Franny Yates’s review is factually correct—it took Raoul a full thirty minutes to deliver her luggage, both Lizbet and Raoul were harried and distracted, and Lizbet was, perhaps, a bit snippy. But was the checkin an “unmitigated disaster”? No, an unmitigated disaster would have been Wanda staying missing or found dead.
Lizbet had comped Franny Yates’s entire bill at the Blue Bar (three nights, two hundred and sixty dollars). Why didn’t her review mention the comped meals?
Lizbet clicks out of the e-mail from Xavier and rests her head, ever so briefly, on her desk. It’s seven thirty in the morning and she’s so tired, she could sleep until seven thirty tomorrow morning. She’s so demoralized, she feels like crying. Or crying uncle.
She needs a night auditor.
8. Lie, Cheat, and Steal
Grace tightens the belt of her robe and does her usual nocturnal sweep through the hotel, beginning with the room where Louie and Wanda are sleeping. They’ve been taking turns in each of the four bunks; tonight, they’re both in uppers. Wanda has her notepad tucked under her pillow, and Louie has fallen asleep in his glasses, clutching the white queen piece. Grace can hear Doug the dog snoring in the other room. He always lies in front of the door of the suite; if Grace goes anywhere near him, he’ll wake up and snarl. Kimber, the mother, sleeps with her arms and legs in an X; she looks like a blue-and-green-haired angel fallen from the sky.
Grace floats out of suite 114 and pops in to check on the Bellefleurs in room 306—Oops, sorry to interrupt!—then to suite 216, where Mrs. Reginella is scrolling through the text messages on her husband’s cell phone, and then down to room 111, where Arnold Dash sleeps with the urn of his wife’s ashes on the nightstand. Grace wishes there were more action. She hopes that as July gets closer, occupancy will increase. The hotel is so welcoming, the staff so attuned to every detail. What’s keeping the guests away? Maybe there’s too much competition or maybe it’s too expensive. After all, when this was a “family-friendly budget hotel,” it was jam-packed. Maybe the hotel’s reputation is too damaged to rehabilitate. (Is that her fault?) She wonders what ever happened to the article that that lovely young woman, Jill Tananbaum, came to write. As far as Grace knows, it hasn’t been printed.
Suddenly, Grace catches a whiff of something that smells like a passing garbage truck, and she realizes a new threat is about to enter the hotel. She swoops down to the lobby, which is warmly lit, with Norah Jones playing over the sound system. Lizbet is at her post at the desk, perusing summer dresses on the Alice and Olivia website. Grace can hear people in the Blue Bar, chanting “Don’t! Stop! Believin’!,” which is par for the course. The disco ball dropped over an hour ago.
Everything seems to be in order, but nevertheless, Grace’s hackles are up. There’s a predator approaching.
She hears footsteps on the stairs. A figure walks through the doors of the hotel.
Really? Grace thinks. This guy?
Lizbet is so tired when she interviews Richard Decameron—a fifty-four-year-old father of three from Avon, Connecticut, who has answered her prayers and applied for the job of night auditor—that the exchange has a dreamlike quality. He arrives at the hotel at ten thirty at night, fresh off the late ferry, but he’s as ebullient and chipper as a QVC host trying to sell you the leaf blower that will change your life. He’s dressed like it’s casual Friday at the hedge-fund office, in a navy-blue spring suit, a navy-and-yellow-checked shirt, and chocolate suede Gucci loafers without socks. He has a dad bod—a bit of a paunch—and gray hair thinning on top, but his smile and his twinkling eyes are appealing. He gives Lizbet strong vibes of guys she knew in college, the fun, good-natured best friends of the hot-jock jerks everyone was in love with. Richard Decameron—he asks her to call him Richie—was the guy who actually stuck around to make sure you got in a cab after you did that last, ill-advised shot of tequila.
Lizbet prints out his résumé. He was an executive in the insurance business in Hartford for thirty years, and for the past two years, he’s been working for something called Kick City.
“This…Kick City? I’m not familiar with it,” Lizbet says.
“It’s a sneaker-broker website,” Richie says. “When athletes or rappers drop a limited-edition shoe, our brokers snap them up and resell them. I’m sure it sounds like kid stuff, but trust me, it’s big business.”
“What inspired you to make the switch?” Lizbet asks.
“I wanted a change from insurance, something with a little more sex appeal.”
“And what brings you to Nantucket?”
Richie sighs. “I’m divorced, my ex-wife has recently started dating again, the new guy lives in the same town that I do, and it got claustrophobic, so I decided to treat myself to a summer at the beach. I’m a night owl by nature, so when I saw you advertising for a night auditor, I thought I’d reach out.”
“Do you have housing?” Lizbet asks. Please say yes, she thinks. She wants a night auditor so badly, she might let Richie sleep in one of the empty rooms. (The rest of the staff would, no doubt, mutiny.)
“I’m staying at the hotel out by the airport tonight,” he says. “Tomorrow I have an appointment with a woman who’s renting a room in her home on Cliff Road.”
“Ah, wonderful. And you’re familiar with FreshBooks? You’ll be fully responsible for preparing guest invoices…”
“I have all kinds of systems-software experience,” Richie says. “I’m a numbers guy. I was a math major at UConn back in the day.” He pumps a fist. “Go Huskies!”
She likes his energy, especially so late at night. “How comfortable are you with guest interaction?”
“I talk to everyone. My kids find it embarrassing.”
“How old are your kids?” Lizbet is asking just to be polite. She’s going to hire this guy.
“Kingsley is thirteen, Crenshaw is eleven, and Millbrook is eight.” He pulls out his phone. “Here’s a picture of our family in happier times.”
Grace hovers above so that she can scrutinize the photo. There’s a slightly younger version of Richie posing next to a pretty brunette with three smiling children arranged in front of them. There’s a river, a waterwheel, trees aflame with color—it’s autumn. The youngest child is holding a basket of apples.
This family looks happy. Grace notices Richie’s hand trembling ever so slightly as he gives the phone to Lizbet, who beams at the photo. Is she, like Grace, wondering what happened to the marriage?
“Will your children get a chance to visit Nantucket this summer?” Lizbet asks.
“Haven’t gotten that far yet,” Richie says. “I’m just trying to get a viable situation in place.”
“Well, if this helps, I’m happy to offer you the position of night auditor. It’ll be six nights a week, I’m afraid. I can only cover one night and still keep my sanity.”
“I’m happy to work seven nights,” Richie says. “I’d prefer it. It’ll keep me out of trouble. It’s best that I keep busy so I don’t miss my kids as much.”
Lizbet exhales with obvious relief and looks right at the space that Grace is occupying. For the first time, Grace wonders if maybe Lizbet is supernaturally sensitive and can see a stolen hotel bathrobe and her missing Minnesota Twins cap floating in the air. Definitely not, Grace thinks. The poor woman is merely exhausted. But even so, Grace rises a bit.
Lizbet says, “We have a family in suite one fourteen, a mother with two children. They’re paying their bill in cash. You’ll invoice them every week, and then Kimber, that’s the mother, will bring down cash, which you can just keep in the safe until I find time to go to the bank to deposit it.” She smiles. “I can trust you with the safe combination?”
Richie laughs. “My references will all vouch that I’m a perfectly average good-enough guy.”
“Have you ever done any marketing?” Lizbet asks.