A Fortnight at The Commodore: Part 2

One Week Later

“Okay, let’s huddle up. Come on over here,” Martin Diener directed, motioning most of the Commodore’s staff over toward the side of the bar in the hotel lounge.

“Wait, what’s going on?” a young porter asked Radko.

“I’m as confused as you,” the doorman admitted, glancing around at a bartender, two waitresses, and a newish desk clerk. Finally, he spotted Barclay enter the lounge. “Hey, what’s the deal with Diener?”

“Oh, you didn’t hear. The boss wants to hold a team huddle. When did we start working at Target or Walmart?” the concierge questioned, sarcastically.

“Shhh,” Inez Salas shushed. The twentysomething maid had noticed the general manager glaring in their direction.

Diener waited until several members of the hotel’s security staff arrived. Usually, in their separate world, the grumpy, paranoid men chose to stand on the fringes of the group rather than sit in several empty seats. Their antisocial behavior didn’t go unnoticed as several pairs of eyes rolled and a few heads shook.

“Settle down and listen,” Diener ordered, raising his voice slightly. “This evening is an important moment in the history of the Commodore. We’ll be hosting a fundraiser for the next governor of this grand state. That means we need to demonstrate our competency and go beyond our usual quality service for our guests. We want the governor to not only visit Edgewater instead of Anchor Rock, but we also want him to choose The Commodore over the Grand Fountain for his stays. No amenities are to be spared for Mr. Gandy. Comp everything for him.”

“Is that legal?” Vandra, the restaurant manager, asked.

“Hang on,” Chelsea Glasel interrupted. “There’s no guarantee that Gandy is a shoo-in to win.”

“Yeah, I’m voting for the other guy,” Shooter, the male bartender, announced. “Anybody but the rich asshole.”

“Totally. Did you see the way he reacted when that grocery store customer in Turnville asked about his plan to help with the cost of living? He basically told that mother to work harder,” Jazzy, a black-haired waitress, recalled.

“No empathy, no understanding of what it means to really work,” Merry, her fellow waitress, commented.

“Now wait a moment! Ronald Gandy has the knowledge and skills to usher in a new economic boom for this state and city. Rising tides will lift all boats,” Diener argued. “That’s why everyone is excited and talking about Gandymania.”

“Who’s calling it that? His campaign workers?” Shooter scoffed.

“Nobody,” Merry added, giggling hard enough that her large breasts nearly fell out of her skimpy, low-cut top.

“Channel 23 is,” the young porter pointed out, earning groans about the worst local television station out of Anchor Rock.

“And where did he learn these skills, Mr. Diener? He was raised in a silver-spoon lifestyle,” Jazzy challenged.

“Many of our guests come from the same background. I hope you don’t resent them. You better not,” the general manager warned.

“But Ron Gandy is a top-tier prick. Everyone knows that,” Chelsea pointed out.

“Mr. Gandy is no such thing. I’ve met him, and he’s no different than most of our regulars. He expected competent service and respect. Clearly, you’re not used to people like him during your weddings,” Diener challenged.

A loud groan sounded from the staff, followed by a few oohs.

“Not used to…I deal with bridezillas, handsy grooms, cheapskate fathers, and meddling mothers-in-law nearly every week. A combination that you wouldn’t last thirty minutes dealing with,” the events coordinator proclaimed. “And that does not include other events like this fundraiser.”

“More like fifteen minutes, Chelsea,” Shooter joked, causing his boss to fume.

“Perhaps it’s time to conduct early performance reviews. I think adding a question about your views on communism versus capitalism might be in order,” the general manager threatened.

A chorus of boos rang out, causing Martin Diener to wonder when he lost control of his staff. Corrections were needed.

“It’s not that, Diener. We just know which guests we can work with, and which ones are impossible,” Barclay replied.

