Who Glares Wins (Lexi Graves Mysteries) (18 page)

Chapter Eight

I plastered on a smile
as I made my way through the employees’ door and
over to the concierge desk. In my mind, concierges knew everything. They knew when guests checked in and out, when rooms were ready
,
and when housekeeping needed to do a deep clean. They knew the restaurant menu by heart and could direct you to the perfect bar. So it was
to
the front desk that I
commenced
with my day’s questions
.

"Hi," I said, halting at the desk and sticking out
my hand
.
I
noticed
a
polished
,
silver
-
plated
nametag that
read
“
Peter.
”

"Hi, Peter. I'm Lexi,
Mr.
Killjoy's new assistant."

"Oh, hello." Peter took my hand in a firm grip and pumped it
, giving me enough time to notice that his manicure was better than mine
. "What can I do for you, Lexi?"

"
Mr.
Killjoy asked me to familiarize myself with the hotel. He says I need to understand everyone's jobs
in order to
understand mine. I figured the concierge must be the most important
,
so I came straight to you."

Peter's chest puffed out a little
under his navy suit and he gave his head a self-important little shake
. "Well,
I do know a lot about the hotel,” he said, with a wink. “
Why don't you step behind the desk and I'll show you what I do while I explain."

"Awesome! I've never been behind one of these things," I told him as I slipped round to join him. "Actually, I don't get in front of them much either." I giggled
, trying
not to blink when
I looked down and saw Peter was
standing
on a step that gave him an extra half
-
foot of height. Peter saw me looking anyway.

"Oh, that," he said, flapping a hand dismissively at it. "I read a report in
Hotel Monthly
that said taller people inspire more confidence. I've certainly gotten a lot less lip from our guests now that
I appear
taller."

"I didn't know that," I said
, nodding
. "That's really smart."

Peter did a little shake of his head and shoulders
again
that showed me he
heartily
agreed with my assessment
of him
. I watched him as he took me through his role, explaining what he did for guests, and I listened
,
as his
tone seemed to burst
with the importance of his job. He wasn't
just
concierge, he explained, he was
senior
concierge and guests trusted him to help them with every little detail
,
from arranging
for
cars to booking restaurants.

I pounced on that. "Does
Mr.
Killjoy realize how
indispensable
you are to the smooth running of th
is
hotel?" I asked.

"I don't like to shout about it," said Peter
,
"
b
ut I was nominated for Concierge of the Year two years running."

"This hotel is really lucky to have you. I bet some of those big chains have tried to poach you."

"I don't like to brag, but yes, I've been approached. Three times, actually." Peter held up three fingers
while nodding
.

"I guess it must be
something of a temptation
, what with all the..." I lowered my voice,
looking
around
,
"
t
rouble," I whispered.

Peter looked around too, despite
being
completely alone
with me
. "I actually like it here," he said. "
Mr.
Killjoy put me in for management training. He said with my skills
,
I could easily work my way up. Th
o
se big hotels offered me more money, but I said no, I've got a future with The Montgomery. It's going to be hard work
,
but maybe I'll even make manager one day."

"Good for you," I said, patting his arm in a friendly way. "Sounds like you've got it all worked out."

I asked Peter to direct me to the kitchens
.
H
e showed me a route that
took
me past the conference cent
e
r
and through an
“E
mployees
O
nly
”
corridor. He gave me a happy wave goodbye,
as he
turned to a guest lugging in a huge suitcase
.
I was
left on my own and
lost to the sound of his exclamation
,
“W
here
i
s a bellhop when you need one
?”

Peter was off my list. Not only was he far too happy to be a saboteur, but he
also
had an investment in the hotel's success
,
thanks to his training and ambition
. There were three other concierges in rotation, each
on
a six
-
hour shift, ensuring the desk was manned twenty
-
four hours a day
,
and I
intended
to
interview
them all at some point.

On reaching the lobby, I couldn't resist ducking my head inside the conference center. The convention activities were already in full swing
,
and the
center
had plenty of people, mostly men, scurrying about
, pads and pens in hands,
all
engaging in what appeared to be serious conversation
.

"Isn't it fabulous?" A man next to me clapped his hands.
"You're with the hotel, right?" he asked
, blinking at me with little eyes
. "Do you know if the popcorn machine
’
s arrived yet?"

