“So?” she asks.
“So they don’t mean
bridal
as in
bride
.
They mean
bridle
as in the thing you use to
control a horse.”
“Ohhhh,” she exclaims, the obvious finally
dawning upon her. “Are you sure?”
“Don’t insult me, Molly Moskins. I’m sure
of everything I say.”
She walks into the bedroom and climbs
atop the large bed.
“So why’s this bed shaped like a heart?”
she asks.
I follow her into the bedroom and stare at
the giant heart-shaped bed.
“Molly,” I mutter, “do I have to spell
this
out, too?”
“I guess so,” she says.
“It’s because a heart represents love,” I
explain. “And people
love
horses.”
“Ohhhhh,” she exclaims again. “I didn’t
think about that.”
She stares at the brochure.
“So what do you do if you have the bridle
suite?” she asks.
We exchange glances.
And for once, we are of the same mind.
“We want a horse!” we shout at the house-
keeper, both of us slightly delirious from an
overdose of candy.
The housekeeper is standing in the open
doorway of an adjoining room, her housekeep-
ing cart blocking part of the hallway.
“Who are you?” she asks.
“We’re in-laws,” answers Molly. “Like
Bonnie and Clyde, but the opposite.”
“Do you have names?” she asks.
“I’m the detective Timmy Failure. And
this is the felon Molly Moskins. I am with
her only because she has agreed to mend her
venal ways and assist in the apprehension of
Corrina Corrina.”
“Of course,” says the housekeeper.
“And we need a horse to help capture her,”
adds Molly.
“Makes sense,” replies the housekeeper,
tossing dirty towels in the bag at the end of
her cart.
“So are you going to help us get a horse or
not?” I ask.
The housekeeper looks up and down the
hall.
“Keep your voice down,”
she whispers.
“What for?” asks Molly. “We’re staying in
the bridle suite. We’re entitled to a horse.”
The housekeeper leans in close.
“Because I’m Killer Katy Kumquat,”
she
whispers.
I glare warily at the housekeeper.
“Tell us more,” I say.
“No,” she says.
“Please,” I persist.
“I’ve said too much already,” she answers.
“You can confide in us,” I assure her.
“I give you my word as a man and as a law-
enforcement officer.”
“I think that’s the problem,” says the
housekeeper.
“What’s the problem?” I ask.
“You’re a
cop,
” she says, her lips dripping
with scorn.
“What of it?” I retort. “It is a noble
profession.”
“Hmmph,” she sneers. “I work
outside
the
law. For the benefit of everyone.”
“Oh, my goodness,” exclaims Molly. “Does
that mean what I think that means?”
“It means nothing,” answers the house-
keeper, straightening the tiny shampoo bottles
on the top of her cart.
“Oh, my goodness!” Molly exclaims again.
“It
does
mean something.”
“No, it doesn’t,” says the housekeeper.
“Drop it. Just drop the whole thing.”
“I won’t drop it! I won’t drop it at all!”
answers Molly.
“Will someone please tell me what’s going
on here?” I shout.
Molly grabs me by both shoulders.
“Timmy,” she says, pausing with eyes
wide open, “Killer Katy’s a
crime-fighting
superhero
!”
“Keep your voice down!”
the housekeeper
hisses.
“Absurd!” I cry.
“Is it true?” Molly asks, tugging on the
housekeeper’s uniform. “Is it true? Is it true?”
The housekeeper lowers her head.
“Perhaps,” she mumbles. “But any magical
superpowers I have are used only for good.
And that’s all I’m going to say.”
“OH. MY. GOODNESS!” Molly gasps, turn-
ing in astonishment to me. “Timmy, she can
get us a horse! She can get us a plane! She can
get us anything!!”
Molly gets down on her knees and embraces
the housekeeper’s leg. “My hero!” she cries.
“Okay, okay, hold it right there!” I declare,
interrupting the lovefest. “You listen to me,
Kumquat, or Killer Katy, or whoever you are.
You can fool a naive little girl, but you can’t
fool a streetwise detective. Now, if you’re so
magical,
prove it
.”
The housekeeper glares at me with
contempt.
And then closes her eyes.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Hush,” she says. “I need to concentrate.”
“Concentrate on what?” I ask.
