It didn’t have a website.It didn’t have online reservations.It showed up on the Maps app, and the pictures weren’t great: a low-slung U of a building that might have once been blue but was now a distressed gray, slider windows with dingy curtains, a gravel lot, and a molded-plastic sign that—in my opinion—looked more like a drooping mermaid than a drowsy one.
But hey, nobody asked me.
On my walk back to grab the Pilot, I decided I was going to call Bobby.I was going to give him the key.And then a deputy would check out the motel, and we’d find these stolen wigs, and that would be the end of it.
When I got back to the Pilot, there was no sign of Mr.Cheek—fortunately.I climbed into the SUV and backed out of my spot.As soon as I got clear of all these tourists, I was going to call Bobby.I braked at the next intersection.I waited for a couple of older ladies—one of them was swinging her shopping bag like she was winding up for a pitch.As soon as I got out of town, I decided, I was going to call Bobby.I inched along with traffic, slowly working my way out of the busy downtown.As soon as I got to the state highway.
And that, more or less, was how I ended up at The Drowsy Mermaid.
The paint wasn’t gray anymore.It was the color of cheap copy paper.And the curtains had grimy splotches that I definitely didn’t want to touch without gloves.In the lot, several substantial weeds were growing—a less generous person might have called them very small trees.
Okay, what were the odds that this mystery woman had come back to her motel?Low.Practically zero.Because she’d run off carrying a box of wigs.A fit of genius struck me: once I was inside the motel room, I could lock the door behind me.And since I was the only one with a key, it would literally be the safest place on the planet, because nobody else would be able to get inside.This wasn’t a bad idea.It was the sensible, responsible thing to do.Bobby would be proud.And let’s be real, I didnotwant to have to explain to Mr.Cheek or Fox that I’d let their wigs get stolen.
I kept telling myself that as I crossed the lot, gravel crunching under my steps, mini-trees rustling when I brushed against them.
On the key, someone had touched up the number seven in thick black marker.And sure enough, the key turned in number seven’s lock.
The door swung open.Darkness waited on the other side, and the faint smell of sour laundry and wet towels drifted out to me.I could make out a short passageway, a door to the bathroom, and the corner of a bed.
Literally the safest place on earth, I reminded myself as I adjusted my grip on the key.
The first step was the hardest.My sneaker scuffed old, rough carpet, and the air inside the room felt dank—chill and damp and sticky.Something buzzed at the edge of my hearing.A television in another room.Somebody catching up on the gems of daytime TV.The manager.That was it.Probably the manager watching TV, killing time on this impossibly slow day.
But it didn’t sound like TV.It sounded like all the blood in my body had rushed to my head, and there was this high, staticky whine running from one eardrum to the other.
I shut the door behind me.It took me two tries to slide the safety chain into place.
There, I told myself.Safe and sound.
This was absolutely, unequivocally the stupidest thing I had ever done.
But do you ever have an itch, and you know if you don’t scratch it, you’re going to go crazy?
I mean, my God,whyhad she taken the wigs?
I flipped on the lights—sullen yellow puddles sprang up at the far end of the room, bringing into view a rumpled coverlet pushed to the foot of the bed, a pair of jeans puddled on the floor like someone had disintegrated out of them, and a Safeway bag full of something red and white.I stopped at the bathroom, reached in, and groped around until I found the lights.Then I risked a look.
Nothing.Nobody.Just grungy, avocado-colored tiles and a shower curtain with black speckles that weredefinitelynot decorative.A bottle of rubbing alcohol sat on the sink.The plastic liner for the trash can was gone—if it had ever been there.
I stepped past the bathroom.The room opened up: a bed with tangled sheets; a window with a blackout curtain; a little Dynex TV attached to a chest of drawers by a bike lock, louvered closet doors.On a small laminate-topped table, a piece of black cloth was spread out, and something sparkled.
I crossed the room.That buzzing noise had gone away, and I thought I heard something else in its place—a breath of displaced air.A coppery smell.Did a place like this have AC?Did it have mold?Did it have Legionnaire’s disease?I had no idea; I was only distantly aware of the edge of the key tag biting into my hand.
Spread out on the black cloth, jewelry glittered: a ring with a purple stone, a pendant with several diamonds, a brooch in a stylized poodle shape.
Maybe I should have made the connection earlier.Maybe it should have been obvious.
It was sure obvious now.
I reached for my phone.
Someone grabbed my arm, and then cold metal jabbed me in the back of the neck.A man said, “Who the fudge are you?”
4
For the sake of total transparency, he didn’texactlysayfudge.
But that’s not really the point.
