Tom Hoke - Murder in the Grand Manor

"May I have your bag, sir?" Jim held out his keys to the bellboy. He was wet and tired, but the change in the room price interested him.

The Grand Manor was where he wanted to be, and if this was the only way he could get a room without paying a small fortune, he could play along with it. For the moment he would have acknowledged being

Rebecca of

Sunnybrook Farm to get out of his wet clothes.

And Miss Annie Gary, if a bit addled, did not seem too formidable.

Against the suspicions on Leddon's face, he patted the little woman affectionately on the shoulder and made like Charlie.

"It has been a long time, Auntie," he allowed heartily. His six-two frame blocked Leddon's view of Miss Annie, whose unexpected wink almost made Jim laugh.

She extended a regal hand to her wet friend, who came forward and took it, her black eyes riveted on Jims face. "This is Lady Mantel, Charlie, whose eyes are certainly better than mine." Aunt Annie smiled. "You may not remember, but I think you met aboard her yacht in Gulfport years ago. Of course you were very young."

Jim was saved from replying by the arrival of the fat one with his bag. He managed to sideswipe Jim when he switched it from one hand to the other, muttering something about rocks. Jim tried on a bright smile for size.

"Aunt Annie, I must get out of these wet clothes. Perhaps you and Lady Mantel will join me for lemonade in the bar in a few minutes?"

He could have made a fortune from one portrait of these two. Lady Mantel poked accurately at her top hat and gave Aunt Annie a meaningful look. Whatever that meant, Jim was soon to find out. Aunt Annie played with her pince-nez purple string like the glasses were a yo-yo. She looked at Jim and closed her eyes in sort of a disparaging gesture. Then she opened them and the two ladies exchanged raised eyebrows. Aunt Annie said kindly, "It has been a long time, Charlie. Both of us are extremely allergic to lemons." They turned, crossed the lobby, and made a bee-line for the bar.

Leddon had his back to Jim, and there was nothing left to do but follow the bellboy up a creaky staircase. At the top of the first flight he went right. A stretch of high-ceilinged dark hall had one eight foot narrow window at the far end. Wheezing noisily from his effort, he fumbled a large key into the lock and introduced Jim to his quarters. Jim gave him a buck, closed the door on the silent scowl, and turned on the ceiling light to get the full effect.

If this was the thirty dollar room, it was over-priced. It was tired…the whole room was tired. Print drapes were limp, the wallpaper a startling potpourri of red roses peeled in spots.

The bed sagged in despair under a mustard-colored chenille spread. There was a ceiling fan above the light. He found the switch, flipped it, and threw open the window.

Clumps of wet shrubbery pushed against the screen. He hoped prayerfully if Jerry Duprey was under this roof, he had equally inviting quarters.

Jim needed more complications like he needed a hole in his head. Obviously the Grand Manor was not receptive to guests. He wondered why? What about the two old dames, and where in the hell was Jerry Duprey? He decided on the oblique approach in the face of Leddon's jerking the welcome mat out from under him. And maybe, if they weren't completely insane, Aunt Annie and Lady Mantel could clue him in on the inhospitable reception from Management. At least he could get a drink downstairs. He looked at the pint in his bag and decided to save it.

The tiny bathroom with a shower drew his immediate attention. He draped wet clothes over the end of the iron bedstead and gave the shower a try. Then he climbed into slacks and a sport shirt and reluctantly added a coat to cover his shoulder holster, and headed out of the room, with the bar the only bright spot on the current horizon.

Leddon stared at him as he came down the stairs. "I assume you would like to register?"

He pointed to the book in front of him which offered Jim a blank page, and Leddon kept his hand on it while Jim picked up the pen. "I can hardly wait," Jim assured him, and remembering his name was Charlie, signed Charlie Smith in his most dashing handwriting. The Smith was uninspired, but real at least. From the look Leddon flashed, he was not happy with the signature. Jim added

"Chicago" and the arrival of two soaked salesmen let him off the hook. He crossed the lobby fast and turned into the bar as he heard Leddon give them the eighty bucks a day routine. He didn't wait for their answer.

The Grand Manor bar was a cozy room twenty by forty-five feet. At the far end of the room was a large, lumpy man, whose jowls and fleshy nose were outlined by indirect lighting below. Obviously, the lighting was intended to be romantic, but struck Jim as plain spooky.

A skinny little man with one foot on the bar railing nursed a can of beer, and a jukebox played music from the 80s.

He stood in the doorway until his eyes became accustomed to the dim lighting. The bartender didn't look up. Finally Jim found Aunt Annie and Lady Mantel, seated against the wall on a bench. They had their heads together and both were drinking some sort of concoction through straws from tall glasses.

The two old girls looked up expectantly as he slid into a chair across from them. The big bartender came around the bar and lumbered over. He didn't seem to be any happier to see Jim than the desk clerk had been. Before Jim could speak his piece, his newly acquired Auntie delivered an edict: "Another double Camille, George, for my nephew."

"Double WHAT?" Jim asked as he turned back to the bar.

Aunt Annie grinned. "Never mind, Charlie, you’ll like it. I invented it." She sipped from her glass. "A jigger of cherry brandy and two of scotch," she announced proudly. "Soda water and a cherry and that's it! It’s named after Hurricane Camille which hit here in

1969.

It's a Force 5 drink!" Jim cringed at the concoction.

When he tasted it, he realized it was appropriately named. "You like it, Charlie?"

Aunt Annie cocked her head to one side and peered at him.

"I'm crazy about it, Auntie," he answered as he managed to get his breath. Over his shoulder he called: "George, bring me a bourbon and water for a chaser!" He was crazy, all right.

But he wasn't alone.

George brought the bourbon and water, slapped it down on the table and waddled off.

Jim abandoned the Camille and took a long pull on the bourbon. He had drunk a lot better whiskey, but the bourbon was an improvement and his stomach began to get untied.

"Ladies, shall we dispense with the fun and games. Your act is great. But I seem to have marched into the middle of something most peculiar. And you do owe me an explanation."

Jim leaned back and crossed his arms.

Severity of his expression was lost in the semi-darkness of the room. But the old dames were quite aware he was going to come up with a few questions. Lady Mantel pulled a fan out of the front of her dress and began fanning herself…let's say around the middle of her forehead, which kept her eyes away from his.

Aunt Annie was staring at the jukebox, swinging her pince-nez in tune to the music as if he weren't there at all.

Jim slapped his hands down on their table.

"Could I have your attention for a moment, please!" he offered sarcastically. The pince-nez swung to a slow stop. Lady Mantel's fan quit waving and lowered so he could see her eyes.

They told him nothing at all. The two old gals looked at each other and then back at him.

Aunt Annie tapped on the table with her index finger.

"Lena, Lady Mantel, thought it up. We are potted palms!" she added hastily as if she had read his mind. "The battier we are, the safer we are." She sighed. "You see, Charlie, there's something funny going on around here."