Chapter Three
“They found her nude, her body swinging by the neck from the outside balcony, suspended on a line of electrical cable. A shirt had been bound around her head, with the sleeves double knotted and stuffed into her mouth. Her wrists were tied together behind her back and her feet were bound. She left no note and no evidence could be found that she intended to take her own life. But the official record is suicide.”
The group stood listening in morbid fascination as they imagined the terror that took place in the quiet hours of that hot July night. They were gathered in a quiet corner of the Crown Room at the historic Hotel del Coronado, or “the Del”, as locals called it. The room took its name from the four great amber lights that hung at either end, styled in the shape of a monarch’s crown. The last of the afternoon diners lingered, chatting at tables dressed in heavy white linen, with black-coated waiters in discreet attendance. Designed first as a ballroom, with its high vaulted ceiling it looked more like the hull of a great wooden ship turned on its head; when built, it reputedly ranked as the largest structure of its kind in the world, held together solely with pegs and glue, without the use of a single nail. Over a hundred years the aristocratic smoke from a million cigars had stained the sugar pine panels and beams a dark mahogany brown, giving an eerie gloominess that added to the story.
The young tour guide in the safari-style top who addressed the group continued in hushed tones with his account of the death that had shocked the sedate beach community and remained the source of local gossip and speculation. “Someone cut the body down before the police and medics arrived, contaminating the crime scene—if a crime it was— but to the shock of the dead woman’s family, the local police were quick to conclude that her death came by her own hand.”
Murmurings of incredulity were echoing amongst the party of Japanese tourists who, with the exception of Isobel, made up the spellbound listeners.
“But what is your theory about how she died?” asked Isobel.
“I can only relate the facts as they’re recorded, and the only opinion that counts is that of the local sheriff.” The young man looked at his watch. “If there are no more questions, ladies and gentlemen, that brings us to the end of the Del tour. Thank you for your time, and for your appreciation.”
Hands were clapped along with mutterings of thanks before the Japanese began to sidle away. “Thank you,” said Isobel, as she tipped the guide. “Very enjoyable. You picked a dramatic way to end.”
“Murder, mystery, and money—its a tour guide’s dream. Makes me wonder why I’m not one of the suspects!” said the man, transferring the money to a trouser pocket with a practiced hand. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful with your question, but it’s a subject that is a mite touchy with the hotel management, as I expect you can imagine.”
“Perhaps I can be of some help,” said a voice from behind. Isobel turned to see a man in a starched white shirt and camel-coloured chinos with creases that stood out like knife-edges. He cut a commanding figure and Isobel had noticed him as she had entered the Crown Room. “I’m less sensitive than Phil here about the concerns of the hotel management.”
“This is Mr. Denning,” said the tour guide. “He’s—”
“Thanks, Phil, but I think I can manage my own introduction. I’m Lance Denning,” said the man, transferring a bound folio under his arm and extending his hand as he did so.
“Isobel,” she replied, accepting his handshake as the guide retreated with an apologetic flutter of his fingers.
“I was watching you earlier. I hope you didn’t mind my gate- crashing the tour like this.”
“I’m sorry,” said Isobel, taken off-balance by the man’s easy familiarity, “have we met?”
“Not as I would wish. I noticed you the other day, sitting in the hotel garden.” The man seemed to be enjoying the advantage his impromptu arrival afforded him. “You appeared to be sketching the hotel.”
“And?” said Isobel, pushing a stray lock behind an ear.
“Art is something of a hobby of mine, that’s all. But by the time I slipped away to come down, you had disappeared faster than Cinderella at midnight.”
“Do you loiter around hotels for a living?” asked Isobel, now enjoying the attention and happy to play him at his own game.
He laughed. “I did, but not any more.”
“So you have taken up stalking instead?”
“I can see why I might have given that impression. But when I saw you sketching I was here attending a meeting, and you made a welcome distraction from a mind-numbing presentation on the implications of coastal soil erosion for the Coronado tourist trade.”
“And today?” inquired Isobel, giving no indication that the flattery had registered.
“Today I came here for a late brunch. I was just leaving as your group arrived. Fate put you in my way again, it seems. I knew Phil wouldn’t mind me listening in and as I have no pressing engagements this fine afternoon, that’s what I did.”
“It’s nice to know I’m not detaining you from more important matters. But, as I recall, your intention was to grace me with your insights into the untimely death of a hotel guest.”
