"When someone gets to you."
Margaret sat again.
This was no longer a secret-shopper exercise.
It was archaeology.
She was uncovering layers.
At one hour, Sam appeared carrying luggage through the lobby outside the restaurant.
He saw her.
His face tightened.
Five minutes later, he entered carrying a mug.
"Tea."
Margaret looked at him.
"Shouldn't you be off shift?"
"Supposed to be."
"Go home."
"Did they take your order?"
"No."
He closed his eyes.
"I'll find somebody."
"Don't."
"Mrs. Whitfield."
"Sit."
He hesitated.
"Please."
Sam sat across from her for thirty seconds.
Margaret asked:
"Does this happen often?"
"To you?"
"To guests."
His silence answered.
"Sam."
He leaned closer.
"Derek has a system."
"What kind?"
"He calls it guest prioritization."
Margaret felt cold.
"Explain."
"Regulars first."
"High-status loyalty members."
"Corporate accounts."
"People who look like they're going to spend."
"And everybody else?"
Sam looked uncomfortable.
"Depends."
"On what?"
"You know."
"No."
"I want you to say it."
Sam's jaw tightened.
"How they look."
"How they dress."
"Whether staff think they're wealthy."
"Age sometimes."
"Race sometimes?"
Sam looked at her.
"Sometimes."
There it was.
Margaret sat back.
"Who told staff to do that?"
"Derek."
"Directly?"
"He says things like, 'Don't waste premium service on nonpremium guests.'"
"Or, 'Protect the lobby experience.'"
"Or, 'We are not a shelter.'"
"Chloe repeats it."
"Do people complain?"
"All the time."
"What happens?"
"Sometimes the complaint gets resolved."
"Sometimes Derek writes notes that make the guest sound unreasonable."
Margaret understood immediately.
Internal guest-service numbers were strong because the reporting system had been manipulated.
"Why hasn't corporate heard?"
Sam smiled bitterly.
"Maybe corporate likes numbers."
That one hurt.
Margaret nodded.
"Fair."
A voice came from behind them.
"Sam."
Derek.
He had arrived early.
Perfect suit again.
His eyes moved from Sam to Margaret.
"What are you doing?"
"She waited over an hour."
"Not your department."
"She hasn't eaten."
Derek looked at Margaret.
"Perhaps because we're serving actual guests."
Margaret showed her room key.
"I am an actual guest."
Derek's jaw tightened.
He looked at Sam.
"Back to work."
Sam stood.
Then stopped.
"She paid eight thousand dollars."
The restaurant quieted.
Derek stared at him.
"And even if she hadn't," Sam continued, voice shaking, "you shouldn't talk to her like that."
Margaret's chest tightened.
Sam knew what might happen.
He did it anyway.
Derek lowered his voice.
"Excuse me?"
"She's somebody's mother."
"Somebody's grandmother."