My Wanderlust Bites the Dust Read online

  “Why isn’t Declan here this year?” Chad asked.

  I opened my mouth to reply, then snapped it shut when everyone looked at Gretchen for an answer.

  “He was already booked for Florence. Will have much better weather, I’m sure.”

  How did she know Declan would be in Florence? Had he been booked on the meeting when they’d worked in Dublin or Greece last fall? He hadn’t posted it on Facebook, and she wouldn’t have access to his Google calendar, like I did. Unless she’d hacked into it. I doubted she was that computer savvy. However, she was that psycho.

  “You ever worked with Declan?” Mindy asked me.

  “Ah, yeah, he’s great.”

  Gretchen gave me the evil eye. When Declan and I’d worked together in Dublin, we hadn’t been overly friendly, yet Gretchen’s claws had come out every time we’d even talked. Not only did I need to make sure Gretchen didn’t see Declan here, but the entire staff, since they’d be sure to mention it.

  “Last time I worked with Declan was in Berlin,” Chad said. “I just watched a Jason Bourne movie filmed there. You know you travel too much when you start recognizing hotel lobbies, airport terminals, and train stations in movies.”

  “Hopefully, nobody recognizes this hotel from Ghost Hunters International,” Mindy said. “It was on the show six months ago.”

  “This hotel is haunted?” The hairs on my arms shot up.

  Chad nodded. “Supposedly one of the most haunted in the world.”

  Gretchen rolled her eyes. “If you believe in that stuff.”

  I wasn’t sure if I believed in ghosts. The fact that Gretchen didn’t believe made me want to believe all the more. Declan had once told me that believing there’s something more after death was the only thing that helped him live with a loss. I hadn’t known at the time he was referring to his wife.

  “Why is it haunted?” I asked.

  “It’s not, as far as we’re concerned,” Blair snapped, joining our conversation. “We chose this place because we got a great group rate and we fit the meeting space. Don’t discuss its haunted history in or out of the office.”

  “The ghost tour groups in front of the hotel every night might give it away,” Chad said.

  That was a ghost tour out front?

  “It just better not come from us,” Blair said.

  Everyone agreed mum was the word and returned to work.

  Blair eyed me. “So, Caity, Gretchen mentioned you guys have worked together before. That your sister is a planner for Brecker beer.”

  Great. She’d probably told Blair I’d gotten the job thanks to nepotism rather than being qualified. Which I had.

  “She is, but I have a lot of other clients…” I trailed off as Blair tapped a long, maroon-polished nail impatiently against her cell phone.

  “Thanks so much for fitting this meeting in after all,” she told Gretchen. “I put the product inventory list with the BEOs on your guys’ desk.” Blair left the conversation as abruptly as she’d joined it. She had a brief discussion with the girl melting down, who shot Blair a nasty look as she walked over to her desk. It apparently hadn’t been a pep talk.

  The poor thing. I’d had my share of breakdowns on-site.

  Gretchen snatched the inventory list off her desk. “The banquet captain will take us to the locked cooler so we can verify if all the product is here.” She scanned the items. “One hundred packages of Kittridge, two hundred Ethan Hunt…”

  “Those are names from Mission Impossible.” I’d watched the movie set in Prague before coming.

  “Everything has code names. This is a new product-launch tasting, so items aren’t yet available at retailers.”

  I knew that from the advance communication.

  “We have to account for every piece of product and know its whereabouts at all times. We’re responsible for getting items to the meeting rooms and making sure any remaining ones are destroyed. The client’s security team will help with that. They’ll be stationed at every food function to prevent corporate espionage.”

  This sounded like a James Bond movie and way above my pay grade.

  My phone rang. I pulled it from my purse to find Declan’s number. I accepted the call without thinking, then snapped the phone against my chest so he wasn’t visible. Thankfully, Gretchen was focused on the inventory list, not my caller.

  “I have to take this.”

  Her brows furrowed into a peeved look. “Don’t be long. We need to get this inventory done in case we have to track down missing items or replace pilfered ones.”

  I flew into the foyer, drawing the phone back from my chest.

  “Brilliant view,” Declan said, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Should I have rang ya from my guest room?”

