Chapter 6Bryan
Chapter Six
brYAN
Truttism Number 5: If you MUST put all your eggs in one basket then, for God’s sake, don’t count them till they’re hatched!
I know I’m in trouble the minute I park the Lexus in front of the big Victorian on Chester Street. It’s a plummy color with pink shutters and lots of the ornate spindles and window frames and decorative touches that I believe they call “gingerbread.” At least the front walk is cleared down to the concrete so I don’t have to worry about getting waylaid by a mound of grimy snow. I follow it up to the huge wrap- around porch, and I’m about to use the cat-shaped brass knocker when it’s snatched out of my reach by the opening door.
“Oh! Hello, hello!” says a middle-aged woman with
short white hair. She reminds me a little of Helen, actually, but much more pleasant.
“Uh… Hi, I’m Bryan Truitt. I think my assistant called ahead for me?” I say, half hoping she tells me there’s been a mistake and the place is all booked up. No such luck, though. “Oh, you betcha!” She nods enthusiastically and waves me inside. “My name is Lucille van der Hoovenwald. But everyone just calls me Miss Lucy.”
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Lucy,” I respond to the back of her sweater vest as I follow her into what I can only describe as an old-fashioned parlor. It’s got one of those big, velvet settees, and lamps with giant pink globes and long glass chimneys. Every surface is littered with figurines and teacups and tchotchkes galore.
“Wow, this is…some place you’ve got here,” I say once we reach a giant cherry sideboard.
“Well, thank you, young man!” she replies with a smile, opening a drawer and then pressing a large brass-colored key into my hand.
“You’re in the King Gustav room. It’s right at the top of the stairs. You’re the only guest, so please make yourself at home. There are snacks in the kitchen, and I’ll have breakfast for you in the morning. Are you hungry now? I’ve got a chili corn-chip hotdish just coming out of the oven.”
“Hot…dish?”
“Hotdish. All one word. Like a casserole, dear. I love a piping hotdish on a cold winter’s night.”
“Well, that’s very sweet of you, but I think I might go out for a bite. Of course, I don’t want to disturb you if I need to be out late for some reason.”
“Oh, no worries. No worries at all. The front door is never locked. Just walk right in anytime, day or night. Just please be careful not to let the kitties out.”
She nods toward a pale pink chair with lace arm covers. I hadn’t noticed the chair before. Or the cat curled up on it. Or the cat’s sweater.
“Uh, Miss Lucy, is that cat wearing a sweater ?” I ask, not quite trusting my travel-weary eyes.
She chuckles at me.
“Oh, you’re just a funny one, aren’t ya! You betcha, that there’s my little Queen Elizabeth. She’s usually in pink, don’t ya know, but there was an unfortunate incident involving a hairball this morning, so she’s borrowed that yellow one from her sister, Margaret Thatcher,” she explains, then drops her voice.“ She’s sleeping with Winston Churchill in the den.” “Oh my!” I whisper in an appropriately scandalized tone.
“Indeed!” she agrees.
I’m laughing as I take my bag and climb the stairs in search of the King Gustav.
…
I usually make it a point to avoid any hotel without a five- star rating. That’s not to say I haven’t stayed in more humble accommodations. In those first years I was in business, I’d get in my car and drive across the country, from coast to coast, border to border. I often found myself at small roadside motels. The kind with towels as soft as sandpaper and bedspreads as clean as the men’s room floor at Grand Central Station. But never, in my many pilgrimages, have I bunked at a place quite like the Pink Lady Slipper Inn of Mayhem, Minnesota.
One look at the weather forecast and Helen insisted I needed to stay someplace in town. She didn’t want me navigating the icy back roads after dark…or after a few shots of vodka, for that matter. As I lie on the ruffled bedspread, looking up at the tin-tiled ceiling, I have to wonder if she didn’t put me here just to get back at me for giving her a hard time yesterday morning.
