Magic Mumbles Read online

  I watched with curious fascination as he scurried toward the reception desk. On seeing it was vacated, he let out a loud huff and pressed the bell repeatedly.

  A slim man wearing a dark-blue hotel uniform appeared almost instantly. His fresh face and shiny eyes suggested he was just out of college. On his left lapel he wore a tiny, silver pin with a double 'T' engraved in red. On his right lapel hung a shiny, gold tag with his name, Mr. Toby Dixon, neatly printed in large black letters.

  "Can I help you, sir?" the slender young man asked with the serenely confident smile of a graduate who had yet to experience the rigors of working life.

  "Boy, I don't like waiting around," responded Bryant in a mean, slow, southern drawl.

  "Oh, I'm so sorry for keeping you waiting," soothed the receptionist, sounding like a page from the Guide to Handling Hotel Customers.

  "Don't apologize, your apologies mean nothing to me," hissed Bryant.

  The receptionist's face flushed in a rather unusual manner. It began at the edges of his ears and crept along his cheeks. The pink glow did not extend to the area around his eyes or chin which retained the healthy tan associated with students who have attended a college where the academic rigors are not too onerous.

  Bryant rocked back and forth on his heels, eventually coming to a stop with his feet planted wide apart and hands on his hips. "Boy, did you fall off the tater truck? The moment I walk through those doors I expect to see you jumping like hot grease on a skillet. I demand exceptional service and pay good money to receive it. Do I make myself clear?"

  For an instant the receptionist's eyes drifted off into the distance as if he was trying to recall a page from a reference manual. Then, with a hesitant voice and a plastic smile, he spoke up, "Sir, how may I best serve you, today?"

  "Serve me?" thundered Bryant. His nostrils flared with a curious white ring around the edge, and the eyes almost imperceptibly narrowed. "Mr. Toby Dixon, you can best serve me by getting the hell out of here!" He spat out the receptionist's name like a dentist's patient trying to wash out a foul taste from his mouth. Then he continued, "I want to speak with your superior commander."

  "Superior commander? Oh, you mean my manager," said the receptionist, looking around nervously. The plastic smile was gone.

  "Yes, I want to speak to your superior commander."

  The poor, young man flushed again but did not move.

  "Ah, Mr. Reynolds," said the gentle voice of a stout, middle-aged man who appeared from the office behind the reception desk. "Except for a few graying hairs, you have not changed a bit since the last time we met."

  Bryant smiled and waved a friendly hand toward the man. "Some people get wrinkles, others like me—give them."

  Both men laughed, as did the young receptionist, although his laugh was a little too loud and edged with uncertainty as he ran a concerned hand over his baby-smooth face. The plastic smile returned.

  "Miguel, where have you been? This place needs you," said Bryant giving Miguel a hug.

  "Overseas, but I'm back now. What do you need?"

  "First," he said, pointing an elfin finger at the young receptionist, "fire that boy! I feel Mr. Toby Dixon is better suited for a fast-food drive-through than an upscale hotel. I doubt the young man could hit the floor if he fell out of bed." He tipped his head back letting out a superior guffaw.

  Toby shuffled uncomfortably but held on to the plastic smile and even managed a stiff, little chuckle.

  Miguel, who wasn't smiling, half turned to look at the young man. "You are dismissed."

  "Dismissed?" asked Toby with a quiver to his voice.

  "Fired. You're upsetting the guests, please leave now," replied Miguel without looking at Toby.

  The young man didn't move. The plastic smile was gone.

  "Get out before I call security," urged Miguel, his tone edged with malice. "You'll be paid until Friday, but don't let me see your face on the premises again."

  The young man flushed a deep, dark purple, as Bryant laughed an ugly, derisive laugh. Then with rounded shoulders Toby Dixon slumped toward the hotel entrance. A quiet whoosh of the electronic doors and he was gone.

  Bryant reached into the tennis racket case, pulled out a wallet and placed several folded bills into the hands of Miguel. The stout man gave a little nod, glanced around, and with a broad smile inquired, "Sir, how may I serve you, today?"

