Buried Secrets, page 4
part #2 of Jacqueline Frye Series
She stomped off to take the call, so I leaned against the wall to wait for her, unwilling to return to dinner on my own. A scene at the front desk caught my attention.
A woman—average in almost every aspect—had come in. She seemed to be arguing with Janine about something. Surreptitiously, I inched closer.
“No, that can’t be right,” the woman was saying. “Megan wouldn’t check out early without letting me know. I’m her sister.”
“She didn’t precisely check out,” Janine replied. “She left without settling her bill.”
“She wouldn’t do that.”
Janine sighed. “She did. Anyway, I’d give her a call because we haven’t seen her since last night.”
Before I could listen to more, Marie stomped out of the restaurant with steam pouring from her ears. “Where’s Evelyn?” she demanded.
“Taking a call.”
“Ugh!” Marie threw up her hands. “She leaves me all alone with that monster of a woman! Did you know she picked this hotel as a wedding venue? I had no say in it! And Mom’s no help. Jack,” she pleaded, taking my arm. “I can’t go back in there. Please save me. Tell them I had an aneurysm or something.”
I cast a longing look at Megan’s sister and Janine, dying to hear more details, but Marie needed me. With a sigh, I said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
3
Jet lag continued to treat Evelyn like a cheap date. The next morning, I dared not wake her. She slept like the dead, her mouth open and a spot of drool dampening the pillow. While she dozed, I balanced my laptop on my knees and researched Megan Hollows, the woman who’d apparently walked out on her bill two nights ago.
Unlike Wolf Godfrey, the mysterious supposed billionaire, Megan’s social footprint trampled all over the Internet. She hadn’t yet learned that posting all of your personal information on Facebook and Instagram wasn’t the best way to protect your privacy. Within a few minutes, I knew her birthday, her phone number, and her home address. She hailed from Cocoa Beach, Florida, she was twenty-eight years old, and she had come to Chicago in an attempt to sell her swimsuit designs to a clothing company located in the city.
Her Instagram boasted the same photo of her—in a different bikini each time—on the beach, with her sun-bleached hair rippling in the wind. The link in her description led to the online store where she currently sold her designs. This site, too, was papered with pictures of Megan.
I returned to her Twitter feed and studied the timeline of events. She documented every minute change in her routine, from the moment she got dressed to the time she stepped on and off the plane.
Three days ago, she’d tweeted: Heading to Chicago for a business trip! Can’t believe True to You is interested in buying my designs. Wish me luck! An hour later, she’d posted a classic “view from the plane window” picture and labeled it Taking Off! That evening, she tweeted a filtered photo of the Saint Angel Hotel lounge and a martini emoji.
From the looks of things, Megan hadn’t been successful in selling her designs to True to You, a company I’d never heard of, because none of her social media accounts boasted about a sealed deal. Instead, she’d uploaded an illustrated quote attributed to Winston Churchill: “Success is not final, and failure is not fatal. It is the courage to continue that counts.”
After that, Megan didn’t post anything until late Sunday night. Her final picture featured a blurry selfie, a poorly lit bar, a craft cocktail, and the fuzzy outline of someone’s shoulder. The caption—drnks on the towm—implied Megan might have had one too many by that point.
Since then, Megan had been silent on social media. A few people had posted on her Facebook page, asking how her sales pitch went, but they received no reply. It looked like Megan hadn’t logged onto any of her accounts since Sunday night.
I frowned as I scrolled through her pages. Was Megan upset enough over her failed business venture to ditch her hotel bill? A drunken decision would explain her hasty exit from the Saint Angel Hotel, but it didn’t account for her absence from the Internet.
Evelyn’s phone rang, scaring me out of my skin as it blared a sped-up version of “The Humors of Whiskey.” Evelyn groaned and smacked the phone off the nightstand in an attempt to silence it. It ricocheted off the wall and bounced down the loft steps, still playing its insufferable tune.
Evelyn let out a string of blasphemous curses. Her foot caught in the covers as she crawled out of bed. She tripped and fell face-forward, hurtling toward the stairs. I leapt up with the intent to save her from a disastrous fall, but she caught herself on the railing and regained her balance.