"I am
,
and I don't know, but I'll get someone to check on it.
I’m Lexi Graves.
You are?"

"Brian Williamson,
O
rganizer."
He extended his hand
,
and when I took it, he pumped it enthusiastically, holding onto it about thirty seconds longer than necessary. When he started to stroke his thumb over mine, I pulled my hand away
,
and tucked both
my
hands behind my back.

"Great job, Brian," I
said, while my brain sounded it
s weirdo alert
.
He wore a
neon pink t-shirt and brown cords
, over which he
had on
pink
,
plush chaps,
and
a rainbow embroidered on the left thigh
.

"This will be the screening room later
. There will be a total blackout
," Brian told me
, leaning in to wink
. "We've got popcorn and candy machines, and a pop stand. We're screening the original
“
Super Ponies
”
television series
from episode one
. This evening has been sold out for months."

"I'm sorry I'll miss it," I said, trying not to sound facetious.

A life-
sized
,
purple
Super P
ony
, complete with multi-colored mane and tail
,
trotted past. I looked down and saw sneakered
-
feet peeking out fr
om under the black patent
leather
hoof trim
. A realistic neigh echoed from the pony's plush throat as it made its way towards its pink counterpart. My nieces would
have
love
d
it. Lily would
have
explode
d
.
Brian looked like he was ready to leap astride, or hump it, his hips seeming to follow the
sashay
of the pony as it continued its way.
I felt a bubble of giggles
climbing
up my throat and bit the insides of my cheeks to hold it down, finally coughing with the effort.

"
I’ll save you a seat anyway
,
Lexi, just in case,
" said Brian
,
flashing
me a hopeful smile that plumped his shiny
,
pink cheeks
even
higher
.
Across the room, the purple pink bumped into a pink one.
"Oh, must go. Looks like Miss Twinkle and Miss Rainbow are getting antsy." Brian hurried away and I took the moment to slip out of the room
. I
fled
through the employees
’
door
,
away from the madness. I
could
get it if the room w
ere
stuffed with excited
,
little girls and their moms, but adult men? Too much. Maybe they were all
smoking dope
, I decided. That would account for the
ir
eager expressions
,
the bright colors and munchies
available
everywhere.

It was easy to find the kitchens. I literally followed my nose
as baking scents wafted towards me
until I reached a glistening, freshly
-
scrubbed, large room, where
all
the people wore white jackets. It was mid-morning,
the
lull between breakfast
a
nd lunch
,
so instead of sizzling pans, shouts of "Yes, chef!" and yelling, the kitchen seemed calm
.
I stepped through the swing
ing
doors
, lurking awkwardly in the entryway
.

"You! Who are you?"

I jumped and looked around.

"Yes. You!" came the voice again.

"Uh, hello?" I stepped around a piece of equipment that looked like a medieval torture instrument. "Me?"

"Yes, you by the pasta machine. Who are you?" A tall
African-American
man stood
up,
waving
a piece of paper at me
, his expression thunderous
. "Can't you see we're having a meeting?"

"Uh, yes, sorry.
Mr.
Killjoy sent me." The man waited and slowly
,
the
table of people turned
in their chairs
to stare at me.
I held still as
their
eyes roamed
over
me.
Talk about uncomfortable. "I'm looking for Chef Fabien," I squeaked.

"You found him. You still haven't told me who you are."

"Uh, right. I'm Lexi Graves.
Mr.
Killjoy's new assistant. He said to come talk to you."

"I'm busy. Tell Killjoy to keep his nose out of my kitchen. If I have a problem, I'll come
looking for
him." Chef Fabien sat down and almost immediately stood up again. "Get out!"

"Actually, I can't.
Mr.
Killjoy said I have to talk to you about the kitchens."

"What about the kitchens? What does he want now?" Chef Fabien scraped his chair back and stomped towards me, his expression moving from annoyed to plain cross. "Out with it, girl."

"Well, I'm new and he wants me to
meet
everyone
that works
in the hotel."

Chef Fabien muttered something that might have been a swear word. "Amanda, come here
,
"
h
e beckoned to a small
,
red-haired woman
,
wearing a white coat
. H
er name
was
embroidered across
her
left
breast
.
She got up and edged past him, giving me an apologetic smile.
"Amanda will tell you what
ever
you need to know."