  “Ha-ha.”

  I stepped out a side door into pedestrian traffic and honking cars. My teeth chattered, whereas Declan’s skin looked sun kissed. Behind him, attendees were bobbing along on top of a blue sea, snorkeling. The wind whipped my hair against my face, and I yanked it back behind my ear. Not a strand of Declan’s wavy, short brown hair was out of place.

  “Looks nice there.”

  “A bit cool, but the group’s from Norway. How’s it going with Gretchen? When I’d mentioned last fall I wasn’t working this meeting, she said she wasn’t either. That she was fed up with Blair’s attitude.”

  “Yeah, Blair seems a bit intense.”

  He shrugged. “Take her with a grain of salt. Same as Gretchen. Don’t let her rattle you. You’ll be grand.”

  “We can’t let her find out you’re going to be here. We have to be discreet. I’ll leave a key in an envelope for you at the front desk since I can’t put your name on the room. I also shouldn’t put your name on the envelope. I’ll put it under… What’s your middle name?”

  “Colin.”

  His dad’s name. Declan’s family lived a half hour from my grandma Coffey Brunetti’s long-lost rellies in Ireland’s Midlands. I’d visited the area at Christmas. Because of canceled flights, I’d spent Christmas Eve with Declan’s family and had flown home Christmas Day.

  “Okay, I’ll put it under Colin Grady.”

  He quirked a brow, wearing a sly smile. “Feels a bit like a forbidden liaison. No worries. I’ll be discreet. Wouldn’t want Blair to find out either, since staff aren’t allowed to have guests.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that?”

  I desperately needed future business from Blair. I still had a major credit card to pay off, my student loan kicked in next month, and self-employment taxes were looming in my future. I only had two meetings on the books and a pending bonus from Brecker for helping to get Brecker Dark into Finn O’Brien’s restaurant chain business in Ireland. The restaurants had only carried a cider ale manufactured by Flanagan’s—an Irish beer company owned by Brecker. Choking—actually gagging—on the chef’s goose curry had paid off. How much, I didn’t yet know.

  “Because you might have told me not to come,” he said.

  “I’d never have told you that.” I gave him a flirty smile. “You’re worth the risk. And I have a surprise planned.”

  When we’d said “I love you” for the first time at Grandma’s childhood home in Ireland, I’d promised myself I’d never let anything come between us. Not even my job. Yet my job was the only way we were able to see each other.

  Talk about a double-edged sword.

  * * *

  After standing outside freezing, I was shivering inside the hotel’s cooler, a black table linen wrapped around my shoulders. Actually, the Evans and Walker product Gretchen and I were inventorying was secured in a padlocked iron-bar cage within the walk-in refrigerator. I wasn’t sure if it was the dim lighting, my feeling of impending doom, or having been confined in an airplane forever, but the bars suddenly seemed to be closing in. It could also be that I was up to my waist in boxes labeled Confidential, barely able to move.

  My gaze darted to the outer door. What if it had locked behind us? The thought of bein
g imprisoned with the nastiest cellmate ever caused my heart to race, my breathing to quicken. I snapped a hand against my chest, realizing the lump from the mint was gone.

  One problem solved.

  Gretchen had on a black wool jacket, knowing we’d be in a cooler. She glanced up from counting the product labeled with the code name Ethan Hunt in black letters on generic silver packaging. She gave me an impatient look. “Are you okay?”

  I nodded. “It’s dark in here.” I squinted at the inventory list in my numb hand. “Isn’t it dark in here? Maybe I should open a door.” Before I tunneled my way out of the fridge to the Charles Bridge.

  I escaped from the unlocked cage and pushed open the cooler’s heavy door. I stepped out into the bright, shiny stainless-steel kitchen, sucking in some serious air, welcoming the stench of greasy food and burned coffee. I eased out a breath.

  The last time I’d had this panicked feeling, I’d been visiting the Catacombs in Paris, 130 steps below ground with six million dead people.

  A server in a black suit—tall, blond, fortyish—eyed the tablecloth wrapped around me. His name tag read Oscar, Sweden. “Are you okay? Would you like another linen?”

