The Case of the Bloody Grout
It was one of those rare mornings in Florida when the sunshine decided to hit snooze. A chill hung in the air, and the mercury had the nerve to dip into the low 50s. I tossed on my leather jacket, fired up the Harley, and headed for my usual spot—the kind of greasy spoon where the coffee’s always strong, and the bacon’s got more crunch than a bag of gravel.
Inside, Flo was holding court like always, slinging hash and sass in equal measure. The Admiral was parked at the counter, nursing his second cup and staring into it like it held the secrets of the sea.
I had just settled into stool, the steam from my coffee curling like a noir fog, when my phone buzzed on the counter. Not a spam buzz. A trouble buzz.
“Stone Detective,” I answered.
The voice was familiar—property manager for one of those historic downtown hotels with chandeliers bigger than my kitchen. We’d worked together before, patching up a few marble woes. But today his tone had a twist of panic.
“Got a weird stain coming up from the grout in one of our renovated suites. It’s… reddish-brown. Think it’s rust? Maybe water damage?”
I took a slow sip of joe. “Could be. Or it could be something you won’t find in a maintenance manual. I’ll be there after breakfast.”
The Harley growled as I pulled up outside the grand old lady of a hotel, all wrought iron and whispers from the past. The manager met me at the door, eyes twitching like a man who knew he should’ve kept his mouth shut.
He led me to the suite—recently restored and looking like something out of a vintage magazine spread. Black-and-white marble checkerboard floors. Classy. But there it was: a faint stain, creeping up from a grout joint like a bad memory.
I crouched down, took a sniff. Not rust. Not mildew. Something about it had a metallic tang. Something…organic.
I gave the surrounding tiles a little love tap with my rubber mallet. Solid. No hollows. Ran the moisture meter—bone dry.
I muttered under my breath, “Not water damage.”
Then I did what any good stone sleuth would do. I cut the grout around the suspect tile and lifted it with care.
What was underneath made both of us step back.
Dark. Dried. Stained deep into the bedding layer. And that smell? Coppery and cold.
“Blood,” I said, low and steady. “And not just a little.”
I stood up, wiped my hands on a rag, and looked the manager square in the eye.
“You need to call the police. Now.”
The color drained from his face faster than a bad dye job. Within the hour, the suite was crawling with uniforms and crime scene tape. A detective took one look at the scene and asked me to stick around.
Turned out, this suite had been sealed off for decades. The renovation crew had opened it for the first time in years. And decades ago, a woman had vanished—last seen in this very hotel.
A few days later, the lead investigator gave me a call. Forensics confirmed it: human blood. Old. Real old. And when they pulled up more tile, they found the rest—skeletal remains buried beneath the floor.
Case cold no more.
I’ve been on a lot of jobs. Found mold pretending to be efflorescence. Caught fakes passed off as exotic imports. Even solved a case where a countertop was making someone itch like they hugged a porcupine. But this? This was different.
This was the kind of thing that makes you stop and think about what stone really is—a silent witness. It remembers. It holds secrets. And sometimes, if you know how to ask the right questions, it tells you everything.
For the manager, it was a PR nightmare wrapped in yellow tape. But for a grieving family, it might just mean answers after 40 years of silence.
Me? I finished my report, lit up a cigar, and let the Harley take me back to the diner.
Flo poured me a refill without asking.
“Busy day?” she asked.
“You could say that,” I said, tipping my hat. “Turns out, even a perfect floor can hide a crime.”
Another case closed.
But like I always say… the stone never lies.
