My Wanderlust Bites the Dust Page 9

  Nigel seemed too refined to be hiding out in bathroom stalls, precisely why he probably did it. Nobody would ever think of looking for him there.

  “Where exactly is that loo?”

  A bathroom stall might be my new Zen Zone.

  * * *

  After hours at the registration desk, my head was about to explode. People were firing questions at me nonstop.

  The bellman took my luggage a half hour ago. Where is it?

  The restaurant doesn’t offer vegan options. Can you talk to the chef?

  Where’s the nearest pharmacy? I think I contracted something on the plane! The man about hacked up a lung while I scrambled for a pharmacy address. It turned out he wasn’t even with our group. He’d wandered over from the lobby. I’d scrubbed myself down with antibacterial gel.

  It finally started slowing down early afternoon, giving us our first breather.

  “I can’t believe we only had three people without rooms.” Rita gave Courtney a pat on the back. “You did a fab job.”

  “We did a fab job. Sorry you got pulled into the mess.” Courtney’s pink shirt was untucked, most of her makeup was worn off, and only one gold earring dangled from her ear.

  I wasn’t sure if she’d lost the other one or had forgotten to put it in. Neither Rita nor I mentioned it, not wanting a missing earring to be the final straw that sent the poor thing over the edge.

  “No worries, luv. It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last. It could be worse. Last year I was on a meeting where the rooms’ coordinator released two hundred rooms in error from a thousand-room block. There was a citywide convention, and hotels were sold out. Staff had to double up, and we were on every hotel booking website grabbing hotel rooms as they became available. Half the time they were in the next town over.”

  That woman had some horrific stories.

  I sniffed the faint scent of lavender lingering on my suit jacket. I excused myself and escaped to Nigel’s loo hideout on the lower level to take a break. When I entered the bathroom, the scent of vanilla calmed me. The cleaning lady was just leaving, a can of vanilla air freshener on her cart.

  I pointed to the can. “May I?”

  She looked confused but nodded okay.

  I blasted the air with the vanilla scent and stepped through the mist, inhaling a deep breath. I stuck the can back on her cart. She gave me a wary smile and quickly wheeled her cart out the door before I could offer her 100 korunas for the air freshener.

  Chapter Twelve

  Midafternoon, I finally scarfed down a few bites of lunch—cold goulash, dried-out mashed potatoes, and shriveled-up peas. It was probably delish when it had been hot and fresh. I grabbed my event order and went to the ballroom to help Gretchen with the welcome reception setup.

  Crystal chandeliers hung from the brightly painted frescoed ceiling, and gilded wall sconces cast a soft light against the walls. Gold linens with champagne tulle overlays draped the tables. It resembled a ballroom at the Palace of Versailles. I snapped a few quick pics to post on Facebook, since this would likely be the only historical building I’d get to see the inside of this trip.

  Gretchen was in food and beverage diva mode, firing off commands at Nigel and his staff, who were decked out in black suits with gold bow ties. Gretchen had changed into black heels, her hair was pulled back in a stylish twist, and she smelled like freshly spritzed designer perfume.

  I smelled like the loo on the lower level.

  Gretchen pointed a pen at me. “Caity, I’m putting you in charge of the dessert. Ethan Hunt. I’ll handle everything else. You just focus on that.”

  A guy in jeans and a Grateful Dead T-shirt strolled up, twirling a drumstick between his fingers. “I’m here to set for the Chain-Smoking Altar Boys.”

  Gretchen’s horrified gaze narrowed. “The what?”

  He slid a hand through his greasy hair. “The band for tonight.”

  Her gaze darted to Nigel. “I contracted a trio.”

  Nigel nodded. “This gentleman is performing here in two nights. Not this evening.”

  The guy’s brow wrinkled, and he stopped twirling the drumstick. “You sure about that?”

  “Sadly, yes, I am quite certain your musical group will be here to entertain in two nights.”

  “Where the hell is security?” Gretchen’s gaze darted to the doors. “Product is going out. They need to guard the doors.”

