Sitting in the Beacon Hill kitchen, Harlan Garrett’s ten-year-old grandson let forth a dismal, drawn-out sigh that suggested all hope and courage had been lost as he watched Winifred McLoughlin gather items for the evening’s meal.
“Soundin’ miserable won’t be changin’ the menu, lad.”
“Stewed eel.” A moan ushered in a mutter. “Why are we having stewed eel?”
“Ye be knowin’ the answer t’that as well as I do. It be one of yer grandfather’s favorites.”
“Well, it’s not one of my favorites and I don’t much like his rule either.” A scowl punctuated the mutineer’s proclamation.
“Which rule ye be talkin’ about?” Winnie smiled as she fed the oven a few pieces of kindling. “Ye got a long list t’pick from.”
Scott’s eyes drifted to a tempting apple pie taunting him from the kitchen window sill. “A clean plate is the ticket for dessert.”
The veteran baker of pastries sneaked a peek over her shoulder at the young advocate for confections. “Ah, that one.”
“Yeah. That one.” Boyhood despair hung heavy in the room.
Unveiling her employer’s choice for a culinary delicacy from its brown paper wrapping, Winnie held up the elongated fish for consideration. “Tell me, ScottyGarrett, why do ye think God created this fine fella?”
“Because he was having a bad day.”
“Don’t be cheeky. God never has himself a bad day.”
Scott mulled over a few of the brimstone sermons he’d endured while sitting on an uncomfortable church pew and silently begged to differ with his friend’s opinion.
“Now ye take the eel.” The cook selected one of her sharp knives and began carving God’s creature into bite-sized morsels. “Ye know the Bible teaches us about Job’s long-sufferin’ so, think of it this way; if it weren’t for the eel bein’ served first, that apple pie coolin’ in the Good Lord’s lovely afternoon breeze wouldn’t be tastin’ nearly as sweet for yer earthly reward at the supper table.”
“Oh.” Scott pondered the reasoning while his eyes settled back on the kitchen’s temptation. “You know why God created apples, Winnie?”
“No, lad, but I’m sure y’ll be tellin’ me.”
“Well… God created the apple for pies so the Good Lord could let all the suffering children on earth get a heavenly reward from his kingdom’s orchard.”
Sitting in the Beacon Hill kitchen, a smile spread across the face of Harlan Garrett’s 10-year-old grandson as he savored a small sampling of the evening’s dessert which, moments ago, had been cooling in an afternoon breeze on the kitchen’s window sill. Even though it had been a loose biblical translation regarding apple pies, it remained a fact that Winifred McLoughlin couldn’t resist doing the work of the Good Lord.
********
LODGING AT EBNER’S
STOP
PATIENTLY WAITING FOR YOUR ARRIVAL
STOP
GRANDFATHER
Refolding the wire he’d received a few days prior to his Sacramento journey, a negligent grandson paused across the way from the city’s affluent hotel where his grandfather patiently waited.
With a turn of the head, Scott visually strolled down K Street, made a right at 2nd and mentally stood in front of the Arcade Hotel where the chef, Emily Browning, was no doubt beginning her prep work to provide first-class nourishment for the evening’s hungry customers.
Selection contemplation commenced.
The Ebner’s: stewed eel objectionable.
The Arcade: apple pie tempting.
Ah! Enough of that way of thinkin’, ScottyGarrett. The man’s yer grandfather.
Letting out a dismal drawn-out sigh, long-suffering Lancer tucked the telegram in his coat pocket. “Yes, Winifred, he certainly is.” Snatching up a travel bag, Scott crossed K street.
Like other establishments and businesses throughout the city of Sacramento, the Ebner’s Hotel had made noticeable improvements regarding its accommodations. Scott ticked off the growing list: flocked wallpaper, gaslit sconces, ornate framed paintings, imported rugs, polished brass key fobs. However, upon entering the lobby the most satisfying rectification in Scott’s view didn’t concern a what, but a who. Recollection of his previous stay in Sacramento to meet with Leland Stanford on behalf of his father and the Cattlemen’s Association delivered a grin.
*********
CONCIERGE
The rectangular, gold plated, spit-shined name badge pinned on the lapel informed guests the importance of who they were speaking to in bold engraved lettering.
With slight disappointment, Scott set his bag down by his feet. It appeared European influence had officially landed at the Ebner’s to fill the shoes of its friendly front desk clerk whose old age evidently no longer suggested but demanded retirement.
“May I help you?” This unfamiliar man’s nasally words were strung together tighter than the threads of his tapestry vest.
“I’d like a room.” Scott swung the registry book around and plucked the pen from its inkwell. “Possibly until the end of the week.”
“Do you have a reservation?”
The pen hovered between the completion of an S and the beginning of a c as Scott’s eyes drifted upward to meet the gaze of his interrogator. “Do I need one?”
“Yes.” The concierge adjusted his ivory inlaid cuff links. “Here at the Ebner’s Hotel, we believe there is no room for surprise in hospitality.”
“Agreed. Hospitality has too many letters as it is.” A half-smirk graced Scott’s face while returning the pen back to its proper place. In the past, he’d found people of self-proclaimed preponderance fair game. He saw no reason to change his way of thinking with this gentleman. “I’d like to reserve a room… that is…” Scott’s stance leaned slightly to the right to clear his line of sight over the clerk’s shoulder to several room keys, each hanging in their own designated pigeon hole. “If one’s available.”
