Barefoot Season Part 25

"There are also people who think wrestling is a real sport and not entertainment."

Carly held up both her hands, palms facing Mich.e.l.le. "I don't care what you say-I'm having a great weekend. We're full, our guests are lovely and they're spending lots of money at both the restaurant and the gift shop. I'm in my Zen place and I'm staying there."

"Aren't you cheerful."

"I try."

"I'm sure the guests appreciate it. What are our reservations like for the next couple of weeks? I was thinking that Sam might prefer staying here."

Carly circled around the desk and went to the computer. "We're full on the weekend. Otherwise, we have at least one room open during the week."

Mich.e.l.le drew in a breath. "Okay. I don't think I want to kick out a guest with a reservation."

Carly busied herself with the jar of pens on the counter. "So, um, Sam seems nice."

"He is. I met him four, maybe five years ago. There was a fight in a bar and he was breaking it up. Someone pulled me in and Sam got between me and the punch."

"Romantic," Carly said, studying her and hoping for clues as to their relationship now.

"Not exactly, but it showed he was a great guy. I trust him with my back."

"What about the rest of you?" Carly asked before she could stop herself.

"Not so much. We had a thing once. But we're better off friends. And as interesting as he is, I have something else to talk about."

"Sure. What?"

Mich.e.l.le slapped several sheets of paper down next to the keyboard. "There's a problem with the restaurant."

"What do you mean? It's doing great. It's full every morning."

"Yeah, I know. That's the problem. We have thirty-two tables. So at the very least, there should be thirty-two receipts for breakfast. But some tables get used more than once. Guests come in early or late. So I'm thinking we should have about forty-five, maybe forty-eight receipts."

"That makes sense."

Mich.e.l.le pointed to a list of receipt tickets. "Yesterday there were exactly thirty-two. The same with the day before."

Carly's restaurant experience consisted of acting as a hostess from time to time and refilling coffee cups. Brenda had been the one who had handled the restaurant. The few times Carly had tried to figure out what was going on, Damaris had made it clear she was overstepping her bounds.

"I've gone over a month's worth of receipts," Mich.e.l.le said. "We never have more tickets than we have tables. I can't believe there's never any turnover."

"Who hands out the tickets to the servers? Or do they just grab them?"

"Isabella takes care of it."

"You should talk to her."

"I can't. She's Damaris's daughter-in-law. Damaris would never let anything bad happen at the restaurant. She cares about me and she cares about the inn."

Carly couldn't argue that Damaris cared about Mich.e.l.le. That was obvious, but it looked as if someone was stealing.

"Maybe Damaris doesn't know. Maybe it's not Isabella. Even though she's supposed to hand out the tickets, maybe she doesn't. They could be in a stack somewhere. That would make it easy for one or more of the servers to be involved. Any server could be keeping the tickets when customers pay cash."

Mich.e.l.le nodded. "I hadn't thought of that. I should-" She stared behind Carly. "I'll be right back."

Carly turned and saw Isabella walking across the front pathway. Mich.e.l.le headed toward her. Carly glanced around and saw the lobby and front room were empty, so she followed Mich.e.l.le outside.

Isabella had moved toward Mich.e.l.le. Her dark hair gleamed in the sunlight and she was smiling.

"We're having a barbecue tonight and I'm marinating ribs. I need to run home and turn them." She laughed. "Ten minutes. I only need ten minutes."

"You're allowed to take a break," Mich.e.l.le told her. "Don't worry about it. But before you go, I have a question."

"Sure."

"It's about the restaurant tickets."

"The ones the servers use for their orders?"

"Yes. Those. How does that work? Do you hand them out?"

Carly was watching Isabella. She would swear the other woman stiffened at the question, although her smile stayed in place.

"Yes. They're kept in the supply room off the kitchen. I get them every morning."

"Are they logged in? Do you know which server has which numbers?"

The smile faded. "No. I just leave them in a stack by my station. The servers take them as they need them. Why?"

"Just asking. The number of tables served every day. How much turnover is there?"

"Not much. Sometimes we're busy and we use a table more than once. More at breakfast than at lunch."

Isabella looked annoyed and Mich.e.l.le seemed to be searching for the next question. Carly took a step forward.

"Do you keep track of the beginning and ending numbers on the tickets? Is there a log?"

Isabella frowned at her, then turned to Mich.e.l.le, making it clear who she was willing to talk to. "There's no log. It's never been a problem. Why are you asking all this?"

"You ring up all the orders?" Carly asked. "You're the only one who has access to the cash register?"

Isabella pressed her lips together. Color blossomed on her cheeks. "What are you saying?" She glared at Mich.e.l.le. "Is Carly my new boss? Can she talk to me like this? I thought I worked for you, not her."

Now it was Carly's turn to get offended. "There have been some irregularities with the receipts in the restaurant."

Isabella's eyes widened. "Are you accusing me of stealing? I would never do that. I close out the cash register the way I always have." Her mouth began to tremble. "I can't believe this. What has she been saying about me? I do a good job. Ask Damaris. We've been here, working for you, Mich.e.l.le. Taking care of things."

