The chandelier flickered with a tremble like a postcoital shiver. They both pleaded with the electricity. “Not tonight.”
The chandelier stopped buzzing.
Sterling held her face in her palms. “Half of them want refunds. Mr. K will have my head.”
“Please, he lets you get away with almost anything,” said Fernando.
Wires sizzled, and before they could beg the Hotel to spare them again, the lights went out. The radio played for a few seconds before it, too, gave up.
Sterling and Fernando would have to venture into the dreary basement. The fuse box was a brat. It just needed to be smacked withan open hand—in essence, given a proper spanking—and turned back on. Fernando led the way. Sterling followed, clutching his shoulder. Then they heard it.
Upstairs, in the darkness, a woman shrieked. Not a cry of passion but a scream of terror.
Without time to question her lethargic body’s ability to handle the climb, Sterling clambered up the stairs, Fernando on her heels. Room 10’s door was open, letting pale moonlight into the hallway. A couple stood in the entry, wrapped in a shared bedsheet. Mr. and Mrs. Boring.
The man’s fists were raised, ready to fight. His wife clutched their black teacup poodle, Princess Boring. The dog’s dark fur and beige designer collar matched the black wig and Chanel suit Mrs. Boring had worn when she arrived. She’d since removed the wig, revealing a short frizz of light brown hair. Princess yelped.
“What’s wrong? Is anyone hurt?” said Sterling.
“No, but a man broke into our room! He ran off, I couldn’t see where,” said the woman.
“Lucky for him,” said her husband, bouncing his bony fists. He was a regular, usually here with a woman from the “Wine” List. But tonight, he’d brought his wife. Princess Boring growled, more cute than threatening.
“My sincere apologies for the disturbance. The blackout must have confused another guest, and they tried the wrong door,” lied Sterling. She knew which guest had been creeping in the halls. It was no accident.
“The power will be restored shortly. Please, stay an extra hour, on the house. Can I offer you a complimentary bottle of bubbly? And dog treats for your little one?”
Dogs were permitted, as long as they were house-trained. The chef’s homemade treats were safe for both canines and human“puppies,” an offshoot of the leather scene. Just one of the Orient’s many special offerings. For example, if a guest’s alibi involved a business dinner, the chef could stain his tie with a sauce befitting the cuisine he had allegedly eaten that night. In hospitality, little touches made all the difference.
Mrs. Boring accepted the offer. Princess Boring concurred with a yip.
Sterling whispered to Fernando, “Sounds like Room 12 is misbehaving again. This is his last strike. I’ll handle him. You handle the lights.”
“Sure, sendmeinto the basement alone. It’s not like there’s a creepy stalker after us,” he said.
“Last I checked, he was afterme.”
“God, you always have to be the center of attention.”
He stomped downstairs.
Sterling crept down the dark hall, fingertips trailing along the wallpaper’s raised velvet flocking, counting doors to Room 12, at the opposite end.
She knocked gently, knowing he’d be waiting on the other side, ear pressed to the door, listening.
— 7 —Sieben
Time rushed, the hands of the clock dropping with the weight of a guillotine. Half an hour later, Sterling descended the stairs. “I handled Room 12. He’s packing to leave, and knows never to return,” she said. Rita’s perfume lingered in the air like she’d just gotten home. Sweat traced down Fernando’s weary forehead like he’d carried her upstairs.
Over the next few hours, they battled the barrage of guest complaints with complimentary champagne, attempting to forget the eerie events. Sterling longed to be done with work and nestled between a neat whiskey and an easy woman. She’d call one of her lonely housewives in the morning.
As day approached, most guests checked out, their clothing neatly pressed but their sheets left tangled.
But Room 5’s door stayed shut.
The maids arrived first. Then the chef.
Many early birds came in toting gym bags, brought for fictional workouts they’d lied to their spouses about. For a premium, guests were welcome to drop their exercise attire at reception for theReverse Laundry Service. While they canoodled with their executive assistant upstairs, their gym clothes were rumpled and sprayed with Fernando’s Formula Seis: Imitation Perspiration. Fear not, it was hygienic, allegedly nontoxic, and convincing enough to fool even the gossipiest of housekeepers. At the Hotel Orient, they thought of everything.
