My Wanderlust Bites the Dust

by Eliza Watson

  Boring cream tablecloths had replaced the gold linens and tulle overlays, and the gold covers and bows had been removed from the standard red banquet chairs. Rather than fancy food stations scattered throughout the room, three cream-skirted buffet stations ran down the center. The frescoed ceiling and ornate sconces still gave the room a castle-like feel. Gretchen was checking the expiration dates on milk cartons. Hotel staff were putting the finishing touches on the buffets, except for Armando, who stood chatting with Ted. The only thing Armando seemed attentive toward was the desserts, making me even more suspicious. No matter what dessert was being showcased this morning, I was eating at least two, maybe three. Ted’s watchful gaze followed me across the ballroom to where I joined Nigel at the coffee station.

  The doors still weren’t open, so I poured a cup of hot water and added three tea bags and some honey to kill the bitterness.

  “Thanks for the gift,” I told Nigel. “My room smells like an island getaway.” As did I.

  “You’re quite welcome. I didn’t believe you’d have time to make it to the spa, so I thought it best to bring the spa to you.” His chipper smile faded into a grim expression. “And still no clues on the missing product.”

  “I’m offering a two-thousand-koruna reward for any info.” I’d just made that decision. It sounded like a ton of money but was only around a hundred bucks. Cheaper than bailing myself out of jail. “Maybe one of your staff heard or saw something but is afraid to come forward.” I eyed Armando, straightening a cloth napkin at a place setting.

  “I’m still on it. This is far from finished.” Nigel snatched an envelope from a busing tray. “Here’s everything we have on our Stanton family history.”

  The envelope contained four sheets of paper. Not a lot to go on.

  “Photocopies?” I asked. “You certainly don’t want to entrust me with original documents.”

  “I trust you. But yes, they are copies. Do you charge an hourly rate or a flat fee?”

  “Ah, a flat fee.”

  “Will a three-hundred-dollar advance suffice?”

  “A hundred is fine.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short. What you lack in experience, you make up for in determination and passion. I can see the sparkle in your eyes when you talk about your research.”

  I smiled, appreciating the extra money, which would pay for the reward I was offering. I scanned his family tree. “Your grandparents were from Lancashire?”

  He nodded. “Have an aunt still there.”

  “Her name’s not Daly, is it?”

  He arched a curious brow. “No. Why?”

  Despite not wanting to get Nigel’s hopes up that I was some genealogist whiz, I told him about the success I’d had with my Coffey research and about my meeting with George Wood tonight. It might help to have Nigel know about my clandestine activity at the café in case I needed him to cover for me. Or if I was abducted and didn’t return, he’d know where I’d gone so everyone didn’t merely assume I’d hopped a plane home.

  Gretchen joined us and informed Nigel that soy milk was missing from the cereal station. He got right on it, marching off to the kitchen.

  Gretchen’s black winged eyeliner was outlined in emerald green today. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a wavy updo. Seriously. What time did she get up? I wasn’t even sure I’d combed my hair before throwing it up in a clip this morning. I had put on lip gloss and mascara—on both eyes, I hoped.

  She eyed the envelope in my hand. “What’s that?”

  “Nigel’s family history. I’m helping him with some research.”

  “Ancestry research?”

  “Yeah. I researched my grandma Coffey’s family.”

  She nodded. “That’s right. We went to that Coffey pub in Dublin. How’d you know Nigel’s interested in his family history?”

  “It came up in conversation.”

  Gretchen looked baffled how such a personal topic would have come up, as her interaction with staff revolved around outdated milk cartons or runny eggs. Unless a banquet server screwed up, she never even knew the staff’s names.

  “I was telling him about my grandma’s relatives I found in Ireland.”

  “You found living ones?”

  I nodded. “And dead ones.”

  Gretchen arched an intrigued brow. Like maybe she’d always dreamed of locating the wretched woman who’d abandoned her as a baby on some random doorstep in a basket. I had to think Gretchen’s nasty disposition was deeply rooted in childhood—and further fueled by work stress.

