The Hotel Nantucket — Chapter no 7

7. Bad Reviews

June 15, 2022

From: Xavier Darling ([email protected]) To: Employees of the Hotel Nantucket

Good day, team. We have a sticky situation on our hands, I’m afraid. The reviews of our property on TravelTattler for the first week were primarily negative. Now, I understand that people are more likely to leave a review when they have a problem and that it’s highly likely that all the guests who didn’t leave a review left the hotel feeling perfectly content and satisfied with their stay. However, I will not be awarding the thousand-dollar bonus this week.

I hope you all realize that a satisfied guest isn’t enough. I want you, please, to make every effort to see that our guests leave jubilant, energized, and inspired to tell the internet about their unparalleled stay at the Hotel Nantucket.

This is not meant as punishment or even a reprimand. Please think of this e-mail as an impetus to take your guest-service skills to

the next level.

Thank you.

XD

TravelTattler Reviews

The Hotel Nantucket, Nantucket, Massachusetts

Dates of your stay: June 11–13

Number of people in your party: 3 Name (optional): Please rate the following areas of the hotel on a scale of 1 to

10

Reception/check-in: 10

Room cleanliness: 10

Style/decor: 10

Concierge: 10

Wellness center: 10

Pools: 10

Room service/minibar: 10 Overall experience: 2 Please feel free to leave additional comments about your stay, singling out any staff members who made your visit memorable.

I wish you had a category for rating the bell staff because that would answer the riddle of how my two gal pals and I could love everything about this hotel and still give it a two-star experience overall. The bellman who was on duty during our stay was not only full of himself but also incredibly rude, unfriendly, and unaccommodating. He ruined what was an otherwise wonderful experience. We also suspect he was behind some inexplicable phenomena that happened in our room on the final night of our stay.

He should be fired promptly.

Grace has been watching the day-to-day activity at the hotel unfold with great interest, and although she’s biased, she happens to think her crush Zeke English is doing a terrific job. He was a little awkward during the first week while he was learning the ropes—and admittedly, he’s nowhere near as polished as Adam, who works with Zeke during the day, or Raoul, who works nights—but today is June 11, the start of week two, and Zeke has clicked into gear like a fine race car.

When Roger’s Taxi pulls up to the front of the hotel and disgorges three very exuberant-looking women of a certain age, Adam nudges Zeke and says, “All yours, stallion,” and Zeke strides over with his winning smile, shoulders back, to welcome the ladies to the hotel.

The ringleader of the three women introduces herself as Daniella, then turns to her two friends and says, “Look at this hottie, gals!”

Gals? Grace thinks. That term is straight out of 1977. It makes Grace think of Farrah Fawcett Majors, the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders, and Charlie perfume (everyone staying in the hotel that year wore it).

The other two women are Claire (frumpy) and Alison (hippie- dippie). Claire tells Zeke that the three of them are from Florida and have come to the island to “whoop it up.” (Again Grace wonders, Who says that anymore?) It’s Daniella’s fiftieth birthday—and they’re also celebrating Daniella’s shiny new divorce.

“I’m on the prowl!” Daniella crows. “Like only a woman who lost her orthodontist husband to one of his patients’ mothers can be.”

Daniella is tall with ringlets of black hair down to her waist and a wide mouth. She’s a not-quite Cher.

Oh, dear, Grace thinks. She sees trouble barreling down on Zeke like a freight train.

Zeke delivers the ladies’ bags to suite 117 and displays its wonders—the sound system, the electric shades, the complimentary minibar. Daniella hands Zeke a hundred-dollar bill and asks him to stay for a beer.

“Thank you so much for the offer, ladies, but I’m on the clock for another five hours, so I’ll have to take a rain check.”

“We expect to see you later,” Daniella says. She squeezes Zeke’s biceps through his hydrangea-blue button-down. “Look at these guns!”

Alison, who has frizzled gray-blond hair and is wearing a tie-dyed sundress, shrieks, “Dani-ella!” Claire, who wears glasses and mom jeans, blinks at Zeke and says, “You are quite the snack,” which

actually makes Zeke laugh.

But he hightails it out of there.

Grace is relieved that Zeke gets off work before the ladies leave their room, buzzed from the bottle of Laurent-Perrier rosé they ordered from the Blue Bar, and head out to dinner at Lola. Claire briefly tries to flirt with Raoul, asking if he’s taken, and Raoul deadpans perfectly that yes, he’s married to Adam, the day bellman.

