Margaret Grace - Murder In Miniature

Aaron looked over my shoulder as he recited the list. He might have been reading a teleprompter version of his employee orientation notes.

“The staff member I’d like to speak with is named Ben.” I came close to spelling it for him. “He came into the ballroom during our cocktail party last night. That would have been somewhere around seven fifteen. I need to talk to him.”

Aaron drew in his breath. “Ooh, that’s tricky. Kind of on the cusp of the shift change.” He straightened up, apparently remembering another part of the front desk employee handbook. “You know, you’re supposed to call from your room if there’s a problem with maintenance.”

I let out an exasperated sigh, sending what I hoped would be a subliminal message: don’t disappoint your mother figure. “Aaron,” I said. “My granddaughter is asleep in our room, and I don’t want to disturb her, which is why I came all the way down here in the first place.” I paused for another well-placed sigh. “Our group has more than one hundred guests in your hotel and I’d really like to get this off my list of things to do before I can call it a night.”

Aaron cleared his throat; a low whistle escaped. He tapped his temple with a hotel pen. “Okay, let me see. I should be able to check for you.”

Aaron left his station at the high, sleek, marble counter. I hoped it wasn’t to consult his boss, or anyone else over eighteen. Fortunately, there was no one waiting behind me. This not only relieved me of some guilt, but also decreased the chances that my cover would be blown by the person who really was in charge of the ALHS reunion. The stresses of undercover work were enormous.

While Aaron was gone, I tried to put my mind in order. I had a few more things to take care of before checking out in the morning. Besides chatting with Ben, I needed to determine who had bought the chocolates for Rosie in the hotel gift shop. I also wanted to talk to whoever had delivered food to the room across the hall from David’s. He or she might have seen or heard something unusual. Other than the outright rejection of two women on his doorstep.

I thought of Rosie and how frightened and upset she must be. I wondered how many other Alasita devotees had experiences so diametrically opposed to the dreams and miniatures they put their hearts into. Not many, I decided, or the tradition would have died long ago.

I was relieved to see Aaron come back to the counter alone and with a long printout. He spread the sheet in front of him. “Okay, looks like the Ben who was on duty at that time was Ben Dobson, and he actually quit this morning. Isn’t that a coincidence?”

I doubted it. “Did you know Ben?”

Aaron shook his head; his collar didn’t move. “Nuh-uh. When someone has a maintenance problem, like with the plumbing or the air-conditioning, we just enter a work order on the computer and they take it from there.”

I tapped my fingers on the counter: very disappointed, said the gesture. “I really need to talk to another staff member, then. How about someone else on the maintenance staff? Or housekeeping. Or room service.”

Aaron scratched his head. “Those are all different departments. This is a big hotel. Each department has its own supervisor and all. We have an IT person, licensed mechanics and electricians, the works. If you could just tell me the nature of your problem.”

“And if you could just direct me to someone who was around last night. Should I be speaking to your supervisor?” I sincerely hoped not.

Aaron held up his hands. “No, no.” I knew it-no trainee wants to admit he can’t handle a simple request from an old woman. Not so old, especially in my banquet attire, but to anyone Aaron’s age, I might as well have been an octogenarian, instead of closing in on sixty, from the young side.

“Well?” My challenge voice, spoken often to those students who were not working to their full potential.

“Okay, here’s what I’m going to do,” Aaron said, his fingers working the keyboard. Talking and clicking was the top-ranking multitasking scenario these days, I noted. “I’m going to call down to Maintenance and have them send up Mr. Conwell, one of our electricians, and you can have a chat with him right here in the lobby. Just wait right over there on that couch and I’ll have him here in a few minutes.”

I put my hands together, in prayer formation. “Thank you, Aaron. You’ve been a big help.”

I kept my eye on the “waiting couch,” a paisley U-shaped sectional, but walked over to the gift shop, which, as I suspected, was closed. I looked through the all-glass walls and door. For a shop in a major hotel, it seemed rather small, with only a shelf or two of T-shirts, plus some snacks, drinks, and magazines. One trip down to the nearby Market Street was all anyone needed, however. A multitude of vendors would be happy to sell a tourist not only souvenir T-shirts and baseball caps but also a shot glass with an image of the Golden Gate Bridge or a spoon rest with an imprint of the pagodas of San Francisco’s Chinatown.

Small was good (wasn’t it always?) since it was more likely that the shopkeeper would remember the customer who purchased the chocolates for Rosie. I noted the hours of operation for Sunday. Seven to seven. I’d have to come back in the morning, preferably without Maddie. I hoped the pool also opened early.

I spotted a short, weathered-looking man in a gray jumpsuit, a match to Ben’s last night, lurking near the couch I’d been sent to and rushed over.

“Are you Mr. Conwell?” I asked him.

“Mike,” he said, keeping his hands in his pockets. “What’s the problem?”

Mike wasn’t going to be the pushover Aaron was. Maybe it was the names. “Mike” had a strong ring to it, whereas I thought I remembered correctly that the biblical Aaron had made a few lapses in judgment and had to keep being forgiven by God.

“Hi, Mike. I’m Geraldine Porter. First, I want to express my condolences on the death of your boss, Mr. Bridges. It must be a great shock and a loss to you and the whole staff.”

Mike looked at me sideways. I couldn’t figure out whether he was chewing gum or working his jaw. “Yeah, a great loss. What’s the problem?”

“As a matter of fact, I wanted to talk to Ben Dobson, but I understand he’s quit his job. He came into our cocktail party last night and caused quite a disturbance, arguing with Mr. Bridges.”

“Nothing we can do now,” Mike said. He licked his lips. I caught a whiff of tobacco.

I struggled to maintain the composure I’d had while I was dealing with Aaron the novice. I tried the one-hand-on-hip signal. “How can I be sure no one else on your staff will do the same thing at our next gathering, Mike?” I paused, hoping Mike wouldn’t ask when that would be. (In five years, unless you counted an ad hoc breakfast get-together tomorrow morning for anyone who hadn’t already checked out.)

“Huh?” Mike asked, understandably confused. But Mike was the kind of guy who led you to believe that any confusion on his part was your fault, due to your inadequacy, not his.

I weakened in the face of his confidence, and my voice faltered. “I just thought maybe Ben had a particular grievance with Mr. Bridges?”

“Lady, are you a cop? You asking me, did Ben have a reason to kill Bridges? You look too old for a cop, but you’re asking cop questions.”

I wondered what Skip would say about that. Not that I planned to ask him. I didn’t care much for the observation that I looked too old for a cop, either, but I couldn’t let it distract me. “You mean the police have already asked you about this?”

Mike shook his head and turned to leave. “I think we’re done, lady.”

I considered threatening to complain about his attitude on the “How was your stay?” survey card in my room.