  "Miguel, I have a meeting with…" Bryant's voice trailed off to a secret whisper. Miguel nodded several times then replied, again in a low whisper as he pointed toward a hallway.

  Bryant trotted past the reception desk and around a corner. Miguel watched as he disappeared and rubbing his hands with a contented grin returned to the office behind the reception desk.

  Chapter 5

  I turned to stare back out of the window and wondered who Bryant Reynolds was meeting and why. It was none of my business, but the hushed tones, and the exchange of cash took hold of my curiosity quicker than a hungry monkey grasping a banana.

  The cell phone buzzed, a message from Theodora.

  Running a little late, meet me at the rooftop restaurant at 12:30 p.m.

  It was a little after noon, so there was plenty of time to wander around. I stood up and glanced toward the reception desk, unoccupied, although the door to the office behind it was ajar. Probably best to stay in the reception area, I thought, but my legs took me in the direction taken by Bryant Reynolds.

  Around the reception desk and then past restrooms I scurried, taking a hard right around the corner Bryant had turned into. The dead-end hallway had several oak-paneled doors on either side and on the floor, a magnolia deep-pile carpet added a luxurious touch. There were three oak-paneled doors on one side and two on the other, all closed. Large leather chairs and teak coffee tables placed at the side of each door offered a natural meeting place for individuals to gather before they entered a room. On the wall hung several brushed-bronze sculptures, and at the end of the corridor on either side were large ferns, all bushy and green, growing in large, golden pots.

  Along the empty hallway I walked, hesitating at each door, apparently adjusting my dress, while listening for sounds of conversation. At the final door I heard a distant rumble of voices. I stopped and looked around. There was no one in the hallway.

  "I’m going to be very careful," I said under my breath. "I’m only going to get close enough to the door so I can hear what is being said. That’s all. Just listening. Very carefully." Closer toward the door I shuffled, pressing my ear against the oak panel. The voices were clearer now.

  Suddenly, the handle turned, and the door swung inwards. I fell forward into the arms of a sharp-faced woman with platinum-blonde hair and wearing a dark-blue business suit.

  "Oh, I'm sorry," I gasped, scanning the room full of other sharp-featured women in dark business suits.

  The woman smiled. "Hello, I'm Bonnie Drummond, and I think you're in the wrong room, sweetie, but I love the lemon dress." She turned to look back into the room. A banner at the head table announced, "Hill Country Women's Executive Club Annual Meeting." At the front, in a monotone voice, another sharp-faced woman in a dark business suit was making a presentation on best practices in corporate leadership.

  Bonnie turned her gaze back and with envious eyes whispered, "It must be great to attend a luxury resort hotel like this for pleasure rather than business. You didn't happen to pass the restrooms on your way, I'm bursting."

  Together we stepped out into the hall. The door shut without a sound. As I pointed Bonnie toward the restrooms, a tall, slender man in his fifties with salt-and-pepper hair tumbled into curls above his steel-gray eyes, rushed into the hallway. He was wearing flannel slacks, a tweed jacket, and a white button-down shirt open at the throat, and was good-looking enough to set feminine hearts aflutter. Bonnie and I watched him in silence as he selected the first door and hurried inside leaving it slightly ajar.

  "Thanks," Bonnie said, walking quickly back toward the lobby and the restrooms. I
followed, but at a more subdued pace. At the first door I glanced through the opening into the room beyond.

  Between two potted cactus plants hung a large, brushed-bronze sculpture of a cowboy on horseback chasing a longhorn bull. That was about all I could see. A pang of disappointment stirred in my stomach. Even though the handsome, middle-aged man with the salt-and-pepper curls had entered the room, he was outside of my line of sight.

  Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bryant Reynolds. Still dressed in tennis whites, the little man was pacing back and forth across the crack of the open door.

  Chapter 6

  Toward the door I crept, easing it open an extra half an inch. The hinges were well oiled, and it swung wider without a sound. Through the gap I could make out the man with salt-and-pepper curls. He was sitting in an easy chair, legs loosely crossed, staring at Bryant who stayed on his feet.

