by Eliza Watson
“I took them out.”
One box had been opened. I counted the product inside to find one missing. Great. I padlocked the cage and clutched the boxes against my chest as I marched toward the ballroom, Armando rolling his cart behind me. I made a beeline over to Gretchen, motioning Nigel to join us.
“Look what materialized in the cooler,” I said.
Gretchen’s eyes widened with surprise. “Thank God.”
I couldn’t believe she wasn’t questioning if the boxes had been there the entire time, like Armando had.
“However, one piece is missing,” I said.
Gretchen shook her head, rolling her eyes. “Figures.”
“This is most disturbing,” Nigel said. “Someone would have needed my key to access the cooler, which is kept in my office when I’m not here. I share my office with two coworkers. I can’t guarantee the door has never been left unsecured. But I can assure you that I will get to the bottom of this.”
I handed Gretchen our key, never wanting to be responsible for it again.
“Show Blair you found the product,” Gretchen said.
I headed to the office, excited to clear my name. Blair was alone at her desk, madly typing away on her laptop. “I hope you haven’t told the client about the missing macaroons. I found them. Well, all but one piece. Actually, they found their way back to the cooler. And trust me—they weren’t there last night.”
Blair’s dark-eyed gaze narrowed on the box. “One piece is still missing? I’m going to pretend like I didn’t just hear that. Thank God I hadn’t mentioned it yet. So it was someone with the hotel if they turned up in the cooler. Unless someone picked the lock.”
I nodded. “And I’m going to figure out who.”
“Have security destroy the product.”
After all of that, I was having them destroyed?
“Nothing is being shipped back. Packaging doesn’t need to be shredded, since it’s generic. It’s now security’s problem.”
Except finding the thief was still my problem.
This was far from over.
I marched back into the ballroom straight over to Ted and handed him the product.
“Where’d you find it?” he asked.
“In the cooler.”
He eyed me with suspicion. “It just materialized in the cooler?”
“Yes, it did. Armando was with me when I found it.”
His stern features relaxed slightly. “Doesn’t matter. Meeting is done today. Just glad we got the product back.”
“Yeah, it does matter. I’m not guilty. You need to find out who is so everyone knows I didn’t do it.” I needed more business from Blair’s company even if I didn’t care to work with her again. And I hoped the staff would recommend me for jobs.
He shrugged. “I fly out in the morning.”
What happened to his secret-agent attitude?
“Aren’t the local police going to want this solved?”
He shook his head. “We didn’t involve them. Wanted it to stay under the radar.”
I marched over to Nigel. “I’m raising the reward to three thousand korunas. Even though it won’t do me any good if a ghost took the product.”
He quirked an inquisitive brow. “Would a ghost be able to eat macaroons?”
“What would a ghost need with a vase or a sculpture?”
Nigel’s gaze narrowed with interest. “How did you know about those thefts?”
“Oscar.” Now I’d have two servers out to get me. “Forget I said that. I didn’t mean to get him in trouble.”
“Oh, he’s in trouble all right. Only upper management and security were aware of those thefts. And, of course, the thief.”
Our gazes darted to Oscar. The kind server who’d snuck me rumaki and came to my rescue at the VIP dinner. Nigel and I marched over to the man, who gave us a cheery hello.
“Pray tell, how did you know about the theft of the Presidential Suite’s vase and sculpture?” Nigel asked.
Oscar’s smile vanished. “Someone told me.”
“Who?” Nigel demanded.
Oscar’s panicked gaze skittered back and forth while he scrambled for a response. When he couldn’t come up with one, he took off across the ballroom, toward the back exit. Nigel and I raced after him.
“Stop him,” I yelled out to Gretchen as the server was about to escape out the door.
Gretchen bolted in front of Oscar, and they collided. She fell on her butt. Oscar stumbled backward. As he regained his balance, I grabbed hold of the bottom of his suit jacket. He attempted to shrug himself free, his arms getting stuck in the sleeves behind his back. It was straight out of a cheesy whodunit TV show.