The stiff-necked concierge’s side glance indicated eyes in the back of his head were unnecessary to visualize the scene behind him. “I believe we may have a room vacant until the end of the week, possibly.”
A precise about-face, punctuated with a click of the heels, set into motion the room selection process. The man's hand slowly glided past the upper keys, which offered guests larger rooms and views of K Street before fluttering downward to the bottom row. Dusty number 2 jangled from its small brass hook and slid across the polished front desk.
“I’m in luck! Very good.” Retrieving the pen, Scott picked up where he left off by completing the c, followed by o-t-t-L-a-n-c-e-
“Mr. Lancer?”
“That’s right.” An r joined the e and the quill pen returned home. “Scott Lancer.”
With the skill of a back alley magician, the concierge's fingers snatched up cobwebby number 2 and made it vanish from the desk. A slight sway of the brass fob as it returned to the hook was the only evidence that it’d left the pigeonhole. Completing the magic trick, a hand took flight, delicately palmed room number 11 and -
Presto chango!
- a new key materialized. “Our finest room, Mr. Lancer, awaits to provide outstanding comfort during your stay in our fair city. Mr. and Mrs. Leland Stanford insisted on the absolute best for their guest.”
Scott’s scrutinizing eyes determined the only item missing from the clerk’s silver platter presentation was a tangible string tied to Stanford’s offer.
Embarrassment birthed a watered-down apology as the man tugged at his tightened collar. “Inadvertent errors are rare but, alas, inevitable.” A throat cleared for a final confession. “I thought you’d be older.”
An eyebrow raised. “So I’ve been told.”
“We wish a room for the evening.” An elderly couple, weariness drawing lines on their faces, stepped up to Scott’s right.
The concierge zeroed in. “Do you have a reservation?” His tone already judged the man and woman sub-par to the hotel standards of preferred patrons.
Scott rolled his eyes while retrieving a small leather pouch from the inside pocket of his coat. Counting out enough bills to pay for the week, he laid the currency on the desk as old number 2 landed in front of the tired travelers.
“Please, Mr. Lancer. Your money's no good here.” The clerk’s oily, satisfied smile smeared across his face. “Your lodging is courtesy of Mr. Stanford.”
“I see.” Folding the bills neatly in half, Scott rounded the end of the counter to perform his own magic trick. Stuffing the money in the upper pocket of a fine tapestry vest made an oily, satisfied smile vanish into thin air.
Ta-da!
Then, in the style of Shay McLoughlin’s Three-Card Monte, Scott snagged room key 9 from its hook and slid it into his pocket. Turning and with a quick shuffle of his hands across the polished desk -
Abracadabra!
-number 2 changed to a number 11, beautifully engraved on a metal fob.
Scott’s grin accompanied his bow and click of the heels while addressing the older couple. “Sir. Madame. Your room key. Compliments of Leland Stanford and the Transcontinental Railroad.”
*********
“Good afternoon, sir. How may I assist you?”
The middle-aged man now conducting Ebner’s front desk did not wear a gold-plated name badge pinned to a satin lapel nor did he sport an oily smile which reeked of sarky self-importance. Instead, the gent displayed a pleasant, helpful demeanor that a journeyer would expect when requesting a hotel room. It appeared the condescending concierge had been given the boot, much to Scott’s satisfaction.
“I believe there’s a room reserved in my name: Scott Lancer.”
“Ah, yes!” The clerk’s relief was palpable. “You have arrived.”
Scott sheepishly grinned as he signed the register. “If you added the word finally to the end of that statement I wouldn’t blame you.”
The gentleman’s grin mirrored his latest guest’s. “Mr. Garrett has been concerned… often.”
“I apologize.”
“An apology is not necessary. Delays can be unavoidable.” A selected key was placed on the polished front desk.
“Indeed. Much like my grandfather’s tenacity.” Scott noted the brass fob and smiled. Abracadabra. Old number 9.
“Mr. Garrett is staying in the room next to yours.”
“And his travel companion, Mrs. Westcott?”
“Madame has chosen room 11 for her lodging.”
“Ah.” A nod of acknowledgment relayed the lack of surprise. “The finest accommodation the Ebner’s has to offer. Which reminds me-” Scott reached down and retrieved his leather valise. “The hotel’s previous concierge; where might he be?”
“That would be Mr. Fitzwalter. I understand he’s currently a débarurasseur at a cafe in Omaha.” The gentleman’s wide smile expressed great pleasure in sharing the fate of the man he’d replaced while his outstretched hand offered assistance. “I’ll see to your bag, sir. I’m sure you wish to inform Mr. Garrett of your arrival.”
Scott glanced around the lobby. “Well, my grandfather needs to be found first.”
“And may I also assist you in locating him.” The clerk’s arm swept to his right. “Mr. Garrett is partaking his customary afternoon brandy in our dining room while enjoying the view of K Street.”
Placing hands on hips, Scott’s puffed-cheeked inhale slowly deflated toward the Ebner’s Hotel’s dining area. Harlan Garrett wasn’t presently enjoying his view of K Street; he was stewing.