Edward Lee - The Chosen

“That would be perfect,” Vera responded.

Feldspar immediately lit a Sobraine. “So. How are things?”

“We actually did some business tonight,” Vera was happy to answer. “And we had a lot of walk-ins, which is always a good sign.”

“Any complaints about the restaurant?”

“None. Lots of compliments, though.”

“Good.” He seemed distracted, but then he always did in a way, as though there were always something of the future on his mind. He seemed clipped, ever the businessman. Just once I wish he’d lighten up, Vera thought. Be himself. Or was he doing just that? The possibility depressed her.

“I’ve spoken to Kyle, regarding your room-guest complaints of last weekend,” Feldspar mentioned. “I suppose it’s rather embarrassing for you.”

“Well, no,” she said. Actually it was; it pissed her off to receive complaints about Kyle’s room guests. “It comes with the territory. Even rich people get rowdy.”

“Actually much more so than the middle class, more often than not, I’m afraid. It can cause one to wonder about civility and sophistication—that the extravagantly wealthy generally behave as ill-mannered, inconsiderate idiots.”

There had, in fact, been still more complaints of late, always from room guests of the first-floor suites, Vera’s rooms, and never from Kyle’s guests. In fact, Vera had yet to even see any of the guests renting the second- and third-floor suites. Evidently, they were content to order all their meals from room service. Not once had any of them come down to eat at The Carriage House, which only furthered Vera’s irritation. But now the complaints were more descriptive. “We kept hearing this awful thunking sound all night long,” came the grievance of the town’s podiatrist, who’d spent several weekends at The Inn with his dowdy wife. A good-paying customer, and one Vera didn’t want to lose. There’d been similar “thunking” complaints from others, too. Vera concluded that this thunking was actually the room-service elevators opening and closing, which she’d heard many times at night herself. The funny thing was she couldn’t hear the elevators running, just the doors opening and closing, which made little sense. And still more complaints were made about noise in general.

“I’m still getting complaints from my room guests, though,” Vera elaborated, “about loud noises at night, you know, typical party noises—loud talk, footsteps, laughter.” She fingered her chin in contemplation. “The weird part is the noises don’t seem to be coming from the second and third floors, but from below.”

“Hmmm,” Feldspar remarked without much interest. “Perhaps some of the night owls are taking their revelry into the atrium during the wee hours, or the pool.”

“That probably explains it. And another strange complaint I keep getting is elevator noise.”

Feldspar made a facial gesture of befuddlement. “It’s true that the room-service elevators are in fairly constant use, but I’ve never heard them making any undue noise while running.”

“Well, no one’s complaining about the elevators going up and down, they’re complaining about a thunking noise. I figure it’s the doors opening and closing.”

Feldspar nodded, still without much interest. “I’ll have Kyle get a service person out here, and maybe a contractor to see about some more soundproofing. It’s difficult to forecast a building’s acoustics.”

“And one more thing,” Vera began. Then she paused partly in reluctance and partly in amusement. Mafioso, she thought. Drug financiers. That’s what Chief Mulligan had implied The Inn actually catered to. But how should she bring the matter up?

Fortunately, after Feldspar poured the champagne, she wouldn’t have to. “And I feel absolutely dreadful about the business this morning with the police,” he owned up. “Kyle reported it to me.”

“It’s nothing to feel dreadful about,” Vera told him. “If you want to know the truth, it was kind of funny. I’m still not quite sure what the man was digging for.”

Feldspar leaned forward slightly, looking at her. “What do you suppose he was looking for?”

Vera nearly sighed. Go for it, she thought. “It’s my impression that Chief Mulligan is suspicious of The Inn’s location and is therefore suspicious of The Inn’s clientele.”

She expected Feldspar to scoff, or laugh. But he didn’t. He just looked at her.

“Why?” he asked.

Vera shrugged. “I’m not sure. He just thinks it’s odd that a place like The Inn, very upscale, could turn a profit in an area like this.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“The same thing you told me from the start. That The Inn caters to a very upscale and very private clientele.”

“A select clientele.”

“Yes. And I think that’s why he’s suspicious,” Vera went on, hoping she wasn’t saying too much, or exaggerating what Mulligan had seemed to imply. But Feldspar had asked for her opinion. So I’m going to give it to him. “I think he believes, in other words, that our ‘select’ clientele aren’t legitimate businessmen but white-collar criminals. Mafia. Organized crime. Drug distribution. That sort of thing. He’s also very suspicious that Magwyth Enterprises is a holding company. For instance, he knows that you wired several million dollars into the bank in town, and in addition to that, he wasn’t able to find out anything about Magwyth Enterprises itself. It’s pretty clear to me that he’s challenging the legitimacy of your company. He seems to think it’s a money-laundering outfit, and that you’re the honcho behind it.”

“Preposterous,” Feldspar said. Yet he seemed off kilter at once, even slightly perturbed, and it was obvious. Is it my imagination, Vera wondered, or is he hiding something? “Yeah, preposterous,” she went along with him. “What I don’t get are his motives. It’s one thing to make implications like that. But what are his grounds?”

Feldspar made no immediate reply; instead he refilled their champagne flutes and set the towel-cloaked bottle back into its ice bucket. “Small town police chief, big ideas, I suspect. Who knows, really? Nevertheless, whatever his motives, I can assure you, Ms. Abbot, The Inn is quite legitimate in its services to its guests, and its guests are equally legitimate.”

“Of course,” Vera said.

They dined first on an array of appetizers: Equadoran Shrimp Cocktail, Lasagnettas with Roasted Peppers, and Dan B.’s famous Minted Pea Salad in Radicchio Leaves. Vera ordered Crayfish Brittany as her main course, and Feldspar the Fillet of Charollais Beef in a truffle gravy. Even Vera was astounded by Dan B.’s skills tonight; everything was state-of-the-art, yet Feldspar scarcely made comment during the meal. Instead, he spoke off and on of business in general, some upcoming banquets, etc., nothing of note, and nothing really of himself. Vera had no choice but to deduce that her revelations regarding Chief Mulligan’s visit had put him on edge. But why? she kept wondering. If The Inn is legitimate, what’s he so distracted about? It was a good question, and one that continued to occur to her throughout the meal. Se lect clientele, money-laundering, Mafia, she repeatedly thought. Earlier she’d found these implications amusing. Now, though, she wasn’t so sure.

And if it was so “preposterous,” why did Feldspar keep bringing it up? “I suppose I should go and speak to him,” he said next, quite by surprise.

“I’m sorry?” Vera said.

“This…policeman.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Vera said. She paused. Careful, girl, careful Perhaps it was the champagne, which was gone now, unraveling her better judgment. Or perhaps it was her own suspicions. “But may I ask you something?’’ she said next.