Chapter 35
By the end of the day, Livvy felt she’d had a crash course in customer care from a woman who had refined it to an art form.
Even as heartbroken and grief-stricken as Traci Eddings was, she somehow managed to present a sunny and serene face to the hotel’s guests.
“Oh hell,” Traci whispered, when she spied Colonel McBee tap-tapping his way across the lobby in their direction. “That’s Colonel McBee. He was the biggest pain in Parrish’s butt.”
“I know him,” Livvy said. “He was unanimously voted most likely to send back his meal. Every. Single. Day.”
“Right,” Traci said, pasting on a smile. “Here’s what you do. Smile and be accommodating, but if he demands to have his room moved, yet again, politely explain that it’s impossible.”
The Colonel stopped in his tracks when he saw not one, but two new faces standing behind the guest relations desk.
“Good afternoon, Colonel,” Livvy chirped.
The old man frowned. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in the dining room? And where’s the other girl?”
Livvy and Traci exchanged a look. Livvy cleared her throat, but it was Traci who spoke first.
“I’m afraid my niece Parrish met with a tragic accident over the weekend, Colonel, which is why you might notice a police presence on our property. But I want to assure you and Mrs. McBee that you’re perfectly safe.”
McBee’s mustache twitched. “Accident? What kind of accident?”
“I’m not at liberty to say,” Traci said. “Olivia here will be happy to help you with whatever you need.”
“But she’s just a waitress,” he griped. “What does she know about taking care of my wife and me?”
“What exactly can I help you with?” Livvy asked, taking a cue from Traci.
“The mattress in our room. It’s terrible. The other girl promised to see about replacing it, but nothing has been done, and my poor wife’s sciatica has her in excruciating pain.”
“Mattress?” Livvy gave her boss a sidelong glance.
“Yes. Mattress. Are you deaf?” he shouted, pounding his cane on the floor. “The other girl wrote it down in her book. She wrote everything down in her book. Just check it and you’ll see.”
“I don’t know anything about a book,” Traci said. She glanced down at the shelves below the desktop and saw brochures for local attractions, a stack of coupons for area restaurants, even bound menus for the resort’s own restaurants, but nothing resembling a book.
“It was blue. Find the book and you’ll see every single thing she was supposed to take care of. Like the mattress, which I want replaced immediately.”
“I know we bought all new mattresses within the last six months,” Traci said. “Maybe, somehow, the one in your room didn’t get replaced. I’ll look into it myself. You’ll hear something from Livvy by the end of the day, I promise. Now, is there anything else?”
There was, of course, much, much more. Livvy found a pad of paper and a pen and dutifully wrote it all down: room too cold—she promised to send someone from engineering to check the thermostat. Not enough towels—she would have housekeeping send up additional towels. Not enough envelopes and stationery. Livvy wondered just how many of the hotel’s guests actually wrote letters on stationery these days, but she promised to send up more.
“One more thing,” the Colonel said. “The most important thing, actually.”
Great,Livvy thought. Finally, we get to the bee in Colonel McBee’s bonnet.
“It’s these damn kids. They’re everywhere. Causing a fuss in the dining room, tracking in sand from the beach. Just this morning, when I was trying to swim my laps in the pool, one of these little urchins actually jumped on top of me! Where are the rules? Why are these little menaces allowed to roam the property at will?”
“What time was this, Colonel?” Traci asked.
“Approximately eleven hundred hours.”
“Oh dear. That’s the problem. You see, we have dedicated lap lane swimming every day from seven to ten A.M. After that, the pool is open to everyone, including families with children,” Traci explained.
“That’s ridiculous. Mrs. McBee and I have been coming here for decades and I never heard of such a rule.” He pointed a gnarled finger directly at Traci. “This place has gone all to hell. Nothing has been the same since Hoke Eddings died.”
Livvy gasped. She watched as the smile faded from her employer’s face as she absorbed the blow of the old man’s spiteful remark.
“Colonel?” Traci’s tone was even but her expression was steely. “You should know that my staff and I strive every day to meet my late husband’s exacting standards for the Saint. But if you’re truly unhappy with your accommodations, you’re welcome to check out early. We will refund you the cost for the remainder of your stay.”
“What? Leave early? Not at all. Mrs. McBee and I always stay ’til mid-June. I have no intention of changing our plans this year.”
“As you wish,” Traci said. “Livvy here will do her best to address the issues you’ve raised. But I must insist, sir, that you treat her—and all my staff—with the same courtesy and respect which you expect to be shown by them.”
