Mystery On The Thirty-Ninth

By Deborah Bainbridge

The doorman of the Marriott Marquis drew the doors, revealing a grand crystal chandelier. I smoothed imaginary wrinkles from my royal blue cocktail dress—a far cry from my shabby barista’s apron.

I tucked a lock of my long, dark hair behind one ear. Just breathe. My black heels clicked unevenly across the threshold as I settled into my main character’s world.

You are Cynthia—a fashionable, rich woman who lives in the penthouse of a luxury hotel. Clutching my bag, I glided across the white marble floor and entered the elevator. “Thirty-nine.”

“Room key,” the attendant requested.

“One moment.” My hands trembled as I grappled with the clasp of my purse. Why didn’t I think of this? My heart pounded. I fidgeted through my purse for a key I did not have.

Before the elevator doors closed, a tall, handsome man slipped inside, reached into his jeans pocket, and retrieved his room key. Glancing sideways, his green eyes met mine and held. “Which floor?”

I swallowed. “The View Lounge on thirty-nine.”

“This lady will be my guest in the lounge today, Robby.” The handsome man winked my direction.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Williams.”

“Just David, Robby.”

Who is this guy?

David’s eyes flicked to the book in my hand. “Any good?”

“Brilliant!” My shoulders relaxed.

David moved nearer, hand outstretched. “May I?”

My heart skipped a beat as I handed him the book.

He read the back cover. “So, you like mysteries?” His eyes twinkled.

“Very much.” I shifted my weight from foot to foot.

“Me, too. Vladimir Swidal?”

“He’s my favorite author.”

The elevator doors opened, revealing the rooftop restaurant. My breath caught.

“They have a great oat milk cappuccino here.” David caught my eye. “You should try it.”

He likes my favorite drink.

Astonished, I watched him head toward the bar then turned my gaze to the domed floor-to-ceiling panoramic windows that offered stunning views of downtown San Francisco. I took a seat near the window and placed my order. Snow flurries glistened, dancing like down falling from a pillow. How magical! I pulled out my laptop. I’m writing on the thirty-ninth floor of the Marriott Marquis. I inhaled deeply and started typing.

***

My stomach growled, yanking me from my story world. Is it really 8? I glanced over the dinner menu and cringed. It would cost me a day’s wages to eat here.

“Your book,” a deep voice interrupted.

I startled, then glanced up. Those green eyes.

“I tried to return it earlier but you looked deep in thought.”

“Oh, right. Thank you.” I glanced sideways. “And… for before. How did you know?”

“I live here. I’m David, by the way.”

“Cynthia. I mean… Amber.”

“How mysterious.” He adjusted his watch. “Would you… care to join me for dinner?”

Me? Eat with him? “Actually… that sounds lovely.”

We ordered dinner and dessert, and silently watched the snow fall. Sizzling plates arrived at our table. The waiter squeezed fresh lemon onto my seared scallops, and citrus filled the air. My mouth watered.

“So, what were you working on so intently earlier?” David asked.

“A short story—my first attempt at writing.”

“Intriguing. Is it a mystery?”

“Yes.” My excitement bubbled over as I explained how I’d been struggling to write my main character. “I needed to step into her shoes.” I braved a glance. “You’re not looking at me like I’m crazy. That’s what people do when I talk about characters coming to life.”

“Never mind them. Let your imagination soar!”

Beaming, I shattered the caramelized sugar of my crème brûlée. He understands me. Conversation was easy, and time flew by without notice.

The bartender announced, “Ten ‘til midnight. Last call.”

David rose. “I’ll escort you downstairs.”

Inside the elevator, I pulled off my heels and slipped into the comfy tennies tucked in my bag. “These are better in snow.”

“Much.”

I stepped into the lobby and glanced over my shoulder. “Sightglass Coffee on Divisadero makes a great oat milk cappuccino.” I was stunned at my own courage. David smiled, and my heart squeezed.

Later that night, in the shelter of my apartment, I flipped the pages to my favorite chapter. David had written a mysterious note in my book: Maid swirl valid. Meek I may scepter!

He likes anagrams, too. Oh, now I’ll never sleep!

***

The next morning, I jolted when my co-worker nudged my side. “Amber, order up, sleepy head. It’s for the hot guy in the back corner.”

I yawned and delivered the oat milk cappuccino. The “hot guy” glanced up, and green eyes met mine. I attempted to adjust my messy bun and straighten my apron.

He stood and gently lifted my chin. “Ah, a hard working, aspiring author, I see. Even Vladimir Swidal started somewhere.” He took his seat. “Did you figure out my anagram?”

“Almost. I worked on it most of the night.”

“Need a hint?”

“Please.”

“Only a true bloodhound could have sleuthed it.”

“That’s from the end of the book! But, you didn’t have time to…. did you skim through it?”

“No.”

“Then, you’ve read it?”

“No.”

“Wait—a—minute.” I pulled the book from my apron pocket and stared at the anagram. The puzzle clicked into place. I am Vladimir Swidal. Keep my secret! “Seriously? You’re the Vladimir Swidal?” I clutched my empty tray to my chest.

He glanced around. “Do you mind lowering your voice?”

“You let me prattle on and on. Me… a new author! Were you toying with me?” A tear slid down my cheek. I turned to leave.

“Please, let me explain.”

I waited.

“I’ve been having writer’s block, and your passion inspired me. You made me remember why I started writing. I was up all night, too—creating—because of you.” He took my hand in his, the warmth melting away my anger. “I came here hoping to find that remarkable woman.”

My heart soared.

“I know a place that makes a great oat milk cappuccino. What time are you off?”

“You’re a mystery writer.” I winked. “You figure it out.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Deborah Bainbridge is a Christian, wife, and mother who enjoys running, traveling, writing short stories, and cookies. Her genres of choice include fiction and mystery. Throughout her life, she has been inspired by J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, J.K. Rowling, and Suzanne Collins. She is thankful to her friends and family for their encouragement and dedicates this story to her phenomenal sister, Cynthia, and to her husband, Shawn, who inspires her to “let her imagination soar!”

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