If I wanted Mike to find me another job, then I had to be nice. But I also wanted an answer.
“What do you mean, Maria is a gold digger?” I asked him again.
“Come on, Connie. I’m not stupid.”
“Mike, I swear I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Maria,” he said. “I’m talking about Maria. When I hired her, she told me the neighborhoods where she was prepared to work. Prepared to work, mind you, like she was calling the shots. Don’t give me lazy bourgeois housewives, she said. What does that even mean, bourgeois?”
I kept my mouth shut. I knew Mike well enough to know when he wanted an answer and when he didn’t.
“She wanted rich neighborhoods and what she called mansions,” he continued. “She wanted bachelors and widowers. Especially widowers.”
I don’t know what surprised me more— that she had said those things to Mike or that I hadn’t known.
“And that’s what you gave her, just because she asked?”
“I gave her Withers,” he said, as if that explained everything. “You know how many maids I’ve sent Withers over the years? Dozens. Think about it, Connie. The man wanted two maids five days a week. That doesn’t scream obsessive clean-freak to you? When Maria quit, I figured that he had finally broken her the way he’d broken all the others—except you.”
I thought about the way Mr. Withers smiled whenever he encountered us on his rounds. I recalled the respectful tone he used when he handed over his list of assignments to Maria—always Maria—every day. He seemed almost apologetic, unlike many Missy Maids clients who seemed to enjoy bossing people around.
“Are we talking about the same person, Mike?” I asked. “Richard Withers?”
“The old coot? Yeah. I was surprised she lasted as long as she did. Then she quit and I thought good riddance. That dame was high-maintenance. Now I find out she didn’t quit at all. She was still working for him, only off the books. That’s a no-no, Connie. Check your contract. I wouldn’t be surprised if that little tramp was banging the old man.”
I thought about Maria’s wet hair and the way she had said she was “always” careful.
“Did you tell the police that, Mike?” I asked.
“Damn right I did.”
Mike promised to find me more work. He also said, “But if I find out that you knew about Maria and you didn’t tell me, you’re through. You got that?”
I said I did. And I vowed to use every minute that I wasn’t working to look for a new job—one where I didn’t have to take orders or give them. One where I could help people. Maybe something in immigration settlement or helping low-paid workers.
Definitely one where I wouldn’t have to put up with Mike Czernecki.
* * *
The next morning, I still hadn’t heard from Maria—or Mike. It was so noisy outside my apartment door that I couldn’t think. The building management was making improvements. Putting new floors in the kitchens and bathrooms as well as new countertops. Everyone was afraid they were going to raise the rent after they finished. If they did, I would have to move.
It was one more reason for me to start looking for a new job.
I grabbed my decade-old Prada—a gift from my parents in the good old days— and glanced in the mirror. I hadn’t had a decent haircut in months, and it showed. But there was nothing I could do about that now. As I locked my apartment door, I saw workmen going in and out of the two apartments at the far end of the hall. They would get to my apartment soon.
I walked to the public library a few blocks away and booked time on a computer. I was searching job openings online when my cell phone vibrated. The display read private number. Someone didn’t want me to know who was calling.
I glanced at the computer. If I left now, I might not get it back again for hours. With a sigh, I shoved my pen and notebook into my purse and stood up.
“Hello?” I said, heading for the exit.
“Connie, you have to help me,” a breathless voice said in Spanish.
Maria.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Where are you?” I asked. “At a police station. They arrested me. They said I could call a lawyer, so I called you, Connie.”
“Yes, but—”
“They think I killed Mr. Richard. You have to tell them I would never do such a thing.”
“But, Maria—”
She interrupted me to tell me which police station she was in. She begged me to hurry. Then the phone went dead.
I stood where I was for a few moments, thinking about the Maria I knew and the Maria that Mike had told me about. Mike said she had her sights set on a rich man. A lot of women did, even if they never admitted it. Mike said she had quit the agency, and she hadn’t told me. But not telling someone something wasn’t the same as lying. And no matter how I looked at it, I couldn’t see that Maria had anything to gain by killing Mr. Withers. And I couldn’t imagine her beating him—or anyone else—to death.
I called one of my former co-workers, a legal assistant who worked for a criminal lawyer.
“He’s in court, Connie,” she said. “I can’t reach him. But I’ll let him know as soon as I can, okay?”
“Thanks, Emma.” I gave her Maria’s full name, the name of the detective on her case, and the station where she was being held. “I really appreciate this.”
“No problem, kiddo,” she said. That always made me smile. She was twenty-six. I was five years older than her. “Hey, where are you working these days?”
“I’m between jobs at the moment,” I said. Technically, it was the truth. “Oh, and Emma, my friend is Spanish-speaking, so if your boss needs a translator—”
“He will,” she said. “I don’t suppose you could do it?” When I hesitated, she said, “He’ll pay you for your time.”
And bill Maria, I thought. “It’s probably a legal-aid case, Emma.”
I heard her sigh. “He’s still going to need a translator,” she said.
“I’ll give you my number. He can call me if he needs me.”