For a second, I’d swear that the wallpaper is moving. The intricate latticework pattern of pink-budded flowers stretches from the ruby-red carpet up to the crown molding, and if I turn my head just so, they appear to wink at me. Yes. Wink. They’ll move in my peripheral vision, but not when I’m staring straight at them.
Creepy.
The bed itself is a cherry wood, queen-size four-poster with sheer panels hanging down around me. I’m sure it’s meant to evoke an ethereal, romantic feel, but all I can think of is a bed somewhere in the Congo, shrouded in mosquito netting so you don’t get dengue fever or malaria or some flesh-eating disease that makes you think the wallpaper is moving.
Also in the room are matching nightstands, a tall dresser, and one of those long oval mirrors in a wooden frame that stands on the floor. Oh, and there’s lace. Lots and lots of lace. In fact, lace seems to be dripping off most surfaces in this house. Lace doilies. Lace curtains. Lace-covered lampshades and small lace pillows on every chair and couch. Even the guest registry is bound in a lace cover. I can practically feel my sperm count dropping as the testosterone is leached out of my body.
I sit up when I feel my phone vibrating from the pocket
of my pants. A glance at the screen tells me it’s Helen. A glance at my watch tells me she’s getting ready to leave for the day.
“Hello, Helen.”
“Well, hello, my Arctic explorer. How’s that trench coat holding up? Are you nice and toasty?”
I groan into the receiver. She just laughs at me. “Seriously, how’s it going out there? I’m getting ready to
head home for the night, and I was wondering if you need me to arrange that return ticket for tomorrow?”
“God, I hope so,” I grumble. “But don’t book it yet. Turns out Jack O’Halloran had a really good reason for not answering my calls.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“He died.”
“What? He died ?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Holy smokes!” she breathes out in shock. “What does that mean for your deal?”
“I’m not sure yet. Turns out the daughter’s managing the estate. She just found out about the deal a couple of days ago. I showed her the contract, but, of course, it isn’t signed.”
“And what did she say?” I can tell that Helen is hanging on every word. This must sound like one of those daytime soaps she likes so much.
“At first I thought I could convince her it was already a done deal. But, it turns out she’s a lawyer .”
A snort of laughter from Helen.“Serves you right, trying to take advantage of a grieving woman.”
“Yeah, well, I pretty much got my butt handed to me. But I won’t make the mistake of underestimating Miss Hennessy
O’Halloran again.”
“That’s her name? Hennessy? Like the whiskey?” Helen asks incredulously.
“Oh, wow… You know, I hadn’t even thought about that. Makes sense, her father running a pub and all.” I chuckle.“Anyway, with a little luck, I’ll have this wrapped up tomorrow afternoon and be on a flight tomorrow night.”
“Hmmm… Don’t forget about Truittism Number Five.
Eggs, basket, chickens, and all that,” she reminds me. “Score another one for Helen,” I say with mock spirit. “Yeah, well, I have a feeling your last assistant didn’t
memorize your quirky canon of witticism,” she throws at me. “What was her name? Whitney? Courtney? Sidney?”
“Brittany,” I correct her. “Her name was Brittany, and she took great dictation…”
“Uh-huh. I’ll just bet she did.”
I hear the smile in Helen’s voice, and it’s suddenly very irritating. “Helen, did you know that there are like a hundred people applying for every open job in this country right now? Maybe it’s not such a great idea to torment your boss, lest he hires one of the ninety-nine in line behind you,” I remind her, only half teasing.
“Well, that’s just perfect because it’ll take ninety-nine people to do what I do for you,” she slams back at me.
She’s right. I know it, and she knows I know it, so there’s no sense pretending otherwise. I sigh my resignation.
“You know what, Helen, you’re right. When I get back, I’m taking you out for a nice lunch somewhere.”
“Oh, now, wouldn’t that be a treat!” she says with pleased surprise. “Well, okay, then, I’m just going to head home now. You call me if you need me.”
“I will,” I assure her, because I can’t manage without my personal little troll doll.
She knows it, and I know she knows it.