IN ROOM 33 (2 page)

Mr. Emerson, the hotel owner, has no explanation for these events and considers them merely "a run of bad luck, unrelated and random." Mrs. Purdeen is not so convinced. "It is not at all uncommon for restless spirits to wreak havoc on the living," she says, adding, "Mr. Emerson should seriously consider conducting a séance in the room with the goal of discovering the source of such tribulation." Mr. Emerson's response to Mrs. Purdeen's suggestion was, "Fiddlesticks."

And so,
Dear Reader
, it appears the unhappy events in Room 33 will be left unexplored, and it will continue to host the Hotel Philip's well-heeled guests. Although this writer humbly suggests they sleep very lightly indeed.

Chapter 1

Lana lifted her gaze from the gleam of the polished oak table, rested it on the serene ocean outside her window—and gripped the phone so tightly her knuckles showed bone-white through her pale skin.

She hadn't expected him to be angry. Disappointed, maybe, but coming at her through the phone was barely leashed rage. It made her stomach ache.

"That can't be right," he said, his words hard, tight with shock. "You misunderstood. Stephen would never do that."

"But he did, David. I've just come from his lawyer. He told me Stephen, except for this house, left everything—and there wasn't much, really—to Joy." She kept her tone level, her attention on the sun-kissed sea.

"Unbelievable." A harsh breath hissed into her ear. "After all my plans—" He stopped. "And why in God's name would he pick Joy? He knew you two didn't get along. You haven't seen her in—how long has it been?"

"Four, maybe five, years. I really can't remember. I assume she's busy with whatever it is she does. Some kind of writing."

David snorted, apparently unmoved by her limp defense of the daughter who stayed as far away from her as the planet allowed.

"And I have a letter for her. Stephen's lawyer suggested I keep it sealed until she opens it. He says I'll be pleased, because it says something about her taking care of me." Lana wasn't sure what that meant, but she already didn't like it. Because whatever the intent, it meant trouble. She walked across her expansive living room to the window and leaned her head against the glass. The unruffled ocean stretched below her, bright and glittery in the late morning. She envied its calm. "It's all ridiculously complicated."

"And the Hotel Philip," David said. "That, too? You're certain?"

"It's hers."

"Christ!"

Lana tamped down her mild impatience. "I know this affects
our
plans," she said, reminding him that more than his interests were involved in their agreement. "But there's nothing I can do until I talk to Joy." Which she was
not
looking forward to. Her daughter was arrogant and difficult. David knew this. He should be more understanding of her concerns, less invested in his own.

"Do you think she'll sell?" he asked.

"I can't imagine why not. When I saw her last, she was traveling a lot and didn't show any signs of wanting to settle anywhere. I doubt she'll be interested in that queer old place. Why would she?"

"I need that property, Lana. We had a deal."

"I know, and I'd have sold it to you as we agreed, if Stephen hadn't dropped whatever marbles he once possessed. You know that. God knows, it's not as if I don't need the money."

Frustrated, she tugged at a loose thread on her cashmere sweater, was dismayed when it freed a string of red wool.

A thousand dollar sweater, unraveling, exactly like her life.

She needed a new sweater. She needed lots of new things, and for the first time in years she worried about how to get them. Stephen was generous, always gave her everything, and promised the rest. Then he'd died on her. Just days ago, but it seemed like forever.

She'd assumed there'd be money, and she'd simply go on as before, but there was very little, and what there was, in a truly mind-boggling move, he'd left to Joy, the daughter who made no secret of the fact she thought her mother both calculating and selfish. And what was the other thing? Oh, yes. High maintenance—whatever
that
meant. If Lana had to depend on Joy for the milk of human kindness, she'd die of thirst. Thank God for David. She pressed a hand to her stomach. Their plan was simple. Lana would inherit the musty old Philip, sell it to David, and plump her sagging fortunes with a considerable deposit—ten million dollars. Now everything had changed.

"Lana, are you still there?" David asked.

"Yes, darling, I'm still here. But I need to rest a while. It's been a stressful morning. Why don't you come over, say, in an hour? We'll have a drink, talk then."

"Good idea. We need to talk." His tone gentled. "You'll be fine, don't worry. I'll see to everything. Do you have a copy of the will at the house?"

"Uh-huh."

"Good. I'll look it over when I get there. We'll see what can be done."

Lana pushed the off button on the phone and tossed it on the blue damask chair beside the window. She quelled the tears behind her eyes but could do nothing to calm the simmering turmoil in her mind.

She didn't need David to confirm that nothing could be done. According to his lawyer, Stephen made certain the will would stand "any and all scrutiny." But no matter how many times she turned it over in her head, she couldn't understand why Stephen—who loved her insanely—had made her subject to Joy's generosity, when Lana wasn't at all sure Joy had any. At least toward her.

She picked up the phone, sat in the chair, and stared at the silver receiver in her hand.

She'd have to call Joy, of course. But not yet. First, she'd straighten herself up, freshen her makeup.

She didn't intend to be red-eyed and puffy for David. She needed him, now more than ever. She went into her bathroom and soaked a facecloth in cold water. She draped it across her eyes for a moment, then blotted her heated face and neck.

When she again looked in the mirror, she tilted her head, touched the faint spray of lines at the corners of her wide blue eyes. She thought about the cosmetic vacation Stephen had promised her for her forty-ninth birthday. Her expression was wry when she said aloud, "Stephen dearest, if you'd truly loved me, you'd have had the courtesy to die
after
the damned surgery." She stepped away from the mirror and, suddenly chilled, rubbed her upper arms. "And you'd never have forced Joy back into my life."

