The Hotel Nantucket — Chapter no 28

28. The Cobblestone Telegraph

When we next see Fast Eddie, he’s seated at the big front table at Cru, where he has ordered a magnum of Dom Pérignon, which is attended by two servers and three live sparklers.

Well, it’s no wonder. It has taken a mere three days for him to secure a twenty-million-dollar offer on the Hotel Nantucket. The buyer is known only as the Long Shot Trust, but because Eddie can’t keep his mouth shut (something his sister, Barbie, scolds him for nonstop), someone among us discovered that the property was purchased in equal parts by two entities. One was Paul Winslow, a principal at the Brandywine Group who owns a home on Eel Point Road, and the other was Magda English, the head of housekeeping at the Hotel Nantucket.

“I knew Magda was hiding something,” Nancy Twine of the Summer Street Church said. “I used to wonder about her putting so much in the collection plate on Sundays and now I find out she could have put in ten times more. She has millions!”

Yes, Magda English’s net worth hovers around twenty-four million dollars. The (unconfirmed) story is that she caught the eye of Xavier Darling thirty years earlier when she was working on one of his cruise ships. He wined and dined her in Monte Carlo and they ended up at a casino where she placed a five-hundred-dollar bet (her own

money, she would be quick to point out) and rolled the dice at the craps table for nearly two hours, going all in each time and walking away with two hundred and fifteen thousand dollars. She invested this money with Xavier Darling’s bankers, where it grew at a steady rate. Then, in 2012, Xavier approached Magda with a dark-horse opportunity: he was investing in a company that was developing a new kind of personal security software. After reading the company’s prospectus, Magda told Xavier she wanted in. The company went public in July of 2021 and Magda’s small fortune became a big fortune. The following month, her sister-in-law, Charlotte English, died suddenly in her sleep and Magda moved to Nantucket to be with her brother, William, and her nephew Zeke. She had been looking at property with Fast Eddie, including homes on Eel Point Road, but hadn’t found anything to her liking. She took the job as head of housekeeping at the hotel because she was always happiest when she was busy.

“At least that’s what I’ve gathered from our chats,” said Brian, the bartender at the Brant Point Grill. Brian was the one who’d spilled the beans about Magda and Xavier. “They were definitely having a thing,” he said. “She told me he was an ‘old friend,’ but I was getting a vibe of ‘old friend with benefits.’”

This makes Magda’s decision to buy the hotel even more intriguing. Apparently, when Eddie told her that Xavier already had a private offer of sixteen million, Magda said, “I’m going to call Xavier’s bluff. His friend who wants to turn the hotel into a satellite office is probably only half serious—who puts a satellite office thirty miles out to sea?—but my partner and I will give Xavier the benefit of the doubt and offer eighteen million.”

“He’ll close at twenty.”

“Done,” Magda said.

As for Magda’s partner, Paul Winslow, he was overheard saying, “I’m sure I’ll be accused of buying the hotel for my son, but in reality, I was presented with a smart business proposition by Magda English. The Hotel Nantucket is a piece of Nantucket history but it’s also poised to be the most gracious accommodations on this island for generations to come. Who wouldn’t want to be a part of that, given the choice? As for my son, Chad, I hope this deal shows him firsthand what kind of positive opportunities my firm can create. I hope he ultimately decides to come work with me. But if he stays on at the hotel, I respect that decision. The important thing is that the Hotel Nantucket is back in business.”

Charlene from Our Island Home senses an exuberance in the hotel staff the moment she steps into the lobby. The air is rich with the smell of good coffee and fresh-baked pastry; Aretha Franklin is asking for a little respect; the place is buzzing with conversation and laughter. Charlene feels like a bit of a bubble-burster; she has come to the hotel on a sobering mission. She approaches the desk where Sweet Edie Robbins is working—Charlene has known Edie since the days her father, Vance, used to carry her in the BabyBjörn at the Stop and Shop, though now Edie is all grown up, looking quite chic in her silky hydrangea-blue blouse.