  Nigel had a server escort the Grateful Dead guy out of the room while Gretchen called security.

  “I swear to God, if tonight doesn’t go smoothly, I’m going to flip my shit,” Gretchen said.

  “Well, we certainly don’t want that to flip.” Nigel wore a strained smile, turning to me. “I’ll help you retrieve the product from the cooler and set the dessert station.”

  “We cannot run out of dessert,” Gretchen said. “This is their featured product. They sent like a hundred extras.” Her gaze flew across the room. “Don’t light those candles yet!”

  The startled server dropped the lit match on the round mirror centerpiece displaying the candles, just missing the gold tulle and igniting the table.

  “Be careful!” Gretchen yelled.

  Nigel’s jaw tightened. His gaze sharpened. Fearing that his unflappable demeanor was about to become ruffled, I grabbed hold of Nigel’s arm and led him toward the refrigerator to cool off.

  Fifteen minutes later, we were arranging macaroons on three-tiered china stands painted with delicate gold borders and floral designs. The coffee and tea station displayed matching cups and saucers. The china looked like pieces Nigel would have inherited from an English grandmother or the hotel restaurant used to serve high tea.

  “This china reminds me of the first time I met my Irish rellie this past Christmas. We drank tea from cups that came from my great-grandma Flannery’s family porcelain factory. It’s part of my growing teacup collection.”

  “Well then, we must add one more to your collection.” Nigel handed me a dainty cup and saucer. “It was made in the former Czechoslovakia.”

  “Oh wow. Thank you.” I wrapped it in a cream-colored linen and carefully tucked it inside my purse for safekeeping.

  We finished placing out the desserts. Macaroons were all the rage right now, but these were much fancier than your average ones. Champagne and raspberry, salted caramel praline, chocolate ganache sprinkled with nuts, lavender and white chocolate… Lavender? The VIP with the Zen suite would be all over those. I placed the dessert menu cards on the gold tulle and stored two extra boxes of product under the table.

  Nigel and I stood back and admired our work.

  “Fit for the queen,” he said.

  Gretchen walked up and studied the display. Unable to find a flaw, she smiled faintly. “Looks good.” She continued to the pasta station.

  A sense of pride welled up inside me. I scolded myself for allowing Gretchen’s approval to evoke such a feeling. “That’s the first compliment she’s ever given me.”

  Nigel smirked. “I’ll send some champagne to your room.” He went off to round up the servers for a quick powwow before the doors opened.

  My purse strap was pressing down on my bruised shoulder, so I stashed it under the table by the product. The aroma of hot appetizers on the next station made my stomach growl. Gretchen was across the room at the carving station, probably directing the chef on the proper way to slice the meat. I snuck over to the appetizers and snatched up a mini crab cake and a puff pastry with goat cheese. Starving, I choked down the stinky cheese. I returned to my post to find Armando—the server who’d gone MIA at my VIP dinner—perusing the desserts. I eyed his mouth. Were those macaroon crumbs on his lips?

  “Can I help you?” I asked.

  He shook his head. Before I could hold out my hand and tell him to spit out the evidence, he bolted.

  If Nigel caught Armando eating off a client’s buffet, he’d fire him on the spot. It would be like a restaurant waiter snitching some of your dessert before delivering it t
o your table. I technically wasn’t supposed to be eating off a buffet until after the event when I was no longer working. However, I was rarely not on duty, so when was I supposed to eat?

  A few minutes later, Oscar—the server who’d come to my rescue at the dinner—walked up with a silver tray of rumaki. The scent of bacon filled my head. Gretchen was still on the other side of the room, so I popped a bacon-wrapped water chestnut into my mouth. I smiled thank you, and Oscar strolled over to the doors where Nigel was lining up servers to tray-pass wine and appetizers. A lady seated with a cello poised between her legs and two men, one with a viola and one with a violin, began playing on a low-rise stage at the front. Their black attire against the red velvet pipe-and-drape backdrop added to the elegance. Like the wineglass musician’s tune on the bridge, I recognized the classical piece but didn’t know the composer or title.