  Her features softened. “My sister always talks about researching our dad’s family. We know nothing about them. He died when I was ten.”

  Gretchen had a sister? Her dad had died when she was young? Sympathy tugged at my heart. A foreign and unnerving feeling when it came to Gretchen.

  She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut, a torn look on her face. Did she want to ask me to help research her dad’s family? No. Gretchen would never ask me for help. I couldn’t believe she’d confided in me in the first place. This was too weird and getting weirder the longer we stood there in silence.

  “What do you think about Chad?” I asked, changing the topic. “Could he have swiped the macaroons while he was watching the table? He might have found out Blair isn’t hiring him for future programs. Mindy mentioned an upcoming incentive trip in Monte Carlo, and he’d looked surprised, like he hadn’t known about it. Maybe he realized he was out.”

  Gretchen’s gaze narrowed. She assumed Declan was my source on Chad. “He wouldn’t steal the product. However, he spends all his time texting or surfing the web, so someone could easily have swiped it while he was goofing off.” She hesitated, then continued. “And you don’t have to worry. I don’t have a thing for Declan. I might have, but not anymore. I’m seeing someone.” She plastered on a reassuring smile, overcompensating. “He’s a friend. That’s it. He’s a tortured soul, and that’ll never change.”

  Gretchen didn’t know Declan had become a tortured soul when his wife, Shauna, died three years ago. In Paris he’d confided in me and sworn me to silence. I’d slipped up and told Rachel, which was how she’d discovered our relationship. It was a relief that we were no longer hiding it from Rachel or Gretchen. Sneaking around made me feel like our relationship was wrong.

  The doors opened, and attendees trickled in. Gretchen eyed the envelope in my hand, then headed over to greet people. I let out a relieved sigh, stashing Nigel’s family history under the coffee station, hoping it didn’t mysteriously disappear like the macaroons.

  A part of me—the crazy, insane part—debated offering to help Gretchen learn about her father’s family. Could I afford to turn down a client?

  Even if it was Gretchen?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Following breakfast, I saw Blair when the staff herded attendees into the opening session. I successfully avoided eye contact and felt an overwhelming sense of relief when the session started and she headed to the office. Mindy asked for my assistance with VIP room deliveries that Blair wouldn’t entrust to the bellstand.

  I told her about my delivery debacle in Paris. How the bellstand had picked up wineglasses without my knowledge when I’d forgotten to lock the office and delivered them without instructions. The gifts had ended up in the wrong rooms. Mindy and I laughed. I never thought I’d laugh about my mishaps. I was starting to feel like Declan with his stories.

  Our last delivery was Mr. Gauthier’s suite. It suddenly dawned on me. “You brought me with to help search his room, didn’t you?”

  “Now we have a valid excuse for being in there.”

  She must be hell-bent on proving this guy guilty if she was willing to enter the haunted suite.

  “We can’t search his suite.”

  “Please don’t make me go in there by myself.” Her blue eyes pleaded with me.

  “You’re afraid of ghosts, aren’t you?”

  “All right, I admit it. And I feel really shitty. I wasn’t busy that night
of the cricket. I was freaked out at the thought of going into the suite alone. I’m so sorry.”

  Mindy was to blame for Declan and me missing our romantic dinner? I couldn’t believe she’d done that. I’d prefer to resent Blair. I was ticked. However, Mindy looked petrified every time she went near the suite. She was genuinely freaked out by ghosts, not merely trying to pawn her work off on everyone, like Chad. And I owed her one after the slipper incident.

  “Fine, I’ll go in with you if you tell me why you’re so sure he’s guilty.”

  Mindy’s gaze sharpened. “Because he’s always so holier than thou, acting like he’s so much better than everyone when he’s cheating on his wife with Blair, of all women. And he acts like I’m invisible. I doubt he even knows my name. His English isn’t great, but he could still speak to me.”

  That made him guilty of poor taste in women, and lacking morals, but it didn’t make him a thief. I had to admit, I thought less of the guy for having an affair with Blair when he’d always seemed nice to me.

