Sunset Beach

by Mary Kay Andrews

  “They found that poor girl’s body shoved into a cart like that one,” she told Corey, her voice hushed. “It could even be the same cart.”

  “Thanks for that visual. This place gives me the creeps,” Corey said. “What are you looking for, anyway?”

  Drue walked around the room, looking down at the floor and up at the ceiling. She pointed at a spot above the doorway, where a metal bracket was bolted to the wall, and wires sprouted from the plasterboard. “Our firm’s investigator said there wasn’t a working video camera in this room when Jazmin was killed. But it looks like maybe there was one here at some point.”

  “Let’s just go, okay?” Corey said, his hand on the doorknob.

  She took out her phone and snapped a few quick shots of the room, zooming in on the area where a wall-mounted camera might have been, and then pulled the door open again.

  “God,” Corey breathed, when they were well away. “It must have been a hundred and ten degrees in there. How do the housekeepers stand working in there without air-conditioning?”

  Drue turned to look at him. “Good point. If I were in there doing laundry, where there’s no air-conditioning? I’d leave the door open, to at least get some fresh air. Maybe Jazmin left it open that night, and that’s how her attacker got in.”

  “If that’s so, the killer could have been anybody,” Corey said. “Even a guest.”

  As they were walking away they heard a rumble of wheels on the concrete walkway. A housekeeper in a white uniform smock was trundling a huge canvas laundry cart toward them, her body nearly dwarfed by the piles of rumpled linens.

  “Busted,” Corey whispered. “Almost.”

  But Drue wasn’t listening. She was walking toward the housekeeper, a friendly smile pasted on her face. When she got close enough to speak, she noticed the housekeeper’s name tag. LUTRISHA. Wasn’t that the name of one of the employees Zee had interviewed?

  “Excuse me,” Drue said. “Could I speak to you for a couple minutes?”

  The woman was young, in her mid-twenties, Drue guessed, with short reddish-purple hair and sallow skin ravished with angry red acne.

  “What about?” she said, instantly wary.

  “Weren’t you working here when Jazmin Mayes, one of the other housekeepers, was killed a couple years ago?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you know Jazmin?”

  “Not that well,” Lutrisha said. She paused. “I was the one who found her body.”

  “Ohhh. Right.” That was why her name had struck a chord, Drue thought. “But I thought you left and took a job someplace else. Publix?”

  “How do you know so much?” Lustrisha asked.

  “I work for the law firm that Jazmin’s mother hired after she was killed,” Drue said. “I think you talked to our investigator not long after it happened.”

  “I can’t talk to you,” Lutrisha said, glancing around. “I gotta get back to work.”

  “What time do you get off?”

  “Not for another hour.”

  “Could I meet you somewhere, so we could talk? I just live a few blocks away.”

  “I can’t get involved,” the girl said. “I’m sorry for her kid and all, but this has got nothing to do with me.” She started to push the cart away, but Drue stayed right beside her.

  “You know, they still haven’t caught Jazmin’s killer.”

  “Yeah, so I heard.”

  “Did you know that Jazmin’s mother is raising her daughter? Yvonne only got a settlement of one hundred thirty-five thousand dollars, because the hotel claimed Jazmin was working when she was killed. And all the money is tied up in a trust for Aliyah, so it can’t be touched ’til she’s eighteen.”

  The girl stopped in front of the laundry room doors, fumbling for her key card, which she wore on a cord around her wrist. “That’s all?” She looked shocked.

  “Aliyah has severe asthma,” Drue said, unabashedly laying it on thick. “Her medical bills are horrendous.”

  Lutrisha had the key card poised to swipe. She sighed. “Where do you want to meet? I can’t take long. I been working all day and I’m beat.”

  “How about that coffee shop on Gulf Boulevard? Right next to the Thunderbird?” Drue asked. “At eight-thirty?”

  The girl nodded. “I’ll be there.”

