Chapter Fourteen
She slept in on Saturday, and when she finally wandered down for coffee, she saw her grandmother sitting on the patio with a glass of iced tea.
Morgan grabbed a muffin—someone had made muffins—took it and her coffee out.
“Oh, feel that air! Perfect. Not hot, not cold.” Loving it, Morgan sat, bit into the muffin. “Where’s Mom?”
“She ran into the shop for a couple hours. One of our artists is bringing in a new jewelry line, and she wanted to get it priced and on display. I told her to go ahead, but I was going to sit out and enjoy the fruits of my granddaughter’s labors.”
“You and Mom put in some time. I love those wind chimes.”
“How did it go last night?”
“I’ve never been to such a fancy wedding. We could use every flower we planted, and every perennial you planted before, double it, and still not have as many flowers as they had in that ballroom. Honestly, it was breathtaking. All of it. All those men in black tie, and the women in evening gowns. But the bride’s dress—that was the showstopper.”
“As it should be.”
“She looked radiant, fairy princess radiant. And after driving Drea and Nell crazy for months, also looked happy and relaxed. God, it was so romantic. Flowers, music, candlelight. You have to give her credit for knowing exactly what she wanted, and the Jamesons for making sure she got it.”
“And her father, I assume, for footing the bill.”
“Had to be a whopper. I made over three thousand in tips.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
With a laugh, Morgan lifted her arms to the sky. “Three thousand, two hundred and sixty-six dollars in personal tips. I’ve worked weddings before, and you can take home a nice chunk, but never anything like this.”
“Maybe I went into the wrong business.”
“It’s almost like getting paid for going to a party. Not quite, because those people kept us busy. Worth it. Completely worth it.”
“Obviously, you did an exceptional job.”
“I like to think so. Open bars can go either way. Some people tend to tip generously because free drink, other people think free drink and don’t bother to tip. In this case, generosity won the night.”
She nibbled more muffin. “Toward the end, Miles came in. I guess he’s my car walker on Friday nights.” She shifted. “You’ve known him a long time. Have you ever noticed he doesn’t really wear suits, but he does?”
“I don’t follow.”
“Well, like … Like Superman wears his suit under his clothes—which is ridiculous—but he wears his Superman suit under his civilian clothes so nobody sees it. With Miles, it’s the opposite. It’s like he wears this invisible business suit over his regular clothes. Like the power thing, Gram. Superman wears it under so you don’t see. Miles wears it over, but it’s invisible. It’s still power.”
“I can’t say I’ve noticed.”
“I can’t quite figure him out.”
And, she admitted, since he’d first sat at the end of the bar, she’d wanted to.
“I think I have the rest of them, but I can’t quite figure him. Last night, after the event, I wanted to just check Après. Nick’s not used to closing, and on a Friday night.”
“My responsible girl.”
“I am responsible. So we go in, and I’m doing my mental checklist. He gets a bottle of wine, asks if I want a drink. I think why not, so we sit down, have a glass of wine and an actual conversation. Then when I’m driving home, I think it sort of—weirdly—felt like a kind of date. Do you think it was?”
“It’s hard to say, since I wasn’t there.” Obviously intrigued, Olivia angled her chair a little closer. “Were there advances?”
“No. No. Nothing like that. It was just a drink and conversation. But, like I said, an actual conversation, which isn’t his usual mode. Why bartending, and from me, did you ever want anything but the family business? You know, that exploratory sort of conversation you have on a first date.”
“It’s been a few decades since I had a first date, but I do remember.”
“There was a vibe, even though it was just casual after-work conversation.”
“He’s a very attractive young man.”
“Sure. They’re all attractive.”
“And are you attracted?”
“Physically? I’m a straight woman and he’s gorgeous, so of course. He can be blunt and broody, and I normally wouldn’t find that attractive, but it’s offset by something, I guess, kind. He doesn’t just walk me to my car—something he could pass off to someone else even when he’s around. He waits until I’ve driven away. It’s just an extra minute, but it’s considerate.”
“He’d have been raised to be a gentleman, to respect and value the people who work for him. He’d go out with Mick sometimes, hang with Steve in the shop.”