“You mean which guests tip and which ones don’t?” the upset manager shot back. “Well, you'd better be thankful that I landed this fundraiser tonight. These kinds of people are excellent tippers.”

Another chorus of boos rang out.

“No, they’re not,” Shooter stated, shaking his head. “I’ve had these people hand over quarters many times. They love to slap them down on the bar.”

“Yeah, these politico types are the worst,” Jazzy, the black-haired waitress, declared.

“They already opened up their checkbooks to buy off a politician, so they aren’t in a generous mood with us…ever!” Fizzy recalled. As a twenty-year veteran, the female bartender had seen it all when it came to fundraisers and election nights. “Maybe when they get hammered at a victory party, they’ll toss around a few bills.”

“But they also get far more handsy,” Merry pointed out.

“We’re going to need to keep Inez and any of the other younger maids away from their floor, boss,” Barclay directed. “It’s best to avoid any scandal, right?”

The possibility of a scandal alarmed Diener, who quickly agreed to alter the housekeeping lineup for tonight and tomorrow. Yet he kept talking up how the businessman candidate could be great for all of them. The general manager clearly didn’t understand his staff at all as he rattled off the names of prominent donors or politicians expected to attend.

“Albert Zent? That asshole is going on trial soon for wage theft and tax evasion,” the head chef reminded them about the owner of all the Poppa Pies franchises in the state. “Shitty pizza from a scummy owner.”

“And he was brought down by kids. How friggin’ perfect,” Shooter laughed.

“Pizza Al is probably counting on a pardon from Gandymania,” Jazzy speculated, causing Diener to move along the conversation.

“If you’re worried about a scandal or incident, I’d lock Leland Lerouy in a storeroom by accident,” Barclay suggested, earning a round of nods. “His whole career is about ginning up controversies.”

“Representative Lerouy is a close political confidant of Ronald Gandy. I'd better not hear about him getting accidentally locked up,” Diener warned.

“It's hard to be the craziest member of the state legislature, and he does so by a wide margin,” Vandra argued.

“And he hates people like Radko and me,” the assistant cook added. “I’m supposed to be burned at the stake.”

“Whoa! I’m not gay,” the doorman insisted.

“No shit. We all know that. He’s gay. You’re an immigrant,” Barclay responded. Then, he made eye contact with the general manager. “You'd better hope they don’t do a raid. Upfront workers like Radko are citizens or have visas, but not everyone in back does.”

“I know nothing about that,” Diener insisted, covering his ears for a moment. “And stop stressing me out with all this nonsense. We’re near full occupancy tonight, so do not dawdle, take extra breaks, or vanish…Where’s Irby? Has anyone seen Ira Irby?”

Denials and shrugged shoulders answered the question of the whereabouts of the porter known for taking his sweet time between transporting luggage upstairs and returning. Clenching his fists in frustration, the hotel general manager pleaded with his staff to be more observant for one night.

“There can absolutely not be a repeat of last Saturday. Ungerman, your people need to step it up. It’s embarrassing enough that a thief struck several times during the Ashmore-Nesnow reception, but it can’t happen again with tonight’s guests. It’s bad enough we’re the talk of the town because of that stolen jewelry and watches,” Diener complained.

“I think the talk of the town is a hot bride running down the halls naked,” Radko pointed out, smirking.

“Don’t forget the groom,” the blonde waitress added. Merry caught some slack over Parker Nesnow’s less-than-impressive manhood. “Let’s see how big Lil’ Shooter is when you're fleeing from The Beast.”

“Come on. Give Parker a break. He and Arbor were one of my more pleasant experiences,” Chelsea defended.

“Don’t blame us, Diener. We do the best we can with limited resources,” the director of hotel security argued. “I’ve asked Mr. Tofflin personally and repeatedly to add more cameras.”

“Don’t you dare imply that Mr. Tofflin is cheap,” Diener warned, glancing around as if he’d find the hotel chain owner behind him. “The limited number of cameras is a personal preference of his.”

