Free The Fat Innkeeper by Alan Russell Page A

thought ruefully, when newspapers already have your obituary
     written up. None of the newspaper stories had even hinted that Kingsbury’s death could have resulted from anything other than
     natural causes. That was the way McHugh wanted it, and Am as well. Reporters would only cloud the investigative waters.
    “So,” she said, “for the record, how have your guests been reacting to the whale?”
    Am lied. He said that they had been very understanding, had been good sports about the whole thing. Why, said Am, one guest
     had commented that this would be some whale of a tale to tell all of his friends.
    Marisa clicked off her tape recorder. “Am,” she said, “must be short for Am-nesia. I just came from the front desk. There
     were people there asking for refunds and reduction in rates. It looked like there were droves of early checkouts, and there
     was one man even threatening to sue. And everybody, I mean everybody, wanted to move to another room.”
    “Really?” said Am.
    “Not going to help me win my Pulitzer, are you?”
    Am tilted his head toward the unmoving mountain of whale. “Unless you can prove that whale’s Moby Dick,” he said, “I wouldn’t
     start working on any acceptance speech.”
    “Maybe the autopsy will show something.”
    Was Am imagining it, or was there a double meaning in her tone? And was she watching him closely to gauge his reaction, or
     was that just a friendly glance?
    “Sorry to dash any hopes,” said Wallace, “but as both of you surely know, the White Whale was a sperm whale, whereas this
     one has already been identified as a gray whale.”
    “Better luck with your next investigative story,” said Am.
    “Oh,” she said sweetly, sizing him up for a final harpoon, “I haven’t given up on this one yet.”

Chapter Eleven
    Anyone who has worked in hotels for a few years wouldn’t have much trouble leaving the business to set up shop as an experienced
     psychic. Being a good reader of the human trade is an important part of the hotel craft. Much in the way a doctor examines
     patients, so does hotel staff observe guests, the body human announcing itself in various ways to both professions. In a glance,
     an adept clerk can often anticipate a skipper, a complainer, or a midnight party. They can sense friend or foe, and all the
     gray areas between, their call usually based on their five senses, though those outside the business would swear such prognosticating
     to be a product of their sixth sense.
    Often, hotel employees can’t even tell you why they anticipated a certain behavior, especially as they work in a business
     where there are no givens, where appearances deceive as often as they enlighten. “When a man tries to hide the fact that he’s
     got a limp,” one hotel veteran had told Am, “that limp will show up in other places.” Am had learned how one guest with paint-splattered
     pants and a threadbare sweater had turned out to own most of Oklahoma City, while another guest, decked out with an Armani
     suit, and the trappings of a Rolex watch, Louis Vuitton luggage, and most of Fort Knox around his neck, was a cabdriver with
     a lot of debts. The revelations confirmed what Am had intuitively suspected. Gilbert and Sullivan created the lyrics, but
     the hotel business is often testament to them: “Things are seldom what they seem, Skim milk masquerades as cream.” The consummate
     hotel professional has to see beyond appearance. Kingsbury, thought Am. Skim, or cream, or in between?
    Detective McHugh had the resources of the San Diego Police Department behind him. He had the trace evidence team, and the
     forensics lab. He had local, state, and national computer banks. He had a team of investigators. Am had a hotel bill. To an
     experienced translator, though, hotel charges can be the Rosetta stone to a guest’s soul.
    Kingsbury had stayed at the Hotel for three nights, had died before he could spend his fourth night there. He had managed
     to dine at