Page 5 of Room Serviced
“You adjusted all the times on Josh’s itinerary to be fifteen minutes earlier than everyone else’s because he’s always late,” Max pointed out. “Are you okay? Did you hit your head?”
“When you told me where we were going after I lost your dumb bet, you very specifically said, ‘And maybe you can relax for once.’ And now you’re giving me shit because I actually relaxed?”
“You’ve never been good at following orders.”
“I’m not following orders, I’m taking suggest?—”
The door behind the front desk opened again, and a man in khakis, a button-down, a striped tie, and a nametag that read Brian M., manager, stepped out. “You must be Max Golding,” he said, smiling and offering a handshake over the counter. “We spoke on the phone. Welcome to the Bellwether. We’re very excited to be working with you.”
“Likewise,” Max said as professionally as he could muster with his sweaty hair sticking to the back of his neck. “This is my assistant, Sloane.”
“Delighted,” Sloane said, also offering a handshake. Max could feel her bristle at assistant without needing to look.
“We apologize for the problem with your rooms,” Brian went on, typing something into the computer. “I’m afraid we’ll have to move you, and I wanted to come tell you your options myself.”
“Great,” Max said, because he was supposed to say something.
“We previously had you in two rooms overlooking the courtyard in the Mansfield Park section of the Austen. But there have been some problems with the air-conditioning,” Brian explained. “Some other guests reported that it wasn’t holding the correct temperature, blowing hot and cold at random. One woman said there was mist coming out of the vent. Someone else heard knocking and moaning inside the unit. So we’re closing those rooms until it can be fixed.”
Ah, thought Max. Manager Brian was at least trying to be subtle about planting ideas for their investigation, though Max didn’t think he was trying that hard. We moved your rooms because the air-conditioning unit was haunted was a new one, though.
“I see,” Max said. Next to him, Sloane shifted, and he wondered how hard it was for her not to argue with Brian about a thermostat that spoke in tongues or whatever.
“The Austen is the original building and the oldest part of the Hotel Bellwether.” Brian looked at them eagerly. “We like to think of these little oddities as part of its charm.”
“Are there other rooms available?” Sloane asked in a tone that was technically polite.
“Apologies—yes.” Brian gave her a customer-service smile. “If it’s all right, we’ve upgraded you to two ocean-view rooms across the courtyard, in the Northanger Abbey section, which are also convenient to the library and ballroom. Though I’m afraid that one has a king bed and the other has two queens, though both have Jacuzzi bathtubs and balconies.”
Max came very close to asking if there were demons in the shower nozzles.
“Sounds perfect,” he said instead.
“If you’d like, I’d be happy to show you to your rooms,” Brian said, doing something with key cards. “I’m also a bit of an expert on the history of the Hotel Bellwether, if you’ve got any questions.”
“No need to trouble yourself,” Max said, because he had a feeling that if they accepted, it might be hours before he could get into the shower.
After telling them about the restaurant, the coffee shop, the library, the various pools, the availability of couples’ massages, and the gift shop, Brian finally handed over the keys. With another customer-service smile, he promised to have their things taken to their rooms, then finally let them go.
“Which one do you want?” Max asked Sloane once they were out of earshot of the front desk.
“Which one’s better?”
“They’re the same, they just have different numbers of beds.”
The hotel lobby was two stories high on the inside, with a chandelier hanging from the high ceiling and a mezzanine wrapping around the second floor. An elaborate wooden floor with an intricate border, dark wooden columns, and wooden vaulted ceilings were all polished to a high gloss that practically glowed in the diffused sunlight. Strewn around the lobby were lavishly upholstered couches and chairs that wouldn’t have been out of place in a brothel from the 1890s.
It was a style that Max thought of as Old California Fancy—or maybe Gold Rush Fancy, though that didn’t apply much to San Diego—and it always reminded him of home. Not that Last Chance had buildings half as nice as this one, but it felt the same: the wooden balconies, the exposed beams, the combination of dark wood and red tile roofs. Sunlight streaming in, unhindered by mountains and forest.
“I’ll take the two queen beds. I like having somewhere to put all my stuff that isn’t the floor,” Sloane said, holding out her hand for a key. “Are they next door to each other?”
“Three-fourteen and three-sixteen,” Max said, opening up the brochure with their rooms circled in red that Brian had pressed into his hand. “Looks like we’re at the end of the hall.”
“So if there’s spooky knocking and whispering, I’ll know it’s you.”
“Sloane.” Max grinned, one hand to his chest. “I would at least make something gooey drip down one of the walls. Give me a little credit.”
Sloane wrinkled her nose and took the key card for room 316. She was still wearing the giant hat. Her dark hair was tucked into a bun at the back of her neck. Max realized her fingernails were painted nearly the same blue as her eyes—on purpose? Did people do things like that on purpose? He also noticed that her flimsy, floaty, diaphanous, translucent cover-up garment was belted at the waist, and the belt had loosened while they’d talked to Brian.
