Canapés at the Beach House Hotel (The Beach House Hotel #11)

CHAPTER ONE

Early one sunny September afternoon, my business partner and best friend, Rhonda Grayson, and I sat in our office at The Beach House Hotel in the town of Sabal on the Gulf Coast of Florida.

We’d just received a call from Vice-President Amelia Swanson giving us a heads-up that the Italian Ambassador to The United Nations in New York City had called her asking for a recommendation of a hotel in Sabal, Florida.

“I told him there’s no better place than The Beach House Hotel, “Amelia said. “If he calls for a reservation, please pamper him, maybe put him in the Presidential Suite. Can you do that for me? It would be most helpful.”

“Of course,” I said, holding back a sigh. Doing favors for Amelia had always gotten Rhonda and me in trouble. I didn’t think this would be any different, but what could we say? Our hotel had hosted many interesting, sometimes famous people. Some were easy. Some were not.

“Thank you both very much,” said Amelia. “Hope to see you when I’m next in Sabal.”

The call ended, and I turned to Rhonda. “Let’s go for a walk on the beach. I need some fresh air. I have a feeling this will involve a lot of extra work for us.”

We eagerly left the office.

As we walked through the luxurious lobby of the hotel, Rhonda nudged me.

“Hey, Annie, see that young couple sitting at the bar? I greeted them the other day, and the man said he liked to taste-test our canapés. I know we own an upscale hotel, but that sounded like a fancy name for appetizers. What’s up with that? ”

“Canapés has an elegant ring to it, don’t you think?

” I said, throwing my arm around her. Rhonda and I were as different as two partners could be.

She grew up in a tough, Italian immigrant neighborhood in New Jersey, and I was raised by a cold, proper grandmother in Boston who would’ve fainted if I’d ever dropped an F-bomb, one of Rhonda’s favorite words.

“Sounds like B.S. to me,” grumped Rhonda.

“Oh, but I love the idea of offering upscale food to our guests,” I said. “Let’s go talk to that couple and see what they’re up to.”

We walked into the bar and over to the two who seemed to be in their early thirties—the same age as our two grown daughters.

He was swirling his white wine in a glass and sniffing its bouquet, while the woman sat beside him and looked out through the windows, which offered a dynamic view of the adjacent beach.

The woman, a small, pretty one with strawberry-blond hair and green eyes, touched his arm as we approached, and I heard her say, “Chet, I think the owners want to speak to us.”

The man beside her swiveled on the barstool to face us. “Ann Sanders and Rhonda Grayson, I believe,” he said, getting to his feet to greet us. “Nice to meet you. I’m Chet Waring, and this is my friend, Harper Lewis.”

Of above average height and with broad shoulders, Chet stared at us with startling topaz eyes. His dark hair flopped an errant curl onto his forehead.

“Rhonda says she’s seen you here before,” I said.

“That’s true, we met the other day,” said Chet.

“I love checking out the appetizers and canapés. You can tell a lot about a restaurant from its offerings. I’ve heard of Jean-Luc Rodin, of course, and wanted to see for myself the operation he runs and how he manages to maintain his outstanding reputation.

“The real way to sample his food is by eating dinner here,” said Rhonda. “That’s where he shines.”

“We’re both looking for jobs and wanted to see if The Beach House Hotel would be a workable fit for us,” Harper said. “That’s why we’re checking it out, among other places.”

Rhonda and I exchanged surprised glances. Most people wouldn’t bother with comparisons. We treated our employees very well.

“What work are you looking for?” I asked.

“Well, I’m a chef with a story, and Harper is very versatile in any restaurant setting,” said Chet, smiling at his companion.

“We can’t work for just anyone,” said Harper. “There must be a great deal of trust between the employer and employees.”

“Why don’t you two come to our office to talk further? Maybe tomorrow afternoon?” I said, glancing around to make sure no one else could hear. We were very private about certain discussions in public in our hotel, all part of the commitment to protect the privacy of our guests.

“I want to talk more about those canapés you keep referring to,” said Rhonda.

Chet looked at Harper. “Should we do it?”

“Oh, yes,” she replied and turned to us with an apologetic look. “We don’t mean to hesitate. It’s just that we’ve had a bad experience.”

“I’ll explain it to you when we meet,” Chet said.

