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Authors: Joan Lowery Nixon
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He was always preaching to me about keeping the hotel guests happy. Mr. Kamara growled something and belly-flopped intothe water, swimming back and forth, back and forth, without stopping or paying any more attention to Art, who wheeled and stomped out of the club as though he were trying to make dents in the floor.
For the moment the club was fairly quiet. Pauly was stuffing his face at a table near the pool, but his grandmother and Mrs. Larabee were nowhere in sight. I checked and tidied the women’s dressing area and opened the door of the sauna.
There sat Mrs. Bandini and Mrs. Larabee, the steam swirling around them. Mrs. Larabee was wearing her black racer bathing suit, but Mrs. Bandini was wrapped in a towel with soggy blue tennis shoes on her feet.
She smiled at me from under a bouffant, plastic shower cap. “Come in, come in, and shut the door,” she said as though she were in her own kitchen. “Tell us what happened.”
I shut the door, but the steam made my eyes water. “Some thieves claiming to be from a cleaning company took the two big sofas in the lobby. Only they weren’t from a cleaning company. They stole them.”
“My stars!” Mrs. Bandini turned to Mrs. Larabee. “Those beautiful silver-and-cream sofas! Imagine that!”
“They’re not silver and cream. They’re goldish and pinkish,” Mrs. Larabee said.
“Silver and cream, but does it matter what color? We’re talking about the fact that they’re stolen!”
“If they’re stolen, they have to identify them. And how can they identify them if they don’t know what color they are?”
I mumbled something and hurried out of the sauna. Strands of my hair were already beginning to damply plaster themselves on my ears and cheeks.
I strolled back to the desk. With no immediate jobs totake care of, I could go through the photo-ID cards again.
The cards were alphabetized when they were put into the file box. I made a little song in my head about the last names as I mentally recorded them with the photos I was looking at. Durstan, Effendale, Ender, Fallon, Fox, Fraiser, Garnett—
Fraiser? I went back to his card. Kurt Quentin Fraiser. A good-looking guy with brown hair. I thought Tina had said his card wasn’t in here.
I picked up the phone and rang the security office.
“Yo,” Lamar answered.
“This is Liz. Is Tina there?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just need to ask Tina about one of the photo-ID cards.”
“Something wrong with the card?”
“No.”
“You want to tell Tina about some good-looking dude. Well, do it when you’re both off duty.”
“But I also want to ask her about two guys who—”
Lamar had cut the connection, so I sighed and hung up, too, once again marveling at how much he knew. He was really a good chief of security, and it wasn’t fair that Mr. Parmegan was blaming him for the sofas being stolen.
I leaned my chin on my hands, and my elbows on the desk, gazing out the window between my desk and the pool and trying to think. Something was peculiar about those photo-ID cards, but what was it? I couldn’t zero in on the problem, because of Pauly Canelli.
The precrowd club seemed peaceful. Even the fake—uh, artificial—trees looked drowsy. Two women were snoozing next to the pool, their towels pulled over themlike blankets, and Mr. Kamara was chugging a wake back and forth across the pool, as regular as a windup boat.
But Pauly wasn’t peaceful. He had finished his gigantic snack and was obviously bored and looking for something interesting to do. I watched his eyes widen and his lips stretch into a wicked grin as he spotted the pair of sleeping women, and it wasn’t hard to tell what he had in mind. He slowly got up from his chair, peeled off the T-shirt he’d been wearing, and began an exaggerated tiptoe toward the women.
I slid out of my chair and zipped to the office doorway. By the time I reached it he was already crouching into the cannonball position.
“Pauly Canelli!” I
For the moment the club was fairly quiet. Pauly was stuffing his face at a table near the pool, but his grandmother and Mrs. Larabee were nowhere in sight. I checked and tidied the women’s dressing area and opened the door of the sauna.
There sat Mrs. Bandini and Mrs. Larabee, the steam swirling around them. Mrs. Larabee was wearing her black racer bathing suit, but Mrs. Bandini was wrapped in a towel with soggy blue tennis shoes on her feet.
She smiled at me from under a bouffant, plastic shower cap. “Come in, come in, and shut the door,” she said as though she were in her own kitchen. “Tell us what happened.”
I shut the door, but the steam made my eyes water. “Some thieves claiming to be from a cleaning company took the two big sofas in the lobby. Only they weren’t from a cleaning company. They stole them.”
“My stars!” Mrs. Bandini turned to Mrs. Larabee. “Those beautiful silver-and-cream sofas! Imagine that!”
“They’re not silver and cream. They’re goldish and pinkish,” Mrs. Larabee said.
“Silver and cream, but does it matter what color? We’re talking about the fact that they’re stolen!”
“If they’re stolen, they have to identify them. And how can they identify them if they don’t know what color they are?”
I mumbled something and hurried out of the sauna. Strands of my hair were already beginning to damply plaster themselves on my ears and cheeks.
I strolled back to the desk. With no immediate jobs totake care of, I could go through the photo-ID cards again.
The cards were alphabetized when they were put into the file box. I made a little song in my head about the last names as I mentally recorded them with the photos I was looking at. Durstan, Effendale, Ender, Fallon, Fox, Fraiser, Garnett—
Fraiser? I went back to his card. Kurt Quentin Fraiser. A good-looking guy with brown hair. I thought Tina had said his card wasn’t in here.
I picked up the phone and rang the security office.
“Yo,” Lamar answered.
“This is Liz. Is Tina there?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just need to ask Tina about one of the photo-ID cards.”
“Something wrong with the card?”
“No.”
“You want to tell Tina about some good-looking dude. Well, do it when you’re both off duty.”
“But I also want to ask her about two guys who—”
Lamar had cut the connection, so I sighed and hung up, too, once again marveling at how much he knew. He was really a good chief of security, and it wasn’t fair that Mr. Parmegan was blaming him for the sofas being stolen.
I leaned my chin on my hands, and my elbows on the desk, gazing out the window between my desk and the pool and trying to think. Something was peculiar about those photo-ID cards, but what was it? I couldn’t zero in on the problem, because of Pauly Canelli.
The precrowd club seemed peaceful. Even the fake—uh, artificial—trees looked drowsy. Two women were snoozing next to the pool, their towels pulled over themlike blankets, and Mr. Kamara was chugging a wake back and forth across the pool, as regular as a windup boat.
But Pauly wasn’t peaceful. He had finished his gigantic snack and was obviously bored and looking for something interesting to do. I watched his eyes widen and his lips stretch into a wicked grin as he spotted the pair of sleeping women, and it wasn’t hard to tell what he had in mind. He slowly got up from his chair, peeled off the T-shirt he’d been wearing, and began an exaggerated tiptoe toward the women.
I slid out of my chair and zipped to the office doorway. By the time I reached it he was already crouching into the cannonball position.
“Pauly Canelli!” I
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