Concierge Confessions

by Valerie Wilcox

  Dedicated to everyone who has ever lost a job and had to start all over again without a clue as to what they were going to do or how they were going to do it—and yet somehow survived!

  CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CONFESSION #1

  CONFESSION #2

  CONFESSION #3

  CONFESSION #4

  CONFESSION #5

  CONFESSION #6

  CONFESSION #7

  CONFESSION #8

  CONFESSION #9

  CONFESSION #10

  CONFESSION #11

  CONFESSION #12

  CONFESSION #13

  CONFESSION #14

  CONFESSION #15

  CONFESSION #16

  CONFESSION #17

  CONFESSION #18

  CONFESSION #19

  CONFESSION #20

  CONFESSION #21

  CONFESSION #22

  CONFESSION #23

  CONFESSION #24

  CONFESSION #25

  CONFESSION #26

  CONFESSION #27

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book would not have been possible without the love and support of my husband, David H. Wilcox. He is my first reader and most enthusiastic cheerleader. I also owe a debt of gratitude to Rita Gardner for editing the initial manuscript, to Larry Brooks of StoryFix for teaching me about story structure, to Stephen Greenleaf at the University of Washington for first introducing me to the mystery craft, to the CreateSpace team for their publishing expertise, to Jack Zufelt for motivating me to follow my “core desires,” and the many wonderful writers I’ve met through the years who have encouraged my writing efforts and offered valuable suggestions and advice. Thank you one and all.

  And finally, a special thanks to my readers. I hope you enjoy reading Concierge Confessions as much as I enjoyed writing it. I would very much like to hear from you. Send email to:

  v@ValerieWilcoxWrites.com

  or visit my website:

  www.ValerieWilcoxWrites.com.

  Copyright © 2012 Valerie Wilcox

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1469976765

  ISBN 13: 9781469976761

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-62110-470-4

  First Printing 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  All of the characters, incidents and dialogue depicted herein are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.ValerieWilcoxWrites.com

  OTHER NOVELS BY VALERIE WILCOX

  SINS OF SILENCE - “Anyone who likes a good, thrilling mystery will enjoy this book, and anyone who also loves sailing will enjoy it even more. The female protagonist is a fiery, intelligent, down-to-earth sailor with a good heart… The descriptions of sailing are ‘right on the money’… A fast-moving, entertaining book sailors will enjoy.”

  —The Journal of the American Sailing Association

  SINS OF BETRAYAL - “An intriguing mystery loaded with danger and drama. The main storyline is totally absorbing, a mystery lover’s delight. Secondary storylines, including the search of Kellie’s adopted daughter for her biological family, are also well-written and fascinating.”

  —Toby Bromberg, Romantic Times

  SINS OF DECEPTION - “The storyline is intelligent and filled with action. The insight into the life of Kellie’s adopted daughter augments the plot with warmth. The characters turn this mystery into an enjoyable sailing cozy.”

  —Harriet Klausner, Amazon.com

  www.ValerieWilcoxWrites.com

  The BellaVilla Bulletin

  Welcome BellaVilla residents!

  On behalf of the management team and staff, we look forward to meeting each of you. We encourage you to take advantage of all the amenities that our BellaVilla Condominium and the surrounding area have to offer.

  Do you need a housekeeper, a pet sitter, dinner reservations, tickets to a concert or sporting event? Lead Concierge Peter Westerfield and his capable staff can make these arrangements and many others for you. They are available to assist you from 7:00 a.m. to 11:00 p.m., seven days a week.

  If you have any questions about living at BellaVilla, comments or concerns, or require special assistance, please do not hesitate to give the staff a call or stop by the concierge desk in the main lobby.

  William Matthews, Facility Manager

  Peter Westerfield, Lead Concierge

  CONFESSION #1

  The primary responsibility of a concierge is to smile and kiss ass.

  At first, Carla Nelson was just an annoyance. I’d come to expect a certain amount of frustration when dealing with the rich and powerful. Not that Carla was rich or powerful. We were both concierges at BellaVilla and had locked horns from the get-go. I attributed our problems to a generational thing. She was young; I was not. Moze said I’d misjudged the situation. “Watch your backside,” he’d warned. “Trouble follows Carla like stink on a fresh turd in the hot sun.” I laughed at the time. I wish now that I’d taken him seriously.

  At barely nineteen, Carla was something of a party girl, judging by how hung over she usually looked when she finally sauntered in. Getting to work by three o’clock in the afternoon seemed to take more effort than she cared or was able to exert. I’m not a clock watcher by nature, but when the end of my shift rolled around, I wanted to go home. Smiling and making nice for eight hours a day was exhausting.

  “She be late again, huh?” asked Moze. As head of the cleaning and maintenance crew at BellaVilla, Moses Washington never missed a thing that went on in the building. He was a skinny forty-year-old black man with a smooth bald head that shone as brightly as the floors he waxed. He knew my shift ended at three p.m. but that I rarely left when I was supposed to, thanks to Carla. I could always count on Moze to stop by the concierge desk to chat for a few minutes when that happened.

  My weary smile said it all.

