Dumb Luck

By Joy Joseph

Tom Ludwig and Mark Carlino are two top notch detectives. Mostly they handle hard driving cases that take them to the far corners of their precinct.

For a change, they are assigned to the seemingly innocent death of an elderly bellhop at one of the most exclusive hotels in town. Innocent until the medical examiner speaks.

This innocuous beginning leads them to eight murders in the span of one week. The cast of characters they will meet includes a backroom politico, who can raise money or order hits, an alcoholic hit man, a middle aged spinster, an embezzler, an Italian opera star and a hotel owner going broke, among others.

Come travel with them as they spend their week in relative luxury looking for their suspect in the better parts of town while solving a spree of murders.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 22, 2009
• ISBN: 9781462834891

Joy Joseph

Joy Joseph is a play write, director, actress, former dancer, drama coach, newspaper columnist and mother of eight. Raised in New Jersey, she studied dancing and drama from a very early age. She has been writing and directing plays and occasionally making appearances for the past twenty-eight years. A suburban theater group, founded by Joseph, has recently celebrated twenty-five years of performing. Along with this busy schedule, she also taught drama classes at a Catholic grammar school for eighteen of those years, reaching all grades from first to eighth. Each year culminated with a “Graduation Play” directed by Joseph For several years she also wrote a newspaper column for a Chicago Suburban newspaper as well as penning several short stories. She and her late husband, Lou Joseph, a science writer and media specialist raised their eight children in suburban Chicago where she has lived for the past forty-eight years.

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DUMB LUCK

Joy Joseph

Copyright © 2009 by Joy Joseph.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2009908659

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

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www.Xlibris.com

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Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY ONE

CHAPTER FORTY TWO

CHAPTER FORTY THREE

CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY SIX

CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY ONE

CHAPTER FIFTY TWO

CHAPTER FIFTY THREE

CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR

CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE

CHAPTER FIFTY SIX

CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN

CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT

CHAPTER FIFTY NINE

CHAPTER SIXTY

CHAPTER SIXTY ONE

CHAPTER SIXTY TWO

CHAPTER SIXTY THREE

CHAPTER SIXTY FOUR

CHAPTER SIXTY FIVE

CHAPTER SIXTY SIX

CHAPTER SIXTY SEVEN

CHAPTER SIXTY EIGHT

CHAPTER SIXTY NINE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My first experience with murder and mystery was when my father handed me his Perry Mason and Nero Wolf books. When he assured me that it was all right to love mysteries and told me that FDR was a fan, I was hooked. I’ve been reading every book of murder and mystery that I could get my hands on ever since. It has been fun to try my own hand at the genre.

I would like to thank everyone who entered my life during the writing of this story and became a part of it. Whether they encouraged me to go on, or made positive suggestions. Especially my daughters Christine Forssander and Patricia Campbell for taking on the initial editing task. Also kudos to my granddaughter, Dianna Forssander. Her technical abilities with computers and her creative talents were a great help to me in every respect.

DAY ONE

CHAPTER ONE

The hotel lobby was dark. Sparkling chandeliers that beckoned to visitors, holding out promises of elegant appointments and service, were now asleep. A single light near the bellman’s desk cast shadows on the ceiling. Long, narrow, slightly spooky shadows moved when he did and seemed to be laughing at the elegance. Now they were still, as he settled in a chair behind the desk and promptly fell asleep. His head nodding from time to time was the only movement in the huge room.

After a time, when the nodding stopped and his head went back and rested against the wall behind the chair there was another movement. A silent, slow, creeping movement that went from the door next to the elevators to the wall across the room from the sleeping bellman. A shadow approached a large oil painting hanging above an occasional table. You could tell the painting was very old and probably very expensive.

The shadow got larger as its maker straightened up and proceeded to lift the painting off of the wall, crouch down again, and silently leave the room by the same door from whence it had come. It made a quick stop to grab one of the very lovely Tiffany lamps, sitting prominently atop the table, on its way out. The shadow didn’t notice that the sleeping bellman had opened one eye!

Morning came and the sun brightened the lobby with its warm rays. No need for the sparking chandeliers just yet, their time would come later. The reservation desk was manned by three clerks. One was a young girl, probably no more than eighteen or nineteen. She had bright red hair that set off the green hotel jacket she was wearing. Her name was Jackie and she had been on the job just about two or three weeks. Time enough to get settled and know her way around and know the staff that occupied the lobby. But they were the only employees she had come to recognize. Originally from Idaho, she had invaded the big city scene with the usual big city ideas of a great future in acting. She knew she was meant for the stage and that was the only thing that really meant anything to her. The fact that she was slightly ditzy would become evident to anyone that held a conversation of any length with her. The other two desk clerks were still trying to decide whether she was really as stupid as she seemed or whether it was an act. She definitely gave them food for their casual conversations.

