The Homicide at the Hallmark Hotel

Angelica Stella, Larry Jones, Arthur Reynolds, and Samuel Hunter – before the tragedy of the Hallmark Hotel, were each working in separate hotels: Ms. Stella at the Cozy Comfort, Larry Jones at the Comfort Inn, Samuel Hunter at the Sunshine Stay, and Arthur Reynolds at a different Cozy Comfort location.

Arthur Reynolds was indeed beloved by Ms. Stella, but he had his eyes on the prize: getting funding for a bigger and better hotel: the Hallmark Hotel. What led up to that follows.

“Ms. Stella?” asked the clerk.

“Yes?” she answered. “Oh, I seem to have forgotten.”

“It’s your zip code backwards and then the last four of your social.”

“Oh, that’s right.”

With that, she punched in for her shift at the Cozy Comfort. She did her main tasks: filling the coffee, gathering the pillow cases for washing, drying them, getting the orders for the bakery (part of the continental breakfast), making sure everyone that parked in the lot is accounted for, cleaning rooms after inhabitants left, and staying at the front desk as a receptionist and a clerk.

But this wasn’t a typical day. Indeed, she had just received a phone call from her old friend: Samuel Hunter. In the conversation, he said that she could receive better wages at the Sunshine Stay. Thus, she was debating whether to meet with his manager and her manager to decide some fruitful progress. On the other side of town, Larry and Arthur met.

“How many elevators is your brand-new hotel gonna have?”

“3 on the main floor.”

“But you still haven’t signed the lease for it yet, right?”

“That’s because what’s there are failed businesses owned by Jessica Thompson,” said Mr. Reynolds.

Larry Jones knew simple math: 3 was more than 1, which was the current amount of elevators that the Comfort Inn had. Mr. Reynolds was at it again: doing his campaign to shut down Ms. Thompson’s properties so that the Hallmark Hotel could be constructed. He was on his recruiting mission, but after Larry, he didn’t know who else to seek.

“Do you know anyone else who could be a major team player in our hotel domination?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on, you’ve been in hospitality for a while. No one else in the hotel business has taught themselves as much as you know about hotels.”

Ms. Stella was just ticking off the parking permits when she received another call: Samuel Hunter.

“So it turns out we won’t need to meet with our managers,” said Samuel.

“Why not?”

“Another individual has stepped forward, and he’s challenging Jessica for equity and lease-owning rights of her properties off of 123.”

“Seriously? That’s insane. Who would dare to challenge her? Even though she has had some slip ups every now and then—losing customers, shoplifters, and high turnover rates.”

“Well, apparently, it’s over. He won. She is shutting down all 9 stores. Mr. Reynolds is going to build the best hotel in history: The Hallmark Hotel.”

“Why, I bet we would do pretty well working there.”

“That’s right. Larry Jones referred us to him, and we’re hired! In fact, Arthur must be having early onset dementia, because he forgot that we have been such stellar workers in the hotel industry. Still, regardless of our crossed paths before, he is putting his trust and faith in us.”

“Fantastic news, Samuel. Haha, this will be our best run yet!”

“The Homicide at the Hallmark Hotel” -- The former vignette is a prequel to this main story.

The rumbling thunder and crackling lightning permeated, in sight and sound, through the vast, desolate sky, while a multitude of raindrops plummeted downward in a sporadic frenzy for land. The bleak, gray clouds puffed bumptiously in all directions, grasping all with a self-assertive clench, like an overgrown baby desiring attention and care. All of nature seemed to cry out and make known of the horrid homicide of the Hallmark Hotel.

            Almost every soul had vacated the premises; save for three workers of the hotel and the owner, none were present. A renovation was enacted, for the hotel proved quite subpar to the rising stories of those like the Cozy Comfort and the Sunshine Stay. Twenty-five stories high would soon be forty stories high. A replacement of the hotel’s workers took place also, leaving the lonely four—namely the owner, Arthur Reynolds; the clerk, Angelica Stella; the elevator man, Larry Jones; and the senior manager, Samuel Hunter—to make final altercations.

