Dark Passions (16 page)

Read Dark Passions Online

Authors: Jeff Gelb

“I could stay the night.”
Rule one, according to all his friendly fellow philanderers: always go home to mama. You pull an overnight, your ass is grass.
“I really need to get up early.”
“That wouldn't bother me. I have to get up early too.”
“You're married.”
“I didn't say I was married.”
The odd, unreadable smile again. “You didn't have to.”
“That obvious?”
“Afraid so.”
They lingered apart. When he touched her hip with glancing fingers, he felt a tremor race up and down her body. Or was it a shudder? Did she find him repulsive suddenly?
“You're a consultant, you said?”
“Yes. Office design.”
He was watching her, eyes unwilling to leave her face for even a moment, when a shudder of his own troubled his stomach. He'd been holding off a bowel movement but could hold it no longer.
“Much as I don't want to, I have to excuse myself for a few minutes.”
“I'll just lie here.”
Nice if she'd said,
I'll just lie here and think about you.
In the old days he'd been not only a trusty cocksman but a trusty heartbreaker too. Hard to say which gave him more pleasure. The sex or knowing they'd fallen in love with him.
“Be right back.”
No, hurry back or I'll miss you.
Just watching him. Watching.
And when he finally did come back—much longer in there than he'd hoped, and God, he hoped the toxic odor had quelled by the time she needed to go—she was gone.
Her clothes. Her purse. Her person.
Gone.
Cam was no more or no less pissy with him than she usually was in the days and nights following his time with the mystery woman in the hotel. He had cautiously explained that his important medical meeting had run late, but she didn't seem interested one way or the other. For the next week of nights, he dutifully stayed home, the irony being that for three of those nights she was gone to her various meetings and social gatherings. The duties of a prominent man's wife.
He hadn't forgotten about the woman. That would have been impossible. He tried to find out her full name—Jane was all he had—but when he phoned the hotel, their computer information indicated that 605 had been registered that night not by a Jane but by a woman named Beth Whitney. The information indicated that she was a press officer for the state government and resided in the state capitol. Which turned out to be bullshit. No Beth Whitney listed on the state employment rolls, no such occupation as press officer except to the governor ...
Who the hell was she, and where had she gone?
 
 
The letter arrived on a sunny Saturday morning. Cam had long ago been told never to touch his mail, to leave it on a small table outside his study.
It was the only piece of mail he received that morning. She propped it up against the wall behind the table. Impossible to miss. She wondered how many times she'd rewritten it since the night her faithless husband slept with the mystery woman in the hotel. Over and over she'd polished it.
“I think I'll play handball this afternoon,” he announced at lunch.
“Very good exercise.”
He looked at her then, something he rarely did. And it was more than merely looking. It was
studying
her. She felt her right hand begin to tremble, something it always did when she was nervous. Did he know that she'd hired the young woman? Did he know that his faithful wife had dummied up the letter? Had the young woman betrayed her, told him everything?
“You all right?”
“Fine, dear. Why?”
“You just sound—funny, I guess.”
She smiled. “Afraid not. Same old grumpy lady I've always been.”
He gave her the rote kiss before going to his den. The one on the side of the mouth. The only kind of kiss she'd had from him in a long, long time.
She sat and listened. She knew his temper well. After opening and reading the letter, he might well begin to smash up a few things in his den. He'd done that quite often. Some of the things had been impossible to replace. But he didn't value gifts any more than he valued his marriage.
And then it came. The entire house, enormous and all too showy (just the way he wanted it), seemed to tremble, much like her right hand. My God, she'd never heard him like this—this loud, this furious, this obscene.
But Cam supposed she would be just as enraged if somebody she'd slept with sent a letter a few weeks afterward saying that they had just been diagnosed HIV positive.
Bill would get himself tested, of course; he was vain, arrogant, even idiotic in his own way, but he wasn't stupid. When the test came back negative, he might chalk up the letter as a mean-spirited prank. But Cam hoped that the fear he was feeling now would have a sobering effect on him, that he would realize that he wasn't a thirty-year-old lothario anymore. That he looked ridiculous prowling the bars at his age. That it was time for him to settle down for good.
But if not ...
Cam opened her purse and removed the dirty syringe that she had taken from a junkie dying of AIDS at the free clinic. She held it delicately in her hand while listening to Bill rage and swear in his office.
There were always other ways.
Miss F
aversham
's Room
Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
 