“Cursed phone,” she mumbled, entirely unperturbed by her brush with a broken neck. “Damn company. Stupid boss.” She answered the phone. “I am on vacation! What is so hard to understand about that?”
I lifted an eyebrow. Evelyn had to be at the end of her rope to talk to her boss like that. From what I’d heard in the past, she’d always had the utmost respect for him. As she listened to the other end of the line, her eyes flickered up toward the loft to check whether or not I was eavesdropping. I pointedly stared at my laptop.
“Hang on,” she muttered into the phone. “Let me take this outside.”
Once she moved to the balcony, I leaned over the loft railing and peered outside. Evelyn was so desperate to get out of the room that she hadn’t grabbed a jacket. In her thin pajama pants and shirt, she crossed her arms against the wind and jumped from foot to foot to keep warm. From her crinkled brow, I could tell she was losing the fight with her boss. She looked pissed.
When she came inside, I launched myself back into bed. By the time she trudged up to the loft, I was tucked under the covers like I’d never left my spot.
“Wagner?” I guessed.
She collapsed on the bed and covered her face with a pillow. “They want me to accept a job.”
“Here in Chicago? Now?”
“Yup.” She let out a frustrated groan. “I told them I’m not doing it.”
“Good,” I said. “You shouldn’t have to. You requested the time off. Why do they keep bothering you anyway?”
Evelyn rolled over on her stomach. “Because they don’t usually have people in the States. Me being here presents a unique opportunity for the company.”
“Who do they want you to guard?”
“It’s—”
“Confidential,” I finished. “I don’t know why I ask.”
“It’s rubbish. I don’t want to do it.”
“I thought you weren’t going to.”
Her eyes glazed over. “Yeah…”
I playfully smacked her butt. “Buck up! You’ve got maid of honor duties to attend to. What’s on the schedule for today?”
“The bridesmaids fly in today,” she said. “I have to pick them up from the airport and get them to their final dress fittings. Then the hen party is tonight.”
“You mean the one you haven’t planned yet?”
She grimaced. “What’s there to plan? Aren’t they all the same? Go out, see some strippers, get shite-faced?”
“I’ll tell you what.” I set aside my laptop to give Evelyn my full attention. “I’ll plan the bachelorette night, and you can tell Marie you did it.”
“Really?”
“What are friends for?”
“You’re the best.”
She pulled my pinky toe until the knuckle popped. I pushed her off the bed with my foot. Chuckling, she rolled to her feet and headed to the bathroom to clean up.
Opening up my laptop again, I refreshed Megan’s Twitter page. Relief flooded through me when I spotted a new tweet: Back in the Sunshine State! How come no one ever told me how cold Chicago is? Glad to be home.
But for some reason, doubt clouded the back of my mind.
Evelyn’s eternal bad mood had not yet reached its peak. She left to fetch the bridesmaids in a massive black Cadillac that her parents had rented for the duration of our stay at the Saint Angel. I pitied any drivers who might get in Evelyn’s way. With her current disposition and the dimensions of the tank she drove, she was sure to be a hellion on the road. For once, I was glad not to accompany her. Evelyn wasn’t the best at putting her feelings out there; she preferred to stew in them until she reached a boiling point and overflowed.
As promised, I spent the morning poring over inane blogs to find out what the hell I was supposed to plan for this bachelorette party, or as Evelyn and the other Brits called it, the hen do. I knew the basics: the bride, on her last night as a single lady, was obligated to get wasted and dance with as many half-naked men as possible, stuffing their waistbands with as many singles as a banana sling could hold. Marie, however, wasn’t your usual bride. I wasn’t sure if she’d stand for strippers or not, so it seemed prudent to play it safe. Then again, if tonight wasn’t what she expected, she’d remember the faults forever.
Using my best judgement, I booked spaces for our bride-to-be and her friends at a few different events. Then I headed out into the Chicago streets in search of party favors. By the time I returned to the Saint Angel, Evelyn had arrived with the bridesmaids. As the women lingered in the lobby, waiting for Evelyn to assign rooms, I admired Marie’s taste in friends. They were a varied group with different skin tones, body shapes, and hair textures. Furthermore, they had all united for a single purpose: to support Marie in her quest to become a married woman.