“And he’s told you that our guests prefer privacy over all else. If they want a police state, then the Fountain is a short walk down the road,” Barclay reminded Ungerman. “The same goes for your position.”

“Don’t think I’m not wise to your connections with local criminal elements, Monroe. It’s probably one of your buddies that had a blast last Saturday,” Ungerman accused.

“First off, the Commodore has long had an understanding with local thieves. That’s what they’re called, not criminal elements. Second, how do you know who I talk to and who I don’t talk to?” Barclay challenged. “Mr. Tofflin warned you specifically that no cameras, and especially audio recorders, are allowed at the concierge desk. Our owner correctly believes that the relationship between a concierge and a guest is similar to that of an attorney and client.”

“Funny how you didn’t notice the thief. I thought you were supposed to be street smart, pimp,” Ungerman mocked, causing his underlings to laugh. “I can still watch you with my own two eyes, buddy.”

“Enough! Stop fighting!” Diener yelled before catching himself and lowering his voice. “This is precisely the type of behavior that needs to change, and it better change in the next hour. Dammit, Irby, where have you been?”

Everyone turned to find the nondescript porter standing awkwardly with an odd expression. Barclay picked up on his pale face and slightly trembling hands. Radko caught his friend's glance and stepped forward.

“Ira, did something happen? Are you alright?” the doorman inquired, pulling his hand back after the porter snatched his arm away.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Irby. Drop the act, and admit you fell asleep again,” Diener ordered, not buying his frightened routine one bit.

However, several of the other employees agreed with Barclay and Radko. The waitresses helped coax him onto a seat at the table while Fizzy poured a stiff shot of liquor for him to down, which only flabbergasted Diener further.

“T-The B-Beast…The Beast came after me,” Irby stammered to get out.

“Nonsense,” Ungerman scoffed.

“Why were you down in the basement? Your duties deal with–”

“Wait,” Radko interrupted his superior. “The Beast doesn’t appear during daylight. Why do you think it was after you?”

“Followed me. I heard its footsteps following me,” Irby recounted. Noticing the doubtful expressions, he insisted that the violent spirit had been hunting him down. “I weaved several times and took different routes, but it kept following me.”

“Alright, which one of you has been playing practical jokes down in the basement? No one? Speak up now to avoid punishment,” Diener offered.

“That’s the thing, boss… it wasn’t one pair of footsteps. I had several following me from different directions,” Irby revealed.

“Like they were boxing you in?” Lonnie, the young porter, asked, gulping in fear.

“Yeah!”

“Why would The Beast be after you…Wait, I thought you didn’t even believe in the ghosts,” Jazzy recalled.

“I-I didn’t until n-now,” Ira stammered while shaking. “Maybe I pissed them off.”

“Pissed them off? How?” Vandra interrogated, finding the response strange.

“Nope. We’re not doing this tonight. It's bad enough that Lady Scarlet caused an incident last week. We’re not wrecking the governor’s plans–”

“Is anyone booked in the honeymoon suite tonight?” Barclay asked, cutting off Diener.

“Why, yes. I’d already announced that we’re near full occupancy. But don’t fret. I assigned it to Pimilton, the dean of the state senate,” the general manager boasted proudly. “There won’t be any hanky-panky in there to bring Lady Scarlet out.”

“No, only an eighty-year-old who just needs to imagine a sighting to drop dead from a heart attack or stroke,” the concierge speculated, causing Diener’s face to turn almost as pale as Ira’s had been. “Well, our staff will be happy that you killed off that old geezer.”

Suddenly, a thirtyish-year-old woman of Korean descent burst into the lounge with searching eyes. Spotting her boss, Jang hurried over, uncharacteristically panicking.

“He’s here; he’s here!”

“Who?”

“Guy Wungle!” Jang revealed.

“What?!” Diener exclaimed. “He’s not supposed to…tomorrow.”

