“After all, you’ve made quite a sacrifice for me: coming here cold, running a restaurant for an enterprise you know nothing about, giving your all. It would be immoral of me to leave you uninformed. I appreciate your loyalty and discretion, and I’m grateful to you for handling this unpleasant business with the police. You know as well as I, loyalty is perhaps the most essential interpersonal element in this kind of business. Your loyalty will not go unrewarded, nor will your outstanding performance.”
At first, this depressed her, because it sounded as though he were merely patronizing her, for getting Mulligan off his back. But as she watched him, and continued to assess his demeanor, and the manner with which he expressed himself, she began to doubt that patronizing her had any part in what he’d just told her. But what is his motive then? she wondered, sipping her Montrachet.
Perhaps there was no ulterior motive at all. Perhaps he was coming clean with her for the reasons he’d just explained.
“So much for confessions.” Now Feldspar leaned back in the plush armchair, his smile going wan. He diddled with an ash in the ashtray, almost as if he felt embarrassed now. “It must not be an easy thing to reckon,” he said.
“What?”
“To suddenly become aware that your employer has a bit of a checkered past.”
But Vera couldn’t help continuing to think: Select clientele. Mafioso, money laundering. “I don’t guess anybody’s slate is perfectly clean,” she excused.
“No, perhaps not.”
Another glass of the fine Montrachet. God, she thought. She was getting drunk. The wine left her buzzing, warm inside, but remotely unhappy. She had a parfait for dessert, while Feldspar ordered expresso and smoked. Afterward, he paid cash for the meal, which seemed odd. He owned The Carriage House. Why pay? Vera supposed he was just trying to seem gracious. It depressed her further, though. The meal had been outstanding, yet Feldspar made no comment whatever. At least Donna was happy. She bubbled enthusiasm in silence, upon discovering Feldspar’s fifty dollar cash tip in the leather tab book.
“I’d invite you to the convention with me,” Feldspar said next, “but I’m afraid that would leave The Inn a bit short in the management department. Kyle’s a very loyal, steadfast employee, but I wouldn’t be too keen on leaving him totally in charge. A bit uncultured, if you will.”
Vera had to backpedal on everything he’d said; the wine and champagne wasn’t mixing well. “Convention?” she queried.
“Oh, I mustn’t have mentioned it to you, sorry. I’ll be gone for several days. The East Coast Hotel/Motel Association is having their annual convention tomorrow, in Maryland. I’m expected to attend, not that I really want to. At any rate, you and Kyle will be in charge.”
“Okay,” Vera said. But she’d barely heard the words. Now it was her own distractions that diverted her, and of course the alcohol. This whole dinner thing had been a bust; it was obvious to her now that Feldspar’s only interest in her was professional. He was the boss giving the little restaurant manager a pat on the head.
“Well.” Feldspar rose; his bulky shape left the table enshadowed. “Your company was a pleasure, Ms. Abbot, and the meal outstanding…” He squinted forward. “Are you all right?”
No, I’m drunk, she felt inclined to say. “A little tired, that’s all.” She rose herself, and escorted Feldspar to the entry. “Thanks for dinner. I hope you have a good time at the convention.”
“Yes,” he said. “Oh, and forgive me for neglecting to mention one thing.”
“What’s that?”
His smile seemed distant. His entire self, in fact, all evening, seemed more and more distant. “You look lovely tonight,” he said.
The words were like a dull shimmer in the air. Before
Vera could reply, he was saying “Good night, Ms. Abbot” and leaving.
“How’d it go?” Donna came up from behind and asked.
“It didn’t, not really,” Vera said.
“You look bummed.”
I am. “I don’t know, I just thought—” What, though? What did you expect, Vera? You expected him to wine and dine you and take you to bed? Your boss, for God’s sake? “I’m tired, I guess. I drank too much.” She had to actually lean against the service bar to keep steady. “How are things going in the kitchen?”
“Lee and Dan B. are cleaning up now. They’re going to check out that little bar in town if they get out early enough. If you ask me, we did pretty good tonight.”
“Yeah, it’s catching on.” Vera handed Donna the Lamborghini keys. “Tell Dan B. he can take my car. I never have time to drive it—might as well let him have some fun with it.”
“Oh, he’ll love this!” Donna enthused. “I’ll be sure to tell him not to wrap it around a phone pole.”
“Please. Are you going with them?”
“No way. Once I get all the tables changed, I’m going straight to bed.”
“That’s what I’m going to do right now,” Vera said. “See you tomorrow.”
She trudged out into the atrium, woozy and weary. Then: “Yes. Yes sir,” she heard. It was Kyle’s voice. Vera glanced across the atrium and saw Kyle signing someone in at the reception desk: a man of medium height and build, dressed in a tailored crisp brown suit. “Right this way, sir,” Kyle was saying, and picked up the man’s suitcase. “Your suite’s ready now.”
Vera tried not to appear obvious; this was the first upper floor room guest she’d seen, and as she watched from the corner of her eye, all she could be reminded of was what Mulligan had implied. Money laundering, mafia, drug lords? Some people had a look—you could tell, just by looking at them, what they were into, and this guest that Kyle was checking in—he had it. The man’s face reflected a darkness, even an ominousness, which clashed with his fine suit. He looked like a thug.
Select clientele, huh? Vera mused, then went up the stairs to her room.
Whoever that guy is, he’s bad news.
— | — | —
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Lee off-loaded the last dish-rack from the Hobart’s big chain conveyor, then began to automatically stack the hot dry plates. The shift had passed like sludge in a gutter, and that was about how Lee had felt lately—sluggish in dark questions and dread.
“Get rollin’, Lee,” Dan B. happily remarked. He was whistling as he polished up the range and the line table. “Looks like we’re going to be out of here by midnight, still plenty of time to go into town, huh?”
Lee merely nodded, carrying more plates to their metal shelving.
“And guess what, dishman? Vera’s letting us take her car. Ain’t that slick?”
“Yeah, man. Slick.”
Dan B. frowned across the kitchen, his big white chef’s hat jiggling. “What’s the matter with you? You still want to go, don’t you?”
“Sure,” Lee said.
Dan B. easily sensed his friend’s sullenness. “Come on, man. What’s wrong? You’ve barely said a word all night.”
“I’m fine,” Lee responded. Yeah, right, fine. But even if he’d wanted to talk about it, what could he possibly say?
“This place looks good enough. Let’s roll.” Dan B. slapped Lee on the back. “Aren’t we going to change?” Lee asked, indicating their sneakers and smudged kitchen tunics. “We’re going to The Waterin’ Hole, not the Kennedy Center. Quit stalling, let’s get out of here and have a couple beers,” Dan B. said.
They donned their coats and went out the side exit. Lee cast a glance over his shoulder; Kyle wouldn’t like this at all—most nights, for weeks now, Lee had finished the roomservice dishes after he’d finished up at The Carriage House. He didn’t much care now, though; he was too confused and depressed. Kiss my fat ass, Kyle. Clean up your own mess. Brisk strides took them across the darkened parking lot; the bitter cold slapped them in the face. Lee glanced up, at The Inn. He was thinking about the woman, as he did now almost constantly. Grim images weaved in and out of his mind.