Uncle Alec rolled from the bed, and a rumpled elderly gentleman appeared, his glasses askew. He took a few deep breaths, and proceeded to give the police chief his best scowl.“This is an outrage, sir. An outrage.”
“I’m sorry,” said the policeman. “And thank you.”
The man was shaking his fist at the hotel manager now, visible through the hole in the ceiling.“I’m calling my travel agent, sir. This is not the kind of service I expected from this establishment! First that loud bang that woke us up and now this. Color me dissatisfied.”
“You tell ‘em, Earl,” said his wife, still clutching the sheet to protect her modesty.
“I’m truly sorry, Mr. Assenheimer,” the manager called out. “We’ll comp you your room and your meals. And you can add a week to your stay. No expense.”
“That’s the least you can do,” said the old man, slightly mollified.
Odelia stepped across the hole in the floor and carefully ventured into the room. The devastation was incredible. Walls, floor and ceiling blackened. The bed smashed against the wall. The windows blown out. In fact it was a miracle the damage had been contained to this one room. As far as she could determine—and she was no expert—the explosion must have taken place near the window, the brunt of the force directed outward.
“Maybe we should wait for the fire department, Miss Poole,” said the manager.
She nodded, glancing around. Then her eyes landed on the remains of the man she’d come here to interview. His blackened and charred corpse—now conspicuously headless—had been flung onto the balcony and was now lying there, almost as if in leisurely repose. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought he was sunbathing. And had overdone it.
She narrowed her eyes. Was the man buck naked? It would appear so.
“Better step back, Odelia,” her uncle’s voice sounded from the door. He was scratching his chalky scalp. “This is something for the experts. Not much we can do here.”
He was right, of course. There was absolutely nothing they could do here.
She directed a final look at Burt Goldsmith and shook her head. Such a tragic loss. The man might not have been in the prime of his life, but he still had so much to offer.
She stepped back into the corridor and the manager heaved an audible sigh of relief. He obviously did not want more people to crash through the floor and onto other guests.
Only now did she notice that up and down the corridor doors had been opened and other hotel guests had appeared, discussing the recent events and anxiously awaiting further developments, like people do. And to her surprise she recognized several of the men who stood staring back at her. There was Curt Pigott, Most Compelling Man in the World and the man who’d put Tres Siglas beer on the map. Bobbie Hawe, Most Attractive Man in the World and face of the Quattro Siglas brew. Jasper Hanson, Most Intriguing Man in the World, representing Cinco Siglas. Nestor Greco, Most Iconic Man in the World and iconic Seis Siglas figurehead. And even Dale Parson, who’d recently been voted Sexiest Man Alive.
What was this? A convention of the Most Interesting Men in the World?
Chief Alec’s people spread out and started taking down information and asking these men what they’d seen or heard. They would do the same with the other hotel guests and staff, and hopefully learn what had happened in those crucial final moments of Burt’s life.
Chapter 4
As Odelia walked out of the hotel, Chase walked in. She bumped into him and for a moment thought she’d slammed into a wall. But then the wall became animated and spoke.
“We have a problem, babe,” the wall said.
And when she looked up at his usually inscrutable face, she saw genuine concern there.“What happened?” she asked.
“Check your ankles.”
“My ankles?”
“Uh-huh. I checked mine so now it’s your turn.”
The man was not making any sense. She did as she was told, though, and lifted her pants leg to display a shapely calf and equally shapely ankle. Chase produced a sound of appreciation and his expression darkened.
“Nice,” he grunted.
“Look, if this is your idea of foreplay, I’ve got better things to do right now. We’ve got a dead body upstairs.” And part of it downstairs, too.
But Chase wasn’t listening. Instead he’d crouched down and was inspecting her ankle, the procedure sending a pleasant tickle up her spine. The man had the touch.
“Thought as much,” he said. “They got you, too, babe.”
“Who got me?”
He rose to his feet again.“The fleas.”
This was the absolute last thing she’d expected. “The fleas?”
“Yup. Your cats got fleas. And they’ve been biting us in the ankles. The fleas, not the cats. Max or Dooley must have jumped into bed at some point during the night and left some of the little critters to feast on us, too. Fleas love to go for the ankles for some reason.”
With a yelp of horror, she checked her ankles. Chase was right. The skin was dotted with red spots. Yelp!“Fleas!” she cried. “I’ve got fleas!”
“Not you. Your cats. I checked them before I left. They’re full of the nasty little bugs.”
She buried her face in her hands.“My babies got fleas! I’m officially the world’s worst cat person!”
“No, you’re not. No pets are safe from these pests. Probably picked them up out in the yard or got them from some neighbor cat.”
She peeked between her fingers.“They all got them?”
“Yep. After I found them on Max and Dooley I went next door and Marge checked Brutus and Harriet and they got them, too.” He smiled. “I feel a trip to the vet coming up.”
She shook her head.“They hate going to Vena. Last time I took them they didn’t stop whining for weeks.”
“Yeah, well, better Vena than this flea infestation.” He glanced at a couple of cops who stood interviewing hotel guests, notebooks out, pencils poised. “So what happened here? Your uncle said something about an explosion?”
The topic of the fleas dispensed with, she nodded.“Burt Goldsmith was blown up.”
“The Dos Siglas guy?”
“I was just on my way to interview him when his room exploded and his head came tumbling down at my feet.”
In spite of the circumstances, Chase grinned.“His head, huh?” He shook his own head. “This could only happen to you.”
She whacked him on the arm.“It’s not funny.”
He sobered.“No, I guess it’s not. So what do they think happened?”
“No idea. The room is blown to bits. Looks like a bomb went off or something.”
“So no gas explosion?”
“Definitely not.”
“Maybe he accidentally blew himself up?”
“Or maybe he blew himself up on purpose.”
They watched as a team of Suffolk County fire marshals double-parked their big rig in front of the hotel and walked in. If anyone could find out what happened in there it was these guys. Just then, Chief Alec came walking out, wiping his brow.
“What a mess,” he grumbled as he joined them on the sidewalk.
“Any leads?” asked Chase.
“Yeah, one. Kid who works room service says he brought a bottle of beer up to Goldsmith’s room about fifteen minutes before the explosion. Third bottle in two days.”
“Beer? You think Burt Goldsmith was killed by an exploding bottle of beer?”
Uncle Alec turned up his hands.“Who knows? Apparently there was some kind of private war going on between Burt and some of these other interesting guys. They all work for different beer companies and can’t stand the sight of each other. So they like to send each other beer bottles as a taunt. These particular bottles were sent by…” He took a notebook from his pocket then groped around his head for a moment. “Where are my damn glasses?” he grumbled.
Odelia helpfully pointed to the glasses that were sticking out of his shirt front pocket.
He took them and placed them on his nose.“Thanks,” he muttered, then read aloud, “A Curt Pigott. Calls himself the Most Compelling Man in the World.” He removed the glasses and gave them a dubious look. “And of course Pigott claims he never sent any bottles. And definitely no exploding ones.”