“If you’re prepared to indulge me with a few minutes of your time,” said Lance, tilting his head, “then yes, I’ll be delighted to do that. I just need a second, so don’t go disappearing on me again.” He moved behind her and she turned to see him engage a heavy-set black man with a bulging neck beneath a shaven head. He positioned himself as inconspicuously as a man of such proportions could, his back against the wall. A transparent receiver of the type TV presenters wore hung from a cauliflower ear. But with his biceps straining the seams of his black jacket, he looked more like an enforcer than a morning newscaster. Lance stood close, his demeanour suggesting he might be instructing a confidante rather than a hotel employee, the man listening and nodding.
“Thanks for your patience,” said Lance, putting a guiding hand to her elbow and offering no explanation for the tête-à-tête. “But let us move out to the courtyard where the poor woman met her end.” He gestured forward. “How long are you staying here at the Del?” he asked as they walked, his tone now free of the teasing quality of their introduction.
“How long are you planning to take?” she said flirtatiously. She could see her answer had surprised him. “I’m not staying at the hotel. Someone told me about the tour they offer, and I wanted to learn something of the history of the place. I thought it might help provide a perspective for a painting.”
“But you are a visitor to Coronado?”
“I’m renting a beach house for a few months, and I’m drawing and painting. A sort of working holiday, you might say.”
“And you have friends here?” he asked, a hint of amusement playing at the corner of his lips.
“I had the good fortune to spend a year in San Diego as an exchange student during art college,” she said, reluctant to volunteer more information.
They were making their way through the lobby when a voice called out. “Mr. Denning, sir, we’ve a message for you.” The bellboy handed over a piece of paper; Lance glanced at it before crumpling it up. “Tell him I’ll call back if—no, on second thoughts,” he said, tossing the ball of paper to the bellboy, “say I’ve already left. And while you’re at it, Jim, do you mind taking this off my hands and finding a trash can where it belongs.” He offered over the folio he had been carrying.
“Problems?’ asked Isobel, surprised by the momentary flash of irritation that had come over her host.
“Not for me,” he said, taking her by the arm.
“And you’re sure you don’t work here?”
“I did, but a long time ago, carrying bags and checking hats.”
“And you’re not staying here?”
“No, I only live thirty minutes away. What makes you ask?”
“It’s just that every member of staff we pass seems to know who you are.”
“I guess it might seem like that. The Del is one of my hangouts. My family came to Coronado to eke out a living when nothing walked the land but jackrabbits and coyotes.”
“So what happened to the jackrabbits?”
He made a gesture as if firing a rifle. “They were easier to get rid of. The coyotes are selling real estate.”
They stopped at the elevator attended by a stooped man who looked like he might be one hundred years old, dressed in a grey suit and a round flat cap. Lance gave him a playful tap on the shoulder and received a frown in return. “You met Jonas on the tour, I guess. He’s a bit of an institution, been here as long as this elevator. Kings, presidents, movie stars, they’ve all ridden with Jonas and he hasn’t doffed his cap to any of them. Have you, Jonas?”
The old man let out a dismissive snort, and pulled the grilled gate to one side.
“It seems we’ve finally stumbled across someone in the hotel who doesn’t behave as if you own it,” said Isobel, her tone teasing.
“Ouch! What did I do to deserve that?” joked Lance, hitting his breast with his hand to exaggerate the wound. “Or is that what they call dry English humour?”
“Perhaps, though some might call it a compliment.”
They arrived at the fire exit, and he pushed down on the metal bar of the door. “The courtyard is normally closed to the public apart from functions, but we should be okay.”
“Unless you tripped the alarm when you opened the door.”
“Let’s hope not, but we’ll know soon enough.”
He led her onto a garden area overlooked on all sides by hotel room balconies. The place had an aura of tranquillity, like she had stepped back into the Victorian era, in an oasis of green surrounded by the white wooden façade. He led her to the centre, onto a teak bridge that stood over a koi pond dotted with white lilies and bordered by willowy aquatic plants. Only the trickle of a waterfall disturbed the silence. It could have been a picture postcard spot, somewhere Isobel imagined that secret lovers might meet to steal a kiss. Rays of sunshine reflected off multicoloured fish that converged toward them, their mouths opening and closing in expectation. Isobel looked up at the balconies. They reminded her of the French Quarter in New Orleans, and a shiver ran through her as she recalled the guide’s account of the young woman’s last night.
