Retreat

by J. F. Gonzalez

  Just one more night. She’d been expecting more catcalling, more verbal and physical harassment, but none of that happened. If anything, Shane and Jackie were aloof, like wolves watching over a flock of sheep.

  Alex Lillywhite was on hand at this evening’s dinner service as well, roaming the dining area, talking to the guests, greeting them as they arrived. He made his presence known in the kitchen as Chef Munchel and his crew prepared high-quality meals that would cost astronomically in most five-star restaurants. Anna had never eaten Chef Munchel’s food—like the rest of the lower echelon staff, she was forced to eat at the bar-and-grill on the other side of the Bent Creek grounds—but the presentation and aroma of the dishes he prepared was mouth watering. The fact that she had to serve it would have been torture on an empty stomach.

  Entrees for table number five came up, and Anna brought them out. She was serving them—two couples, a pair of Wall Street bankers and their wives—when the hostess seated a new couple at table number seven. Anna approached table number seven with a smile, noting it was Mitch and Cindy Johnson. They were well-dressed tonight, Mitch in a three-piece black suit, Cindy in a matching wine-colored evening dress, her blonde hair cut and styled to flow naturally across her shoulders.

  “Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson,” Anna said with a smile. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

  Mitch and Cindy smiled at her. “A bottle of Cabernet would be wonderful,” Mitch said.

  “Very good.” Anna bowed slightly and left.

  She could feel Mitch and Cindy’s gaze on her as she left the table. Last evening, after dinner service, the Johnson’s had invited Anna to their suite for a few drinks. They’d made the offer casually, discreetly, as if they were aware of the rules that Bent Creek employees were not allowed to socialize with the guests, even during their off hours, on their own time. Anna had been a little taken aback by it, but Mitch had been persistent. Mitch Johnson was an incredibly handsome man, tall, well-built, with a sunny disposition that gave his handsome features a slightly boyish look. Cindy looked like she could step out of the pages of a Playboy centerfold. She’d wondered if that interest from them was sexual in nature. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d gotten strong, subliminal sexual messages from clients at Bent Creek, or anywhere else for that matter; she knew the signs, had followed up on them in the past when the mood struck her. Like with Rick.

  Last night had been no exception. Only she hadn’t allowed the Johnson’s to seduce her.

  She’d seduced them.

  The Johnson’s were doing a fine job of being inconspicuous about last night’s ménage `a trois. They’d barely glanced at Anna during breakfast service today, and now, during dinner service, their demeanors showed no overt signs that anything had occurred between the three of them last night. Anna kept a poker face as she bustled through dinner service, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts as she smiled, chatted amicably with the guests, and took orders.

  Anna called the Johnson’s wine order out to Martin. When he delivered the bottle and the wine flutes, he asked, “What are you smiling at?”

  “The thought that tonight’s our last night here,” Anna said. Martin chuckled at that as Anna lifted the Johnson’s drink order on her serving tray and headed back to their table.

  * * *

  Another late night.

  Rick sat slumped behind his desk in his office, his mind racing. His fingers drummed on the desk in nervous anticipation.

  It was the last night of the season. Tomorrow the majority of the guests would check out, leaving a handful of the very high-rollers left, who had paid for use of the grounds for their private party, for which they’d retained the services of Chef Munchel. Tomorrow would be a day off for Rick, but the skeleton crew staff, hand-picked by Wayne Sanders, would be on hand for clean-up. Two days from now, Friday night, would be the inaugural kick off of the private event, which was to last four days. The private party would leave Tuesday morning and Rick and the staff would depart with them, leaving Wayne Sanders and the board members to shut down the premises until next season.

  That gave Rick at least one full day to himself. There was nothing in his contract that called for him to remain on Bent Creek grounds during that day, either. He’d been reading over his contract all afternoon to make sure. The terms did not specifically prohibit him from taking his day off on company property, but neither did it state he had to stay.

