She tried putting her hair behind her ear on one side, one curl twirling down her cheek. No. Maybe one side up? With a green ribbon? No. It was fine. There wasn’t time to change it again. She was perfect.
Camera. All set. Battery charged. Flash good to go. Into her purse. Everything else, ready.
She slid the flat key card into a side pocket of her bag, checked again to make sure it was still there, then headed down the hallway to the elevator. She was supposed to go to the ninth floor, then take the special Skyview elevator to ten, where the rally was about to begin. She pushed the button, and pushed it again, her heart lifting with what she hoped would happen.
Owen would be so surprised.
She just. Could not. Wait.
“The rally is where? Tenth floor? Inside? Really? I thought it was outside.” Jane slid her credit card across the hotel reception desk. The lobby was buzzing with Lassiter supporters, if funny hats and WE GO OWEN signs were any indication. Looked like a snafu of some kind at the elevators. One was marked OUT OF SERVICE, roped off with plastic tape. A crowd of impatient-looking rally-goers elbowed for space in the two still operating. No one looked happy.
Jane raised a hand, waving, recognizing that cute guy from the campaign-Trevor. Trevor Kiernan. But he didn’t see her. He focused on his clipboard, checking something. Assigning people to elevators. Seemed like a mess.
“Miss Ryland?” The desk clerk, a wiry young woman, all slicked-back hair and empty holes along each earlobe, wore a gold plastic name tag reading HI, I’M GINA ORTICELLI. She handed Jane a folder of papers and a blue key card. Whispered, “You’re room 916.”
“Oh, thanks, and-”
“Um, are you covering this for Channel Eleven?” The clerk’s eyes were wide, admiring. “I’m such a fan of yours. I completely love your new hair. I’m Gina. I hope you don’t mind me saying.”
“Oh, well, I-” Did Jane have to explain it? Which was worse, having to deal with the looks of pity? Or having to explain when they didn’t know the whole sad story?
Gina leaned over the desk, one hand above her mouth, conspiratorial. “I’m a Gable person, I don’t mind telling you. Ellie’s such a rock star. And I’m thinking I might have a story for you. This whole Lassiter thing has been disaster city. Can we go off the record?”
Jane almost burst out laughing. Off the record? What was this, everybody thought they were on 60 Minutes? On the other hand, hotel clerks were privy to some inside stuff.
“Sure, Gina, off the record,” she said. She stepped closer to the desk, giving Gina 100 percent. “I’m so flattered you recognized me.”
Gina turned, checking behind her. A door marked ADMINISTRATIVE OFFICES was closed. At the other end of the counter, Jane saw another clerk, arguing with some red-faced guy wearing a Lassiter button. Fifteen minutes until the rally was supposed to begin upstairs. And the lobby still teeming with Lassiter people. Not good.
“Okay,” Gina said. “Hand me back your registration papers. We can pretend to talk about that.”
Jane struggled to hide her smile. Cloak and dagger in Springfield, Mass. Well, you never knew.
Gina pointed, dramatically, to something on the papers in front of her. “First of all,” she said, her voice low. “This rally thing was so last minute. That guy over there? End of the counter? He’s insisting they reserved a block of rooms, and the Special Pavilion for an afternoon rally today. But they didn’t. Reserve anything. Anyway, now the opticians have the Pav, and the Lassiter people have to go upstairs. That guy, Maitland or something, is making a huge stink. Like it’s the hotel’s fault. But it isn’t. The Lassiter campaign never reserved anything.”
“So that’s why it’s now at seven o’clock? Upstairs?”
“Yeah, they had to change everything. It’s already running late. And then the room reservation mess. We gave Lassiter the presidential suite, lucky that was open. Campaign types got the other vacancies. And you got one of the last regular rooms. We’re completely full up now. I mean, if they can’t set up a simple rally, how can they run the country?”
Rory Maitland, Jane thought. Hotshot consultant. A supposed insider who didn’t seem too clued in to reality. The big question was, who else was a last-minute overnight guest?
“You’re so observant,” Jane said. Gina looked proud of herself. Exactly what Jane was going for. “The campaign does seem somewhat disorganized. Did lots of Lassiter people show up at the last minute?”
Gina cocked her head down the counter. “Maitland, for sure. Maybe a few others. And a secretary type. They were all so mad, you know? The guy with the clipboard?” Gina stuck a thumb toward the elevator.
Trevor.
“He’s taking the heat,” Gina said.
Holy moly. A secretary? It couldn’t be this easy. How to phrase this-“Ah. So eventually there were rooms enough for everyone?”
“Yeah, barely. Like I said, you got one of the last ones. Most of the Lassiter people are on nine. We had to give the campaign the Skyview for the rally. Smaller, not so accessible, but that’s what we had.”
“I know Governor Lassiter, of course.” Jane tried again. “And Mr. Maitland, and the guy with the clipboard. But the secretary? A woman? Like, a press secretary? I’m trying to figure out if I know her. Is her name Sheila King?”
Gina glanced around again. Gave Jane a fleeting wink, then tapped on the computer keyboard in front of her. “Of course, Miss Ryland, I’m happy to see whether we have availability at our other location.” Her voice was louder, as if wanting to be overheard.
Jane watched the clerk’s fingers move across the keyboard. The computer screen faced Gina, so Jane couldn’t see what the desk clerk was actually looking up. With one quick move, Gina flipped the screen around.
“As you can see, Miss Ryland.” She tapped the screen with a silver pen. “Does this look like the type of accommodations you had in mind?”
Jane peered at the monitor. It looked like a registration form, like the one she just filled out. But this was for room 981. And Gina’s pen was tapping at the name of the person registered to stay there. Kenna Wilkes. Mrs. Kenna Wilkes.
Commotion at the other end of the counter. The door marked ADMINISTRATIVE OFFICES opened. A man in a navy blazer emerged. Frowning.
Gina twirled the monitor away, tapped the keyboard, looked up at Jane. “Will there be anything else, Miss Ryland?”
Not Sheila King. Kenna Wilkes. Mrs. Kenna Wilkes. Mrs.? Was there a Mr. Wilkes?
Was Kenna Wilkes the woman in the red coat? One easy way to find out-show the very helpful Gina the archive photos. But they were in the car, and Jane had to get to the rally. Still, if the red-coat woman was at this rally, too, it made sense that Jane had just discovered her name. She could always show Gina the photos later. Thank you, journalism gods.
“You’ve been so helpful, Miss Orticelli,” Jane said. She had to call Alex. Figure out what to tell Moira. Figure out who the heck Kenna Wilkes was. And what she wanted. “Are you working later tonight?”
“Nope,” Gina said. “But I’ll be here in the morning.”
Damn. Jane eyed the crowd at the elevator. She had to go. She looked at Gina, then waved a hand around her own head. “Curly hair? Semi-gorgeous?” Jane hoped the clerk would understand what she was asking.