Sammy Keyes and the Art of Deception (20 page)

Boy, was I crabby!

So, it turns out, was Grams. I swear, she made
me
seem sweet as Snow White. I found her sitting on the kitchen
floor, ripping pots and pans out of a cupboard, thumping and bumping, muttering and
hrmph
ing, steaming like a pressure cooker.

“Hi, Grams.”

Grumble-grumble.

“I take it you saw Hudson today?”

Grumble-grumble-grumble.

“Showed him the fishy papers?”

She looked at me from around the cupboard door. “Micro-
fiche
, Samantha! It's a type of film, not something from a seafood market.”

I couldn't help grinning. “But he didn't find anything, uh,
fishy
about them?”

She burrowed back into the cupboard. “Very funny. And no, he didn't.”

“Are you looking for something or just cleaning?”

“Organizing,” she says as she yanks out more pots and pans. “Making sense out of years of accumulated clutter and debris.”

I dropped my backpack and sat down on the floor, too. “So what did he say?”

Bang, clank, thwonk.
“He told me it's who you evolve into that matters, not the missteps you've taken along the way.” She eyes me over her shoulder. “I don't know why I bothered.”

So there she is, surrounded by pots and pans, baking dishes and muffin tins, about to say something more, when all of a sudden her eyes get real big and she freezes. Then I swear her
ears
perk up. Like a bunny that senses a fox near the meadow.

“What, Grams?”

“Shhh!”

Before I can hear a thing, Grams is up and out of the kitchen, on her way to her bedroom.

I chase along behind her, and that's when I hear it, too.

Brum-bum-bum-bum-bum.

Grams already has her binoculars out from under her bed and is heading for the window.

“Grams, it's probably just a—”

“No, it's not,” she snaps, then points. “There he is.” She puts her binoculars up to her glasses, but I don't need them to know she's right. I watch as the bike growls up Broadway, and even from five floors up, I recognize the rider.

Plus, Grams was right—nothing sounds quite like that Harley.

“What's his name again?” Grams asks from behind her binoculars.

“Lance, I think.”

“That's right, Lance.”

We watch as he flips a U-ie. Across four lanes of traffic, right there in front of the highrise, he does a U-ie and pulls up to the curb of the Heavenly Hotel across the street. Then he snaps down his kickstand, peels off his helmet, and saunters inside.

Grams lowers the binoculars. “He's staying at the
Heavenly
?”

Now, the Heavenly is the seediest hotel in town. I know—I've been inside. So whether he's staying there or just visiting someone there doesn't really matter. As Grams says, it's a safe house for unsavory characters.

'Course there are also nice people at the Heavenly. Like my friend Madame Nashira. And André—the guy who runs the front desk—he's okay, too. So it's not like I'm afraid of the place. I just don't hang out there much, is all.

Anyway, Grams is practically rubbing her chin, going, “I wonder what he's doing there…. Mizz Lizz has got plenty of room, so why isn't he staying with her?”

I almost told her what Mr. Moss had said about him and Diane having a “row,” but I didn't really want to get into
why
I'd been over there again. Not just then, anyway. So instead I said, “You want me to cruise over and check it out?”

“No!”

“Why not? I'll just go in, ask André if the guy's staying or visiting, and come back.”

“No. You know how I feel about the Heavenly.”

“I also know how you feel about Diane Reijden.”
“Hrmph.”

“Okaaaaay, Grams, then you go.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“But—”

“
Or
, we could go together … ?”

She looks at me. Then the Heavenly. Then me again.

Then my grams does something I've never known her to do.

She
giggles.

And with that, we're off to the Heavenly Hotel.

SEVENTEEN   

Not only did Grams decide to go to the Heavenly Hotel with me, she decided to take the fire escape. “It's certainly more direct,” she said.

“But not exactly made for
pumps,
” I told her.

“Look, Samantha. Quit it about my shoes, would you? I've worn pumps my whole life, and I'm not ready to give them up yet.” She clanked along behind me. “Would you rather I wore shoes like Rose's?”