 
 
“A
nd this,” said the housekeeper, “is Miss Faversham's room.” She indicated the door on the broad landing halfway up the staircase as the two of them climbed the wide, carpeted stairs. “Actually, it's three rooms: a sitting room, a bedroom, and a dressing room. The bathroom is through the interior door and isn't considered a part of Miss Faversham's suite since it has access to the swimming-pool area, although the interior door makes it seem private.” She used her key-card to open the door and stood aside to permit her companion to enter ahead of her.
“I've been told every Faversham hotel—all fifteen of them—has a room just like this, a suite, really, although they don't call it that,” said Harold Bright, speaking into his Thumbnail recorder as he walked into the room, the housekeeper behind him. He noted the room was a bit cold, as if the heat hadn't been turned on yet; shrugging against the pull of his luggage strap, he dismissed the chill as the result of the room being used rarely.
“Surely you've already seen a few of them,” the housekeeper said with an air of remonstrance.
“I've seen some,” he said without missing a beat. “But not all.”
“Well, then I suppose you know as well as I that Miss Faversham's room is an intrinsic part of every Faversham hotel,” she said.
“That's what all the pr material says,” Bright told her. “But I like to check on such things for myself.”
“I suppose that's a reasonable precaution,” the housekeeper agreed, going to the thermostat and turning it up.
“You know how these things are,” said Bright, turning to look directly at the housekeeper. “Sometimes it's hard to sort out fact from publicity.”
“I'm sure the Board could provide you with the information you need—accurate information,” said the housekeeper.
“They've been very helpful so far,” said Bright, trying to stifle a sudden yawn, for although it was three-thirty in the afternoon, he had been traveling since ten the previous morning and had only arrived in Belgium from Buenos Aires two hours ago.
“Then you will know whom to ask for more material,” said the housekeeper.
Bright decided to change tactics. “You must get many inquiries about this place, given the history of the chain,” he prompted, reminding himself how important it was to chat up the staff, particularly since he did not truly fit into his surroundings. The leather duffle slung over his shoulder, although of excellent quality, seemed a bit shabby in this gorgeous room. Even his tweed jacket, silk shirt, and flannel slacks were a trifle too down-market for the suite with its museum-quality furnishings.
“Yes, we do,” the housekeeper said, her answer well rehearsed. “And yes: there is such a room in all our hotels. Every one of them on the landing of the Grand Staircase, as this one is; they're modeled on this room, of course. The Empire House is the first Faversham hotel. But I suppose you know that.” She patted the back of a swan-armed Empire sofa as if it were a spoiled pet. “They are furnished to complement the hotel, of course, which is why this one is in the Empire style. I'm sure you've seen the styles for each of them.” She went on automatically, “The hotel in London is Tudor, the one in Geneva is Art Deco, the one in Buenos Aires is eighteenth century classical, and the one in Montreal is—”
“—Louis XV,” said Bright, unable to resist showing off to the housekeeper. “The one in Tokyo is Art Nouveau, the one is Moscow is Russian Imperial, and the one in Washington is Federalist. The Roman hotel is Renaissance; the Berlin, Grand Baroque. The one in LA is Spanish Colonial. The Faversham room is always decorated to match the stylistic theme of the hotel, and always in superb taste.” He smiled at the housekeeper. “I've seen the American and European Favershams but not the Tokyo hotel; I'm scheduled to fly to Japan next week to see their Faversham. Then on to Melbourne for the opening of the newest in the chain, making sixteen. Edwardian decor, all the pre-opening releases say, with a great deal of crystal and fine wallpaper. Then just four to go, and I'll put the article together for publication next November, which is our annual top hotels issue.”
“So I understand from the CEO; Monsieur dePuy has said to extend you every courtesy, “said the housekeeper primly. “I trust you'll enjoy your stay, and that your article will reflect well on the Faversham chain.” She touched the soft collar of her cream-colored blouse that set off her navy blue wool suit. Her smile was professional—more teeth than goodwill—in contrast to her neat, self-effacing demeanor.
