“So,” said Norma, calling Candy’s attention back into Room Nineteen. “This is where Henry Murkitt stayed.”
“Did he come to the hotel often?”
“To my knowledge,” Norma said, “he came only once. But I’m not really sure about that, so don’t quote me.”
Candy could understand why Henry would not have been a repeat visitor. The room was tiny. There was a narrow bed against the far wall and a chair in the corner with a small black television perched on it. In front of it was a second chair, on which was perched an over-filled ashtray.
“Some of our employees come up here when they have half an hour to spare to catch up on the soap operas,” Norma said, by way of explanation.
“So they don’t believe the room’s haunted?”
“Put it this way, honey,” Norma said. “Whatever they believe it doesn’t put them off coming up here.”
“What’s through there?” Candy said, pointing to a door.
“Look for yourself,” Norma said.
Candy opened the door and stepped into a minuscule bathroom that had not been cleaned in a very long time. In the mirror above the filthy sink she met her own reflection. Her eyes looked almost black in the murk of this little cell, and her dark hair needed a cut. But she liked her own face, even in such an unpromising light. She had her mother’s smile, open and easy, and her father’s frown; the deep, troubled frown that Bill Quackenbush wore in his beer-dreams. And of course her odd eyes: the left dark brown, the right blue; though the mirror reversed them.
“When you’ve quite finished admiring yourself …” Norma said.
Candy closed the bathroom door and went back to her note-taking to cover her embarrassment. There is no wallpaper on the walls of Room Nineteen, she wrote, just plaster painted a dirty white. One of the four walls had a curious abstract pattern on it, which was faintly pink. All in all, she could not have imagined a grimmer or more uncomfortable place.
“So what can you tell me about Henry Murkitt?” she asked Norma.
“Not that much,” the woman replied. “His grandfather was the founding father of the town. In fact, we’re all of us here because Wallace Murkitt decided he’d had enough of life on the trail. The story goes that his horse upped and died on him in the middle of the night, so they had no choice but to settle down right here in the middle of nowhere.”
Candy smiled. There was something about this little detail which absolutely fit with all she knew about her hometown. “So Chickentown exists because Wallace Murkitt’s horse died?” she said.
Norma seemed to get the bitter joke. “Yeah,” she said. “I guess that about sums things up, doesn’t it? But apparently Henry Murkitt was very proud of having his family’s name on the town. It was something he used to boast about.”
“Then they changed it—”
“Yes, well, I’ll get to that in a moment. Really, poor Henry’s life was a series of calamities toward the end. First his wife, Diamanda, left him. Nobody knows where she went. And then sometime in December 1947, the town council decided to change the name of the town. Henry took it very badly. On Christmas Eve he checked into the hotel, and the poor man never checked out again.”
Candy had guessed something like this was coming, but even so it made the little hairs on the nape of her neck prickle to hear Norma say it.
“He died in this room?” Candy said softly.
“Yes.”
“How? A heart attack?”
Norma shook her head.
“Oh, no …” said Candy, beginning to put the pieces together. “He killed himself?”
“Yes. I’m afraid so.”
The room suddenly felt a little smaller, if that were possible, the corners—despite the sun that found its way through the dirtied glass—a little darker.
“That’s horrible,” Candy said.
“You’ll learn, honey,” Norma said. “Love can be the best thing in life. And it can be the worst. The absolute worst.”
Candy kept her silence. For the first time she saw how sad Norma’s face had become in the years since they’d last met. How the corners of her mouth were drawn down and her brow deeply etched with lines.
“But it wasn’t just love that broke Henry Murkitt’s heart,” Norma said. “It was—”
“—the fact that they changed the name of the town?” Candy said.
“Yes. That’s right. After all it was his family name. His name. His claim to a little bit of immortality, if you like. When that was gone, I guess he didn’t think he had anything left to live for.”
“Poor man,” Candy said, echoing Norma’s earlier sentiments. “Did he leave a note? I mean, a suicide note?”
“Yes. Of a kind. As far as I can gather he said something about waiting for his ship to come in.”
“What did he mean by that?” Candy said, jotting the phrase down.
“Well, he was probably drunk, and a little crazy. But he had something in the back of his head about ships and the sea.”
“That’s strange,” Candy said.
“It gets stranger,” Norma said.
She went to the small table beside the bed and opened the drawer. In it was a copy of Gideon’s Bible and a strange object made of what looked like brass. She took it out.
“According to the stories,” she said, “this is the only object of any worth he had with him.”
“What is it?”
Norma handed it to Candy. It was heavy and etched with numbers. There was a moving part that was designed to line up with the numbers.
“It’s a sextant,” Norma said.
Candy looked blank. “What’s a sextant?”
“It’s something sailors use to find out where they are when they’re out at sea. I don’t exactly know how it works, but you line it up with the stars somehow and …” She shrugged. “You find out where you are.”
“And he had this with him?”
“As I say: according to the stories. This very one.”
“Wouldn’t the police have taken it?” Candy said.
“You would think so. But as long as I’ve been working in the hotel that thing has been here in that drawer, beside the Gideon’s Bible. Henry Murkitt’s sextant.”
“Huh,” said Candy, not at all sure what to make of any of this now. She handed the object back to Norma, who carefully—even a little reverently—returned it to its place and slid the drawer closed. “So that and the note were all he left?” Candy asked.
“No,” said Norma. “He left something else.”
“What?”
“Look around you,” Norma replied.
Candy looked. What was there here that could have belonged to Henry Murkitt? The furniture? Surely not? The age-worn rug under her feet? Perhaps, but it was unlikely. The lamp? No. What did that leave? There weren’t any pictures on the walls, so—
“Oh, wait a minute,” she said, looking at the stains on the wall. “Not those?”
Norma just looked at her, raising a perfectly plucked eyebrow.
“Those?”