by Joanne Fluke
Horrified, Elizabeth began searching through the tumbled bedclothes. How could Noelle be so careless? she wondered anxiously. The thing was worth a fortune—all the jewels were—and she had thrown them around as if they were nothing to her.
Sammie and his assistant were packing up the photographic equipment, Layla had followed Noelle into the bathroom, so only Elizabeth was concerned about the missing ring. She picked up the pillows and stacked them on the nightstand, she pulled off the sheets and bedspread, she looked under the bed....
And finally found the priceless bauble under the nightstand, where it had rolled into a tangle of wires. Her hand was shaking when she slipped the ring into its groove and snapped the case shut.
“He doesn’t really love me,” Noelle was telling Layla, as the two emerged from the bathroom. She was wearing the robe now, and her feet were in the floppy terry slippers the hotel provided. “I’m just another acquisition, like these jewels.”
So that’s why she doesn’t care about them, Elizabeth thought with a flash of insight. “Do you have the key?” she asked Layla.
“The key! What did I do with the key?” Layla exclaimed, clutching her head with her hands.
Her panic was contagious and everybody started scrambling, searching for the key to the jewelry case, tossing the contents of the room this way and that. Everybody except Noelle, who drifted out of the bedroom and into the living room, where she settled into a plush upholstered chair and called room service, ordering a turkey club sandwich and a double Scotch.
Finally, when the bedroom had been thoroughly tossed and everybody had searched everywhere, Layla triumphantly proclaimed, “I’ve found it!” and held up the key. “It was in my pocket the whole time.”
Chapter Four
Elizabeth let out a huge sigh of relief when the hotel safe clicked shut. She had been entrusted with returning the jewelry case to the safe and was a nervous wreck, hurrying through the carpeted hall to the special elevator that provided access to the exclusive penthouse level with its four luxury suites. That elevator was tucked discreetly away in a corner of the lobby, behind the regular bank of elevators, and only rose to the top floor when a special key card was inserted into a slot.
When the elevator descended and she reached the lobby, Elizabeth dashed across the richly carpeted expanse between the elevator doors and the reception counter and waited impatiently, her heart thudding in her chest, until Toni hit the buzzer and the door to the manager’s office opened. She was breathing heavily when she handed the case to Mr. Dimitri.
“Everything’s okay?” Mr. Dimitri asked. “All the jewels are inside? And the case is locked?”
“I put the jewels in and Layla locked it,” she said. She paused, wondering whether to tell Mr. Dimitri about the frantic search for the key, but noticing a pulsating vein near his eye, decided not to add to his already high level of stress. “After she locked the case Layla gave the key to Ms. Jones.”
“Good,” Mr. Dimitri said, letting out a big sigh. “That’s very good. Now, go and have some lunch. You look a bit pale.”
In truth, Elizabeth was dead on her feet, but she was surprised that Mr. Dimitri noticed. Maybe there was more to the old tyrant than she’d realized. Though today he appeared to be more considerate than she’d believed him to be, she still thought she’d been right not to mention the search for the key.
* * *
The next few days were a whirlwind of activity as final preparations were made for the guests’ expected arrival on Friday. Enola Stitch, the famous fashion designer, came earlier, on Thursday, to make final adjustments to Noelle’s gown for the Blingle Bells Ball. There was much speculation about the gown, which had been shrouded in secrecy, much like Kate Middleton’s dress before her marriage to Prince William. The secrecy only drove the fashion press wild with anticipation and there were various predictions as to the design, although all agreed it would feature a plunging neckline.
Other notables that reporters would have loved to question included junk bond pioneer Matt Milkweed, hedge fund investor Adrian Robinson, and Goldsmith Shoffner CEO Floyd T. Dewey, but they all dodged the press, arriving through the garage entrance in limos with tinted glass. Aware of the general unpopularity of Wall Street bankers and financiers, they had decided discretion was the better part of valor and were maintaining extremely low profiles.