That shuts them up!

The next morning, Grace sees Zeke arrive at the hotel not in his uniform, as usual, but in workout clothes. He heads down to the yoga studio…and Grace follows. There are eight or nine women stretching, in anticipation of Yolanda’s barre class. When Yolanda

takes her place at the front of the room, Grace sees Zeke melt a

little.

Aha.

Grace can hardly blame him. Twenty-seven-year-old Yolanda Tolentino looks like Chrissy Teigen’s little sister; she has tousled dark hair highlighted auburn, flawless skin, big brown eyes, and a deep dimple in her left cheek. Her body is trim, limber, flexible. Over the past few weeks, Grace has seen Yolanda sail through the lobby.

Once, she stopped to talk to Lizbet and held a tree pose—foot tucked against opposite knee, hands held over her head like branches—which was unusual but also impressive. Another time, Yolanda was waiting for the elevator and executed a full-on backbend, which caused Mr. Goldfarb from room 202 to hiccup in surprise. Yolanda, Grace is happy to report, is as lovely on the inside as she is on the outside. And she must eat like a horse—she’s back and forth between the yoga studio and the kitchen of the Blue Bar half a dozen times a day.

When Yolanda sees Zeke, she hurries over to get him set up at the barre with a ball, a looped resistance band, and two-pound hand weights.

“Um…” Zeke says, looking at the tiny lavender weights. “I’ve held burritos that weigh more than this.”

“Feel free to switch them out for heavier ones,” Yolanda says.

“Just remember, I warned you. And unfortunately, I don’t have any grippy socks that will fit you.”

“Big feet,” says a woman just walking in. It’s Daniella; she’s followed by Alison and Claire. “We know what that means, don’t we, gals?”

No, this won’t do, Grace thinks. She blows cold air down the back of Daniella’s neck, and as she does so, she inhales the unmistakable scent of last night’s tequila. Daniella doesn’t notice the draft; possibly, she welcomes it. When Claire and Alison spot Zeke, they start furiously whispering.

Grace is embarrassed for them. She has seen fourteen-year-olds with more composure.

“Zeke is a barre virgin!” Daniella cries out. “Don’t worry, I’ll be right behind you, Zeke, admiring your form.”

“Me too,” Alison says. She’s wearing leggings printed with rainbows and peace signs.

“I’m moving closer,” Claire says. She has on a T-shirt that reads I DATE EVERYBODY.

Yolanda starts the music. “Ladies, let’s try to focus.” She lifts her leg while crossing her arms in front of her chest. Zeke follows suit; he can’t lift his leg very high at all, or maybe he can but he’s simply too enraptured by Yolanda, in her white leggings and her hydrangea- blue tank, with her hair in a thick braid hanging over one shoulder, to try very hard.

Leg lifts transition to planks on the yoga mats, followed by push- ups. Grace watches Zeke do all this with ease. When the class moves to the barre, Yolanda says, “Who’s ready for a thigh party?”

Daniella hoots and raises her arms over her head, giving Zeke an unimpeded view of her chest; Grace notices that she has removed the pads from her yoga top so that Zeke can see her nipples protruding.

“Heels together, toes apart,” Yolanda says. “Now sink down six inches and find your high diamond.”

Zeke tries to approximate the position but his heels lift only an inch off the ground; when he sinks down, he winces. “Up an inch,”

Yolanda says, “and down an inch. Remember, an inch is the size of a paper clip.” When they “press down to finish,” Zeke’s legs shake uncontrollably; it’s the funniest thing Grace has seen in a long time.

“End of the first set,” Yolanda says. “Two to go.”

Zeke looks longingly at the door.

“Everyone grab your balls,” Yolanda says.

Daniella rolls her tongue. “Now you’re talking,” she says.

When barre class ends, there’s a standoff. Zeke seems to want to chat up Yolanda, but Daniella, Alison, and Claire are clearly lingering in order to talk to Zeke.

Yolanda says, “Thanks for coming, everyone. I’m going to run to the restaurant for an acai bowl before I teach yoga. Ta!”

Daniella, Alison, and Claire close in on Zeke, who has his back up against the barre.