“So far so good,” said Bright, taking in the handsome room with its elegant furniture and beautiful appointments, including a tall porcelain vase on an ebony highboy and a dragon-motif lamp that looked as if it had escaped from Brighton Pavilion.
“It's most unusual, allowing a journalist to stay in Miss Faversham's room. Usually only corporate guests are permitted to use the room, no matter which hotel it may be in. Your publication must be more widespread than I had supposed,” said the housekeeper in a tone of polite inquiry. “How did you happen to get such an assignment?”
“It's my editor's idea,” said Harold Bright. “He couldn't set it up for Moscow or Rome, but Montreal was fine, and so was Washington and Vienna and Buenos Aires, which opened the doors to all the rest of the chain. This one is the prize.” He tried not to look smug but failed. “If all goes well, I'll get a book deal as well as the article out of it. It's a real incentive. And I get to stay in these wonderful hotels.” He swung his free arm to take in not only Miss Faversham's room but the whole of the Empire House.
“A very
nice
assignment, if I may say so,” the housekeeper observed. “I haven't been to the Moscow hotel, nor the one in Hong Kong. Grand Victorian, with Chinese accents.”
“Overstuffed chairs and a lot of wicker, large mirrors and portraits in heavy frames, along with Ming vases and Chinese carvings,” said Bright. “Beautiful carpets, polished wood, and brass.” He paused. “This is the flagship hotel, isn't it?”
“Yes. Horatio Faversham built it in 1874. It was ten years before he built the London Faversham, the Tudor House.”
Bright hoped to keep her talking, so he said, “Wasn't it risky—an Englishman opening a hotel in Brussels?”
“This hotel was originally intended for British travelers to the Continent. Brussels was often the place they began their journeys, and Horatio's Faversham gambled that this would be the kind of establishment they would want before they moved on. The next hotel was built in Paris—I trust you know that.”
“The Grand Epoch House,” Bright confirmed, recalling that Faversham had wanted Louis XIV, but that proved impossible, and so Faversham had gone for another kind of grandeur. “Then Vienna in 1901. His son Percival inherited four hotels in 1909; he expanded slowly and still almost lost all he owned during World War I, but he hung on and made a fortune before the end. I don't know much more about him, but I've found a couple of troubling references to him,” Bright added to show he knew the basics and to encourage the housekeeper to enlarge upon his knowledge. “I don't know what to make of him.” He noticed the heating had begun its soft, warm whisper.
“He is a bit of a puzzle,” said the housekeeper. “He was a prudent businessman, beyond question, and he laid the foundations for the entire chain in spite of setbacks, but his private life was ...” She cleared her throat and went on more carefully. “There were many rumors at the time he owned the chain, some quite ... unsavory, as I infer you have discovered. But Percival was not a well-liked man, and some of what was said about him might be nothing more than a reflection of that dislike, which one should bear in mind when reviewing the reports. At the time, nothing could be proven, but the accusations made ... I was shocked to read a few letters from the thirties and forties. If half of what they hinted was true, I can only pity his poor wife, having to live with such a man.”
“And daughter,” Bright suggested.
“Certainly she had a great deal to handle—assuming the worst of the rumors were true, which they may not have been.” This last was accentuated by a turndown of her mouth, as if in realization that she had said too much about Percival Faversham. “Miss Faversham took over the chain—then seven hotels—in 1947, the year after her father's ... death.”
“The final decision was suicide, wasn't it?” Bright asked, making note of the housekeeper's wince at the suggestion.
