Stella di Mare (Louie Morelli)

by Bellomo, Patricia

  Sighing, Tara shook off her reverie, thinking of the task at hand with rising anxiety. She was not looking forward to invading Francine’s space, but she squared her shoulders and turned into the corridor. Rooms flanked both sides of the hall—everything a bit worn and shabby here. Franco had spent a fortune renovating the lobby, but the guest rooms were twenty years out of date. They did have newer doors with chrome handles and card-key slots, but this was an absolute necessity after several guests were robbed.

  At the end of the hall there was a sharp turn to the left. Several guest rooms were at the forefront, and then came an alcove with a street view. The last two rooms in this wing: 312, Francine’s room, overlooked Collins while 313, its door kitty-katty to Francine’s, was straight ahead. Both rooms had missed the upgrades, and 313’s lock was broken, providing no resistance when Tara pushed in. Last painted in the seventies, the room was beige, its sea-green ceramic floor tiled decades before. Stripped of blinds, the window in the southwest corner had a view of Henri’s rooftop. Old file cabinets lined the walls, and roll-a-ways and portable cribs crowded the space. A gunmetal gray file cabinet had been yanked out of the closet, its drawers hanging open, papers and files spilling out. Franco’s sledgehammer was lying near the closet, covered in gray dust, the floor filmed with it, because whatever Franco had done, he hadn’t been neat about it.

  Lina and Maurice weren’t kidding—the whole floor was chopped up, jagged pieces of tile thrown helter-skelter, and then the splintered floorboards, revealing a dark, shallow space. Puzzled, Tara could only shake her head. What in the world was Franco up to, she wondered. Obviously, he’d been looking for something … but what?

  Taking a deep breath, she turned and exited the room, using the old-fashioned key to unlock the door of Room 312. Franco told her they used to leave 312’s door unlocked, but after the Haunting’s episode they got too many thrill-seekers. Turning the knob, Tara stepped timorously into the room.

  Untouched for decades, Room 312 had the same sea-green ceramic tile as its neighbor, although its walls were painted white. Wooden-slatted blinds, partially opened, hung on the window. Twin beds were divided by a nightstand, and there was a dresser against the wall next to the door. The furniture was simple, latticed headboards reminded Tara of something from an old movie.

  Olive-green chenille bedspreads, which were supposed to be covering the mattresses, were heaped on the floor. The pillow on the bed nearest the door was indented, as though somebody, hopefully Franco, had recently rested here. All five of the dresser drawers were opened, as was the closet door. Light spilled from the green-tiled bathroom. Even the mattresses were askew, dragged sideways. Had Franco done this? she wondered, and if so, why?

  Heart in her throat, Tara approached the bed nearest the door, quickly righting the mattress and making it up. She thought of Francine, a little girl run over by a car, and felt a sudden sorrow. Was Francine reliving her last days in this room, or was she waiting for her family to show? Did she not know she was dead, and that there was a better place for her?

  The energy in the room was different … electrically charged, making goose-bumps rise on her flesh. There was a presence here … abruptly, Tara lifted her head, glancing anxiously about. Every time she entered this room, she felt she was being observed, and she worked swiftly, tidying both beds. Noting layers of dust, Tara wiped down the furniture. If Francine was condemned to pass eternity here, she might as well make it presentable for her. Even as she reasoned this, Tara thought of how absurd it sounded. Still, she felt suddenly calmer, less agitated.

  After adjusting the tasseled shade of the lamp on the nightstand, Tara gave a final look about. There was really nothing in the room, just old furniture. Sighing, she walked into the bathroom to snap off the light. Green tile and white towels, a stall shower with a lace curtain she dared not part. Unused space, outmoded and dusty. Tara sneezed as she stepped back into the bedroom. She had a peppermint candy in her pocket and, on impulse she placed it on the pillow of the bed nearest the window, and turned to leave when the phone in her pocket shrilled.

  So tense was she that Tara actually jumped at the familiar sound. Then, with a sigh of relief, she pulled out her phone and answered. It was Lina, and she sounded frantic. “Tara, you better get down here,” she said. “We’ve got a major problem.”