“Oh yuck, Grams!” I said, 'cause Mrs. Wedgewood next door wears the world's most revolting shoes. They're rubbery and black, and her ankles balloon out over the tops.

“Well then quit making fun of my pumps.”

I started saying something about some happy middle ground, but she caught my eye from half a flight up. “I said, quit!”

“Okay, okay! I'm just worried about you tripping on nothing again and having to haul your broken bones to the hospital—”

“I did not trip on nothing!”

“Well then—”

“Stop it!”

I rolled my eyes. “Whatever.”

When she joined me on the ground, she snorted and said, “See? I managed just fine,” but then she wouldn't jaywalk across Broadway. Not because she was afraid of getting a ticket—no, she was afraid she couldn't cross fast enough to make it without getting hit by a car. So we had to go clear up to Main, cross at the light, and then walk back down to the Heavenly.

She might as well have taken the elevator.

The minute we stepped inside the Heavenly, Grams' nose started twitching. And I knew she was thinking that the place reeked, because it does. Like giant moldy potatoes have been hanging around the lobby smoking cigarettes.

I put a hand on her shoulder and whispered, “I know it stinks, but check out the furniture and stuff. It's really pretty cool.” I pointed to the fuzzy green high-back chairs. “Don't you love those?”

She wrinkled her nose. “They look like the pope's hat.”

I laughed, “Exactly!”

André was in his usual spot—sitting behind the check-in counter, chomping on a cigar and leafing through the paper. He does a double take when he sees me, then pulls the cigar out of his mouth and says, “Saaaaaay, Sammy! How ya doin'?”

“Doing all right.” I motion to Grams, saying, “This is my grandmother.”

He leans over the counter and shakes her hand. “Nice to meet you. You after a room?”

“Heavens no!” Grams says, then clears her throat and
takes it down a notch. “I live right across the way. In the highrise.”

“Ah …,” he says, then turns to me. “She's the one with the binoculars?”

I grin at him, 'cause it was thanks to Grams' binoculars that I spotted a thief in his hotel once. “That's right.”

He nods. “I remember now. So, what can I do for ya?”

I look at Grams like, Well? So she clears her throat again and says, “The fellow that just came in? Is he visiting someone or staying?”

André studies her a minute, then me. And the whole time he's looking at us, thinking, his cigar's rolling from one side of his mouth to the other and back again. Finally he clamps it between his front teeth and says, “Stayin'.” He eyes me. “Should I be concerned?”

I shrug, then ask, “How long?”

There goes his cigar again, rolling back and forth. Finally he nods and says, “We're going day by day.”

“You think maybe we could talk to him?”

He shrugs, then picks up the phone and dials 2-2-7, and after a few seconds he says, “Mr. Ryder? You've got visitors down here … a gal and her grandma … let me ask.” He covers the receiver. “What's it about?”

“Uh … his Harley,” I tell him.

André's eyebrows go up a bit as he uncovers the phone. “They say it's about your Harley … no, I can assure you it's a gal and her grandma … All right, then.”

“So?” Grams asks him after he hangs up.

“He'll be right down.”

I ask, “Is that how he registered? As Mr. Ryder?”

He holds my gaze, then checks the book. “Uh-huh.”

“
Lance
Ryder?”

He leans forward, “You know privacy's a big deal to my guests. Don't push too hard, Sammy.”

“I know, but—”

“I only told you so much 'cause I owe ya. But let's leave it at this, okay?” He motions to the pope-hat chairs and says, “Why don't you take a seat. Save your questions for him.”

So Grams and I sit down, and I whisper, “What are you going to ask him?”

“What am
I
going to ask him? Samantha, this was your idea!”

“Yeah, but—” Then there he is, coming out of the stairway, still in chaps and his fringed leather jacket. I wave and call, “Hey! Over here!”

He walks toward us. Cautiously. Suspiciously. Like the granny and the girl might be packing heat or something. Finally he asks, “Do I know you?”