Ted raced over and secured the guy.
I got in Oscar’s face. “Why’d you take the macaroons?”
“I didn’t take them,” he said.
“Then why’d you run?” Ted asked.
“I was afraid nobody would believe me and I’d be blamed.”
I could relate to that.
“Yes, he took them,” Armando said. “And I saw him with the vase.”
Oscar’s face reddened with anger. “My pay is meager. I ask for a raise, and I never get it. I am one of the only staff who is not afraid of ghosts and will go into the haunted suite, yet no raise. It’s not right.”
“So why’d you put the macaroons back?” Gretchen asked.
“Because I thought he saw me take them.” Oscar gestured to Armando.
“Where’s the missing piece of product?” I asked.
Oscar wore a sheepish expression. “I ate it.”
“How can you prove you ate it and aren’t going to sell it?” I said.
“Let’s pump his stomach,” Gretchen said.
Oscar gasped in horror.
My gaze darted to Gretchen. “Are you serious?”
She nodded, stepping toward the server. “I’ll do it myself if I have to.”
Oscar pulled a small silver package with the words Ethan Hunt from his jacket pocket and whipped it on the ground in front of Gretchen. She snatched it up with a sense of triumph.
“How did you know he still had it?” I asked. “Did you see it in his pocket?”
Gretchen shrugged. “I had no clue he had it. I was just pissed he’d eaten one and wanted to scare him.”
I smiled at her. “Good job.”
She nodded. “You too.”
I glared at Oscar. “I can’t believe you’d have let me take the fall for it.” And that Armando hadn’t been guilty.
Oscar shrugged without apology.
Nigel’s gaze sharpened on Armando. “Why didn’t you tell me all of this?”
“He is the director’s son. But I just confirmed he’s guilty. So I get the reward, right?” Armando asked eagerly.
I gave him an incredulous look. “No, you don’t get the reward. You didn’t come forward willingly with the info.”
“We should get a reward,” Gretchen said, gesturing to me.
“Yes, we should.” I peered over at Nigel.
He gave us a palms up. “Sorry. Seeing as it was not public knowledge, there was no reward being offered. I would be more than happy to give you a sugar bowl and creamer set to match your teacup.”
I shot Ted a victorious grin, having proven my innocence in both the macaroon and teacup thefts.
Chapter Sixteen
I finished work ten minutes before I was due to meet George Wood. A nervous feeling fluttered in my chest as I entered the trendy café filled with fashionably dressed locals and tourists. I brushed a hand down the front of my wrinkled suit jacket and over my name badge. I shoved the badge in my purse. I swiped clear gloss across my lips. The place was a major contrast to Le Haute Bohème and old-world Prague. Groupings of white leather button-tuck chairs and low-sitting couches surrounded purple plastic-molded cocktail tables. Purple leather stools lined a white bar with purple uplighting. At least there was no loud techno thumping music.
A short gray-haired man dressed in a preppy green sweat
er, a collared shirt, tan slacks, and a gray wool hat resting on his knee sat alone on a couch in a corner, looking out of place and quite uncomfortable. Based on his anxious gaze glued to the door, he was either waiting for a hot date or me. Any fear I had of being abducted by an online psycho vanished.
Our gazes met, and he pushed himself up from the couch, standing just a few inches taller than me. He greeted me with a warm smile and enveloped my hands in his, giving them a gentle squeeze, introducing himself.
I eyed the couch. “I’m so sorry. Would you like to go somewhere else?”
“Nonsense. This place is quite exquisite. And it’s hopping.” He had a casual appearance compared to Nigel, yet a refined air about him.
I sat on the couch, and he joined me.
“Thank you so much for meeting,” he said.
“Thank you for taking the train over from Vienna. I’d love to travel by train in Europe sometime.”
I’d once taken Amtrak from Milwaukee to Chicago for a shopping spree on the Magnificent Mile. The charges were probably still sitting on my credit card.