  “Why don’t you report her?” he prodded.

  “Peter would just make it tough for all of us. You know how he thrives on drama.”

  “Yeah, you got that right. If it ain’t broke, Peter gets worried. If it is broke, he blames the first person he sees—usually me.”

  Moze had it partly wrong. When it came to assigning blame, Lead Concierge Peter Westerfield singled me out more often than not. I was new to the concierge desk and he didn’t give me much credit for knowing how to handle the job. He’d made it clear he wasn’t happy that he hadn’t been in charge of the hiring process. He’d been a facility manager for several years at the condominium where he’d previously worked, and his current position didn’t come anywhere close to the same pay and prestige. As far as I was concerned, Peter was high on his own perfume. Going to him with any problems would give him another excuse to criticize me. I’d just have to figure out a way to deal with Carla that didn’t involve Peter.

  I’d had to figure out a lot of things lately, mostly how to survive. The economic depression that was officially just a recession had torn my world apart. The job I’d held for most of my working life had been outsourced, my retirement fund was a joke, and I was about to lose my home. All that was bad enough, but landing a decent paying job when you’ve reached the downhill side of forty was as difficult as winning a marathon with a half-ton weight strapped to your back.

  When times were tough, my Irish grandmother used to put the teakettle on. “While there’s tea, there’s hope,” she’d say. When times were really tough, she would add a jigge
r of whiskey to the brew. “While there’s Tullamore Dew, there’s courage.” If Grandma had still been alive, she would’ve poured me a healthy dose of both drinks. I needed all the hope and courage I could get.

  Things started to look up when I learned about multiple job openings at BellaVilla, a new luxury condominium complex in a tony suburb east of Seattle. Despite the uncertain economy, BellaVilla had opened to much fanfare. It comprised an entire city block and included two 40-story residential towers, a boutique hotel, high-end restaurant, and several retail businesses.

  I was determined (okay, desperate) to snag one of the many positions available in the large enterprise. Concierge seemed to be my best bet. Getting hired was a long shot, given my age and lack of relevant experience, but I sent in my résumé anyway. Surprisingly, I landed an interview a week later, which turned out to be a cattle call.

  With the unemployment rate still spinning in orbit somewhere, everyone and his dog must have applied for the positions available at BellaVilla. And everyone except his dog had been invited to interview. After one look at the applicants milling about the spacious lobby, I knew my long shot had just plummeted to slim and none. I could’ve passed for the mother of just about everyone in the room.

  Girls in black power suits with perky, can-do attitudes, and boys in shiny shoes with trendy, gel-spiked hair looked like kids playing dress-up. About the only thing I had in common with this group was hope for a better future. It didn’t matter what age you were, the bills still needed to be paid. Each time the hiring coordinator entered the lobby, our smiles got a little wider and our spines a little straighter for that all-important first impression.

  The room had thinned out considerably by the time I finally heard the coordinator call, “Mary Kathleen Reilly.” She’d only glanced at the clipboard in her hands, which probably explained why she got my name wrong.

  “It’s Mary Kathleen Ryan,” I said in a pleasant, anyone-can-make-a-mistake type voice. Most people knew me as Kate, but I didn’t want to confuse her further by mentioning my nickname.

  “Oh, right,” she said, checking her clipboard again. Shoulder shrug. “Whatever. Follow me, please.”

  She led me down a long hallway painted a boring shade of taupe to the temporary interview room. “Have a seat. Mr. Matthews will be with you in a moment.”

  The moment dragged on and on. By the time Mr. Matthews finally showed up, I had to pee really bad. But it was make-or-break time, so I just crossed my legs and smiled as he settled into his chair. Mr. Matthews looked vaguely familiar, but he made the connection first. “Mrs. Ryan?” he said. “Erin’s mom?”

  It was worse than I feared. The interviewer was my daughter’s first steady boyfriend. She’d dumped him rather callously her senior year in high school to take up with a football jock, who had in turn dumped her for the head cheerleader. Such is life in the fast lane of high school dating. This job was toast if I couldn’t find a way to rescue the situation.

  “Billy,” I said, “I mean, William. It’s so good to see you again. How are you?”

  “Uh, I’m good,” he said, blinking rapidly.

  He seemed confused, which, come to think of it, was Erin’s main complaint about him way back when. She said Billy was cute, but clueless. I suppose she’d still consider him cute, although his long brown hair was short and thinning now. He’d traded teenage jeans and a hoodie for a dress-for-success Brooks Brothers suit complete with diamond cuff links and vest. The look was somewhat spoiled by a ketchup stain in the middle of his designer tie, which I tried not to focus on.

  “Why are you here, exactly?” he asked, frowning. “I thought you were an engineer.”

  “Yes, I am an engineer…was an engineer. Things change. It’s time for a new direction.” It was bad enough that he knew I was an engineer. If he knew I was also the project engineer for the company that built the BellaVilla complex, I think he’d be even more confused.

  It took a few seconds for the lightbulb above Billy’s head to blink on. “Oh, I get it,” he said with a sympathetic nod. “The economy.” He dispensed with any further chitchat and got right to the heart of the interview.

