Iced

Chapter One Today everything in my life changed. I’m the events coordinator and membership manager, in training that is, at a five-star resort in Colorado. Some days, like today, it feels like I was sacrificed to some sadistic little idol somewhere. Coordination of conferences and meetings of all sizes in the resort’s convention center facility was part of my training. But this particular event, a Leadership Luncheon that brought together the town’s community leaders to network, was a challenge from the first minutes this morning. "Julienne, this event must be executed with precision and perfection." Those are the favorite words of my boss, Chad. This particular event is a daylong exercise in patience. Every job has its great parts and its not so great. Today encompassed one of the more unpleasant aspects of my job. Occasionally, okay usually, the hardest part of my job is the customer relations and today was particularly difficult. Some customers just can’t be satisfied and some events are riddled with issues. We were only serving a modest seventy-five attendees, but I had already been assailed with special requests and numerous complaints. Picky doesn’t begin to cover it. “How hard would it be to setup for a video presentation with a large screen and surround sound?” “There are windows. It’s too distracting, people will be watching the hotel guests walking around.” “Can we change the setup of room C from an L configuration to a U shape? But only for that one session, then move it back.” “Can we get the Lobster for the buffet flown in that morning? Scallops are out....Can we have the scallops after all?” “Music piped in during the breaks?” “No music piped in at all.” “Red tablecloths with white napkins.” “Royal blue tablecloths with white napkins.” “White tablecloths with yellow napkins.” “Candles on mirrors for lunch centerpieces.” “Fresh flowers for centerpieces.” The changes continued even after the event started. The Convention Center, with its classic European décor, had a small lobby area with a few potted trees and plants on column stands. The rest of the facility extended down a hallway with two large areas on each side that could be divided into smaller rooms via partitions that extend from the walls as needed. The space could be up to eight small rooms, four on each side, or any combination from one to four rooms per side of the hallway. The hallway was wide with several half-circle console tables including marble tops holding large dried floral arrangements and a few elegant chairs. The walls displayed large paintings of the Italian countryside and vineyards with carved gold gilt frames. I was in a partitioned room overseeing the set up of the lunch buffet. The Italian Renaissance architecture was accentuated with interior details and décor that created a European elegance, all lit with the warm glow of a massive amber glass chandelier. The room was a rectangle with the entrance from the hallway to one end and the door to the catering staging area at the opposite end. The buffet table was along the wall next to the staging door so wait staff could easy restock food items. The six-person round tables covered in rich golden linens were scattered strategically throughout the room to allow easy traffic flow. The thick carpet felt plush and cloud-like under foot. I was surveying the buffet table with a critical eye. The five-foot long ice sculpture of a swordfish occupied the center of the table and looked as though it was caught in mid leap, frolicking in a wave and ready to dive back into an unseen ocean. My stomach growled as the succulent smells of seafood teased my nose. The attendees would be returning to this room for their lunch and keynote speaker shortly. "Brad, where are the crab leg metal crackers and little forks? Can you grab a few dozen and bring them right away?" Brad, slim and serious, had joined the team only two months ago and was picking up extra hours at every opportunity. He had asked to work this event as soon as I blocked out the time on the schedule. This would give him a good paycheck. He was lanky and took off with an easy loping stride to the staging area through the back door. The door to the staging area had barely closed when I felt a hand grab hold of my derriere with an iron hard grip. "This is more like it honey. I haven't had any fun today." I whirled around and stumbled back. "Don’t touch the staff. That includes me, Pastor Tom." I practically shouted. Pastor Tom Drake was well known around town and had been getting national attention lately with his mega church. He was included in the luncheon due to his influence, but he was just Pastor Tom since he was a local guy who started his church and radio ministry from his garage. I had contended with bad behavior before, but never this grabby. I think I was going to have a bruise left from his vicious hand. "You’re not being very fri...friendly." I noticed his eyes were droopy and then I caught a whiff of the scotch he must have gotten at the Gilded Hornet pub next to the convention center building. I decided to alert security we needed a person to monitor the rest of the event and turned to go. His iron hand grabbed hold of my arm and yanked me to him. Without a thought, I took my knee to his groin and enjoyed watching his mouth form an "O" as his breath whooshed out. I broke free and backed away. I wasn’t turning my back on him again. "I will see you fired for that you bitch." He whispered with a jagged voice. He couldn’t do that, at least I was pretty sure he couldn’t. I guess I’d find out. I rubbed my still smarting arm where he grabbed it. Brad would be back or the event participants would start to wander in so he couldn’t do much more, but I didn’t want to stay and find out. I backed out the door to the hallway toward the lobby and took my cell phone from my pants pocket. "Hey Ron, we have a person under the influence at the luncheon in Convention Center. Can you spare someone for the afternoon?" "I’ll make sure somebody’s there immediately Julienne. How bad is this guy?" "Well, I’ll probably have a black-and-blue handprint on my arm and ...my backside." I took a deep breath. "Son of a ... I’ll be right there. You stay away from him." Like I would go near that Neanderthal again, pastor or not. The other participants were starting to exit the smaller break out session rooms and meander to the banquet room and bathrooms. The noise level began to creep upward from multiple conversations competing to be heard. There was a loud crash of metal from the banquet room and a participant jerked open the door and froze in place. "Oh sh..." The participant’s mouth gaped and his eyes were large circles. I ran over to the open door and saw Pastor Tom impaled through the chest with the sharp end of the Swordfish ice sculpture, from his back right through to the front. His head was forward against his chest. Blood, running down the swordfish tip that jutted from his chest, dripping to the carpet. Drip, drip, drip