Not a Dead Body Just Too Many Souvenirs

I ordered an extra-large suitcase in the middle of the night, only to have the delivery guy press me onto the bed the moment he walked in, accusing me of being a psycho killer trying to dispose of a body. He cuffed one end of a restraint to the headboard. His voice was shaking as he leaned in, his question a terrified gasp: “Ordering a suitcase this size at midnight… who are you planning to put in it?” I surveyed the wreckage of my hotel room—the mountains of souvenirs, the ripped-up packing foam. I sighed, a sound of utter defeat: “It’s your fault. Now it looks like I’ll have to buy a second one to fit everything.” The color instantly drained from his face. The small, two-way radio clipped to his belt looked like it might slip right out of his trembling hand.

1 I’d dedicated the last day of my Charleston trip to being a “marathon shopper.” Now, staring at the Everest of local artisanal products piled on the hotel carpet, my composure completely fractured. Who understands this panic? I’d sworn when I left home I wouldn’t overbuy, but here I was, looking like I’d single-handedly looted the entire historic district and needed to ship it back. To make matters worse, the giant, carry-my-entire-life suitcase I’d brought with me had vanished yesterday. Poof. Gone. I sat on the bed for a frantic minute, then surrendered, grabbing my phone and firing up the Blitz-Ship app. The order note was written through gritted teeth: [URGENT: MUST BE GIANT! 28 inches minimum, 30 is better! Must hold an obscene amount of junk!] I hit send, then looked around at the overflow of pottery, jams, and vintage finds. Still not safe. I quickly added an addendum: [Seriously, the case needs to be big enough to comfortably fit half of an adult human.] The order was picked up immediately. I took a deep breath and continued my desperate battle with the loose-leaf tea and novelty crab-themed figurines. Just before midnight, a knock came at the door. The app tracker confirmed my delivery was here. I peeled off the packing gloves and shuffled over in my slippers. “Hi, is that the suitcase?” Standing in the hallway was a tall, lean guy with a striking face, holding a massive black roller case. One glance, and my heart sank. Damn it. That case still looked borderline too small. “Char Miller?” He stared at me, his eyes guarded, a flicker of hesitation in his gaze. “Is this the case you ordered?” I nodded, reaching for it. But the guy subtly shifted his grip, pulling the suitcase back behind him. I frowned. What was this, a sit-down strike? His nose was red from the cold. Fine. It was late. “Look, it’s freezing. I’ll add an extra twenty to your tip for the trouble?” “It’s not the money…” He lowered his voice, his expression tight. “Why do you need a suitcase this large, this late?” I couldn’t help but laugh. “To pack my stuff, obviously. What else would I use it for? As a minimalist art piece?” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “And you need one this big?” I paused, looking back at the overflowing disaster zone of my room, then back at the case in his hand. A wave of profound grief washed over me. It genuinely wouldn’t be enough. “You’re right,” I murmured, utterly defeated. “One is absolutely not enough. I’m going to have to buy a second one.” The instant those words left my mouth, I saw his pupils dilate with terror. The fear was so intense it was almost comical. But before I could reassure his fragile male ego, my phone buzzed. The pottery studio texted: the twenty-plus delicate clay figurines I’d made were baked and ready for pickup tomorrow. Oh, hell. Two cases definitely wouldn’t be enough. “Ma’am… if I may ask,” the guy’s voice was strained, “why a second one? This one is already substantial.” I sighed, pulling myself back to the conversation. “Because the amount of things I need to pack just increased.” His face went white. “What else do you need to pack?” My mind was still on the kiln-fresh statuettes. I answered without thinking: “People.” He froze. 