Part 13 (1/2)
”I love coffee,” Angela declared as Wanda pushed to her feet and scooted into the aisle. ”I grind my own beans. You wouldn't believe what they use to fertilize some of those coffee beans.” She started talking again, barely pausing to take a breath. I seriously debated popping the nearest exit hatch and vamping it down to Texas.
Unfortunately, I'd checked my luggage and so I was stuck for the next two hours.
”Beverage service,” the stewardess announced several long minutes later. ”Coffee? Tea?”
”... even heard they use mouse feces to lend flavor to some of the different cocoa beans ...”
”I think I'm going to need something stronger,” I told the woman.
”How about an energy drink?”
”Only if it's got a vodka chaser.”
”This can't be right,” I told the cabdriver. I blinked my blurry eyes just in case I was having a liquor -induced hallucination. It had been over two hours since I'd crawled off the plane, but I was still feeling the aftereffects of coping with coach via c.o.c.ktail.
Note: I am never, ever drinking another Red Bull and vodka. I mean it this time. Cross my heart.
”You said The Grande. This is The Grande.”
I eyed the two-story structure. A gravel parking lot b.u.t.ted up to the walkway that ran the length of the building. A bevy of cars and pickup trucks crammed the area, obliterating my view of the bottom floor. But I could see the doors lining the upper walkway.
Small air-conditioning units perched in each window. My gaze s.h.i.+fted to the right and a single gla.s.s door. The word Lobby had been spelled out in vinyl letters on the gla.s.s. ”But it's supposed to be a five star hotel.”
”It is.” He pointed to the sign blazing near the side of the road. Underneath The Grande, spelled out in pink neon, a caption read ”Rated 5 Stars by the Lonely Fork Gazette.”
”How many hotels are actually in this town?”
”Counting this one?”
”Yes.”
”That would be one.”
Which meant zero compet.i.tion when it came to ratings.
He leaned over the back of the seat. ”If you want, I could head back up the interstate. I think we pa.s.sed a Motel 6 about forty-five minutes outside of town. They're not the fanciest place, but they're new. I think they even got those beds that you feed a quarter into so's they'll vibrate.”
I shook my head. If I intended to find Mordred, I needed to be right in the thick of things. He was here, which meant I was staying here. Besides, I'd maxed out my Visa to buy the plane ticket and book four nights at the masterpiece sitting in front of me.
As queasy as I felt, I could barely stand the cab idling, much less a vibrating bed.
”Suit yourself.” He opened the door and climbed out to retrieve my luggage from the trunk.
I handed him two fifties and a DED card.
”What's this?”
”In case you're ever in New York and you get bored doing crossword puzzles every night.”
His gaze widened. ”How'd you know I like crossword puzzles?”
Because I'm an ultra-sensitive born vampire who can read your mind. I shrugged. ”Lucky guess.”
Lose the crosswords, join the local VFW hall and find a girlfriend. I added the silent command as I stared deep into his eyes for a quick second. And do not mention that you live with your mother.
Grabbing my suitcase, I gathered my courage, made my way around several pickups and a Kia and headed for the lobby entrance.
The inside wasn't much better than the outside. There was a small sitting area in front of the desk. A scarred coffee table sat center stage surrounded by a worn green sofa, a paisley print chair and a bra.s.s floor lamp with a dingy shade.
I fought down a big uh-oh and tapped the bell on the desk. Three dinggggs and an exasperated sigh, and an old man finally hobbled from the back room.
”Don't get your girdle in a twist. I'm acoming.” He had snow white hair and watery blue eyes. His name was Elmer Jackson and he'd been running The Grande for nearly forty years. ”What can I do you for?”
”I have a reservation. Lil Marchette? Double bed. No smoking. Premium sheets and four goose-down pillows.”
”Let me have a look here.” He pulled a pair of gla.s.ses from his pocket and flipped several pages on a large scheduling book that took up half the counter. ”Sure thing. I got you right here, little lady. Only it 's for a double bed, regular sheets and two cotton pillows.”
”But that's not what my reservation says.” I pulled out the confirmation I'd printed off the Internet. ”It offered me a choice of sheets and I distinctly checked premium.” ”Ain't got no premium. Ain't got no goose down either.”
”Then why does it say so online?”
”Ain't sure. My nephew takes care of the website and I s'pose he thought it sounded good.” He grinned. ”The boy likes to exaggerate sometimes.”
I had half a mind to complain, but I'd sort of fudged myself on some of the fabulous amenities offered by DED. Free gourmet dessert? Krispy Kreme. All you can drink imported beverages? Starbucks House Blend.
”Two pillows will be fine,” I murmured.
He smiled, pulled out a form and handed it to me. ”Just print your name and address and sign here.”
I scribbled my info and handed the slip back to him, along with my Visa for any extra charges.
”You'll like it here,” he told me. He took the card, placed it on an ancient-looking credit card machine and rolled the top back and forth. ”We ain't as big as some, but the rooms are clean and the plumbing works as good as the day my daddy installed it.”
He'd inherited the place from his father and he fully intended to pa.s.s it on to his only son when the time came. The only problem was that his son, Elmer the Third, fully intended to bulldoze the place and turn the spot into a parking lot for a new Piggly Wiggly.
Elmer the Second had never been too fond of chain stores (he bought his vegetables at the farmer's market) and so he wasn't too keen on the idea. I saw that as plain as day in his deep brown eyes. Along with the fact that he 'd worried himself into a complete hair loss and an addiction to Tums. The Grande was his baby. His life. Everything.
”Is there a Mrs. Elmer?” I asked, not because I didn't already know the answer-a big, fat no-but because I wasn't in a hurry for another slip like the one with the cabdriver.
Low profile, remember?
”Why, no.” Sadness touched his eyes and I saw a young-looking woman wearing a flower print dress. She stood at the stove dis.h.i.+ng up cabbage souffle and humming an old Frank Sinatra song. He'd hated cabbage souffle, but he'd never told her that. He'd just slipped it under the table to old Sammy the dog.
He'd trade anything for a bite of that souffle right now.
”She pa.s.sed right after our son was born,” he went on. ”I'd say she's been gone about forty years now.”
I let loose a low whistle. ”That's a long time to be alone. But then, I bet a nice-looking fellow like you has a lot of lady friends.”