The Last of the Stanfields(49)

A young woman was asking a question at the front desk. Her rough, scratchy voice immediately drew me in, not least because of her English accent, which was pretty charming. As I waited patiently behind her, I played a little guessing game I’d made up. The game was to figure out what brought her all the way here. It wasn’t like Baltimore was a particularly appealing tourist destination, especially in late October. Maybe work? She could be traveling for business, maybe for a conference. The convention center wasn’t all that far away. But why not stay at a hotel for business travelers in that case? Could she be here visiting family?

“Yes, you’ll get the busy signal if you don’t hit 9 for an outside line,” the receptionist explained. “Then dial 0-1-1 to call international.”

She was traveling alone, so maybe she had to call and check in with her husband—or boyfriend, rather, judging by the lack of ring. Next, she asked how much a taxi to Johns Hopkins University would cost. Bingo! A clue. She had to be a professor—English literature, I’d have bet money on it—living at the hotel until her official accommodation was organized for the semester.

Just then, she turned around to face me.

“So sorry. I’ll just be one more minute.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I replied. “I’ve got time.”

“Is that why you’ve been staring straight at me since you walked in? In case you didn’t notice, there’s a huge mirror behind the front desk, so I can stare right back at you.”

“Then I’m the one who should be saying sorry. It’s not what you think, honestly. It’s just my weird way of killing time. I like to guess what people do for a living.”

“Really. What did you come up with for me?”

“Professor. English literature. And you’ve just landed a position at Johns Hopkins.”

“Impressive. But wrong on all counts,” she said, extending her hand. “Eleanor-Rigby Donovan, journalist. National Geographic.”

“George-Harrison,” I replied, shaking her hand.

“Well, isn’t that clever! Are you always so quick with comebacks?”

“Sorry, you lost me.”

“Eleanor Rigby . . . George Harrison . . . still don’t see it?”

“I guess not. What’s so funny about it?”

“The Beatles! I’m the title of a song, you’re the guitarist?”

“Believe it or not, I don’t know that song. I never really got into them. Neither did my mom, actually. She was all about the Stones.”

“Lucky you. And lucky me, meeting a real-life George Harrison. I think my own mother would have got quite a kick out of that. Anyway. Duty calls.”

With that, she walked straight out, and it was my turn to approach the front desk. As I retrieved my room key, the receptionist seemed to be fighting back laughter, having followed every word of my exchange with Eleanor Rigby.

I took the elevator and stepped into my hotel room, all with a bit of a spring in my step. I felt better than I had in ages.



Now it’s my turn, George Harrison. With fifteen minutes to kill in the back of a taxi, I took a stab at his little guessing game.

What brought him to Baltimore? In a pair of jeans with worn leather boots and loose-fitting jumper, he didn’t strike me as a businessman, and the hotel didn’t seem geared toward that kind of guest to begin with. Hmm. Musician? A musician with a name like George Harrison? No way. That’s like being a contemporary painter named Rembrandt . . . unless he was just messing with me by calling himself that. Quite a cheeky sense of humor, I had to admit. There’s a thought. A painter? Would a painter come show his work in Baltimore? Plus, I didn’t spot a single speck of paint anywhere on him. What else could he be? He didn’t seem tortured enough to be a filmmaker. Why was I so set on him being an artist?

Definitely not a reporter, or else he would have mentioned it when I brought up the magazine. Eleanor-Rigby Donovan, journalist. I must have come on strong. I can’t imagine why I felt the need to impress him in the first place. Unless . . . forget it. Was he in town to visit his mother? He did mention her. But that still doesn’t tell me what he does for a living. Why bother trying to unravel the mystery? Well . . . what if we crossed paths again in the lobby, and I just nailed him with the right guess? He’d be speechless! Okay. Interesting thought. But why bother trying to leave him speechless? Well . . . what if it was because I wanted to?

No harm in that, after all.

The Johns Hopkins public relations guy gave me loads of info for the article and let me take some pictures of the campus. The lighting was so striking that I decided to head into town to take some more. Best to move ahead with the assignment, since it was the entire justification for the trip.

I had butterflies in my stomach as I returned to the hotel. I realized I didn’t know how I would recognize my contact at Sailor’s Hideaway later that night. This, of course, assumed the rendezvous was real, and not just part of a sprawling scavenger hunt or enormous hoax that I’d willingly bought into.

Did the poison-pen really drag me all the way here just so I could see that photo of my mother, proving the validity of his allegations? If that were the case, why set such a specific time to meet? Why go so far as to set up a rendezvous—just so a single photo would be right in front of my face? Wouldn’t sending a copy have been easier? Although I did have to admit, discovering it the way I did had definitely intensified the dramatic effect.