She remembered what the lawyer said after their meeting. At the time it had confused her, but now she understood him completely.

Death changes everything—and then they read the will.

* * *

Wade propped the damp mop against the wall, looked down the hall, and surveyed his work. Not bad. The old gent was looking better. Amazing what a little soap and water would do.

"Mornin', Wade." Sinnie Logan stepped into the hall, waved at him, and turned to close her door. When she looked back, she sniffed the air. "Smells a lot better around here since you came along." She gestured toward the mop. "You should get help with that."

"You volunteering?" He winked at her.

She made a show of rubbing her lower back. "No way. I've enough trouble getting these seventy-six-year-old bones to swish a broom around old Rupert's place—and he pays me."

Christian Rupert had occupied the Hotel Philip penthouse practically since the hotel was built. Somewhere along the line, he'd started doing the Howard Hughes recluse thing and hadn't stepped outside his door for years. He had to be ninety by now, at least. Sinnie had cleaned his place for years. "How's the old guy doing anyway?" he asked.

"Goofy as ever and sharp as a pin. He's going to outlive the lot of us." She didn't look as if the idea particularly pleased her. She settled her felt hat closer around her head. Winter, summer, fall, Sinnie wore that hat. "What about Gordy?" she asked. "Can't he help you out? Or that new fellow, Mike, who moved in on four?"

"Working. He got a job, part-time anyway."

Sinnie stopped fussing with her hat, peered up at him. "A job? Doing what?"

"Bike courier."

She went back to tugging her hat, looked amused. "Now there's one for the books. Any bike that man sits on will flatten to scrap for sure."

Wade picked up his mop. "It's work, Sinnie. A man needs that." Like he needed to clean this musty old hall. There'd been a time it was carpeted in rich red wool, luxurious and dense, plush enough to soften the footfalls of the hotel's wealthy guests. All that was left now was rutted and scarred oak floor, the ghost of the carpet only a creamy shadow running down its center.

Sinnie looked down the hall, as if she, too, remembered, and nodded. "What you're doing here? It's good, Wade. These old halls haven't been clean like this in too many years to count. Your granddad? He'd a been proud." She cocked her head, fired up her dog-with-a-bone look. Wade knew it well. "Have you thought any more about what I said?"

Sinnie was on him about the hotel. His legacy, she called it."I think about what you say all the time, Sinnie," he said, not above a lie if it made her happy. "Now, you better get on your way. You'll be late for your gin rummy game." He knew that would get a rise out of her—and change the subject. Family and legacies weren't up for discussion in these scabby walkways.

"You kidding me? Gin rummy!" She snorted. "That's an old lady's game. It's stud poker, and you know it." She marched the few feet down the hall to the Hotel Philip's ancient and unreliable elevator. She pushed the button, looked back at Wade, and raised her voice. "You fixing to stay, Wade Emerson?"

"A while yet."

"That's what you said a couple of weeks ago, when you landed on the doorstep like a bird tossed from its nest. You haven't left yet."

"No, I haven't." He'd come to see Sinnie, sure. God knows, he owed the woman. But he had no idea why he was still here or when he'd leave. A shrink would have a field day with that mental waffle.

"So what's a 'while' in Wade-speak?"

"A slice of time somewhere between yesterday and whenever."

"Humph." The elevator came and Sinnie stepped in. She held the door open. "That's no answer, boy. Time you figured out what you're hanging around here for. Time you made plans. Got yourself involved in something other than mops and buckets." She let the door go and it closed.

Wade listened to the elevator clatter its way down.

Sinnie was right. It was time for him to make plans. Too bad his brain wouldn't oblige, but it, like the rest of him, was jammed in neutral. He reached for the mop and picked up the pail of brackish water. The irony of his situation wasn't lost on him. Wade Philip Emerson, high-flying mergers and acquisitions specialist, on the business end of a mop.

Nobody could tell him life didn't have a sense of humor.

He stowed the mop and pail in the fifth-floor storage room and headed for the stairwell and the third floor. On his way to his room, he glanced at the door to Room 33. In his grandfather's day the numbers were raised, gleaming forth from a shiny brass plaque anchored to the door with matching brass screws; now they were scratched into the wood and filled in with black felt pen, the words "KEEP OUT" scrawled under them.

Wade hadn't yet gone in there. Would. One of these days. Not today.

The door to Room 36, his door, was open. He didn't bother to lock it, because he had nothing in there anyone would want. Pointless during the day anyway, because most of the remaining tenants didn't bother to lock their doors either—or knock on someone else's. They just streamed between rooms as the mood hit.

"Gordy. That you in there?"

"Yeah, it's me." The voice lifted over the chatter of cartoon dialogue and the sound of warring spaceships—at least the whirrs, beeps, and roars that TV sound technicians had decided sounded like spaceships. Nearly boiled his ear drums.

When Wade stepped into his room, a dog barked, then stopped when it recognized him and wagged its tail furiously. "Aren't you supposed to be walking him?" Wade switched off the TV, ruffled the soft fur on the mutt's back. Part terrier, part poodle, part hound, Melly was a stew of a dog with the disposition of an angel.

"Uh-huh. Want to come? Melly and I've been waiting for you." Gordy looked at him expectantly, a bright smile on his face. "Mr. Rupert wants me to take him 'a good long way.'"