The Hotel Whodunit Read online

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Text and Illustration copyright: © 2020 BOOM! Studios

  Goldie Vance™ and © 2020 Hope Larson & Brittney Williams. All rights reserved. BOOM! Studios™ and the BOOM! Studios logo are trademarks of Boom Entertainment, Inc., registered in various countries and categories.

  Illustrations by Elle Power. Insert lettering by Jim Campbell.

  Cover design by Christina Quintero. Cover illustration by Elle Power.

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Little, Brown and Company

  Hachette Book Group

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  Visit us at LBYR.com

  First Edition: March 2020

  Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Rivera, Lilliam, author. | Power, Elle, illustrator.

  Title: Goldie Vance : the hotel whodunit : an original novel / by Lilliam Rivera ; illustrations by Elle Power.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Little, Brown and Company, 2020. | Audience: Ages 8-12. | Summary: In early 1960s Florida, sixteen-year-old Goldie, an aspiring detective at the Crossed Palms Resort Hotel, investigates when a diamond-encrusted swim cap goes missing during the filming of a movie at the resort.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019033910 | ISBN 9780316456647 | ISBN 9780316456630 (ebook) | ISBN 9780316456654

  Subjects: CYAC: Mystery and detective stories. | Resorts—Fiction. | Hotels, motels, etc.—Fiction. | Motion pictures—Production and direction—Fiction. | Racially mixed people—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.R5765 Go 2020 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019033910

  ISBNs: 978-0-316-45664-7 (paper over board); 978-0-316-45663-0 (ebook)

  E3-20200204-JV-NF-ORI

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Comics

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Comics

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  To budding detectives everywhere!

  Chapter One

  TRIOS OF SWAMP THINGS ARE DEEP IN CONVERSATION over by the lobby’s fountain. A man with scaly skin in a slim suit pulls a toothpick from his mouth while a mermaid with long blond hair that practically sweeps the floor follows one of the bellhops into the hotel. The Crossed Palms Resort is being overrun by sea creatures and mermaids.

  I pull out my trusty pad and pencil and quickly jot this down: Mark this day—strange things are afoot.

  “Darling, I simply must have my ring,” Miss Dupart whispers. “How will I ever be cast in this movie if I don’t have the right accoutrement?”

  “No worries, Miss Dupart. I’m on the case!” I open the door to Miss Dupart’s mint-green convertible and dive deep into the back seat.

  Miss Dupart is a regular at the Crossed Palms Resort. She’s been living in the hotel as long as I have. Correction: She’s been living here even longer. Ever since the first palm trees swayed their palms, darling is what she loves to say. Miss Dupart used to be a big-time actress in Hollywood, but now she waits for the right roles to land in her lap here in St. Pascal, Florida, which means she spends a lot of time by the pool lounging and primping. The thing I love most about Miss Dupart is the way she whisper-talks, like she’s about to divulge the most scandalous of secrets.

  “My emerald ring was a gift from the ambassador to Spain, or was it the cowboy from San Antonio?” she whisper-talks. “Either way, it’s very important to me. You must find it.”

  “I totally understand, Miss Dupart,” I say.

  Every morning Miss Dupart likes to drive her vintage green car along the coast. She says the ocean air does wonders for her skin. When she got back this morning, she immediately realized her ring was missing. It’s a good thing I’m her valet.

  “Darling, have you seen the raw talent around here?”

  Miss Dupart is dressed head to toe in a mint-green dress—her favorite color—and oversize sun hat, with Clementine, her tiny poodle, yapping beside her.

  “Will you be auditioning?” she asks.

  “Oh no, not me, Miss Dupart. I’ll leave that for the professionals. Besides, I’m sure Walter needs me to keep my eyes and ears open. You never know what mysteries might unfold.”

  My official job at the Crossed Palms Resort is valet, meaning I get to park the cars. But what I really want to do, more than anything in the whole wide world, is be the hotel’s house detective. I’m already working as assistant to the current house detective, Walter Tooey. I mean, technically, he’s not supposed to have an assistant, but there’s no way he can handle this whole resort on his own, not when there are always kids running off and getting lost, jewelry going missing, and cars being vandalized. There was also that one time the entire cast of some variety show was sabotaged by a jealous singer. Too bad the singer left her nefarious to-do list written behind some sheet music I found thrown in the trash. Nothing gets past me. Anyway, all this is to say that I’ve been proving I have what it takes to be a stellar detective. I’m just due for a promotion soon; I’m sure of it.

  While I wait for that to happen, I negotiate elbow room with Clementine the poodle, who has decided to join me in the back seat.

  “What do you think, Clementine? Do you know where the ring is?” I ask. Clementine answers with a sloppy lick on my face.

  “I’ve never been one for genre ever since I was cast in that horrid vampire movie in the thirties with Bela Whatever-his-name-is, but they say sea monsters are the latest rage,” Miss Dupart chimes in.