  It’s a six hour drive, he thought. I can snag a few cans of Red Bull, leave tonight before the season’s dinner service ends and be home by dawn. I can take care of my business in town later in the morning after a short nap, then be back on the road to Bent Creek by late afternoon.

  It was a good plan.

  And it would give him time to think about other things.

  Rick glanced at the manila file folder on his desk, the one Paul Westcott had given to him earlier that day. The file contained information on the Brian Gaiman case. Rick picked the file up and leafed through it, frowning. He was still bothered by the missing money, by Brian’s sudden disappearance. During last year’s season, the staff had worked like a tightly-wound watch; everything had ticked by accordingly, on time, like a metronome. This season...well, it was shambles compared to the previous year. Rick took great pride in his work. To have such a brazen theft conducted under his watch and then to have an employee disappear within the same time frame, was a serious blow to how he managed employees and ran the operation. He was afraid this mishap would reflect badly on his performance bonus—that money was greatly needed by Rick. He’d been using most of his income to help his mother, who was sick from cancer, and which medicare was not providing adequate coverage for her treatment. Rick was in a serious financial hole because of it, and the performance bonus would shore it up, plug up the leaks.

  Of course, the theft would affect Paul Westcott’s performance bonus too. But Paul Westcott was the least of his worries.

  I have to operate on the assumption this will affect things, he thought as he closed the file, opened one of his file drawers at his desk and found a spot for the documents. If that’s the case, I need to leave tonight, get to Denver by dawn, get a few hours sleep, then start calling in some favors. Then I can head back up here, finish my duties, and be done with this place by this time next week and never come back.

  It was a plan. It was solid. The more Rick thought about it, turned it over in his mind, the better he felt.

  He thought about Anna briefly, then put her out of his mind. Anna had been a mistake. She was wise to not respond to the vibes he’d put out to her after their one-night stand. It never should have happened, but she was attractive. And, he thought, she’d been attracted to him. She’d certainly been friendly around him during department meetings, and the few times he’d sat with her and a bunch of the other wait staff in the bar-and-grill, she’d seemed gregarious, friendly. The kind of girl he liked.

  But then five nights ago, one thing had led to another in the employee lounge, and they’d managed to discreetly get away from their fellow employees and wound up in his suite. Anna had told him even then as they wrapped themselves together that she wasn’t serious about him—she was just looking to have some fun. Blow off steam. Part of him was into that as well. But then another part of him wanted a bigger connection, something more. It was that smaller part that had tried to follow up with her in the days that followed, only to be subtly rebuffed. The more Rick thought about it, the more he realized it was for the best. With everything going on in his life, he simply didn’t have time for a relationship. And he finally realized that Anna probably didn’t have time to pursue one, either.

  That decided things for him. Rick shut his computer down, then turned the lights off in his office and closed the door behind him when he left. He made his way to the executive suite of the employee area of the resort, confident that things were going to work out.

  * * *

  It didn’t take Rick long to pack a quick over-night bag. He stuffed un
derwear, clothing for tomorrow, and his toiletries into his small duffel bag. He’d already changed into faded blue jeans, a tan polo shirt, white socks and tennis shoes. His Blackberry was charged up. He had his eye-glasses, which he wore for driving at night. Now all he needed was some Red Bull for the road.

  His car was in the lot adjacent to the employee executive suites. The closest kiosk where he could buy Red Bull was at the employee gift shop, which was in the opposite direction. Rick pocketed his key card and exited his room.

  When he reached the kiosk he headed straight for the soft drink section. He picked out four cans of Red Bull and paid for them with cash. The cashier, a bored-looking Hispanic woman, snapped at her chewing gum. “Last night, Mr. Nicholson.”

  “Yep,” Rick said. “How’s things going, Jen?”

  “Kinda slow.”

  “Be sure to keep things open until two a.m.,” Rick reminded her.

  “I will,” Jen said. “You working that private thing?”

  “Yeah. I wish I was going home tomorrow like you, though.”

