Revelations (Brody Hotel Book 4) Read online

  Revelations

  Brody Hotel Book Four

  by Amelia C. Adams

  With thanks to my beta readers—Amy, Barbara, Cheryl, and Joseph.

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  Table of Contents:

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter One

  Topeka, Kansas

  2018

  Tony Espinozo nodded in approval as he looked around the completed lobby of the Brody Hotel. Andrew, the owner, and Florence, the general manager, had been giving him a tour of everything that had been done since his last visit. “It looks amazing,” Tony said. “You’ve all worked hard, and it shows.”

  Florence sighed and leaned against the check-in counter. “It’s definitely been a project, but we can all be proud of it. Now if I could just find a chef, we’d be set to go.”

  “You still haven’t found a chef?”

  “No, and believe me, I’ve tried. I’ve been served everything from reheated frozen entrees to stuff that looks like dog food, and it’s hard to stay hopeful after that. I have three more applicants coming over tomorrow morning to cook for me, and after that, I don’t know what we’re going to do. We’re supposed to be opening next week. How can we open without a kitchen staff?”

  “If we have to, I’ll call some friends of mine and we’ll fly in a chef from New York,” Andrew said. “It’s not ideal because I’d rather hire locally, but we’ll do whatever it takes to make this work.”

  Florence nodded. “I’ll let you know after I meet with these last three. I had no idea how frustrating it was going to be to find the help we need—at least the housekeeping staff is up to snuff.”

  Tony smiled. He loved Florence’s old-fashioned turns of phrase. She was a little more mature than most general managers—he guessed she was around seventy—but there was no getting anything past her. He knew she’d keep this place running just how it should be.

  “Just in case I do hire someone tomorrow, Tony, could you work me up some employment contracts? Similar to the ones for the housekeeping staff, but I need a clause in there about overtime for holiday meals and catering. And that one paragraph I showed you the other day makes no sense.”

  “Sure. Just email me what changes you need.”

  She nodded. “I’ll send that over tonight. Andrew, I’m heading out to pick up the ‘do not disturb’ signs from the printers. Do you need me to run any other errands this afternoon?”

  Andrew shook his head. “Nope. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off—sounds like you’ll need to get your rest if you’re going to be fed more dog food tomorrow.”

  She held up a hand. “Don’t jinx me! I should turn in my receipts for all the antacids I’ve taken since I started this search.”

  “Do it. I’ll reimburse you,” Andrew said with a chuckle.

  “Don’t think I won’t.” Florence grabbed her purse from behind the check-in counter and gave a little wave with the tips of her fingers as she left.

  Tony turned back to his friend. “So, aside from needing a chef, how are things going? Are you ready to open next week?”

  “I think so. I hope so.” Andrew led the way into his office, and they both sat down. “The guest rooms are done, and they look great. You’ve seen the new finishing touches down here, and Jimmy’s been adding a few things to the landscaping just to give it a little more oomph. He says it should be bright, and I agree.” Andrew rubbed his jaw. “We can’t print the menus until we hire a chef because we need to construct that menu with the chef. And we can’t order food until we know what the menu is. I’m tempted just to fly in a chef now and skip Florence’s last three applicants, but I have a little spark of hope flitting around inside me saying that maybe one of these will work out.”

  “Is this chef friend of yours someone you really can call in a hurry? Or do they need more warning?” Tony knew Andrew had resources, but how many people could actually drop everything and run at a moment’s notice?

  “He’s the sous chef at my New York Italian restaurant, so he’s already on my payroll. And he’s not married, so he shouldn’t have too many obligations keeping him from coming. But like I told Florence, I’d prefer to hire locally. I want to build up the community where I live—I consider that part of being a good citizen.”

  Tony nodded. He’d heard this from Andrew before over the years. As Andrew’s lawyer, they’d drawn up any number of employment agreements and business mergers together, and he agreed with Andrew’s philosophy. But if there weren’t any good chefs available for hire in Topeka, they’d be left with little choice.

  A soft knock sounded on the doorjamb, and Griffin Baker, the architect on the hotel project, stuck his head into the room. “Sorry to interrupt. Tony, do you have a minute?”

  Tony tried to hide his flash of irritation. Griffin had recently become engaged to Tabs, the woman Tony had been dating, and while he knew on a logical level that it was better this way, it was still hard to swallow sometimes—especially when he ran into one or the other of them so often. “Yes, I do. How can I help you?”

  Griffin entered the room and took the last empty chair. “So, it’s like this,” he said, sounding hesitant. “You know I’ve been looking into my past and trying to find my parents, right? Well, the genealogist who’s been working with Andrew is going to help me too, but I need to have some papers done, things to give him permission to research on my behalf because we’re looking for living people and not dead people—he can explain it better than I can.”

  So, now Griffin wanted legal help. As if asking Tabs to marry him wasn’t enough. Tony forced down his feelings—he was a professional, and this wasn’t like him anyway. He nodded. “Yes, I can help you with that. Call my office and talk to Beverly—she’ll set up a time for you and the genealogist to come in. His name was Matt, right?”

