Lucky Catch by Deborah Coonts

I couldn’t even remember the season and if I should dress warmly or not. Looking outside never helped—it was always sunny.
    Just another day in the asylum.
    Miss P. seemed a bit stricken, maybe even contrite—an unusual state, so I thought it wise to milk it for all it was worth. I tried to look stern, but really, when I thought about it, all I could see was the humor . . . well, about the pig anyway, but I refused to let Miss P. see that. “You put the pig in the Kasbah.” I used my best irritated-hotel-executive tone, and I focused on a spot on the ceiling, afraid that I would grin if I looked her in the eye.
    The Kasbah was our high-roller compound—hidden, exclusive, decadent, it was a real feat to score a room there. I could just imagine what Cher would say if she got wind that we had given one of our most opulent bungalows to a pig. Last time she stayed with us, she had to settle for our largest suite on the twenty-ninth floor—the second most coveted location in the hotel.
    I bit down on my lip, fighting another smile. To be honest, pigs weren’t that worrisome. And they just declared miniature horses to be seeing-eye animals, requiring the hotel to accommodate them, so I’d better get used to handling a barnyard. Frankly, I was relieved it wasn’t that horrible man with all the cockroaches . . . who had returned with an anaconda. The memory chased a shudder of revulsion down my spine.
    “That means someone is walking on your grave.”
    “What?”
    Miss P. nodded mater-of-factly as I struggled to keep my tenuous grasp on reality. “A shudder means someone is walking on your grave.”
    “I’m not dead, so I don’t have a grave.” I held up my hand, stopping her from interjecting. “Never mind. You’re changing the subject. Back to the pigs . . . both of them.” If she was going to drop a couple of pigs in my lap, I was bound and determined to make her pay for it, just a little. “You do know pigs will eat anything? Including prized truffles?”
    Miss P. waved a hand at me. “The truffle is under lock and key, so don’t worry about that.”
    “Whenever anyone says ‘don’t worry about that,’ I get a really bad feeling. Sort of like when someone says ‘I need to hook you up with my brother’s college roommate.’” She started to take the bait, but I shut her down with a glare, although it failed to wipe the smug smirk from her face. “You know, you are not making my day easier. I need to find better staff.”
    “Good luck with that.” Miss P. didn’t seem bothered, which was understandable—she was as close to indispensable as anyone could be.
    “Do you think I could fire family as well?”
    “Yours?” She scoffed. “Not a chance. Even if you shot them, they’d come back to haunt you.”
    Now that was a scary thought. For a moment, I ran through the list of people I could pass off the pig to. It didn’t take me long—the list was pretty short, just two names: mine and Jerry’s, and Jerry was busy penning up poultry at the moment. He was also handling Mona, so I didn’t feel right about dropping another farm animal in his lap. Although we were both well versed in farm animals . . . one of the perks of the job. “Just so you know, pigs will also eat thousand-dollar-per-yard damask for starters.”
    Ah, that shot down Miss P.’s smirk.
    “Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong with the pig and exactly why it’s in Bungalow 7?”
    “Chef Gregor threatened to pull the truffle if we didn’t cater to the pig. You know how he is, ranting and raving, threatening to go to the press. I thought it was easier to placate him than fight back.”
    “So, you left that for me,” I added unnecessarily; after all, handling turkeys was within my job description. Some days, whining just felt good, and this was one of those days. I’d get over myself soon. “Apparently, Chef Gregor wants his fifteen minutes, let’s give them to him.”
    “For the record, I’d like to shoot that man.”