The Hotel Detective (A Hotel Detective Mystery Book 1) by Alan Russell

Author:Alan Russell [Russell, Alan]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Three Tails Press
Published: 2018-05-26T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirty-Two

Sainthood was not on Carlton’s mind.

It usually isn’t on first dates. Carlton and Bobbi had decided that the fraternity of the Bob Johnsons was not as important as their time together. They talked over drinks in the Sandcomber Lounge, a bar whose tropical island motif looked as if it had been inspired by Disney. There were ersatz palm trees that had wind birds perched on limbs. Given a breeze, or even overactive air-conditioning, the birds let out electronic warbles. The sounds delighted visiting tourists, but one bartender had quit and filed a workers compensation claim, stating that the noise was akin to eight hours of hearing fingernails on a chalkboard.

The wall ornaments were consistent with the kind of flotsam designers would want to find on beaches, colorful worn glass, sand dollars, shells, and multihued fish netting. There was no sewage, tar, dead fish, or syringes on display. Most of the drinks were served in coconuts or pineapples. A barnacled dinghy in the corner was home to some musical instruments and presumably a band that had not yet arrived. Each of the tabletops was adorned with sand and driftwood. Bobbi touched her fingertips along the sand and declared that the designer who had thought up the effect was a genius. Those who had to clean the fallen granules, which were supposed to be corralled inside an upraised lip but regularly found their way to the floor, would have disagreed. Little indentations were left in the wake of Bobbi’s fingers.

“Footprints in the sands of time,” she said.

“That’s beautiful,” said Carlton.

“Some poet wrote that,” she said. “I write poetry, too.”

“And I’ll bet it’s pretty, but it couldn’t be as pretty as you.”

Her fingers stopped dancing in the sand and reached for his. Their digits twined.

Carlton spoke from his heart: “I wish this was a deserted island, and only the two of us were on it. Like Robinson Crusoe.”

“Which would make me what? Friday?”

“Monday through Friday. And the weekends, too.”

She giggled at that one. Her Bobby had quite the silver tongue. “I feel like I’m dreaming,” she said.

“Me too.”

“Oh, look. The sun’s about to set. Let’s watch.”

Hand in hand, they observed the sun being swallowed from their own tropical island. In its wake they were bathed in a red glow.

“Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.”

“You are a poet,” he said.

“Borrowed again,” she said. “But I’m going to write a poem about all of this.”

“Am I going to be in it?”

She tried to hide her big face behind her big hands, a move that beguiled Carlton, and said, “I’m thinking of slipping you in.”

No one had ever included him in a poem before, of that Carlton was sure. He felt reborn, like one of those plants that against all odds emerge out of rock or asphalt, and he tried to express that thought to Bobbi.

“That’s beautiful,” she said.

“Another?”

Intruding on their red glow, and their mutual admiration society, was a cocktail waitress. She was dressed in a sarong of tropical colors. Her rainbow piscine name tag said Rhonda and identified her hometown as Bayonne, New Jersey.

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