Murder on the Riviera Read Free Page A

torn through them like a grizzly bear in a picnic basket,” the man said testily, his handsome features contorting in an irritated smirk.
    “Oh right, you’re the bellboy…”
    “I prefer bellman,” he said coldly, snatching a newspaper out of my hand.
    “Listen, I was only trying to help…oh never mind, you wouldn’t understand,” I babbled, wiping greasy newspaper ink off my hands and walking away.
    Squeaky wheels followed me as I whipped around and shot the bellboy/bellman an icy glower. “Why are you following me?” I snapped.
    “It sounded like you were interested in looking into that lady’s death,” the bellman observed.
    Narrowing my eyes, I read his nametag. “Jackson, I really don’t think that’s any of your business.”
    Jackson turned his back to the front desk and said in a conspiratorial tone, “If you ask me, I’d say that poor lady was murdered.”
    My heart beat triple time. “Why do you say that?”
    “There was something strange about those ladies. I could feel it when I brought the luggage to their room.”
    “Do you remember their names?” I asked hopefully.
    “I heard one of their names, but I don’t know which one of them it belonged to. The name was Bertha. It stood out to me because it sounded so stupid,” Jackson gurgled with immature laughter as I appraised him from head to toe, estimating that he couldn’t be more than 22 or 23 years old.
    “Bertha,” I repeated, making a mental note. “Why did you think she and the other ladies were weird?”
    “I don’t know. It just seemed weird that they were all sharing the same room.”
    I rolled my eyes with disgust. Clearly, Jackson would be of no help and if ever someone deserved the title of bell boy , it was him. “Jackson,” I said condescendingly, “Many woman travel and room together. It’s perfectly normal.”
    Unwilling to waste another second with the childish buffoon, I swept towards the front desk and tried to bypass the clerks. “Excuse me, ma’am, may I help you?” A bespectacled woman asked me sharply.
    Silently berating myself for rushing out of the room without my wallet and employee ID, I said, “I’m a Pacific Coast staff member. I’m allowed back there.”
    “You work at this hotel? I’ve never seen you before,” the clerk said skeptically, tossing a lock of mahogany hair over her shoulder.
    “No, I work at the Seattle location, but I’m still an employee, so you should…” I cut myself off, realizing how ridiculous I must sound to the clerk who was simply doing her job. I waved my hands in a dismissive gesture, pursed my lips sheepishly, and walked towards the revolving doors leading to the pool and beach area.
    There was no rush to gain access to the computer system; I could do that anytime and I could do it much more smoothly than I had just attempted. Shaking my head at my own impatience, I strolled towards the lounge chairs where I had made the gruesome discovery not even 12 hours ago. There was no police tape or other barrier around the corner lounge chair where I had found the deceased woman, so I dared to inch closer and investigate.
    The lounge chair was immaculate, not a spot of blood or other blemish to be seen. It was as though nothing had ever happened and I had dreamed up the whole macabre event. Feeling foolish that I had blown an ordinary situation out of proportion, I started to walk towards the hotel, hoping to sneak back into my room before Charles woke up.
    A glossy magazine caught my eye as I stepped from the sand onto a wooden boardwalk. Sandwiched between the wooden slats, not even 100 feet from the dead woman’s lounge chair, was a real estate brochure. Curiously, I flipped through the pages, noting the luxurious community listings in Santa Barbara and posh nearby cities like Isla Vista and Thousand Oaks. Each airbrushed page depicted a different luxury retirement community in southern California. If the brochure belonged to the woman who had died, then I had one