  22

  Lutrisha Smallwood’s name was a cruel joke. She was tall and bean-pole thin, with light blue eyes that narrowed as she blew a plume of vapor from her e-cigarette. She’d been leaning up against the outside of the coffee shop, vaping, when Drue pedaled up on the beach bike she’d bought on Craigslist.

  The girl smiled crookedly as Drue approached. “Did you get your license yanked for too many DUIs?”

  “No. My car’s out of commission.” Drue gestured toward the coffee shop. “Do you want to go in and talk?”

  “Waiting on you,” Lutrisha said, following her inside.

  * * *

  “You know,” Lutrisha said, staring down at her mug of coffee. “Right after that thing with Jazmin, the hotel manager called all of us in housekeeping into a meeting. He said Jazmin’s mom hired some hotshot lawyer who was gonna sue the hotel for, like, ten million dollars. And if she won the case, the hotel would have to close up and all of us would lose our jobs.”

  “That’s not true. It never got as far as a lawsuit. And besides, even if she’d filed suit and won, the hotel’s insurance company would pay the claim—not the hotel.”

  “So you say.” Lutrisha looked around the coffee shop, which was mostly empty. The only employee was busy wiping down the marble counter. “I can’t afford to lose this job. I tried working at Publix, but they wouldn’t give me full-time hours. I got a kid of my own. That’s why I came back to work at the hotel. Plus, most of the folks there, they’re not so bad.”

  “What about the ones who are bad?” Drue asked.

  “Most of ’em left.”

  “Like H. K. Byars and Mr. Shelnutt?”

  “Shelnutt still works there.”

  Drue stared at the girl, trying to figure out how much she knew and what she was willing to share. She had a poker face.

  “You told our investigator you didn’t know Jazmin all that well. Was that true?”

  Lutrisha nibbled at her cuticle. “I don’t need to get dragged back into this mess. I knew her from work, okay? We both had little kids, so it wasn’t like we were going to go out clubbing together every night.”

  “Got it,” Drue said. “Did Jazmin ever mention to you that somebody at the hotel was bothering her? Maybe sexually harassing her?”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “She told her mother that a white, older man, who was married, was coming on to her. The hotel says they never received any complaints of harassment from Jazmin.”

  “Huh. Her too?”

  “Was somebody bothering you?” Drue asked.

  “He tried.” Lutrisha smiled grimly. “Started brushing up against me in the hallways, trying to corner me in the service elevator, putting his hands where they don’t belong. The second time he did it, I sprayed him in the face with Windex. After that, the son of a bitch steered way clear of me.”

  “Just curious. Didn’t you tell our firm’s investigator, right afterwards, that you didn’t know anything about sexual harassment at the hotel?”

  “Yeah. But that’s ’cuz the dude made me nervous. And I didn’t want to get in trouble.”

  “Can you tell me who bothered you?”

  “Larry Boone. He used to be head of engineering at Gulf Vista.”

  “Used to be? Did he get demoted?”

  “He left. Maybe two, three weeks after Jazmin was killed.”

  “Do you know where he went?”

  She shook her head. “No idea. People were still in shock about Jazmin, so I don’t think anybody was too upset that Scary Larry was gone.”

  Lutrisha pulled her phone from her purse. “I gotta go pretty soon. My sister is watching my little boy and she gets
real pissy if I’m late.”

  “Just a few more minutes, please,” Drue said. “Do you want something to eat? I saw they had some cookies and stuff behind the counter.”

  “Ugh. Sugar. No thanks. What else do you need to know?”

  “Back at the hotel, my friend and I went into the laundry room. I noticed there were some brackets on the wall that look like maybe there used to be a camera up there. Was there a security camera there when Jazmin was killed?”

  “I don’t know,” Lutrisha said. “None of us like working in there. It’s hot as hell, and where it is, like at the back of the hotel, it’s creepy.”

  “Did housekeepers ever leave the door open when they were working, to get some air?”

  “Yeah. All the time.”

  “So anybody could get in there, if they knew where it was?”

  “Why would anybody want to?”