Others, including Jonah Gruber himself, weren’t so shy and gave statements to the reporters gathered outside the hotel doors. Gruber, Elizabeth noted with interest, was a short, slim man with a receding hairline and an odd sense of appropriate leisure wear; he arrived wearing a turtleneck sweater, shiny bike shorts, black socks, and Birkenstock clogs. He kept his comments brief but beamed with pride, standing to the side, as Senator Clark Timson and New York City mayor Samuel Hayes both praised his philanthropic contributions. Guests who were media stars also took advantage of the gathered reporters to add to their luster. Daytime TV diva Norah gushed about her “best friend” Noelle Jones and radio shock jock Howie Storch commented that Noelle was “a real hottie.”
The most highly anticipated guest, and the last to arrive, was flamboyant pop star Merton Paul, who was going to sing at the ball. Hundreds of his fans were gathered outside, waiting for a glimpse of the rocker, and their screams heralded the arrival of his white stretch Hummer.
“He’s here! He’s here!” Toni exclaimed, barely able to contain her excitement. “Can I ask him for an autograph, do you think?”
Spying Mr. Dimitri hurrying to greet the star, Elizabeth shook her head. “Not now, but maybe you’ll get a chance later.”
“Oh, I love him,” Toni cooed. “Look! There he is!”
Elizabeth saw a pudgy middle-aged man wearing a shaggy fur jacket, bell-bottom pants, and a rather obvious wig, but Toni was blinded by Merton Paul’s fame. “It’s really him,” she said, hanging onto Elizabeth’s arm. “I think I’m going to faint.”
“And who are these lovelies?” Merton Paul asked Mr. Dimitri, approaching the two young women.
Elizabeth took Merton Paul’s proffered hand and introduced herself. “I’m the assistant concierge. I’ll be happy to help you with anything you need,” she said.
When he offered his hand to Toni she apparently found herself unable to speak, hanging on to Merton Paul like a drowning woman.
“This is Toni Leone,” Elizabeth said. “She’s at the front desk.”
“Call anytime,” Toni said, finding her voice. “It’s marked on the phone: D-E-S-K.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Merton Paul said, withdrawing his hand. “Take care, ladies.”
“I can’t believe I did that,” Toni moaned, watching as Mr. Dimitri escorted the rocker to the penthouse elevator. “I mean, I spelled out desk, like he doesn’t know how to spell.”
“You were charming,” Elizabeth said, amused at Toni’s reaction. “I’m sure he’s used to adoring fans.”
“I made a fool of myself. Now I’ll be so embarrassed every time I see him.”
“He’s only a person, with a head, two arms, and two legs,” Elizabeth said, hearing her phone ringing. “Try to keep that in mind,” she said, hurrying to answer it.
Elizabeth spent the rest of the afternoon coping with the demands of the glitterati. Enola Stitch discovered a crease in her pillowcase and required another—freshly pressed but not starched, and linen, of course. Matt Milkweed wanted a case of Cristal (no problem) and a basket of fresh peaches (a problem, in December). Senator Timson called for a masseuse and Elizabeth got him one, but wasn’t convinced that Leon was exactly what he had in mind. Norah wasn’t happy with the hairdresser her personal assistant had booked in advance and required someone more in sync with her astral sign. Howie Storch wasn’t fussy—any stylist would do, so long as she had a large bust. After Howie’s call, Elizabeth thought she’d heard it all, but then she got an e-mail from Sammie Wong asking for a jar of Crème de la Mer, the fabulously expensive skin cream. “I can’t believe I forgot to pac
k it,” he moaned.
Elizabeth was on the phone with Neiman Marcus, arranging an emergency delivery for Sammie Wong, when she noticed the lobby was unusually crowded. Suspecting that fans, or even the press, had managed to infiltrate the building, she sent an instant message to Dan Wrayburn. She was aware, as were all the hotel employees, that Jonah Gruber had specified that access to the building was strictly limited to his guests and selected media. Gruber was apparently unable to pass up any profit-making opportunity and had sold exclusive media rights to the event to People magazine.