“That was the ruling; there wasn't sufficient evidence for the coroner to find it was murder. Given the taint of scandal, and the politics of the time, it was the most justifiable conclusion that could be reached, or so Miss Faversham decided.” She coughed delicately, lifting her handkerchief to her mouth. “No one thought a girl of twenty-four could possibly manage such a huge business, but she not only managed, she enlarged and improved the chain to what we see today.” The housekeeper shook her head, signaling the end of her forthcoming remarks; she returned to her prepared spiel. “The hotels were her whole life. You probably know that she died in the Istanbul hotel?”
“The Ottoman House, in 1994.”
“August ninth,” the housekeeper supplied and turned away.
“I understand she wanted to be preserved cryogenically, or cremated and her remains put into the foundation of her hotels.” Bright almost made it a question—one to which he was yet to have an answer.
The housekeeper pretended not to hear this last. “The bellboy will bring your bags up directly. You are familiar with the arrangements of this suite. Your computer can be connected any number of ways; there is a book describing the various links and lines we offer. The room-service menu will be brought up to you. We don't keep one in Miss Faversham's room; she never needed one.” She put down the room key-card on a splendid little occasional table standing not far from the door and started to leave, not quickly enough to seem rude. “I'm not available from seven until ten am, and five until nine-forty pm, but otherwise you need only call my office and have my assistant page me for you.”
“Thanks,” said Bright, nodding as he looked around the room again. “The place is pretty impressive. It wears its age well, doesn't it?”
“You could put it that way,” said the housekeeper.
“I seem to remember there was a major renovation not long ago—is that right?”
“In 1998,” she said, preparing to depart. “Everything was modernized and made energy efficient. The whole chain will be energy efficient in four more years.”
“Well, it looks great,” said Bright, taking care to put his duffle on the floor instead of on the butler's table next to the elegant sofa.
“Thank you. Enjoy your stay,” said the housekeeper as she let herself out of the room.
Bright nodded to the empty room. “Thanks,” he said and shoved his hand into his pocket to find the five-dollar bill he had put there. He also touched his cell phone and wondered idly if he should use it to let his boss know he had arrived. “Not yet,” he said aloud as he continued to take stock of the room; he often talked to himself when there was no one else to hear him. He coughed as a suggestion of a smoky odor went through on an unexpected breeze; a window must be ajar—he would have to find the source and close it. “Then something to take the edge off,” he said aloud, stretching to relieve his muscles from the hours of travel he had endured yesterday and today, truncated though they were. Strolling around the suite, he had to guard against the sense of déjà vu that took hold of him—too many nights in eerily similar rooms. If it weren't for the different styles of furnishings, this suite might have been in any number of Faversham Hotels, and he could be in any one of fifteen cities. He began to look for the opened window and discovered that the side door in the bathroom leading to the hall to the swimming pool was open a crack. He closed it, wondering why it wasn't locked. He returned to the sitting room and tried to make up his mind whether he should get out his laptop or continue to use his Thumbnail.
His cogitation was interrupted by a short rap on the door, and the call, “Bellhop.”
Bright went to open the door, ready to hand over the bill in his pocket. “Just bring them in and set them down. I'll sort them out later,” he said as the bellboy maneuvered the handsome brass trolley through the door and into the center of the sitting room.
“If you like, sir,” said the bellboy, a lanky fellow about forty whose face showed almost no emotion. He lifted Bright's large, wheeled duffle off the trolley, then hefted the large Gladstone bag and set it beside the duffle, and in a single motion took the five-dollar bill and slipped it into his tip-pouch. “Thank you very much, sir,” he murmured as he made for the door, pulling the empty trolley after him. “I've been told to bring you a room-service menu. It'll take me about ten minutes to do it, if you don't mind the wait.” His accent was basic British but smoothed down to a regionless clip.

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