Murder at The Universe (A Five-Star Mystery) - Softcover

Craig, Daniel Edward

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0738711187 ISBN 13: 9780738711188

Publisher: Midnight Ink, 2007

Synopsis

For thirty-six-year-old Trevor Lambert, life revolves around work. As Director of Rooms at the luxurious and ultra-modern Universe Hotel in New York, he radiates dignified professionalism and high-end hospitality. When Trevor inadvertently escorts VIP guest Brenda Rathberger–the cantankerous executive director of the Victims of Impaired Drivers conference–past the dead body of the hotel's owner, Trevor's perfect world implodes. Police believe a hotel executive may be responsible and their suggestion that alcohol may have been involved encourages Brenda to use the controversy to grandstand her cause. She joins forces with celebrated TV anchor Honica Winters, who exposes the sordid details on national television.

With his dear coworkers under suspicion and his treasured guests turning on him, it's all Trevor can do to protect everyone, particularly his sweet and lovely duty manager, Nancy. In the resulting clash among pampered guests, harried employees, and militant protesters, Trevor struggles to find the killer and to preserve the dignity of the Universe.

About this title

About the Author:

Daniel Edward Craig, author of the Five-Star Mystery series, draws on his years working in luxury hotels to delight readers with his hilarious behind-the-scenes novels set in the hotel business, where things are never as calm and dignified as they seem. Craig now works as a writer and consultant in Vancouver. He travels extensively, being particularly passionate about hotels, having stayed in―and worked for―some of the best in the world.
 

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

Journey to the Center of the Universe

In my career I have dealt with all types, from old money to new money, blue-blooded to hot-blooded, exceptionally important to merely self-important. I have endured rudeness and condescension, ignorance and obstinacy, verbal abuse and threats of violence. Yet at all times I remain courteous and professional, and rarely do I fail to win over a guest. One might say I kill them with kindness.

Yet I had never encountered the likes of Mrs. Brenda Rathberger.

Mr. Godfrey had debriefed us well in advance. The executive direc-tor of the Victims of Impaired Drivers association was highly particular, frugal, and intensely passionate about her cause. In previous years, the conference had been held in a small town, at a moderately priced hotel, attended primarily by small-town folk like Mrs. Rathberger. This year, VOID board members wanted New York City. They wanted a luxury hotel. And they wanted unprecedented media coverage.

In short, they wanted the Universe.

Mrs. Rathberger had lobbied hard against the board's decision. Yet, despite being ultimately responsible for organizing the conference, she had been overruled. And she was not pleased. This morning, a week before the conference was scheduled to begin, she was expected to check into the Universe Hotel to start preparations. Yesterday she had called Mr. Godfrey to warn him that if anything went wrong–anything–she would go straight to the board to demand an immediate change in venue, taking with her seven hundred delegates, meetings, receptions, and banquets–a total of over $1 million in revenue. The loss would be devastating to the hotel, both financially and in terms of morale.

Securing a conference of this size between Christmas and New Year's Eve–a time of year when New York hotels were screaming for business–had been a coup, and competitors were insanely jeal-ous. Moreover, last night, after the staff Christmas party, Mr. Godfrey had informed us that executive bonuses were on hold pending the success of the conference.

Losing it was simply out of the question.

Everything was to be perfect for Mrs. Rathberger's arrival. Preparations were elevated to a frenzy normally reserved for heads of state, royalty, and rock stars. Mr. Godfrey himself, general manager and owner of the hotel, would personally welcome her at the front door, along with a receiving line of management staff. She would be whisked up to her sprawling Supernova suite on the seventy-first floor, and thereafter every wish, whim, or fancy would be granted.

Unfortunately, things did not go quite as smoothly as planned.

To start off, Mr. Godfrey did not show up for the meet-and-greet. This was highly out of character for the consummate hotelier, and a tad unsettling, but there was no time for speculation. In a last-min-ute flurry of activity, the receiving line regrouped, and I was obliged to step in to replace him. Though not as prepared as I should have been–and suffering the effects of the previous night's rather boozy celebration–I was undaunted.

In a matter of time, I was confident Brenda Rathberger and I would be best friends.

****

"Welcome to the Universe, Mrs. Rathberger!"

It was 7:23 am on Sunday morning, six days before Christmas, and I stood on the curb in my best suit, tall and erect, every strand of my sandy brown hair in place, beaming at Mrs. Rathberger as she climbed out of her red Nissan Xterra rental. A stout, pear-shaped woman in her early fifties, she wore an enormous white parka, black tights, and white plastic boots. Her chestnut hair glinted burgundy in the morn-ing sun. The skin of her face was so tanned she appeared to have only narrowly escaped a house fire; in the urbane, sun-starved environs of winter in Manhattan, she looked positively extraterrestrial. With a vague nod in my direction, she went to the rear of the truck, lifted the hatch, and lugged out a large, floral-patterned suitcase.

"Please, allow us to assist you," I said, shooing over George, the doorman.

"Don't need any help, thanks," Brenda said to George curtly.

