The Quimby Hotel

━ 10: Revenge For Justice

"Montesano P.D.," said the officer facing off against Cairo's father, one hand cautiously on the gun at his side as he eyed the lobby with a pointed sort of wary suspicion. "Someone reported a double murder."

Mrs. Quimby looked on watchfully from the receptionist desk, sparkly pink smoke wafting from her long, elegant cigarette holder. Everyone present in the room had tensed at the arrival of the police, even the humans, but she alone carried a sense of calm that made the officers visibly uneasy—like she wasn't intimidated by their authority in the least. Of course, this was a woman who had once narrowly evaded imprisonment by the Court's Guard. Authority should mean little to her in her own establishment.

"We both know your jurisdiction here is murky at best," Richard replied distastefully.

"I'm just here to do my job. Where are the victims, Quimby?"

Cairo held his breath. Paris reached up for him and he frowned, shaking his head. After a few moments of insistent tugging he caved and hefted him up, settling him on one hip so that he could see.

Mr. Quimby presented a wide, sweeping gesture towards the incriminating table, where the bodies still remained but the rest of the evidence had been wiped clean. The surface of the table was entirely empty. Cairo wished they'd had the foresight to get rid of the bodies, too.

Then he remembered. No cleaning service.

It was always just one thing after another at the Quimby Hotel, wasn't it?

The officer who'd spoken, flanked by two others, sidled over to examine the dead. It was beyond obvious that they'd been poisoned, and Cairo couldn't stop thinking about Shanghai and Rome in the kitchen, about how easy they'd be to blame. Of all the passing cook's assistants, which of the fleeting faces might have been the spy's, committing smooth, undetectable sabotage? Or could he simply have been any of the guests Cairo had passed by while carrying the tray, taking advantage of the fact that he was hardly paying attention?

He placed his hands on his hips, turning to take in the stray customers who were apparently so unaffected by the situation that they were content to read, chat quietly, and do paperwork throughout the lobby, some even still at their lunch seats watching the television on dialed-down volume. There were very few. Father would have had to refund them for their trouble and send them to get food elsewhere to avoid liability. "Where are all the guests?"

"It's midday, officer." Mr. Quimby's voice dripped with loathing. "Hardly any of my business where my guests go during the day."

"What'd you do with the evidence?"

"Traditionally we handle this sort of thing ourselves. I can have the matter settled shortly, but I've spent the last half hour ensuring the safety of my guests and providing them with compensation for the inconvenience. Not that you would understand such a thing as hospitality."

The officer looked at him sharply. "This better not have happened more than once."

Richard fell silent. The ticking of the clock on the wall seemed to echo louder than usual.

"I have an investigative crew on the way, and damn good reason to search your place."

"The Guard will be here long before you get the chance to get your grubby hands on my hotel." His anger was showing. Cairo's, too. Cairo wanted to rip something to shreds.

"You have a good bluff, Mr. Quimby. For a man so sure of himself, it seems curious that you'd feel the need to get rid of all that evidence so quickly. If there's anything suspicious here, we're going to find it."

"By all means, entertain yourselves," he drawled.

"I'm surprised you haven't already magicked away the bodies, turned them to dust or whatever it is you likely did with the rest."