Chapter One
While my grandfather PoPo was alive, he worked as a doorman at the Hotel Galvez on the seawall in Galveston. He wore a dark maroon coat trimmed in black cording, which hung down past his knees. He proudly donned a cap with HG stitched on the brim in golden thread. People who saw us together knew in an instant I was his granddaughter. We were cut from the same mold—tall, thin, and redheaded. I was proud of that fact, for James Robert Lockhart was the most handsome man I’d ever seen. When I found him crumpled on the floor in the hotel foyer, his body riddled with bullet holes, I knew my life would never be the same.
My name is Sydney Jean Lockhart. I’m five-foot ten with curly red hair that at times looks like an overgrown Brillo pad. I’m thirty and single and a travel writer who is finally making a name for herself as a journalist—no small feat, since self-employed women don’t have an easy go of it, even in 1953. After my last assignment, slotted for the travel section of the Austin American Statesman, was moved to page three and transformed into an exposé on murder, scandal, and deception, of which I was a surviving victim, my reporting opportunities have escalated. Yet when Ernest, my editor, asked me to write a piece on a political powwow scheduled at the historic Hotel Galvez, I hesitated, not because of my grandfather’s murder, but because Galveston was where my parents had chosen to live after my father retired.
Returning to the scene of my grandfather’s murder was going to be difficult. Figuring out how to live for several days just a few blocks from the Lockhart home and not let my parents know I was in town was the real challenge. But this assignment could lead to steady work with the newspaper, and I couldn’t afford to turn it down. By the time I’d finished packing, several lies—I mean scenarios—to keep Mary Lou Lockhart at bay, had formed in my devious brain.
I’d just finished cleaning my Smith Corona and replacing the ribbon when the doorbell rang and Jeremiah waltzed in, wearing a white linen suit and a lavender sweater.
“You need to lock your doors, dear.” He sat a box on the floor. “You never know who might walk in.”
Monroe jumped from the sofa, slid on my hardwood floor, regained traction, and hopped into her uncle-in-law’s arms. “This dog’s gotten fat.” Jeremiah hugged my seventy-pound poodle.
“What do you expect after ten days with my father? I gave my brother’s roommate a well-deserved hug. “What’s in the box?”
“I can’t sleep on those cheap cotton sheets of yours. They give me a rash.”
I pulled pink satin sheets from the box. “Scott won’t miss these?”
“It will be at least Tuesday before he realizes I’m gone.”
“Tuesday?”
“Laundry day. I change from purple to pink on Tuesdays.” He plopped Monroe back onto the sofa and headed down the hall.
Jeremiah lives with my brother in a trendy neighborhood in his too-expensive home overlooking Barton Springs. He doesn’t have to work for a living. We don’t know where he gets his money. He just has it; a lot of it.
“How’s my brother doing anyway? He never calls.”
“Working two jobs keeps him busy, and having to take off a few days to help sort through your family’s latest crisis has put him in the hole.” Jeremiah called from the kitchen. “I offered to cover this month’s mortgage, but he, being a proud, stubborn Lockhart, wouldn’t hear of it. How old is this chicken?” he said, pulling his head out of my icebox.
“I baked it last night. The pantry is full and the icebox is stocked. You should be set for a few days. Scott didn’t have to take off work.” I stood in the kitchen doorway and watched Jeremiah make himself at home.
“You’re looking at the top student in Home-Ec class—four years in a row.” He was now perusing the potato salad. “Besides, when does he not jump when your mother calls? By the way, how’s the new cousin? When do I get to meet her?”
A couple of weeks ago, we found out that my mother’s deceased brother had fathered a child by his mistress. Not only did Uncle Martin support the woman, he put their daughter through law school. Marcella Wheatly showed up in my life to help defend me against a murder I was charged with in Palacios, Texas while on my last assignment. Her half-sister, my dear cousin, Ruth, has not quite warmed up to having Marcella in her life, despite that Ruth donated blood when Marcella needed it.
“She’s out of the hospital. But don’t expect to see her at the next family reunion. Do me a favor; run interference for me if my parents call.”
“This potato salad needs more mayo and . . . something else.” He picked up the peppershaker. “You’re going to have to use your male disguise if you plan on gallivanting around Galveston right under their noses. I could lend you some clothes. We’re about the same size.”
“Your clothes are too flashy for me, and a bit too feminine if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“Which should tell you something about your wardrobe.”
“How about this?” I said. “I could tell them that I got the assignment at the last minute and was about to pick up the phone and call.”
“Weak.”
“Okay. This one’s better. Since you two just reconciled, I wanted to give you some time to yourselves.”
“Better.” He was now dicing the chicken into tiny bits. “Let’s hear another.”