“Tonight’s my birthday dinner at Ventuno,” Daniella says. “Then we’re going to the Club Car to sing and hopefully to the Pearl for a nightcap.”

“Guess what we’re giving Daniella for a present?” Claire says.

Zeke tells the ladies he can’t begin to guess.

“You!” Alison says. “Please join us. We’ll pay for everything.”

“Wish I could, ladies,” Zeke says. “But I have to work tonight.”

“That’s okay,” Daniella says. “There’s always the after-party.”

Zeke is a sitting duck when the ladies from suite 117 enter the lobby that evening in a flurry of high-pitched cackling and waves of perfume. The three of them are dressed in sequins and feathers and high heels with red soles. Daniella is wearing a tiara.

Zeke takes a visible breath. He’s such a good sport, Grace thinks.

“Here’s my birthday queen!” Zeke says, taking Daniella’s hand and allowing her to twirl. “Love the Louboutins.”

The ladies scream. “He knows about Louboutins!”

Alison says, “Let’s get a selfie. Daniella, you stand next to Zeke.”

Daniella crushes herself against one side of Zeke, and Claire does the same on the other side while Alison, on the far side of Claire, holds her phone out in front of them. “Everyone say, ‘Duck… duck…goose!’” She presses the button at the same time that both Daniella and Claire squeeze Zeke’s butt cheeks.

“Whoa!” Zeke says, raising his arms and stepping back.

What? Grace thinks. It might be time for her to show her resting- bitch face on Claire’s phone screen. These ladies are Out. Of. Line!

At that moment, Roger’s Taxi pulls up and the ladies pile in; as the car pulls away, they wave at Zeke out the open window.

Grace dearly hopes that by the time Daniella, Alison, and Claire return, Zeke will be off work and safely home in bed. But at just a couple of minutes to midnight, Daniella stumbles up the stairs in her heels. Claire, behind her, is holding her shoes in her hand, and Alison is still down on the sidewalk doing some kind of psychedelic dance to music apparently only she can hear.

They’re drunk, Grace thinks. As blotto as Dahlia Benedict used to get, back in the good old days.

“Hey, ladies,” Zeke says. His voice is weary. “How was the birthday?”

Daniella snakes an arm around Zeke’s waist and snuggles against him. “We have a proposition for you.”

The church bells in town toll midnight. “All propositions will have to wait until tomorrow, ladies. I’m getting off my shift and I’m beat. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Oh no, you don’t!” Daniella says, her tone of voice serrated now.

“We’re calling in that rain check. Come upstairs and have champagne with us,” she says, pulling him out of the lobby.

“Don’t be afraid,” Alison says. “We don’t bite.”

“Speak for yourself,” Claire says.

Daniella pulls five hundred-dollar bills out of her purse. “We’ll tip you for your excellent service.”

Zeke holds up his palms. “I’m sorry, ladies.” He takes careful steps backward into the lobby, which is deserted. I’m here, Zeke, Grace thinks. I’m here. “I have to get home now. You all have a good night, and happy birthday, Daniella.”

“It’s my fiftieth birthday,” Daniella says. “Just come up for ten minutes.”

Absolutely not, Grace thinks. She needs to get help. She widens her scope and sees the answer just on the other side of the door that leads to the Blue Bar. Grace ever so gently puts a hand on Yolanda’s back.

“Hey, Zeke!” Yolanda steps into the lobby, holding a takeout box.

She’s wearing a stretchy black catsuit, a porkpie hat, and a pair of Chuck Taylors. She waves at the ladies and slips her arm through Zeke’s. “Would you mind walking me out to my car?”

Zeke exhales. “Of course. I was just leaving myself. Good night,

ladies.”

“But…” Daniella says.

Zeke and Yolanda step out onto the front porch. Daniella, Alison,

and Claire stare after him.

“Thank you,” Zeke whispers to Yolanda.

“You don’t have to walk me anywhere,” Yolanda says, pointing across the street to a vintage metallic-green Bronco with a white top.

She smiles up at him, revealing the cute dimple. “I had the most incredible meal at the Blue Bar tonight. Have you eaten there yet?”

“Uh…”

Yolanda sighs. “I’m madly in love with the chef.”

“You are?” Zeke says.

She’s in love with Mario Subiaco? Grace thinks. Well, that explains why she spends so much time in the kitchen.