Olivia looked toward the woodshop, tucked into the trees at the back of the property.
She’d given his clothes away, changed his office, but she’d never been able to clean out his woodshop.
“I didn’t know that.”
“Miles always struck me as an old soul. Something in the eyes.”
“He’s got great eyes.”
“Mm-hmm. Would you be interested if he was?”
Morgan thought yes, then qualified. “Probably not smart to go there, is it? I do work for him. Not directly, but he’s one of the big bosses. I guess it was just nice to sit down and have a drink with a good-looking, interesting man. It’s been awhile. A really long while.”
“You should get out, meet more people your age.”
“Oh, Gram, I meet people all the time. Comes with the territory. I just haven’t met anybody I want to sit down and have a drink with. Right now? I’m okay with that. I’m feeling like me again, even with everything that happened, even with checking the damn tire pressure every night, I’m feeling like me again.”
Gavin Rozwell, now using the name Charles P. Brighton, strolled the French Quarter. He enjoyed the nightlife, the idiot tourists, the ridiculous drunks, and the ease of walking from the luxury of his hotel suite to shops, restaurants, music venues.
A man such as himself could blend so easily in the crowds.
He’d gone back to clean-shaven and had let his hair grow considerably. He’d dyed it a strong red as, in his experience, people would notice the mane of red hair and not much else.
If anyone were to ask, he’d come to New Orleans to research his novel, to allow himself to become absorbed in the culture, the ambiance of New Orleans.
Charles P. Brighton was a pompous ass, another character Rozwell enjoyed playing.
But despite his appreciation for the Vieux Carré, and the amusement of playing a pompous ass (with a tidy trust fund), he felt—as Charles would say—considerable ennui.
The last kill—RIP Robin—had left him oddly dissatisfied.
She’d been the perfect mark. Attractive, accommodating, trusting. With the loans he’d taken out on her house, accessing her bank account, what he’d netted on her spanking-new Hyundai, he’d cleared just over seventy thousand.
It had all been so easy.
Too easy, he thought now, strolling with his takeaway rum punch. No challenge whatsoever to play a woman so eager to start a relationship. And in Robin’s case, she hadn’t had close friends. The sister, yes, but they hadn’t lived in each other’s pockets.
She’d been prime for his skills, Robin had, and turned into a disappointment.
She’d nearly bored him brainless with her delight in his attention. While he’d been happy to kill her—at last—there’d been no crescendo, no rush.
It wasn’t only about the money, after all. The money provided the lifestyle he wanted and deserved. But the kill? The kill brought him to the buzz, the bang. It offered the glory he could live on for weeks, even months after.
But not Robin.
And not with Morgan Albright’s ridiculous roommate.
He needed that buzz, that bang, that fucking crescendo.
He deserved it.
Two women walked by him. Young, the one on the left a bit heavy in the ass for his taste. Tiny shorts, tiny crop tops—asking for it, no question. Add drunken laughter.
He could have killed them both, so easily really. Follow them into the next bar, strike up a conversation, pay for their drinks.
Entertaining the idea, he kept an eye on them. It wouldn’t take much, he mused. Lure them up to his hotel suite. Women thought they had safety in numbers. Easy to roofie them both if he had to. Or just disable Fat Ass, then play with the brunette awhile.
Since it gave him a much-needed lift to imagine it, he tossed the rum punch and slipped into a hole-in-the-wall behind them.
A crowded hole-in-the-wall where the beer ran cold and the zydeco hot. People rubbed asses, women shook their tits on a dance floor the size of a silver dollar.
Since they stood two deep at the bar, he had time to study them.
Fat Ass had the better face, and blond hair if he ignored the solid inch of black roots. But the brunette had the longer, slimmer build he preferred.
Mash them together, he thought, noting the women ordered gin fizzes, and get one winner. And wouldn’t housekeeping get a shock in the morning?
He started to step up behind them. Make that three! he’d say.
Boredom didn’t excuse stupidity, he reminded himself. He could kill them—oh yes, he could see exactly how he’d do it—but then he’d have to pack, leave the hotel, leave New Orleans, and with only what these sluts had in their pockets.
Not how he played the game.