“Hard to believe that such a terrible thing could happen in such a beautiful place,” she said, her voice hushed.
“Have you seen enough, or do you still want to hear the conspiracy theories?”
“Well, now we’ve come this far,” said Isobel, feeling somewhat guilty for her ghoulish interest.
“Okay, if you believe the verdict, then you have to accept that a bound and gagged woman threw herself off the balcony above us with a noose around her neck.”
“And if you don’t?”
“Then you can take your pick from any amount of possibilities. Some say she killed herself the way she did to make it look like murder; others say she was murdered to avenge the death of a child; and there’s some who believe nothing more than a tragic accident occurred.”
“An accident? A young woman with everything to live for throws herself off a balcony, by accident?”
“Yes, does seem hard to figure that one. But that theory speculates that she had been attempting some type of extreme solo sex involving asphyxiation. “He paused, and Isobel sensed he wanted to test her sensibilities. “But perhaps that is more information than an English lady appreciates.”
“More than any lady appreciates, I expect. But thank you for indulging my curiosity.” She held out her hand. “You’ve been most generous with your time.”
He took her hand and held her gaze. “It’s such a beautiful evening, and the sun deck is the perfect place to enjoy a cocktail. I insist you join me.”
Isobel hesitated. Though she had not seen Ryan since the night of their argument, whatever fit of pique had possessed him had in the last few days given way to declarations of adoration. A romantic cocktail with a mysterious admirer who seemed to have free rein in the finest hotel in Coronado spelt complication.
“It would be such a pity to have to watch the sun go down alone,” he said.
“I’d be pleased to join you,” she decided, trampling on her doubts and fixing a smile as she fell into step with this handsome stranger.
They arrived on the decking area that looked out across the sea to the horizon to find it at its busiest. A sign instructed guests to seat themselves, but every table seemed occupied, with more guests hovering, drink in hand, waiting for spaces. He scanned the area. “I’ve never seen it this packed before Memorial Day. The convention crowd must have arrived early. But no problem, this will only take a couple of minutes to sort out.” He beckoned to one of the many servers who were scampering between the bar and the tables, trays of drinks on their palms. “Suzie, I can see you’re busy, but could you help us out here and arrange for a table and two chairs to be brought up? I’ll be waiting over in the corner.”
The girl beamed a smile, full of glistening white teeth. “It will be my pleasure, Mr. Denning. And what would the lady like to drink?”
“A margarita would be perfect,” said Isobel.
“And for you, Mr. Denning?” purred Suzie. “Would you like a Scotch?”
“No, a margarita sounds good to me too.”
They walked to a rail and looked out across the water. Down on the beach a wedding party remained mingling even as hotel staff scurried around collecting furniture and dismantling a stage. The bridal couple stood apart, posing for the sunset photos that would soon adorn their wedding album. Out by the shore, a troop of soldiers with barrel chests jogged behind a Jeep painted in desert camouflage that blended with the sand.
“Looks like you had no need to worry about watching the sunset on your own,” she said. “Even the Marines are out this evening.”
“SEALs. They’re Navy SEALs, or hope to be.”
“So you’re ex-military? To be able to tell the difference,” she said, hoping to prompt some disclosure.
He laughed. “No, the brown T-shirts are the giveaway. Marines exercise in green.”
“Whoever they are, they’ve picked a beautiful spot.”
“Sure have. This is one of my favourite places in Coronado. Just as long as you don’t mind the odd Navy jet screaming overhead.”
“I’m getting used to them,” she said, enjoying the view and the cool spring breeze. “But I’m still curious that you seem to be so well known around the hotel.”
“It’s no mystery. I’ve been coming here since as long as I can remember; pretty much everyone else on this deck will be gone in three days and never come back.”
“So they look after you just because they know you?”
“Yes, that’s about it. As I said, I used to work here a long time back, before everyone besides Jonas walked the floors. So maybe I know what it’s like to be in Suzie’s shoes.”
“And do you still work in the hotel industry?”
“Not any more. I couldn’t cut the unsocial hours, working when I should’ve been partying. But the experience served me well, and they did their best to teach me the basics of hotel management.”
“And did they succeed?” she said, taken by his self-effacing manner, so refreshing from most of the Americans who hit on her.