“I’m a grown woman and I don’t have to tell you my every move.”
“Too honest. Your mother will have a hissy. I’ll use the reconciliation story if she calls.” He placed the chicken in a saucer. “Where’s the cat?”
“Probably hiding under the bed. You know how she gets when someone comes over.”
“Yes, but I’m her favorite person. This should lure her out.”
A split second after the sound of the dish clinked on my tile floor, an orange football-size mass of fur dashed into the kitchen. “Don’t worry about a thing. Go do your job. The girls and I will have a fine old time.” He cradled Mealworm in his arms and showered her with kisses, causing a purr to reverberate through the room—not an easy task for a cat with a mouth full of baked chicken.
“I should have this assignment wrapped up in a few days, a week at the most.” I sat my luggage by the front door. Monroe began whimpering. I reached down and nuzzled her soft ears, and began whimpering myself.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be here. Quick, before you leave, tell me about the new boyfriend. Ruth said—”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“—that you two were hitting it off pretty well and that he was ready to prop—”
“Since when do you listen to what Ruth says?” I gave Monroe a reassuring kiss on her curly head, looked around for the cat, who’d disappeared again, picked up my luggage, and left before Jeremiah could ask any more questions.
The drive to Galveston from Austin used to take me half a day. Now with the opening of the new Gulf Highway, my travel time has been cut to a fraction. My new Styline convertible helped as well. It was one of those beautiful late January days when spring comes around to check things out for a possible early arrival. The temperature was in the mid-sixties. I buttoned my jacket, pulled my mass of hair into a ponytail, and took off, keeping the accelerator in its rightful place, on the floor.
It was just after one when I pulled up under the portico of the Galvez. I tossed the valet my keys, and told him the rest of my luggage was in the trunk. I grabbed my clutch and overnight bag, inhaled a deep breath, and went inside. I had not been to the hotel since that horrible day.
When I was little, I’d run up the front steps and PoPo would say, “Let me get the door for you, ma’am.” He’d bow and open the door with a flourish. As I passed he’d say, “Welcome to the Galvez, Miss Lockhart. Enjoy your stay.” I would lift my chin like a queen. Then I’d reach into his coat pocket and pull out a pack of Teaberry chewing gum.
Standing in the lobby, I swear I could still smell that sweet flavor.
I questioned my sanity over taking this assignment as I marched to the front desk. “I have a reservation,” I said to a man who looked more like a referee at a cockfight than a desk clerk.
“Name please.” He looked down at his registration book.
“Sydney Lockhart.”
He peeked at me under his brow, then glanced toward the front door, then toward the back door, then around the lobby. I turned to see what he was looking for when he said, “Is your husband here? Are you Mrs. Lockhart?”
“I’m Sydney Lockhart; Miss Lockhart.”
“I see,” he said. “Please fill out the card.” He paused. “I’m sorry. Whoever took the reservation didn’t write down a check-out date.”
I pulled over the registration card, and picked up the fountain pen. “I didn’t give one.”
“I see,” he said again. “What day should I put down?”
“I’m not sure when I’ll check out. Is that a problem, because if it is, I’m sure Mr. Cahill will settle things?”
Upon hearing his boss’ name, he said, “That won’t be necessary, Miss Lockhart. Check in time isn’t until three, but since your room is ready, I’ll do you a favor. Here’s your key. Room 559. Turn right when you get off the elevator. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Yes, I’d like a small table for my typewriter. Can you arrange that?”
“I’ll see what I can do. Anything else?”
I thought of the bottle of champagne waiting for me when I checked into my room at the Arlington Hotel last November, but what also waited for me was the dead body of Ellison James, throat slashed and naked as a jay bird in the bathtub. I decided not to push my luck. “If I think of anything, I’ll let you know.”
Once I had my room key, I headed for the foyer. I was never one to leave the dirty work until last. I’d much rather face my demons head on and be done with them. Another doorman stood where PoPo used to stand. Eighteen years later, the uniform was the same. He smiled and opened the door for me.
“Thank you,” I said, “but I’m not leaving right now.”
He turned to assist an elderly woman with her luggage.
At first, I thought he was playing a joke on me, lying there on the floor with his hat tossed to the side, but the slackness of his jaw told me he was dead. It wasn’t until I knelt down beside him that I saw the blood. I was eleven years old.
My family would come to Galveston to visit my grandparents, and as soon as I said my hellos to my grandmother, I’d run out the backdoor to the hotel a few blocks away. It was a quiet Tuesday in the summer. I remember hearing what I thought were firecrackers as I approached the entrance. Tires squealed and I jumped onto the grass as a car spun away almost taking out the oleander bushes. The case was never solved. Random violence was the theory. Galveston in the mid-thirties had a reputation as being a rough town. It wasn’t much better today.