  "Right," said Bryant as he continued pacing in front of the seated man. It was a curious light-footed strut, high on the tips of his toes, and all bouncy like a child on a trampoline. "I'm tired of this game; I want to level with you," he said suddenly.

  The man with salt-and-pepper curls smiled. "Good, I'm pleased to hear it. It's been a busy day of preparations. If the message to meet today had come from anyone else…" his voice trailed off. He leaned back slightly in his chair and met Bryant's eyes. "But for you, Bryant, my closest friend, I'd do anything."

  Bryant nodded. "Remember when we first met? I was a struggling intern and you struggling to master your craft."

  "Now we are at the top of our games," interjected the man with salt-and-pepper hair.

  Bryant hesitated, his colorless eyes flashed a peculiar shade of yellow. "I make a good living as a partner of the Havis County Engineering Company," he added, "but there are still reasons to envy your success. Liza, for instance."

  The man with salt-and-pepper curls sat bolt upright uncrossing his legs. "Liza?"

  Bryant nodded, his lips tugging into a small smile.

  The man with salt-and-pepper curls raised his voice. "She wants to get married, but after what happened to the others…"

  The two men stayed silent for several moments. There was a certain tension in the air.

  "I haven't asked her because I fear she will go like the others," the man with salt-and-pepper curls said quietly.

  Bryant's face twisted into a cruel smile. "She already has gone. Liza is meeting me here later to play tennis. This is her racket case I'm carrying."

  "Here?" For a moment the man with salt-and-pepper curls didn't understand. "Lunch, today?" A nerve twitched high on his cheek.

  Bryant's eyes gloated. "Liza loves money—I've got plenty. We meet here for a round of tennis, a little lunch and then…"

  The sound of footsteps alerted me to someone approaching. As I stepped away from the door, a woman with a sharp face, wearing a dark business suit turned into the hallway.

  It was Bonnie. "You still here?" Her face crumpled into a frown. "I'm beginning to think you are spying on us. What did you say your name was?"

  I mumbled something incomprehensible and darted past her. As I glanced back, she stood hands on her hips, eyes blazing. "You are a spy from the Austin Women's Executive Council, aren't you? Get out of here or I'll call security. You're not stealing any more of our members!"

  Chapter 7

  In the main concourse, an overhead sign pointed the way to the rooftop café. Along another hallway and down a small escalator I scurried, occasionally looking over my shoulder.

  At a bank of elevators, I pressed the up button and waited. As the elevator door opened, I thought about Bryant Reynolds and the man with salt-and-pepper curls. Not good, I thought, not good.

  An old woman with chestnut-brown skin, in a dark-blue maid's uniform with white, fluffy frills around the neckline, and wearing nonslip moccasins, pushed her cart out of the elevator. She turned her plump neck, her dark eyes smiling. "Good afternoon, ma'am, I hope you have a blessed day."

  "You, too," I smiled. Then entering the elevator, I pressed the button for level six—the roof garden.

  The elevator door opened to an expansive area. Large parasols, huge cooling fans and tall, leafy plants offered shade from the noonday sun. The floor was covered in South Beach-red porcelain tile. Partitions of wicker cane trellises covered in dark-green ivy separated the area into several outdoor rooms, each with a distinct ambience.

  On one side, patrons dressed in business suits, sipped locally brewed ale as they munched Spanish tapas-style delicacies. Out of the corner of my eye I could see several people watching me from the corners of their eyes. I shivered at the blank expressions on their gray faces and haggard tiredness in their eyes. They were corporate road warriors, men and women who spent their days packed into cramped airplanes, meeting faceless, gray-suited individuals in skyscraper offices, and eating alone in yet another executive hotel.

  I understood how they felt. For several years before my husband John died, I was one. The first year of traveling was fun, but after that it became a tedious bore. To ease the misery, I made a game of packing lightly, and moving through the airport efficiently. But even with the corporate pay and travel perks, it was a wretched lifestyle.

  As I floated past the faceless corporate warriors, the cool breeze of a fan caused my dress to shimmer like a butterfly breaking free from its cocoon. I smiled inwardly.