He fidgeted with the brim of his gray wool cap. “Ah, I must admit—I didn’t take the train from Vienna. I flew in from England. I feared you might find it an odd thing to do, come this far to meet with you.”
I found it odd he hadn’t told me the truth from the beginning. Why had he lied? The nervous fluttering returned to my chest.
I managed a smile. “Not at all.”
Flames shot up from the table next to us, startling me. A fire danced around inside two glasses with spoons resting across the tops. A woman snapped shots of her male companion pretending he was going to drink the flaming liquor. I took a pic. The waitress snuffed out the flames with a plate.
“Merely a show to impress the tourists,” George said. “Not the traditional means for drinking absinthe.”
“Sorry. I didn’t realize this is an absinthe bar.”
“Many Prague bars serve the liquor. Mostly to entice tourists, I’d think. I shall stick with a local hard cider.”
He flagged down a waitress, and we both ordered cider, my preferred drink in Ireland.
We already had something in common.
Starving, I suggested an extensive array of appetizers, my treat. Besides working crazy long hours, I deserved a bonus for capturing the macaroon thief.
“I can’t wait to hear about my grandma and her husband John Michael Daly. Do you know where they lived?”
He nodded. “I do indeed.” He removed an envelope containing pictures from his jacket pocket and handed it to me.
“Oh shoot, I have a photo of my grandma and her sister that I should have brought. I’ll send you a copy.”
Anticipation raced through me as I slipped the photos from the envelope. The top one was of a historical manor on a sprawling estate filled with massive trees and a fancy garden. Not quite as grand as Downton Abbey but larger than the Daly estate in Killybog. You could fit twenty of Grandma’s humble Irish stone cottages into this stately home. I could picture her and John Michael on the lawn enjoying afternoon tea and a leisurely game of croquet. I’d like to believe that they’d finally found some peace together before he was taken so unexpectedly.
“This home is incredible,” I said. “Does the Daly family still live there?”
“Yes, I’ve spent my entire life on the estate. You must visit sometime.”
“Omigosh, I’d love to.”
The Daly estate was now number one on my bucket list.
The next pic was of a gravestone. The inscription read John Michael Daly.
“What a beautiful grave.”
The tombstone’s statue was mesmerizing. A man with feathered wings fanned out from his back floated just off the ground, embracing a woman, about to kiss her for the last time. She was clinging to him, trying to prevent him from leaving. I envisioned it as Grandma having to let go of her husband after they’d fought all odds to be together. The only thing their love couldn’t endure was death.
My eyes glassed over with tears.
“It is quite lovely, isn’t it?”
I nodded.
It might sound crazy, and a bit morbid, but visiting my Coffey family graves in Killybog had been one of the highlights of my trip.
The waitress returned with our pints.
“Here’s to new friends,” George said.
We clinked glasses.
I took a sip of the familiar sweet apple taste, reminiscent of Flanagan’s cider ale, a comforting feeling washing over me.
The next pic was a black-and-white one of Grandma and her husband dressed in the same outfits as their engagement photo. A couple stood next to them admiring the baby in Grandma’s arms, dressed in a long white gown and cap.
“That was my christening,” George said.
I glanced up at him. “My grandma was your godmother?”
He slowly shook his head, a sense of hesitation in his gray eyes. His breathing quickened, causing a faint whistling sound between his lips. He took a deep breath, and the whistling stopped. “No, she was actually…my biological mother.”
My brow narrowed in confusion. “Your mother?”
He nodded. After taking a drink of ale, he took an encouraging breath. “I was raised by Isabella Daly and Henry Wood, my godparents in that photo. Before my mother Isabella passed away eight years ago, she shared a family secret kept for the duration of my life. That my parents were Bridget Coffey and my mother’s cousin John Michael Daly.”
My heart raced.
Grandma had another child?
Mom had a half brother?
I had a half uncle?
Maybe I’d take an absinthe after all.