Yolanda skips down the stairs with a wave. “Have a good night, Zeke.” She drives off, and Zeke stares after her. He turns around to see the backlit figure of Daniella standing in the lobby. She crooks a finger at him, but Zeke runs for home. Good night, sweet prince!

Grace thinks.

Then she follows the ladies to suite 117.

Claire passes out facedown on the bed in the second bedroom.

She’s going to miss all the fun, Grace thinks. Alison declares she’s drawing herself a bath, and in a few moments the tub is filled with steaming water. She takes the box of matches from the little table next to the tub and tries to light the lemon-and-mint candle, but the match sputters and goes out. She tries a second match but it happens again. And again. She can’t get a match to stay lit. She

turns on the pearly light around the mirror, and this sets a similar mood, so she steps one foot into the tub.

She shrieks. The water is ice cold. And then the light goes out.

“Daniella!” she cries.

Daniella is in the master bedroom trying to make the electronic shade go down. Every time she pushes the button to lower the shade, the shade starts to go down, but then, as if it changed its mind, it travels back up. Grace is delighted! The petals of the lilies and peonies in the Surfside Spring bouquet wither and fall to the table, and while Daniella is gasping at this, Grace whips the shade all the way up. Daniella picks up the phone to call the front desk, but there isn’t a dial tone. She flops on the bed, still in her red-soled shoes, and pulls a pillow over her face. Grace goes into the sound system, and an instant later music is blaring: Quiet Riot’s “Cum on Feel the Noize.” Daniella sits bolt upright in bed, and Grace laughs and laughs. She hasn’t had this much fun since girls were gals.

TravelTattler Reviews

The Hotel Nantucket, Nantucket, Massachusetts

Dates of your stay: June 12–15

Number of people in your party: 1 Name (optional): Franny Yates Please rate the following areas of the hotel on a scale of 1 to

10 Reception/check-in: 1

Room cleanliness: 10

Style/decor: 10

Concierge: 10

Wellness center: 10

Pools: 10

Room service/minibar: 10 Overall experience: 5.5 Please feel free to leave additional comments about your stay, singling out any staff members who made your visit memorable.

I enjoyed my three-night stay at the Hotel Nantucket; however, I’m only giving it five and a half stars overall because the night of my check-in was an unmitigated disaster, and had the hour not been so late and had every other room on the island not already been booked, I would have left immediately. The front-desk clerk and the night bellman were harried and distracted, and the front-desk clerk was, at one point, snippy with me. Then it took the night bellman thirty minutes to deliver my bags to my room when all I wanted to do was put on my pajamas and go to sleep. Furthermore, when the bellman came, he neglected to explain any features of the room. I didn’t realize until my final day, while chatting with a lovely couple at the adult pool, that everything in the minibar was complimentary.

The Blue Bar, however, was outstanding and the perfect place to eat as a party of one. I went all three evenings of my stay. My compliments to the chef!

This review, forwarded to her by Xavier, is waiting in Lizbet’s in-box when she gets to work on June 16. (She could easily check their TravelTattler reviews herself, but she’s too busy overseeing

operations at the hotel, and Xavier has a five-hour jump on the day, which feels like an unfair advantage.) The comments accompanying this survey read as follows:

Good morning, Elizabeth—

After reading this survey, I checked the schedule and discovered that the night-desk clerk was you and that the night bellman was Raoul Wasserman-Ramirez. I suppose I don’t need to mention that, as the GM, you must uphold our rigorous hospitality standards. The hotel isn’t anywhere near full, so I would urge you to pay close attention to the guests who are in residence. The woman who wrote this review could easily have been Shelly Carpenter. Keep your eye on the fifth key, Elizabeth! The fifth key!

XD

Lizbet is starting to resent Xavier Darling. How dare he judge her when he’s in London and she’s here, chest-deep in the trenches. He checked the schedule, as though he’s Big Brother. Bah! He can send all the admonishing e-mails he wants, but he isn’t going to impress Shelly Carpenter or the second woman, whoever she is, if he doesn’t help her deal with their staffing shortages and low occupancy.

Even so, Lizbet’s indignation (and why can he not call her Lizbet like she’s asked him to?) is mixed with guilt and culpability. That woman—Franny Yates of Trappe, Pennsylvania—checked in three hours late (not her fault; Cape Air was delayed due to fog) during a moment of crisis.