  Griffin nodded. “Yeah, Matt Kingston. Thanks, Tony. I appreciate it. Especially since I know this is a little awkward.”

  That was definitely an understatement. “I’m sure we can work through it.” He’d meant to sound friendly, but instead, his voice came out stiff. He’d need time—maybe a lot of it.

  “Thanks, Tony. I’ll give Beverly a call today.” Griffin stood up, gave Andrew a nod, and left.

  As soon as the door closed, Andrew gave Tony a look. “So. You’re going to help your ex-girlfriend’s fiancé out with a legal matter, are you? Feeling a little extra generous today?”

  “Tabs wasn’t really my girlfriend,” Tony pointed out. “I just wished she was.”

  “Well, I think you’re a good man for putting all that in the past. I know it’s not easy.”

  “I’m not sure it really is in the past. She and I weren’t meant to be, and there’s nothing I could do about it, but . . .” Tony shook his head. “Tabs is a pretty incredible woman, and it might take me a while to let go.”

  “I understand. And in the meantime, I still think you’re doing a good thing by helping Griffin.”

  “We’ll see how long my generosity lasts. I might be luring him into my office just to lock him in a closet and forget about him.” Tony stood up and buttoned his suit jacket. “Thanks for the tour. It’s great to see the progress you’re making around here.”

  “Yeah, we’ll get there. One way or the other.”

  Andrew walked Tony to the front door, and Tony trotted down the porch s
teps and out to his car. He wasn’t looking forward to heading back into the office—he’d been indoors too much lately, and he needed to get out and clear his head a little bit. It wouldn’t take much—a walk down by the river, a short picnic, but he didn’t even have time for that. He had an appointment almost as soon as he got back to the office, another one right after that, and he’d be in court the next day . . . Maybe he should call Beverly and have her make him an appointment for a break.

  Chapter Two

  Elena Moreno wiped her hands on her apron—not that they were dirty, because she’d just washed them, but she was nervous. Two other chefs stood next to her, each with a dish on the counter in front of them, and they would soon face their judgment. The winner would be offered a job at the Brody Hotel, a position Elena knew would launch her career. She’d heard about Andrew Brody, that he never put his money into a project without believing in it wholeheartedly, and this hotel was bound to be something extraordinary.

  Plus, she’d stalked the place on the Internet. Her sister thought she was going overboard with her research, but Elena felt better knowing everything she could about a job before applying. Once burned, twice shy and all that stuff.

  Florence, the woman she was hoping to impress, entered the kitchen and smiled. “You’ve all been working hard today, and I appreciate seeing that. The head chef at the Brody Hotel will not only be in charge of the food in the dining room, but they will also be in charge of the large meals we’ll host when the addition to the hotel opens. Whoever I hire needs to be a hard worker and a fast thinker. They need to be an excellent cook, and they need to be able to lead a team and inspire respect.”

  Elena lifted her chin. Respect. That’s what she wanted—to work in a kitchen that functioned on principles of respect. She was so tired of environments that seemed to do nothing but inspire crass language and behavior bad enough to warrant a sexual harassment suit, if anyone felt it would do any good to file one.

  “And there’s one more thing.” Florence rested her hand on the edge of the counter. “Please remember that we’re running out of time—the hotel is scheduled to open in a week. If you’re chosen, you’ll be asked to help construct a menu right away so we can prepare for it.”

  Bart, the only male applicant, shook his head. “A week? You need us to come up with a menu in a week?”

  “I’m sorry—I wish we had more leeway. I did tell you the opening date of the hotel when I called to set up this interview.”

  “Yeah, I know. I guess I just didn’t put the pieces together.”

  Florence gave him a smile, but Elena thought it looked a little strained. “If you’d like to withdraw your application, you can.”

  Bart shook his head. “No, I’m good.” He didn’t look confident, but Elena doubted she did either.

  “If you’re ready, I’m going to start down here on the end,” Florence said, surprising Elena by moving toward her. “I’ve been reading over your application, and you have an impressive resume. Tell me what brings you here.”

  “I’m looking for a position where I’ll have opportunities to be creative and to show my passion for cooking,” Elena replied. “A position where my skills are the most important thing.” Her voice cracked a little at the end, and she wanted to kick herself. That wasn’t the way to prove she was a professional.

  Florence nodded. “And I imagine there’s a story behind that. Do you feel comfortable sharing?”

  Why not—she didn’t have a lot to lose at that point. “The manager at my last restaurant refused to promote me, even though I was the best chef in his kitchen,” Elena replied. “I worked there for five years, sometimes seven days a week, and I saw employees who had been there a matter of months be moved into positions of responsibility when they’d done nothing to earn it. All male employees, might I add—drinking and golfing buddies.”

  “I see.” Florence nodded again. “And what have you made for me today?”

  Elena took a steadying breath. This was possibly the most important tasting of her life, and she didn’t want to blow it. “This is a chicken enchilada with crema, pan-roasted green chilies, homemade tortillas, and a blend of hand-grated artisan cheeses.”

