Just This Once Page 2

  But it was clear after only two trips — six days total — that sales and marketing would operate more efficiently if it were centralized. Now it was up to these three to draft a plan to make it happen. If they worked well, she’d probably get a good severance package.

  A sharp knock on the door signaled the arrival of the bellman with the borrowed umbrella.

  “Thank you,” the tall woman said, passing the young man a couple of bills.

  “You’re welcome, Ms. Connelly. And Ms. McKenzie asked me to remind you about the dessert.” The young man was glad to see the smile that his message had elicited.

  “Please tell her thanks, and that I will go see about dessert right now.”

  Checking to make certain she had her key, Wynne followed the bellman back to the elevator, at once eyeing the dessert table in the center of the lounge.

  “May I bring you something to drink?” a tuxedoed woman asked.

  Wynne thought about it and passed, deciding she’d just grab one of the sweet offerings and return to her room. So many different treats…but she should only have one. So she took the lime tart with the strawberry on top. And the truffle.

  Back in her room, the tall woman dropped tiredly into the wingback chair. It was almost 10 and she had a full day tomorrow. Her leg throbbed from the demands of her trip.

  Fishing in her purse, she drew out a bottle of ibuprofen. Since the accident two years ago, she carried it everywhere she went, always knowing that the leg would start to ache from deep within. A hot bath would soothe the pain and help her sleep.

  Flicking on the light in the marble bathroom, Wynne silently blessed Paula McKenzie for the upgrade: her tub was equipped with massaging air jets.

  Chapter 2

  Monday was shaping up like just another night at the Weller Regent.

  Paula walked the hallways from end to end at least once a day, on all 23 floors. Mostly, she checked to ensure that fixtures were in working order, doors were not left ajar, and that room service trays were picked up in a timely manner, but she also kept an eye out for anything out of the ordinary. So far, she’d logged two burned out lights and one that flickered off and on. On the 23rd floor, the Concierge floor, she discovered a wallet stuffed behind a plant, likely hidden by a pickpocket who had pilfered the contents.

  “Security, please,” she directed softly into the walkie-talkie.

  “Security here,” a male voice crackled.

  “I need a security officer in the elevator lobby of the 23rd floor, please.” Paula was eager to get this cleared up quickly, as the sight of a security guard in the Concierge lobby might unnerve some of the guests.

  “On the way. Roger out.”

  Three minutes later, the uniformed guard arrived and began to document the evidence in the event criminal charges might be filed. They usually weren’t, but management always wanted fingerprints when possible to rule out employees. It was doubtful though that an employee would have hidden the wallet in plain view of the camera in the ceiling. Too bad about the fool that ignored the warning signs that the public areas of the premises were under surveillance.

  Together, she and the guard carefully opened the wallet to confirm its contents, or rather, lack of contents. But there was a driver’s license, and she immediately called downstairs to get the room number of its owner, William C. Jeffries.

  “Do we have tape?” she asked the guard.

  “We should. I’ll check it when I go back down.”

  “Call me when you find something.”

  Moments later, Paula’s knock was answered by a middle-aged man, apparently fresh from a shower in his robe and with dripping hair. The manager explained the purpose of her visit, then listened calmly as Jeffries ranted about the hotel’s lack of security, demanding reimbursement and threatening to sue for damages if the thief ran up charges on his credit cards. When she assured him that the hotel had videotape that would likely show who had hidden his wallet, the irate man suddenly turned docile.

  “You know, I’m probably just making a big deal out of nothing. I can cancel all the cards with just a phone call, and as long as I have my driver’s license, the only real thing I lost was some cash. I guess that’s the price for being careless with my wallet, huh?”

  When she exited the man’s room, Paula went immediately to the house phone. Some information was not suited for broadcast on a broader frequency.

  “Hello, Tim? I think we’ve got another hooker working the building. If you find something on the tape, let’s get the OPD in and see if we can get an ID.”

