PART IIn the Garden
Chapter 1
The upside of working the graveyard shift on the concierge desk was that most of the guests were asleep by two in the morning, which meant Jean could do her own thing without anyone breathing down her neck. Unless she was scheduled with Pauline, in which case she was treated to a private concert, because Pauline was physically incapable of not singing along with the soft background music that piped through the lobby’s hidden speakers. Even though they were instrumental tracks, and Pauline wasn’t known for her sense of melody—or her memory.
“Be the raft in the storm of my heart, na na na na,” Pauline warbled, butchering the chorus of an Adriana Asebedo song so popular there were probably babies all over the world who’d absorbed the lyrics into their DNA while being conceived to that tune. She paused to look over Jean’s shoulder. “What’s that?”
“A logo. For a client.” Who was also one of Jean’s best friends, but “I’m jazzing up my buddy’s food truck menu” sounded less impressive.
Pauline studied the ballpoint figure Jean was doodling on a piece of hotel stationery. “That’s pretty good. The little pineapple guy, on the surfboard. You should be an artist or something.”
Jean opened her mouth to explain that she already was an artist, thank you very much, but the resort-issue polo she was wearing didn’t exactly scream “future Frida Kahlo.”
“Yeah.” She thought about leaving it at that, but then Pauline would start singing again. “I almost got a job as an illustrator. For a magazine.”
“Cartoons and stuff?”
“No.” Jean spoke with conviction, although she wasn’t totally sure this was true. “Like the front cover.”
Pauline frowned. “Isn’t that usually a real picture? With a camera?”
“Reality is overrated.” Jean scowled at the surfing pineapple, adding a dripping whisk.
The song changed, but before Pauline could join in, the phone rang.
“Dolphin Bay, how can I make your dreams come true?” Pauline half sang into the receiver. The standard greeting landed a little differently at this time of night. Less luxury, more brothel.
Jean set down her pen, swiveling her chair to face her coworker. The other benefit of the late shift was that if something did come up in the middle of the night, it was more likely to be weird. And in Jean’s experience, nothing made time fly like an infusion of freakiness.
“I’m very sorry to hear that, sir. Of course we’ll send someone right over. It’s no trouble at all. Have a great day at Dolphin Bay.”
It was a little late for that unless she was talking about tomorrow, but Jean didn’t care about the semantics. “What is it this time—a live tiger? Somebody wants to store their pile of raw diamonds in the main safe? Smuggling in a team of acrobats? Pancake emergency?”
“What’s a pancake emergency?”
It was typical of Pauline to seize on the least interesting question. “Somebody who wants a big stack of pancakes delivered to their room five minutes ago, still warm.”
“Oh. No, nothing like that. Sunset Cottage needs more towels.”
Towels! Talk about the beige of problems.
It was a good thing Jean hadn’t taken the call. There was no guarantee she would have won the struggle not to comment.Is that the best you can do, Richie Rich? Extratowels?
The sad truth was that money couldn’t buy flair, Jean reflected as she grabbed a stack of fluffy white bath sheets from the supply room. Hence the swarms of trust funders desperate to carry the same bag or wear identical shoes. If Jean had that kind of cash, she’d go bold. Distinctive. Eyeball-searing. None of this clean-cut, party-line, herd mentality.
There was a slim chance he wanted the towels for something like mopping up a pool of blood. That would be unexpected. But if there was a body to dispose of, surely Sir First World Problems would have asked for a tarp and ropes, or a shovel? Dolphin Bay did advertise itself as a full-service guest experience, especially if you were loaded enough to afford one of the private cottages. The promise was right there in the blandly luxurious, allergic-to-color marketing materials.Where Dreams Come True: Find Your Paradise at Dolphin Bay, an Exceptional Holiday Experience on Oahu’s North Shore.
It was only a matter of time before someone called the front desk asking for hookers and blow.
Expecting an underpaid stranger to help you clean up a crime scene wasn’t that big of a leap from some of the entitled behavior Jean had witnessed at her parents’ restaurant, back in the day. Although there was only so far you could push it at a golf course snack bar.Ooh, you’re so daring, making your teenage waitress bring you more maraschino cherries!
The island breeze shifted the palm fronds overhead, reminding her that she wasn’t in Wisconsin anymore. At least Mr. Oops I Took My Bath Towels to the Beach had given her an excuse to stretch her legs. Maybe there was a business opportunity here. A lot of Jean’s skills were tough to monetize, but setting up shop asa Doula of Bad Ideas had potential. The voiceover for an imaginary infomercial played in her head:
Do people’s eyes glaze over when you tell “funny” stories?
Are you the human equivalent of a pair of pleated khakis?
Is your one life neither wild nor precious?