“Well, he’s here and wants a room,” the front desk clerk and head of reservations relayed, causing Diener to swear before they both left the lounge.

“Isn’t that travel show host?” Merry queried.

“Yeah, the food guy,” Shooter replied.

“Is he here to see if we meet some five-star rating?” Jazzy asked, worried about another performance review that they’d need to deal with.

“No, he’s got a new show about visiting haunted locations across the country,” Vandra relayed.

“Wait, seriously?” Shooter paused.

“Yes, he’s a ghost hunter.”

---

“This room will suffice for tonight,” the somewhat graying celebrity stated, checking around Room 303. “I was promised a penthouse suite.”

“Our deepest apologies, sir. Our desk clerk had been under the impression that you weren’t arriving until tomorrow,” Diener explained.

“I changed my mind. I’ve learned to be flexible in my line of work,” Wungle said, not sounding apologetic for his action. A gruff, well-dressed man, the former food show host had a reputation for not suffering fools lightly. “I was down exploring the haunted mansions on Citrus Court in Darlingport, but I kept on hearing new stories about the Commodore.”

“I’m sure that you’ll find the Commodore more fascinating than Darlingport,” Diener replied.

“Doubtful. Citrus Court is one of the more intriguing haunted locations in this area,” Wungle noted. “Not that this old hotel wasn’t on my list of future stops. It was only fairly low on the rankings.”

“It’s only my opinion, sir, but I think your staff’s rankings were off,” the general manager said, politely defending his employer.

“I’m behind the rankings,” the stern former food critic replied, deflating Diener’s mood further. “Now, I understand that your resident White Lady interrupted a bride and groom’s lovemaking last weekend.”

“Actually, she’s a Red Lady. We call her Lady Scarlet,” Diener corrected before regretting it based on the annoyed expression that met him. “Um, well, yes, it proved to be quite a spectacle.”

“What about the reports of a ghost thief?”

“Oh! You know about that? Those accusations are not common knowledge.”

“My job is to know what’s covered up by people like you,” Wungle declared, challenging the general manager to deny his activity.

“Well, it doesn’t make sense, you see. The ghost whom people have accused is our friendliest,” Diener replied, attempting to explain his actions.

“I’ve never met a friendly ghost in my life. That’s why I travel with experts, who either protect me or kill the bastards.”

“Uh, perhaps you can interview members of our staff downstairs,” Diener suggested, checking his watch and frowning. “I need to attend to several things. We have a rather significant event taking place this evening.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, it’s a fundraiser for Ronald Gandy,” Diener revealed. Expecting a reaction, the toady only saw a blank expression. “Uh, you know Gandymania. He’s going to be the next governor here.”

“Ah, whatever. Politics don’t interest me. Food, ghosts, and a comfortable bed far away from my ex-wives is all that matters,” Wungle proclaimed, causing the general manager’s opinion of the cable channel host to lessen.

“Well…ah, here’s Irby with your luggage now.” Suddenly, a lightbulb went off in his head, which led him to gesture toward the porter. “You might want to talk to Ira. Only a short time ago, he had an encounter with The Beast down in the basement. That’s our more violent–”

“I know what it is,” Wungle interrupted dismissively while turning toward Irby. “You saw it?”

“H-Heard it…hunting me.”

“Excellent! Show me where,” the ghost hunter ordered, grabbing a small bag of equipment.

Ira shot a frightened look at his boss, as if wishing he didn’t need to go. Still eager to please his more famous or influential guests, Diener mouthed an order to behave and help before checking on the fundraiser preparations.

“Updates,” the general manager demanded, standing near the front desk.

“Approximately a dozen of the donors have arrived, sir,” Jang reported.

“Approximately? I want hard numbers.”

“We’ve had somewhat of an overlap,” Barclay chimed in from across the lobby. Waiting until he moved closer, the concierge explained. “Several of Sistine St. Fleur’s guests from last weekend asked to use the tea room for another meeting.”