“Angelica!” Evelyn called, waving a key card above her head like a tour guide with a flag. “Room 1420.”
Angelica, a tall black girl with glimmering skin and gorgeous natural hair, stepped forward and plucked the key card out of Evelyn’s hand without reaching for it. She planted a kiss on Evelyn’s cheek. “Thanks, doll.”
Evelyn blushed, and I chuckled. Not many people could throw Evelyn off balance. As Angelica waited off to the side, Evelyn distributed the rest of the room keys for the fourteenth floor. Once the bridesmaids filed into the elevator and disappeared, Evelyn came over to me and eyed the stuffed bags I carried.
“What’s all that?” she asked.
“Party favors.”
“For what?”
I shot her a wry look. “You really didn’t know what you signed up for when you agreed to be Marie’s maid of honor, did you?”
“Not at all.”
I rolled my eyes and shoved her toward the elevators. “Come on. Let’s go upstairs, and I’ll fill you in.”
After haphazardly sorting through the party favors and letting Evelyn in on the plans for that evening, we gathered the bridesmaids once again and took them to the bridal shop to make sure their dresses fit perfectly. Since we had seven extra girls in the wedding, not including Evelyn, it turned out to be quite the process. Each woman had to try on the dress, wait for a tailor to make changes, then carefully remove the extravagant fabric so as to not rustle the pins. After an hour, I grew tired of the constant chatter and offered to pick up lunch for everyone.
“There’s a Nando’s here,” Evelyn told me. “Just get a bunch of chicken wings and enough sides for all of us.”
“I’m vegan,” chimed in one of the bridesmaids.
“And a salad for Jennifer,” Evelyn added, drawing a crisp one-hundred dollar bill from her wallet and plunking it into my palm. Sometimes I forgot the kind of money Evelyn carried around with her. “You’ll be okay on your own?”
“Don’t worry about me.”
Leaving the dress shop, I skipped along the street and savored my freedom. The blustery wind tugged on my hair and made the skin around my nose burn, but anything was better than watching another girl try on the strapless pale pink dress Marie had picked for her bridal party.
I quickly picked up the food at Nando’s, but in my reluctance to return to the dress shop so soon, I stepped into a cafe for a cup of coffee. As I waited for the barista to make my order, my gaze drifted to the TV mounted in the corner of the room. A news report played on mute, but the subtitles soon caught my attention.
“Another woman has been reported missing in the Chicago area,” the reporter mouthed silently. “This is the third disappearance in as many months. Britney Fielden was visiting family in the Chicago suburbs, but according to her husband, she never returned to her home in New York. There is no evidence of foul play, but police are warning people, especially women, to be vigilant in the streets.”
I frowned deeply, watching the TV long after the reporter had moved on to another topic. Was this sort of thing normal in big cities? Did women go missing for no apparent reason?
“Jack. Your Americano is ready. Jack!”
The barista’s irritability and impatience broke through my stupor. I collected my coffee with a gracious nod and bowed my head against the wind as I ventured outside again.
At the dress shop, the tailors refused to let us eat near any precious length of fabric. We ended up at a trio of picnic tables in the park across the street. Thankfully, the chicken was tasty enough to distract the bridesmaids from the chilly atmosphere.
“I saw something interesting on the news,” I reported to Evelyn in a low voice. “Three other girls have gone missing from Chicago, not including Megan Hollows.”
Evelyn chowed on a chicken wing, stripping the meat from the bone in one bite. “Megan Hollows isn’t missing. You said she posted from her Twitter account.”
“But what if she didn’t? What if someone else posted for her?”
“We already talked about this, Jack.” She licked her fingers. “You’re looking for a case that isn’t there. No one’s been murdered. This isn’t your area of expertise.”
I pulled the crust of a piece of garlic bread and popped it into my mouth. “It seems strange, that’s all. Why would Megan’s sister show up at the Saint Angel if Megan had already gone home?”