Carly wanted to point out she'd been doing the same, but knew it was an irrelevant point. The issue at hand was the missing receipts.

"I know you have," Mich.e.l.le said. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything."

"What?" Carly glared at her. "You're sorry? Someone might be stealing and you're apologizing?"

"It's not Isabella."

"How do you know?"

"Because I know Damaris." She patted the other woman's arm. "You need to go check your ribs."

Isabella nodded and hurried off.

Carly waited until she was out of earshot. "Are you crazy? She says it's not her, and you believe her? Just like that? What if she's lying?"

"She's not."

"Oh, I see. All your military training has made you an expert on liars? She admitted she's the only one with access to the cash register."

"It's not exactly a bank vault," Mich.e.l.le snapped. "There's a key that you have to turn. That's it. Anyone could get into it."

"Maybe once in a while. But you're saying there's a pattern of missing receipts. If someone is doing that, wouldn't Isabella notice?"

"Not if the servers are destroying the receipts of the people who pay cash. If someone leaves money without needing change, there wouldn't be a trail. Once the order is filled in the kitchen, the copy of the ticket goes out with the plate."

"Then there needs to be a change in the system. You need a way to cross-check the receipts. They get signed in and out. Then we'll have a consecutive numbering system and it will be easy to figure out if tickets have been used without being paid for."

Mich.e.l.le glanced out toward the water, then back at the inn. "It's not Isabella. Damaris would never let her hurt me."

"Which means putting some checks and balances in place shouldn't hurt her feelings."

She knew the right answer was for Mich.e.l.le to say this was business and hurting someone's feelings was immaterial. But the regular rules didn't apply to Damaris.

"Do you want me to take care of coming up with a system?" Carly asked.

"I'll do it," Mich.e.l.le said, turning toward the inn. "It'll be better if it comes from me."

"It's not like you to wimp out," Carly said, wanting to stomp her foot. "You're tougher than this."

Mich.e.l.le didn't bother to look back at her. "Everyone gets to have a bad day."

Twenty-Two.

At two-thirty on Monday afternoon, the last of the guests drove away. Carly stood on the porch and watched the final car disappear down the road, then gave in to exhaustion and collapsed onto one of the wicker chairs.

So far today she'd organized a tour of town, suggested stops for a couple driving back to eastern Washington, checked out the guests who were leaving, had cleaned not one, not two but three rooms and had confirmed the linen order. Mich.e.l.le had taken the afternoon shift in the gift shop, so it wasn't as if she was slacking off, either.

They'd been on the run since Friday morning, the inn overflowing with guests enjoying a rare sunny long weekend. One of the housekeepers had called in with car trouble the previous day, meaning in addition to her regular duties, Carly had cleaned ten rooms on Sunday. Her back ached, but her feet hurt more. All she wanted was a bath and about ten hours in her bed.

She would pick up Gabby at five and get to hear all about her daughter's day at camp. Hopefully the staff had tired her out and they could both be in bed by eight.

"I have to get moving," she murmured, hoping for inspiration. After all, sometime around four, more guests would be arriving. Instead, she leaned her head back against the cushions and sighed. No wonder the guests settled in out here for much of the evening. It was plenty comfortable.

She kicked off her shoes and propped her feet up on the ottoman. Her eyes drifted closed. She could hear the call of the cranes and distant laughter. Her muscles relaxed. She felt herself drifting, drifting.

Something soft and warm brushed across her mouth.

A kiss, she thought hazily. She inhaled the scent of mint and sunshine, knowing she didn't want to open her eyes. Dreams didn't get much better than this.

The kiss lingered, the pressure increased slightly. Just enough to make her realize she wasn't asleep and this wasn't a dream and what the h.e.l.l?

She opened her eyes to find Sam leaning over her.

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty," he said with a grin. "You shouldn't tempt a man like that."

She opened her mouth, then closed it when she realized she was too stunned to speak. She scrambled backward, but the chair prevented her from getting away.

Sam immediately straightened, holding up both his hands. "Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. You okay?"

She was tingling in places that hadn't seen action since before Gabby had been born. Did that qualify as okay?

"I'm fine," she managed.

He stood in front of her, as if wanting to make sure.

"Really," she said more firmly. "It was unexpected." She smiled. "But nice."

He shook his head. "I don't accept that. No guy wants to hear anything about him is 'nice.'"

Her smile deepened. "'Nice' is all I have."

"d.a.m.n." He took the chair next to her. "You're killing me. You know that, right?"

"Sorry."

"How was your weekend?" he asked.

"Busy. We were full. This is the start of our summer season. From now through Labor Day it's going to be crazy. But good crazy. We have to make enough to get through the leaner winter months."

Like squirrels storing nuts, she thought, not willing to say more about the financial situation at the inn. She didn't know how much Mich.e.l.le had shared with her friend and she didn't want to tell secrets.

"What did you do?" she asked.