  Chapter Five

  Tara assumed it was a Francine sighting, but when she got to the lobby, she realized it was something altogether different. She noticed the professional people first, three suits and two skirts, smart leather briefcases and satchels. They were grouped in the center of the lobby, talking amongst themselves.

  Lina pointed at two men standing apart from the group, one man with the wide girth of a football player, hard muscle trapped in a civilized navy suit. He had bushy hair and a suntan, although it was his companion, a slender man in a black power suit who caught and held Tara’s attention. He was talking on a cell-phone, one hand holding the phone to his ear, the other gesturing aimlessly. His dark good looks appealed to her, although he was considerably older than she, with glints of silver in his hair. Tara couldn’t help being reminded of an Italian movie star. But his voice, giving orders to whomever he was speaking with, was undeniably American, tinged with a regional accent that sounded like Brooklyn, but with a slight inflection that may have even been southern.

  Definitely Italian, she thought, even if he was a generation or two removed. Phone held to his ear, he half turned to her, eyes skimming past her and then returning, deliberately looking at her, his expression pleasantly surprised, brows lifting as they connected. His eyes were very dark. Absent of light, they penetrated her easily, holding her captive, and then he smiled and her world changed. She heard him say, “Listen, I’ve got to go. Get those figures to me, capisce.”

  Turning to her, the big guy with the bushy hair said, “Hey, doll, are you in charge here?”

  Doll. What kind of corny come-on was this? Tara offered a polite smile, touched the tips of her fingers to the plastic nametag pinned to her jacket, the one identifying her as Tara Evans, Manager. “Yes,” she said, “I’m Tara. How may I help you?”

  Regarding her with frank appreciation, he said, “Jeez, doll, Franco didn’t tell Lou you were such a looker.” Gawking, his eyes dropped to her breasts. “You’ve got some body, doll.”

  Tara stiffened. “Excuse me.”

  He grinned, tiny creases fanning out from his hazel eyes. “Don’t mind me, doll. I get turned around by a pretty face.” He stuck out his hand. “Glad to meet you. I’m Victor.”

  Accepting his handshake, Tara said cautiously, “How can I help you, Victor?”

  “Doll, you gotta get Franco on the phone. Tell him Lou is here.”

  She was taken aback by his brusque authority, her eyes automatically going to his companion, who she assumed was Lou. His phone was buzzing, but he ignored it, tucking it into his pocket. Adjusting his red-silk tie, he took a step toward her, closing the distance between them. He was on the slender side, only an inch or two taller than Tara. Of course, she was wearing three inch heels, but they were almost eye level.

  At the moment his eyes were busy examining the body Victor had so brazenly admired, his gaze sweeping over her. While not as obnoxious as Victor, he was no less appreciative and in no rush to look away. Then he lifted his eyes to hers, and they reconnected, her heart beating suddenly faster. He gave her a faint, knowing smile. He said, “Victor’s right. Franco didn’t tell me he had such a pretty manager.”

  His voice was warm, low-pitched, his teasing tone making the blood rush to her face. Distinctly aware of their growing audience, Tara tried to adopt a professional mien. “How may I help you, Mr. … er … uh …”

  “Morelli,” he said, offering his hand. “Lou Morelli. I’m your new boss, Tara.”

  * * *

  There was a tingle as they connected, her hand sliding into
his. He had a nice, dry touch, his palm emitting silent signals that zapped her in the belly. Wow. Tara started to pull back, but Mr. Morelli held firm. His gaze held her, studying her openly, almost insolently.

  She was hot for him, and he knew it. His eyes danced, his hand, slipping from hers, lightly brushed her wrist. An anxious glance at the desk confirmed an audience comprising Lina, Maurice, and two bellhops. The lobby seemed suddenly quieter, drawn to stillness. All eyes were on Mr. Morelli.

  Tara tried to keep her face blank, tried to conceal what she’d already revealed. “I don’t understand,” she murmured. “Franco—”

  “I’m Franco’s partner,” he announced. “And I’m taking full possession of the Walker. Right now. Today. My accountants will be conducting an audit. Can you put them somewhere private, the conference room perhaps?”

