Riley smiles, stands up and smooths her skirt. “I get that a lot. Memorable in an unmemorable kind of way.”
He chuckles and shakes his head. “No, that’s not what I mean. I’ll think of it eventually. Here, in the meantime, let me give you my card, in case you remember anything else.” In her hand he places a white rectangle that reads Detective Dale Lazeer, Boston Police Department. A telephone number and an email address float below it. “Give me a call anytime. Day or night.”
“All right, thank you. I will.”
Halfway across the dining room, Tom is breaking free of his interview, and she pushes through a press of people to go meet him. “You okay?” he asks and pulls her into his arms. Riley nods, but she knows she’s not okay, and he’s probably not, either, and his mom most certainly isn’t, and that they should find Marilyn as soon as possible, but instead of saying all this, tears slide down her cheeks, salty and hot, while the image of the woman in the yellow dress lodges in her mind. Because, God, how could something so horrible have happened on such a beautiful day?
And Riley knows one other thing: she and Tom can’t possibly get married here now.
SIX
Jean-Paul understands that the Seafarer has seen its fair share of drama over the years, largely due to the kind of clientele it caters to—the wealthy, the famous, the self-indulgent. Those most likely to make unreasonable requests or inappropriate use of the hotel simply because they’re unaccustomed to being told no. He’s familiar with this kind of guest because his old hotel in Paris, Le Bistrol, catered to the same class. But sometimes the brashness of Americans surprises even him. Their assumption that the world revolves solely around them, that they’re infallible (at least the French have the decency to mask their entitlement with good manners). The other day, his night manager, Oliver, recounted a story of how, a few years ago, a famous American actor insisted on flying his helicopter to the hotel. Even though the hotel had advised him that they had no helipad, the actor had insisted, setting his helicopter down on the hotel’s front lawn, its whirling blade giving it the virtual finger.
Then there was that time, back in the eighties, when a few Hollywood stars invited everyone in the bar up to their suite for an Ecstasy party. Guests wandered the halls naked, and the Boston cops had to herd them like drunken cats into their patrol cars. There were also the husbands and wives (and mistresses) who occasionally had run-of-the-mill spats down in the lobby. Rumor had it that a spurned mistress once hurled her lover’s clothes and laptop off the balcony and that they’d landed with a satisfying crack! on the water. And every so often, a fistfight breaks out in the bar. But such incidents are par for the course, to be expected in the hospitality business. Jean-Paul knows this.
But never has the Seafarer experienced anything like what occurred today—a deceased guest, her body strewn out on the premises for all to see. According to Oliver, only a handful of travelers staying at the hotel have passed away on-site, and all of those were due to natural causes. “There were a few heart attacks, a couple of strokes, I seem to recall,” Oliver says while he debriefs Jean-Paul (Oliver has been kind enough to stay on for the day shift given recent events). Now that the ambulance has taken the body away and some semblance of order has been restored, Jean-Paul is trying desperately to reach the hotel’s PR manager, Julie Morgan. Because the story must be controlled at all costs, spun the right way before the press swoops in and gets ahold of it. “Though, come to think of it, one of those might have been a drug overdose. Rumor had it someone in Housekeeping found the dude curled up in bed, a needle hanging from his arm. But that was probably ten years ago,” says Oliver.
Jean-Paul hits the redial button on his phone repeatedly (it keeps going to voice mail) and simultaneously tries sending his PR manager a text: NEED TO SPEAK WITH YOU IMMEDIATELY. Julie will know how to handle such a debacle, how to stomp down any speculation, not to mention calling in a hazmat crew to clean up the area once the police are finished with their investigation. It unnerves Jean-Paul that his night manager seems calmer than he is, that the scene that occurred half an hour ago beyond their dining-room window doesn’t appear to faze him. How is this possible? Jean-Paul decides it must be because Oliver never actually saw the woman’s face when Jean-Paul brushed her hair away, a face that was, for lack of a better word, unrecognizable. And when the image of it pops back into his mind, Jean-Paul quickly pivots toward the wastebasket and vomits.
“Whoa, boss,” Oliver says behind him. “You okay?”
Jean-Paul holds up a hand while still bent over the trash can, making sure nothing else is about to come up. The sour taste of this morning’s coffee and Danish coat his mouth. He allows himself a moment before straightening, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Thankfully, a travel-size tube of toothpaste and mouthwash are housed in his bottom desk drawer, items he’d purchased in case he ever needed to spend the night at the hotel for an emergency. So far, this hasn’t happened. Tonight, however, may be the first. He frowns, remembering Marie and his earlier idea—that he’d surprise her with NannyTime over dinner—and realizes it will probably have to wait.
“Thanks, I’ll be all right,” he says, covering his mouth with his hand. “If you wouldn’t mind checking in on the guests in the dining room—see if they need more water, anything at all—that would be appreciated. I’ll just take a minute here to wash up.”
“You got it, boss.” He watches the door close behind Oliver, retrieves his toiletries and hurries to the private bathroom abutting his office. In the bathroom mirror, his skin appears jaundiced, his eyes rimmed with red. His usually impeccable hair sticks up at odd angles. He quickly dabs some water on it and smooths it down. Then he brushes his teeth and swishes the mouthwash around. Holding it together for his staff today is of the utmost importance.
Back in his office, he pulls the blinds closed to ensure a few more precious minutes of privacy before true chaos descends. Already, he can sense the hotel staff buzzing to answer questions from the guests who’ve come downstairs late, wondering why an ambulance was pulling away from the hotel. Jean-Paul paces his office, twenty steps across, twenty steps back, and reminds himself that a few casualties are to be expected when you’re running one of the premier hotels in a major city. But something so categorically awful—a death that guests have witnessed firsthand? No, nothing has prepared him for this.
It’s going to be one hell of a publicity ride, that’s for sure. Already, on his short trip from the dining room, where he’d been running triage with Oliver and the cops, to his office, the hallways were humming with concern. He’d overheard a woman in Housekeeping speculating that the hotel might need to close after such an awful tragedy, which had prompted an immediate call to his head of staff. “Please remind your staff that we’re not in the business of fueling rumors. As unfortunate as this accident is—” and, yes, he’d been very careful to call it an accident, knowing all too well how quickly one misspoken word could ignite a legal firestorm “—the Seafarer will remain open and continue to serve its guests in the stylish manner they’re accustomed to.” Shortly after that, his head chef had pulled him aside to say that his crew was running around like “birds beat out of a bush,” uncertain if the dining hall would be closed indefinitely.