  Jen laughed and smacked her gum. “You want to sneak out tomorrow morning, I’ll give you a ride.”

  Rick laughed with her. “Any other time, I’d take you up on that offer. But duty calls.”

  “That’s why you make the big bucks.”

  “So they tell me.” Rick stepped away from the counter. “Have a good one, Jen.”

  “You too, Rick. You coming back next year?”

  “Probably.” It was best to keep future plans vague, giving everybody the sense that he’d most likely be back. “You?”

  “Of course. Money isn’t bad, and I get free room and board for the summer. You know what I’m sayin?”

  “I do. See you, Jen. Take care of yourself.”

  “You too, Rick.”

  Rick exited the kiosk just as Wayne Sanders was entering it. Both men stopped in their tracks. Rick was surprised to see Wayne in the employee wing of Bent Creek. He’d never known the board of directors to venture where the commoners lived. “Wayne!”

  “Just the man I was coming to see,” Wayne said. The sudden surprise at running into Rick was gone from Wayne’s face. “I’ve got something I need to talk to you about.”

  “Sure,” Rick said, feeling a momentary sense of trepidation. He didn’t want to invite Wayne back to his suite—if the CEO saw the packed duffel bag, he might ask questions. “What’s up?”

  Wayne hadn’t even bothered to look at the brown paper bag Rick was holding. His attention was directed wholly on Rick’s face. “There’s been another theft,” Wayne said, his voice low. “Three hundred thousand in cash.”

  Rick felt dumbstruck by the news. A worm of unease began to gnaw at his stomach. “What? This is...this is insane!”

  “Paul alerted me to the theft thirty minutes ago,” Wayne said. His gray eyes were narrow flints as they focused on Rick. “Once again, it was a theft from one of the rooms. A Mr. and Mrs. Westlake. They were going to use the cash to buy a rare piece of art in Casper tomorrow. They’d just checked the money out of the hotel safe this morning and it was sitting in an envelope on a desk in their suite. They went out riding this afternoon, then ate dinner at the roadhouse in town.” The roadhouse was a high-class steak-house outside of Bent Creek grounds. Many times, clients who were into horseback riding ate at the roadhouse more for the atmosphere than the food, which was really pretty good. Rick had eaten a meal there himself a few times. “When they returned from dinner at nine, they noticed the envelope was missing.”

  “What do you want from me?” Rick asked.

  “Their room is being searched now and they’ve been questioned,” Wayne said. “I would like you to communicate to your direct reports that nobody is to leave until Paul’s team has questioned the entire staff and searched their rooms.”

  “You really think an employee is responsible for the theft?”

  “It has to be somebody in housekeeping with key card access,” Wayne said. He looked grim. “We’re not taking any chances, though. It could be anybody on staff.

  Rick nodded. “I agree. I’ll put out the word now.” He began to head in the opposite direction, toward the Administrative wing.

  “Mr. Nicholson?”

  Rick stopped. “Yes?”

  “I apologize for putting a dent in your night off,” Wayne said. His features were unreadable. His bald pate shined beneath the florescent lights that lit the hallway. “I’d appreciate it if you could assist in the supervision of the questioning of your direct reports’ staff members.”

  “No problem,” Rick said. He hefted the bag to get a firm grip. “The Red Bull I picked up for my office fridge will come in handy tonight.”

  Wayne nodded. “Very good. I’ve arranged for a quick meeting at ten p.m. in the conference room to provide updates.”

  “I’ll be there,” Rick said.

  As Rick headed down the hall toward the Administrative wing, his spirits soured. This was going to destroy his plans. There was no way he could wiggle out of this one. Worst case scenario, he would be up until the early hours of the morning dealing with this. There was no way he’d be up to a five-hour drive home to Boulder. He wasn’t even sure he’d be able to sneak off the grounds and be back in time for the preparation of the private event. He was stuck at Bent Creek until the board of directors shut down the facilities.