  “Not a problem, Miss Dupart. I’ll find it. I have all the confidence in the world!” I yell over Clementine, who is yapping her concern. Clementine doesn’t think I’ve got the chops to perform this miraculous feat. The poodle is forgetting one thing: I’m Goldie Vance, the soon-to-be-renowned house detective of this establishment, and there’s no doubt that this mystery will be solved in three… two…

  “Sweet Annette Funicello! I found it!”

  I leap out from the back seat, my fingers clutching the brilliant ring. A half-swamp thing, half man with sandy-blond hair who’s talking to an older woman with severe bangs looks over my way for a seco
nd, but they return to their intense conversation totally unfazed. Miss Dupart is elated.

  “Goldie, darling, you truly are a godsend,” says Miss Dupart while she places the ring on her wrinkly finger alongside all her other rings. “I’d better make my entrance. You never know if they’re looking for another damsel in distress.”

  Miss Dupart hands me a dollar, and I tuck the crisp new bill inside the pocket of my scratchy uniform. This time, Clementine’s bark is one of approval.

  “Break a leg, Miss Dupart,” I say.

  The Crossed Palms Resort is a sprawling estate with three—count ’em—three pools. There are cabanas, cabana boys, a lounge with a piano, a cigar room, and an extravagant ballroom for weddings and fancy parties. Guests can learn how to cha-cha-cha or be left alone to stroll on the beach looking for seashells. We even have honest-to-goodness pink flamingos roaming around. Anyone who is anyone ends up staying at the Crossed Palms. Starlets, families, and mambo singers straight from Cuba. You name it, I’ve seen it all.

  So that’s what you see when you’re checking in, but what you don’t see is the behind-the-scenes magic that makes this hotel run so smoothly. I know every secret hallway—including the one that will lead me to Chef François (where he will let me sneak a taste of his famous onion soup) or the one that takes me to where a high-stakes game of cards is starting. As a kid I played hide-and-seek in the laundry room and was taught how to Hula-Hoop by a magician. I think I “borrowed” my first golf cart at eight? (Don’t tell anyone.) The Crossed Palms Resort has been my home ever since Dad got a job working here ten years ago. Now that I’m sixteen, I get to work here, too. All I need is that one big case to make me an official detective. It will happen soon enough. I can feel it in my bones; just need to keep my eyes and ears open. Actually, I need all my senses working in order to make my private-eye dreams come true!

  When Mr. Maple, the owner of the Crossed Palms Resort, alerted us that the Baldwin Movie Studios was planning to shoot their film at the hotel, I had no idea it would mean a full-on convention of movie monsters and serious movie-business types. Mr. Maple warned us to treat every single person arriving at the hotel like royalty. His actual words: “Each demand by these Hollywood types, no matter the case, must be met with expediency and a smile. Understood?” Mr. Maple can be a bit demanding himself, but that’s beside the point. Message was received loud and clear. Demands must be met!

  A silver Corvette pulls up to the valet tent. What a beaut. A 1951 original. On first impression, the guy pulling up definitely falls in the demanding-movie-business-type category, especially with the large cigar he’s chomping on.

  “Welcome to the Crossed Palms Resort, the hotel where your every wish is at your fingertips!” I say.

  Mr. Very Important barely grumbles.

  “Find a shady spot,” he says, and tosses me his car keys.

  “Of course, sir.”

  The thing about being a good detective is that you have to pay close attention to details. For example, I notice how his car is immaculately polished. It is as shiny as if it were new. This can mean one of two things: Either Mr. Very Important likes things to be immaculate, or maybe he doesn’t want to leave behind any evidence of his recent whereabouts. But next I notice that he collects matchbooks, which reveal exactly where he’s been. Aha. I note that one matchbook is from New York, courtesy of the Empire State Building illustration. Another one is from Malibu, Los Angeles. You can tell by the surf. The last item I notice is a small pink handkerchief, smelling of a strong perfume and peeking out from under the front seat. Is it from his wife? Or a movie star? Or is it his? Who knows?

  While I let everything percolate in my brain, I’ll flex my driving skills in this beautiful silver baby. I pop the clutch and hit the accelerator. I’m sure Mr. Very Important won’t mind if I really test his car, make sure it can handle hairpin turns. After a couple of loops around the lot, I finally find the perfect shady space.

  What do you know? It’s break time.

  I head inside the lobby, which is bustling with guests checking in. It’s Monday morning and the excitement is simmering.

  “Hey, Cheryl,” I yell across the lobby. “Can you believe it? You must be in heaven studying these sea creatures.”

  Cheryl Lebeaux is by far the smartest girl I know. She wants to be an astronaut; that’s how smart she is. Who else would read a five-pound science book for fun?

  “Ha! If only they were real. Just a bunch of actors in rubber costumes. Anyway, I want to study actual stars, as in hydrogen and helium, straight from the cosmos,” she says dreamily, staring up at the ceiling. I try to decipher the diagrams in the oversize science book she has open on the counter. It’s so complicated. I don’t know how she does it. “And speaking of space, you need to stop using the cars you park as your personal spaceships.”