  “I’m not rifling through his undies drawer,” I said. “And if we do find the missing product, how are we going to explain that to Blair?”

  She shrugged. “It’s not like we broke in. I also need to see if the extra hangers we requested are in the closet and if housekeeping cleaned the fridge. Stuff I didn’t have time to double-check because he’d arrived earlier than expected. Besides, this guy had a private butler at a resort unpack his suitcase and pack his dirty clothes. He doesn’t care if people see his personal stuff.”

  Well, I didn’t want to see it.

  Mindy took an encouraging breath, and we stepped inside the suite. We placed an expensive Bohemian crystal vase on the cocktail table in the living room, with a note advising him that the company’s gift would be shipped to him, so he didn’t have to pack it. Once Mindy stuck him in the car to the airport, she’d have to scurry back up to the suite and secure the display vase.

  Luckily, he hadn’t yet packed and housekeeping hadn’t cleaned his room, since he was departing today. No cardboard boxes marked Ethan Hunt had been tossed in the garbage, and no macaroons in the cleaned fridge. An eerie feeling crawled across my skin. I glanced around, feeling like I was being watched, more from guilt than a ghost.

  Mindy walked out of the bedroom. “The safe is locked. I’d have to have engineering open—”

  “Engineering is not opening his safe. That would definitely be an invasion of privacy. Even out of the boxes, the product wouldn’t fit in the safe.”

  “Just because we didn’t find it doesn’t mean he didn’t swipe it.”

  “What about Chad?” I said. “He watched the desserts while I ran to the bathroom.”

  “What would his motive be?”

  I told her about Chad being on his way out.

  “I heard that like a year ago, and he’s still here.” She shrugged. “But who knows. You know I’d have hidden the product under the table also. You can’t feel bad about that.”

  As we were leaving the room, a bright light flashed. The black dots disappeared from in front of my eyes, and two guys came into focus. One was dressed in a camouflage jacket, the other in all black.

  “Sorry about that.” The camo guy had an American accent, craning his neck to see around me. “Just trying to get a picture of the haunted suite. Do you work here? Do you think we could sneak a peek?”

  “No,” Mindy snapped. “There’s a guest staying in there.”

  “We wouldn’t have to go inside…”

  Mindy pointed down the hallway. “Leave or I’m calling security.”

  The guy pressed his hands out in front of him. “Relax.”

  They strolled off toward the elevators, shooting us nasty looks over their shoulders as they turned the corner.

  “They’ll be back,” I said.

  Mindy nodded. “Call Blair and have her put security on alert. I have a departure in ten minutes. As much as I’d like Mr. Gauthier to find out his sweetie pie stuck him in a haunted suite, I don’t have the energy to deal with her crazy right now.” Mindy took off down the hall.

  I called Blair, who requested that I stay put and play bouncer. Security was busy. Mr. Gauthier would be back to his room after his presentation, to pack up and leave. Perfect. I could avoid Blair a bit longer. Hopefully, someone didn’t call hotel security to report me lurking around outside the suite.

  Since this would be my last visit to the room, I Googled the hotel’s haunted history. Sasha Petrov—the daughter of a Russian vodka tycoon—had died in the suite where she was staying on the eve of her wedding. Her mother had found her. It was an unsolved yet suspicious death. She’d been nineteen years old.

  Five years younger than me.

  My gaze slid to the suite’s door, a chill slithering up my back. Not only at the thought of this poor woman having been murdered on the other side of that door but also because the first time I’d entered the suite, I’d envisioned a man sipping a strong liquor, like vodka, while reading about prohibition in America. Sasha’s parents? That was insane. Yet a part of me wanted to see if I could find a photo of them online…

  Wait a sec. Petrov? Had this woman been related to Madam Petrov, Fritzie’s mom? Possibly sisters? Both the dog and his master looked like they came from old money. Was that why she’d been coming to the hotel for over fifty years? Hoping to make contact with her sister’s ghost? But then why wouldn’t she stay in the Presidential Suite? Because our group already had it booked? No, it hadn’t been part of our original room block. Interesting that Mr. Gauthier’s random act of kindness had endeared him to both Madam Petrov and Fritzie.