  “No, I’m good.” I gave him a reassuring smile.

  “You know, it’d be really great to finish this inventorying before midnight so I could get at least five hours of sleep.” Gretchen stood glaring at me, in her hand the butcher knife she was using to slice open boxes.

  Oscar bolted.

  It’d be really super if I didn’t hyperventilate and pass out and wake up to find Gretchen or Oscar giving me mouth-to-mouth.

  I propped open the cooler’s door with a case of bottled water and reluctantly returned to our cell. I focused on the light and the activity pouring in from the kitchen, rather than the suffocating tension inside the cage. Don’t let her rattle you. You’ll be grand. I repeated Declan’s pep talk in my head, glancing around at the bars, trying to find humor in the fact that I shouldn’t let Gretchen rattle my cage.

  * * *

  I was still freezing when I got to my room at 10:00 p.m.

  Only thirteen hours until Declan landed.

  Thankfully, Blair reconfirmed we’d have off tomorrow night.

  I needed to make sure I didn’t deplete my entire cash reserve before dinner.

  Having been up over thirty hours, I glared at my purple floral suitcase and brown leather carry-on, too exhausted to unpack. I dropped my computer bag on a gold velvet chair. I kicked off my shoes but kept on my green cardigan. I snagged the plush white velour robe from the closet and wrapped myself in it. Declan would have a fit that I was snuggled up in the garment that rarely saw the wash, and that I wasn’t removing the dodgy duvet from the four-poster bed. Right now, I was more likely to catch pneumonia than contract something from the bed linens and robe.

  Smiling at the thought of Declan’s travel quirks, I slipped the TV remote inside a plastic baggie and sanitized the glasses with a bottle of duty-free whiskey I’d bought Declan, wanting him to feel at home. I’d wipe the bathroom and phones down with antibacterial wipes later.

  I cranked up the heat and made a hot cup of decaffeinated Barry’s Gold. A store in Milwaukee carried the Irish tea, so I no longer had to stock up when I was in Ireland. I cradled the warm mug in my hands, the feeling slowly returning to my fingers. I sat on the crisp white sheets enclosing a soft fleece blanket and rested my back against the headboard. I set the mug on the nightstand next to the 1930s framed photo of Grandma and her sister Theresa, dressed in cloche hats and calf-length dresses made of flowing fabric. They stood in front of the church in Killybog, where I’d attended Mass with Declan and his parents at Christmastime.

  I perched my computer on my lap and scanned e-mails, surprised it’d been almost ten hours since I’d received one from Mom. Bernice and Gracie had sent their daily e-mail, checking my progress on their ancestry research.

  The two elderly women from my Dublin Christmas meeting had hired me to research their McKinney family before their summer trip to Scotland. I’d warned them I wouldn’t have time to work on it while traveling. I needed to spend my free hours eating and sleeping. And they’d known when they’d hired me I was far from competent. I hadn’t even had an Ancestry.com subscription. This past month, I’d spent dozens of hours learning to navigate the research site. I still wasn’t proficient at finding information. No way would I have time to research my Flannery family and find living rellies before my St. Paddy’s Day meeting in Dublin.

  The subject of the next e-mail read New Message from George on Bridget Coffey. Finally. After four months, my first response from a message I’d posted on an Ireland genealogy forum.

  I opened the e-mail.

  Hello Ms. Shaw,

  I read on this forum that you are researching a Bridget Coffey from Killybog, County Westmeath, Ireland. I am wondering if perhaps this is the same Bridget Coffey who married John Michael Daly in Lancashire, England. If yes, or you believe it could be, I would be quite interested in communicating with you and sharing information.

  Kind regards,

  George Wood

  It was indeed the same Bridget Coffey. John Michael Daly had been her first husband. A husband my family had no clue about until recently, years after Grandma’s death. I’d tracked down John Daly’s sister, Emily, in Ireland at Christmas, thanks to the help of Grandma’s newfound niece, Sadie Collentine. Emily had confirmed Grandma and her first husband had lived in Lancashire after becoming estranged from their families in Ireland. Their families’ feud was deeply rooted in the fact that the Dalys had owned the land Grandma’s family had farmed for generations. Two years after marrying, John Michael died from TB. Grandma returned briefly to Ireland before immigrating to America.

