The bartender approached and she ordered a drink. Within four minutes, Kim and Christian appeared in the doorway, pausing as she had. When they spotted her, they crossed to the bar and took a stool on either side of her. Kim was wedged into the same tight black skirt, but she’d swapped her white blouse for a silver tunic, over which she wore a long black jacket. Christian looked exactly as he had earlier, except that he’d removed his white crew socks and now wore his deck shoes without.
I was not crazy about this scenario. I didn’t dare leave for fear of calling attention to myself. Hiding in plain sight is a nerve-racking game. I sat where I was and willed myself invisible. Casually, I sipped my wine and made a leisurely meal of the salted cashews. I went ahead and signed the bar bill in case I’d need to depart in haste. I added a five-dollar tip to the eighteen-dollar glass of wine, which I charged to my room. The nuts were free as far as I could tell. Under ordinary circumstances, given my cheap nature and limited experience of the finer things in life, I’d have sat and fretted about all the money I was coughing up. On this occasion, I was focused on blending into my surroundings. In point of fact, I had money in the bank, so why sweat it?
Over the next forty-five minutes, time crept by. Pretending to do something when you’re doing nothing is an art form in itself. Finally, I saw movement. Hallie gestured for the bill and the bartender slid the leather folio in her direction. She did a quick tabulation, added a tip, and then scribbled her name across the bottom of the check. When she got up, Christian helped her into her jacket. I reached to my left, searching in the depths of my shoulder bag for an important item that required all of my concentration. The three moved past me and ambled out of the bar. I leaned forward and strained, peering out the window to my left as the trio reached the doors that opened onto Wilshire Boulevard. Christian stood back and allowed the two women to walk out ahead of him before he followed.
I waited a beat and eased out of the booth. The bartender was at the far end of the bar, and the waiter was taking an order from a couple across the room. I let my gaze return to the leather folio, still resting on the bar near Hallie’s now-empty stool. I could even see the white paper cash register receipt extending from the fold. I picked up my bill in its leather folio and slid out of the booth. I carried it with me, keeping my mind blank, as I moved to the bar. When I reached Hallie’s seat, I placed my bill on the bar and picked up hers.
I opened it and let my gaze skim the receipt from top to bottom, where she’d neatly printed her name, Theodora Xanakis. In the line below, she’d scrawled her signature, shortening the Theodora to Teddy. According to the cash register tally, she’d charged two martinis, a cosmopolitan, one glass of champagne (shit, $24 for that?), and two Miller Lites to her room, which was 1825. The total was $134, including a tip in the same amount I’d left. Seemed stingy to me, but then I had a flash of insecurity wondering if I’d overpaid.
I closed the folio and placed it on the bar beside mine, then strolled into the lobby. Glancing upward, I found myself looking at the third-floor loggia, still in shadow. I crossed to the registration desk.
Todd Putman, my favorite hotel desk clerk, was still on duty, and he smiled at my approach. To my astonishment, he remembered me by name. “Good evening, Ms. Millhone. I hope you’re enjoying your stay.”
“I am, thanks.” I leaned my elbows on the counter and lowered my voice. “I have a favor to ask.”
“Certainly. How may I help?”
“I just found out my friend Kim Bass is staying here and I’d like to surprise her with a bottle of champagne. I’m worried if I order it through room service, my name will appear on the bill.”
“I can handle that for you. I take it you’d like to charge it to your room?”
“I would. I’d also appreciate having it delivered in the next hour so she’ll find it waiting when she gets back from dinner. Is that something you can arrange?”
“Absolutely. No problem at all. Do you have a label in mind?”
“Actually, I don’t. What would you suggest?”
He reached under the counter and presented me with the same wine list I’d seen in the bar, only his was opened to sparkling wines and champagnes by the bottle. I sincerely hoped my eyes didn’t bulge, cartoonlike, when I saw the prices. The least expensive “label” was $175.
He was saying, “The Veuve Clicquot is popular, though my personal preference would be the Taittinger.”
“Wonderful. Let’s do that,” I said. “You promise she won’t find out the gift is from me?”
