Chapter 49
“Young lady?”
Livvy had just finished booking sailing lessons for a pair of teenaged brothers. She turned to see Charlie Burroughs bearing down on her with a malicious glint in his eyes.
She swallowed hard. “Yes, sir?”
“I’d like a word with you, please.” He came behind the guest relations desk and showed her his cell phone.
“Do you see this? This is a one-star review posted on our website from a guest who just checked out this morning.”
Butterflies took flight in her stomach as she read the review’s headline:
THE SAINT HAS GONE TO HELL
The review was two paragraphs long. Phrases such as “terrible service” and “inedible meals” and “staff untrained, undisciplined, and unhelpful” stood out. And then there was this:
My wife and I have vacationed at the Saint for over thirty years, but this stay will most certainly be our last. The storied hotel’s formerly high standards have sunk to the abysmal level of an interstate chain motel. Despite repeated complaints to the Saint’s “guest relations” representatives, our room was poorly ventilated, the mattress of terrible quality, and we were subject to unbearable nuisance of ill-mannered, rude children. Add to that the horror of a murder happening on the hotel’s property! Until this hotel’s management solves these problems we will spend our time and money elsewhere.
She knew the author of the review without reading, but it was signed L.G.M., which she was positive was the work of Colonel McBee.
“Mr. Burroughs,” Livvy said, “we did everything we could to try to make that guest happy. Engineering was sent up numerous times to check on the air-conditioning. We replaced the existing mattress with a new one. I spoke to one of the housekeepers a few minutes ago. Colonel McBee accused them of rifling through Mrs. McBee’s jewelry, and after that, refused to give them entry to the room to clean it. As for the other complaints, I know he was unhappy about children, but we can’t exactly tell families that their kids can’t swim in the pool or walk past his room. Mrs. Eddings told him—”
“Mrs. Eddings doesn’t need to be involved,” Burroughs said. “You should have come to me. Now this same review is up on Yelp and Tripadvisor. It’s done untold damage to our reputation. And it makes me seriously question your ability to do your job properly.”
Livvy bit her quivering lower lip to keep from crying. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“Do better,” the general manager said, and he turned and walked away.
Traci was standing in the hallway just off the lobby, watching Charlie’s heated interaction with Livvy. “Poor kid,” she murmured.
Charlie was inches from Olivia’s face, shaking a finger at her. Traci’s first instinct was to speak to Olivia and try to smooth things over, but she didn’t dare risk antagonizing her GM.
What, she wondered, had him so wound up? Colonel McBee was an irascible old crank. It was one bad review. The wording stung, but they’d had bad reviews before. They’d weathered other storms, and this one, it seemed to her, was little more than a squall. Or? Was Charlie right to be so sensitive to a bad review when the hotel’s financial footing was in question?
There was no time to dwell on that. Her cell phone was buzzing in her pocket. She sighed when she saw that the caller was her brother-in-law.
“Hi,” Traci said softly. “How are you?”
“As well as can be expected,” he said, his tone flat. “Alberta told me you were there at the house, when he passed?”
“Purely by accident. I was just going to pop in to check on him this morning, and when I got there she told me he seemed to be failing. I’m so sorry, Ric, especially after…”
“I get it,” he said, refusing to accept her sympathy. “Just letting you know I’m going to put off having any kind of a service for a while. It’s too soon.”
“I completely understand. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help out.”
“Okay.”
“Ric? Should we make some kind of announcement? To the Saint’s members? So many of them knew your dad.”
“Maybe later. I’ve got a lot on my plate right now.”
He disconnected abruptly. “Who doesn’t have a lot on their plate right now?” Traci wondered aloud.
Traci left a message on Andy Plankenhorn’s voice mail, then decided to walk over to the Verandah for a late lunch—and some research. Her first impression was a good one: it was close to two, but every table in the dining room was occupied.
The hostess showed her to her usual table, and Garrett appeared immediately with water and menus.
“Mrs. E! Great to see you.”
“Hi, Garrett. How’s business?”
“Really good. A lot of folks from that bankers’ conference came in early. We’ve been slammed this afternoon and I know we’re fully booked over the weekend too.”
She was about to order her usual, but changed her mind.
“What’s the seafood special today?”
“We’ve got a great mahi sandwich. You can get it blackened or grilled. If you want something lighter, I know you usually like the lobster Cobb, but we’ve got a shrimp salad today, or grouper fingers.”
“Is the fish locally caught?”
He shrugged. “I assume so.”