A door marked ‘Employees only’ opened and a slightly balding man in his fifties emerged. He was quite polished in his appearance. His custom tailored suit with just a hint of pinstripe, his French cuffed shirt and highly polished shoes spoke of perfection and perhaps a visit to Seville Row to confer with the well known tailors. His brisk walk spoke of authority, which of course he had, since he was the hotel general manager. Meet Mr. Olafson. An import from Norway, he had been employed in some of the best European hotels for many years before making his way to the States.

It had always infuriated him that everyone always considered the best hotel managers to be French or Italian and it had become his mission in life to prove that the Norse gods had descendants that knew how to throw a party and that killing and maiming and such were not their only strengths. He held a sheaf of papers in his hand as he approached the desk. Where is Mr. Conway? I must speak to him immediately Jackie looked disconcerted because she had absolutely no idea where Mr. Conway was. Or who he was, for that matter, since he was apparently not an employee who reigned in the lobby.

I’m sorry, Mr. Olafson, I really don’t know where he is ( or who, she muttered) I can page him if you like

Yes, yes, do exactly that, I must speak to him as soon as possible with that he left the lobby headed for his office.

Joey, one of the bellhops who had been standing at the bell captains desk all this time and had made it his business to overhear everything, approached Jackie. Hey, babe, what’s new, what’s the big deal with Mr. O.? He doesn’t look too happy?

I don’t have a clue. I mean like I don’t even know who this Mr. Conway is! Like, I never even have seen him. Who is he anyway? Jackie asked.

He’s the finance guy around here, I think his title is Chief Financial Officer. Nobody ever wants to talk to him unless something is going wrong. Joey responded with an air of authority, trying to impress her with his knowledge.

Jackie shook her head and proceeded to look for the page listing intercom numbers of employees to get Mr. Conway’ number.

At this, Mr. Olafson, reemerged, walking casually across the lobby, glancing around at his domain, nodding in approval as he noted several of the housekeeping staff dusting and going about their duties. As he walked, he checks his list of events for the day and smiled. It was going to be quite a busy day. Looking around, he suddenly stopped and stared at the empty wall where the large oil painting has hung. He began to look as though he might have a heart attack. He turned and sat down on the nearest sofa. Putting his head in his hands he mutters. Where in the name of God is that painting? It was here yesterday! Is it possible that a robbery has occurred during my tenure here? I am done for! Done for! This will be the end of my career! I have traveled around the world! Worked at the best places! Nothing like this has ever happened before! His voice rising a notch with each exclamation, (Mr. Olafson had a way of being very dramatic when it suited him.) I have worked hard all my life to earn respect over the entire European continent only to come here and be disgraced! I must speak to the owners at once! He rose and walked to the reservation desk, a beaten man. Asking Jackie to get the hotel owners on the phone as soon as possible, he retreats to his office once again.

Several guests enter the lobby and begin the registration process. A honeymoon couple whose reservation had been made several months ago checks in. They are followed by a well tailored businessman who carries a very expensive briefcase and laptop. Then a middle aged couple, who have come to join the veteran’s convention that is to begin tomorrow, are next in line.

Joey and Sam, (another bellman), take their luggage on carts to the elevator. Several other of the bellhops are also put into service. Jackie leaves her desk after registering the new guests. She is headed for Mr. Olafson’s office to ask him exactly who the hotel owners are. It never occurs to her to page him and ask him that question. She had thought she heard the name once but couldn’t remember it! Although it is broad daylight the lobby is once again quiet as the reservation clerks have stepped behind the rear window of the desk and for all practical purposes the room is empty.

The beauty of the room is even more apparent when it is empty. The ceiling to floor windows are sparkling with the noon day sun. Conversation groupings of furniture are scattered about. Each group holds sofas and chairs that are upholstered in the finest fabrics. The woods in the occasional tables are of the finest craftsmanship. The lamps and knick-knacks are obviously imports. The occasional rugs are hand made orientals and the marble tile between them has come directly from Italy. The entire decor speaks of the 1920’s. It could have been Gatsby’s place.

Jackie returns at about the same time that Joey gets off the elevator. She goes to her desk and grabs the computer mouse. Opening up the employee list, she once again looks for the number of the owners. While she is searching, the elevator door opens to announce the arrival of Mrs. Wheatstone, the head housekeeper.