  ———

  Wynne glanced at the check-in counter on her way to the elevators, hoping to catch sight of a friendly face. It had been a long day — most Mondays were when Sunday was spent traveling — and she was looking forward to kicking back with a book, and to making a meal out of the hors d’oeuvres in the lounge. No such luck on the friendly face front.

  Paula McKenzie was nowhere to be found.

  The happy hour fare in the lounge had turned out to be a godsend. Room service was nice, but then her room would smell like dinner all night. Going out was even less attractive, especially alone; though she had politely refused several dinner invitations from Doug. Her Dallas counterpart was young and single, and enjoyed the fun he could have on an expense account. For that reason, he had opted to stay at the Hyatt, Eldon-

  Markoff’s other approved hotel, calling the Weller Regent a little too uptight for his tastes. Coming from a sales background, Doug liked meeting new people and striking up conversations, thus he appreciated the atmosphere of the Hyatt’s sprawling cocktail lounge on the main floor and its lively piano bar. The quiet atmosphere of the concierge lounge was more to Wynne’s liking.

  The tall brunette settled into a wingback chair in the corner by the window, her small plate loaded with grilled fish strips with lemon and capers, brie and crackers, and fruit. It wouldn’t do to eat like this often, but it was hard to avoid calories while traveling and still get enough to satisfy her hunger. Besides, if she kept up her workout on the stationary bike — which she had to do anyway to keep her left leg limber — she could probably stave off the extra pounds.

  “Do you mind if I join you?” A smartly dressed businessman held a cocktail in one hand and a plate of chicken wings in the other.

  “Not at all,” Wynne answered graciously. “But I have to warn you that I’m at a very exciting part of my book, so I doubt I’ll be very good company.” I don’t plan on entertaining you, mister.

  Dejected, Bill Jeffries turned to look for another seat.

  “Mr. Jeffries, may I see you a moment please?” As she entered the lounge, Paula noticed the woman in the corner and smiled. “Good evening, Ms. Connelly.”

  “And to you, Ms. McKenzie.” Wynne was quite pleased to see the familiar face, even though it was clear that the night shift manager was in the lounge in her official capacity.

  It was probably just wishful thinking that the woman had been flirting the night before, but it was nice to imagine it just the same. Still, it would be nice to have a friend here, especially since it looked like she’d be back at least a half dozen times or more.

  After a brief conversation in the hallway, both the blonde woman and the man who had sought her company returned to the lounge. To Wynne’s delight, Paula McKenzie was headed her way, and she quickly closed her book.

  “What are you reading?”

  The brunette held up the front cover. “It’s Pamela Crenshaw’s latest. I picked it up at the airport yesterday afternoon.” Crenshaw had written a series of spy novels featuring a military heroine, Major Dana Grant. Each new release vaulted to the top of the bestseller list, both in hard cover and in paperback.

  “Oh, I haven’t seen that one. But I’ve read the others. Crenshaw really tells a great story.”

  “Yeah, but I have to admit, I think she’s sort of gone over the top with the Major. It’s kind of hard to believe a person can be perfect at everything.”

  “
I’m not sure what you mean. Aren’t all of your friends black belt gourmet cooks who can perform heart surgery in the dark while docking the Queen Mary?”

  That sent the tall woman into a fit of laughter that delighted Paula.

  “Now that you mention it, a lot of my friends are like that,” Wynne agreed jovially.

  “So is everything to your liking? Your room, I mean.”

  “Yes, it’s very nice. And the lounge is very nice. Thank you so much for the upgrade. I think I’ll lean on the accountant at Eldon-Markoff to let me book up here on my next trip.”

  “I’m glad you’re comfortable. I suppose it’s hard to be away from home and your family so much, so I hope we can make it a little easier.” Paula was fishing, but Wynne didn’t recognize the opening to take the bait.

  “You do make it easier, and I appreciate it.” She was having trouble deciding if Paula was being friendly and personable, or just performing her professional duties. Best to play it safe.