“Maybe they had a fight,” Evelyn suggested. “Maybe Megan wanted to get away from her sister.”
“Maybe,” I muttered. “But something seems fishy.”
Evelyn placed another wing between my fingers. “Eat. For once, don’t worry about a police investigation that doesn’t concern you. Your only job is to make sure the bachelorette party goes off without a hitch tonight.”
Later that night, I gathered Marie and her bridesmaids in Marie’s suite on the fourteenth floor. With Evelyn’s help, I’d transformed Marie’s room into a pink, phallic fantasy. While Ev distracted her sister, I decorated with fuzzy boas, sparkly banners, and many, many iterations of the male anatomy. On the desk, I’d spread out a number of wearable items, everything from inappropriately-shaped beads to plastic tiaras to a glittery sash for the bride.
When I allowed Marie and the bridesmaids to come in, they squealed with joy, raucously laughed at the lewd decorations, and ran to the desk to choose their attire for the night. As they draped Marie in as many penile items as possible, Evelyn pulled me aside.
“Nice job,” she muttered, watching her sister giggle and squirm. “I hope the rest of the night is just as successful.”
“Don’t you worry. I’ve got big plans.” I clapped my hands together to get everyone’s attention. “Listen up, ladies! Tonight, we celebrate Marie’s last night of singlehood!”
The bridesmaids whooped and cheered, whirling glittery pink pom-poms around their tiaraed heads. Angelica popped one of the champagne bottles I provided. The cork flew across the room and nearly shot Evelyn’s eyes out. She ducked just in time.
“Our night begins at Sex and Chocolate,” I went on, and the cheers doubled in volume. “For those of you who don’t know, Sex and Chocolate is a dessert restaurant with a sexy twist, but you’ll have to wait until we get there to find out what it is.” I suggestively waggled my eyebrows as the bridesmaids whistled and jostled Marie to and fro. “After that, we’re heading to the best burlesque show in town, Gypsy’s Dream!”
“Ow, ow!” hooted Angelica, spinning a boa through the air. Of all Marie’s friends, her exuberance shined the brightest. She snapped the boa around Marie’s neck. “Ready for the night of your life, bride-to-be?”
No one bothered with flutes as the champagne made its way around the room. Everyone swigged straight from the bottle. When it reached Evelyn, she drained the rest of it.
At Sex and Chocolate, Evelyn powered through three dessert martinis and a trio of cheesecakes. The girls hooted at the servers—muscular men wearing nothing but bow ties and spandex booty shorts—and constantly reminded anyone in the vicinity that Marie was getting married. Thankfully, the other women and gay men who frequented the restaurant were equally drunk and rowdy. No one minded our loud, uproarious bunch of women.
When we arrived at the Gypsy’s Dream, a dark theater in the heart of downtown Chicago, for the burlesque show, we all squeezed into one large booth. Evelyn, glassy-eyed, misjudged the distance as she slid in next to me and crushed my hand with her hardened hamstring. As I shook my fingers, she giggled. Giggled.
“Whoops,” she said. “Sorry, Jacqueline.”
“Go easy on the booze,” I warned her. “The night’s only half over.”
Evelyn pursed her lips. “This is a hen do! I’m doing what everyone else is doing.” She threw her arm around Angelica, who was sitting on her other side, and drew the bridesmaid close. “Right, Angelica?”
“Right!” Angelica answered. “Wait, what am I right about?”
“Drinks!” Evelyn shouted.
“Drinks!” the bridesmaids echoed, like lemmings off a cliff.
When the server arrived, Evelyn ordered Irish whiskey and asked to “keep ‘em coming.” Meanwhile, I made sure the table got a round of water to keep everyone hydrated. When the lights lowered and the satin curtain opened to reveal a live jazz band, the crowd went wild.
The bass guitar started a riff, and the rest of the band followed, launching into a lusty blues tune that could tickle the ears of the most prudish listeners. A svelte woman in crimson red emerged from backstage to thunderous applause. She wore several layers, the first of which was a faux fur coat. Her hands and arms were covered. As she began to dance, she flipped the coat in such a way to let the audience glimpse the lacy bodice beneath.
