mind. If that was his intent, the ruse was an elaborate one. Room 374 had
been sealed off to all but SDPD with yellow crime-scene tape that prevented entry. The display was not a motif in keeping
with a five-star hotel, especially not The Hotel, which was always written in the uppercase, and pronounced the same way.
The Hotel had been around for more than a century. It epitomized Southern California class, if that wasn’t an oxymoron. Murder
at the Hotel was about as acceptable as franks and beans being offered as the nightly special in one of its restaurants. Maybe
with a French name, thought Am, you could get away with the franks and beans, but murder allowed no euphemisms.
Should he call the Fat Innkeeper? Am had been debating that for the half hour since room 374’s door had been closed to him.
He had delivered Helen Dunning and Macario Lopez to the room, and had almost asked McHugh to allow him participation in the
investigation, but pride had held back that request. Am had settled down the hallway within viewing range of the door, anxious
to hear the goings-on from T.K., Helen, or Macario as soon as they were released. It was a difficult wait because he couldn’t
do anything in the interim, not even share his worry.
Am started pacing again. At least he wasn’t squeaking anymore, even if his shoes and socks were still wet. It felt as if there
were something wet and gummy between his toes, but though he had probed with his fingers he hadn’t found anything other than
a matted sock. There was really no recourse but to take the damn sock off.
Leaning against a wall, Am removed first his shoes, and then his stocking. Massaging his toes was the highlight of his evening.
He didn’t want to put the sock back on immediately, especially in its wet state, but neither did he want to wring it out on
the carpeting. There wasn’t a bathroom nearby, but there was a terra-cotta ashtray not tea steps off. He hopped over, then
started squeezing the water out of the stocking. The droplets did a good job of making a puddle out of the Hotel imprimatur
minted into the fine sand.
His other foot demanded equal time, so Am repeated the process. His toes started to come to life again. If only he could discreetly
remove his underwear. Murder at the Hotel was bad enough. Facing it with wet underwear was next to unbearable.
“Am! Hey, Am!”
T.K.’s voice was unmistakable, catching Am between rubbing his toes and dreaming of a thorough scratching. Socks in one hand,
shoes in the other, Am felt like a hobo posing for some artistic brush. T.K. wasn’t the only witness to the spectacle; Helen
and Macario were also walking toward him.
His first impulse was to try and put his socks on while standing up, but he thought better of that. The Hotel was rife with
intimate sitting areas, benches usually sandwiched between a decorative urn on one side and a flower display on the other.
Am spotted one. It was just outside of room 374, but it was occupied. McHugh was sitting there watching him.
“Hey, Am,” said T.K. as he pulled up to him. “Big Brother figured you’d be waiting. He says he’d like to talk with you now.
That is if you’re done with your laundry.”
Am couldn’t be sure whether the line was T.K.’s or McHugh’s, but he didn’t appreciate it either way. Everyone was standing
around watching him with curiosity. There is nothing so difficult as putting on stockings while under inspection. Ask any
lover who has ever tried to make a graceful midnight retreat.
“Perhaps,” said Am, his sock unable to surmount his heel despite his exertions, “it would be better if I was to talk with
all of you a little later.”
The tone of his voice was such as to make them move along and not look back. McHugh was too far away to hear, but not to watch.
The more Am struggled with the sock, the more the detective shook his head.
The hell with it, thought Am. He stuffed the stockings into
been sealed off to all but SDPD with yellow crime-scene tape that prevented entry. The display was not a motif in keeping
with a five-star hotel, especially not The Hotel, which was always written in the uppercase, and pronounced the same way.
The Hotel had been around for more than a century. It epitomized Southern California class, if that wasn’t an oxymoron. Murder
at the Hotel was about as acceptable as franks and beans being offered as the nightly special in one of its restaurants. Maybe
with a French name, thought Am, you could get away with the franks and beans, but murder allowed no euphemisms.
Should he call the Fat Innkeeper? Am had been debating that for the half hour since room 374’s door had been closed to him.
He had delivered Helen Dunning and Macario Lopez to the room, and had almost asked McHugh to allow him participation in the
investigation, but pride had held back that request. Am had settled down the hallway within viewing range of the door, anxious
to hear the goings-on from T.K., Helen, or Macario as soon as they were released. It was a difficult wait because he couldn’t
do anything in the interim, not even share his worry.
Am started pacing again. At least he wasn’t squeaking anymore, even if his shoes and socks were still wet. It felt as if there
were something wet and gummy between his toes, but though he had probed with his fingers he hadn’t found anything other than
a matted sock. There was really no recourse but to take the damn sock off.
Leaning against a wall, Am removed first his shoes, and then his stocking. Massaging his toes was the highlight of his evening.
He didn’t want to put the sock back on immediately, especially in its wet state, but neither did he want to wring it out on
the carpeting. There wasn’t a bathroom nearby, but there was a terra-cotta ashtray not tea steps off. He hopped over, then
started squeezing the water out of the stocking. The droplets did a good job of making a puddle out of the Hotel imprimatur
minted into the fine sand.
His other foot demanded equal time, so Am repeated the process. His toes started to come to life again. If only he could discreetly
remove his underwear. Murder at the Hotel was bad enough. Facing it with wet underwear was next to unbearable.
“Am! Hey, Am!”
T.K.’s voice was unmistakable, catching Am between rubbing his toes and dreaming of a thorough scratching. Socks in one hand,
shoes in the other, Am felt like a hobo posing for some artistic brush. T.K. wasn’t the only witness to the spectacle; Helen
and Macario were also walking toward him.
His first impulse was to try and put his socks on while standing up, but he thought better of that. The Hotel was rife with
intimate sitting areas, benches usually sandwiched between a decorative urn on one side and a flower display on the other.
Am spotted one. It was just outside of room 374, but it was occupied. McHugh was sitting there watching him.
“Hey, Am,” said T.K. as he pulled up to him. “Big Brother figured you’d be waiting. He says he’d like to talk with you now.
That is if you’re done with your laundry.”
Am couldn’t be sure whether the line was T.K.’s or McHugh’s, but he didn’t appreciate it either way. Everyone was standing
around watching him with curiosity. There is nothing so difficult as putting on stockings while under inspection. Ask any
lover who has ever tried to make a graceful midnight retreat.
“Perhaps,” said Am, his sock unable to surmount his heel despite his exertions, “it would be better if I was to talk with
all of you a little later.”
The tone of his voice was such as to make them move along and not look back. McHugh was too far away to hear, but not to watch.
The more Am struggled with the sock, the more the detective shook his head.
The hell with it, thought Am. He stuffed the stockings into
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