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front door and went off to feed her. There would be no relaxing until Big Red had her dinner.
    She changed her clothing and quickly heated up yesterday’s leftovers. Emilie gobbled her meal and booted up her laptop. For the next two hours she worked on spreadsheets, inputting numbers and deliberately ignoring the ringing phone.
    Room occupancy was nowhere close to the winter months but it was slowly improving. By the time next month’s report was due she’d be darn close to meeting that sixty-five percent goal. Maybe she should jump on Joya’s suggestion and market to the travel-industry crowd.
    Emilie sent off her report then continued typing as a myriad of ideas popped into her head. By the time she was through she had four pages of notes and had earned herself a glass of wine. Taking the wine and the Flamingo Beach Chronicle with her, she went out to the balcony.
    A cool breeze blew off the water and the twinkling lights signified there were boats on the bay. It was a peaceful time of evening and one of the few times she relaxed. For the next hour Emilie read the paper from cover to cover. All of the news centered on the casino and Keith Lightfoot’s plans for a mega entertainment center. Already the Flamingo Beach Spa and Resort was being upstaged by a property that hadn’t yet been built. She had to be proactive.
    The residents were doing something. Some had written letters to the editor about the type of clientele that gambling would attract. Others felt that the money and jobs that would be created were well worth the additional traffic. One concerned citizen addressed the rumor that Mayor Rabinowitz was getting kickbacks to make the casino happen. The editor didn’t seem to want to touch that and the citizen was quickly squashed.
    Emilie figured she had six months before she would seriously worry. In that time a lot could happen. The Flamingo Beach Spa and Resort was already up and running, and that in and of itself gave her an advantage. It was up to her to make it the “it” place to be.
    She made a mental note to meet with Owen Schwartz, the hotel’s general manager, in the next few days. No point in selling rooms if their service wasn’t top notch. They needed to make a concerted effort to get the hotel there, and that might mean training employees or replacing a few. She needed his buy in for that.
    Continuing to flip through pages, Emilie found the “Dear Jenna” column and settled in. She was prepared to read all about the latest romances that had been derailed. Flamingo Beach was heartbreak hotel.
    The telephone rang inside as it had been doing off and on since she got home. It was close to her bedtime and she was tempted to ignore it, but what if it was the hotel?
    â€œYes,” she said, somewhat impatiently.
    â€œMiss Woodward, you need to get over here. Now.”
    â€œWho is this?”
    â€œMelody at the front desk. Mr. Schwartz asked me to call you again. We’ve been trying both of your phones for half an hour.”
    â€œWhat’s the problem?”
    A moment of hesitation as the woman debated. “Ma’am, the police are here and Mr. Schwartz wants all management to get over here on the double.”
    â€œI’m on my way.”
    In a New Jersey minute she was back in the clothing she’d hastily discarded. Driving like a person possessed, she made it to the hotel in record time. A huge crowd was gathered out front and all four of the town’s police cars had their sirens going. The WARP van was parked down the street, which meant reporters were there. Cameramen from the local television station had zoomed into action.
    Realizing it would be an impossible feat to walk into the lobby, Emilie opted for the employee entrance instead. Inside, she was greeted by total chaos. Guests from the singles party milled around and people lay facedown on the floor being handcuffed.
    The general manager, Owen Schwartz, was barking