  Paula would have liked nothing better than to order a drink of her own and pull up a chair. Not that she could do something like that at work anyway, but it also would have presumptuous as hell, she thought. Wynne Connelly was just being nice; she was probably one of those people who made everyone feel special just by talking to them.

  “I suppose I should get back to work. If I don’t see you again tonight, have a safe trip home.”

  “Thank you. Oh, and thanks for the umbrella. I’ll be sure to leave it at the desk.”

  “You’re welcome.” Paula resisted the urge to pat the woman’s knee.

  Wynne watched the manager leave, first stopping by the host’s desk to say hello to the staff and ask how things were going. She’s good at her job. Wynne wondered how old the woman was. With her long blonde hair and soft features, she looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties; but her poise and authority was that of someone older, more experienced in the work world. Wynne admired the same qualities in her boss Cheryl Williams, a woman in her late forties. She found those traits — and Paula McKenzie —

  to be very attractive.

  ———

  “Have you tried the plunger, like I showed you?” Wynne was growing frustrated at the futility of it all. “Then you should do that first. If it doesn’t work, don’t use that toilet anymore, and call a plumber first thing in the morning.”

  The digital clock read 11:45.

  “Mom, I can’t do a thing for you tonight. I’m in Orlando,” she explained. “Yes, my cell phone works here, same as always.” Obviously. “I know you didn’t know, but this is my week to travel. I won’t get home until Wednesday night.”

  Wynne threw the covers back and stretched out for the water bottle on the desk. “No, I have to work on Thursday. I can come by Thursday night, but you should call a plumber tomorrow if the plunger doesn’t work.” With her foot, she dragged her purse closer and retrieved the ibuprofen.

  “I don’t know, Mom. Maybe Sophie put something in it,” a reference to her 2-year-old niece. “Who knows?” Two tablets…make it three. “Probably a hundred bucks or so, maybe more if they have to stay a while. But what else are you going to do?” Wynne was exasperated. “You can’t just leave a toilet overflowing in the house. It’ll ruin the floor and the ceiling underneath it. Keep it mopped up and call a plumber first thing, okay?”

  Settling back into bed, she cradled the phone underneath her chin. “Mom, I have to get back to sleep. I have a long day tomorrow,” she pleaded. “I know this was an emergency. Just do what I said. It will be fine….Yes, I love you too. I’ll come by Thursday night. Goodnight, Mom.”

  Wynne sighed deeply as she returned the phone to its cradle for charging. One would think that Katharine Connelly — Kitty to her friends — was the most helpless person on earth. When Wynne’s father died six years ago, her mother had come completely unglued. Within a year, her house was in disrepair, her finances a mess; the woman could barely decide what to wear each day.

  Wynne painstakingly balanced the household checkbook, arranged for a housekeeper to come by twice a week, and contracted with a handyman to make the necessary repairs.

  On top of that, she started calling her mother two or three times during the day, just to keep her company and make sure everything was okay.

  Growing up, neither Wynne nor her younger sister Janelle had realized the degree to which their mother had shaped her entire existence around their family. When both daughters left home, her devotion to her husband had kept Kitty grounded; without him, she was aimless.

  Wynne had hoped for something of a reprieve last year when Janelle had moved back to Baltimore, unmarried but with a daughter of her own, Sophie. But Janelle had her hands full with nursing school, not the mention to the demands of a 2-year-old.

  There was certainly one thing she didn’t mind about the travel to Orlando: it was, for the most part, a respite from the day to day worries of managing her mom’s life. It wasn’t that Wynne didn’t want to help her mother through this difficult time, but after six years, Kitty Connelly hadn’t made a lot of progress toward living on her own. Part of the problem was that 90-year-old Tudor house.

  ———

  Paula pulled the pin on the leg extensor and reset it at 35 pounds. It was a pain following the Incredible Hulk around the weight room, but she got a small measure of satisfaction knowing that he would follow her on his next circuit and would also have to reset the pins.