              Yet one decided to take it one step further: the altercation of a life. Electrifying reverberation rippled outward -- just as a drop of water does when surfacing a pool of water -- as the inaudible cry of life slipped away. And so it was. Mr. Arthur Reynolds was no more.

              A man, with nothing more than the clothes on his back and a notepad, ambled toward the Hallmark Hotel, purpose in his every step—the disposition of resolve and resolution. Zachary Powell was his name. A detective with a decade of expertise, Zachary would rely on his intuition, reason and perception—nothing else. For who can trust any one person when death has occurred and murder may make its mark again?

             “You called the police, didn’t you?” questioned Samuel, tapping his finger against the arm of a plush couch in the main lobby. “I have five kids and a wife who need taking care of.”

             “Why, Mr. Hunter,” Ms. Stella interjected. “We all have other business to attend to.” She paused, standing tall, a solemn stare that pierced through him. “But this was murder, and as such, it requires a bit of our time. Besides, I’m sure the police will—”

          Zachary, drenched from the pouring rain, walked in. The hotel workers faced him.

         “Pouring cats and dogs out there it is,” stated Zachary. He took off his soaked coat and hat, scanning the hotel’s main lobby for a place to put them.

          Larry stood up, “Suh—sorry sir, I’ll take that,” and he walked over to the hotel's closet, stumbling periodically.

          “No need to apologize. I would be just as shaken up as you if I saw a sight like that. Thanks a bunch.” The detective took off his glasses and sat in one of the couches. As Larry walked back, the detective began again, “Now, let me get a good look at each of you, and ask each of you a few questions. The police will be here momentarily to do some forensic analyses.”

           “How did you get here?” asked Samuel. “I thought Larry called the police?”

           Zachary smiled slightly, “I receive the same calls as the police. Yet I live closer than the police do to this establishment. Enough about me, though. Let's hear what you all have to say.”      

           Ms. Stella's turn came first. Zachary Powell eyed the lady, noticing her various idiosyncrasies and characteristics. To begin with, Ms. Stella was unusually short—so short that she must have been a dwarf or something of the sort. Other than this outlandish trait, Ms. Stella seemed like one's typical grandmother: old, sweet, and slightly on the chubby side.

          “Where were you, Ms. Stella,” questioned Mr. Powell, “past 6:00 pm, and what was your connection to Mr. Reynolds?”

              “I was on the first floor. My being the clerk, a worker of administration, testifies to this fact. I could not have even committed the murder if I tried, Mr. Powell. Besides, Arthur was a dear friend of mine; my killing him would be tantamount to killing my brother.”

                Samuel chuckled, “Friend? You two fight more than me and my wife.”

             “Please,” said Zachary, turning to face Samuel, “do not interrupt my investigation.” He turned back to Ms. Stella. “And how long, Ms. Stella, have you been working here?”

             “Seven years in this particular hotel, though I knew Arthur from our former days in the hotel industry. We both aspired to be owners of our own chain. Angelica Stella's Angel Stay, The Royal Reynolds – it seemed so close, so attainable.” Ms. Stella paused, a tear cresting her eye. “Yet we were young and foolish. Such a feat proved fruitless. Arthur, however, never gave up that dream. And rightfully so. He worked his way up the ladder of success—learning everything, studying all. And he managed to become very successful and renowned in the hotel industry. Although I failed to rise high in fame and fortune, Arthur never was negligent in our relationship, despite his being married; he took me in here: the Hallmark Hotel. I'm eternally grateful.” Ms. Stella gave in to her lachrymose state, weeping up a fountain of tears.

           “Thank you, Ms. Stella” said Mr. Powell as he finished up his final note. “I'm sure Mr. Reynolds appreciates your sentiment. Mr. Jones—your turn.” 

