“Who’s Rupert?”
“The local IT guy. He knows the system.”
“You have manual reception procedures?”
“Yes.”
“So the power outages and system issues are common.”
She bristled. “They aren’t common, but they happen. We have contingencies for everything.”
I made an unconvinced sound.
Then she spotted a tall, thin man entering the lobby with a laptop messenger bag slung crosswise over his body. “Rupert! You’re here.”
The man looked up. He had pale skin and sandy-blonde hair. He saw Tessa and flushed. “Oh, hey, Tessa.”
“Thank yousomuch for coming so fast. You’re a godsend.”
The man’s flush deepened. “Any time. You know that.”
Ah, someone had a little crush, and it appeared Tessa was totally blind to it.
“Rupert Fairbanks, this is Ambrose Langston, our new owner.”
The tech guy straightened and the puppy dog look on his face faded. “Hello.”
I inclined my head. “Nice to meet you.”
“Fun story,” Tessa said, “but Rupert is a part of the hotel’s history, or his family is. His great-grandfather, Teddy Fairbanks, helped found the Windward Resort, along with Chester Clarence. They had a falling out somewhere along the way, and Teddy left the business.”
“Really?”
Rupert swallowed and nodded. “Teddy was swindled by Chester. Supposedly there was a game of poker, and Chester cheated.”
“And plied poor old Teddy with whiskey and ladies of less-than-pristine reputations,” Tessa added with a grin.
Rupert waved a hand. “Old family history. If things had been different, it could have been me standing here as the hotel owner.”
“Lucky for me, your great-grandfather liked the whiskey.”
“We need to keep moving,” Tessa said. “Thanks again, Rupert.” She faced me. “Shall we continue?”
“Yes. What’s next on the tour?”
“Back of house. This way.”
She scanned us through a door. Soon, we passed through the laundry and housekeeping area. I saw carts lined up, topped with fresh towels and sheets. Several of the housekeeping staff in their neat, chocolate-brown uniforms stood nearby, eyeing us with interest.
“This is the way to maintenance.”
Next up was a workshop. A familiar broad-shouldered man in a flannel shirt and jeans stood at a workbench.
“Everett,” Tessa called out.
He turned. He had shaggy hair that was caught somewhere between brown and gold. When he saw Tessa, he shot her a wide, lazy smile. I frowned.
She gripped the man’s arm. “This is Everett Murray, our head of maintenance. We keep him pretty busy, and he keeps everything running.”