  “How’s work been, Val?” Val Harbison was Paula’s best friend, and the manager of Flanagan’s, a downtown sports bar. The two met five years ago at an accounting workshop organized by Orlando’s expansive travel industry. Right off the bat, they liked one another. It was easy to commiserate about the lack of a social life, as both women were locked into working evenings and weekends. That ruled out clubs and parties, and left them mostly with meeting people through work. On weekdays, the two women met to work out in the fitness room at Paula’s condominium complex. Usually, they had the place to themselves; this wasn’t the Hulk’s normal workout time.

  “We’ve gotten busier these last few weeks, so I guess that means the season’s in full swing.”

  “Yeah, things have picked up for us too. Have you been out with Kevin?”

  “Not since we did The Mouse.” The Mouse was what many of the locals called Disneyworld. “I don’t think that’s going to work out. I mean, we can only see each other in the daytime, and I just don’t want to spend all my dates at the attractions, then rushing to get to work on time.”

  “I know what you mean. Knowing you have to go to work just takes the fun out of whatever you’re doing. At least I have Saturdays off.” On the weekends, Paula often visited her family in Cocoa Beach, sometimes staying over until Sunday to go to church with her mom and dad.

  “I’d kill for Saturdays off. But the weekends are our busiest days.”

  “Saturdays aren’t that bad at the hotel, at least at night. Most of the convention traffic gets in on Friday. I think that’s why Rusty takes off then and gives me Saturdays off. A lot of these convention goers only travel once a year, and they don’t have a clue about how to survive away from home.”

  “What do they do?”

  “What don’t they do?” Paula groaned. “They complain about the price of everything, and they never miss a chance to tell you how they do things up north. They’re like 18-yearolds when they first go away to college. They want to stay up all night and party in the halls. They smoke wherever they please. They don’t keep up with their belongings. They can’t find anything, even with a map.” Paula slowly counted her reps.

  “That would drive me crazy. At least the folks that come in Flanagan’s seem to know the drill: Find a seat in front of the game you want to watch, drink your beer, and tip your waitress. Nothing to it.”

  Paula recounted the story of the man whose wallet was stolen last night by his hooker, and how he’d threatened to sue the hotel until he learned that they had her on videotape.

 
; When she’d told him that the Orlando Police Department could probably identify the woman, he’d backed off completely, refusing to press charges, effectively ending the hotel’s liability.

  “Isn’t it funny how self-righteous some people can be,” Val proclaimed. “Imagine what he’d have done if you’d found it after he left and called him at home!”

  “Yeah, or what if we’d called his office?”

  “Really,” Val huffed. “So have you had any good looking flight attendants lately?”

  “No flight attendants, but there is a gorgeous woman staying there who works at Eldon-Markoff. She came in on Sunday night from Baltimore. She’s beautiful,” Paula said dreamily, grabbing the pull-down bar for her lat reps. “And she has a limp. I’d love to know that story.”

  “So does she bat for your team?”

  “I doubt it. But she’s…I don’t know, friendlier than most people.”

  “To everyone or just to you?”

  “That I couldn’t tell you. But I swear when she checked in the other night, it was almost like she was flirting. I told her to call if she needed anything, and she said ‘Should I ask for you?’ Doesn’t that strike you as flirty?”

  “Well I hope you told her yes!”

  “I did. And I gave her my card. And I lent her my umbrella. And I upgraded her to the Concierge floor.”

  “Good lord, woman! I’m surprised she didn’t go down on you in the lobby!” Val whispered the last part so Hulk wouldn’t hear it.

  “Oh, don’t say things like that. My heart can’t take it!” Paula laughed. “I talked with her for a few minutes last night in the lounge. She’s really nice, and she’s going to be coming back and forth for the next few months. Maybe we’ll get to know each other.”

  “Does she have a name?”

  “She has a lovely name. It just rolls off your lips. Wynne Connelly.”

  Chapter 3