  Tara’s jaw dropped. Lina forget to answer the phone; in fact, Tara distinctly heard her gasp. One of the bellhops skidded to a halt, luggage toppling sideways. Tara said, “But … but … Franco doesn’t have a partner.”

  “What you really mean is that you weren’t aware Franco had a partner. Knowing Franco, I imagine he might have wanted to keep it from you. But I assure you, I really am his partner.” Reading the confusion in her face, he added, “Silent partner.”

  He didn’t offer any more explanations, but started issuing orders in a crisp, authoritative manner. At his direction Tara placed a call to Franco, hanging up when she got a message stating his mailbox was full. She instructed the startled bellhop to escort the trio of accountants to the conference room while she located space for the attorneys. Both groups were clamoring with questions, and she had to make available financial records. She spent the next hour showing the professionals how to navigate the Walker’s in-house computer system.

  She kept getting interrupted. The hotel was hopping, its employees in complete turmoil. Everyone was worried about their jobs, but as the gravity of the situation threatened her own livelihood, Tara could convey no confidence. Things kept going from bad to worse. She had to deal with a disgruntled guest, and then housekeeping informed her they were running out of toilet tissue and she had to call their supplier—one of the few vendors who had been paid—and arrange a delivery. Then Maurice, emboldened by the takeover, caught her in the hallway outside her office and delivered a scathing prediction that her job would be the first to go because, “After all, darling, everyone knows your talents are better suited for the bedroom than the boardroom.”

  It was such a low blow Tara was too stunned to reply. Seething, she stepped into the office only to discover that her new boss, his assistant, and his smug Ivy League attorney had heard everything. They watched her come through the door, the conversation between them sputtering out. Mr. Morelli sat at Franco’s desk, a sheaf of important looking documents in front of him, the young lawyer hovering at his side. Victor was standing by the window, holding the photos of Joey and Rosa. Through the glass Tara had a clear view of the infinity pool, its deck already crowded with sunbathers, only a few blue-cushioned loungers left vacant. Royal palms lined the pool, running the length of the property to the boardwalk, the sea beyond it streaked with tropical tints of blue and green. Small vessels made wakes on the glossy surface; on the horizon cruise ships glided slowly southward.

  Fearing her days in paradise were numbered, Tara reluctantly looked away from the view, her eyes automatically going to Mr. Morelli. He’d removed his jacket; it was hanging on the back of Franco’s chair. His starched shirt and red tie highlighted his olive skin, more acutely defining his Italian features. He said, “Baby, did you get hold of Franco?”

  Tara nodded, “He’s on his way.”

  “Is he hung over?”

  She realized Mr. Morelli knew Franco better than she thought. Biting nervously on her lower lip, she said tentatively, “I think so.”

  The attorney straightened and stepped away from the desk. Glancing at his watch, he said, “I’ll be back in two hours.”

  With the confidence of one who is used to giving orders, Mr. Morelli said, “I want everything filed today.”

  Nodding, his eyes coolly dismissive of Tara, the young lawyer walked to the door. As he stepped out, Mr. Morelli said, “Close the door,” and he reached back and shut it, leaving Tara alone with the men. The hotel sounds receded, amplifying the hum of the air-conditioner and the noisy buzz of the small refrigerator tucked below the counter. The room was cool, the mingled scents of coffee and aftershave and mint hanging in the air.

  Next to the legal documents on Franco’s desk was his dog-eared copy of Playboy and his personal ledger, the one he didn’t show his accountant. Held between Mr. Morelli’s middle and index finger was a silver Mont Blanc. His nails were manicured, the back of his hands tanned darker than his face, the monogrammed French cuffs held with a square-cut diamond cufflink. Again, his gaze held hers, the mutual attraction they’d established in the lobby suddenly between them. His eyes caressed her flushed cheeks, moved leisurely over her face, lingered just a bit too long on her mouth. He said, “How bad off is Franco?”

  Tara walked to her desk, watched Victor resettling the pictures of Joey and Rosa. He said, “You have kids, huh, doll?”

