Dead Certain

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W. Somerset Maugham said: “There are three rules for writing the novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are.”

I know one vital rule-have a great editor. I have.

Thanks to:

Robin-for hotels; Barbara-for opera.

The young Duty Manager looked at the DO NOT DISTURB sign, cleared his throat, straightened his tie. He glanced at the substantial figure of the Housekeeping Supervisor, who stopped chewing her gum long enough to say, “Go for it.”

“I can hear something. Someone talking.”

“The television’s on.”

He paused a moment longer, then knocked resolutely. “Mr. Raeburn? This is the Duty Manager…”

The Housekeeping Supervisor sighed. “Hasn’t answered any of my room attendants. Not going to answer you.”

“Mr. Raeburn…?”

The television blared as he opened the door to a wall of cold air. He walked down the short entrance hall and stopped. “Jesus.”

Collis Raeburn lay sprawled on the bed, his head turned away as though hiding his face. One arm hung over the edge so that his hand touched the plush beige carpet near an overturned tumbler and a scatter of pills. There was a pungent stink of whiskey.

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