Vera took a minute to slip to the ladies’ room, ever mindful of her watch. In little more than an hour, Feldspar would be coming in for dinner. With me, she thought. Or would he? Suddenly she felt afret. Maybe he’d forgotten. Maybe something else came up. Then she smirked at herself. You’re worrying like a little high school girl. And she was: inventing catastrophes. Still, she couldn’t deny the subtle excitement, not just that he wanted to have dinner with her, but she couldn’t wait to probe him out over today’s surprise visit by the chief of police. Or perhaps she was so bored of late that she was also inventing her own intrigues. Nevertheless, another thing she couldn’t deny were her own suspicions regarding The Inn’s financial success—or what Kyle and Feldspar claimed was a success. Is that what they were? Suspicions? Don’t be gullible, Vera, she reminded herself. What did she have to be suspicious of? A country bumpkin cop walks in spouting unfounded implications about money-laundering and ill-gotten gains, and now she was thinking the silliest things. Certainly a cop of Mulligan’s low caliber was no reason to suspect Feldspar of improprieties.
She surveyed herself in the long mirror, checked her hair, made sure her earrings were straight. Quit fussing! You look fine. Actually, she looked great. She wore a flowered pink-white silk jacket, rather low cut, and a white chiffon skirt. Her amethyst necklace sparkled keenly; she always wore it now—since Feldspar had complimented her on it so many times. She easily admitted to herself that she was out to impress Feldspar— via her job performance, her insights, even her looks. But what she still had yet to discern was…why? Do I want to impress him as my boss, or as something more?
The dinner shift seemed to pass in scant minutes. Every single table complimented The Carriage House as they left. From Vera’s end, everything clicked: Donna’s service was outstanding, Dan B. turned out one superior entree after the next, and the place was running without a hitch. But tonight, in a sense, was the trickiest test so far. She could please customers, sure.
But can I please the boss? she wondered now.
He hadn’t been in for dinner before, which seemed strange. He was a connoisseur and probably a snob. He smoked cigarettes that cost five dollars a pack and drank $300-per-bottle wine like it was Yoo-Hoo. A man like Feldspar, ultimately, was never easy to please. Now Vera began to wonder, or even fear, what his impressions would be.
“Shit!” she whispered, glaring at her watch. “I knew it. He’s not going to show.”
Donna laughed beside her. “Vera, it’s only thirty seconds past nine. What’s wrong with you?”
“I—” I don’t know, she thought. But it was only thirty seconds more before the shadow slid across the entry.
“Good evening,” Feldspar greeted. Vera noted the crisp gray suit, and black shirt with no tie—exactly what he’d worn the night she met him. He smiled at her. “I believe we have a reservation.”
“Is there a particular table you’d prefer, Mr. Feldspar?” Donna inquired, assuming the role of hostess.
“The choice is Ms. Abbot’s.”
Vera chose the furthest four-top in the east section, well removed from the few diners who remained. It flustered her at once: Feldspar still called her Ms. Abbot, and of course she still called him Mr. Feldspar, as he’d yet to bid otherwise. Donna seated them, as she passed them their menus, Feldspar said, “Perrier-Jouet, the flowered bottle.” He glanced to Vera. “Yes?”
“That would be perfect,” Vera responded.
Feldspar immediately lit a Sobraine. “So. How are things?”
“We actually did some business tonight,” Vera was happy to answer. “And we had a lot of walk-ins, which is always a good sign.”
“Any complaints about the restaurant?”
“None. Lots of compliments, though.”
“Good.” He seemed distracted, but then he always did in a way, as though there were always something of the future on his mind. He seemed clipped, ever the businessman. Just once I wish he’d lighten up, Vera thought. Be himself. Or was he doing just that? The possibility depressed her.
“I’ve spoken to Kyle, regarding your room-guest complaints of last weekend,” Feldspar mentioned. “I suppose it’s rather embarrassing for you.”
“Well, no,” she said. Actually it was; it pissed her off to receive complaints about Kyle’s room guests. “It comes with the territory. Even rich people get rowdy.”
“Actually much more so than the middle class, more often than not, I’m afraid. It can cause one to wonder about civility and sophistication—that the extravagantly wealthy generally behave as ill-mannered, inconsiderate idiots.”
There had, in fact, been still more complaints of late, always from room guests of the first-floor suites, Vera’s rooms, and never from Kyle’s guests. In fact, Vera had yet to even see any of the guests renting the second- and third-floor suites. Evidently, they were content to order all their meals from room service. Not once had any of them come down to eat at The Carriage House, which only furthered Vera’s irritation. But now the complaints were more descriptive. “We kept hearing this awful thunking sound all night long,” came the grievance of the town’s podiatrist, who’d spent several weekends at The Inn with his dowdy wife. A good-paying customer, and one Vera didn’t want to lose. There’d been similar “thunking” complaints from others, too. Vera concluded that this thunking was actually the room-service elevators opening and closing, which she’d heard many times at night herself. The funny thing was she couldn’t hear the elevators running, just the doors opening and closing, which made little sense. And still more complaints were made about noise in general.
“I’m still getting complaints from my room guests, though,” Vera elaborated, “about loud noises at night, you know, typical party noises—loud talk, footsteps, laughter.” She fingered her chin in contemplation. “The weird part is the noises don’t seem to be coming from the second and third floors, but from below.”
“Hmmm,” Feldspar remarked without much interest. “Perhaps some of the night owls are taking their revelry into the atrium during the wee hours, or the pool.”
“That probably explains it. And another strange complaint I keep getting is elevator noise.”
Feldspar made a facial gesture of befuddlement. “It’s true that the room-service elevators are in fairly constant use, but I’ve never heard them making any undue noise while running.”
“Well, no one’s complaining about the elevators going up and down, they’re complaining about a thunking noise. I figure it’s the doors opening and closing.”
Feldspar nodded, still without much interest. “I’ll have Kyle get a service person out here, and maybe a contractor to see about some more soundproofing. It’s difficult to forecast a building’s acoustics.”
“And one more thing,” Vera began. Then she paused partly in reluctance and partly in amusement. Mafioso, she thought. Drug financiers. That’s what Chief Mulligan had implied The Inn actually catered to. But how should she bring the matter up?
Fortunately, after Feldspar poured the champagne, she wouldn’t have to. “And I feel absolutely dreadful about the business this morning with the police,” he owned up. “Kyle reported it to me.”
“It’s nothing to feel dreadful about,” Vera told him. “If you want to know the truth, it was kind of funny. I’m still not quite sure what the man was digging for.”
Feldspar leaned forward slightly, looking at her. “What do you suppose he was looking for?”