* * *
I was at home, staring at the TV and not caring that Rosie O’Donnell was drowned out by the hammering and the loud voices of the workmen down the hall, when Emma’s boss called. His name was Gregory Mason. I told him what I knew.
“Emma said you can translate,” he said. “Can I pick you up?”
I told him it would be faster if I met him at the police station. I was nearly there before I realized that I had left Maria’s keys in my uniform pocket. If they released her, I would have to go all the way back home to get them.
I had no trouble spotting Gregory Mason. I’d seen him in the building where I used to work. He got out of a silver Lexus and strode up to the police station in the mainly immigrant neighborhood south of Richard Withers’s house. To my surprise, he recognized me.
“You’re just as Emma described,” he said. “Thanks for coming. Does Ms. Gonzales speak any English?”
“Yes,” I said. “But she’s much more fluent in Spanish.”
“Okay. Then we’ll do it in Spanish. I want the whole story. I don’t want her to have to struggle to get it out. Come on.”
I hesitated.
“Did Emma tell you it will probably be a legal-aid case?” I asked. “Maria has been working as a house cleaner.”
His smile was polished. “Let’s not worry about that until we see what we’re up against, okay?”
He led the way through the door and marched straight to the desk sergeant where he identified himself as Maria’s lawyer and me as his translator.
A uniformed police officer was summoned to take us to an interview room. He knocked on the door, and Detective Bodie stepped out. Mr. Mason went through his introductions again. The whole time, Bodie looked disapprovingly at me.
“Ms. Suarez was at the scene,” he told Mr. Mason.
“I understand she was the one who called nine-one-one,” Mr. Mason said. “Is there a problem? Is she a suspect?”
“Not at this time, no.”
“Is she being looked at as a possible suspect?” Mr. Mason asked.
“No,” Bodie admitted.
“Well then, my translator and I would like to see Ms. Gonzales.”
Bodie opened the door for us. Maria stood up when she saw me. She hugged me.
She waited until the detective had left before she said in Spanish, “I’m scared. They think I killed Mr. Richard.”
I let her hug me again. Then I stepped back so that I could look at her and reassure myself that I was right to believe her.
Mr. Mason closed the door, introduced himself to Maria and explained why I was there. He asked his questions in English, speaking directly to Maria. Maria answered in Spanish. I translated.
“Tell me everything you can remember about that morning, Ms. Gonzales,” Mr. Mason said. “Where you were, what you did, who you spoke to. Anything you can remember.”
Maria looked down at the table while she spoke.
“I got up and went to the shower,” she said hesitantly.
“No, I mean tell me everything from the time you arrived at Mr. Withers’s house that morning,” Mr. Mason said.
Maria’s cheeks turned pink.
“I—I did not arrive in the morning.” She refused to look at me but peeked at Mr. Mason. “I was there since the night before.”
Mr. Mason raised an eyebrow when I translated her answer. So Mike was right, I thought. Maria had been having an affair with Mr. Withers.
“I see,” Mr. Mason said. “Am I to gather that you and Mr. Withers were…involved?”
Maria’s cheeks turned from pink to crimson.
“He was a good man,” she said. “When he found out how much the agency was paying me, he said I should quit. He said he would pay me directly. He said he would pay me what I deserved.” She turned to me and lowered her voice. “Mike paid me less than he paid you, because of my status.”
I didn’t translate the last part. Mr. Mason didn’t seem to notice.
“Ms. Gonzales,” he said, his eyes on Maria again, “about Mr. Withers…”
“We were going to get married,” she said.
Married? I was stunned. When had that happened?
All that Mr. Mason said was, “I see.” If he was surprised, he gave no sign of it. “Now, about the morning in question…”
Maria said that she had woken up at six o’clock, when Mr. Withers got out of bed. He was an early riser. But he urged her to go back to sleep. He also told her that she should stop worrying about cleaning the house.
“He said you could do it, Connie,” she said. “He said he would pay you extra, maybe hire you himself full time to work for him, never mind Mike. I told him you weren’t a maid, Connie. Not really. He said he would help you. He said he could tell you are very smart. He knows many people.”
Mr. Mason made notes with a fountain pen.
“I went back to sleep,” Maria continued. “I didn’t wake up until nearly two hours later when he came back into the bedroom. He was upset. I asked him what the matter was, but he said it was nothing for me to worry about.”
Mr. Withers told her he had a few things to attend to. He went downstairs, and she got up to have a shower.
“You’ve seen the bathroom,” Maria said to me. “We’ve scrubbed it often enough. The shower is wonderful. It’s like standing under a waterfall, except the water is so hot. No one tells you to hurry up. No one pounds on the door. No one tells you not to waste the water or how high the electric bill will be. I could shower all day if I wanted and Mr. Richard would never say anything.”
“How long were you in the shower?” Mr. Mason asked.
“Fifteen minutes. Twenty. I’m not sure. When I opened the bathroom door, I saw Mr. Richard lying on the bedroom floor.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “He wasn’t moving.”
“What did you do then?” Mr. Mason asked.
Maria was silent.
“Maria,” I said. “You have to answer.”