The crisis involved Wanda Marsh. The Marsh children had made themselves quite at home at the hotel. Every morning and every evening, Louie would come down to the lobby in a polo shirt buttoned to the top, his hair wet and combed, wearing his funny little glasses, and he would sit at a chessboard playing against himself, waiting for one of the guests to notice him and offer to play a game.

Louie always won, and he became something of a curiosity, a six- and-a-half-year-old chess genius right there in the lobby of the Hotel Nantucket! One of the guests (Mr. Brandon, room 301) had written about Louie in his TravelTattler review, saying how much he’d enjoyed playing chess every morning with Louie while he drank his cup of percolated Jamaica Blue Mountain coffee. Lizbet was just waiting for Xavier to award Louie the thousand-dollar bonus.

Wanda wandered the hotel freely as well. She always had a Nancy Drew mystery in her hand—she was working her way through them in chronological order, though her mother had only bought her up to number twelve, The Message in the Hollow Oak, and she was already on number nine, The Sign of the Twisted Candles, so she would soon be out of books. Wanda had also started carrying a spiral notebook and a number-two pencil because she wanted to write her own mystery novel starring girl sleuth Wanda Marsh. She was constantly asking people, staff and guests alike, if they had noticed anything strange or secret around the hotel, but the only mystery she’d learned of was the Case of the Disappearing Almond Croissants. It was unusual how rapidly Beatriz’s croissants, filled with almond-flavored marzipan, vanished from the continental breakfast, and why didn’t the kitchen ever make a second batch?

Unlike her children, Kimber Marsh was having a difficult time settling in. Back on the third night of their stay, Kimber had wandered down to the lobby at one in the morning. Lizbet was on the night desk.

“I suffer from chronic insomnia,” Kimber said.

Lizbet nearly asked if they could switch places: Kimber could watch the desk and Lizbet would go to suite 114 and sleep in the emperor-size bed.

Kimber poured herself a giant cup of coffee—coffee?—and leaned against the desk to have a chat. Fine, good, Lizbet thought. It would keep her awake for her remaining hour.

Kimber said, “My husband left me for our nanny, whom he has now impregnated—and let me tell you, that was a wake-up call.”

Yes, you told me, Lizbet thought. She’d had a wake-up call of her own, though she didn’t want to tell Kimber Marsh about her breakup with JJ. She was so tired, she was sure she’d start to cry.

“I’m going to use this summer to reconnect with my kids,” Kimber said. “I traveled so often for work, I barely saw them. They were always with Jenny, our nanny. Honestly, it’s no wonder Craig left me for her. I was never around, so she slotted herself right into my vacant place and became not only a substitute mom but a substitute wife.” Kimber leaned in. “That’s why the kids are so consumed with the reading and the chess—something was missing from their little lives, and that something was me.” Kimber sipped her coffee and reached for a copy of the Blue Book sitting on the desk. “Starting tomorrow, I’m going to do better. I’m going to do all the suggested itineraries in this guidebook.”

The following day, Thursday, Kimber and the kids took Doug to Tupancy Links for a long walk, then they went to Barnaby’s Place to do an art project, had lunch at Something Natural, and spent the afternoon on Children’s Beach. But on Friday, Kimber plopped herself under an umbrella by the pool and read while Louie played chess in the lobby and Wanda interviewed hotel guests and Zeke took Doug out to do his business. On Saturday, Kimber didn’t come down from her room until late afternoon. When she did, she had her laptop with her; she announced she was going to sit in the lobby and write her memoirs. Okay? Lizbet thought. At least Kimber could keep an eye on Wanda, who was finishing the last Nancy Drew mystery she had, and Louie, who was playing chess against himself. But Lizbet felt dismayed that the Marsh family had spent the entire day inside. Late-June days on Nantucket were the gold standard for the season—blue skies, plentiful sunshine, lilacs and cherry blossoms, and without the overbearing heat and humidity of July and August.

But Sunday morning, Kimber rebounded and took the kids strawberry picking at Bartlett’s Farm. When they came back, Wanda walked into the lobby proudly holding an overflowing quart of luridly red fruit. While Lizbet was pleased they had gotten out, she couldn’t help thinking about the pristine white linens on the beds and the Annie Selke rug, so she offered to wash the strawberries and let the children eat them over soft-serve vanilla ice cream in the break room.

