DEADLY ACTS IN ROOM 306

Chapter 3

The Suspects & Their Secrets

Late-afternoon sunlight streamed golden light through the stained-glass windows of the Blackwood Grand's solarium, illuminating ghostly hues in the room. Sitting at the table near the far corner, sipping a martini, was Clara Hastings: poised, elegant, and with an impassive calm too carefully assembled to be real for a woman whose ex-husband had died under conditions short of absolutely natural.

Ethan Carter walked to her table with cautious confidence.

"Mrs. Hastings?" he ventured softly.

She didn't blink. "Mr. Carter. You're the reporter, aren't you?"

"Guilty. May I sit with you?"

She gestured to the chair with a half-smile. "If you've come to ask about Victor, save us both time. I'm already the first suspect on everyone's list, aren't I?"

"Not technically," Ethan said. "But showing up at the same hotel days before he died. it does raise suspicions.".

She drank her beverage slowly. "Victor always had a taste for theatrics. Even in death, he's getting me accused."

"You two hadn't spoken in years. Why now?"

She looked out into the distance. "He called me, three nights ago. Wanted to discuss. He was… paranoid. Said he'd found something enormous, something which would shake everything up. Picked me to meet him at Blackwood Grand."

Ethan raised an eyebrow. "Did he say what he'd found?"

She gave a shiver of a laugh. "Victor never told the whole story. Only enough to keep you in line."

 "What did he want with you?"

Her voice grew bitter. "Closure, maybe. Or forgiveness. But he wasn't going to get either of those things. You don't leave a person penniless and embarrassed and expect there to be a welcome mat."

"Motive like that makes detectives uneasy," Ethan said.

"I know how it looks," Clara told him, looking him straight in the eye. "Yes, I disliked him. He cheated me out of everything, lied his way through, left me to pick up the pieces while he rebuilt his business. But I didn't kill him."

 Ethan leaned back, watching her cautiously. "Where were you last night at eleven?"

 "In my room," she replied without hesitation. "Alone. Room 209. You can check with the concierge—I ordered wine. Filled a bath. Wasn't in the mood to listen to more of Victor's excuses."

"Did he ever mention anyone else was implicated in what he'd found?"

She hesitated. "He mentioned 'a name from the past.' That's all. Wouldn't say who. Said the hotel was implicated. Something secret here."

Ethan creased his brow. "Secret?"

Clara nodded. “He said this place—Blackwood Grand—was built on secrets. That if he could bring them to light, it would ruin someone powerful.”

Ethan tapped his pen against his notebook. “Did he seem scared?”

 “No,” she said softly. “Worse. He seemed excited. Like he wanted someone to try and stop him.”

Ethan stood. “Thank you, Mrs. Hastings. You’ve been… enlightening.”

 Clara swirled her martini. “Careful, Mr. Carter. Victor loved pulling people into his chaos. Just make sure you’re not his final trick.”

As Ethan walked away, her words echoed in his mind.

A name from the past. Buried secrets. Someone powerful.

The pieces were shifting—and Clara Hastings had just added another to the puzzle.

The bar at the Blackwood Grand was subdued that night, bathed in low sconces and the soft glow of flame. In the back booth Leonard Fisk sat, a thick-chested man in a high-end blazer, drinking scotch with the relaxed demeanor of a man accustomed to power—and intent on maintaining it.

Ethan Carter eased into the seat across from him unbidden.

Fisk never even glanced up. "I knew you'd track me down eventually, Mr. Carter."

 "I have a talent for running across people with something to conceal," Ethan said smoothly.

Fisk glared up, his eyes icy. "Then you're wasting your time here."

 "Victor Langley's dead. You were in the same hotel, two floors down. And just a while back, you two tried to kill each other in court. You can understand how it looks."

Fisk snorted. "Victor tried to kill me. Filed that bogus suit for patent infringement, tried to poison investors against me. Cost me millions."

 "And yet you're here. Same hotel. Same weekend." "I didn't come here for him," Fisk said. "I came for a conference in Fairgrove. This hotel had the only decent suite within fifty miles.".

 Ethan furrowed an eyebrow. "And it's a coincidence Victor Langley registered days before you?" Fisk's jaw clenched.

"Let me be clear—I hated the man. If he died last week, I'd have celebrated. But I didn't kill him."

Ethan sat forward. "You told something interesting to the concierge yesterday—'he always took what wasn't his.' What did you mean? Fisk scowled. "Langley was a thief who swiped. Ideas. Deals. Even people.

You know he swiped my CFO last year? Promised him equity—then dumped him when he'd sucked his brains out." "Sounds personal."

"Oh, it was," Fisk said angrily. "But if you think I'd endanger my career to murder him in some ghost-story hotel room, you've got the wrong man.".

Ethan watched him. "You're saying motive, but not means or opportunity?" "I'm saying," Fisk continued quietly, "Langley was in fear the last time I laid eyes on him.

 Two days ago, down the hallway. Something about, 'They're closing in on me, Leonard. I made a mistake in coming here.' I figured he was drunk."

 "You think another person was tracking him?" Fisk flinched. "If he was digging where he shouldn't be… possibly. Victor used to kick beehives." Ethan was taking slow breaths.

 "Did he say what he had dug up?" "No," said Fisk. "But he had an old blue print with him. Rolled under his arm. I happened to see—a Blackwood Grand, 1928."

The focus of Ethan's eyes drew together. "That's something you don't pack on a business trip." Fisk raised his glass.

 "No, it's something you carry when you're chasing ghosts. And ghosts don't take kindly to being found." Ethan stood up, his mind racing. "Thanks for the drink, Mr. Fisk. If you think of anything else." Fisk snorted in amusement.