My throat closed and I had to remind myself to breathe. Suddenly, I felt a hand on my arm.
“Miss Lockhart? Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m Leonard Cahill. Mr. Cameron told me you were here. We’re very happy to have you staying with us. After you’re settled in, I’ll go over the events we have scheduled over the next few days, and give you a tour of the hotel.”
Fresh air finally reached my brain, and I was able to speak. “Thank you, Mr. Cahill. I’ll unpack and then we can visit.”
“Wonderful. I’ll walk you to your room.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll see you in about an hour.”
“Just come to the front desk, and Mr. Cameron will find me.” He hesitated. “Miss Lockhart? I just wanted to let you know that I . . . well, I’m aware of what happened years ago. I was in charge of catering back then. It must be difficult for you. If there’s anything I can do . . .”
I smiled. “Thank you, but I’ll be fine.”
I shook away the vision of my grandfather lying on the floor, and followed Mr. Cahill back into the lobby. Several groups of businessmen were milling around the front desk, waiting to check in. At once, I felt the electricity in the air, and my melancholy feelings disappeared. The purpose of the convention was to announce the development of Pelican Island, a place that was known as the dump when I was growing up. Until now, no one showed much interest in the island. The Texas Legislature gave it to Galveston in 1856, to use as a Confederate bluff of strength, complete with fake guns to ward off the enemy. Geographically, it does offer some protection to Galveston from the open gulf and may soon need some protection itself.
The controversy surrounding the island’s development is what drew me to the assignment. This story had potential—many angles for my devious mind to explore. Just seeing the convocation of energized, opinionated, influential men (and a few women) ready to spew their information and debate their causes, aroused my inquisitive nature. I couldn’t wait to pick their brains and, maybe even, ferret out some juicy tidbits.
The elevator seemed to inch it’s way up. I’m not usually claustrophobic, but the box was crowded. I focused on the floor numbers and watched them light up, one after another, until I heard the final ding. The elevator attendant slid the door open and nodded. I stepped off onto the fifth floor.
Room 559 had a water view, and I stood at the window for several minutes watching the waves crash onto the beach. It was one of those rare days when the Galveston surf didn’t look like murky chocolate milk. The water was as blue as the sky and the waves gentle. A few fishermen, standing knee-deep, were casting their luck about fifty yards out. A knock at the door caused me to jump.
“Who is it?” I asked. I learned the hard way not to willingly answer a hotel-room door.
“Bellboy, ma’am. I have your luggage and the extra table you asked for.”
I dug around in my clutch to find change for a tip while the bellboy set up my writing table. The room was small, but by rearranging some furniture he created a nice little office space for me. I handed him his tip, and as he was leaving he turned back and said, “Oh, I almost forgot. A message came for you.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a slip of paper.
Hotel messages made me as nervous as knocks on my room door. They often brought news that my family was experiencing some sort of crisis. I hadn’t told my cousin, Ruth, where I was, but her bloodhound instincts could track me down in record time. I’d been in town for less than an hour, which was fast even for her. Or, heaven forbid, it was my mother who had already spotted my car in the parking lot.
I thanked the bellboy and handed him some more change. The note was short and sweet. “Don’t get too comfortable. Your stay will be short.” No signature. Great. Who had I offended this time? I called the front desk. Mr. Chambers answered.
“This is Miss Lockhart in 559. The bellboy just brought me a phone message. Do you know who took the call?”
“I took the call, Miss Lockhart.”
“Did the caller say anything else?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Don’t you think the message is kind of strange, in a threatening sort of way?”
“After working in the hotel business, nothing seems strange to me.”
“Was the caller a man or woman?”
“A woman, at least that’s the way it sounded.”
“Why didn’t you transfer the call to my room?”
“Because you weren’t in your room yet. The call came in just as you got on the elevator.”
“If I get anymore such calls when I’m not in my room, could you ask who the caller is, please?”
“I don’t run a messenger service down here, ma’am.”
“Your hospitality overwhelms me. I have one more question. Did the caller ask for me by name?”
“No ma’am. The woman just said she had a message for the person staying in 559.”
“Then the message could have been for the previous guest, don’t you think?”
“Quite possibly, ma’am.”
“Right.” I hung up a little too hard and hoped I’d made my point with the mordant Mr. Chambers.
The message couldn’t possibly be for me. I hadn’t had a chance to get into any trouble yet. Whoever had stayed in this room before me was probably a cheating husband whose wife had gotten wind of his exploits. I put the note in my top dresser drawer just in case I needed it.
© Copyright Kathleen Kaska 2009