2 Well, clay people were still people, weren’t they? No ethical problem there. The handsome delivery guy was now trying to subtly retreat, his hand hovering near his back pocket. “Right, ha ha ha. Well, I shouldn’t keep you. The package is delivered. I’m heading out…” “Wait! Don’t go!” A brilliant idea struck me. I grabbed the sleeve of his winter jacket. “Hey, seriously, can you do me a favor?” He yanked his arm back like I’d shocked him with a cattle prod. “No! No! I’m slammed tonight! I have at least five other deliveries!” “Come on. This case is going to weigh a ton when it’s full. I’m a petite woman; I can’t haul it. Can you strap it to your bike and take it to the FedEx Kinko’s around the corner? It’s two blocks away, max. I’ll give you a hundred dollars!” One hundred dollars for five minutes of work. At the mention of FedEx, his body language relaxed a fraction. He hesitated, then asked, testing the waters: “What exactly is going into this case?” I ticked off the inventory on my fingers: “A dozen ceramic mugs, a bunch of hand-stitched dolls, some blown-glass art, and ten pounds of cured country ham. Checked baggage will shatter them all. FedEx is the only way.” He exhaled a massive sigh of relief. He suddenly looked like a normal person again. “Oh. That makes sense.” He paused. “Could I… maybe peek at some of the local specialties? I wanted to grab something for my family.” “Be my guest.” I gestured him in. “Go ahead, look around. If you like something, I’ll send you the link.” He stepped inside. After two steps, his brow furrowed. “You know, you shouldn’t let strangers into your room, especially this late. You’re alone.” I grinned, flexing my biceps (which were completely non-existent). “Don’t worry. I’m fine. I have a black belt in Taekwondo.” He was momentarily speechless, but he followed me in. He hadn’t gotten halfway across the room before he stopped dead. His handsome eyes were fixed on the bathroom door. His entire body snapped taut, transforming into a coiled spring. I followed his line of sight. Underneath the frosted glass door of the bathroom, a slow, dark stream of vivid red liquid was creeping across the floor. 3 Oh, holy hell. The bathroom light was a dim, sickly yellow. The winding trail of scarlet looked, for all the world, like blood draining from a fresh kill. My heart lurched. My first thought was a burst pipe. I took a step toward the bathroom. “Don’t move!” The delivery guy suddenly exploded into action, his voice a guttural command. “Freeze!” I hopped, frustrated. “I can’t freeze! The room is flooding!” As I lunged for the door, he executed a textbook takedown—one dizzying whirl, and I was pinned on the bed. A second later, a sharp, cold metallic click was followed by another. I was stunned. That tactile sensation… it was exactly like the handcuffs in procedural TV shows. I craned my neck to look down. Sure enough! A pair of honest-to-god steel cuffs. Sensing my shock, he put more pressure on my arm. “Stay put! Hands behind your back!” My arm was screaming. I wailed in genuine pain: “Dude, lighten up! You’re going to break my wrist!” His face was cold, his voice like chipped ice. “How about that for a light touch? Did you think about going easy when you were dismembering someone?” Wait, what? My brain completely short-circuited. Murder? Dismembering? Me? He gave me a sneer, secured the other cuff to the metal bed frame, and took a deep, fortifying breath. He looked like a man marching to his execution as he moved toward the bathroom door. “Hey!” I struggled to sit up, both terrified and baffled. “There’s no body! I didn’t kill anyone!” He ignored me completely, dismissing my plea as a predictable lie. With a powerful kick, he sent the bathroom door slamming open. A few seconds passed. The bathroom door reopened. The handsome delivery guy was holding a wet, sodden, crimson wad of fabric. His expression was so complex, he looked like he’d swallowed a live housefly. “What in God’s name is this?” 4 What else could it be? It was my new “Warrior Gown,” a silk designer slip I’d splurged on. I hadn’t even gotten to wear it before some clumsy hotel staffer had doused it in an entire carafe of coffee! I stared at the dripping red material in his hand, my heart breaking all over again. “That’s my dress! My silk dress! It was stained with coffee, so I thought I’d let it soak…” “I totally forgot to turn the water off when you knocked!” The gown was extremely delicate, not only intolerant of long soaking but also prone to severe bleeding of the red dye. The dye had mixed with the overflowing water and turned my tiny bathroom into a terrifyingly authentic crime scene. The delivery guy stood stock-still, petrified, holding the evidence of my shopping addiction. I looked at the ruined dress, then at the souvenirs on the floor now stained pink by the red flood, and my composure utterly snapped. I burst into tears. “I told you I didn’t kill anyone! I’m just a victim of my own souvenir addiction who needed a damn suitcase!” “Hey! Don’t cry!” He panicked, fumbling with the handcuff key, his guilt palpable. He spoke in a rush, explaining everything. Apparently, my midnight order for a massive, adult-sized case was so suspicious that when he picked up the order, his police instincts