Six
The maid was the first to discover his body; she had entered the hotel room with her cleaning supplies and started from one end of the room, and moved slowly to the other. After she finished in the kitchen she made her way down the hall with her vacuum and the cart of cleaning supplies. She stopped at the bathroom, briefly wiped down the sink, the toilet, and the edges of the tub, and had moved on. She expected a clean room, because Dennis’s room was always clean. He was a bestselling author after all—she had read two of his books!—and he had a reputation to uphold.
When she came into the room it was still relatively clean. Of course the curtain on the south side of the room was closed, which let in limited light. She was able to see, however, a human form on the bed, and with a step forward for a closer look saw that it was Dennis, everything but his head under the covers, and one arm hanging to the side.
“Oh, so sorry sir. Do you want I should come back?”
Dennis didn’t respond, probably still asleep. He was a hard worker. He’d told her about his schedule and how serious he was about maintaining it.
“If I want to be the best writer,” he said. “I have to be willing to do what the other guy isn’t.”
There was a magazine lying open on the floor, cover side up, and though she only glanced at it, she was able to make out the smiling face of a black woman, probably in her mid to late thirties, her hair straight and down to her shoulders. She was about the same complexion as Dennis, perhaps darker. Versha Mitchell, a self-made, millionaire. She’d seen her on the money channel talking to a politician not long ago. She liked Versha.
She took her eyes off the cover of the magazine and looked back at Dennis. The gloom made it hard to get a good look at his face. It was as if the present light had conspired to leave Dennis’s face out of it.
“Dennis, do you want I should clean?”
No answer.
“Sir?”
No answer.
“Dennis?”
Still no answer. She stepped forward to get a better look at him. Perhaps he had drunk too much the night before and was now sleeping it off, which would mean he’d most certainly be out like a light. But just two extra steps forward let her know that wasn’t the case. She’d caught a fair amount of people still sleeping when she’d cleaned hotel rooms in the past, but never had she’d caught someone sleeping with their eyes open.
She reached out and turned on the bedside lantern. His head was turned to the side and his eyes, narrow and brown, stared toward the floor. His mouth was slightly parted.
“Oh Dennis,” the maid cried, and put a soft hand on his forehead. It was cool, like touching the skin of someone fresh out of a snowstorm. Her other hand moved instinctively to the blanket that extended up over his neck if only because it seemed pulled up a bit too high. The blanket stuck a little at first, but with a firm tug, the maid managed to unstick it. A long, bloody gash ran along his neck. Two, actually. The wounds were nearly halfway through his throat, but cleanly cut, as if whoever had done it was adept with the weapon they were using. The blood had soaked the mattress and dripped along the edges and the sides.
“Oh Dennis,” the maid repeated and lifted the blanket back up over his neck. She kissed him on the forehead, and continued to sob as she picked up the phone and called the police.