“Ms. St. Fleur is here again?” Diener asked, swinging around to scan the lobby.

“Not her. Only several of her dinner guests, along with a few new individuals,” Barclay clarified. He’d planned to say more, but the general manager raced off to the tea room.

The next hour passed relatively peacefully as additional donors and speakers arrived for the fundraiser. Already, a small contingent of print and television reporters gathered outside the Commodore. Returning from checking on Radko, Barclay chuckled at the doorman’s dual flirting with busty Dawn Cavaday from Channel 5 and sassy Kennedy Eaton from the Edgewater Dispatch. Heading for his desk, the concierge’s steps slowed upon spotting a young man slouching on one of the column’s wraparound benches.

“Hardy?”

“Oh, hey, Barclay!” the depressed playboy greeted, perking up somewhat.

“Will Miss Jocelyn be joining you tonight?”

“Ah, well, no, it’s…you see…well, shit,” Hardy hemmed and hawed before stopping.

“No! Don’t tell me there is trouble in paradise already,” Barclay gasped, slightly meaning it as he expected the fling to last through two weekends. “She didn’t like the play?”

“Oh, no, it turned out she’s seen it before and liked it. Uh, that’s where the problem started. I sort of figured that if she’s seen it already, then she’d be bored. I mean, wouldn’t you?”

“It’s a fair assumption to make,” the concierge agreed.

“But my idea to make the play more interesting didn’t go over well,” Hardy admitted sheepishly.

“Ah, I see. Your notion of a thank you for the necklace didn’t align with hers.”

“That’s the thing. I hadn’t given her the gift yet. Maybe if I had, she would’ve gone down on me, but it’s for the best that I hadn’t yet.”

“I’m sorry. I know you mentioned that Jocelyn had a skill set that you wished to experience,” Barclay recalled diplomatically.

“Oh, she can suck like a champ! That woman’s mouth is a human vacuum cleaner. Shit, she deserves a championship belt, not a necklace,” Hardy praised with awe.

“So what’s the issue?”

“Man, the problem is that while on the way to take her home after the play, I mentioned the necklace. After seeing it, she dragged me into her apartment and rocked my world for three straight nights.”

“And?” Barclay inquired.

“I mean, it started to feel dirty after the initial shock wore off,” the playboy explained. “You know me. I only give gifts to women I like and who like me. This…it felt more like a transaction, and gave me the creeps. I’m starting to wonder if Jocelyn was nothing but a gold digger.”

“No! That’s not right,” the concierge stated, patting the young man’s shoulder. “Fortunately, there are always more fish in the sea besides that shark you encountered.”

“Hey, that’s a good one…but I’d probably call her a piranha. She can sure gobble you up,” the blond-haired man said, grinning.

“So, what brings you here? Another minnow?”

“Nah, my dad dragged me to this dumb fundraiser,” the bored heir revealed, groaning. “It’s supposed to wisen me up to the world. I just think that he paid for a dinner, and my brother couldn’t make it. This is his type of crap.”

“What about your sister?”

“A lady does not degrade herself with politics,” Hardy repeated, mimicking his father’s voice. “Which is crap. She’s the intelligent, manipulative one in the family.”

A commotion near the front door caught Barclays' attention. A young woman in a sundress with a deep tan, medium-sized breasts, and a large floppy sunhat burst into the lobby with Radko on her heels.

“Ugh! Can you believe it, Raddie? Somehow, my flight from St. Barts got diverted to New Orleans instead of Miami. The next thing I know, I’m in fricking Cincinnati before getting sent to Atlanta before finally reaching Anchor Rock.”

“That’s appalling,” Radko responded, snapping his fingers for a porter.

“I know! I wasted a whole day traveling, and to nowhere fun,” the woman said, whipping off her large, floppy hat to reveal deep red hair. “Just have someone bring my crap up to my room. Oh! Aren’t you a fast one? What’s your name?”

