of the lights, one could sense the mass of the old hotel blocking the stars beyond. Other than the lights at the drive, which the client had turned on—somewhat reluctantly—at Garrick’s request, the only illumination was the dim glow of a lamp burning in the hotel’s lobby.
Garrick eased the Cadillac behind a rust-pocked Jeep Cherokee and, getting a flashlight out of the glove compartment, unfolded himself from the car. The crunch of his boots on the gravel drive was loud over the murmur of the water surrounding the hotel on its point of land. The client must have been watching for him because as soon as he stepped onto the veranda, the lights along the drive were extinguished.
Ellen Lynam pushed open the door of the hotel and stood aside to let Garrick in, then closed and locked the door behind him. She was a large woman, not fat but physically formidable. Weathered skin and thick hair pulled back in a messy bun made her look older than her forty years. She wore worn corduroy pants and a hand-knit sweater, stretched unnaturally long by the weight of whatever she carried in its pockets. Thick tortoise-shell glasses magnified her hazel eyes. A delicate jade pendant hung from a black ribbon around her neck.
Garrick turned off the flashlight and dropped it into a coat pocket, then drew the collar of his coat up. “It’s colder in here than it is outside.”
“Good evening to you too, Garrick,” she replied, leading the way through the lobby. “I can’t heat the whole building for just the two of us. I have a space heater running in the lounge.”
They entered what had, in more prosperous times, served as the hotel’s restaurant and now, in these leaner times, as an overly large and under-furnished sitting room. Along the wall to the left was an elaborate bar, its shelves now bare. On the right was a wall of windows, cold mirrors against the darkness outside. Three dining room chairs stood in the center of the room, grouped around a small heater that clicked softly.
Garrick took off his gloves, rubbed his hands together, then pulled out a pocket watch and glanced at it. “It’s early, we could put the kettle on.”
Ellen glanced at her wristwatch. “Alright, but let’s do it quickly.”
Garrick followed Ellen to the far end of the lounge and through a pair of swinging doors that led to the hotel kitchen. The kitchen was a strange amalgam of large and small scale. The wide metal counters held a microwave, a toaster oven, a four-cup coffeemaker, and a considerable amount of clutter for one person—a scattering of unopened mail, cans of fruit and boxes of cereal, some unwashed plates near the sink. On the large central worktable, a meat mallet held open a food-spotted book. A stack of Hotel Management magazines threatened to spill onto the floor. A small refrigerator, more appropriate for a college dorm room, hummed in the corner next to the large commercial refrigerator, the door of which was propped open, the interior dark. Ellen took a tea kettle from the stove to the cavernous sink.
“Tea?” she asked.
“No, just water.”
She filled the kettle and set it to heat on one of the burners of the industrial gas range.
Garrick passed back through the swinging doors and walked through the lounge to the lobby. A painting hung in shadows over the fireplace. Even in the dark, Garrick could picture its somewhat primitive depiction of the hotel in its heyday. Except for a couple of chairs upholstered in faded chintz, most of the furniture had been covered with sheets, and rolled-up rugs had been pushed against the wall. Garrick remembered when those chairs held lounging visitors and the rugs muffled the steps of Topsiders-clad feet.
Soon he heard the whistle of the kettle and a minute later Ellen appeared with steaming mugs—one of which had the string of a tea bag draped over its rim. She handed the other to Garrick. They stood looking out at the lobby for a minute, sipping their hot drinks.
“We’ve
Garrick eased the Cadillac behind a rust-pocked Jeep Cherokee and, getting a flashlight out of the glove compartment, unfolded himself from the car. The crunch of his boots on the gravel drive was loud over the murmur of the water surrounding the hotel on its point of land. The client must have been watching for him because as soon as he stepped onto the veranda, the lights along the drive were extinguished.
Ellen Lynam pushed open the door of the hotel and stood aside to let Garrick in, then closed and locked the door behind him. She was a large woman, not fat but physically formidable. Weathered skin and thick hair pulled back in a messy bun made her look older than her forty years. She wore worn corduroy pants and a hand-knit sweater, stretched unnaturally long by the weight of whatever she carried in its pockets. Thick tortoise-shell glasses magnified her hazel eyes. A delicate jade pendant hung from a black ribbon around her neck.
Garrick turned off the flashlight and dropped it into a coat pocket, then drew the collar of his coat up. “It’s colder in here than it is outside.”
“Good evening to you too, Garrick,” she replied, leading the way through the lobby. “I can’t heat the whole building for just the two of us. I have a space heater running in the lounge.”
They entered what had, in more prosperous times, served as the hotel’s restaurant and now, in these leaner times, as an overly large and under-furnished sitting room. Along the wall to the left was an elaborate bar, its shelves now bare. On the right was a wall of windows, cold mirrors against the darkness outside. Three dining room chairs stood in the center of the room, grouped around a small heater that clicked softly.
Garrick took off his gloves, rubbed his hands together, then pulled out a pocket watch and glanced at it. “It’s early, we could put the kettle on.”
Ellen glanced at her wristwatch. “Alright, but let’s do it quickly.”
Garrick followed Ellen to the far end of the lounge and through a pair of swinging doors that led to the hotel kitchen. The kitchen was a strange amalgam of large and small scale. The wide metal counters held a microwave, a toaster oven, a four-cup coffeemaker, and a considerable amount of clutter for one person—a scattering of unopened mail, cans of fruit and boxes of cereal, some unwashed plates near the sink. On the large central worktable, a meat mallet held open a food-spotted book. A stack of Hotel Management magazines threatened to spill onto the floor. A small refrigerator, more appropriate for a college dorm room, hummed in the corner next to the large commercial refrigerator, the door of which was propped open, the interior dark. Ellen took a tea kettle from the stove to the cavernous sink.
“Tea?” she asked.
“No, just water.”
She filled the kettle and set it to heat on one of the burners of the industrial gas range.
Garrick passed back through the swinging doors and walked through the lounge to the lobby. A painting hung in shadows over the fireplace. Even in the dark, Garrick could picture its somewhat primitive depiction of the hotel in its heyday. Except for a couple of chairs upholstered in faded chintz, most of the furniture had been covered with sheets, and rolled-up rugs had been pushed against the wall. Garrick remembered when those chairs held lounging visitors and the rugs muffled the steps of Topsiders-clad feet.
Soon he heard the whistle of the kettle and a minute later Ellen appeared with steaming mugs—one of which had the string of a tea bag draped over its rim. She handed the other to Garrick. They stood looking out at the lobby for a minute, sipping their hot drinks.
“We’ve
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