  “One more question. Jazmin’s mom said she’d been seeing somebody. A man. Did she ever say anything about that to you?”

  “Yeah. I knew she had a new boyfriend.”

  “How?”

  “A couple times, she was going out with this guy right after work, and she didn’t want to have to go home to get ready, because she knew her mom would ask a lot of questions. So she asked me to kind of be the lookout for her, while she showered and changed in one of the guest rooms. If the bosses ever found that out, we’d both have been fired.”

  Drue felt a tiny fizz of excitement. “Do you know who the guy was?”

  “I know he used to work at Gulf Vista. I think he was a desk clerk maybe.”

  “You don’t know his name?”

  Lutrisha scrunched up her face. “Maybe Jorge?”

  “Why didn’t she want her mom to know about this guy?”

  “Probably because he wasn’t black. He’s from one of those countries in Central America. Ecuador, Guatemala? I get those places mixed up. Jazmin said her mom wouldn’t like him, which is funny, because who knew black people were just as racist as white people. Right?”

  “Do you know where this Jorge lives? Or where he worked after he left Gulf Vista?”

  “She said it was at another hotel on the beach.”

  Lutrisha’s chair scraped the concrete floor as she pushed away from the table. “Okay, sorry, but I really do have to go.”

  “I understand. And thanks so much for your time, Lutrisha. You’ve been a big help. Hey, do you know whatever happened to Jazmin’s friend Neesa?”

  “Her?” Lutrisha rolled her eyes. “She could be anywhere. They said she was fired because she was late all the time, which kind of surprised me.”

  “Why?”

  “Word was, Neesa had some kind of thing going on with the head of housekeeping. Herman Byars.”

  “What kind of thing?”

  “One guess. I gotta go now.”

  23

  On Friday, she was congratulating herself on making it through another week without any serious incidents.

  Her celebration was short-lived. Shortly after eleven, she sensed a shadow over her shoulder.

  “Drue?” Wendy brandished a handful of papers.

  “What do you need?” Drue responded.

  Wendy jerked her head in the direction of her office. “Let’s do this somewhere quieter.”

  As she trailed behind Wendy’s cloud of Miss Dior perfume, Drue experienced the same inescapable sense of doom she’d once felt on her numerous trips to the principal’s office in high school.

  She already knew what was coming. The “you’re not living up to your abilities,” the “you need to try harder” and, worst of all, the dreaded “we are very disappointed.”

  “Close the door, please,” Wendy said, not looking up from the document she was reading.

  She absentmindedly reached in a cut-glass jar on her desk and tossed a biscuit to Princess, who was lounging on an orange Hermès blanket on the only other chair in the room.

  Drue stood glowering down at the French bulldog, who kept right on chewing and ignoring her.

  “You can sit,” Wendy said, looking up.

  “Where?”

  “Oh for God’s sake,” Wendy snapped. “Here, Princess. Come here to Mommy.”

  The dog hopped down and trotted over to her mistress.

  “Move that blanket, please,” Wendy said, before Drue could seat herself. “She’s very sensitive, and it confuses her when she smells other people’s scents on her things.”

  Drue folded the blanket and dropped it to the floor.

  “What did you need to see me about?” she asked, wanting to endure as little time as possible in what she considered the Chilean chamber of torture.

  “This,” Wendy said, tapping a computer printout on her desktop. “I’ve been looking at your leads sheet, and frankly, I’m appalled. Do you realize you’ve been here for four weeks and the only case you’ve referred is this?”

  “Yes,” Drue said eagerly. “You’re talking about the client from Sunshine Inn—the extended-stay motel on U.S. 19?”

  “Bedbugs?” Wendy said shrilly. “Three weeks and all you have to show is a bedbug case?”

  “It’s legit, I swear,” Drue said. “The poor man just moved down here from Pennsylvania to take a job at a hair salon. He was staying at the motel while he looked for an apartment, but after three nights he had to check out because the place was crawling with bedbugs. They just chewed him alive! He went to one of those doc-in-the-box medical clinics and they sent him to the emergency room. I’ve seen his discharge papers. He had to have cortisone shots and they prescribed him some expensive ointments for the infection.”