“Okay, see you tomorrow,” I said, curious about them.

Rhonda and I left them and headed to the beach where we did some of our best thinking.

At the beach’s edge, I flipped off my sandals and buried my toes in the warm sand.

Sighing with pleasure, I inhaled the salty air and stared up at the blue sky where marshmallow puffs of clouds glided lazily across it.

I tiptoed across the sand and sank my feet into the frothy edge of the cooler water, holding my sandals high above it.

The waves rolled in to shore one after the other in a rhythm as old as time. It comforted me to hear the kiss of them meeting the sand and pulling away for another chance to do it all over again.

Rhonda lifted the bottom of her caftan into her arms and joined me at the water’s edge.

“Feels good, huh?” she said, smiling at me.

“Heavenly.” I looked up as someone called my name. “Uh-oh. Guess who’s headed our way.”

“It’d better not be … damn!” sputtered Rhonda.

“Hello, ladies,” said Brock Goodwin, the president of the Neighborhood Association. Seeing him here this time of day could only mean trouble.

“What do you want?” said Rhonda. Neither of us could stand the man who was always trying to hurt the business we ran so proudly.

“I thought you should know about my latest venture,” Brock said smoothly. He was a good-looking older man with silver hair, a trim physique, and enough manufactured charm to be sought after by single women in the area looking for a date to accompany them to a social event.

“What are you up to now?” growled Rhonda.

“I’m a part-owner of a fantastic new Italian restaurant just up the beach. It’s for people looking for a change from a hotel restaurant, something in a creative space just for them,” Brock sniffed. “We’re offering fabulous food, location, and space for those wanting a superior dining experience.”

“What is it called?” I asked, unable to resist wanting more details.

“Osteria Arno,” said Brock.

“Who’s your chef?” I asked.

“Jonny Arno,” said Brock. “He’s the best, you know.”

“Depends,” Rhonda said, and I silently pleaded with her not to say more.

She glanced at me and whatever she was about to say faded in her mouth.

Brock gave us a smug look. “I think this investment of mine is going to pay off in a big way. Even Jean-Luc will want to come to Osteria Arno. Jonny can show him a thing or two. You girls need to have some decent competition. Then we’ll see what kind of businesswomen you really are.”

“Thank you for your concern,” I said through clenched teeth. “But we don’t need to prove anything to anyone. The success of our hotel speaks for us.”

“Why don’t you run along, Brock. We have important things to discuss. Business that has nothing to do with you,” said Rhonda,

“You’ll see. The day will come when you’re asking favors of me. Jonny says I can be a big help to him.” Brock gave us a wave and trotted away.

Rhonda and I stared at him, sighing in unison.

“How can anyone like that survive?” asked Rhonda. “He’s pissed off enough people to be in danger of someone finally giving in to the temptation of wringing his fucking neck.”

“As long as that someone isn’t you,” I said. “We have a hotel to run. Together.”

“Seriously, Annie, what are we going to do about competition like Osteria Arno? If Brock’s involved, it’ll mean nothing but trouble for us.”

I swung my arm across Rhonda’s shoulder. “That, dear partner, is what we are about to find out.”

###

After Chet and Harper arrived for their meeting the next afternoon, I was as curious as Rhonda as we indicated for them to sit at the small conference table with us.

“Now, do you want to talk about your situation? We’d like to hear it,” I said.

“All of it,” added Rhonda.

“I guess I’ll begin with how the trouble started,” said Chet.

Harper nodded her agreement.

“But first, some very important history for you,” said Chet.

“I was raised in upstate New York, and when I was six years old, my father was killed in Afghanistan, leaving my mother and me alone. Our neighbor, Rosalie Mancini, took care of me while my mother was at work. Two years later, my mother married a man who, to put it bluntly, hated me. So, at eight, I spent a lot of time with Rosalie even after my mother and stepfather moved to a different house in the same neighborhood.”

As Chet stopped to take a drink from the glass of water I’d placed before him, Harper said quietly. “All of it is important.”

“While we were together, Rosalie taught me to cook,” continued Chet.

“It was a creative outlet and she and I became very close. And when she realized how much my stepfather belittled me for liking to cook, she spoke to my mother about it. And though things got better, my stepfather thought I should’ve been playing football, not busy in a kitchen like a girl.

