Chapter 2 - THE MAN WHO FORGOT WHO OWNED THE HOTEL
Adrian Price stepped out of the elevator at 8:24 p.m., carrying a leather briefcase and wearing the expression of a man who had just realized his life was about to change.
“Adrian!” Sloane Mercer called.
She hurried toward him, her gold dress sparkling beneath the chandeliers.
“Thank God. This woman has been harassing me. I want her removed immediately.”
Adrian barely looked at his fiancée.
His eyes were fixed on my champagne-soaked coat.
“Mrs. Bell,” he said quietly.
The lobby went silent again.
Sloane stopped walking.
“Mrs. who?”
Adrian swallowed.
“Eleanor Bell. The chairman of Bellwether Hospitality.”
I watched the color leave Sloane's face.
“And the controlling owner of this hotel,” I added.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Sloane laughed nervously.
“Oh, come on. Adrian, tell me you're joking.”
He didn't.
I had appointed Adrian general manager three years earlier because he understood something important about hospitality: people remembered how a hotel made them feel long after they forgot how expensive the furniture was.
At least, I thought he understood.
“Eleanor,” he said, “perhaps we should discuss this upstairs.”
“Why? Your fiancée seemed perfectly comfortable discussing my appearance in front of everyone.”
Sloane's cheeks reddened.
“I didn't know who you were.”
“That,” I replied, “is precisely the problem.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it.
I turned toward Adrian.
“The invoices.”
He glanced toward the guests gathering near the ballroom entrance.
“Now?”
“Now.”
He opened his briefcase and handed me a folder.
I placed it on the reception counter beside my mother's old leather folder.
Inside were the financial summaries for Sloane's engagement celebration.
The first page listed flowers, entertainment, security, and catering.
The total was $186,400.
I looked up.
“Since when does a private engagement party cost the hotel nearly two hundred thousand dollars?”
Adrian adjusted his cuff.
“The event is part of our luxury marketing initiative.”
“Is it?”
Sloane crossed her arms.
“Adrian told me the hotel was sponsoring our celebration. It's good publicity.”
“Then why does the marketing department show an expense of only twenty-eight thousand dollars?”
Adrian didn't answer.
I turned another page.
And another.
Then my fingers stopped.
A charge for temporary guest relocation appeared under a department I recognized immediately.
MARGARET BELL OPEN DOOR PROGRAM.
$64,800.
I stared at the number.
My mother had created that program seventeen years earlier.
Fourteen rooms in the hotel's older east wing were reserved for families traveling to the city for medical treatment, people who sometimes had to choose between paying for a hotel room and buying medication.
The rooms weren't luxurious.
They had simple beds, warm blankets, and windows overlooking a small courtyard.
But they were clean, safe, and offered at little or no cost to qualified families.
My mother used to say, “A person shouldn't have to be wealthy to close a door and feel safe behind it.”
Even after she became ill, she insisted the program continue.
I looked at Adrian.
“Why is my mother's fund paying for your engagement party?”
“It isn't,” he said quickly. “That's an accounting allocation.”
“Then explain it.”
“We temporarily moved some east-wing operating costs while renovations were being discussed.”
“What renovations?”
His silence lasted a second too long.
Behind me, Maya shifted uncomfortably.
I turned toward her.
“Maya, have families been staying in the east wing?”
She looked at Adrian.
His expression hardened.
“Maya,” he said, “this is a management matter.”
I held up my hand.
“I asked her.”
Maya took a breath.
“Not many lately, ma'am.”
“How many?”
“None this week.”
My stomach tightened.
“And last week?”
“Two families came asking. We were told to say the program wasn't accepting reservations.”
“By whom?”
Maya's eyes filled with tears.
“Mr. Price's office.”
Adrian stepped forward.
“That is an oversimplification.”
“Then simplify it for me,” I said.
Sloane suddenly reached for his arm.
“Adrian, you said the old wing was empty because nobody wanted those rooms.”
I turned toward her.
“What exactly did he tell you?”
She looked from Adrian to me.
“That you were planning to get rid of it anyway.”
My hands went cold.
“Get rid of what?”
“The east wing.”
Adrian's jaw tightened.
“Sloane. Enough.”
But she was frightened now, and frightened people sometimes said things they had been carefully taught not to say.
“You told me it would become private residences,” she whispered.
I looked at Adrian.
“Private residences?”
He lowered his voice.
“Eleanor, there have been preliminary discussions.”
“Without me?”
“With certain board members.”
I closed the folder.
For a moment, I could hear my mother's voice describing the first family she'd welcomed into the east wing.
A man who had slept three nights in his car while his wife underwent surgery.
Mom had made him tea, handed him a key, and refused to accept his last twenty dollars.
Now somebody was charging her charitable program for champagne and floral arrangements.
I turned to Maya.
“Please take me to the east wing.”
Adrian moved toward us.
“Eleanor, it's closed for maintenance.”
“Then you won't mind showing me the work.”
He didn't move.
I started walking anyway.
Maya followed, carrying the reception keys.
Sloane remained beside Adrian, her gold dress suddenly looking terribly out of place.
We crossed the lobby and reached the corridor leading to the older part of the hotel.
A white notice had been taped across the double doors.
I stopped.
The sign read:
OPEN DOOR PROGRAM SUSPENDED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.
Beneath it, in smaller letters:
BY DIRECT ORDER OF ELEANOR BELL, OWNER.
I read the words twice.
Then I turned toward Adrian.
May you like
“Why,” I asked, “is my name on an order I never gave?”
And for the first time that evening, Adrian looked genuinely afraid.
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