“I see she never mentioned me.” He sounded disappointed yet not surprised. “I had no siblings or close relatives to share the news with, merely my wife, Diana. So I was quite overjoyed when I received your reply confirming Bridget Coffey was your grandmother. When I learned of my real parents, I visited my father’s grave but didn’t know where to begin searching for my mother. Isabella had heard she’d immigrated to America. That was all she knew. I found her Ellis Island record, but”—his voice filled with emotion—“then her trail disappeared after that.” George’s eyes watered, and his cheeks flushed.
I placed a trembling hand gently on his.
“I’d like the chance to get to know my biological mother’s family. I’m so glad we found each other.”
My research hadn’t impacted merely my immediate family’s life, but also George’s. His questions would have gone unanswered had I not happened upon that forum and posted a message four months ago.
George shifted on the couch, looking unnerved by my silence, rather than uncomfortable with his seating.
“You have her heart-shaped face,” I said. “Like Rachel and me.”
He smiled, massaging his jawline. “I often wonder how different my life would be had I been raised in Ireland or America.”
Mine certainly would have been different if I’d been raised on an English estate. But I knew from Downton Abbey that even estates had financial troubles. Just because he lived in an elaborate historical home didn’t mean he was wealthy. However, it certainly didn’t appear to be in disrepair. It looked like it should be part of an English stately home and garden tour.
“Did you know her?” George asked. “Your grandmother?”
A text chimed on my phone, and I jumped.
You had to be kidding.
“Excuse me just a second,” I said. “So sorry. I’m on call.” I slipped the phone from my suit pocket. Blair.
All hands on deck in the office.
It was 9:00 p.m. I deserved a few hours off before I took a nap and returned to work tomorrow morning. Besides, was I really on call 24/7? Once I was released for the day, shouldn’t I be done? It wasn’t like I got overtime pay or even a thank-you from Blair when I’d answered her crazy cricket text or her call to greet Mr. Gauthier when I’d been informed we had the night off. She’d
said good night when we left the office tonight, so I planned to have a good one.
George peered anxiously at me. He’d waited eight years to learn about the mother he’d never known. I’d only waited two weeks for Declan’s friend Peter to locate my Coffey rellies, and it had seemed like forever. I wasn’t making George wait any longer.
If I didn’t reply to Blair’s text, I could later claim I’d been in a dead zone and hadn’t received it for hours. Or did I tell the truth, that I’d had a family emergency? Either way, Blair would be ticked. So I decided to be honest. Maybe she’d respect that I’d told her the truth.
In middle of family emergency. I’m sorry.
I’d likely just sealed my fate for future business from Blair, her colleagues, and every planner she knew.
“If you must leave, I fully understand.”
“No, I’m fine.” Heart thumping, I turned off my phone. “Unfortunately, I was only seven when my grandma died, so I don’t have a lot of memories, but the ones I do have are wonderful. My sister, Rachel, and I used to drink tea from a lovely teacup collection that lined Grandma’s windowsills.”
He relaxed back on the couch. “How very Irish of her.”
“I recently discovered they were from her Flannery family’s porcelain factory.”
“Do you still have the collection?”
I nodded. “I’ll e-mail you photos and you can select a few. I’ll send them to you.”
He smiled appreciatively. “That would be lovely.”
“We used to wear her aprons while helping her bake. She made the best bread. Probably Irish brown bread and a family recipe, but we didn’t know it at the time. It was dense, yet soft and crumbly, with a crunchy crust.”
He closed his eyes, a contented smile on his face. “I can taste the bread as we speak. Do you still have the recipe by chance? My wife is quite the baker.”
“My aunt does. We just learned about my grandma’s Irish background a few months ago.”
“You weren’t aware she was Irish?”
“We were, but she never discussed her life in Ireland.” I left out the part that she’d claimed her entire family in Ireland was dead, since that would also have included George. I didn’t want the poor man to think that he’d been dead to her, and I didn’t want to believe he had. I needed to believe she’d thought about him every day. “We never knew her relatives’ names until she died and we found letters from her sister Theresa. My mom was pretty upset. After I learned my grandma’s first husband, your father, died of TB, she became a bit more understanding about her mother’s emotional distance.”