in a macabre but surreal scene. “Crap, this isn’t good,” was my first thought, followed closely by “how did that swordfish kill him?” I wasn’t going with the obvious answer of God’s judgment. I looked up to the back door to the staging room at Anete Kruze, one of the servers. The catering facilities were in the hotel, so the food was brought across to the Convention Center and staged in the room back there. Anete was holding an empty metal pan usually filled with silverware that she had dropped on the floor and were now scattered around her. She was frozen in place and trembling. I had been trained in basic first aid and CPR, but Pastor Tom was clearly past that point. I turned and yelled above the gathering din of voices, "Somebody call 911. Is there a Doctor present?" I was relieved I didn’t start screaming or faint at the blood, if I could just stay focused on what I needed to do I could maintain my professional demeanor. Nobody stepped forward. A few had grabbed their smart phones. Oh no, this would be all over Twitter and f*******:. As everybody filed into the wide hallway, the buzz of hushed conversations began around me. “Is it...?” “It’s Pastor Drake.” “No, it can’t be Drake, who would kill him?” “Did you get a photo?” “Everyone, please put your phones away now. No photos or video please.” I kept my voice commanding without croaking like a frog. Then the crowd hushed and parted for a woman, looking around confused. She leaned forward just enough to look inside and began to quake. “No. Tom... It can’t be him, no.” She turned and scanned the crowd and began calling out, “Tom, where are you?” My sluggish mind realized she must be Pastor Tom’s wife...or widow, when a man pushed through the crowd and led her away talking gently to her. My heart clenched as I hurt for her. The crowd parted once again for Ron, our head of Security, as he rushed over. "What’s going on?" But he quickly saw the body impaled on the ice sculpture, walked over and gradually reached his hand out to Pastor Tom's neck for a pulse. After rubbing his eyes and a few deep breaths, he commanded the gathering staff at the back staging door to leave the room and not to enter until he had a chance to talk with each of them. "Julienne, nobody comes in this room but the police. Do you hear me?" I nodded. What should I do though? I looked at all the food spread out on the table and realized the voices behind me were grumbling. "Everyone, lunch will be served in the break out rooms you had your sessions in. Please return to those rooms and the wait staff will be serving soon.” I didn’t have a clue what we would serve, since the buffet was out of the question. The rest was a blur as I attempted to get the attendees fed sandwiches and salad and direct the emergency personnel with a stretcher, who wouldn't disturb the crime scene by even entering the room until the forensic people were done. When the forensic techs arrived, they weren’t happy. “Ice! Are you kidding me? The weapon and any fingerprints are melting before we even get set up.” I fielded calls from Chad who couldn't get away from an important meeting and then assisted the stone-faced police. I started as the hotel’s front desk associate and worked my way up. It’s my dream to manage large resorts around the world and I’m fortunate to have the on-the-job manager training position at a five-star resort in my hometown. But this...situation... hadn’t been covered in any of my training to date, so I was going on instinct and hoping I didn’t mess it up. I was one of the first questioned, but by that time I was so frazzled I kept the image of a huge Mojito fixed in my mind to keep me going. "Ms. LaMere, we appreciate your keeping all the participants here and calm. What exactly was this, a conference?" I got the sourest faced uniformed officer of the group, not that any of them looked likely to show a comforting smile, but this man's eyes said, "you are all criminals and I'm watching you." "It was a networking event for influential people in the community. I don't know any more details, but I can point out the organizer of the event for you." I had been standing for hours and my practical low-heeled shoes were nonetheless pinching my swollen feet and I was hitting the exhaustion wall. "I understand from your security manager that you had called him about a drunk accosting you. We’ll need to speak to that person especially. Who was it?” "It was..." It had just occurred to me how this might look. I just nodded my head towards the banquet room. Sourpuss’s eyebrow lifted while his eyes narrowed. "How did the..." he checked his notes, “ice sculpture spear him through?” Voice monotone and cold. “How would I know? I wasn’t in the room." I took a slow breath. I was a victim here too. Sure, I was still alive, but I had been assaulted by the right reverend. I felt like I was about to become Pastor Tom’s victim again even in his death. “You didn’t put up a fight and somehow spear him?” I decided to just rip the Band-Aid off fast. "I kneed him in the crotch as hard as I could and left to call security. The smaller sessions were disbanding when we all heard a loud crash. It was only then that ... that...that we saw him like that." I waved my hand to indicate Pastor Tom’s direction. I was reliving it in my mind and shivered. That Mojito may not quiet my increasingly churning stomach or my developing headache. "When you last saw him, how was he?" "Doubled over holding his crotch and trying to breathe." I normally would have gotten a smidgen of satisfaction from that, but not now. I had to fight to not fidget. "Did he say anything?” "Well he ... said he would have me fired for that." It was out of my mouth before my mind could clamp my flapping lips shut. I should have lied, I was screaming to myself. I know I didn’t kill him, but it sure sounded bad the more I talked. "Didn't that make you mad?" "I wish I could tell you that he was the worst example of abuse I have had to endure, but sadly he’s not. Trust me, some folks aren’t nice people at all. I wasn’t mad nor did I kill him, if that’s where you’re headed." He made some notes and didn't seem impressed by my passionate speech. "How long was it from when you left the victim and heard the 'loud crash'?" "I would say three to five minutes, no more." Oh crap, oh crap. That looks even worse for me. I clamped my mouth shut. Tight. "Anything else you can think of?" "I think he was drunk. He smelled like booze." The press arrived and my sour policeman jumped into action to keep the news cameras and reporters at a distance. An equally sour man in plain clothes, Detective Lawrence, then questioned me. He asked me several of the same questions, plus many more. He had such a stern look and serious expression that I swear a smile would split his face from hairline to chin. I knew from the cop shows the repeated questions were a tactic to get my story tripped up if I was lying. I didn’t like the feel of being grilled as though I was the killer.