Three Days in the Amaranth Hotel

Chapter 2: The Dust Rag

A man sat hanging out the window at the end of the second-floor hall.

He was long and thin, with a mass of hair and an expression that said there was nothing in the vast universe other than what his eyes were fixed on. He sat astride the ledge with one leg inside the building and the rest of him dangling out into the cold. Clutching a pencil between his teeth, he balanced on his perch and dug in the pockets of his tailored gray suit.

After rejecting the familiar textures of a pair of needle-nosed pliers, two wooden clothespins, and a half-dozen rubber bands, he pulled out a leather-bound notebook. He flipped to a seemingly random page and shifted his gaze toward the sky, as though expecting to find the words he needed etched in the stars.

The man didn't seem to notice as a door opened down the hall and a pair of fluffy slippers marched toward him.

"Mr. Tarpley," a voice said.

"Yes, Laura?" Walter Tarpley said.

"You smudging my windows?"

"Not at all." Walter didn't look up from his notebook, his pencil scribbling away on the page. "So who's the new guest?"

"What do you mean, 'new guest'?"

"I saw her go into her room down the hall just a few minutes ago."

It had been an odd encounter. Walter had looked up at the sound of soft footsteps climbing the stairs. He'd shifted on the ledge to see around a glint of moonlight, and the movement made the woman's eyes shoot in his direction. They stared at each other from opposite ends of the hall before Walter grinned and raised his spindly fingers for a wave. The woman almost physically started at the gesture before unlocking the door to room 200 and ducking inside.

"I'm sure you're burning with curiosity, Laura," Walter said after describing the specter he'd seen. "You're going downstairs right now, aren't you? You should pull her check-in information and tell me about her."

He looked up from his notebook to see a spritz of window cleaner and a pink checkered dust rag moving across the glass beside his face.

"You did smudge it," said the woman behind the rag. "And I'd think a grown man like you could just go talk to her himself." The rag moved out of the way to reveal a wrinkled, irritated face.

Laura Locklear had been housekeeper of the Amaranth for fifteen years, and each year seemed to have shrunken her down another inch. Gray braids coiled around her head to surprisingly fashionable effect, and she wore an apron over a nightgown that smelled like lavender soap. In her pockets one would find several scraps of paper filled with slanted writing and a huge ring of keys—one to fit every door in the hotel, save one.

Laura slid her rag back in her pocket and turned to march down the hall. Walter, whose legs alone were nearly as tall as Laura, climbed back into the building and shot after her.

"What were you doing in Kilter's room?" he asked as they passed the door Laura emerged from a moment ago.

"Delivering the last round of cold compresses and peppermint tea for the night," Laura said. "I assume she'll alternate between the two. If it's not the chill, it's the heat. And if it's not a headache, it's a throbbing somewhere in her left kneecap. You know, four more days till her plane takes off might be four days too many—we're a hotel, for God's sake, not a convalescent home. And it's not like I don't have enough to do around here trying to keep this place up practically by myself while everyone else just dallies around playing train conductor in the basement like we're made of mon—"

Laura stopped complaining abruptly as they reached the lobby. "Oh, good, there you are, Laura," Briggs said from behind the desk. "I know it's getting late, but do you still want to have our meeting tonight?"

Laura nodded. "Seems we're always working past midnight these days. If we let the time stop us, we'd never have another budget meeting."

"Okay, meet you in my room in a few, then. In the meantime, could you man the desk and make sure Bobby comes back from the bathroom? I wanted to check on something in the basement before bed." He patted the place in his pocket where the model train whistle rested.

"Of course." Laura took his place behind the desk. "If the boy's not back in five, I'll drag him off the toilet myself."

"Thanks, old girl." Briggs pulled out a brass key and unlocked the door beside the staircase. He nodded to Walter. "Mr. Tarpley, hope you've had a nice evening."

"Mr. Briggs, since it looks like you're headed down there anyway, I'd like to put in another formal request for admittance to—"

"Like the past thirteen formal requests you've put in, Mr. Tarpley," Briggs interrupted, "Denied. Please just find somewhere else to do your writing. I've told you many times, the basement is not for guests." He disappeared down the stairwell and closed the door.

Walter scowled after him a moment and then turned back to Laura. "Soooo, shall we snoop on this new guest, or what?"

"Oh, sure, let me just grab her check-in information for you."

"Really?"

"No."

Walter sighed like a man told his dear friend would be another hour in surgery. Laura rolled her eyes. During his stay over the past two weeks, Walter had come to Laura with all manner of nosy questions: What book was Theodora reading in the garden? Had she heard that phone call Mrs. Kilter took in the billiard room the other day? He had a way of presenting these questions with peculiar academic interest, his pencil innocently poised, always eventually winning Laura over.

Laura sighed and pulled the newest form out from the file in the drawer. "I can tell you her name, but nothing more."

Walter grinned.

"Agatha Barrow, room 200," she read, rolling a blue fountain pen through her fingers. "Looks like she's a walk-in, and she paid with cash―no address, no phone number, no personal information. You said she only had the one bag? And her clothes were...less than fashionable? So all we really know is the girl's a ghost."

"Wonder why she chose to haunt us this fine night..." Walter's notebook was out again, his pencil jotting. "That's all you've got?"

"If you want more, go talk to her yourself. Then come back and tell me."

"I'll make a busybody of you yet, Laura. Hey, is the hall closet free tonight?"

"As always, Mr. Tarpley, no one else reserves closets for any reason. But I'd really prefer you do your...work in your own room."

Laura didn't bother asking what exactly Walter's work was. It had been two weeks, and she was still no closer to figuring out that notebook's purpose. One theory after another had been rejected—was he a journalist? Detective? Spy? He lacked the subtlety and focus of all three. Besides, his areas of interest aligned with no profession she could imagine. She once caught a glimpse of a page while he was watching her do dishes in the kitchen. It almost looked like he was making a chart of how fast she washed: "Porcelain cup: 12 seconds; Strainer: 26 seconds" and so on. She could think of only one type of person who would find such information interesting: a weirdo. But, she thought fondly, probably a harmless one.

"Oh come on, Laura," Walter said. "You know I won't mess up any of your mops or linens. I'll put everything back just exactly where I found it."

"All right, Mr. Tarpley," she said. "Do as you like."

He nodded, making it clear he would have done that anyway. But before he headed down the hall, the flash of blue in Laura's hand caught his attention.

"I've never seen this before," he said, plucking the fountain pen from her fingers.

"Well, you haven't been here that long. I hardly expect you to have memorized every feature of the damn hotel by now."

"I've never seen this before," he repeated.

She squinted at the pen. "Fine, you're right. It doesn't belong to the hotel. Somebody must've left it. Now go along, I have work to do."

Walter handed the pen back and strode down the hall. He opened the closet door. "Is there a light in here, Laura?"

"Pull the string on the ceiling."

"Thank you." He walked in and shut the door behind him.