"I'm sorry," the desk clerk replied, "that room is not accepting calls. May I take a message?"
I stared at the phone's mouthpiece, surprised at succeeding. Joseph, noticing my silence, set down a tool and took several steps closer.
"I said, may I take a message?" the clerk repeated.
I thought quickly. I have a delivery for Mr. Westbrook at the Queen Victoria Hotel. What room is that, please?"
"I'm sorry, we don't give out that information. You may leave the delivery at our front desk, and we will be happy to take it to his room."
I thanked the woman, then set the phone back in its cradle.
"He's there?" Joseph asked, incredulous.
"Someone named Westbrook is, but the person isn't accepting calls."
"I guessed wrong. I never would have thought-" I interrupted him. "It could be that Trent keeps a room there simply to be with Margery. In any case, we are supposed to leave our delivery at the front desk, and they will be happy to take it up to his room."
"What delivery is that?"
"Something large enough that, when they see it, they won't really be happy to take it up themselves. Something ugly enough that they won't be much happier about keeping it in the lobby."
Joseph smiled. "So they will give us the room number, wanting us to deliver it." His hand swept the air, indicating all the merchandise in the shop. "So much to choose from."
I surveyed the items around us, then spotted it in the corner. "Yes, oh yes!"
An hour later, Joseph and I, breathing hard, leaned a large painting wrapped in brown paper against the hotel's front desk. Carrying the artwork, which was as tall as Joseph and as long as a sofa, through the elegantly furnished lobby of the Queen Victoria hadn't been easy. The desk clerk greeted us coolly and, at our request, studied the store tag from Olivia's. The date and time of delivery, as well as the name of the hotel, were printed clearly on it; the customer's "signature" was unreadable. Joseph and 1, afraid a delivery for Mr. Westbrook would raise too many questions, had decided on a different strategy.
"The writing on this tag is illegible. I can't possibly help you," said the clerk, a twenty-something man with a fake British accent. He looked past us, as if he thought we might go away.
I rested both arms on the counter, not planning to go anywhere but upstairs. "I remember the customer coming into our store. We spent quite a bit of time discussing Olivia's fine selection of paintings. I am certain I would recognize the name if I saw it again."
The clerk pursed his lips and refused to take the bait.
"Perhaps if you looked at the registry," Joseph suggested.
"No one," said the clerk, "is allowed to look at the list of guests. May I help the next in line, please."
"I think it began with 'S,'" Joseph continued, propping his elbow on the counter, occupying more space. "I hope it's Superman. This masterpiece must weigh a hundred fifty pounds."
"'S'? I thought it was 'M.'" I could hear the people who were waiting behind us shifting their belongings.
"I must ask you to step aside," the clerk said to us.
"But we have to deliver this," I replied.
"Step aside, please. You may use the public phone if you would like to contact the store for the necessary information." He cocked his head, indicating that he was addressing the guest behind us. "Yes, sir. Thank you for waiting so graciously.'' I stepped aside-slightly. "Perhaps we should leave the painting here, Joseph. Surely the purchaser will recognize it."
"I'm sure of only one thing," Joseph responded, "I'm not lugging it back to the shop."
Though this was part of our script, Joseph wasn't acting; he had sweat profusely during our effort to get the painting in and out of his S.U.V.
We carried the painting toward a mahogany pillar, a prominent position in the tastefully restored lobby. Working quickly, we peeled off its wrapping. The huge gilt frame, which had enough dips and waves in it to make a person seasick, caught the light and made the perfect border for a painting of very plump women bathing in a pink, soda-pop spring with strange winged creatures darting about.
Three middle-aged ladies who entered the hotel saw the painting, glanced at one another, then laughed out loud. The desk clerk looked up. When he saw what the patrons were staring at, a look of horror crossed his face. "What are you doing?* he demanded.
"We thought we'd leave it here till the owner claimed it," Joseph replied.
"You must be joking!"
More people entered the lobby. "Mommy, those ladies don't have any clothes on," a child observed.
A quiet buzzer sounded behind the desk. The office door opened and I held my breath, hoping it wasn't Margery, who might recognize me. To my relief, a dark-haired woman emerged.
"What's the problem, Francis?" she asked the desk clerk, but she spotted it as she spoke.
Francis explained how this "unfortunate painting" had materialized in the lobby, then boldly suggested that it be stored in her office.
The woman, whose name tag indicated she was the assistant manager, studied the canvas. "Not while I work there," she said.
"If I could look at the registry," I interjected, I think I would recognize the customer's name."
She nodded. "Come behind the desk. It's on the computer."
I did so, scanning the list, making sure to search beyond Westbrook, Room 305.
"Got it. McCutcheon. Room 313."
Joseph scribbled the number on the tag.
"She's expecting us, but we'll use the house phone to tell her we're coming up," I said, hoping to keep Francis from making such a call.
"Thank you, we are rather busy," the woman replied, smiling, then disappearing into her office, leaving behind a pouting desk clerk. A few minutes later, after faking the call, Joseph and I discovered that the antiquated guest elevator was too small for transporting the painting. Francis exacted his revenge by informing us that only employees were allowed to use the service elevator. I could have demanded to speak again to the assistant manager, but I was afraid she would tell an employee to accompany us.
"Looks like it's the steps," I said to Joseph.
Wide enough for a dozen people to climb shoulder to shoulder, the Victorian staircase swept up to a large, stained-glass window, then split into two stairways that doubled back, rising to the second floor. After pausing at the split, Joseph went left and I went right. We nearly dropped the painting between us. Then he went right and I went left, both of us grunting as we slammed our foreheads and shoulders against the ornate frame.
"Which way?" he asked, mopping his brow on his sleeve, puffing hard.
"You choose, I'll follow." Usually, the stronger person follows, bearing the weight of an object when climbing stairs, and that was me.
We carried the bathing ladies down to room 313, in case someone checked on our delivery. "Sallie McCutcheon," I said, remembering the name on the registry, "is going to be very surprised."
Joseph, who had lost his sense of humor, simply dried his hands on a handkerchief and walked back to Room 305. I caught up with him at the door and pressed my ear against it. At first I couldn't figure out whose voices I heard, then I squeezed Joseph's arm. "It's the telly," I whispered, "tuned into a children's program. Patrick's here!"
"Do you think Trent is with him?"