Charlene says, “Good morning, Edie. I can see you’re busy, but do you have a minute to talk?”

“Of course, Charlene!” Edie says. She turns to her coworker, a woman with lovely long gingery hair, and says, “I’ll be back shortly.”

Edie leads Charlene through a closed door into the employee break room. Charlene has heard rumors about this room, and it doesn’t disappoint. There’s a Formica bar counter with bright orange leather and chrome diner stools, a jukebox, a pinball machine, and a curvy midcentury sofa, where Edie leads them to sit.

“I only have a few minutes,” Edie says.

“Yes!” Charlene says. “You must be wondering what I’m doing here.” She pulls a plastic bag from her purse, and from the bag she removes an old, leather-bound journal with the initials JFB in gold leaf on the cover. “I’m sad to say that Mint Benedict passed away yesterday.”

Edie blinks. “I’m sorry, I don’t know who that is. He was one of your residents? He was elderly?”

“Ninety-four,” Charlene says. “He was the only child of Jackson and Dahlia Benedict.”

Edie smiles politely. “I’m still not sure…”

“They owned the hotel from 1910 to 1922,” Charlene says. “Then there was a fire and a chambermaid was killed.”

“Our ghost,” Edie says.

“Your ghost.” Charlene hands Edie the journal. “This is Jackson Benedict’s diary from that year. Mint kept it in his safety-deposit box.

Mint’s mother, Dahlia, died of alcoholism when Mint was only ten years old and Jackson passed from cancer in 1943. There are also photographs and some small items from the hotel—a handbell, a few keys, some pieces of china from the ballroom. Mint is donating those to the Nantucket Historical Association. But he wants you here at the

hotel to have Jackson’s diary. He made it clear he would like someone to actually read it.”

“I’ll read it,” Edie says. “But I can’t do it right now. I have to get

back to work.”

“Just promise you’ll—”

“Yes, of course!” Edie says. “I’m pumped about this.” She opens the journal’s cover and sees the first page is dated August 22, 1922.

“This is the hotel’s history.”

“I have to admit, I read it myself,” Charlene says. “It reveals some secrets about this place. The literal skeletons in the closet.”

“You should probably read it first,” Edie says to Lizbet, sliding Jackson Benedict’s diary across Lizbet’s desk.

“Charlene gave it to you,” Lizbet says.

“I’m not sure I can get to it tonight,” Edie says. “I’m going to dinner with Zeke.”

“What?” Lizbet says. “Is this hotel responsible for another romance?”

Edie shrugs. “We’re just going out to celebrate the hotel purchase.” She lowers her voice. “Zeke had no idea his aunt had that much money. He and his dad were totally blown away.”

“Thank God for Magda,” Lizbet says. “Or I’d be working as the concierge at the Peninsula in Beverly Hills.”

Alessandra steps into the office. “The concierge at the Peninsula in Beverly Hills?” she says. “That’s the job I’m applying for.”

“I know,” Lizbet says. “They called me today for a reference.”

“And?” Alessandra says.

“I predict that next summer, you’ll be back on the West Coast.”

“Where I belong,” Alessandra says.

Yes, Edie thinks. She’ll miss Alessandra, but she’s excited about taking over as front-desk manager. “I hope the men in LA are ready for you,” she says.

“They aren’t,” Alessandra and Lizbet say together.

“Sit down if you have a minute,” Lizbet says. “Edie is going to read to us.”

August 22, 1922

Here, for my descendants, should I be lucky enough to have any, and for the historians and the detective inspectors, is a real and true account of the events of August 19 and 20, 1922. I’m not a gifted writer, nor, up to this point in my life, have I been particularly introspective, but I feel I must put these words down, if only to exorcise them from my soot-stained mind.

My wife, Dahlia, and I held a dinner dance in the ballroom of my hotel this past Saturday. The evening started with turtle soup, followed by beef Wellington and lobster tails, and everyone enjoyed gin cocktails and champagne. Dahlia got quite tight, as always. She flirted shamelessly with Chase Yorkbridge and asked him to escort her up to our suite as a way to make me jealous— but I was not jealous at all, only relieved. I left the party directly after Dahlia and headed up to the attic storage closet to see Grace.

