Margaret Grace - Murder In Miniature

Big Blue had given me the choice of going downstairs to file an incident report tonight, thus leaving Maddie again, or waiting until morning. I chose not to leave my granddaughter this time, even though he himself offered to stay with her.

Maddie had awakened briefly and accepted the explanation that I’d stepped out of the room for a minute and forgotten my key, so the nice man from the hotel let me in. She’d dropped back on her pillow and seemed to be off to sleep in a minute.

I wondered how many years before she wouldn’t be able to do that.

It wasn’t hard to talk Maddie into one last hour at the pool with Taylor before we checked out. So far I’d been able to shield her from the events of last night and I planned to keep it that way.

The interview with hotel security was brief and relatively useless. As luck (for the thief) would have it, not all the lights in the garage were working last night. Thus, the security camera had only the fuzziest image of someone exiting the stairwell and running across the garage floor within a half hour on each side of the time I specified. Other than that, no one could say what had happened to the robber.

By the time I’d repeated my story three times, to different personnel, none of whom were SFPD, my purse had been located in a trash can outside the exit door from the garage. The shiny beads on the black silk purse, put there myself in a fit of macro-crafting one day, had caught the eye of a hotel custodian.

The purse was empty. I imagined the thief, tossing my lipstick and sundries aside, frustrated when he found little cash and no credit cards. The other option was too hard to accept: that all he’d wanted in the first place was the key to my room. And that one of those middle-of-the-night rattles was not a dream.

Knowing that I’d left Maddie at the pool for a supervised kids’ water ballet class with her BFF temporarily set my mind at ease.

“Most of your body is in the water,” Taylor had explained to Maddie, and then Maddie to me. “It’s mostly just kicking your legs up and flopping your arms around, in tune with some music,” Taylor assured me, as if I were the one who needed to be talked into it.

With not a lot of time to waste before checking out, I headed for the hotel gift shop. Walking through the quiet lobby, I had an uneasy feeling, which wasn’t surprising after last night’s ordeal. Again, I wondered where everyone was. I thought San Francisco was one of the most visited cities in the country. Not this weekend.

I bypassed the tile bridge that ran through the faux jungle and took the longer route, through a seating area for the hotel’s coffee shop, called Friars Minor. Only low-level plants lined this wide-open area. No place for someone to hide. Or jump out from.

I approached the gift shop, hoping that an Aaron-like person had the early morning shift. It bode well for the success of my mission that there were no other customers at this hour.

I knew as soon as I entered the shop that getting what I wanted from the bored-looking young woman filing her nails behind the counter would require only a small percent of my talents. I imagined her sitting at the back of a classroom, tapping her desk, longing for something interesting to come her way. I’d seen the likes of her many times over.

From my tote, I pulled out the unopened box of chocolates and the updated “yearbook” Rosie had produced. “Hey,” I said. “I wonder if you can help me with some romantic detective work I’m doing.”

She looked up from her nails (that was a start) and raised her eyebrows. “What’s up?” she said, sounding like Skip and the rest of the twenty-to-thirty crowd.

“Well, I got this nice box of chocolates from your shop”-I placed the box on the counter-“and I think it’s from an old flame.” I flashed a coy grin. “But, you know, I’m going to be really embarrassed if I have the wrong guy.” I flopped the spiral-bound yearbook over the box and tapped the cover. “His picture would be in here.”

“Yeah?” she said, brightening. “When did you get the candy?”

I wasn’t sure, but I knew the box hadn’t been in the room when we checked in. I couldn’t remember if it was there after the cocktail party. I was sure Maddie would remember, however, and wished I’d asked her when it first appeared. But then, it was never possible to ask my granddaughter a question without giving her the background she’d insist on.

“Sometime late Friday evening,” I said, which I felt was as good a guess as any. “I just opened my door and there it was. There was a message on a card, but no name.” I tried to fake a blush.

“Mmm,” she said, rubbing her palms together. The young woman had rings on every finger except her ring fingers. A wide silver thumb ring with a large turquoise stone was especially eye-catching. “I was here from four to midnight on Friday. I have to do inventory after we close. You’re lucky because, you know, the guys that work here… She whooshed her hand over her head to indicate how clueless her male colleagues were. “Who do you think it is?”

I’d already stuck a piece of hotel notepaper in page thirty-six, toward the back of the book, where the faculty photos were laid out. A random choice. I opened the book to the spot and pointed, again at random, to Joel Mullins, who’d taught history at ALHS during the eighties. As far as I knew, Joel and his wife were happily married and traveling the world together. “I think it might be Joel,” I said.

She held up the book for a better view and shook her head. “Nuh-uh. I’ve never seen this guy.”

Good sign. She’d passed the “trick question” test.

A young couple in nearly matching sweats came through the door. I was worried that their presence would end our research session, but my new BFF, the clerk with spiffy nails, handled their transaction quickly, telling me, “Don’t go away, okay?”

She was mine.

As soon as the couple exited with newspapers and trail mix, the ringed clerk rushed over to me. “Let’s start from the beginning,” she said. She held out her hand. “I’m Samantha.”

“Mary Lou,” I said. Maddie’s mother’s name was the first to come to my lips once I made the quick decision not to use my own. Just in case my real name was on a hotel watch list somewhere, or Skip was monitoring my activity.

Samantha, whose morning I was salvaging, I knew, took the book from me and opened it on her lap. Apparently her “Let’s start from the beginning” meant not only a name exchange but going to page one of the yearbook.

She flipped pages, uttering sounds like “nuh-uh” and “mmpft” now and then, while I stewed and hoped no one I knew came into the shop. I imagined Henry Baker coming in with “Good morning, Gerry.” Which reminded me-Maddie and I were due to meet him and Taylor for brunch at ten when the girls had finished swimming.

“Bingo,” Samantha said.

I came to the present. “You found him?”

“Yup. Here he is. I remember because he was carrying this big trophy, like for football or basketball or something. And I stored it in back here for him while he looked around and made up his mind.” She folded her arms and stepped back to admire her work. “Yup, it’s him.”

I was glad she didn’t feel it necessary to point out the age difference between me and my Romeo, found early in the reunion class pages. On second thought, as with Aaron, we probably all looked the same vintage to Samantha. I was glad it wasn’t someone whose name began with Z; the shop couldn’t stay empty too much longer.

I turned the book around to see whom she’d fingered.

“Barry Cannon,” she read, as I was processing the photograph and caption. “Wow. He was senior class president.”