She was keeping a nervous eye on the situation and her fears were confirmed when a bearded guy in a fishing vest approached TV sitcom star Dawn Richards and produced a tiny tape recorder. On the other side of the lobby, behind one of the glittering white Christmas trees that Layla had insisted on adding, she saw a series of camera flashes.
Wrayburn, who was stepping out of the elevator, also saw them and hurried to investigate.
“This is absolutely absurd,” Richards protested. She was a curvaceous brunet dressed in a very short skirt and very high heels. “Bobby here is my friend—he’s just taking a snapshot.”
“Good try,” Wrayburn said, “but I know Bobby. In fact, I called him last week and told him the hotel was strictly off-limits.”
Bobby started to leave but Dawn grabbed him by the sleeve. “Don’t be silly, Bobby. You don’t have to leave. This is America. We have free speech here, and I want to put these photos on my Facebook page.”
“The hotel is private property,” Wrayburn explained, but his message was undermined by a guy in a fake brown UPS uniform who was photographing the encounter on his cell phone, as was a woman carrying a boxed flower arrangement.
“This is a warning,” said Wrayburn, raising his voice. “I’m ordering our hotel security guards to clear the lobby. Only registered guests will be allowed to stay.”
“Good luck with that,” Howie Storch said, stepping out of the hotel bar with a pair of statuesque, bikini-clad twins hanging on his arms. “You can find me and my friends at the pool.” He continued on his way, strolling across the lobby with his companions, and suddenly cameras were everywhere as reporters and photographers trailed the trio.
Wrayburn marched off with a grim expression on his face and Elizabeth realized her phone was ringing—again.
“Concierge, how may I help you?”
“This is Merton,” the caller said, unnecessarily identifying himself. It was impossible not to recognize the famous voice.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Paul?”
“It seems I forgot my bubble bath.”
“Not a problem. I’m sure we can provide some bubble bath.”
“It may be a problem,” said Merton. “This is special bubble bath. From Tibet.”
Elizabeth wasn’t aware that bubble bath was manufactured in Tibet, but she was learning something new every day. “Can you tell me what it’s called, and where you usually get it?”
“It’s called Lama’s Tears; Bono gave it to me. He said it’s great and he was right. I’m addicted.”
Elizabeth was beginning to suspect this might be more difficult than she thought. “I’ll do my best,” she said. “But if I can’t find Lama’s Tears, is there another brand you could use?”
“No way, babe,” said Merton. “It’s out of my control. I’m hooked. It’s gotta be Lama’s Tears.”
Nordstrom had never heard of Lama’s Tears, neither had Saks or Sephora or Neiman Marcus. Elizabeth tried all the drugstores and every bath and body boutique in the Palm Beach area. Batting zero, she finally tried asking Toni, thinking that since she was such a big Merton Paul fan she might have heard of the rocker’s favorite bubble bath.
“You haven’t heard of Lama’s Tears?” Toni was amazed.
“No, and nobody else I’ve called has either.”
“Well, you’ve been calling the wrong places.”
“Obviously,” Elizabeth admitted, growing impatient.
“Well, I’ll tell you but you’re going to have to do something for me.”
“What?”
“If I tell you where you can get Lama’s Tears, you have to let me take them up to Merton Paul, okay?”
“Okay, okay,” Elizabeth promised. “Where do I get it?”
“There’s this cool place where all the hip people go. It’s kind of a head shop, but they’ve got some clothes, some vintage. It’s called Metaphor.”
Elizabeth was on the computer, looking it up, jotting down the phone number. “You’re a lifesaver!” she exclaimed, dialing the number.
“Just remember your promise. I get to take it up to Merton’s suite.”
“I won’t forget, I promise,” Elizabeth said, placing the order.
When she finished she realized she needed to use a bathroom and decided to break the rules just this once and use the facilities off the lobby, which were a lot closer than those provided for staff. She didn’t want to be away from her desk for long, especially since there were so many people milling about in the lobby. The security guards had managed to remove a few paparazzi but others had drifted in, along with dedicated fans of the celebrity guests.
She’d taken a few steps when she encountered Wrayburn, who was looking extremely harried. “I’ve got to use the ladies’ room,” she told him. “Can you have somebody keep an eye on my desk?”