  Curious, I pulled up my Ancestry.com app to see if Sasha Petrov had a family tree mentioning a sister. When I didn’t find one, I Googled the family. Sasha Petrov had had a younger sister, Natalya, who’d now be close to ninety, around Madam Petrov’s age…

  I searched for Sasha’s death record, wondering how she’d died. A kidnapping gone bad? Had her fiancé been involved?

  The two inept yet determined ghost hunters were back, heading down the hallway toward me.

  “We decided this is public space, so we can hang out here,” the guy in the camouflage jacket said.

  The other guy nodded. “Yeah, Caity, we’re just gonna hang out.” He gestured to the vending machine in the alcove. “Get some snacks.” He held up his phone. “Watch Ghostbusters.”

  Great. Now these stalkers knew my name.

  Mr. Gauthier headed toward us, wearing a dark suit and an air of confidence, a sense of urgency in his stride. He was running late.

  My heart raced. “Here comes security. Just so you know, taking a picture of the inside of an occupied guest room is illegal here. So thanks for stopping back and saving him the trouble of having to hunt you guys down.”

  The guys exchanged panicked looks, then took off down the hallway, crossing paths with Mr. Gauthier.

  I gave myself a mental pat on the back.

  Mr. Gauthier peered over his shoulder at the guys disappearing around the corner. “Are you good?”

  I nodded. “They were on the wrong floor.”

  I advised him that I’d be walking him to his car.

  “That will not be necessary. But thank you for all of your assistance and efforts this meeting.”

  Efforts being my poor attempt at speaking French when most meeting staff probably didn’t even make an effort with a bonjour or merci.

  “My English, it is not so good.”

  “You’re English is much better than my French.”

  He smiled. “You are too kind.”

  He entered his suite, and I ducked into the alcove with the ice machine, not wanting to leave my post until he was gone. Ten minutes later, he left with his suitcase. I texted Mindy a heads-up that he was on his way. If he had the evidence, it was now leaving the hotel. With any luck, Mindy wouldn’t go off the deep end and tackle him to search his luggage. If she did, my gut told me she wouldn’t find the missing product. That Mr. Gauthie
r was not the thief.

  Then who was?

  * * *

  I reevaluated my short list of suspects as I headed toward the lunchroom to help Gretchen. I had to be missing a clue. Chad didn’t seem motivated enough to go to the trouble of planning a theft. If it’d been spur of the moment, he didn’t seem smart enough to not get caught. However, there were a lot of dumb thieves. Like the guy selling the prints out of the plastic garbage bag.

  Speaking of incompetent, lazy employees, Armando was rearranging paper napkins on the coffee station when I entered the ballroom. He was definitely still a suspect.

  “So your grandpa never knew his father?” Gretchen asked Nigel, sounding genuinely intrigued by his family history.

  He shook his head. “According to family lore, his father was of royalty, and married. My mother would love to prove she has blue blood running through her veins, even if he was illegitimate.”

  Gretchen peered over at me. “Could you go get more product from the cooler? Ted needs to keep a watch on what’s displayed, and his team is outside all the breakout rooms.” She handed me the key.

  She was so enthralled by Nigel’s family history she was trusting me to get the product?

  Nigel sent my buddy Armando to assist me.

  Maybe my sense of doom and panic that first day in the iron-barred cage had been a premonition of what was to come. My involvement with the missing product, not me going to jail. Hopefully. After stacking five boxes on the server’s cart, I turned to head out, tripping over two boxes. Why had someone set those in the middle of the floor?

  Ethan Hunt was written on them in black marker.

  Omigod. “The missing macaroons,” I muttered.

  I shot Armando a suspicious look.

  “What?” he said innocently, yet his face paled.

  I snatched the boxes off the floor. “How did the missing macaroons get back in the cooler?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe you never took them out.”

  Ugh! He sounded like Gretchen.