Mrs. Wheatstone is a real piece of work. Although she is only in her late thirties or early forties, she looks like something out of an old horror movie. Her hair, bright from a henna rinse, is pulled back in a tight bun at the nape of her neck. The front looks like a ‘40’s pompadour. If she had a high collar of lace atop a long black dress she would be a perfect character for a Frankenstein movie. Actually, she wore a bright purple dress with a long chain around her neck that sported a gold key. A symbol of her position that she had decided would give her some semblance of authority and separate her from the rest of the housekeeping staff. So, she had had it made for herself by a local jeweler and she wears it with great relish.

Mrs. Wheatstone approached Joey, who was leaning against the bell captains desk. Young man, where is your name tag? How am I supposed to call you by name if I don’t know what it is? And stop leaning! You should be at attention, near the reservation desk to be available at a moments notice! Now get on with your job and put on the name tag immediately.

Joey, even though he was used to being called on the carpet, being sort of a free spirit, is obviously upset by this exchange. He has been quite intimidated by Mrs. Wheatstone ever since coming to the hotel. He almost runs across the lobby to the reservation desk. Jackie, who has witnessed this scene is trying hard not to have noticed it. In doing so, her eyes are wandering around the lobby in an off handed way trying not to settle on any one thing when she suddenly gasped! The lamp, the Tiffany lamp that was on that table! it’s gone! And the oil painting from that wall! O! My God Joey, go get Mr. Olafson, he’s going to have a cow when he finds this out! She turned away from the rooms center and rummaged through her drawer of personal things. I’m getting a terrific headache, I really need an aspirin.

Mr. Olafson and Joey returned within a few minutes. Mr. O.,hoping he was dreaming earlier, and praying that he had been seeing things, unhappily assures himself that the lamp is, in fact, missing as well as the oil painting in what appears to be a clever robbery. He went to the desk to question Jackie Miss Landis, are you certain that you never saw anyone in the lobby? Never saw anyone near that table? Where were you all the time? Were you always in the lobby, behind your desk? Jackie, intimidated by the questions was near tears. She stammered her reply Mr. O. I never left the desk like except to go to your office and ask you who the owners of the hotel were. And that only took a few minutes. I don’t understand how anyone could come and go in such a short time, let alone carrying a lamp. Like, maybe it was already gone and we just didn’t notice it? This is probably the only intelligent remark Jackie will make all day long.

Mr. O. was by now beside himself. Have you called Mr. Patton yet? He is the owner, which you should know by now. After all, it is the name of the hotel!! He looks at her with barely disguised contempt. Jackie just shakes her head in a most theatrical way, her hair flying over her shoulder, wondering why she didn’t remember that small bit of information, Mr. Patton of the Patton Hotel. She would have to try real hard not to forget that again. She doesn’t speak, being too busy wiping her nose with a tissue. Well then, I will just have to call him myself, which I suppose is only right since I am the one who will probably have to resign when this is all sorted out. Olafson leaves for his office to make this call in private, at which time he will certainly try to minimize the extent of the robbery as well as his involvement. Joey and Jackie are left to commiserate with each other and the rest of the bell staff who have suddenly and suspiciously all returned at the same time, just as Mr. Olafson leaves the room.

Mrs. Wheatstone who has been a silent observer to this entire situation steps forward as they enter and sends them to various vantage points in the lobby where they can rush to the aid of any entering guest. After sending then to their posts, she leaves the lobby by the door marked ‘employees only’ and disappears into the bowels of the hotel at which point the staff once again descends on the reservation desk. They try to act casual so that the guests who are by now converging on the lobby will not notice anything that will distract them from their visit. But at the same time, they all want to know what’s going on.

On the top floor of the hotel is, of course, the penthouse. A two story extravaganza that is decorated art deco from ceiling to floor at the expressed wishes of its resident, Mr. Blair Patton,the third. Mr. Patton, who is also the third generation owner of the family run hostel sits at his desk, looking out over the cityscape. A dour expression on his face makes one wonder if he has already been told of the robbery. But no one has used the private elevator since the crime nor has the phone rung,so it seems there are other things on his mind.

