Feldspar stroked his trimmed goatee. “And I must add, in all due appropriateness, that our resorts are extravagantly successful.” He took another sip of his ale, held it in his mouth as if deliberating a fine wine. “To the extent that we have considerable capital at our disposal. We’re prepared to spend it, without restraint, in order to facilitate the best exclusive resort hotel in the area.”
Was Feldspar really a businessman, or a dreamer? Such endeavors, these days, cost multiple millions. This sounded like big talk to Vera, but then she reconsidered. Feldspar’s jewelry glittered at her; he was probably wearing enough rocks to pay her rent for a year. And she remembered the Lamborghini.
“Most of the renovations are complete,” he continued. “The restaurant is all that’s left to be finished, just minor details, which we’ll leave to you.”
“What exactly are you renovating?”
“An old manor just north of here.” He quickly produced a slip of paper, squinting at it. “Waynesville— that’s the name of the town.’’
Just north of here! Waynesville was north, all right—about a hundred miles north, right on the state line. Then…Old manor… Waynesville…She had read something now that she thought of it. “Not Wroxton Hall,” she said.
“Yes,” he beamed. “You have heard of it.”
God! “Mr. Feldspar, Wroxton Hall is a dump, I’ve seen it—” And that she had, last year on a drive up to Eerie to visit some relatives. “Dump” was a compliment; the great Gothic mansion had been gutted, vacant for decades. And the location…“Why on earth did you choose Waynesville? It’s so…” She faltered; she mustn’t insult him. It’s the sticks. It’s the boondocks. Vera couldn’t think of a worse location for this sort of resort. This was mountain country, the northern ridge, and no major cities in a fifty mile radius at least. Just destitute little farm towns and some logging burgs. Fine dining would never make it up there. The whole idea was crazy.
“I know what you’re thinking.” Feldspar, again, produced that bewildering smilelike facial gesture. “And I understand your perplexity. As I’ve stated, our resorts are very private; a remote locale is an essential prerequisite for our patronage. You needn’t worry about an insufficient following.’’
But how could she not? And that wasn’t all Vera was worrying about. The locale was bad enough, but there was one thing even worse than that—
“You’re aware that Wroxton Hall has quite a past, aren’t you, Mr. Feldspar?” She twirled the pretty liquor around in her snifter. “In the twenties and thirties Wroxton Hall was a rather notorious—”
“Sanitarium,” he finished for her. His next chuckle was the most genuine yet. “Yes, Ms. Abbot, I’m quite aware of that, and the things that supposedly went on. But that was over fifty years ago.”
Vera wondered if that mattered. You could paint over a stain all day and the stain would still be there. “And you’re also aware ”
Feldspar maintained his chuckle. “Yes, Ms. Abbot, I’m well aware of the stories. But, really. We’re an enterprise, we’re business people. We don’t believe in ghosts.”
Neither did Vera, but that was hardly the point. “I just don’t think that anyone’s going to cater to a resort with a history like that.” Like…what, though? Vera didn’t know all the details, but she got a fair gist from the little she read of Wroxton Hall’s history. The hall had been leased by the health department as a convalescent domicile for the state’s most hopeless mental patients, and evidently some things went on that probably wouldn’t qualify as ethical health-care protocol. Questions arose as to exactly why the bodies of deceased patients wound up in military research labs, and still more questions arose as to exactly how these patients came to be deceased. There were also reports of the ward staff taking some considerable liberties with female patients. There was something about sadism, torture, pregnancies.
And, of course, something about ghosts…
It didn’t matter that this drivel had been fabricated by lore mongers and demented imaginations. Bad reputations had a way of lingering. Vera could see the ads now: Escape to Waynesville’s Romantic New Resort, Wroxton Hall, a Dreamy Little Getaway Complete with Torture Chambers and Luxury Suites in Which the Mentally Ill Were Raped and Murdered. Just the Place For You and that Special Someone to Get Away From it All and Mingle with a Delightful Coterie of Ghosts.
Christ, Vera thought.
“What is your current salary?”
She struggled not to smirk. But as ludicrous as it seemed to her now, this was still business. Why not at least see what Feldspar had to offer?
“Twenty-eight,” she said.
He stared back. “Well, I assure you, Ms. Abbot, we routinely pay our R.M.s many times more than that. More in the vicinity of a hundred thousand or so.”
Now it was Vera’s turn to stare. This was preposterous; no one paid R.M.s that much. ”A hundred thousand a year? Are you serious?”
“Quite.” He seemed to shrug. “In addition, there are many other benefits which, I should think, are rather standard.”
“Such as?”
“Well, two weeks paid vacation, travel expenses included. Free health insurance, free life insurance. Free room and board—”
“You’re kidding?” she questioned, astonished.
Again, Feldspar appeared as though nothing were amiss. “The inn has one hundred and sixty rooms. Some of them we’re reserving for staff. As upper management, of course, you would be entitled to a suite of your choice. They’re quite nice, I assure you. And there’s always the company car, for which we assume all expenses—”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Vera interrupted. She could fathom none of this. She held her hands up, thinking, trying to assess this unassessible circumstance.
“If the money’s insufficient,” he added, “I’m sure we can come to a mutual agreement. Say, a hundred and…fifteen thousand?”
Vera flagged the tablehop for another drink. This must be a sham, she concluded. It MUST be.
“And, naturally, we will assume your moving expenses, plus a cash compensation.” From the black jacket, Feldspar next produced a check, which he slid across the table.
Vera picked it up. Stared at it. Gulped. pay to the order of Vera Abbot the amount of Ten Thousand Dollars—$10,000.00.
This was not a personal check; it was a precleared certified bank check. Unbouncable. Start-up compensation and moving remittance, it read on the for line. It was dated today.
“You’re offering me all this?” Her breath felt short. “You don’t even know me.”
“Personally, no,” he said. He poured more Chimay very steadily, careful to run the murky ale down the side of the glass to forestall a rise of head. “But as a manager myself, I know what I need to know about you with regard to my company’s business interests. I’ve dined in every restaurant in the city. Yours is by far the finest. I’ve made extensive inquiries as to the most efficient restaurant manager in town. Your name came up more than any other. That is all the knowledge of you I need. You, Ms. Abbot, are the person we want to run our restaurant.”
But Vera was still gaping at the check.
“And there’s another consideration, isn’t there?” Feldspar removed a black-and-gold cigarette case, then lit a Sobraine with a diamond-studded Cartier lighter. “I’ve been all over. I’ve been doing this for years. And I know that everyone has their dreams. What are your dreams, Ms. Abbot? I have yet to meet a restaurant manager whose ultimate long-term aspiration was not to one day own a restaurant of his or her own. With the money that we’re paying you, if you’re sensible financially, you would have sufficient funds to purchase your own establishment, most anywhere you like, in four or five years. Many of our R.M.s have gone on to do just that. Am I correct in my surmise?”