised her injured arm with a wry smile. “If I survive this.”
A knock came at the parlor door.
Mr. Jackson struggled to his feet. “Whoever could that be?” He turned to his wife. “I’ll take care of this.”
He left his wife’s room, closing the door behind him, then tucked in his shirt and answered.
To his surprise, the manager stood there. “May I come in?”
“Is something wrong?”
“Why, no — not at all. I’m ever so sorry to intrude. But I need to speak with you most urgently.”
What could this possibly be about? He opened the door wide. “Of course. Come in.”
Their parlor had a long sofa by the windows, with a coffee table and overstuffed chairs. But there was also a large round rosewood table off to the side with several straight-backed chairs around it. Mr. Jackson gestured to one. “Please, sit down.”
They went to the table, sat. “I hope you’re both well,” the manager said.
“We are. Thank you.” This situation was unlike anything he’d experienced here before. “How may I help?”
The manager, who had been looking out of the window, hesitated.
Mr. Jackson felt weary. “You said the matter was urgent?”
“Well —” the manager seemed embarrassed. “I listened at the door when you spoke with the police.” Then he leaned forward. “You said you’d been private investigators ...”
Mr. Jackson peered at him, trying to understand. “Are you offering us a job?”
“I know you’re on your honeymoon. I get it.” He shifted, glanced around. “But the man who owns this hotel wants answers, and —” his face paled. “Let’s just say he’s not the sort of man you want to make angry.”
Mr. Jackson nodded sagely. “We do have some small experience with that sort.”
“Anything you can learn — anything at all — we’d be grateful. Most grateful.”
Interesting, Mr. Jackson thought. If this owner was the sort of man he sounded like, this might be an opportunity. “I have permission to speak with your staff, then?”
Relief crossed the manager’s face. “Of course! Any time. Whatever you need is yours.”
After the manager left, Mr. Jackson went back to his wife’s room. “You’re not going to believe this.”
“What did he want?”
“He wants us to poke around, talk with the staff — by order of the hotel’s owner. Who apparently isn’t someone you make unhappy.”
His wife’s face turned amused. “Ah. So things are not so different here after all.”
4
No one knew where the couple had come from.
They didn’t order lunch. Which was understandable, given that they had just witnessed death. But they didn’t order tea or supper either. The waitstaff fidgeted: were the couple well?
“Good grief,” the manager said, clearly annoyed at the crew. “They’re on their honeymoon. What do you imagine they’re doing? Go on, now, get to work!”
But many in the staff let out a sigh of relief when the couple ordered a late dinner in their rooms.
When the bellhop returned from serving them, the others clamored around him. Surely there was something, anything they could learn about the couple who found the body of their co-worker. Something that might tell them how or why he died.
But the bellhop had little to tell. “The gent answered: said the missus was a-sleeping. Tipped well, he did.”
So after a while the staff returned to their duties, wary, disturbed, and some, afraid.
***
Mr. Jackson lay in his room late at night, his door to the parlor open, the lamp on, gazing at the ceiling, not really thinking of anything. And yet he heard a soft weeping.
He crept to his wife’s door, opened it softly. His wife lay curled on her left side, facing him, her face wet with tears.
“I’m sorry,” she sobbed.
“No,” he said. “Don’t be. Is it your arm?”
She shook her head and wept harder.
He knelt before her, moving wet curls from her face. He kissed her forehead gently, marveling that she of all people felt safe to cry near him. “It feels unbearable.”
She nodded. Her body shook with sobbing, yet after a time, she seemed more at peace, her eyes far away. “How did you bear it?”
He let himself collapse upon the floor to gaze upon her face, and spoke in utter honesty. “I don’t know. I suppose you just do.”
Her hand came from under the sheets to grasp his. “Don’t leave me.”
It broke his heart. He climbed into bed beside her, lying on top of the covers, and held her as if she were a small girl. He had a sharp, poignant memory of his little sister climbing into his bed late at night, back in the days of childhood.
His sister was now prosperous, grown and married, with children of her own, who were very likely crawling into bed beside her now. That thought made him smile.
But he missed her. And under the circumstances, it was doubtful he’d ever see her again. “I’ll never leave you.” He held his wife close, listening to the quiet sounds of the room. “I promise. I’ll never leave you, no matter what.”
***
The pair did come down for breakfast the next day, and the staff all agreed that they looked impressive. The gentleman — for clearly he was a gentleman, by his manners and dress — was all a fine gentleman should be. Tall, past thirty, quite dark-skinned, and very handsome.
The lady was a few years younger. Slender, with light brown skin and blue eyes, she was fashionably yet modestly dressed, as befitted a respectable woman of means, a cute little cloche hat atop thick black curls. Her right arm was in a sling, and she didn’t speak much. Perhaps her injury pained her.
The vast dining room was filled with large round tables, which the guests sat around.
A waiter approached. Young, slender, brown hair and eyes. His face, an even tan. The tag on his shirt read: George. He said to Mr. Jackson, “What can I get you, sir?”
“Coffee, heavy cream, no sugar,” Mr. Jackson said. “Make it about your color.”
“Right away, sir.”
The Myriad Hotel’s most illustrious guest, the dowager Duchess Cordelia Stayman, had come to breakfast with her husband Albert in a silk morning dress, with a beaded hat and robe. “Horrid business,” she said, as the waiter served her. “Imagine, such a young man simply dropping dead!”
Mrs. Jackson went pale, her eyes red.
“Now, Cordelia,” Albert said. “You’ll spoil breakfast.”
Mr. Jackson turned to his wife. “Are you well?”
She dabbed her eyes. “I agree. It’s horrid.”
Mr. Jackson put a glass of water into his wife’s left hand. “Here
. Drink something. You’ll feel better.”
So she did, but it seemed an effort for her to smile.
“I’m sorry, my dear,” the dowager said. “My old mouth runs away with me.” She turned towards the large frosted-glass doors. Past them, the clear light of a sunny late morning streamed onto the lobby floor. “What a lovely day it is.”
Having served drinks, the staff began to serve the breakfasts.
“It is lovely,” Mrs. Jackson said after a moment. She turned to her husband. “Perhaps after breakfast, we might take a stroll?”
“That would be splendid,” Mr. Jackson said. “And we must see all the sights.”
“Oh, yes,” the dowager said. “There’s so much to do here! There's a park right nearby. And the weather is lovely this time of year. Is this your first visit?”
“Her first,” Mr. Jackson said.
“How long are you here for?”
Mr. Jackson said, “Our plans are open as yet.”
“Marvelous.” She turned to Mrs. Jackson. “We must plan out your stay here, so you don’t miss a thing!”
“Cordelia,” Albert said. “Surely these people can plan out their own stay.”
She laughed, but her cheeks colored. “I’m sorry — I just get so excited to show everything. It isn’t often you get the opportunity to share such a fine city.”
A pretty young blonde woman came by carrying a tray. Her name-tag read: Agnes. “Cigars?
Cigarettes?”
“I’ll take some,” Mrs. Jackson said. “And matches, if you have them.
“No, thank you,” Mr. Jackson said at the same time. He turned to the dowager. “What brings you to Chicago?”
“Oh, we’ve lived here at the hotel these three years,” Albert said. “Quite economical. Everything you need, and no servants or lands to manage.” He turned to his wife. “Remember how much bother we had?”
The dowager, in the midst of drinking her tea, stopped with a grimace, then nodded. “Terrible expense.”
Mrs. Jackson put the cigarettes and matches in her pocket and said, “Living at a hotel? I’d never considered such a thing!”