Poison Ghost by John Meany

Author:John Meany [Meany, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: UNKNOWN
Published: 2013-12-26T00:00:00+00:00

***

In the hotel lobby, after Wallace Jackson takes the elevator up to room 207 where he stays, I have a brief chat with Wilma Millie.

“Was he acting up?” she asks.

“Honestly, Miss Millie, I don’t think your employee is working with a full deck.”

The proprietor nods in agreement.

“I know,” she says, “I only keep Wallace on because, aside from being a kook, he is a wonderful cook. And he’s very reliable, except sometimes when he’s been drinking too much. Every now and then, he won’t come down from his room on account that he’s not feeling well.”

“Does he have family?”

“Yes. He has a daughter, Sonja, who lives in Dallas. However, she only gets in touch with him around the holidays. Kind of sad, actually. That’s another reason why I wouldn’t want to toss Wallace out into the street.”

“That’s mighty nice of you.”

“Thank you. It‘s the least I could do.”

We talk about a few other things, and then I say to her, “So what’s the deal with this man in the top hat, have you ever seen this apparition?”

“As a matter of fact,” Wilma Millie answers, “I have. Many times. You could say he’s a permanent guest. I suspect that the man in the top hat was the original owner of this hotel, Chuck King.”

I sit down on a decorative chair near an elegant mirror. Wilma Millie parks herself on the seat next to me. I can smell her flowery perfume. It is a very pleasant scent.

“Did this Chuck King,” I say, “die on the premises?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know when, and how?”

Wilma Millie falls silent. She lowers her head and stares at the intricate, multi-colored carpet on the floor.

Finally, she looks up and says, “He died in 1901.”

“Did he pass away of natural causes?”

“No. I‘m afraid he didn‘t.”

“What happened?”

“He was suffocated.”

I cringe. “Oh my God!”

“Yes. Very tragic.”

“How was he suffocated, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“C’mon,” she says, standing up. “We’ll talk out on the veranda. I need a cigarette.”

I too get up from my chair.

“Okay.”

The large veranda, like the restaurant, is also faintly lighted. The table we sit at has a bouquet of flowers on it and a glass bowl of artificial fruit.

Off to the east, we can see the full moon hovering above the trees in the slightly smelly swamp. This is a peaceful setting. The closest highway is two miles away. The only noise we hear is the distant chorus of hooting owls.

I watch Wilma Millie light her Parliament. I am thankful that the easygoing breeze steers the smoke away from me. I am not a fan of cigarettes.

“Regarding Chuck King,” she tells me, taking another drag. “He was suffocated with a pillow.”

Now, more stunned, my eyes widen. “By who?”

She shrugs. “No one knows. His death, even up until this day, remains a mystery.”

“Was he married?”

“Divorced. When that happened Chuck King’s wife already had half of his money, so she was never a suspect. Nor was anyone connected to her. Plus, at the time, his wife was remarried and living in Virginia.

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