He raised one bristling white eyebrow, started to say something, then changed his mind. “Respect,” he huffed, and turned and walked away.
“Hateful old dinosaur,” Traci muttered, watching his departure. “I’d almost pay him to leave now, but that could set a dangerous precedent.”
She turned to Livvy. “Did you ever see Parrish with a notebook like the one he described?”
“Come to think of it, I did. It was like one of those old school composition books we used to have in high school. Parrish called it the ‘bitch book.’ I’ll look around and see if I can find it. But maybe the police won’t want us going through her stuff in her room, or at the dorm?”
“I’ll ask the sheriff if it’s okay for us to go into Parrish’s room now,” Traci said. “And I’ll also ask if they found the notebook. I’d be interested to see what’s in it.”
“Colonel McBee’s gripes probably take a whole chapter,” Livvy quipped.
She opened the lid of the laptop computer on the desktop and began clicking through the tabs. “Okay. Here’s the McBees’ room number. I’ll put in a work order, like you showed me, for engineering and housekeeping. What should I do about the mattress?”
“Check in our warehouse and see if we actually have any new ones in our inventory, and if we do, ask engineering to deliver it. They’ll need to remove the old one, and then housekeeping will need to go make up the bed with fresh linens, ASAP,” Traci said.
“I’d go up there and supervise the switchover myself, but I’ve been out of my office too long, and I dread seeing the mountain of phone calls and emails that have piled up in my inbox. As soon as you hear from engineering that they have the mattress, I’d like you to go up there and personally supervise the replacement. But have you even had a lunch break yet?”
“Actually, I haven’t.”
“Go ahead and take your break, and then you can check on the great mattress switcheroo. I want to know exactly what’s wrong with that thing.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Livvy said. “But how do I tell if a mattress is good or bad? I’ve spent my whole life sleeping on a mattress that was my mom’s when she was a kid. In fact, it was probably even older than that. Could have been my grandma’s, even.”
“You should be able to tell whether or not it’s new. But take a photo of the old one before engineering takes it away. And in the meantime, when I get back to my office I’m going to ask Charlie to look at the purchasing orders to see if we can get to the bottom of this.”
Shortly before Livvy’s shift ended, Reginald, the hotel’s engineering chief, called to say that the new mattress was on its way to the McBees’ suite.
“Okay, I’ll let housekeeping know, and then I’ll meet you up there,” Livvy said. But out of the corner of her eye she saw a regal-looking older woman in a wheelchair being pushed across the lobby by a much younger man, and from the look of it, they were heading straight for the guest relations desk. Mrs. Dahlberg had become one of her favorite guests as soon as Livvy started working at the Verandah.
“Ohhhh,” she said. “Cancel that. I’ve got an incoming guest.”
“What do I do with the old mattress?” Reginald asked. “I’m fixing to clock out.”
“Don’t throw it away, please. Mrs. E wants to see what was so awful about it.”
“Okay. I’ll stack it against the wall in the warehouse, but you better get down here fast to take a look, ’cause I don’t like a cluttered workspace.”
“Thanks, Reggie. I’ll get over there as soon as I can,” Livvy said.
When she looked up, Mrs. Dahlberg was parked in front of her desk, with a large square box placed in her lap, and Livvy saw that her grandson Walker was at the wheelchair’s controls.
“Mrs. Dahlberg, so nice to see you,” Livvy said.
“Why, Olivia, what on earth are you doing here?” the older woman asked. “I was just telling Walker we missed you at lunch today.”
“I’ve been promoted. Sort of. Now, how can I help you?”
“I’m in a terrible pickle.” Mrs. Dahlberg pointed to her head, which was wrapped in a colorful silk scarf. “It’s my hair,” she confided. “Or, rather, my wig. My real hair is mostly gone now. Chemo, you know.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Livvy said.
“Oh, well, it wasn’t very pretty hair to start with, so no great loss.” She tapped the box on her lap. “My daughter bought me this marvelous wig, which is what you’re used to seeing me wearing, but I’m hopeless at styling it, and my girl in the village who usually does it is out on vacation. I’ve called all over the island, and I can’t find anyone who’ll give me a last-minute hair appointment. I have to be at an important function tonight, and I simply can’t go with this dreadful scarf on my head.”
Livvy glanced at the clock on her desk. It was 5:05, and she knew that Beauté, the hotel’s hair salon and spa, closed at five.
“Oh no,” Livvy said. “Our in-house salon is closed.”
“It’s my sister’s engagement party tonight,” Walker confided. “Isn’t there someone you could call?”