"But we insist." To allow a guest of this stature to carry her own luggage was out of the question. Yet, whether fiercely independent or simply fearful of having to tip, she put up quite a fight. Eventually, George triumphed, respectfully tugging the suitcase from her grasp. She stumbled backwards.

I reached out to steady her. "We are delighted to have you with us, Mrs. Rathberger."

She turned to regard me as if for the first time. "Who are you?"

I extended my hand, flashing a warm Universe smile. "I'm Trevor Lambert, director of rooms. I'm here to welcome you to the Universe." Her hand felt as cold and stiff as a frozen dishrag.

"I was expecting Willard Godfrey," she said.

"Mr. Godfrey sends his regrets. An urgent matter arose, and he asked me to greet you on his behalf."

"How disappointing," she said, pursing her lips and blinking, as though calculating the hotel's first transgression–and expecting many more to come. "I was looking forward to meeting him."

"And he you," I assured her. "He asked me to apologize profusely for his absence and to tell you that he very much looks forward to meeting you later today."

I was lying, of course; I had no idea where Mr. Godfrey was. The hotel's rules of protocol are meticulously laid out in our staff manual, An Employee's Guide to the Universe, in which three Universal Stan-dards of Service are outlined: 1) Smile; 2) Establish eye contact; and 3) Use the guest's name. Not exactly the laws of quantum physics, yet, when combined, these simple rules establish an instant rapport with guests. A fourth, unwritten rule, although nowhere to be found in the guide, is equally fundamental: Lie. Not big lies of the whopper vari-ety, but tiny white lies that preserve the guest's dignity–or that of the hotel–and engender trust and confidence. To wit: At check-out, Mr. Herbert insists that he did not watch the movie Hot Tub Hotties. He's lying, of course, and the agent knows it; a quick look into Guest History reveals that, for Mr. Herbert, every stay at the Universe is one big porn fest. But rather than argue, the employee concurs that yes, indeed, an error has been made, and deletes the charge from his bill. Together with smiles, pillow chocolates, and fluffy white towels, lies help foster the Universal Promise: to provide an idyllic escape from the outside world.

"May I escort you in?" I asked Mrs. Rathberger, offering my arm.

She appeared not to have heard. She was eyeing George as he unloaded her belongings onto a luggage cart: two large suitcases, a duffle bag, three file boxes, and a large poster tube. Her eyes searched the en-trance area, moving up and down the U-shaped driveway to Avenue of the Americas, as though on the lookout for thieves. The street was quiet, save for a few after-hours club stragglers and an elderly couple taking an early-morning stroll. Up the street, a line of taxis queued for the hotel's Sunday morning airport rush. Seemingly satisfied, she turned to examine the hotel's façade. Her gaze moved up the massive sliding steel doors at the entrance, past the six-foot chrome letters that spelled the universe hotel, and up the mirrored glass tower to the giant revolving Glittersphere perched on top. Home to the Observatory, Stratosphere Nightclub, Orbit Restaurant, and four floors of Su-pernova suites, the Glittersphere resembled the planet Saturn orbiting on a gleaming glass pedestal.

"So this is the Universe," she said, a note of skepticism in her voice.

"Magnificent, isn't it?"

She shrugged. "I'm not much for fancy hotels."

"I see."

Behind us, George slammed the hatch shut and handed the keys off to a valet, then passed the luggage cart to a waiting bellman. "All set, Mrs. Rathberger," he said. "Your luggage is on its way to your suite. Have a wonderful stay." He paused briefly for a tip, but Mrs. Rathberger kept her hands firmly planted in the pockets of her parka, eye-ing her luggage as the cart was pushed through the sliding doors and into the lobby. He returned to his post, whistling cheerfully. Mrs. Rathberger bolted after the luggage cart.

I hurried in after her. "Mrs. Rathberger?" I called out. "May I introduce you to a few of our staff?" Only then did she spot the twelve smiling employees standing in a row to my right like contestants in a beauty pageant. Muttering an apology, she made her way back. I guided her down the line, introducing each employee. Assembling a lineup of management staff this early on a Sunday morning, particularly after the party, had been a challenge. The director of conference services had managed to drag herself in, looking sheepish after a night of shots and dirty dancing. Next to her, the Galaxy floor manager looked pale and sickly. Fortunately, the robust spa manager followed, then a banquet supervisor, both of whom had missed the party. Next came staff I had recruited as filler: two room attendants, a guest services agent, two banquet staff, and a lobby hostess. Last in line were Gaetan Boudreau, front office manager, and the magnificent Nancy Swinton, duty manager. Both were smiling brightly, looking tremendously competent.

But Mrs. Rathberger bypassed them completely. Her attention was drawn to her surroundings, as if she had only then become aware of the cavernous, circular lobby around her and the atrium above that rose twenty floors through a tunnel of balconies. Suspended in the air on invisible wires above us and embedded on the sleek black marble floor beneath our feet were thousands of tiny halogen star lights, giv-ing visitors the sensation of floating in space. The music of Holst's Planets played softly in the background, and the aroma of fresh-baked croissants and Italian coffee wafted from Galaxy.