Both Wanda and Louie had been gobsmacked by the ice cream machine.

“I want to work here when I grow up,” Wanda announced.

Then, at a quarter past ten on Sunday evening—when Lizbet was fading fast; she’d worked double shifts for seven straight days— Kimber Marsh came flying into the lobby in what Lizbet’s mother would have called “a dither.”

Wanda wasn’t in her bed, she said. “Have you seen Wanda?”

Kimber practically screamed. “Have you seen her?”

“I haven’t,” Lizbet said. She did a sweep of the lobby, checking Wanda’s favorite reading chair and under the piano, where (inexplicably) Wanda sometimes liked to read, then said, “Let me look in the break room.” (The allure of the soft-serve machine was strong; Lizbet had to fight it herself each and every day.) But the break room was empty.

Lizbet enlisted Raoul’s help—he would search the hotel, floor by floor. Kimber asked if it might be possible for her to let Doug out of their suite. She was certain he would lead them right to Wanda.

Lizbet hesitated; the last thing she wanted was a pit bull roaming the halls of the hotel. But Lizbet sensed the urgency—an eight-year-old child was missing at ten fifteen at night—so she okayed it.

Raoul called up from the wellness center: no Wanda. “I thought she might be in the yoga room,” Raoul said. “That fountain is mesmerizing.” He was now moving to the first floor.

“Check all the unoccupied rooms, please,” Lizbet said. There were twenty-one empty rooms and six empty suites (Lizbet felt each vacancy like a pinhole in her heart). “Maybe she found a way in.”

Lizbet tried to think like Wanda. She seemed fascinated by the other guests, so Lizbet poked her head into the only populated area of the hotel, the Blue Bar—and wow! The place was popping. The bar was three-deep, every seat was occupied, the copper disco ball

had dropped, and a group of people were dancing to “Tainted Love” in the space in front of the penny wall. Lizbet surveyed the crowd at hip level and tried to peer under tables. There was no sign of Wanda anywhere, though Lizbet spied plenty of people drinking flame-red cocktails, the Heartbreaker.

When Lizbet got back to the desk, a round, middle-aged woman wearing glasses with dark, square frames and a fanny pack around her waist—she looked like an aging version of Velma from Scooby-

Doo—was standing at the desk.

“Finally!” she huffed.

“I’m so sorry,” Lizbet said. “You must be Ms. Yates?”

“I arrived over five minutes ago and you’re the first person I’ve seen!”

Lizbet returned to her spot behind her computer just as Raoul came rushing down the corridor, saying, “I’m headed up to the second floor.”

Lizbet gave Raoul the thumbs-up; she was afraid if she spoke, she would lose her cool. A child missing in the hotel, she thought. Or not in the hotel. When was the right time to call the police?

“I’ll need a form of ID and your credit card, please, Ms. Yates.”

Franny Yates pulled both a Pennsylvania driver’s license and a Mastercard out of her fanny pack.

“You’re certainly traveling light,” Lizbet said.

“My luggage is down on the sidewalk!” Franny said. “It’s far too heavy for me to carry up the stairs. Silly me, I thought a hotel that costs as much as this one does might actually have a bellman!”

“We do have a bellman,” Lizbet said. “Right now, he’s assisting another guest. I’m happy to fetch your luggage.”

“You won’t be able to get it up the stairs,” Franny said.

Lizbet winked at Franny. “You haven’t seen me with kettlebells.”

But when Lizbet went to the hotel’s entrance and looked down the staircase, she saw three black suitcases that were each big enough to contain a dead body. Franny Yates was staying at the hotel for only three nights. What could she possibly have packed?

Lizbet returned to the desk. “My apologies—you were absolutely correct. We’ll have to wait for Raoul.”

“How long will he be?” Franny asked, checking her phone. “I’d like to get to bed.”

“Of course,” Lizbet said. Just then, Raoul called. “She’s not on the second floor, and Kimber says she and Doug checked the third floor and she’s not there either. I’ll sweep the fourth floor. You’ve checked the pools, yes?”

“Pools?” Lizbet said. She started to tremble. “No…”

“Oh, man,” Raoul said.

Lizbet hung up. She held prayer hands up to Franny. “I’ll be back in just a minute.”

“But my room number? My key? My luggage is still on the sidewalk. What if someone takes it?”