  Florence picked up a fork and cut into the enchilada. The sauce oozed out onto the plate, and Elena hoped Florence liked her enchiladas oozy. “This is delicious,” Florence said after she swallowed. “And those tortillas are amazing.”

  “Thank you. My mother taught me the recipe.”

  Florence took another bite, then wiped her mouth. “This is truly an exceptional dish. I’d like you to come down to the hotel tomorrow at eleven and make lunch for Mr. Brody. He’ll be the one making the final decision, and I think you have an excellent shot at it.”

  “Thank you. I’d be more than happy to.”

  Elena tried to stay composed as Florence moved down the length of the counter and tasted the dishes from the other chefs. She’d done it—she’d been moved to the next phase of the application process. It was all she could do not to run around the kitchen squealing—sometimes being professional was hard.

  The chef standing next to Elena was dismissed with thanks, but Bart was also invited to come to the hotel the next day. Florence took a step back and surveyed them both.

  “Tomorrow, you’ll each make an appetizer, an entrée, and a dessert, and Mr. Brody will taste everything before finalizing any decisions.” Florence reached into her pocket and pulled out a small stack of folded bills. “Here’s some money to purchase the ingredients you’ll need. Our kitchen is fully set up as far as dishes and appliances, but we’re not having food brought in until just before we open. Do you have any questions?”

  “I do,” Elena said. “What sort of food do you plan to serve at the hotel? Are you going with the traditional meals that might have been served when the hotel was first opened, or are you going with something more modern?”

  Florence beamed. “I’m so glad you asked that. We’d like to see variety on the menu, with some themes. We might do an Italian night or a chuckwagon barbecue night, so we’re looking for a chef who can construct menus for each of those events. Not only will we be feeding hotel guests, but our doors will be open to the community. Having different themes will be a good draw for people who live here in town.”

  Elena nodded. She liked the sound of that, but it didn’t help her narrow down what she wanted to make for her sample meal for Mr. Brody.

  A few minutes later, after chatting over the amenities of the kitchen and what they should expect their responsibilities to be, Elena and Bart exited Florence’s condo, and he exhaled loudly.

  “Wow,” he said as he pushed the button for the elevator. “That was pretty intense.”

  “Yeah, it was. Your dish smelled amazing, though—I don’t think you have much reason to be nervous.”

  “Thanks,” he said with a chuckle. “I can definitely say the same about yours.”

  “I think we should be very proud of ourselves for making it this far.”

  “Yes, we should. Do you have time to go out for a celebratory drink with me?”

  She wasn’t much of a drinker, but it might be nice to go along anyway. She could always get a Sprite. “Sure. I’d like that. But—oh, wait. What time is it?”

  Bart glanced at his watch. “Two thirty.”

  “Rats. I need to go pick up my sister from school. How about tomorrow when we’re done at the hotel? I won’t have anywhere to run off to then.”

  “Okay,” he said, giving her a smile as the elevator doors opened. “But if you come down with appendicitis or something, I’ll know that you’re not interested. That can be our little code to avoid hurt feelings.”

  “I’m not trying to put you off,” she said. “I honestly do need to pick up my sister.”

  “All right. I believe you. I do like the idea of codes, though. Like, ‘lead poisoning’ could mean that we’re getting back together with an ex.”

  Elena laughed. “And how about ‘leprosy’?”
/>   “I hope we never have to use that one. The consequences are way too dire.”

  Elena chuckled all the way out to her car. Bart was a little younger than she was, and he looked a bit like a scared rabbit, but she loved his sense of humor. She’d enjoy going out for a drink with him, no matter what she ordered.

  First, though, time to decide what she was serving for lunch and to go shopping for the ingredients. It was time to impress.

  ***

  Tony stepped into Florence’s entryway and stopped dead, sniffing the air. “What’s going on in here?”

  “The last three chefs just left,” Florence said, shutting the door behind him. “I invited two to make lunch for Andrew tomorrow.” She looked at him quizzically. “There are some leftovers in the kitchen . . .”

  He didn’t wait for her to finish. He could smell chicken enchiladas, and he had to investigate. Handing her the folder he’d brought over, he grabbed a clean fork and cut a piece of enchilada from the plate on the end of the counter. “Sweet heavenly day,” he said after he swallowed. “Who made these?”

  “Her name is Elena Moreno.”

  “She’s Latina?”

  “Yes, she is.”

  Tony cut and ate another bite. The spices hit his tongue with just enough heat, and the crema soothed it all down at the end. “If she’s not seventy-two with a hunchback, I’m marrying her.”

  Florence laughed. “She’s very pretty, actually, and I think she’s around twenty-eight.”

  “Better and better.” Tony pulled out a barstool and sat down to keep eating. The portion on the plate had been fairly large and only the corner had been disturbed—he was going to enjoy every second of this. Unless he was being rude. “Is it all right if I finish this?”

  Florence laughed. “I’m pretty sure that’s already been established. And I wouldn’t want to fight you for it—no doubt you’d win.”

  “I don’t know. You’re kind of feisty.”

  “Yes, but you’ve got the love going on there.” She nodded toward the plate. “I take it she gets your thumbs-up.”