           Larry Jones was a man of cautious character. He had worked for Arthur for nearly three years—a trying three years at that. The man always seemed to criticize, critique, correct; there was always this or that, something of imperfection. Larry worked exceptionally hard: the normal nine hours turned to ten, then eleven—increases in hours without increases in pay. And surely, when the man died, Larry proved hesitant to feel anything at all for the man. Anything.

          Slowly, Larry began his alibi: “I was in, um, the elevator. Yes, I am an elevator man—that's what I do, you see—”

            The police force came in, interrupting Mr. Jones, fourteen in all.

            “Ah,” said Zachary, “finally decided to show up?” 

          “Hush it,” said Melinda, head of the police force, “traffic's to blame; it won't happen again.” She winked. “As for you all,” Melinda peered at each of the hotel workers, “I have some questions—”

           “Don't bother,” replied Zachary, “I'm already in the process of interrogating.”

            “And the body?”

         “The 25th floor.”

            Melinda waved her hand toward the elevator and a group of five carrying cases made haste. Another group walked out and secured the area, leaving Melinda with two other officers. 

         “Larry,” said Zachary, “begin again.”

        “I was in the elevator, the middle one—” 

         “Wait, how many elevators are there?”

       “There's three of them.”

        Confirming what Larry said, Zachary walked over to the elevators and pressed the button to open it up. When he entered, a peculiarity struck him: the buttons of the elevator were spread far apart; the 25th floor button was very high up. Zachary returned, after taking notes, to Ms. Stella, Larry and Samuel.

         “Forgive me,” said Zachary, smiling weakly. “Start again, if you will.”

        “I was doing a check of each floor of the hotel, because we're just starting our renovation. All inhabitants were asked to leave temporarily; they were driven to another hotel, the Comfort Inn, or—”

           “It was the Sunshine Stay,” interrupted Ms. Stella. 

          “Yeah. That was it,” continued Larry, his eyes downcast. “The Sunshine Stay. There was also, um, Mr. Reynolds here, about an hour ago, and he fired nearly all the hotel’s staff. Now it’s just us. I had to go through each room on the 20th floor to the 25th floor. The others had been checked an hour ago by Henry and Carl, the other elevator men, before they were fired. I didn’t hear or see anything suspicious until I went to the 25th floor. Mr. Reynolds, well, was dead. His head—it was bloody.” Larry stopped talking.

            “What was Mr. Reynolds doing in the 25th floor?”

           “Well, he has a room here, ‘cause he’s the owner and all.” 

          “What’s the room number?”

           “335.”

          Zachary called in an officer to search the room. 

         Pinching his fingers, Larry asked “Is that everything you wanted to know?”

        “Do you have anything more to share?”

        “No.”

        “Then that just leaves you, Mr. Hunter.”

        “Sure does,” said Samuel, with a grin.

         Samuel Hunter—a tenacious man with clear priorities: family first. Sam was the kind of person who would stop at nothing for a goal—always striving. He has worked longer than the other two, but has yet to receive a rise in position from senior manager to general manager—or from the former to owner. And now, with Arthur dead, a convenience had occurred—almost too convenient; what was a long-term goal was now made short.

          “As for me, I was doing my job: taking care of paperwork. I’m the manager—it’s what I do. I manage. I’ve been doing that for twelve long years. And not once have I gotten a raise. Not once!”

            “Oh,” Ms. Stella replied, “We all have yet to receive a raise in our salaries. The hotel has been in a bit of a difficult time. The only reason we can afford this renovation is due to Arthur’s closing down the other hotels; this, the Hallmark Hotel, was his only focus. But our salaries are hardly of import when there is a dead body, Mr. Arthur Reynolds. Is money your only—”

          “Shut it,” said Samuel. “Don’t try and pin the blame on me. We all know your relationship with the owner—your real relationship.”

         Zachary’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Is there something you forgot to tell us, Ms. Stella?”

        Ms. Stella turned her head aside and crossed her arms.

         Samuel laughed. “This isn’t the time for acting like a child. Tell the man the truth!”

       “Arthur and I have indeed had our quarrels. Yet, I’ve always been in love with the man.”

