The Raven Resort Hotel had been easy enough to find, even though it wasn't signed until you stepped onto Ponderosa Drive. The stone mansion was hard to overlook among the more austere homes of Raven's Hollow, this epitome of a sleepy town so densely ringed by forested hills it seemed shrouded from the outside world.
Old hemlock trees veiled the gray facade's arches, swaying under a breeze that rolled in from the distant ocean, defiantly lush in the cooling weather. Behind the building, the low autumnal sun fell on reds and yellows speckling the rising landscape where seasonal trees dared to challenge the evergreens.
Phoenix wasn't sure he'd have found so much as the place's phone number if they hadn't called him first.
The 'Raven' had no website, and anywhere it was listed considered all nine rooms booked. True reviews were impossible to come by as it seemed to choose its guests more than the other way around.
Other information was less sparse. He didn't know why they wanted him here but as a recently graduated historian, Phoenix happily dug into places rich with lore. The resort was still run by the family who had built this manor. Surely there was enough noteworthy history for a doctoral thesis.
Phoenix ran his fingers through his shaggy, blond hair, straightened his broad shoulders under the coat and pulled his trolley up the steps. The front door's heavy wings stood open.
Dark walnut paneling, even darker mahogany furniture and thin carved pillars along the lobby put Phoenix in the mind of a European hunter's lodge sans animal skulls. Chandeliers just shy of gaudy gave the place enough light to leave the wood's dull warmth untouched.
The marble topped front desk was manned by a twenty-something Japanese guy in a navy blue polo shirt whose smile showed more of his dimples than his eyes. His arms had just enough definition to indicate an athletic body under the dark fabric.
"Mister Sorensen?"
"Uh, just Phoenix," Phoenix said out of habit. Why did the clerk know him on sight? "Mister..."
"Kamron Sato," the clerk said and stepped around the desk. "Just Kamron will do."
He wore khaki shorts and Phoenix had to force his eyes away from the shapely, smooth calves.
Kamron did a little bow before the guest, his hand toward the left staircase. "You'll be staying in the Red Room. Up the stairs, second door. Overlooking Raven's Hollow." The Asian man took Phoenix' trolley off him, saying, "I'll bring it up for you."
The historian dumbly blinked, feeling a little hot in his coat. "Thanks, Kamron. So you're the..."
Kamron's smile grew. "Front desk manager, porter, and barista if required. Scotch, whiskey? Juice?"
Phoenix had checked into hotels before but never been *personally* expected. "I've... just got off the plane. Later maybe?"
He slipped out of his coat and laid it over the suitcase, revealing a casual blazer.
Kamron gestured deeper into the hall. "Perhaps you want to have a look around before you settle in. Breakfast starts at seven. For lunch and dinner sign the option you want on that board, or consult the take-out menus over there. I am to tell you Mister Raven will fit the bill, so just drop your order off at my desk. Same with appointments for complimentary spa and massage services."
"That's incredibly generous," Phoenix said, now feeling suspicious. What did some rich guy want from a historian without credentials that warranted all this attention?
But Kamron was already carrying the luggage up and Phoenix felt drawn deeper into the mansion's halls.
One step into an archway saw him nearly colliding with a shirtless black bodybuilder. Deep, flawless umber skin, covered only by white gym shorts and a light sheen of sweat. An eight-pack of protruding bumps set underneath square pecs, flaring out to shoulders that would have looked *too* broad on anyone with a less tanky chest.
To fight a bout of envy, the athletic Phoenix had to remind himself that such a model physique surely required shoveling steroids by the handful.
The African hunk took a surprised step back and Phoenix' eyes shot up to the shaved head and its most prominent feature -- lush lips breaking into a radiant smile.
"Hey, new here?" asked the hunk and took his earphones out. He slung a towel across his shoulders, emphasizing his biceps as if to drive a poor nerd mad on purpose.
"Yes," Phoenix said, pleasantly surprised at how steady his voice was. "Just looking around." He tore his eyes off the bodybuilder's waist region where they had naturally moved to.
"Well, you found the gym," the hunk said and smirked. "Right this way."
"Yeah," Phoenix said, feeling stupid. Now that he focused on the guy's face it seemed the man was exactly the kind of person he tended to fantasize about. Maybe *the* person, period. Did he know the guy from a screen or just his dreams?