  “What do you consider your greatest strength?”

  I can make a mean lasagna. “The ability to follow directions.”

  “What is your greatest weakness?”

  Other than chocolate? “Some people say I tend to be obsessive about work.”

  And on it went. After we’d played a few rounds, Billy finally hit on the one question I’d been dreading. He paused to eye me over the top of his stylish glasses. “If I hire you, Mrs. Ryan, what guarantee do I have that you won’t up and leave as soon as the economy bounces back?”

  I sighed. The deal breaker still lives. I’d been asked this question so many times in interviews that I’d finally omitted any reference to engineering on my résumé. Just my luck that Billy knew the true score.

  “What can I say? I dance with whoever brung me. If that’s you, William, I’ll keep on dancing as long as the music keeps on playing.”

  “Huh?”

  I’d totally lost him. “Look, it’s like this: I’m committed for the long haul. That means no jumping ship once I’m aboard. Hire me and you won’t have to worry about whether I’ll show up every day, or whether I’ll be on time. I won’t drink on the job, call in sick when I’m not, fight with my coworkers, fudge my timecard hours, or steal the paperclips. I’ll be a reliable, responsible, and respectful employee who’ll consistently exceed expectations. In short, you can count on me.”

  When Billy didn’t say anything for a moment, I was afraid I’d laid it on way too thick. Then he burst out laughing. “In other words,” he said, “you’ll kiss our collective ass?”

  “Absolutely,” I said, smiling a bit sheepishly.

  “Congratulations,” he said, offering his hand. “Welcome to BellaVilla.”

  Tea and whiskey rule.

  MEMO

  To: Concierge Staff

  From: Peter Westerfield

  Subject: Expectations

  BellaVilla is a premier facility and, as such, its residents deserve only the very best from our staff. To that end, I expect you to adhere to the following policies:

  Your appearance and demeanor are important. Your uniform has been carefully selected to represent BellaVilla’s status as a premier facility. It is your responsibility to keep it clean and in good repair at all times. No reimbursement will be made for dry cleaning. If it becomes necessary to replace any item, such as a new tie or scarf, the cost will be deducted from your paycheck.

  Whenever a resident or guest is in the lobby, I expect them to have 100% of your attention, even if they are speaking with others or just passing through. I do not want to hear about any concierge ignoring a resident, vendor, or guest because he or she was busy with something else.

  It is the concierge’s responsibility to keep residents’ spare keys secure at all times. You will maintain an up-to-date checkout log and permission to enter (PTE) form on file for each residence. At no time will you admit a vendor or any other person to a resident’s unit without a signed PTE on file.

  Our residents receive many packages via UPS, FedEx, and other delivery systems. You will promptly log each package with the appropriate name and unit and notify the resident that they have a delivery. You MUST have the resident sign for the package when it is picked up. If a package that you’ve logged in goes missing, you will be held accountable.

  The lobby and entry are the concierge’s areas of responsibility. The doors, windows, and floors should be clean and neat at all times. Do not assume that the maintenance crew will take care of things. You should monitor the lobby’s glass door for smudges and promptly wash them yourself rather than wait for someone else to do it. I will be making unannounced inspections of the lobby from time to time to ensure it is being maintained to the high standards our residents have a right to expect.

  A word of caution: residents may appear friendly and genuinely i
nterested in you, but this is misleading. They are primarily focused on themselves and their wants. You are to give them your total respect and consideration, but do not assume you’ve made a friend. Furthermore, you are not to have any outside contact with our residents, socially or otherwise.

  If a situation arises that you are not sure how to handle, do not, under any circumstances, act without notifying me first.

  CONFESSION #2

  As a general rule, addressing the concierge as “you stupid bitch” won’t get you better service.

  The name concierge, as you might expect, is French and evolved from Comte des Cierges or Keeper of the Candles. These were people who were responsible for tending to visiting nobles in medieval castles. By the late nineteenth century, the concierge in Paris apartments often had a small unit on the ground floor and was able to monitor all comings and goings in the building.

  Unlike the luxury condos in New York or other big cities, BellaVilla didn’t have a doorman. It was up to the concierge staff to monitor the guests, vendors, realtors, and others who requested access to the building. There were no candles to keep, but we did safeguard the keys—a handy service if residents were locked out or if someone they’d authorized needed to enter their unit when they weren’t home.

  My shift was Monday through Friday and began at seven a.m., but I tried to arrive at least fifteen minutes early to get a turnover from the security guard who manned the desk overnight. He usually didn’t have much to report except for an occasional noise complaint. The condo was located in an upscale area of town that had good police presence and a low crime rate.

  The worst I’d come to expect was a scraped fender in the parking garage. A typical incident was the time a resident’s car made intimate contact with a BMW. I suspect the driver had had a few too many nightcaps at the local pub, but he insisted it was because the parking spaces were just “too damn tight” for easy access. He might’ve had a better excuse if he hadn’t tried to fit his Cadillac Escalade into a space designed for a compact. But Mr. BMW didn’t score any points when he left a note on Mr. Escalade’s windshield that read: “If you fuck like you park, you’ll never get it in.”