The Return(54)

“Do you need a room?”

“No,” I said, “but I was hoping you could help me.”

I gave her a brief summary of the information I hoped to learn. As I spoke, her eyes traveled from my injured hand to the scar on my face, her expression openly curious. Instead of answering, she asked, “You Army?”

“Navy,” I said.

“My brother was in the Army,” she said. “He was in Iraq three different times.”

“Tough place,” I said. “I was in Afghanistan.”

“Not so easy there, either.”

“No, it wasn’t,” I agreed. “But at least I wasn’t there three times.”

For the first time, she smiled. “What were you saying? About your grandfather?”

I told her again about my grandfather before adding that the ambulance company indicated that he’d collapsed near the mile marker out front, early in the morning—which made it possible, if not likely, that he’d stayed at the Evergreen. “I was hoping you could check the register.”

“When was that?”

I told her the date and she shook her head.

“I’m really sorry. As much as I’d like to help, you’ll have to ask Beau about that. I’m not supposed to let people see the records unless they have a warrant. I could lose my job.”

“Beau’s the owner?”

“The manager,” she answered. “He runs the place for his uncle in West Virginia.”

“Do you have a number to call him?”

“I do, but I’m not supposed to disturb him. He’s sleeping right now. Don’t like to be disturbed. He works nights. Eight to eight.”

With hours like that, I wouldn’t want to be disturbed, either. “Would you happen to know anything about my grandfather? Were you working here then? Maybe you heard something?”

Her fingers drummed on the counter. “I recall hearing about some old guy needing an ambulance right out there in the parking lot. Might’ve been him. But might not. There’s been a few people who’ve died here in the last couple of years, so they kinda run together. Heart attacks mostly. One time, a suicide.”

I wondered if that was typical of this place or motels and hotels in general. “Will Beau be working tonight?”

“Yep.” She nodded. “But don’t be put off when you meet him. He looks kind of squirrelly, but he’s all right. He’s got a good heart.”

“I appreciate your help.”

“I didn’t do much,” she said. “What I can do is leave a note for Beau, telling him to expect you and to help you out if he can.”

“I appreciate that.”

“What’s your name again?”

“Trevor Benson.”

“I’m Maggie,” she said. “Thank you for your service. And sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

*



With hours to kill, I drove back to Greenville and spent some time browsing at Barnes & Noble before having a steak dinner at Ruth’s Chris. Figuring I’d need to stay overnight, I arranged for a room at the Marriott. While the Evergreen might have been fine by my grandfather’s standards, I preferred a place with a few more amenities.

I returned to the Evergreen Motel at a quarter past eight. By then, it was dark and my headlights illuminated four cars in the parking lot. They weren’t the same as the ones that had been there before, the afternoon delights long since over. I parked in the same spot and entered the lobby. Again I heard the television blaring before Beau emerged from the back room.

My first thought was that I understood what Maggie had meant: The man who approached the counter looked exactly like the kind of guy who worked the night shift at a place called the Evergreen Motel on a quiet highway in the middle of nowhere. I suspected he was about the same age as or younger than me; he was rail thin, with a scraggly half beard and hair that probably hadn’t been washed in a week. His white T-shirt was stained and he had a small chain hooked from a belt loop to his wallet. His expression flickered between indifference and irritation and I could smell beer on his breath.

“Are you Beau?”

He wiped his chin with the back of his hand and sighed. “Who’s asking?”

“Trevor Benson,” I said. “I came by earlier and spoke to Maggie.”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “She left me a note and said that I should help you because you’re a veteran. Something about your grandfather.”

I went through the story again. Even before I finished, he was nodding. “Yeah, I remember him. Old guy—like really old, right? Driving a beater truck?”

“Probably,” I said. “It sure sounds like him.”

He reached under the counter and pulled out a notebook, the kind you might find at any office supply store. “What was the date?”

I told him, watching as he began flipping back through the pages. “Thing is, we only require an ID if they pay with a credit card. With cash and the key deposit, we don’t bother checking. There’s a lot of John Does in here, so I can’t guarantee anything.”

No surprise there. “I’m sure he would have used his real name.”

He continued thumbing back, finally zeroing in on the appropriate date. “What was his name again?”