kicked in. He had immediately called it in. “My name is Jonathan Ryan, and I’m with the City PD Homicide division,” he said, unlocking the cuff and immediately massaging my raw, reddened wrist. He was contrite. “I’m really sorry. There was a dismemberment case in this precinct years ago, and I have a bad case of occupational paranoia, so…” I sniffled. “So I get to be the collateral damage, is that it?” I was just a shopaholic with zero self-control! What was my crime? Jonathan raked a hand through his hair, embarrassed. “Look, about that… you said you needed another case, right? I’ll buy it. The most expensive one. It’s on me. My apology.” I gave him a side-eye. “I want a nice one. With a combination lock.” Jonathan visibly relaxed. “Done. Whatever the cost.” The case issue was settled, but I was still mourning the silk slip. Jonathan ran his hand over his head again. “The dress… I’ll replace that too?” “Forget it.” I climbed off the bed. “No hard feelings. I’m going to see if I can salvage it once it’s dry. Why don’t you help me wring the excess water out?” Jonathan was determined to atone for his mistake. We spent the next several minutes grunting and hauling the heavy fabric in the bathroom. We finally managed to twist the dress into a pathetic, crimson rope. I looked at my wrinkled, ruined warrior gown. My heart ached. “My beautiful gown—wait, what is that?” I stopped, staring at a fresh, darker drip of water on the fabric. “Where did that come from?” Was the ceiling leaking? Jonathan and I looked up simultaneously. Near the sewage line, a large, dark water stain had bled through the ceiling drywall. A fat drop of liquid was forming under the force of gravity, gathering weight, and then falling. The color of the bead was a sickening, undeniable crimson. 5 Jonathan and I both froze. Having just gone through the whole dress debacle, I spoke first. “Maybe someone upstairs is washing clothes? Or did a really messy hair dye job?” Jonathan didn’t answer. He crouched down, dipped a finger into the liquid on the floor, and brought it close to his nose. The next second, he stood up, his expression hardening. “Call 911.” “It’s real blood.” “And based on the drop rate and the saturation upstairs, there’s a lot of bleeding. This is very, very bad.” I jumped, reaching instinctively for my phone, but then thought better of it. I leaned in and whispered, “Are you sure it’s human?” Jonathan frowned. “What are you saying?” I coughed. “I saw a video once. Some weirdos actually butcher chickens or fish in hotel rooms—for rituals or cooking, you know.” Jonathan was taken aback. “People actually do that?” I shrugged. “It’s a big, strange world. We don’t want you rolling up here with a SWAT team only to find two dead trout, that would be embarrassing.” Jonathan’s mouth twitched. “You’ve got a point.” He started to head for the door, grabbing the large, brand-new suitcase I’d just purchased. I panicked. “Hey! That’s my case!” Jonathan didn’t look back. “I’m borrowing it! If this is a murder, this is an immediate evidence container. I’ll replace it with two later!” I was furious! Was this about the cost of the suitcase? No! This was about getting a front-row seat to the scandal! I snatched the ruined dress off the floor and followed him without hesitation. 6 “What are you doing? Get back to your room!” Jonathan frowned, annoyed that I was sticking to him like a burr. “If there’s danger—” I flexed my non-existent bicep again. “It’s fine. Black belt.” Jonathan swallowed whatever retort he had planned. Since it was off-season, the hallway was silent. Only four rooms had the “Occupied” light on. The room directly above mine was 709, right in the middle of the corridor. Jonathan stuck to the classic protocol, standing by the door and giving a soft knock. “Room service, your order is here.” Silence. Dead, absolute silence. No answer. I tutted. “Your knock sounds like a kitten scratching. They won’t hear you if they’re in the bathroom.” I stepped forward, took a deep breath, and hammered on the door so hard it rattled. “Maintenance! Water leak inspection! Anyone home?” Still nothing. Jonathan scowled. “I’m calling the front desk for a master key.” I nodded, but instinctively reached out and pressed the door handle. Click. The door swung inward slightly. It wasn’t locked. Jonathan moved lightning fast, yanking me behind him and drawing a handgun from the holster hidden beneath his jacket. I peered through the crack in the door. That one glance made me gasp. Propped against the far wall, dark and imposing, was a half-man-sized object… It looked exactly like the limited-edition suitcase I had lost yesterday.