She looked at me. Tears ran down her face.
“I’m so ashamed,” she said.
“What did you do after you saw Mr. Withers lying on the bathroom floor?” Mr. Mason asked again, gently but firmly.
Maria hung her head. Her voice was no more than a whisper.
“I locked myself in the bathroom,” she said. “I was afraid there was a thief in the house. I thought Mr. Richard must have surprised him.” She wiped the tears from her cheeks with the backs of her hands. “I thought if he saw me, he would kill me too.”
“How long were you in the bathroom that time?” Mr. Mason asked.
“I don’t know. Ten minutes. Maybe more. I stayed there until I was sure I couldn’t hear anything. When I came out, I called Connie.”
“Why Connie?” Mr. Mason asked. “Why not the police? Why not nine-one-one?”
Maria raised her head. She looked pleadingly at me.
I sighed.
“It’s better if you tell him, Maria,” I said. “They’re going to find out anyway.”
“But if they do—” Maria shook her head. “No.”
“You can explain.”
“Is there a problem?” Mr. Mason asked.
“Tell him, Maria.”
Finally she admitted the truth: She was in the country illegally and was afraid to call the police.
“I see,” Mr. Mason said. “Then what happened?”
Maria stole a glance at me.
“I called Connie,” she said. I held my breath. “Then I left. When Connie came, she called the police.”
The last part was a lie, told to protect me. I felt terrible deceiving Mr. Mason. I promised myself I would explain later.
Mr. Mason leaned back in his chair. “Is there anything else you want to tell me about that morning, Maria?”
She shook her head.
“Did you touch anything?”
She shook her head again.
“The police found your fingerprints on the murder weapon,” he said. “In the blood.”
What? How was that possible?
“I picked up the statue,” she said. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“You said you thought there was a burglar in the house,” Mr. Mason said. “Did you hear someone or something that made you think that?”
“No. But how else could Mr. Richard have been killed? Who else would do such a thing?”
“Did you notice if anything was taken?”
“I didn’t look,” she admitted. “But in the bedroom, everything looked normal. Then, after I called Connie, I left.”
Mr. Mason closed the leather portfolio in which he had been making notes. He tucked his pen into his jacket pocket.
“I’ll find out when they plan to arraign you,” he said.
I explained to her what that meant.
“Can he get me out of here?” Maria asked me. “Can I get bail?”
When I translated, Mr. Mason shook his head.
“They’ve charged you with murder, Maria. It’s very hard to get bail on a murder charge. And once they know about your status…”
Maria began to cry. I didn’t blame her. A murder conviction would mean prison, but deportation would mean certain death.
“I didn’t kill Mr. Richard. I would never kill Mr. Richard,” Maria said through her tears.
Mr. Mason told her to sit tight. I hugged her. Then we had to leave her alone in the cold, bare room.
CHAPTER FIVE
Bodie’s eyes zeroed in on me the moment I stepped out of the interview room. I ignored him as best I could.
“There’s something I have to tell you,” I said to Mr. Mason. “In private.” I wanted to explain about when I had arrived and when Maria had left the house.
A cell phone trilled. He reached into his pocket and checked the display. “Sorry,” he said. “I have to take this. We’ll talk later. I promise.” He walked away with his phone to his ear.
I turned to leave too. Bodie was blocking my way.
“Ms. Suarez, do you have a moment?” he asked. “I have a few more questions for you.”
“I’m in a hurry,” I said. I didn’t want to speak to him again.
“You’re not a suspect, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he said. “Please?” He offered me a smile that made him look almost handsome. “It will just take a few minutes. We can sit in here.”
He opened the door to a small room. I looked inside. It was just like the room Maria was in. An interview room. I felt myself bristle. Bodie noticed.
“Is there some reason you don’t want to talk to me?” he asked.
“Are you trying to intimidate me, Detective?” I asked.
“Of course not. I’m just trying to get all my facts straight. Look, I understand she’s your friend.”
“We work together. That’s all.”
“You’re the person she called.”
What was he getting at? He had told Mr. Mason I wasn’t a suspect. Had he been lying?
I looked at my watch. “I don’t have much time. And I don't like the room.”
I was surprised when he led me to another room—the coffee room this time. We sat down.
“I understand from your employer that you were a legal assistant until recently,” he said. “I understand you were downsized.”
“That’s right.”
“That’s quite a comedown,” he said. “One day you’re in some rich lawyer’s office, the next day you’re scrubbing toilets in some rich old man’s house. Is that where you met Ms. Gonzales?”
I nodded.
“Did she ever speak to you about Mr. Withers?” he asked.
“We worked for him. Of course we talked about him.”
“Did she ever mention him in a romantic context?”
“No.”
“Did she ever say or do anything that made you think she might be romantically interested in him?”
“No.” I knew that Maria liked the old man. She often said how sweet he was and what a gentleman he was. But romantically involved? No. I had been completely surprised by her announcement that the old man had proposed marriage.
“What about Mr. Withers?” Bodie asked.
“He was pleasant to both of us,” I said. “I never noticed anything special between him and Ms. Gonzales.”
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