“Uh, Lonnie,” the young porter said, unsure if he should offer his hand to the beautiful woman.

However, she took the initiative to shake his hand lightly.

“Good! That’s the way to greet a woman, not like Iron Hands. I don’t like him. He gives me the creeps. Give me Lonnie, Raddie.”

“Sure thing, ma’am. I think Irby is busy helping Mr. Diener anyway,” the doorman revealed.

“Two peas in a pod there. Okay, Lonnie, we’re headed up to my usual room on the top floor,” the ginger announced, snapping her fingers for him to follow. “Along the way, we’ll need to agree on a nickname for you. I don’t like Lonnie. How about Speedy, Flash, or Bullet?”

The shocked young porter didn’t know how to respond to the young whirlwind’s actions. Looking at Radko, he saw the doorman gesturing for him to grab the luggage cart and follow her.

“Ola, Barbarian! No time to talk now. Somehow, I got jetlagged traveling from St. Barts to here,” the redhead greeted Barclay, passing the concierge desk. “Don’t get any ideas, Horch.”

“What did I do?” Hardy asked, throwing his hands up.

“Wonderful to see you again, Tabitha,” Barclay replied, watching the attractive woman strut her way down to the elevator banks.

Suddenly, the situation slammed into him like a brick wall. Telling Hardy he’d be back in a moment, the concierge speed-walked over to the front desk. Spotting Jang and a young clerk, he addressed the head of reservations.

“Where’s Marty?”

“Mister Diener is busy, Mr. Monroe,” Jang replied stiffly.

“Cut the crap, Jang. Tabitha just walked through the doors on the way up to her usual suite,” Barclay relayed.

“Um, sorry, what?”

“Tabitha Tofflin just showed up and went up to her penthouse suite. Is that going to be a problem?” the concierge questioned, already aware of the answer.

“Mr. Tofflin’s granddaughter is here? Oh, no! Diener gave away all the penthouse suites!” Jang revealed with a horrified expression.

---

Exiting the tea room, Helena Wist strolled toward the hotel lounge. The click-clack of her heels drew initial attention before her curvy figure, poured into a little black dress, locked gazes onto her. Feigning boredom again, the buxom blonde sought a good time until her current fling finished his business.

Passing a man huddled near a short hallway that led to the kitchen, Helena paused. The man’s voice sounded familiar. After a few more words, she felt sure of his identity. Grinning, she took four steps backward.

“No, Barrington isn’t here. Dawn’s covering for the station. Eaton is here too, and so is Erin. I don’t know. I can’t see how they’d let her inside. Yeah, I’m sure she’ll sneak in–”

“Linus? Is that you, Linus?” Helena asked, but the young man didn’t react. However, he did when she added his nickname. “Lucky Linus, it is you!”

The seemingly perpetually nervous young man with short blond hair spun around to stare at Helena in shock. A muffled voice could be heard asking what happened from his cell phone.

“Linus, this won’t do at all. You can’t sneak around properly if you’re skulking in corners and whispering conspiratorially on the phone. C’mon, let’s hit the bar.” Helena ordered, holding out her arm for the rattled young man to take after he hissed a “I gotta go” into his phone.

“I’m not, uh, sneaking around. I’m here to cover the fundraiser,” Linus lied poorly.

“Sure you are, sweetie. Now, let’s think up a better cover story for you being here,” Helena announced, walking them into the lounge and the scene of a commotion. “Ooh, this sounds interesting.”

“You gave away my family suite, Marty! That’s why I’m upset,” Tabitha Tofflin squealed. “And now I hear you don’t have any room for me.”

“No, no, housekeeping is in the process of cleaning a room for you right this instant, Miss Tofflin,” Diener reassured. “Your room should be ready in thirty minutes tops.”