  The doors opened. People dressed in dark suits and cocktail dresses flowed in, making a beeline for the bars. I didn’t see much action until an hour into the reception when the desserts got hit fast and furious. A middle-aged lady in a black dress with a faux-diamond-embellished neckline browsed the macaroons. Her name badge read Andrea Callan. The mental health VIP. As I’d expected, Zen Lady went wild for the lavender and white chocolate macaroons. She wrapped several in a napkin and discreetly slipped them into her purse.

  It wasn’t my place to remind her that employees were informed that all product must remain in the function rooms.

  Mr. Gauthier strolled over. My heart raced.

  Do not screw up.

  His top lip curled back at the lavender and white chocolate macaroons. “Est-ce correct?” He pointed at the dessert, questioning if he was reading the flavor right.

  I nodded. “Oui.”

  He snatched up a champagne raspberry one and walked off.

  I let out a relieved sigh over our interaction having gone smoothly.

  There were only twenty macaroons left when there was finally a lull in traffic, allowing me time to replenish. I lifted the table linen to grab the extra product.

  No boxes. I checked the other side. Still no boxes.

  My heart raced.

  Where the hell were the macaroons?

  And why had someone swiped the dessert and not my purse? No time? Or they knew my pathetic financial situation?

  I’d left the station for five minutes to pee while Chad had kept an eye on it and when I’d popped over for appetizers, twenty feet away. Otherwise I’d been there all night, chatting with attendees and servers. Had it been swiped when I’d been talking with someone? Like a tag team of thieves? Who’d seen me stash the boxes under the table? Security had been at the main doors since the Grateful Dead guy was kicked out.

  Gretchen was making her rounds, checking the station next to me. My stomach tossed. She was going to “flip her shit” when I told her about the missing product. Did I have to tell her? As far as she knew, we’d had a run on macaroons and they were almost gone. But what if I lied and the product showed up somewhere down the road, like in competitor packaging on a food hall’s shelf? Would they be able to trace it back to me?

  What would Rachel do if she were in this situation?

  She’d fess up and take responsibility, even though it really wasn’t my fault.

  Gretchen walked up, clipboard in hand. “What’s on your badge?”

  I glanced down to find teriyaki sauce from the rumaki had dripped on my plastic name badge holder. I wiped it off with my jacket sleeve. I had bigger things to worry about than being busted for eating while on duty. I told Gretchen about the missing boxes. I didn’t mention that I’d left the station to sneak appetizers that weren’t being tray-passed but admitted having made a loo run.

  Panic filled her eyes. “How the hell did someone steal the boxes if you were here the entire time?”

  “I have no clue.”

  She checked under the table. “Maybe you put them under the wrong table.” She headed over to the pasta station.

  Did she think I was a complete idiot?

  The only thing Gretchen found under the pasta station’s table was the chef’s feet. “Guard what’s left of the desserts,” she said. “I’ll check under every table.” She waved Nigel over and filled him in on the situation, recruiting his assistance. “We’re searching everywhere before I tell Blair that Caity lost the product.”

  “I didn’t lose it. It was stolen.”

  Gretchen rolled her eyes. “Whatever. It’s gone.”

  She searched under every food station, and Nigel discreetly put out an all-points bulletin to his staff.

  A few minutes later, Oscar walked up and I snatched a piece of rumaki off his tray and popped it into my mouth, and then another. I had nothing to lose at this point.

  “You know things have been disappearing lately,” he said in a mysterious manner. “A vase and a sculpture vanished from the Presidential Suite. Only one housekeeper will even enter the room.”

  One housekeeper was responsible for cleaning that huge suite seven days a week? Great. Mindy and I would probably be changing Mr. Gauthier’s sheets and cleaning his toilet.

  Oscar walked off as Chad strolled past with appetizers piled on a plate, stuffing his face while I was in meltdown mode. He was going in for the last few macaroons.

  I snapped a hand out in front of the dessert stand. “Sorry. They’re almost gone.” Maybe Chad had looked under the table when the macaroons were running low. “You didn’t happen to replenish them when you were watching the buffet, did you?”