          “See!” exclaimed Samuel. “I told you. She’s a lying, cheating, no-good—”

          “Quiet!” yelled Zachary. “I have one final question, anyone may answer: Who will take over the Hallmark Hotel?” 

         “Well, it’s got to be me,” said Samuel, smiling wide. “Unless the man left a will, which I doubt, I’m the only one qualified.”

           And with the final comment from Mr. Hunter, with professionals analyzing and discovering clues, the search for truth commenced. 

          Zachary Powell and Melinda studied the Hallmark Hotel, corner to corner, with the two officers following closely behind. The first oddity was that the stairs were closed off, due to the renovation enacted. They did not need to search any farther after noticing that; a vast array of construction and refurbishing supplies was located in the main lobby. Lead pipes and wooden boards, linen curtains and plush pillows—all neat and proper, yet in a murder case, those proved most dubious. Anyone could have easily acquired one of the supplies and altered its use as a weapon. 

      “This,” Zachary pointed at the objects, “is how he or she did it. It must be.”

       A policeman walked over to Melinda, then whispered in her ear.

            “What is it?” asked Zachary.

         Melinda put a finger to her lips and eyed, like a martinet, toward Zachary. Nodding once in a while, she confirmed each of the officer’s words with a vigorous mark of pen on paper.

          Zachary’s eyes narrowed. “Have they figured out the cause?”

        “It’s just as the boy said: traumatic brain injury.”

         “Then this,” Zachary turned toward the stack of lead pipes, “this is it.”

           Melinda shook her head. “That's not all. They found a baseball collection—gloves, baseballs—” she hesitated. “And baseball bats.”

          “Whose?” 

          “Samuel Hunter.”

           Zachary Powell stood still—frozen yet aware, unyielding yet searching. There had to be sense in all of this, there had to be something...Yet what? Something was missing, something was lingering. He could feel it; the facts screamed out at him, pushing, persuading, telling. The thunder roared like a cannon, while the rain plummeted like a torpedo outside. And it hit him.

         All policemen were called back to the main lobby, where Samuel Hunter, Ms. Stella and Larry Jones awaited their verdict. Zachary reviewed his notes and conferred with his colleagues.

         “Have you got it figured out?” asked Melinda, walking toward the plush couches. 

            Zachary put his finger to his lips. Melinda smirked.

           “Well,” said the detective, pacing the lobby floor. “You three gave interesting alibis and interesting stories. I almost thought I would be stuck.” He stopped. “Almost. But the truth is light, and lies are darkness. Follow closely to the light and you will never be lost.” Zachary's eyes beheld each of the suspects. “This murder would not escape me.” 

       Looking at his notes, Zachary began counting off. “First there was the motive; you all had one, whether you said it or not. It was a matter of my eliminating the obvious and deducing the mysterious. Money, though powerful, did not possess the power to persuade one of you into this crime. Second, there was the murder. Each of you had the capability to kill Mr. Reynolds; there were lead pipes in the main lobby, for construction—as was their purpose. Our forensics team, however, analyzed Mr. Reynolds. And indeed a lead pipe is the way by which Mr. Reynolds died. Third, there were the clues and the red herrings. Baseball bats were found in your room, Mr. Hunter. Yet it seems too careless an act for a mastermind murderer. Further, your office resides in the far left corner of the building; if you had done it, someone would have seen you. And you, Mr. Jones, were in the elevator, which was indeed the method of transportation. Still, you did not partake of the crime. 

            Ms. Stella, though short, went through one of the remaining elevators and pressed the topmost button: the 25th floor. It's raining today, is it not? I spy an umbrella at your feet. You had the means to press the button; your height would be doubled. And in your alibi, Ms. Stella, you claimed you were on the first floor. There is no such floor; it is known as the main lobby. Finally, she felt betrayed by Mr. Reynolds when he married someone else. There were journal entries in room 335 created by Mr. Reynolds describing this sentiment. Jealousy, in this case, has the most power. Ms. Stella is the culprit. Take her away, officers.”