  Was George Wood related to Grandma or the Dalys? Did he know where she and John Michael had lived in England? The church where their forbidden marriage had taken place?

  Excitement zipped through me. Any information this George could provide would be more than what we knew about Grandma’s life in England. We still knew little about her life in Ireland.

  Chapter Three

  My day started with a grueling two-hour food and beverage meeting with Gretchen and Nigel, the banquet captain. I scribbled Gretchen’s changes on the event orders, hoping I’d be able to decipher them later, and highlighted critical notes in green. She provided the exact number of coffee and tea gallons for every meal function. Made changes to every room setup diagram. Reiterated a dozen times that the product cage must remain locked at all times and only Nigel and she were to have keys. And anyone found accessing the product without permission would be guillotined in Prague’s Old Town Square when the astronomical clock struck midnight. She didn’t say that, but it was inferred.

  I was breaking out in a sweat, gulping down bottled sparkling water, which I despised. However, Nigel remained unflappable.

  “Please don’t worry,” Nigel said in a refined English accent. His tailored black suit and crisp white shirt matched his demeanor. “I assure you the meeting will be impeccably executed.”

  The word “executed” and visions of a guillotine made me cringe.

  “I’m sure it will.” Gretchen smiled sweetly, though a warning look flashed in her green eyes, enhanced with her usual jade eye shadow and winged liquid liner. She must get up an hour early just to do her eyes.

  She abruptly stood and left.

  We were dismissed.

  I released my grip on the gold hotel pen and massaged the cramp from my hand. My black suit jacket draped on the chair back was wrinkled from my rigid body pressing against it for hours. I slipped it on over my pink button-up oxford with an E & W swirled chocolate logo. I swiped magenta lip gloss across my lips and smoothed a hand over my flat-ironed auburn hair. If Declan wasn’t coming today, I’d have just tossed my hair up in a clip and slept an extra half hour. I straightened my pile of event orders, glancing over at Nigel.

  “She can be a bit overwhelming, but she kno
ws her stuff. She’s a food and beverage goddess.”

  Had I seriously just referred to Gretchen as a goddess? Yet I didn’t have to like her to learn from her. Maybe Rachel couldn’t stand her personally either but relied on her professional expertise to run a successful meeting, same as Blair appeared to. A lot of the revisions and information Gretchen had provided Nigel seemed like stuff Blair should have planned in advance.

  Nigel gave me a polite smile. “Yes. She appears quite competent at her job, as am I. I’m sure we’ll do just fine.”

  Oh, to have his confidence.

  On my way back to the office, I received a text from Declan that put a bounce in my step.

  Just landed. Can’t wait to see you!

  I wiped the goofy grin off my face when I entered the office, not wanting my cheerful attitude to arouse suspicion.

  The girl in the corner was slamming a Red Bull energy drink. She tore a report to shreds and tossed it in the garbage. I’d learned her name was Courtney. She’d taken over the meeting’s registration process last week after her coworker had quit without notice because of a nasty confrontation with Blair. She’d gone out with a bang—sabotaging the registration database. Now, it was Courtney’s job to fix it. Everyone was holding their breath that she didn’t bolt before the meeting even started.

  I sat next to Gretchen typing away on her laptop. Blair marched up with an intense look, her deep-maroon lips pressed into a sliver. I sat at attention, pen poised, preparing for whatever she was about to throw at me. Mindy trailed behind her with pink lips and sparkly pink earrings, both of which matched the uniform shirt to a tee. She’d obviously done several Evans and Walker meetings. Since I hadn’t, all my jewelry was boring black or silver so it would go with any color.

  “I need you to help Mindy check VIP suites. We just got the keys and were given the former Bridal Suite when we specifically forbid it from being included in our room block. The contracted suite is occupied and won’t be vacated before Mr. Gauthier arrives.” Blair glanced around, then lowered her voice. “I don’t believe in ghosts, but I don’t need to have a VIP go off on me because we put him in a room where someone was killed eighty years ago.”