“Sort of.” I stand up and stick out my hand. “I'm Sammy, this is my grams, Rita.” I plop back down in my pope-hat chair and wave at a third chair, but he keeps right on standing. “We saw you outside your sister's house a couple of days ago.”

He just squints at me.

“We were leaving when you were driving up?”

“You sure it was me?”

“Uh-huh. Unless you just bought that Harley.”

“There's lots of Harleys in the world.”

“Apparently not like yours. My gramps had one that Grams says was tricked out the same.”

His eyebrow goes up in Grams' direction, but since
she
doesn't say anything and
he
doesn't say anything, I lower my voice and say, “Gramps ran off with a bimbo from the Harley shop, so it's sort of a sore subject.”

He kind of nods at me, then looks at Grams. “Well, that Harley ain't your old man's, if that's what you're wondering. It's been mine for nearly thirty years.”

Grams still doesn't say anything, so I say, “Actually, Mr. Reijden, we didn't really want to talk about your Harley. We want to talk to you about your sister.”

He just levels a look at me. Real calm. Real even.

“Why are you staying here and not with her?”

He shakes his head and says, “I'm afraid I don't have much to say about that or Lizzy.”

Now the way he said it was like he was pushing through the doors of a saloon, kinda surveying the joint, sauntering up to the bar for a shot of whiskey. And all of a sudden I could just see him, all jacked up, shouting “FREEZE” across the room, holding the place up. And I tried to look at his eyes and see if they were the same eyes I'd seen behind the Squirt Gun Bandit's mask, but shoot, I couldn't tell. They were just your average medium-brown eyes.

Kind of
shifty
medium-brown eyes, but still, medium brown.

But Grams laughs and says, “If it's any consolation, I don't have much good to say about Lizzy, either.”

His head tilts to one side, and half a smile creeps up his face. “Is that so?”

She nods, then starts plucking imaginary fuzz off her
skirt. “I find her to be deceptive and coy.” She rolls her eyes my way and adds, “Not that I can convince anyone
else
of that …”

His smile creeps across, invading the other side of his face. Then he sits down, stretching his legs out in front of him. “So what's she done to you, Rita?”

Grams looks right at him, then looks back at her skirt.

So
I
say, “Her friend's sort of … you know …
mesmerized
by her.”

“Boyfriend?” he asks.

Now that term seemed like a really stupid way to describe Hudson. I mean, he's seventy-two, for crying out loud. But still, I couldn't come up with a better word to explain it. “Kinda.”

He nods. “He's not the first.”

That got Grams' attention. “Oh?”

“Won't be the last.”

“You're saying this is a … a
pattern
for her, then?”

He shrugs. “My sister's always been a dabbler.”

“In men?” Grams asks.

“In everything.”

“Well, wait a minute,” my mouth shoots off. “I don't know about men, but she sure doesn't dabble in
art.
She's really talented and—”

Grams shuts me down with, “And what do you call those
statues
?”

Lance throws his head back and laughs. “Lady, you just hit the nail on the head.” He stands up, saying, “And that's really all I have to say about Elizabeth. People do wise up eventually. She's got a string of exes to prove it.”
He sticks his hand out to Grams and covers hers with his other hand when they shake. “It was nice to make your acquaintance. And don't worry about the Harley. Once I settle things with my sister, I'll be off.”

Now, before I can say, “Settle
what
things?” he winks at Grams and says, “Between your ex and your boyfriend, it sounds like you could use a good man in your life.”

Grams blushes. Heck, I do, too. But before either of us can say a thing, he's heading for the stairs.

I whisper, “He did just hit on you, right?”

“It's been a long time,” she says, still blinking at the stairway.

The phone was ringing when we got back to the apartment. Grams snatched it up, saying, “Yes?” then, “Hold on.” She gives me the phone. “It's Marissa.”

“Sammy!” Marissa says when I get on the line. “I've got his number!”