"Weird question," Phoenix started, "but have I seen you before?"
The hunk cocked his head. His eyes trailed along Phoenix' body. "Do I seem familiar?"
"Maybe?"
"The name's Lazaro. I'm staying in the Cedar Room. South-west corner, up the stairs right-side from the entrance. Just, if you need anything."
"Uh, I'm Phoenix. Red room."
"See you around," Lazaro said with another devastating smile and walked by.
Phoenix turned around and was not disappointed at the v-shape of rippling back muscles, the bouncing glutes in thin gym shorts and the definition of Lazaro's truly massive legs below.
With a heavy sigh, Phoenix wandered farther into the house.
The building wrapped around a glass-roofed courtyard, onto which every upper floor corridor looked down. Mediterranean décor brightened the seating arrangements of treated mahogany that flowed into the courtyard from a banquet hall, separated by a row of open French doors.
Every plant in the room was a peony, in vases and in pots. The corners of the space were almost like a greenhouse, flecked with tender pinks and saturated purples of peonies running up the columns.
On the opposite side hung a full-body portrait of a dark skinned woman in a flowing silk robe. She was painted dramatically lit, her arms outward in a grand gesture, her mouth open, her expression gentle with eyes nearly closed. Phoenix couldn't help but feel she was singing on top of her lungs.
Around the painting were photos, mostly old enough to be sepia toned. Phoenix would have assumed they were of noteworthy guests but it was all the same black woman as in the painting, sometimes surrounded by people focused on her, sometimes posing alone, sometimes on stage.
"I hear Peonies were her favorite," a voice said, making Phoenix flinch.
He turned to see a white haired gentleman in a navy suit vest and white pants neutrally observing him through subtle, silver rimmed glasses. He was tall and spindly, made taller still by his upright posture. He leaned on a cane, as rigid as his stance.
"Hello Phoenix," the man said as he got no response.
"Mister Mordecai Raven?" Phoenix guessed. Pictures of the resort owner had proven impossible to find.
"Well observed. Care to join me?"
They sat on dark upholstered chairs of smoothly bending wood. A plump woman in a navy blouse placed an ornate silver tablet with ice-cube-filled glasses and several bottles between them. Phoenix grabbed a bottle of mineral water once Mordecai had poured himself something alcoholic.
"Her name was Laqueta Brown," Mordecai said, eyes on the painting.
"The Siren of Oregon," Phoenix added.
He earned raised eyebrows and a smirk.
"Why yes. You read up on Raven's Hollow?"
"Her name came up a few times. She seemed ahead of her time."
Mordecai briefly chuckled. "An understatement. Jazz, soul, occasionally some blues. Her true love was opera but in those times... They never made it easy."
"She was supposedly quite prolific but I've not been able to find a recording of her. Are those..." Phoenix gestured at the record covers on a shelf he only just seen.
Mordecai looked at them as if he, too, had only just noticed their presence. "Yes. Those were hers. I'm afraid they're as good as blank now. Vinyl can only take so much, I suppose."
Phoenix let his gaze wander over the photos. "Still, she was quite the talk of town in her time. Although the old articles I skimmed were more interested in speculating about her elusive affairs and her sudden retreat from society than her music."
Mordecai chuckled again. "Damn straight. Those overblown speculations." Then his expression grew somber. "She was faithful to a certain man, though, unthinkably in those days, not of her race. And even once they could have legally married she preferred independence. After the sixties, being unwed became perhaps the bigger scandal. When an illness prevented her from singing any longer, the life just seemed to drain out of her. She died soon thereafter."
The young historian took a sip. "I knew she stayed in this town a lot, but not that she was a guest at the Raven specifically."
"Yes, she came here at various point in her life. *After* I took over. My father didn't approve of... Well, I don't think he ever *liked* anybody but he had views that were outdated by the end of his thankfully short life."
"Oh."
"Which brings me to why you're here," Mordecai said and turned toward the guest. "When my father wasn't drinking the day away he scattered the family's possession into the winds to finance his destructive hobbies. And as we're doing well for yourselves, I'm ready to collect them all again."
"Ah, wouldn't an *art* historian in particular be better for the task?"
"I think you're quite capable. Most items shouldn't be too hard to find -- or all that far away." The old men glanced at the upper floor interior windows. "This place has a way of attracting what belongs here."