  I can call them tomorrow, Rick thought as he walked down the hall. I can call the key people I need to speak with, maybe try to arrange some kind of meeting or conference call. That can at least get the ball rolling.

  Rick turned this over in his mind as he headed toward the Administrative wing, knowing he had to stay on top of this crisis if he wanted to avert the very personal one that was beginning to destroy his personal life.

  CHAPTER 12

  Thursday, Eight A.M.

  Anna King trailed her roll-away suitcase behind her as she approached the lobby. She had dressed lightly but comfortably in baggy jeans, a loose-fitting blouse, and tennis shoes. Her hair wasn’t bound up in a pony-tail per service regulations, but was spilled over her shoulders. She was wearing a baseball cap. She clutched a small purse in her left hand. She was carrying a black backpack that contained her laptop, notebook, and some of her other things. She’d entered Bent Creek grounds with the same amount of personal stuff she was exiting it with. No sense in leaving with more than you arrived with. Anna didn’t believe in saddling yourself with unnecessary vacation trinkets or souvenirs. What was the point?

  Anna stood outside the bank of elevators that had deposited her on the first floor. She looked up and down the marble-lined hall and lobby. Between the elevators and the front desk, which was set in an alcove-like area to her right, a door led to the Administration area of Bent Creek corporate. Anna doubted anybody was at work this morning; all the big-wigs had been up until the wee hours of the morning, assisting with the mass questioning of the employees regarding a theft. Beyond the entrance to corporate lay the front desk of the hotel. Two desk clerks manned it. Standing in front of the desk were two guests, a middle-aged couple, checking out. The man was replacing his wallet in his coat, his wife picked up a bag and placed it on the luggage rack. A bellboy stood waiting to cart the luggage outside. The lobby’s lounge was empty—nobody sat in the chairs reading newspapers, sipping coffee, making small talk. Anna thought at the very least a few of her fellow serfs would have tried to get a jump on leaving early, but it had been a very late night for all of them. Last night of the season meant the guests had pushed things to the limit. The bars, dance club, and restaurants had stayed open until two a.m., and after closing, those that had not been subject to questioning of the theft had to take a trip to Paul Westcott or Rick Nicholson’s office to talk to security. Many had been forced to wait their turn outside the Administrative area. Anna had been questioned by one of Paul’s security team in a small conference room at close to four a.m. She’d stayed awake and alert by drinking coffee. By the time she got back to her roo
m and crashed, she’d been too wired mentally to fall asleep. Her body screamed for sleep, but her mind kept her awake, racing with the implications and possibilities of everything—her services last night, the brazen theft, dealing with Rick, the questioning, her anxiousness at finally leaving this place and awaiting her final check—it all swam inside her mind, each item demanding her attention.

  At some point she must have slept because the next thing she knew her alarm was buzzing; she’d set it for six-thirty. She sprang out of bed and, after a quick shower and change of clothes, she hurriedly packed her belongings and slipped out of her room. Following the close of dinner service, she was technically off duty. She wasn’t working the private party—she would have been alerted late last night by Alex at the close of her shift and that hadn’t happened—so she was out of here.

  With the coast clear, Anna began heading toward the lobby. She heard the ping of the elevator behind her and she kept going—it was probably a guest checking out. Staff members didn’t have to check out, so Anna did not need to stop at the front desk. The elevator opened behind her and Anna was almost at the end of the elevator bank when she heard Bob Garrison’s distinctive voice call her name.

  Anna stopped and looked back. Bob had just exited one of the elevators. He was dressed in a pair of tan shorts and a white polo shirt, white socks and tennis shoes, as if he were out for a morning game of tennis. He smiled at her. “I was hoping I’d see you before you left,” he said. “I’m sorry we didn’t get much of a chance to talk during dinner service last night. It was pretty hectic in there last night.”

  “Yes, it was,” Anna said, recovering quickly from her surprise. She warmed up to Bob, returning his smile. “I’m sorry, too, but it really was a busy night. Did you enjoy your last evening?”