“I’ll do it myself,” he said, seating himself in her chair.
When she returned she saw he had propped both elbows on the desk and was rubbing his forehead. “Thanks,” she said.
“No problem,” he replied, standing up. Then he gave an abrupt laugh. “No problem. That was wishful thinking.”
Elizabeth watched as Enola Stitch was accosted by three very thin women dressed entirely in black, obviously members of the fashion press. Enola greeted them warmly, then shepherded them into the coffee shop. “There isn’t much you can do when the guests are the ones breaking the rules,” she said.
“You said it,” Wrayburn agreed. “I wish I was back in Washington. They take security seriously there.”
Elizabeth was about to reply when four very serious-looking men in suits and wearing earpieces entered the lobby and took up positions; their presence was both imposing and forbidding. Conversation stopped as people became aware of them, everyone suddenly watchful.
“Secret Service,” Wrayburn said, using his phone to alert Mr. Dimitri. “The First Lady is arriving.”
The atmosphere in the lobby was hushed and expectant, everyone waiting and hoping for a glimpse of the president’s wife, and perhaps even a chance to greet her and shake her hand. She was far more popular than her beleaguered husband, who had to cope with the woes of the world, and thanks to her support for disabled veterans, she enjoyed record-high approval ratings from both Democrats and Republicans.
Mr. Dimitri was hurrying into the lobby, straightening his cuffs as he walked to the front entrance. He had taken his place when the door flew open and a uniformed courier barreled in. The Secret Service officers, moving in unison, all reached for their guns.
The courier’s hands flew up. “I’m making a delivery,” he said. “From Metaphor, attention concierge.”
“That’s right,” Elizabeth said as the agents patted the courier down. “I’m expecting a delivery for a guest.”
One of the agents was examining the package closely, finally concluding it was harmless and giving it to Elizabeth. The courier was sent on his way and Elizabeth, rattled by the incident, forgot her promise to Toni and summoned a bellboy to take the package to Merton Paul in the Majestic penthouse suite.
Then the motorcade arrived and Mr. Dimitri rushed out and greeted the First Lady, who was smiling and gracious and insisted on greeting everyone, staff and guests and paparazzi alike. It was a full half hour later that she finally stepped into the penthouse level elevator and the crowd began to disperse.
Elizabeth, wondering why a smile and a handshake from the First Lady could possibly make h
er feel so good, noticed Chris Kennedy coming through the door. He wasn’t out of town at all, she realized. He’d just said that as an excuse for canceling their date. Suddenly, all that warm, good feeling was gone and Elizabeth wished she could disappear, just sink through the floor. At the same time she couldn’t take her eyes off him. When he looked at her, straight on, she had to do something so she gave him a little wave. Darn it, she thought, she wasn’t going to let him know how upset she was.
By way of response Chris nodded and continued on his way down the hallway that led to the bar and coffee shop. Elizabeth was tempted to follow but knew it was a bad idea. Besides, Toni was at her elbow.
“What a creep,” she said. “Coming here like that.”
“It’s a free country,” said Elizabeth, feeling her knees go weak under her and sitting down.
“I wonder what he’s doing here.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” said Elizabeth. Her phone was ringing and her computer was informing her she had fourteen instant messages.
“Are you going to answer that?” Toni asked.
Elizabeth picked up the receiver and heard Merton Paul’s voice, thanking her for the Lama’s Tears. That distinctive voice of his carried, and Toni could hear him, too.
“You got the Lama’s Tears?” she demanded, when Elizabeth hung up. “And you didn’t tell me?”
“I meant to,” Elizabeth said lamely.
“You promised!”
“I’m sorry. It was so crazy here. You know how it’s been this morning.”
Toni’s face was tight. “If it wasn’t for me, you’d never have known even where to get the bubble bath!”
“That’s true,” Elizabeth said, miserably. “I just forgot.”
“I thought we were friends.” Toni narrowed her eyes. “I’ll get you for this, Elizabeth. Don’t think I won’t.”
