The last person to leave the break room is the one Grace most wants to see leave: Alessandra Powell. Grace hovers above as Alessandra drops four quarters into the jukebox （these are quarters that Grace watched Alessandra lift from petty cash） and picks songs—all of them the devil-worshipping heavy metal of the 1980s. Wow, Grace hasn’t missed this music at all. She tries to spook Alessandra, positioning herself so that her figure in the white robe and Minnesota Twins cap might be reflected in the Plexiglas of the pinball machine that Alessandra has started playing. Grace does a little headbanging dance to amuse herself and get Alessandra’s attention. Does Alessandra see her? No; she remains wholly focused on keeping the silver ball in play. Grace blows cold air down the back of Alessandra’s neck, but she doesn’t seem to notice that either. This can mean only one thing—the girl has demons inside her. Grace can practically hear their taunts: You can’t scare us! Nothing scares us!
A second later, Grace realizes she’s not the only one suspicious of Alessandra. There’s someone else lurking just inside the door.
Lizbet isn’t worried about the private life of Zeke or Adam or Chad or Edie, and she certainly isn’t worried about Magda.
Alessandra is another story.
Right before the staff meeting, Mack Petersen from the Nantucket Beach Club called to congratulate Lizbet on opening day and ask how things were going. Mack did this in good faith despite the fact that they’re direct competitors—Lizbet knows Mack from her days at the Deck. She couldn’t keep herself from bragging, “I have Sweet Edie on my desk.”
“You know I’m envious. She’s my godchild.”
“And I ended up hiring that woman Alessandra? The one who had been working in Italy?”
Mack said, “I’m not sure who you mean.”
“Wasn’t she supposed to interview with you? Alessandra Powell? For your front desk?”
Mack said, “I didn’t have any front-desk positions open this year. The only position I hired someone for was night bell. I got lucky and nearly my entire staff from last year returned.”
“Oh,” Lizbet said. She was stymied for a second. Hadn’t Alessandra said she was interviewing with Mack at the Beach Club? She had. She told Lizbet that Mack had basically offered her a position on the desk! “Well, let’s hope I get that lucky next year.”
Alessandra had lied, and that didn’t feel great. Lizbet should have been more guarded during their interview, but Alessandra had charmed her—bringing Lizbet a sandwich when she knew she was interviewing right before lunch. How canny! How clever! （How manipulative!） And then she’d dodged the questions about her references. This manager retired, this one died, there is no one in all of Europe who can vouch for my performance. Lizbet had called all four of the hotels listed on the résumé, and only at one hotel—the Grand Hotel Tremezzo—had she found someone who could verify that yes, Alessandra Powell had worked there for two years, but no, nobody was around at that moment who had known Alessandra personally. Lizbet left messages at the other three hotels and is waiting for them to call back—though what is she going to do now? Fire Alessandra? The woman is exceedingly professional on the desk, and she’s stunning to look at. She’s beautiful enough to get away with murder.
Lizbet is about to start her shift on the night desk （they need a night auditor!） when she realizes she saw everyone on her staff leave the hotel except Alessandra.
Lizbet cracks open the door to the break room. Alessandra is standing at the pinball machine gyrating her hips like she’s making love to the thing, and the machine is dinging and flashing its lights like it’s enjoying it. The jukebox is playing “Same Old Situation” by M?tley Crüe, which Lizbet hasn’t heard since she listened to 92 KQRS back in the Twin Cities growing up.
When the game is over—Alessandra must be pretty good, because it lasts longer than half the men Lizbet has been with—and the song changes to “Highway to Hell” by AC/DC （nearly every song on the jukebox is from the previous century）， Alessandra steps up to the soft-serve ice cream machine and swirls herself a gigantic bowl of chocolate. She digs in like she hasn’t eaten in days.
“Hey,” Lizbet says, stepping into the room.
Alessandra blinks. Her wavy apricot-colored hair falls over one shoulder.
“We haven’t really had a chance to chat,” Lizbet says.
“Chat?” Alessandra says. Her spoon hovers over the peak of ice cream.