“Right now,” she answers, “as the three of
us are standing here in this hallway, I’m wrap-
ping a toilet with a paper band.”
“Where?” I ask. “What toilet?”
“In the open room behind you,” she
answers, her eyes still shut.
“What kind of band?” I grill her.
“A paper band,” she answers.
“You said ‘paper band’ already!” I snap.
“Now, be
specific
.”
The housekeeper pauses.
And then answers.
“
A
paper band that says
SANITIZED FOR
YOUR PROTECTION
.”
I stand motionless.
“Go in there and check,” I tell Molly, keep-
ing my eyes on the housekeeper. “I’m not let-
ting this woman out of my sight.”
Molly dashes into the room behind us.
And comes out with her mouth agape and
her hands on the sides of her head.
“It’s there,”
Molly says, almost breathless.
I go in there and check for myself.
And it is just as she said.
And so I walk back into the hallway.
“You are indeed Killer Katy Kumquat,” I
confess.
“Call me Kumquat,” she replies solemnly.
“Kumquat,” I repeat. “And forgive my ini-
tial skepticism. I’m a detective. It comes with
the badge.”
“I understand,” answers Kumquat. “Now
let me clean this room before someone hears
us talking about superheroes and crime-
fighting and obtaining horses. For there are
spies e
verywhere. And you will blow my
cover.”
“Of course,” I answer discreetly. “But I
hope you’ll see fit to perhaps form an alliance.
One in which we give you the benefit of our
law-enforcement experience. And you give us
a horse.”
“Because you can do anything, Killer Katy
Kumquat!” declares Molly Moskins. “And we
need a horse so we can go
fast
!”
“I know what you mean,” says a voice
from behind us.
“I mean, uh, we really need . . .
to play
horsie
!”
Molly says, leaping onto my back just as
Kumquat disappears silently into the hotel
room across the hall.
“Ride, horsie, ride!” Molly adds, kicking
me in the sides.
It is a gross indignity, far beneath my
noble stature as a detective. But one that I
must endure.
For we are suddenly face-to-face with two
potential spies.
And they are old.
“Don’t mind us,” says the man. “We’re just
a couple of old farts passing through.”
“Hush, Peter,” says the woman.
“And we’re just playing horsie,” says
Molly from atop my back. “And there’s noth-
ing that you should be suspicious of.”
I stand, causing Molly to slide unceremo-
niously to the ground.
“Forgive her,” I interject. “The young
woman has a tendency to babble incoher-
ently. There’s nothing to see here. Please move
along.”
The old man smiles.
“Well, you look like you’re having a lot
more fun than we’re having,” he says. “We’re
here for something
un
-fun.”
“What is it?” asks a much-too-chatty Molly
Moskins.
“Don’t listen to him,” says the old woman.
“We’re having lots of fun. We’re here for our
wedding anniversary.”
“Wedding anniversary!” exclaims Molly.
“We’re in the bridal suite!”
“Well, congratulations to you!” says the
old woman.
“
Bridle
suite!” I correct both of them. “As
in horse bridles.”
“I see,” replies the old woman.
“And how long have you two been mar-
ried?” Molly asks the old couple.
“How long do you think?” replies the old
man.
“A hundred years?” guesses Molly.
“Feels like it,” he says.
The old woman shakes her head. “He’s just
joking, sweetie. I’m Vivian, and this is Peter.
And it’s our sixtieth anniversary.”
I glance at Molly and immediately realize
that she is about to reveal our names.
To two potential spies.
“Well, hello, Vivian and Peter,” she says.
“I’m Moll
—”
“Molotov Cocktail,”
I interrupt, shouting
the first name I can think of, which just so
happens to be a term for a flaming bottle of
liquid thrown at tanks.
“Interesting,” replies Peter. “And what is
your name, young man?”
I shout out the first words I see
—
words
that are printed on a bottle hanging out of the
old man’s sweater.
“Vicks NyQuil,” I answer.
The old people stare silently at us.
And smile.
“Well, Molotov Cocktail and Vicks NyQuil,
we’ll let you two play,” says the old man. “And
if you need us, we’ll be in the hall, taking an
hour to get from one end to the other.”
He pauses.
“So don’t get old,” he says.
“And stay
single,”
he whispers.