“Be nice to people, that seemed to be the key message.”
Suzie returned with a colleague and set up a table and the margaritas. “Can I get anything else for you, sir?” she asked, locking her eyes on Lance.
“I think we’re good,” said Lance, slipping a folded bill into her hand.
Lance’s flippant answers left Isobel little wiser about how he made a living, but it didn’t feel like he intended to volunteer it.
“So, in the end, what did you find you were cut out for?”
He took a sip from his drink. “I had dropped out of college after my first year, so I didn’t have a degree or a qualification, or anything like that. So I tried my hand at a few things, even spent a couple of years idling overseas, walking the hippie trail and all that.” A brazen seagull fluttered above them before landing on the centre of the table, its black eyes fixed on Isobel. She pulled her glass closer before Lance batted the bird away.
He appeared to have lost his train of thought, or had decided to abandon it.
“And when you returned from idling overseas…?”
“I became involved in property in a limited way. Retail and commercial, mostly. Buying, selling, trying to make a profit. I found managing buildings easier than managing people. So you could say property was where I hung my hat, though I also dabble in other things.” He swirled his margarita around his glass, the ice clicking against the sides.
“And your brunch today, that was work too, even though it’s Sunday?”
He laughed. “You mean what you saw with the bellboy? Some joker trying to hustle me into his get-rich-quick scam ambushed me over the dessert course. Another fly-by-night casino development in Vegas. But he insisted on foisting his prospectus on me.”
“The one you threw out?”
“It’s where it belongs. With sharks like that it’s better to say maybe, so there’s a chance they’ll quit hassling me.” For the second time she noticed a trace of irritation. If he did feel it, he moved quickly on. “But don’t let me bore you with business on this beautiful evening. What about you, Isobel, what brings you to Coronado to paint, other than that you had some good times around here back in college?”
To put five thousand miles between me and the mess back home, she wanted to say, instead offering an empty “It has everything I wanted. A perfect climate, beautiful locations for painting, and a safe and friendly environment.”
“It’s a big decision to move halfway across the world. Is our little island living up to expectations?”
“So far, yes.” She did not want to be drawn into more personal matters, and he seemed to sense it from her clipped reply.
“And the painting, is it all landscapes?”
“Yes, at the moment, but that’s just because of the location, and I don’t have a studio or anything. But I’m playing with some other ideas.”
“Such as the sketches of the Del you mentioned?”
“I’m still working on concepts. But it’s been done so many times before; I need to come up with a new angle.”
“Hmm, something more contemporary, instead of another picture postcard–type painting?”
“Yes,” she said, flattered by his interest in her work, but wondering if it were superficial.
“And what do you think you will do with your paintings when the time comes to go back home? Will you ship them back, or will you be offering them to the local market?”
“It’s a long time since I had a professional look at my work. I hadn’t painted anything in ten years till I arrived here. I don’t know if it’s any good, and even if it is, I don’t have anywhere to display it other than flower shows and open air markets.”
He looked out to the ocean. A sea of red bathed the horizon as the sun began to sink over Point Loma. “When you feel ready to show some of your work, maybe I can help. I know the lady who runs the Costa Azul Gallery on Orange Avenue. I believe she likes to work with local artists. But make sure you call me first so I can set it up, because Pauline can be a bit tetchy if you get her on the wrong day.”
Isobel suspected a transparent ruse to prompt her to ask for his number. If so, he would need to be subtler for her to acquiesce. “That’s most considerate of you. I’ll bear it in mind.”
The crowd on the deck was slowly disappearing along with the sinking sun. Isobel pulled her cardigan onto her shoulders. As she did so her phone began to peal, vibrating against her sun-warmed skin. Given the hour, she knew it had to be a US caller, most likely Ryan.
“Do you need to take that?”
She looked at the screen. It was Ryan. “It’s nothing urgent, I’ll call back.” She lifted her bag onto the table, fearing she might be giving every indication she had nothing better to do than idly chat the night away. “But I must be going or I’ll be late for dinner.” She stood and he rose with her. “Thank you so much for your hospitality.”
“The pleasure has been mine, I assure you.” He held her hand. “And consider what I said about talking with Pauline. Just leave a message for me here at reception, if that would be easier.”
With that he turned and strode away. Isobel lifted a hand to her cheek, surprised by the warmth his smile had provoked in her skin.