Her executive assistant, Celeste Monroe, had argued against this visit. The Wexley had been producing troubling numbers for months, including a steady departure of experienced staff and an unusual pattern of guest complaints closed without independent review. Celeste had also received three unsigned letters, each describing humiliating encounters with the general manager, Grant Whitley. Odessa disliked anonymous accusations when they were treated as proof, but she disliked even more the habit of dismissing complaints because the person making them had been afraid to attach a name.
"Let us audit the property," Celeste had said at headquarters that morning. "We have people trained for this. You don't need to get drenched on a sidewalk to establish that a manager is failing."
"An audit will tell us what Mr. Whitley wrote down," Odessa replied. "I want to see what he does before he knows somebody is writing it down for him."
It was not the first time Celeste had heard that answer. She had worked beside Odessa for twenty-two years and knew the expression that meant an argument was over. Still, she arranged for a trusted driver to remain nearby and made certain Odessa could reach her at any moment. If the visit went badly, they would have a way to address it without depending on a single account. Odessa appreciated the precautions and resented, just slightly, the fact that she now needed them.
The Wexley lobby was warm enough to make her glasses fog as she stepped inside. Music drifted from the lounge, mingling with the quiet rolling of luggage and the murmured exchanges between guests who had appointments and expensive dinners waiting upstairs. Odessa paused on the doormat to shake water from her umbrella and took in the room. She noticed a torn seam on one chair, a lampshade placed to hide a stain, and an older porter carrying three cases while a younger manager watched him struggle.
At the reception desk, Paige Monroe was finishing a telephone call. Paige was twenty-nine and had worked at the Wexley for four years, long enough to remember when its employees used to stay through entire seasons instead of disappearing after a few difficult weeks. She had a calm voice, a quick eye for details, and a habit of checking reservations twice when a name appeared wrong. That habit had earned compliments from guests and impatience from Whitley, who regarded careful questions as delays.
Odessa waited while Paige finished explaining a taxi arrangement to a woman in a red traveling coat. Then she stepped forward and placed her small bag beside her feet. "Good evening," she said. "I'd like a room for the night, please."
Paige looked up with a genuine smile. Before she could answer, a voice behind her said, "Are you sure you're in the right place?"