He doodles with a gold pen on his initialed scratch pad. His designer inspired casual clothes are impeccable. His feet are encased in the very best cordovan loafers with the obligatory tassel as he stretches his legs to rest on the antique desk that cost his great grandfather a few trees for its making. On the surface he seems like the average, spoiled non working heir to a large fortune. But when you decide that’s what he is, you are wrong. In his forties and at close to six foot, with a build that any one without a personal trainer would die for and with a full head of slightly graying brown hair and brown eyes he is a striking figure at the least. He is actually a very bright, honest, caring person who is, at the present time,worried sick about the future of his hotel.

Something has to give,something must change, I’m dying here he moans. He reaches over and buzzes his secretary and tells her to get Mr. Olafson and Mrs. Wheatstone on the line. When they have answered, he asks them to come to his office, which thrills Mrs. Wheatstone to pieces, since she considers this the epitome if insider-ism. She pats her hair into place, (as if it were ever out) smooths out her skirt and pushes the button to the service elevator, shaking with excitement. Going Up she muses.

When she arrives, and is ushered into the inner sanctum by Miss Roper, the very private secretary who has been just that to two generation of Patton’s, she gazes about, stupefied at the luxury she is seeing. She fails to notice Mr. Patton looking out the window with his back to her. He turns, notices her amazement, smiles to himself and approaches her. Mrs. Wheatstone how are things going today? Are we booked up? Are there any conventions in the building? Tell me what I need to know. Mrs. Wheatstone gasps as she realizes that he does not know about the robbery and she must be the one to tell him. How to start? Just put it out there for him to digest . He’ll know what to do. These and a hundred other thoughts run through her mind as she stands center stage so to speak ready to recite her lines, her head held high. Unfortunately, just as she begins her tale, Mr. Olafson arrives and is welcomed by Mr. Patton. Mr. O. clears his throat and immediately begins to tell the exact story that Mrs. Wheatstone had in mind. Mr. Patton, there is something that you must be told about. It seems that there has been a robbery of sorts in the lobby and no one has alerted the police about it. I was about to inform you of the circumstances when your call came in. Patton looks at him with a quizzical eye. Exactly what do you mean by a robbery ‘of sorts’? he asks. Well, at first someone seems to have taken the oil painting that hangs on the west wall of the lobby. Then a while later we noticed that the original Tiffany lamp seems to have also disappeared. No one saw anything or heard anything so there is nothing to tell to the police. What shall I do?

Amazingly so, Mr. Patton seems rather low keyed in his absorption of this news and they wonder if he had actually heard Mr. O. correctly. Did you understand what I said? he asked rather embarrassedly I hope that I was clear about the incident? No, no, Mr. Olafson, you were quite clear. I will handle the police myself, thank you very much, you have been quite professional in your handling of the situation. Now, tell me about the registration list for today are we booked up? Not really, is the reply, we have a few conventions but we could certainly hold quite a few more people if we were to get calls. He then turns to Mrs. Wheatstone, and how are things in your department? Are you running the housekeeping department as a well oiled machine? Mrs. W. giggles at the thought that runs through her mind. She pictures herself atop a huge steam engine, dressed as an engineer, calling to all her employees to work harder, harder, harder. But she says, Yes, Mr. Patton, everything is going along well. We have enough help. We could definitely handle a full house if necessary but that is not the case today.

O.K. Mr. Patton smiles, and turns to Olafson. Mr. O. you will please stay a moment or two and Mrs. W., you may go back to your post now. I will take care of things from here on. He ushers her out to the kitchen where the service elevator resides, past Miss Roper, who gives her a withering glance for having taken up so much of her dear Mr. Patton’s time, pushes the down button for her and leaves her waiting as he returns to his office, once again passing Miss Roper.

Miss Roper is tsk tsking under her breath at all this activity. His father never saw two people in an entire day. It must be very wearying on the poor dear to have to do this. I’ll make him a nice cup of tea after every one has left, that will make him feel a lot better, Miss Roper thought as she made her call. All the while patting her white wig, which seemed to have slid a little, back into place.

Rosie Roper was something out of a story book. She had been private secretary to Blair Patton’s father for many years, coming to the hotel as a very young girl. Standing about five foot three in her bare feet, her brown hair and pale blue eyes made for a wistful image to anyone who looked. Mostly, no one ever looked, as she didn’t have that sparkle needed to create attention. If you were looking for an adjective to describe her you would have to say, not unkindly, ‘mousy. ‘ Never having met anyone like Blair the Second, she had immediately fallen in love with him and did his bidding at every turn. They became so close that it was inevitable that they would sometime or another have an affair, and of course, they did. Rosie, who had come from a staunch Baptist family was beside herself with guilt.

Rosie had hoped for many years that Blair II would ask her to marry him. But this never happened. He