He wandered out, but since he couldn’t get the idea out of his mind, stopped and bought a ball cap, a New Orleans Saints T-shirt, and a pair of goofy sunglasses.
Maybe mixing up the game would pull him out of his slump.
With his hair piled under the cap, the T-shirt layered over his own, and the sunglasses in place, he walked back into the hole-in-the-wall.
Fat Ass shook it on the dance floor. The brunette giggled with a couple of college-boy types at the bar.
He’d just order a beer, see if opportunity knocked.
Before he could, it knocked loud and clear when Fat Ass headed toward the back.
Maybe to pee, maybe to puke, but either way it looked like divide and conquer time to him.
He gave it a count of ten before he followed her back.
Plenty of people crowded on the dance floor, plenty of others massed at the bar or at the tables. The music pounded against the walls.
In his mind, he practiced the slurred Oops, wrong door if he found anyone else in the bathroom.
The music masked his entrance. No one stood at the single, wall-hung sink. Only one pair of feet showed under the stingy two stalls.
Opportunity knocked again, and louder.
He didn’t see any point in ignoring it.
He locked the door behind him.
Risky, definitely risky, but he needed that buzz, that bang.
The instant he heard the slide of the stall lock, he moved.
Her eyes popped when he pushed in the door. Big, almost beautiful brown eyes that glazed over when he smashed his fist into her face.
She barely made a sound as she slid down, and he went down with her, closed his hands over her throat.
“Look at me, Fat Ass. I want to watch the lights go out.”
Too drunk, too dazed from the blow to put up much of a fight, she just batted her hands at him, gurgled while a Cajun accordion went into a long, hot riff that pulsed against the bathroom walls.
He watched her die, waited for that buzz. And when he felt no more than a faint tingle of satisfaction, he punched her again.
“Bitch.” He slammed her head against the side of the stall as he pulled off the small, cross-body bag she wore.
He tucked it into the back of his waistband and left her on the floor of the stall. When he went out again, the music still pumped, people continued to dance, and the brunette cackled at something the college-boy types said.
He wanted to kill her, too, just for being there, for having the right body but the wrong hair color.
After tossing the sunglasses, he walked another block, pulled off the cap, let it land on the sidewalk where he assumed someone would grab it up.
As he walked, he imagined the screams, the chaos when the next woman stepped into that hole-in-the-wall’s bathroom. That, at least, gave him a little satisfaction. And wouldn’t the brunette feel guilty? Flirting with drunks at the bar while her friend got herself murdered.
More satisfaction.
He decided the effort hadn’t been wasted. Trying new things never hurt. He’d killed someone in a public place, so points for him.
Obviously, he needed to pick another target. He had other choices, and selecting Boring Robin from them just hadn’t done the job.
Morgan would, no question of that.
But not yet, he thought as he walked back into his hotel.
Because when her turn came around again, he had to make it very, very special.
In the blooming time of May, Morgan’s budget spreadsheet looked more promising. Maybe, she thought, life in general looked more promising. A good job with good tips provided her with more free time than she’d enjoyed in the previous decade.
She put it to good use.
When she heard her ladies talk about updating the powder room, she took a look at it herself. Some measurements, a trip to the hardware store, and a few hours’ work would handle it.
She had nearly all the finishing touches in place when they got home.
“Morgan, we’re home! What a day,” Audrey continued. “A wine-with-dinner sort of day.”
Morgan stepped back from straightening out the prints she’d hung and picked up the garden tub she’d used as a makeshift toolbox.
“Do you have time to eat before you—” As she passed by the open powder room door, Audrey stopped, stared, and actually let out a little squeal. “What— How did you— Oh my God, Mom, come see this.”
“See what? I need to get these damn shoes off.”
Then she, too, stopped at the doorway. After a long blink, she folded her arms. “Well, well,” she said.
“Okay, I know you planned to call your handy guys, pick out a new sink, update the fixtures, paint, and so on, but it’s a really small job, and the sink’s great.”
She ran a hand over the old-fashioned white porcelain.
“The chrome legs were dated, and the fixtures. I thought painting the legs matte black, getting the new faucet in the same finish showed it off. And with the walls this fresh blush color, it’s like a little girly drama, especially with the bit of bling on the new light, and this old mirror I found in the attic. You’ve got a lot of great stuff up there.”