  “Well, I figured if I find the right velocity timed with the right pressure and x factor something something, I’ll be the first person to land on the moon.”

  “Be serious, Goldie.” She grabs the science book from me. “Don’t let Mr. Maple see you or you’ll be toast.”

  “Why? Is he here?” I look around. I must confess: I didn’t stop with golf carts. I’ve been known to “borrow” cars once in a while. I consider each one its own unique tutorial. I mean, if I continue to be a solid driver, then I can only be that much more valuable to the resort. Right?

  “No, he’s not here, not yet anyway. He’s called here at least three times today. I’ve sat in so many meetings. Who to look out for. Who is arriving early. Who is arriving late. This person has to sleep on this floor. This one wants only firm pillows. I have a headache figuring it all out.”

  Cheryl’s job covers a little bit of everything. She’s responsible for finding the perfect activities and adventures for our guests. Anything and everything from scenic tours to pottery or cooking classes to the best restaurants to eat at. Cheryl’s like an encyclopedia, which is great for the hotel guests but not so great for her.

  “We should totally take a break and go follow some mermaids around,” I say. “What do you say?”

  “Mermaid shmermaid,” Cheryl says. “I want to be a sea creature with extra scales like them.”

  We stare at a couple of creatures casually walking across the lobby. It’s hard not to laugh.

  “I can totally see that. Let’s go ask them where we can borrow a couple of costumes.”

  “Uh-oh.” Cheryl drops her smile real quick.

  “Mr. Maple?” I say, scared to turn around.

  “Worse,” Cheryl says. She hurriedly puts away her heavy science book and nervously stares at her ledger of hotel activities.

  “What are you two chatting about?”

  I recognize the voice and it only means trouble for me with a capital T.

  “Hi, Dad!” I greet him with the world’s biggest grin. My lips are practically glued to my teeth.

  “Goldie, we’ve talked about this before. Here, it’s Mr. Vance.”

  Dad has the look, the slight look of stress. It’s easy to tell because the vein located right below his left eye pulsates oh-so slightly. If I ever need to gauge Dad’s temperature, I need only to glance at the pulsating vein. Right now the vein is a steady tat-tat-tat, which means Dad is about a seven out of ten. Ten being he’s about to blow, not that Dad ever blows. He’s a calm father, sort of like the dad from Father Knows Best, minus the adorable kids. I mean, I’m adorable, but not in the “I wear cute dresses” way, and I’m definitely not a “sit still and be quiet” kid.

  It’s hard to guess that Mr. Arthur Vance aka Dad is my dad. There’s a slight resemblance. We definitely have the same nose. But my dad is super tall whereas the tall gene definitely skipped me. The way you can really tell I’m his daughter is by our laugh. Our laugh starts as a timid chuckle and then erupts deep down from the belly until everyone within a hundred-mile radius can hear us. Unfortunately, in this moment, Dad is not laughing. He takes working at the Crossed Palms very seriously, a
nd like everyone here today, Dad is feeling the pressure. Mr. Maple relies on him to keep the resort running smoothly. He’s been in early-morning meetings for weeks gearing up for Baldwin Studios’s checking in. Oh, I do get one more thing from my dad: my love of work!

  “Sorry, Mr. Vance. I was telling Cheryl about the monsters. Isn’t it exciting?”

  Cheryl refuses to back me up one bit. She’s too busy rearranging items on her desk.

  “Did you take care of the family in room 12?” he asks Cheryl. “They wanted the scenic tour through the city but were also looking for a romantic dinner without the kids?”

  “Yes, Mr. Vance. All taken care of,” Cheryl says. “I have them set for tomorrow at nine AM on the city private tour. When the tour is done, I’ve got the kids set up for the Tree of Wonder dinner and puppet show while their parents have a reservation at Paloma’s. I reserved table four, which is tucked away from the main dining room.”

  “Good work, Cheryl.” Dad nods in approval. I nod, too. Cheryl is the best.

  “Goldie, you are not to bother Cheryl while she works,” Dad says. “Aren’t you supposed to be outside?”

  And there goes my well-earned break. Dad doesn’t mean to be a party pooper, but business is business. His eyes continuously scan the hotel lobby. I guess I also get some of my detective instincts from Dad since he notices everything. But unlike Dad, who’s always trying to smooth away the imperfections, I want to dive straight into them. Everyone knows that’s where the fun is.

  “I still have four minutes left in my break,” I say. “Besides, I haven’t even checked in with Walt yet.”

  My dad furrows his brow at me.

  “Mr. Tooey, Goldie,” Dad corrects me. At that same moment, he notices one of the actresses looking a bit perplexed. Like the perfect hotel manager he is, he starts to walks toward her. I follow.

  “Later, Cheryl.”

  Cheryl mouths the word good-bye.

  “Goldie, you are not to bother Mr. Tooey.”

  “So, what I’m getting from you, Dad—I mean, uh, Mr. Vance—is that I should not be bothering anyone?”