Alessandra had lied, and that didn’t feel great. Lizbet should have been more guarded during their interview, but Alessandra had charmed her—bringing Lizbet a sandwich when she knew she was interviewing right before lunch. How canny! How clever! (How manipulative!) And then she’d dodged the questions about her references. This manager retired, this one died, there is no one in all of Europe who can vouch for my performance. Lizbet had called all four of the hotels listed on the résumé, and only at one hotel—the Grand Hotel Tremezzo—had she found someone who could verify that yes, Alessandra Powell had worked there for two years, but no, nobody was around at that moment who had known Alessandra personally. Lizbet left messages at the other three hotels and is waiting for them to call back—though what is she going to do now? Fire Alessandra? The woman is exceedingly professional on the desk, and she’s stunning to look at. She’s beautiful enough to get away with murder.
Lizbet is about to start her shift on the night desk (they need a night auditor!) when she realizes she saw everyone on her staff leave the hotel except Alessandra.
Lizbet cracks open the door to the break room. Alessandra is standing at the pinball machine gyrating her hips like she’s making love to the thing, and the machine is dinging and flashing its lights like it’s enjoying it. The jukebox is playing “Same Old Situation” by M?tley Crüe, which Lizbet hasn’t heard since she listened to 92 KQRS back in the Twin Cities growing up.
When the game is over—Alessandra must be pretty good, because it lasts longer than half the men Lizbet has been with—and the song changes to “Highway to Hell” by AC/DC (nearly every song on the jukebox is from the previous century), Alessandra steps up to the soft-serve ice cream machine and swirls herself a gigantic bowl of chocolate. She digs in like she hasn’t eaten in days.
“Hey,” Lizbet says, stepping into the room.
Alessandra blinks. Her wavy apricot-colored hair falls over one shoulder.
“We haven’t really had a chance to chat,” Lizbet says.
“Chat?” Alessandra says. Her spoon hovers over the peak of ice cream.
Lizbet considers confronting Alessandra with her lie about Mack and the Beach Club, but she doesn’t, because the fact is, she can’t afford for Alessandra to get defensive and quit. “I thought maybe we could get to know each other a little?” Lizbet hears how hokey this sounds, even pandering, as though she’s sucking up to the most popular girl at school. Can we please be friends? She changes tacks. “Would you like me to call you an Uber? Where are you living?”
“I don’t need an Uber, I can walk. I’m living on Hulbert Avenue.”
Hulbert Avenue? Lizbet thinks. That’s the most exclusive address in town; all of those homes front the harbor. “Nice,” Lizbet says. “Are you renting on Hulbert?”
“I have a friend with a house,” Alessandra says.
“I didn’t realize you knew anyone here.”
“It’s a new friend.” Alessandra holds Lizbet’s gaze and licks ice cream off the back of her spoon. “Someone I met on the boat over here.”
Whaaaa? Lizbet thinks. Alessandra met someone on the boat and now has a place to live on Hulbert? “Wow, lucky you,” Lizbet says. Her voice sounds a little arch, so she tries to soften it. “How was your first day?”
Alessandra gives Lizbet a pointed look that seems to say, Please go away and leave me to my ice cream. “It was a day.”
Lizbet changes into white jeans, a hydrangea-blue blouse, and—ahh—a pair of running shoes. She steps out to the desk and observes evening settling over the lobby. Golden, syrupy sunlight pours in through the open front doors, and guests head out to dinner—though, of course, not as many guests as Lizbet would like. The lobby feels a bit like a badly attended party. What can she do to increase occupancy? The hotel isn’t cheap—it shouldn’t be cheap—but it’s slightly less expensive than their competitors are. Lizbet decides to reach out to every media outlet, all those places that fawningly covered the Deck. It would be nice to have some help from Xavier, but he doesn’t seem concerned that their numbers are low. He cares only about the fifth key.
Kimber Marsh’s son, Louie (the name completely suits the little dude; in his seersucker shorts and pressed white polo, he’s both cute and formal, like a child king), wanders into the lobby alone, settles at one of the chessboards, and begins moving pieces. Lizbet watches him for a second, wondering if Kimber will appear. Mr. and Mrs. Stamm from room 303 stop by him on their way out the door.
“You really know what you’re doing,” Mr. Stamm says to Louie. “How old are you?”
Louie doesn’t look up. “Six and a half.”
Mr. Stamm chuckles and says to his wife, “A prodigy.”
Louie moves his white rook and says, “Checkmate.” He turns to Mr. Stamm. “Do you want to play?”
Mr. Stamm laughs. “I’m on my way out right now, but maybe tomorrow, how about that?”
Louie shrugs and the Stamms leave. Lizbet considers going over and offering to play with Louie, but then she sees the break-room door open and Alessandra slip out. Lizbet gets a nutty idea that she immediately dismisses. She’s losing her mind; she’s been at the hotel for nearly twelve hours and she has to last until midnight.
But…she deserves a quick break, and she’s the boss, so there’s no one to stop her.
Alessandra heads down the front stairs and pulls a bike off the rack—it’s one of the hotel bikes; has she asked if she can use it? Lizbet approaches Raoul, who is posted by the front door and has the upright bearing of a guard at Buckingham Palace. “Do you mind watching the desk for twenty minutes or so while I get some air?”
“Not at all,” Raoul says. Raoul has an old-school gallantry that Lizbet just adores and she briefly congratulates herself on a good hire.
“Little Louie is inside playing chess and I don’t see his mother, so if you don’t mind keeping an eye on him?” She winces. “I know you’re not a babysitter.”
“Happy to,” Raoul says.
“Do you play chess?” Lizbet asks.
“I do, actually,” Raoul says. “If it’s quiet, maybe I’ll let him beat me.”
“Terrific! Thank you!” Lizbet watches Alessandra pedal off down Easton Street. “I’ll be right back.”
Lizbet also grabs a hotel bike—they’re brand-new white Treks; Xavier bought a fleet of thirty-five—and takes off behind Alessandra. She savors the wind in her face, the softness of the air, and the gilded tone of the lowering sun, trying to ignore the fact that what she’s doing is completely unhinged. She’s following Alessandra home. If someone were filming this from above, they would see two women—in identical outfits!—one surreptitiously pursuing the other. The tail of Lizbet’s blue blouse billows out behind her. She hums the Wicked Witch’s theme music in her head.