“I doubt that,” Tabitha scoffed, rolling her eyes at Merry, who stood next to the barstool that the hotel heiress sat on. “Wait a sec. Why is housekeeping cleaning a room at this time of night? Did somebody die in it? Because I know that’s not standard operating procedure in our hotels, Marty, especially if we’re booked solid as you claimed.”

“No disrespect, Miss Tofflin, but you don’t know how hotels operate.”

Tabitha turned to glance over her shoulder at Fizzy, who stood behind the bar, with a can-you-believe-this-guy look.

“I’m not a kid, Marty. I’m twenty-three, and I learned to walk in the hallways of Tofflin International Hotels. Hell, I crawled on their carpets. I know a good and a bad operation when I see it. Just last month, I visited Starlantis in–”

“You did? How was it?” Merry asked excitedly about the new Caribbean resort.

“The place fucking sucked. The layout is terrible, the construction is shoddy, and the staff must have been hired off the street,” Tabitha ranted. “You know, I’m an understanding gal. I know how hard all of you work.” The bar staff nodded in agreement. “But…Hey, Shooter, how hard is it to make my fav drinks?”

“They’re a bit complicated, but any decent mixmaster can handle them.”

“Exactly!” the redhead squealed, jabbing her finger at the bartender. “So I know my shit, and I know how Grandpa runs his hotels. The Tofflin suite at the Commodore is only to be given away in case of emergencies. I don’t see a hurricane, flood, fire, or war, Marty.”

“This was an emergency, Tabitha,” Diener insisted.

“Grandpa gave you his permission?”

“I don’t…No, he didn’t. Your father is the one–”

“What? You listened to him? Dad’s not allowed to interfere with daily operations,” the heiress pointed out. “Hell, I have more authority than him, and I don’t work for the company.”

“No wonder,” Diener mumbled under his breath before continuing. “Your father is highly interested in the current gubernatorial race. He’s fully on board with Ronald Gandy’s campaign and goals.”

“Aw, seriously? Is my dad backing that fucking guy? Shit, he’s the worst.”

“Your father is a major donor to Mr. Gandy’s–”

“Anyone seen my purse?” Tabitha asked, spinning around on the barstool.

“I think you tossed it onto the floor in the corner where Lonnie left the luggage cart,” Shooter said, gesturing to the lounge’s now messy corner.

“I did? Shit!” the nimble ginger cursed, hopping off the barstool to find her purse. “Let this be a lesson, Marty. Because you upset me, I’m going to write a fat check to…What’s the name of the man or woman running against Gandy?”

Jazzy shouted from a table where she served several customers, stunned by the crrent show playing out.

“Thanks, hun! Now, I’m going to give this guy ten thousand dollars to counter my scheming father–Wait, can I do that? Does this state have campaign contribution limits?” the hyper heiress asked, looking around.

“Now, this has gotten out of hand, Miss Tofflin. I’m going to have to inform your father…that…Miss Wist! Uh, is everything alright in the tea room? Does your party require anything?” Diener inquired, spotting Helena standing several steps inside the lounge.

“The tea room is still around?” Tabitha questioned with a bewildered expression.

“Yes, it is, and your ban is still in effect,” Fizzy confirmed.

“Sheesh. You break one… two… no, I'm sure it was one. You break one antique teapot as a little girl, and people freak out.”

“Everything is fine. I just got bored with the usual business stuff. I thought I’d look around for fun,” Helena explained.

“I hear ya, sister. Join us. I’m tired, cranky, and down to get drunk until my room is ready,” Tabitha announced, welcoming Helena over with a wide wave.

“I’m, um, not old enough to drink,” Linus whispered.

“Don’t worry about it. They won’t card you when you’re with me,” Helena assured him while wondering about his precise age.

“Before you scurry off to kiss ass, Marty. I'd better not get a room on Desmond’s floor. I can sleep through the screaming and shattering glass, but I can’t deal with his typewriter,” the Tofflin granddaughter called after the general manager as he turned to leave.