“Anyone at all?” Mrs. Dahlberg pleaded.
“Let me see what I can do,” Livvy said, dialing the hair salon just in case. “Pick up, pick up,” she whispered.
“Beauté. This is Gigi,” a woman’s voice said.
“Hi, Gigi. This is Olivia from the guest relations desk.”
“Ohhhh. I heard about Parrish. So sad. And scary! What’s up?”
“I know you’re supposed to close at five, but I’m wondering if there’s anyone there who could do a quick restyling of a wig? Our guest has an important event tonight at six thirty.”
“I wish I could, hon, but all our stylists have gone home.”
“Hey. Would it be okay if I ran over there with her? I’m no stylist, but I used to do hot rollers and hairspray on my grandma’s wig all the time.”
“There’s no written policy against it, but our salon manager might not like the idea.”
“But Mrs. E would like it. You know how she feels about keeping our guests happy, and this particular guest is a longtime Saint member.”
“Okay. I can give you thirty minutes, and then I really gotta get home to my kids.”
Livvy looked over at Mrs. Dahlberg, who was waiting expectantly. “Okay. I think I have a solution. I used to set and comb out my grandma’s wig all the time when I played beauty shop. What do you think? Are you game?”
The older woman giggled. “If you’re game, I’m game. So let’s get going.”
When they got to the salon, Gigi waved them inside. “I’ve got your hot rollers plugged in over there. Remember. Thirty minutes, then I have to throw you out.”
“Thank you, sweetheart,” Mrs. Dahlberg said.
Gigi smiled at the guest. “Can I pour you a little prosecco while you wait?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t. But then again, it’s not as though I’m driving, so I believe I will.”
Twenty minutes later, Livvy removed the hot rollers from the wig, which she’d placed on a wig form on the counter of the station, and began attacking it with a brush and hairspray, styling the short silver curls into a loose, feathery coiffure.
“What do you think?”
“It’s wonderful,” Mrs. Dahlberg said. She began to unfasten the scarf, but then stopped.
“Now, close your eyes, please, Olivia. I hate for anyone to see this ugly old bald head of mine.”
“I will,” Livvy said, obeying the guest’s request. “But I don’t believe you could ever be anything other than beautiful, Mrs. Dahlberg.”
“All right, you can look now,” Mrs. Dahlberg said a moment later.
Livvy opened her eyes. “You look amazing,” she said. “Gorgeous, even!”
The old woman batted her pale eyelashes. “I do, don’t I? And it’s all thanks to you.” She reached for her pocketbook, opened it, and brought out her billfold.
“Oh no,” Livvy protested. “I’m not allowed to accept gratuities.”
“It’s not a gratuity,” Mrs. Dahlberg said. “It’s payment. I’m sure you should have gone home by now, but you stayed to do me a huge favor, and it’s only right that you are paid.”
“Seeing you happy is enough payment for me,” Livvy said. “And I can’t wait to hear all about the party tomorrow.”
It was nearly six by the time Livvy returned to the guest relations desk.
“Shit,” she murmured. “I still gotta go look at the Colonel’s damn mattress.”
She commandeered one of the golf carts parked near the service entrance, and motored over to the engineering and maintenance warehouse. Only one car was in the gravel parking lot. Livvy tried the door, but it was locked.
She pounded on the heavy metal door. “Hey! Anybody in there? Let me in, okay?” She pounded again, sweat dripping down her back in the hot, humid air.
Finally the door opened and a skinny teenager in a dirty uniform shirt peered out at her. “Hey,” he said warily. “What’s up?”
“I’m Olivia, from guest relations, and Reggie was supposed to leave a mattress here for me to look at, so if you’ll just let me in, I’ll take a look, snap a picture, and get gone.”
He blinked and pushed a strand of sweat-soaked hair from his forehead. “Mattress?”
“Yeah. You know, the flat thing you sleep on? Reggie brought it back from the hotel.”
“I ain’t seen no mattress,” the kid said. “But you can look around for yourself.”
Livvy stepped inside the cavernous metal building. She toured a machine shop, passed pallets of shrink-wrapped goods and towering rows holding rolls of carpet and cartons of coffee makers, microwaves, and televisions, but there was no sign of a used mattress.
“I don’t understand,” she told the kid. “Reggie promised he’d keep it here for me.”
“Reggie’s gone home,” the kid said. “I gotta go too. You know?”
Her shoulders slumped as she left the warehouse and stepped onto the golf cart. Ugh. Only her first day in guest relations, and she’d somehow managed to screw up the one thing she’d promised Mrs. E she’d attend to.