“I bought that mirror before Audrey was born,” Olivia murmured.
“And it’s great, just needed some cleaning up. And painting the frame black ties it in. A couple of new guest towels on the black bar for fresh. I stole one of your African violets for the windowsill, picked up a new shade for the light. The fringe is like bling. I got the pretty soaps and the two prints from the shop. The little rug’s from the flea market, but I thought the fact it’s faded some added character.”
Concerned she’d gone too far, Morgan shifted the garden tub. “Anyway, if it doesn’t work for you, you can still call the handy guys.”
“I love it. Mom, look how these sweet flower prints pick up the pink and black. It’s all adorable. Classy, just a little girly, and adorable. Where did you learn to install faucets?”
“I learned a lot at my day job in Maryland.”
“It was already in there.” Arms still folded, Olivia studied the walls. “Got it from your grandfather. It’s not what I imagined, and I thought that sink had seen its last days.”
“It’s a wonderful piece.”
“It is now. It’s not what I imagined. It’s better. Now, I want to know what you spent on all this.”
“I live here, too. I use this bathroom. And I enjoyed every minute of fixing it up.”
“It’s a gift, Mom.” Audrey put a hand on her mother’s shoulder. “Someone always told me to be gracious when offered a gift.”
“Bit in the butt by my own words. Thank you, Morgan. Your grandfather’s toolbox is up in the woodshop. You get that, and use it.”
“I will.”
“Next time we get ideas about buffing something up around here, we’re coming to you first. Now we need to see about making some food. And I’m with you, Audrey, on the wine.”
“I’ll skip the wine, but I’ll take the food. I’m starving. I just need to put the tools away and change for work.”
After Morgan dashed away, Audrey took one more look. “Like the garden, I had no idea she could do something like this.”
“But are you surprised?”
“No, I’m not. It made her so happy,” she continued as they walked to the kitchen. “Not just our reactions, but figuring it out, doing it. She needs to pay you back, Mom. You need to let her.”
“I know. It grates a bit, but I know. How about chicken and rice with a nice salad?”
“Sounds good.” Audrey went to the pantry for the rice. “I don’t know my daughter as well as I should.”
“There was a time I didn’t know mine as well as I should. We fixed it. You’ll fix this.”
“I hope I will. Right now it’s enough she’s here and happy. After yoga the other day? Drea thanked me for raising such a smart, capable daughter. All I could think was I had so little to do with it.”
“You’re wrong about that, Audrey, and when you fix it, you’ll know that.”
As May rolled into June, Morgan switched from lavender to apricot with apricot coladas and apricot tea—hot or cold. With her probationary period behind her, and Après open for outdoor seating, she dug in deeper.
After formulating her ideas, she went to Nell.
She found her supervisor leaving her office.
“I guess you don’t have a minute.”
“I have a few of them if you can walk and talk. I need to check on the setup for an event in the Presidential.”
“Cocktail party for fifty. Loren’s working the bar. Marisol and Kevin serving.”
“You keep up. Wine, beer, soft drinks, hot and cold hors d’oeuvres, and a selection of mini desserts.” After pressing the button for the elevator, Nell signaled for Morgan to come ahead, stepped in, tapped her card on the pad to access the Club Level. “What’s on your mind?”
“The seasonal hires are working out well. Opal whipped the new waitstaff into shape fast.”
“She would.”
“Starting there, I’d like to recommend her for a bonus. She put a lot of time and effort into training the new hires, and it’s paid off. I have a detailed report to send you.”
“Do that.” Nell stepped off, turned left.
“I love it up here. Rustic elegance. The high ceilings and beams, the warm colors, the use of American antiques and art. And the Lounge is really welcoming. The fireplace, the flowers, the sit-and-stay-awhile furnishings.”
“We think so, too.” At the end of the hall, she tapped her card on the pad on a set of double doors.
“Okay, wow. I’ve never been in here. Pretty presidential.”
The generous foyer, papered in a dreamy blue, held a rustic bench. A hunt table displayed flowers, candles, with two high-backed chairs flanking it. She saw a bedroom on the right with a bed floating under a fluffy white duvet, and pillows massed against the headboard upholstered in dull, classy gold.