Grace Hadley, my mistress. I was in love with her. I am in love with her still.

Edie looks up. “This is why Mint Benedict wanted us to read it. Grace Hadley was Jackson Benedict’s lover.”

Alessandra shrugs. “I always assumed that.”

“You did not,” Lizbet says.

“A chambermaid shacking up in the fourth-floor storage closet?”

Alessandra says. “What did you think she was doing up there?”

Lizbet waves a hand. “Keep going, Edie.”

When I knocked, Grace cracked open the door, cautious as always. She was afraid that one night she would find Dahlia pointing a revolver at her forehead.

Grace knew Dahlia far better than I, as it turned out.

When I returned from Grace’s room, Dahlia was snoring and didn’t stir. I figured, as I did every night I spent with Grace, that I had gotten away with something.

I awoke in the middle of the night shrouded in a thick cloud of black smoke. The chintz armchair by the window was on fire, and fire was sprinting up the drapes. I called for Dahlia. I checked her dressing chamber; she was not to be found. I stepped into the hallway to find people shouting. Leroy Noonan, the hotel’s general manager, was intent on rushing me out.

I was thinking only of Grace. “I have to make sure she’s okay,” I said. Noonan, naturally, thought I was referring to Dahlia. He said, “She’s on the street, Mr. Benedict. Let’s go now, please, sir.” He hurried me toward the stairs but I fought him, saying, “I need to get to the fourth floor.”

“The fourth floor is on fire, sir, you cannot go up there.” Noonan is a big man, six foot four and nearly three hundred pounds; he could have thrown me over his shoulder and carried me out of the

building. And that was what he would have to do, I decided, because I was determined to rescue Grace. I fought my way through the panicked stream of guests in their nightclothes to the bottom of the back stairway. But the entire stairwell was a fiery inferno. There would be no going up.

When I reached the street, I found Dahlia looking perfectly calm amidst the pandemonium. She had her silk robe belted neatly over her dressing gown, she had on her slippers, her hair was curled, she wore lipstick, she was smoking, and…she held our cat, Mittens. Something registered in me then, something I couldn’t bear to think. I searched through the mob for Grace. Was she here? Had she escaped? I didn’t see her. I told myself she would, naturally, be hiding because she had no good reason to be at the hotel at night. I approached the fire marshal, who assured me the fire was under control and everyone got out safely.

“Everyone?” I said. “Even the people on the fourth floor?”

“There was no one on the fourth floor,” he said. “We checked.”

He’d checked the fourth floor. Grace had escaped and now, I suspected, was lurking in the shadows somewhere.

I returned to Dahlia’s side. She said to me, “The girl didn’t get out. I locked her in from the outside.”

I grabbed Dahlia’s arm. “What have you done?” I said. I saw the orange ember at the end of her cigarette as an evil, glowing eye. “Did you set this fire, Dahlia?”

The cat wriggled free of Dahlia’s arms and jumped to the ground, despite its bad leg. “I wouldn’t say that too loudly. The insurance, Jack. If there’s no insurance, you’ll be ruined.” She put a finger across my lips. “Accidents happen.”

I wanted to rage against her but it only took a moment for me to realize that she was right. She had set the fire and locked Grace’s door—but I was the one who had set Grace up in the attic, kept her the same way that Dahlia kept the damn cat. If Grace had defied me, I would have had no choice but to fire her and make sure she didn’t find a job anywhere else on the island. I am responsible for the death of my beloved mistress, Grace Hadley. —Jackson Floyd Benedict

When Edie stops reading, a hush comes over Lizbet’s office.

Finally, Alessandra speaks. “What a buzzkill.”

“No wonder Grace haunts the hotel,” Lizbet says. “I would too if I were her.”

Edie turns the page and finds it blank. “This is the only entry in the diary,” she says. Her eyebrows shoot up. “This is all he wanted us to know.”