  “Stop!” Wendy began scratching at her arms. “Just what do you think this firm is going to be able to recover in damages in a case like this? The cost of a tube of Neosporin?”

  “No,” Drue said. “The client hasn’t been able to work since he got here. The salon took one look at the scabs on his arms and hands and withdrew the job offer. He was so desperate to work he went to one of those Kwik-Kut franchise hair salons, but the first time he shampooed a client’s hair, he had a horrendous allergic reaction to the chemicals because of his infection. The man can’t work, Wendy. I really think Dad could help him.”

  “We are not wasting our time on a bullshit bedbug case,” Wendy said, taking the report, balling it up and throwing it into her trash basket.

  She leaned back in her chair and Princess hopped up and began licking her chin.

  “I told Brice this wasn’t a good idea, but of course, he has such a soft heart, what could I do?”

  “You’re firing me?” Drue was incredulous.

  “I wish. But Brice won’t hear of it. You must have really laid a guilt trip on him when he came over there to move you into that cottage. He was really upset when he got home.”

  “If you’re not firing me, why are we having this talk?” Drue asked, knowing she wasn’t going to like the answer.

  “Because I need you to get with the program,” Wendy said. “You have the most dismal numbers of anybody—either here or in the offsite call center. Drastic measures are called for.”

  Drue waited.

  “Starting now, you’re in retraining. I want you to take your headset and plug into Jonah’s console. He’s our top producer, so my hope is that you can learn something from his technique.”

  “You’re kidding,” Drue said. “I know what I’m doing, Wendy. It’s just that the calls I’m getting have all been dead ends. This is unbelievably unfair.”

  “No,” Wendy snapped. “What’s unbelievably unfair is that although I run this office, your father has overruled me and continues to allow dead weight to bring down the rest of the Campbell, Coxe and Kramner team.”

  “Dead weight?” Drue jumped up from the chair.

  Wendy looked up expectantly, stroking the dog’s ears and smiling her fake smile.

  “You can torture me all you like, but I’m not going to give you the satisfaction of quitting,” Drue said, her voice low. As she
walked out of the office she made sure to deliberately step on the Hermès blanket with both feet.

  * * *

  “What’s this?” Jonah said, as she wheeled her chair over to his cubicle, her headset resting around her neck.

  “Retraining,” Drue said. “Wendy wants me to listen to the way you handle calls, because you’re so awesome at it.”

  He nodded. “Listen, Grasshopper, and Mr. Miyagi will share the wisdom of the ages.”

  His console lit up.

  “Just answer the damn phone,” Drue said.

  24

  Saturday morning, Drue poured herself a mug of coffee and sat down at the card table in the kitchen. She had a new package of index cards and a box of black felt-tip pens, and some file folders, and felt a surge of excitement. School supplies! At one time, back in elementary school, she’d loved school. Loved the smell of chalk and schoolbooks and the thrill of opening a notebook for the first time, laboriously printing her name in block letters on the inside cover.

  She began jotting down what she’d learned so far about the employees at the Gulf Vista and about Jazmin Mayes and her coworkers, starting a new index card for each set of facts. It was an idea she’d picked up from reading the dog-eared paperback Sue Grafton detective novels that had been left behind by Leonard, the cottage’s most recent tenant.

  Drue scribbled every detail of her conversations with Lutrisha and Yvonne Howington.

  An hour had passed and she’d worked her way through half a packet of cards when she heard insistent knocking at the front door.

  “Good morning!” Ben Fentress stood on her doorstep. He held out a cardboard beer box with what looked like some kind of auto part inside. “Did somebody here order a starter for a 1995 Ford Bronco?”

  Jonah Kelleher stepped out from behind his coworker, holding up a six-pack of craft beer. “And some emergency beverages?”

  “Oh,” Drue said, taken aback.