The Chosen One

47

Aberdeen, Washington, Sunday March 26, 11.29 PST

Maggie tried first to do it the official way, to see if there was a paper trail left by institutions and follow that. But she hit a series of predictable dead ends, made all the more final by the fact that it was a Sunday and every important office was closed. She called the Aberdeen Fire Department and asked if they kept records of their work – what she had in mind was the basic logbook, listing the call-outs of any given night – going back nearly thirty years. Four phone calls led eventually to a duty officer who said they did keep such records, though he wasn’t sure how far back they went. Besides, they couldn’t just show sensitive information to a member of the public: it would require the written consent of the Chief. She would have to submit a form…

Next she tried the police department who gave the same answer less politely.

So she went to the Meredith Hotel, giving the concierge – an Asian-American man close to sixty – the same smile that had so conspicuously failed to melt the librarian.

‘I know this sounds like a very odd question,’ she began, doing her best to learn from her mistake at the library and not sound insane. ‘But I wonder if you could tell me who is the longest-serving employee at this hotel?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Who has worked at this hotel the longest?’

Without warning, he stepped out from behind his small, stand-up desk and headed through the hotel’s revolving door, raised his arm, and summoned a cab he had spotted the way an osprey can spy a fish below the surface of the ocean from one hundred and thirty feet.

Having ushered the waiting guest towards the taxi, helped with loading the bags and pocketed a one-dollar tip with a grateful smile, he returned to Maggie and her odd question. For what was a small hotel in a middling town, he seemed rather a grand concierge.

‘Longest serving? That would be me, Miss.’

Good. Just as she had hoped. ‘I’m researching the history of this area and I wonder if you could help me with something. I understand there was a fire here many years ago.’

‘Before my time, Miss.’

‘I thought you said you-’

‘I’ve worked here fifteen years. But that was-’

‘More than twenty-five years ago.’

‘Right.’

‘And there’s no one else here who has memories of that night?’

‘Like I say, no one here has worked longer than me.’

‘What about the owners?’

‘Changed hands eight years ago. This hotel is part of a chain owned out of Pennsylvania now.’

Maggie’s face must have displayed her disappointment because he seemed hurt, eager to please again. ‘What do you need to know?’

‘Anything you can tell me.’

He leaned on his desk. ‘I heard it was a very big fire. Destroyed the interior of the hotel. They had to rebuild and redecorate. Hotel was closed for a year.’

All of which had been covered in the anniversary story in the paper.

‘And no clue how it started?’

‘They say that was a mystery. Though one of the older cleaners – she’s dead now – she said it was cigarettes, set the curtains on fire. On the third floor.’

‘But nobody died.’

‘Where do you hear that?’

Maggie pulled from her pocket the photocopied Daily World cutting about the reopening she had taken from the library. With a quick glance, she checked it again now. Nowhere did it mention any fatalities. She had assumed everyone had survived. She looked back at the concierge. ‘Do I have that wrong?’

‘I think you do, Miss. The anniversary was a couple weeks back, right?’

‘Yes. It was.’ She smiled again. ‘I’m impressed you know the date, just like that.’

‘Well, it’s difficult to forget. They come here every year.’

‘Who comes?’

‘The family. March 15, every year. They lay a wreath outside the hotel. Very polite, always ask permission.’

‘The family?’

‘Of the person who died. In the fire.’

‘And they did this last week?’

‘Yep. Same as always.’

‘What’s the name of the family?’

‘Oh, I don’t know, Miss. They never say.’

‘And do you still have the wreath?’

‘I threw it out just yesterday.’

Damn. She wondered about slipping him a twenty, asking him to go look out back, but decided against it. Bound to arouse suspicions. She thanked him for his time, handed him a five-dollar bill and left. Five minutes later she was in the loading bay behind the hotel, with its giant trash cans and handful of parking spaces. Bracing herself for the stink, she flipped open the lid of the first dumpster. Just glass bottles. There was a blue one full of paper and then, next to it a large black one, with its lid ajar.

She heaved the black dumpster open and was assailed by the stench. It was full of black bin bags, but several had burst, with food scraps and rotting peelings leaking out. Breathing through her mouth, she gingerly pushed a bag to one side and leaned further into the bin. She heard the sound of footsteps behind her. She wheeled around, her heart thudding, imagining how easy it would be for anyone who wanted to simply to shove her inside. There was a man a few yards behind her – but he was just a hotel guest, unlocking his car and preparing to drive away.

She went back to her task, tearing at each bag, watching as old fish guts, rock-hard slices of bread and a wad of bloodstained tissues spilled out.

She had all but given up when she glimpsed the dark green edge of it. Using the lip of the bin as a fulcrum, her body see-sawed into the dumpster and she hooked it out. The wreath was in a sorry state, the flowers dead and brown, the greenery wilted. But there was a small, white card still attached to it, though it was damp and buckled and stinking. Chucking the wreath back into the garbage, she examined the card. It bore a single word, handwritten in ink that had run but was still legible.

Pamela.