  He shook his head.

  I left it at that since I wasn’t sure if I should tell staff what had happened.

  “Guess I’ll take more foie gras.” He waltzed back over to the previous station.

  Here was the thing. Zen Lady had stashed lavender macaroons in her purse. Who was frisking her at the door? What was to stop attendees from smuggling out product? How well was Ted’s security team policing the main doors? Granted, two boxes would be obvious, yet still. Someone could have snuck out a side door.

  Gretchen and Nigel returned from scouring the kitchen, back hallways, garbage bins, even the boxes awaiting the trash compacter.

  “We have to tell Blair,” Gretchen said with a sense of dread. “Luckily, the reception finishes in fifteen minutes. Take away the empty dessert stands so people aren’t asking for more.”

  Gretchen and I waited in a dingy back hallway for Blair. The stench of dirty dishes on overflowing busing trays about made me gag. Gretchen was texting away, so I checked e-mail to find one from George Wood. He’d arrived at his friend’s home in Prague. I wanted to ask if his friend had an extra guest room, in case I got fired. I certainly couldn’t afford to stay at Le Haute Bohème on my own dime.

  Blair flew through the side doors. “What’s going on?”

  Gretchen gave her the skinny on the situation.

  Blair’s wild-eyed gaze narrowed on me. “How the hell did you lose two boxes of product? If you couldn’t keep track of it, you should have left it locked up in the cooler.”

  Had this woman been named after the Blair Witch Project? Except the movie had come out in the late nineties.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t want to run out of it. I thought it was better to have it on standby than having to wait for Nigel to bring it.”

  “Well, obviously it wasn’t.” She clenched her teeth. “I can’t believe you lost product.”

  “I didn’t lose it. Someone stole it.”

  “You shouldn’t be hiding it under the table.” Blair pressed her fingers to her temples. “Well, this is certainly the challenge of the day. Of the program, I hope.”

  “We hide stuff under tables all the time,” Gretchen snapped. “Even you do.” Her piercing gaze challenged Blair to deny it.

  Blair looked shocked that Gretchen dared confront her. I couldn’t believe Gretchen was coming to my rescue after she’d also just blamed me for losing the product. Her frustration with Blair was apparently greater than he
r frustration with me. I didn’t blame Gretchen for being bitter that Blair took advantage of her expertise and abilities by not giving her support.

  “It had to have been the hotel staff,” Blair said. “Find out which one of them saw you put it under the table—that person must have swiped it. Get it back. Maybe I won’t even have to tell the client.”

  How about Mr. Gauthier? Would she confide in him?

  “If I lose my job over this, everyone loses their jobs.” She stalked back into the ballroom.

  Gretchen’s face reddened with anger. “We all stash crap under tables, in cupboards, behind screens. I’ve seen Blair do it a dozen times. Not that she’d ever admit it. She thinks she’s so perfect even though she doesn’t know shit about meeting planning, especially food and beverage, which is why I never have help. I told her I wouldn’t do this meeting without support. I should just walk out and see how she handles it.”

  I wouldn’t handle it well. I couldn’t do food and beverage by myself.

  “I’m sick of not being appreciated,” she said.

  “I appreciate you sticking up for me even after you saw Declan here.” My heart raced. I couldn’t believe I’d just brought that up. Talk about adding fuel to the fire. But I’d felt pressured to be sympathetic and thankful so she didn’t bolt.

  Gretchen’s jaw dropped. Her gaze narrowed. “Declan was here?”

  She hadn’t seen him getting into the taxi?

  I nodded faintly, my stomach clenching.

  “Good luck with that. You know it violates our contract to have guests stay over during a meeting.” A warning look flashed in her eyes, and she marched back into the ballroom.

  Rather than freaking out that Gretchen was off to tell Blair about Declan, I wanted to yell out, Go right ahead. Put me out of my misery!

  Yet I couldn’t afford to be put out of my misery.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “How many Evans and Walker meetings have you worked?” Ted, the security guy, asked me.