Privately, he called me every name he could think of. None of them nice.”

I could see Rhonda’s fingers begin to curl into a fist and knew how upset she was. Rhonda herself had used cooking to get through tough times growing up in her neighborhood.

“So, that’s where and how you learned to cook,” I said, prompting him to continue.

“Yes, but our cooking wasn’t about following recipes. It was more than that. It was about smelling and tasting food, trying new combinations, putting creativity into food that gave people pleasure.”

“My grandmother taught me to cook that way, too. I’ve been forever grateful to her. Like your Rosalie, she saved my life,” said Rhonda. “Go on.”

“I graduated from the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park, New York, ten years ago and chose to move to warm weather after Rosalie died. Rosalie had always wanted to be able to go to Florida, but never did. So, I thought that would be a good place for me to start fresh.”

“How did the two of you meet?” I asked Harper.

“I was getting my college degree in psychology from the University of Miami and had to work my way through school. I started waitressing, then tending bar, where I could make a lot more money,” said Harper. “My last job was at Chez Michel. Do you know it?”

“I do,” said Rhonda. “The chef, Jonny Arno, recently put out a new cookbook. An Italian one. I bought it. It’s fabulous, with recipes my grandmother would love, with an international flair.”

“Exactly,” said Chet, his cheeks flushing with emotion. “The problem is that a lot of those recipes were stolen from me. When I confronted Jonny about it, he fired me, and told me he’d see to it I’d never work in Miami again or anywhere else.”

“Are you sure they were your recipes? Plagiarizing is illegal,” I said. “How could you be certain?”

Chet’s lips thinned. “I’m sure. Some of the recipes he stole were from a notebook I’d mistakenly left in my locker one night. Rosalie’s secret ingredients were in some of them. Enough to be of concern. And when I looked at the recipes he’d put in his book, the instructions matched exactly.”

I shook my head. “That’s not fair, but it’s a difficult thing to prove.”

“Some recipes require the same ingredients from any source,” said Rhonda. “Even the extras you talk about are hard to declare as your own.”

“But he made up a story about a friend named Rosalie. That’s another thing that can’t be called just a coincidence,” said Chet.

“That’s what hurts the most. Rosalie would never have allowed a man like him to use her recipes.

For all the PR Jonny Arno gets, the people who work for him hate him, and for a reason.

I’m not talking about the usual temperamental chef behavior but an evil man who’s willing to destroy someone else with cruelty. ”

Harper put a hand on Chet’s arm in sympathy.

“Chet’s right. Jonny Arno is not a great person.

He persisted in trying to seduce me even after I made it clear I was not going to bed with him.

” She let out a snort. “When I threatened to say something, he was furious and told me I was too ugly for him anyway.”

“Why hasn’t all this been reported?” I asked and then said, “Forget that. I understand why no one would want to be tormented even more by him. He sounds like a real monster.”

“That’s a perfect name for him,” said Chet. “I think he found out another chef was interested in bringing me on board. But after my trouble with Jonny, no one would even respond to my calls. That’s why I’m here, hoping that I can find work on the Gulf coast of Florida. Someplace safe.”

“Are you two aware that Jonny Arno is opening a restaurant not far from here?” I asked, and saw their faces fall. “Rhonda and I would like to think about how we might be able to help you. The hotel business is a tough one, but there’s no need for cruelty and deception.”

“Absolutely,” said Rhonda. “Let us do a little investigation, and then we’ll be in touch with you to set up another meeting.”

After we showed them out of the office, Rhonda turned to me with a frown. “Do we really want to get involved with Chet and Harper? This news of Osteria Arno changes things. He might be vindictive toward us.”

“Knowing Brock is somehow involved in the restaurant is troublesome,” I admitted. “He’ll make a bad situation worse, and from what I’ve seen of them, Chet and Harper seem like decent kids. Let’s do some research of our own before we meet with them.”

“Okay,” said Rhonda. “I don’t think these kids can handle a comeback on their own. I know what kind of people sometimes get involved with supplying restaurants. My father had to deal with them when he opened his butcher shop in Jersey.”

“Do you think it’s dangerous for us to try and help Chet and Harper? Maybe even hire them?” I asked, appalled by the idea of dealing with people who could really hurt us.

“I think we need to be careful. That’s all,” said Rhonda.