  “No, they’re my niece and nephew.” She was relieved to sit, conscious of Mr. Morelli’s eyes on her, awaiting her reply. She looked at him. “Franco didn’t sound too bad.”

  “Baby, you don’t have to sugarcoat it for me. I know Franco’s habits.” He studied her, half amused and contemplative. “It’s Victor’s assessment that you’re running the place.”

  “I see you doing all the work, doll.” Victor sauntered over to the couch, hiking up his trousers and sitting. “How long has this bum been bossing you around?”

  “I’ve been here four months,” said Tara.

  Mr. Morelli said, “Where you from, honey?”

  “Sterling Heights, Michigan. It’s a suburb of Detroit.”

  Victor said, “Lou and I went to the Super Bowl the year Detroit hosted it, but we didn’t care for the city. Did we, Lou?”

  “Hell,” said Mr. Morelli. “Victor and I are New Orleans boys, but we saw neighborhoods in Detroit that looked worse than New Orleans after Katrina.”

  New Orleans explained his accent, which made Tara think of the way Harry Connick Jr. talked. He had an easy charm, chatting pleasantly about their respective hometowns before asking her how and why she had ended up at the Walker, and, even more importantly, whether she liked her job. Tara assured him she loved it, and briefly explained how she’d seen Franco’s ad while visiting her father, deciding on a whim to apply. She said, “I didn’t really expect Franco to hire me, but I’m so glad he did.”

  Mr. Morelli said, “Honey, if you walked into my office, I’d hire you on the spot too.”

  Chapter Six

  Franco Santia was hanging his head over the toilet when Tara’s call came into his i-Phone. He ignored it, and was rinsing his mouth with Listerine when the second call arrived. He snatched up the phone, saying, “What’s up, babe,” even as a wave of dizziness assaulted him.

  Tara said, “Franco, you need to get here right away—”

  Her panicked tone alarmed him. “Whoa, slow down. What’s wrong?”

  “There’s a man named Lou Morelli here who claims he is your partner.” She hesitated, said cautiously, “Is this true?”

  Fuck. “Yeah, it’s true: What’s he want?”

  “Franco, he’s taking over the hotel. You better get here—”

  Franco clicked off, making it to the toilet just in time. He’d been the one who insisted on a black porcelain commode, but he hated the gleaming black bowl. In fact, the whole bathroom was hideous, black with gold faucets, and that God-ugly Jacuzzi Kathy used to bask in for hours at a time. Stumbling from the toilet, Franco rinsed his mouth a second time before stepping into the shower and cranking th
e hot water. He had to clear his mind … Morelli, what the fuck was he doing?

  Franco rued the day he’d entered into a business arrangement with the guy. But he’d been desperate for cash and Morelli sure had it—man, did he ever have it—and he was willing to lend it, provided Franco played by his rules. Never mind that his way was controversial: cash in exchange for title. Fifty percent ownership for twenty-four months, reverting to one-hundred percent after Franco made good on the loan. If Franco did not come across, Morelli took the hotel.

  Franco’s counsel was apoplectic, but backed into a corner by his unsavory creditors, he took Morelli’s lifeline. It was five million, loaned without the dickering and audits from the credit-shy banks. At the time Franco had been accumulating massive debt, but he still had equity. He planned to get the money from SunTrust as soon as he straightened out his personal affairs and showed “good faith”. But his partner piggybacked a Destin Beach development on the Walker and Franco was up the proverbial creek, since his family’s fortune was in the panhandle, building condominiums and golf courses. When he protested this underhanded ruse, Morelli said, “I dictated the terms, and you agreed to them.”

  Two years later and Franco had yet to pay Morelli a dime. He kept hoping for a miracle, and things kept sliding. His wife, tired of his affairs, packed up, taking their two boys and most of their furnishings. Franco’s Bentley was repossessed. Bank foreclosure notices were posted on his door, and his Moroccan-tiled pool was cluttered with debris. The landscaping on his Coral Gables manse was overgrown, and he’d recently hocked his Rolex for a fake.