“Yeah, guilty,” he said. “Because I can’t help feeling…well, not exactly happy. But definitely…relieved. I guess that sounds pretty terrible.”
“Actually, it sounds fairly normal,” I said. “At least where the QB was concerned. You’re probably not the only one who doesn’t feel heartbroken.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I bet she wasn’t trashing anyone else’s life as badly as mine, but I’m not the only one. Look at this.”
He opened his mouth, pulled his lower lip down with one hand, and tapped a tooth with his index finger.
“You see?” he said, his words slightly garbled.
“See what?” I asked. Chris had nice, even, white teeth. I couldn’t see anything in particular about the one he’d indicated.
“It’s a crown,” he said. He shifted his head slightly and paused for a moment, so I could get a better look before he took his hand away and gulped his beer.
“That’s nice,” I said. But I felt puzzled—had the QB knocked one of his teeth out? Seemed extreme, even for her.
“She’s got me so stressed that I grind my teeth at night,” he said. “I actually broke this one. I have to wear this mouth guard thing to bed if I want to have any left. She’s trashing my career; she’s trashing my love life; now she’s even trashing my teeth.”
“Well, not any more,” I said.
“No, not any more,” he echoed. “So I don’t see how anyone could expect me to feel all grief-stricken.”
“I don’t think anyone does,” I said. “Although it might be wise to postpone any actual celebration until after the cops catch the murderer. To avoid confusing them.”
It took a second, but he laughed.
“I get it,” he said. “That’s good. That’s what I like about you, Meg. You have this great sense of…sense of, um…”
“Sense of humor,” I said, backing away slightly, thinking that if he breathed on me one more time, I’d absorb enough beer fumes to skew a breathalyzer test. “Thanks. Look, I have to—”
“No, not just a sense of humor,” Chris said. “You have a sense of…life! The sense that life goes on. I mean, even at a time like this…especially at a time like this, with death all around us, you have to affirm life! And grab it with both hands.”
“That’s not life you’re grabbing, Chris, it’s me,” I said, pulling away from his hands. “I’m not available for affirming. Go back to the ballroom; I’m sure you’ll find any number of nice women who’d love to affirm with you.”
“But Meg,” he protested.
“Chris,” I said, “I’m serious. Go away.”
Something in my tone got through to him, and he stumbled away, still mumbling protests and casting hurt glances back at me.
Chapter 18
I straightened the bits of my costume that Chris’s roving hands had knocked askew, and then tried to remember where I’d been going when he intercepted me. Ah, right. To check with the front desk about the new room.
Or more likely, do battle with the front desk. The way they’d handled things so far this weekend didn’t exactly inspire confidence. For example, the way they’d failed to do anything useful about the parrots and monkeys until the health department showed up. And speaking of the health department, they weren’t going to be happy if they returned to check on the progress of the cleanup. The parrots and monkeys had returned to the lobby with a vengeance. While I waited my turn at the desk, I overheard a bellhop giving instructions to a coworker who seemed to be starting his first shift. Or at least his first shift since the hotel’s transformation.
“Those are blue and gold macaws,” he said, pointing to two birds perched near the entrance to the hotel’s restaurant. “They talk a lot. Don’t say anything around them you don’t want the brass to hear; they already got Jerry in trouble.”
The junior bellhop nodded solemnly.
“Red-vented parrot,” the senior said, pointing to a red, blue, and green bird that seemed to be sleeping in a chandelier. “They’re pretty quiet, thank God. And you see the one over by the elevators? Gray and white, except for the red tail feathers?”
The junior bellhop nodded again.
“African Grey. Biggest troublemakers of the lot, the African Greys. Watch that one a minute.”
I watched, too, as several costumed fans strolled up to the bank of three elevators. I heard the ding of an arriving elevator. The fans also heard it and began looking from elevator to elevator, and then at each other, puzzled.
The African Grey dinged again. The fans never did figure out where the dinging came from—eventually the elevator did arrive, and they got in, complaining loudly about what a lousy hotel this was.
The junior bellhop was giggling. I could tell the senior bellhop wanted to, but he kept a stern face.
“Yeah, go ahead and laugh,” he said. “Just wait until they pull the same thing on you.”
At that point, they spotted some late arriving guests and hurried off to pounce on the luggage. I had to smile when I saw that the new arrivals were a just-married twenty-something couple, the bride still improbably wearing her wedding dress and the groom in his tuxedo.
Had they been in such a hurry for the wedding night that they’d forgotten to change into their going-away outfits? And clearly the hotel hadn’t warned them about who’d be sharing their honeymoon hideaway, I realized, as I stood in line behind them.
“I thought you said this was a
The groom shrugged, and pretended to be totally unaware of the group of Amblyopian belly dancers rehearsing in the middle of the lobby, although the bride seemed more disconcerted by the people bedded down for the night under the fake foliage. Evidently the hotel had given up trying to control the convention. Apart from the night cleaning crew, deliberately vacuuming as close as possible to the sleepers’ heads, no one was taking any steps to relocate the squatters.
Well, better the lobby than our balcony, assuming our new room even had a balcony.
Just as long as we had a room. The lobby wasn’t an option. The cleaning crew departed, but the scarlet-clad musicians returned and appeared to be succeeding where the vacuums had failed. Though it was less the quality of their performance that evicted the squatters than the fact that they were trying to compose a sentimental eulogy to the QB, set to the tune of Barry Manilow’s “Mandy.”
The newlyweds finally made it through registration and disappeared down a corridor, earning the bellhops’ visible scorn by dragging their own matching wheeled suitcases behind them. My turn at the desk. Though the clerk initially seemed intent on ignoring my request that he find a new room for one of the convention’s guests of honor, my eloquence charmed the steadily growing crowd of monkeys who suspended themselves from the ceiling as close behind me as they could manage, and who added a chorus of hoots, grunts, and shrieks to the end of every sentence I uttered.
“I’d like to speak to the manager,” I said, finally.
“She’s not here,” the desk clerk said.
“What about the assistant manager?”
“They were both fired yesterday,” the desk clerk said. “Their replacements are supposed to be here Monday. I’m acting manager, but if you want to wait and speak to the new manager…”
“No,” I said, pounding my fist on the desk. “I want a room, now!”
The monkeys went wild at that. Several of them jumped down onto the registration desk and began pounding on it with their tiny furry fists. Inspired by their presence the desk clerk suddenly remembered an unoccupied room