  A wooden sign with hand-painted, red lettering pointed the way to the lunch area. A middle-aged couple, he in black slacks and a white polo shirt and she in a floral-printed dress, waited patiently to be seated.

  "Ollie, over here!"

  It was Theodora, already seated at a table that looked out onto the swimming pool. I sat down, and a waitress took our order.

  "Ollie, I'm so excited," Theodora said, wriggling in her seat. "Business is slow, and this event gives me something to do, and the guy who’s paying for the wedding is offering three times the going rate."

  "Three times the going rate!"

  "Provided, that is, I can get things in place at short notice," she confided. Then added, "Ollie, of course you'll also get three times the rate for the hire of Ealing Homestead."

  "Wow!" I said, leaning forward with interest. "Who's Mister Moneybags?"

  Theodora's lips curved into a secret smile. "That's one of the conditions."

  "Conditions?"

  "Here's your meal," smiled the waitress, placing our lunch platter on the table. "Let me know if y'all need anything else." We nodded in acknowledgment and she disappeared, off to serve another table.

  "There are conditions?" I asked, picking up the conversation where we had left off.

  Theodora nodded. "Yes," she confirmed. "Three times the going rate on condition that I don't disclose the bride and groom's name."

  I leaned forward, made eye contact, and nodded her on in eager anticipation. She got the message but hesitated slightly as if thinking carefully about her next words.

  "Well, not until after the wedding has been announced. I guess after that everyone will know."

  Curiosity dug its claws deep into my mind.

  "Anyone I know?" I asked, hoping for a clue.

  Theodora was cutting a slice of chicken which she dipped into the Hill Country Hotel special sauce—a tangy, spicy, red-colored concoction I suspected had more calories than the chicken salad it was supposed to complement.

  Theodora smiled and looked at me with a blank expression on her face. "Now, that would be telling."

  "Oh, come on. You can share the name with me, we're partners in this together."

  Theodora popped the chicken into her mouth, cocked her head on one side and chewed. "Uh-huh, I suppose so." She picked up a knife and sliced off a tiny piece of chicken. Again, she dabbed it in the special sauce and popped it into her tiny mouth. Then she raised the fork in the air like a schoolteacher about to make a crucial point.

  "If I tell you, I guess it's only right I tell Mrs. Bathstop. You know Billie Bathstop, don't you?"r />
  I didn't, but I nodded, not wanting to slow down the conversation.

  "Billie runs the bakery on Creek Street," she said, waving her fork in the air as she spoke. "Billie and Bob Bakery Stop is close to the food trailer park. Billie, and her husband Bob, do all the catering for my events. She ought to know, shouldn't she?"

  "Yes," I agreed. "Billie is on the team and she ought to know."

  "What about her husband, Bob?" Theodore looked at me with a curious expression in her eyes. "If Billie knows, I ought to tell Bob too."

  "Of course," I agreed. "You can't let such a secret stand between man and wife."

  Theodora nodded, and with a little twinkling in her eyes said, "Ollie, I guess you're right." Then she placed the fork on the plate and stared out into space.

  "But what about Jack?" Theodora's voice was as light as a feather.

  "Jack?" I asked, trying to hide my rising annoyance.

  "Jack Ripley, you know Jack, don't you? He runs the Event Furniture Guy Company. He supplied the furniture for the event you had at Ealing Homestead a couple of months back."

  I let out a frustrated sigh.

  Theodora went on. "Jack is an essential part of the team; he ought to know, shouldn't he?" She had a victorious gleam in her eye. I got the message.

  "Okay, I can wait until the official announcement," I said, raising my hands in the air.

  Theodora tipped her head back and let out an infectious laugh. "Ollie, it's not as mysterious as it seems. You might choke on your salad if I told you who it is."

  "Whoever it is I'm very grateful, even if knowing their name would make me gag."

  We laughed and giggled our way through the rest of lunch.

  Chapter 8

  After lunch, Theodora hurried off to another business meeting. Alone at the table, I sipped an iced tea, watching the swimmers in the pool down below, and admiring the view out over the Texas Hill Country. I was in no hurry, content to enjoy the upscale facilities of the hotel like a tourist rather than a time-pressured, corporate executive.