"I'll be right here—drinking to my opponent's bad luck." As Ethan left, one thing was for sure: Langley hadn't stumbled into trouble. He'd gone looking for it.

Ethan Carter waited in the service hallway next to the laundry room, out of sight of the guests.

He'd watched Natalie Reed, the new maid with troubled eyes and a perma-scowl, avoiding guests, managers, and questions all day long—slipping in and out of the staff-only doors.

When finally she was alone, Ethan stepped out. "Ms. Reed? I'd like to have a word with you?" She jumped. "I'm not supposed to… I have work." "This won't take long," Ethan said, his voice calm.

 "It's concerning Room 306. I know you were seen leaving around the time the murder occurred." Natalie's eyes opened wide. "I didn't do anything! I promise, I didn't kill him!" Ethan raised a hand.

 "I'm not accusing you. But if you were there, you might have noticed something. Something important."

She glanced around, talking in a whisper. "Why should I tell you?" "Because the cops already ruled it out as a suicide," Ethan said. "But we both know something was amiss in that room.

I just want the truth." Natalie swallowed hard, then gestured toward the storage closet. "Not out here." Inside, between linen carts and bleach bottles, she finally broke her silence. "I sweep Room 306 daily.

 Mr. Langley was always courteous… but last week, he started acting odd. Kept asking me if I had seen someone enter his room.

Asked me about vents. About cables. Like he thought someone was watching him." "Did you ever notice anyone else come in?" Ethan asked. "No… not at first," Natalie replied. "But the evening before he died, I found something." Ethan inched forward. "What?" "A letter. Half burned. By the fireplace. I couldn't read very much—just a few lines. It mentioned something about leverage… and a name I didn't recognize. 'Tell Clara, or the truth comes out.' That's what it said."

 "Clara Hastings?" Ethan asked. Natalie nodded. "I think so. I was scared, so I took it. I was going to report it to management, but… I didn't. I thought maybe…" "You could use it," Ethan filled in gently.

Her cheeks flushed. "I know it was stupid. But I thought that if I could show him that I had it, he'd offer me something for quiet. Not money—just. support. I have rent to pay. My brother is sick. I needed assistance."

 "So you went back to Room 306? "Yes. The night he died. Ten or so. I took him the letter. He grew quiet. He told me I had to depart at once, and never mention what I had witnessed." "Was anyone else there?" "I heard something.

In the hallway. I thought nothing of it. But when I was departing, I saw someone rushing down the stairs. A man in a gray overcoat.

I did not see his face." Ethan took a deep breath. "Natalie, I believe you. But this letter—do you still have it?" She nodded uncertainly. "I hid it. In the laundry chute on the third floor." Ethan's heart began to pound.

 "So let's go get it. Before someone else finds it." Because now, everything hung in the balance. And someone in the hotel wanted that letter to disappear—along with anyone who'd read it.

Ethan Carter found Detective Graham Wells in the Blackwood Grand’s drawing room, scribbling into a worn leather notebook while sipping lukewarm coffee.

The detective looked up as Ethan approached, his gruff face unreadable.

 “Mr. Carter,” Wells said, voice flat. “If you’re here to hand over your press badge and join the force, I’m afraid we’re not hiring.” Ethan grinned. "Not here to apply, just curious.

About the way you're wrapping up this case in a room service package." Wells's jaw tightened. "Suicide's black and white, Mr. Carter. We found the weapon.

Locked room. No forced entry. Blood splatter's consistent." "No powder on the victim's hands," Ethan replied calmly. "Gun in the wrong hand for a right-handed man. And what about the letter?"

 "Which letter?" Wells spoke too rapidly. Ethan scowled. "Exactly. You're stating that you didn't leave half a letter on the desk to Clara or someone like her?" The detective set his coffee aside in a sigh.

"Even if we had, that doesn't change anything. Victor Langley had more enemies than there are dancers in a ballroom.

If he was paranoid, so what. Doesn't mean he was murdered." "Doan't mean he wasn't," Ethan answered.

"And suppose you ain't seen the strangeness in this building. People hiding around, secrets between walls. Langley was on to something—something that somebody did not want somebody to release." Wells stood hastily, his voice increasing in tone. "Listen, Carter. I don't have time for pursuing legends and rumor. You are not a police officer. You are not assigned to this case.". No, Ethan said, folding his arms.

"But you're the only one I'm questioning that you want to escape from.

For example, why you were residing here two years ago when the last 'unexplained death,' the one that didn't make the papers, took place." Wells went silent.

For a moment, the tension in the air was palpable. "Mind your manners," Wells finally said, voice low.

 "You think you're too good for the law because you've written a couple of bestsellers. But you dig too deep, you'll find things that don't want to be found."

Ethan leaned forward. "Things like how Langley had blueprints—records—of this hotel going back to 1928? Or how he said someone from the past was following him?" Wells's eyes flared, for just a moment.

 "I don't know what Langley was fleeing," he answered warily. "But I do know that this hotel has enough skeletons in its closet to fill its wine cellar.

Some of them are best kept in the dark."

"And if I don't quit digging?" Ethan asked. Wells took a step closer. "Then maybe the next scream they hear won't be coming from Room 306." The threat dangled, like smoke. Ethan didn’t blink.

 “Thanks for the chat, Detective. I’ll be sure to quote you.” As he walked away, heart pounding, Ethan knew he’d just hit a nerve.

Whatever Wells was hiding, it wasn’t just about a suicide. It was about a cover-up. And the truth was clawing its way out of the walls.