I thanked the staff members and dismissed them, then joined Mrs. Rathberger. "May I offer you a tour?"

She shook her head and placed her knuckles on her hips. "I'm far too busy for tours. Where is Willard Godfrey? I have a number of concerns I need to address with him at once."

Her words caused a niggle of anxiety in my stomach, as though a school of piranhas had taken residence and were starting to feel peckish. It was a good question. Where was Mr. Godfrey? Suddenly I had the distinct feeling that all was not well in the Universe.

"I'm sure he'll be along shortly," I said. "In the meantime, perhaps I can get you oriented quickly? Then we'll get you registered and up to your suite at once." With sweeping gestures, I pointed out Galaxy Res-taurant to the left, the Center of the Universe Lounge directly ahead, and the front desk and concierge desk to the right. "The elevator pods are in the center of the lobby," I said, indicating six glass capsules that rocketed into the atrium above. "Jupiter Ballroom is opposite the elevators, next to the curving staircase. One floor up is the concourse level, home to the hotel's administration offices and larger meeting rooms, all named after planets. On the third floor is the business center, the Sea of Tranquility Spa, Shops at the Universe, and smaller meeting rooms, these named after star constellations."

I glanced down and saw that Mrs. Rathberger wasn't paying attention. She was peering at her tanned arm, scratching it with her fingernail, flicking dead skin onto the floor.

"That's quite a tan," I remarked. "You've been somewhere hot?"

"You bet. I was in Maui for two weeks, roasting in the sun like a pig on a spit." She closed her eyes and breathed a long sigh, as though transporting herself back. "It was heaven."

"There's nothing like a sun holiday in the winter."

"Damned right."

"Shall I escort you to the Center of the Universe to get you registered?"

"The what?"

"Our lounge."

She crossed her arms. "I do not frequent drinking establishments."

"Not to worry," I assured her. "The lounge is closed until noon. The satellite check-in area is sectioned off from the rest of the lounge. All right by you?" I held out my arm.

Reluctantly, she accepted it. We made our way through a circle of display cases containing various outer space paraphernalia: a replica of the solar system; a model of space shuttle Endeavour; an astronaut's suit (remarkably similar, I noted, to Mrs. Rathberger's outfit); props from science fiction movies; collections of moon rocks and meteor bits; and a model of the International Space Station. She stopped to regard a display case in the center of the circle, which contained a replica of the Universe Hotel.

"The hotel complex occupies a half city block in midtown Manhattan," I explained, "from West Fifty-third to West Fifty-fourth and from Avenue of the Americas halfway to Seventh Avenue. When Mr. Godfrey built the Universe he intended to create a city within a city, a microcosm of society that offers everything under one roof so that guests don't have to venture outside if they don't wish to. He thinks New York–and the world in general–is going to hell, and hotels are the last remaining places of refuge."

Her eyes bulged slightly, as though suddenly questioning Mr. Godfrey's sanity. She scratched her chin. "It's been a while since I've been to New York, but wasn't a different hotel here before?"

"Good memory! The Hilton was leveled several years ago to make way for the Universe." Squinting at the brass plaque fastened to the display case, she read out its inscription. "?This building is dedicated to the late Margaret Bains Godfrey, the center of my universe. With all my love, Willard.'" She looked up. "The wife?"

I nodded. "She died only months before the hotel opened."

She seemed to lose interest and continued on. We circled the periphery of the lounge, passing smiling, purposeful-looking employees along the way. The guest services staff were dressed in form-fitting black Lycra body suits, with gold star nametags pinned to their chests, wireless headsets, and combination wireless handhelds/two-way radios called Universal Communications Devices clipped to their belts. I pressed a button on my own U-Comm to signal our approach.

Mrs. Rathberger turned to gaze up at the great white Christmas tree near the entrance to Galaxy. Rising ten stories into the atrium, it was decorated with nothing but white lights and gold stars.

"Gorgeous tree, isn't it?" I said.

"I'm not much of a Christmas person."

"I see."

We climbed three steps to the VIP satellite check-in area, part of the lounge cordoned off with blue velvet ropes and furnished with lush royal blue carpeting, leather sofas, and Carrera marble cocktail tables.

A young woman whose gold star said Alexandra was waiting. "Good morning, Mrs. Rathberger, and welcome to the Universe!" she said, her voice tinged with a faint Australian accent. "May I offer you a refreshment? I recommend the Astronomical Punch. It's out of this world."

She narrowed her eyes. "Any booze in it?"

"No, but if you'd like we could–"

"No! I'll take it the way it is."

"Certainly, madam."

As Alexandra hurried off, Mrs. Rathberger sat down, sinking deep into the leather sofa, and glanced around warily. A handful ...

About this edition

• Publisher: Midnight Ink
• Publication date: 2007
• ISBN 10: 0738711187
• ISBN 13: 9780738711188
• Binding: Paperback
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 468