I watch as the two of them continue past
us. They walk so slowly, you can barely tell
they’re moving.
The old woman leans her free hand on the
man’s shoulder. He kisses her on top of the
head.
“Sixty years,” she says to him.
“I’d rather have a horse,” he replies.
“Nobody’s getting a horse,” explains Bing, the
hotel’s general manager.
He is visiting us in our suite. And I’m now
wishing I hadn’t opened the door.
“Listen, I don’t know what happened out
there on the sidewalk, and I’m hoping you feel
a little better now, but you can’t stay in the
hotel,” he says.
“First no horse? Now
this
?” Molly howls.
“Listen, kids. We let you play in the hotel.
We gave you all the candy you wanted. But
we’re not in the baby-sitting business.”
“Sorry, Bing,” I answer. “But we can’t
leave.”
“And why is that?” he asks.
Molly. “From all the candy you forced on her.”
Molly falls over on the couch.
“Oh, great,” I add. “Now she’s passed out.”
“You’ve passed out?” he asks Molly.
“Yes,” answers Molly, staring at him.
“People who’ve passed out can’t talk,” he
tells her. “And their eyes are usually closed.”
“Then I’ll be quiet now,” she says, shut-
ting her eyes.
Bing stands up and opens the hotel door.
“Okay, kids, you’ve had your fun. Now get
your stuff and let’s get going.”
I hop off the couch and run to stand
between Bing and the hallway.
“Our parents are paying good money for
this hotel!”
I cry.
Bing looks at me skeptically. “Your par-
ents?” he asks.
“Yep,” I answer.
“Yes, well, Emilio said you aren’t here
with your parents. So try again.”
“Emilio?” I answer. “Who’s Emilio?”
“The doorman,” he says. “Surely
you remember him. The young man you
terrorized?”
“Sir, with all due respect to your hiring
practices, Emilio is an incompetent boob. A
bumbling idiot. A monkey-brained ninny. And
no offense,” I add. “As an owner of a business
myself, I know how hard it is to get good help.
But please, sir, fire the poor slob before he
incites further riots.”
“Enough,” he cuts me off. “I don’t have
time for this. If my employee says you told him
your parents aren’t here, I believe his word
over that of a little kid. So let’s go.”
“WE’RE HERE ON A WINDSURFING
VACATION WITH OUR PARENTS!” bellows
Molly, bolting upright, like a dead person
brought back from the grave.
The general manager adjusts his glasses
and glares at her.
“I’m feeling fine now, Bing,” she adds.
“Little girl,” he says, “what are you talk-
ing about?”
�
��Our parents,” Molly answers. “They’re
windsurfing instructors. World champions, in
fact. We all go to Lake Michigan and windsurf
together. You should see the tricks they can do.”
It is a stunning lie. One worthy of a master
criminal. And one filled with conviction and
details.
All of which I realize she has gleaned from
the brochure on the living-room table.
I slide the brochure under a vase.
“And your parents are staying here at the
Drakonian?” asks the general manager.
“Bingo, Bing,” Molly answers.
“Fine,” he says, squinting behind his wire-
rimmed glasses. “What room?”
And at that, I see her hesitate. Her mis-
matched pupils darting back and forth.
So I step in.
Bold. Swift. And defiant.
“OUR WINDSURFING PARENTS ARE
RIGHT THERE!” I yell, pointing at the first
two people I see in the hallway.
Startling them both.
No one believed that a ninety-two-year-old
man could windsurf with a walker.
So we have been asked to leave the
Drakonian.
But not before running into an old friend
in the lobby.
“You are the worst fugitive from jus-
tice I have ever seen,” I shout at my polar
bear. “How in the world does it help to wear
a
moose head
as a disguise?! Your polar-bear
belly is still hanging out! And so is your big
rear end!”
Total tries to cover his rear end with his
paws.
“And are there even any mooses in
Chicago?” I ask.
“Meeses,” says Molly.
“Forget it,” I tell both of them. “We’re
leaving.”
But the moose-bear stops in the center of
the lobby.
“What now?” I ask Total.
He stares at the candy in Molly’s hand.
“All right, fine. If you must know, we were
given candy by the hotel,” I explain to him. “As
well as a decent-size suite. Are you happy?”
Total grumbles.
“Yes, there was a large tub,” I answer.