The foyer opened into a living area spacious enough for a pair of sofas and a long dining table draped in white and holding several warming stations. The portable bar already nestled into the corner.
But the star of the show shined in the wall of windows and doors that opened to a terrace and the stunning view beyond.
The lake, dotted with kayaks and canoes, shined blue against the green of rising hills, the rounded peaks of the mountains.
“I’ve seen the photos online, but you can’t capture this.”
“Two bedrooms, two and a half baths. What we think of as a butler’s pantry we can stock with snacks and beverages at the guest’s request. Or when booked for a party, like this, a place for the catering staff to stow dishes and trays and so on.”
“It’s beautiful, and still doesn’t feel stiff and formal.”
“We battled the interior designer to get our way. We won. What else can I do for you?”
“Sorry, distracted and dazzled. I’d like to train one of the new hires as a bartender. Bailey Myerson, she’s a local, working her way through grad school. She’s an excellent server, and she’s expressed interest in learning. With the additional seasonal seating, we could use someone who’s willing to shift where and when necessary.”
“Did you ask Opal?”
“I wanted to run it by you first.”
“And you have a detailed report already written.”
“I do.”
“Send it. Tell Opal I’d like her input as we’re considering it.”
“All right. Last, I’d like to promote Nick to assistant manager with the appropriate raise in salary. He deserves it, Nell. It wouldn’t mean extra hours. He already stands in as assistant manager when I’m not there, and is ready, every shift change, to fill me in on any issues and ordering needs, and is always willing to pinch-hit when we need him.”
“In his quarterly evaluations, Don indicated Nick had an excellent work ethic, was a team player, handled his job with skill, but lacked managerial skill and abilities.”
“I disagree.”
“So did I, which is why we offered Nick your position. What makes you think he’d take this one?”
“Because he’s already doing everything I’d want in an assistant manager, and if at any point I needed more, he’d give it. What he’s lacking is the title and the pay grade.”
“It would be a salaried position rather than hourly.”
“And he’d make more than he is now if compensated appropriately, which I believe you’d see to. He’d make what he deserves.”
“Send me your report. Butler’s pantry,” Nell instructed as catering staff rolled in a table holding wine, and beer already on ice. “Ask him. Since we offered him your job, we’ll certainly approve of this if he wants the position. Ask him, and if he does, tell him to contact me so we can discuss.”
“Thanks. I’ve got about fifteen minutes before I’m on if you need any help with the setup.”
“It’s okay,” Nell told her as another table holding glassware rolled in. “I’ve got it. Half behind the bar, half in the butler’s pantry.”
Satisfied, Morgan used her phone to send the reports as she headed down to Après.
Nick greeted her with his usual grin. “There she is! We’re killing it with the patio seating. Who wouldn’t want to sit outside on a day like this? And our apricot colada just hit number one on the cocktail list.”
“Really?”
“You’re going to need to order more puree.”
He filled more orders when she stepped behind the bar, checked the night’s schedule and inventory.
She waited for a lull. “The Jamesons are going to offer you the assistant manager position, with a salary commensurate to the job.”
“What? Wait. They already have you.”
“And they have you, and value you. You’re already doing the job, Nick. It’s time you’re compensated for it. It won’t add to your hours, but it will be salaried rather than hourly. I’ve recommended that salary, based on your experience, your skill, and what others in the position are offered.”
When she named it, she left him long enough to serve the next two guests.
“Why would they give me that much more for doing what I’m already doing?”
“For the same reason you’ve worked here for years. Go home, think about it, talk it over with Corrine. If you want to pursue it, contact Nell and discuss terms and details.”
“You went to Nell to say all this?”
“That’s part of my job, like it’ll be part of yours to tell me if I’m missing something.”
He walked over, kissed her cheek. “Thanks. I mean it. Whatever we decide, I mean it.”
He’d take it, she thought as he clocked out. She’d met his wife—and their adorable baby—and knew Corrine was a sensible woman.
She considered that duty checked off, then watched Opal on the floor. Hopefully she’d check off the next without too much resistance.