“This is Nantucket,” Lizbet said. “No one is going to touch it and it’s too big for anyone to walk away with. I’ll get your keys as soon as…” But Lizbet didn’t finish the sentence. She hurried out the pool door, praying she wasn’t going to see the small form of Wanda Marsh floating facedown. Both children could swim, she reminded herself. She hit the pool lights. No Wanda. She exhaled—but there was still the adult pool on the lower level and the hot tub. She recalled that Wanda was intensely curious about the Mystery of the

Hot Tub, because it was restricted to people fourteen and older.

Lizbet raced back through the lobby, passing Franny Yates, who had plopped herself cross-legged on the floor in front of the desk, which Lizbet understood was some kind of statement or protest, because there were armchairs and ottomans less than five feet away. “Be right—” Lizbet said. She ran down the stairs, through the wellness center, and out the door. The adult pool was dark and quiet.

“Wanda?” Lizbet whispered. She peered into the hot tub, feeling very much like the doomed heroine in a horror film.

It was empty.

Lizbet headed back upstairs, thinking she had dodged a huge bullet—Wanda hadn’t drowned in the pools. Though Lizbet was growing more and more agitated. Where was she?

“Let me get your keys,” Lizbet said to Franny Yates. “I’ll upgrade you to a suite because you’ve been so patient. Here you go. Suite two fourteen. You can take either the stairs or the elevator to the second floor, and then it’s all the way down the hall to the left.”

“What about my luggage?” Franny Yates said.

“As soon as the bellman is free, I’ll have him bring it to you.”

“I want to go to sleep!”

“Ms. Yates, I need to ask for your indulgence. We have a situation here—”

“Your situation is that your hotel stinks,” Franny Yates said. She marched off down the hall.

Lizbet wasn’t sure what to do. Should she try to schlep Franny Yates’s luggage up the stairs herself? Should she go up to the fourth floor to help look for Wanda? Should she call the police? A child is lost. Lizbet wasn’t a mother but she understood how serious this

was. Lizbet went down the stairs to the street and looked both ways.

No Wanda.

She heard the phone ringing back in the lobby and she hustled up the stairs, taking them two at a time, so when she reached the top, her heart was pounding in her ears. “Hello?”

“We found her,” Raoul said. “She was wandering around the fourth floor.”

“Oh, thank God.” Lizbet paused. “What was she doing there?” The fourth floor had odd roof angles and very small windows, and the Historic District Commission would have had to approve any structural changes that would be visible from the street, so Xavier had opted not to renovate it just yet. Lizbet had ventured up to the fourth floor only once; it was, essentially, a cavernous and dusty attic.

Raoul said, “She said she was looking for the ghost.”

The ghost! Lizbet thought. She had been very careful never to mention the supposed ghost to anyone, and especially not Wanda, but Zeke might have let it slip.

“We have a check-in to suite two fourteen who is very anxious for her bags. There are three of them, and I would deliver them myself but they’re each the size of a small home.”

“I’ll be down as soon as I’m finished cleaning up here.”

“Cleaning up?” Lizbet said.

“Doug was so excited to see Wanda that he had an accident.”

Lizbet closed her eyes. The other line of the hotel phone rang. It was suite 214. “You have to get suite two fourteen her luggage.

Please, Raoul. Right now.”

“But the dog—”

“Raoul, please!”

“Yes, boss,” Raoul said.

Lizbet answered the other line. “Your luggage is on its way, Ms.

Yates.”

“You’re a liar!” Franny Yates yelled. “I can see my luggage from my window. It’s still on the sidewalk!”

Franny Yates’s review is factually correct—it took Raoul a full thirty minutes to deliver her luggage, both Lizbet and Raoul were harried and distracted, and Lizbet was, perhaps, a bit snippy. But was the check-in an “unmitigated disaster”? No, an unmitigated disaster would have been Wanda staying missing or found dead.

Lizbet had comped Franny Yates’s entire bill at the Blue Bar (three nights, two hundred and sixty dollars). Why didn’t her review mention the comped meals?

Lizbet clicks out of the e-mail from Xavier and rests her head, ever so briefly, on her desk. It’s seven thirty in the morning and she’s so tired, she could sleep until seven thirty tomorrow morning. She’s so demoralized, she feels like crying. Or crying uncle.

She needs a night auditor.