“You know what? I’ll try all three.”
He laughed. “Really? All three?”
She patted her flat abdomen. “I’m starving, and you made everything sound too tempting to pass up.”
He brought the mahi first. She looked around to make sure nobody was watching and took a small, delicate sniff. It smelled fine. The flesh was firm and it was perfectly cooked. The brioche bun, which she knew was baked in-house, was lightly toasted, and the “secret sauce” was both sweet and briny. A perfect one-two punch.
The shrimp salad was arrayed on top of a bed of microgreens, and Traci was dismayed that the greens were slightly wilted, perhaps a day older than they should have been. But the shrimp were sweet and plump and the aioli dressing was tangy with lemon zest and a great complement to the shrimp.
Garrett brought the grouper fingers last. He gestured to the other barely touched dishes. “Do you want me to clear these away, or should I bring the grouper back later?”
“You can box these up,” she told him. He loaded the other dishes on his tray and placed the plate with the grouper in front of her.
The grouper fingers were lightly breaded and served with an Asian-inspired dipping sauce, with a side of juicy red tomatoes. The dish looked promising. She took a bite, chewed, and pushed the plate away. The fish had definitely been frozen.
When Garrett reappeared at the table with a large pink shopping bag with the Saint logo, she pointed at the plate with the grouper fingers. “Don’t bother packing that one up.”
“No? Everybody else was crazy about it. I think we only have two portions left.”
“I didn’t care for it,” she said succinctly. “In fact, when you get back to the kitchen, would you please tell Felice I’d like the rest of the grouper eighty-sixed?”
“Ohh-kay. Was there a problem with it that I need to know about?”
“I’ll discuss it with Felice later this afternoon. I’m going to come back and order takeout for dinner tonight.”
Traci took the leftovers back to the cottage and stashed them in her fridge. She was still puzzling over Charlie’s annoyance with Felice and Olivia, and decided more research was needed.
But she’d need to be incognito. She shed her work uniform; the skirt, blouse, blazer, and pumps. A more casual look was called for.
Back when she and Hoke were newlyweds, he’d tried to convince her that playing golf together would be “fun.” He bought her clubs, cute golf outfits, shoes. She rode along on the golf cart with him for six months before finally confessing she found the game boring and pointless.
Now, she dug in the back of her closet and brought out a bin containing the long-abandoned outfits. She chose a white knit skort and pink-and-white-striped Saint golf shirt. Then she fastened her hair in a ponytail and donned a straw hat that would shade—and hopefully obstruct—her face. Spotless white tennis shoes and a pair of polarized sunglasses finished the ensemble.
Back in the hotel lobby she folded herself into a high-backed wing chair strategically placed within earshot of the guest relations desk. She pulled the brim of her hat low over her face and pretended to be absorbed in the latest issue of Garden Gun, which, auspiciously, contained a favorable feature about the hotel.
Guests were checking in to the hotel in waves now, and Livvy was suddenly inundated with guests wanting to book their children into day camp at the last minute, guests wanting sailing lessons, tee times, and coaching from the Saint’s tennis pro.
There was a family of four who were distraught that they hadn’t been given adjoining rooms with their teenagers, and somehow, with a sold-out house, Livvy managed to move them into rooms across the hall from each other.
Then there was a middle-aged banker (he was still wearing his registration tag on a lanyard around his neck) who berated Livvy for her inability to secure a seven-thirty dinner reservation for his party of seven.
Traci peeked over the top of the magazine when his voice started causing heads to turn in the crowded lobby.
She was pleased that her young protégé managed to keep her composure while the banker launched a tirade of complaints.
“I’m so, so sorry,” Livvy said. “With the conference here, the dining room has been sold out for weeks now. But I can manage to get you a table at the poolside restaurant. The dress is very casual, but the food is wonderful. And if that doesn’t suit, there are several nice restaurants off-island, and if I call now, I think we can work something out.”
As Traci watched, the banker’s anger seemed to dissipate. Finally, he agreed that his party could “make do” with a table at the poolside café. Livvy picked up the house phone, spoke to the hostess, hung up, and smiled. “They’re giving you the cabana table. It has a great sunset view, and here’s a hint, order the Saintly Sinner cocktail. It’s amazing.”
With that, Traci stood and went back to her office, convinced that her instincts had been sound. Livvy was smiling, patient, flexible. She was everything Traci could want in a front-facing position at the Saint. Charlie would just have to get over his butt-hurt feelings.