Shaking his head, Diener barely gave Lucky Linus a second look as he exited the lounge to check on the fundraiser. Her family is definitely getting a call. Mr. Tofflin allows his granddaughter to get away with too much. Her father needs to know.

Ninety minutes and many drinks and shots later, Tabitha leaned over to whisper to her new friend.

“What’s the deal with your man?”

“Konny’s not my man. He’s a short-lived fling, or a boy-toy that I’m allowing to whisk me around the world,” Helena revealed, still going strong despite several mixed drinks.

“Wait, he’s rich?” Tabitha flinched in surprise before glancing at Linus.

“Oh, that’s not Konny. I’m here with Konstantin Brask. He’s over in the tea room conducting business,” the blonde clarified.

“Konstantin Brask, huh? I’ve heard of him—a bad boy,” Tabitha noted. “I’m not into bad boys. Too much drama. I like them sweet and malleable. You leave a life-lasting impression when you’re finished. So, who’s he?”

“Lucky Linus?”

“Lucky Linus!” the redhead shrieked before giggling. Her scream caused Linus to glance over from where he was conversing with Shooter. “Is he a gambler? I bet that innocent babyface drives his opponents insane.”

“No. I think he’s in college. We met last week while crashing a wedding over in the ballroom,” Helena recounted. “That’s not his name. It’s a combination of what he stammered out. He’s up to something, but far too sweet to be anything bad.”

“Sweet, huh? Hey, Lucky Linus! Time for another shot, and then we’re off to make a scene at that fundraiser. No, don’t give me that look. You’re down as my wingman, Lucky,” Tabitha announced.

“Tabby, don’t do anything crazy.”

“When have I ever done that, Fizz?”

---

Blinking her hard-to-open eyelids, Tabitha patted her hand around on the nightstand until she found her phone. Straining to see with her blurry vision, the still-drunk woman groaned at discovering it was 3:37 am. Turning over onto her back, the ginger licked her lips and smacked her tongue around her dry mouth.

Using the same hand that had searched for her phone, Tabby patted the bed next to her. Finding it empty, she felt surprised for a second before smiling. That’s right. Little Linus had to get home before his parents asked questions. Finding out after they fled the disrupted fundraiser that Linus had only recently turned eighteen and was a high school senior stunned the young woman. Not that it mattered; it only made her decision to throw him down on the bed and mount him that much more decadent.

“Damn,” Tabby mumbled, feeling the urge to pee and the need for water.

Rolling out of bed, the naked heiress nearly walked into the wall before she remembered that Jang had assigned her to Room 607, not her usual penthouse suite. Turning to the right, she shuffled along the carpet slowly. Before turning left down the short hallway toward the bathroom and the door to the hallway, she briefly stopped.

The gray glow caused her squinting eyes to glance in that direction at the man, who stood perfectly still. Offering a slight, sleepy wave, she continued toward the bathroom.

“Nighty nite, Elroy,” Tabby told the former employee-turned-phantom.

Seated on the toilet, Tabby started to drift off until her eyes shot open. Wait, Elroy never enters rooms. He knows better.

Despite her mild concern, the need for water overrode Tabby’s curiosity. Only after drinking two full cups did she go looking for the gentleman ghost. As expected, she didn’t see Elroy in her room. He wasn’t in the closet or under the bed.

“Fuck, did I drink absinthe tonight? I don’t think so,” Tabby said aloud.

Deciding to go back to bed, the nude redhead first grabbed more water and placed it on the nightstand. At that moment, her brain clicked with what felt wrong. Hopping onto and off the bed on the other side, the drunk yet nimble woman landed near her luggage.

Instead of sitting neatly on the floor, it lay scattered, zippers open and items pulled out. It took Tabby only three minutes to discover her jewelry case was missing.

“Holy fuck! Did Elroy’s ghost steal from me?”