Concierge Confessions

by Valerie Wilcox

  I thought it a remarkable response to tragedy and told her so.

  “Don’t get me wrong; it’s not easy. The grief I feel is overwhelming. I’m as upset as any mother would be. But, as I told the detective last night, I’ll do anything I can to help the police solve her murder. That includes keeping myself together.”

  This didn’t sound like the woman Jack had described. “So, despite the awful news, you were still able to talk to Detective Gleason?”

  “Yes.” She nodded. “And he was very interested in what I had to say.” Her eyes were focused on Bitsy, but I got the impression she was replaying the conversation she’d had the night before. After a moment, she shifted in the chair and said, “I’m sorry, I should’ve offered you coffee or something to eat.”

  “Don’t bother. I’m fine.” I wasn’t sure what to say next. It seemed trite, but I fell back on a standard sentiment. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  She shook her head. “Not really.” Half a beat later, she said, “Maybe there is something. I told the detective about what Amy overheard at the party. She didn’t say anything when she was first questioned, but she talked to her psychiatrist about it and was advised to tell the police everything she knew.” Gloria frowned and let a trace of sorrow escape. “But she never got the chance.”

  “What did she know?”

  “Amy said she overheard one of your concierge gals—Carla, I think it was—talking to another resident. Amy told me his name, but I can’t remember it. It was foreign sounding, not Russian. Maybe Arab? Anyway, Carla had arranged for this man to meet with Vasily Petrov about some investment deal. He wanted privacy and she said they’d have all the privacy they needed in the massage room. No one would think to bother them there during the party.”

  “And you told all this to Detective Gleason?”

  “Yes. And I also told him that Amy was upset about the proposed meeting. She felt this Petrov fellow was a fraud and any deal he had to offer would not be on the up and up. Amy even confronted Petrov about it, but he told her it wasn’t any of her business. After their argument, she decided to warn the potential investor.”

  Gloria looked down at Bitsy. “But this little rascal got loose and Amy had to chase after her,” she said, scratching behind the dog’s ears. “Didn’t you, Bitsy-poo?”

  “So Amy didn’t get to talk to the investor before his meeting with Petrov?”

  “No. But here’s the part I neglected to tell Detective Gleason. When Amy finally caught up with Bitsy, she’d scampered down the hallway leading to the massage room. That’s when Amy saw another man following Petrov into the room.”

  “Not the potential investor?”

  She shook her head. “Someone else.”

  “Did Amy tell you his name?”

  “No, it was too dark for her to see all that well. I guess a lightbulb was burned out or something. She said she was going to ask her psychiatrist to hypnotize her. Amy thought it might help her identify the person. Maybe you can pass this information along for me. It might be important.”

  As soon as I was back in my car, I called Jack. “I think your partner is holding out on you. Either that, or you’ve seriously misrepresented how her daughter’s death has affected Gloria Windham.”

  Jack professed not to know what I was talking about. “You better meet me for an early dinner and fill me in,” he said. “How ’bout Tony’s?”

  Tony’s was our favorite hangout when we lived on Education Hill, a little hole in the wall that had the best pizza and pasta around. Breaking bread with my ex two nights in a row was pushing it. If cruising down memory lane with Jack had been the only inducement, I’d have passed on the invitation. But I hadn’t eaten at Tony’s in a long time and my stomach started rumbling just thinking about it.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m on my way.”

  The BellaVilla Bulletin

  Dear Residents,

  Once again, we’re sorry to report that we’ve had a tragic death at BellaVilla. On behalf of the management team, staff, and residents, we offer our sincere condolences to the family and friends of Ms. Amy Windham. She will be missed.

  Although this latest incident is reprehensible, we do not believe there is any cause for alarm. A thorough investigation of our security measures was completed recently and revealed nothing that needed to be repaired or changed. We feel confident that our state of the art system did not contribute to either tragedies in any way and can be relied upon to protect you.

  As before, the management and staff are cooperating fully with law enforcement personnel and believe that the case will be solved soon. If you have any questions or concerns, please feel free to contact me directly or bring them to the attention of Lead Concierge Peter Westerfield.

  William Matthews, Facility Manager

  MEMO

  To: Concierge Staff

  From: Peter Westerfield

  Subject: Complaints

  Condominium living can be quite challenging to some folks who’ve never lived in a multi-family dwelling. Noise is a common issue. You should be aware that BellaVilla was constructed with some of the best sound-dampening materials available. However, it is still possible that residents will be disturbed by noise from time to time. This is especially true during large private parties. It is your responsibility to monitor such events and respond to resident complaints in a timely manner. Respectfully remind residents that our quiet hours begin at 10:00 p.m.

  Unfortunately, management has seen fit to allow pets at BellaVilla, which has become another source of complaints. It is important that you do not allow dogs or other pets in any of the common areas, such as the ballroom, spa, or fitness center. All dogs must be on a leash when entering or exiting the lobby. Excessive barking can be a major disturbance and you are expected to deal with any complaints promptly.

  I take all resident complaints seriously. This includes complaints about our staff. If I receive a complaint about any of you for whatever reason, I will investigate and take immediate corrective action. This may include, but is not limited to, probation or termination of your employment.

  CONFESSION #11

  Divorce is a success if you haven’t killed each other first.

  Jack and I pulled into Tony’s parking lot at the same time. It was too late for lunch and too early for dinner so we essentially had the lot to ourselves. The bell tied to the door handle announced our arrival, but Tony had already spotted us. He burst into a wide grin as he called out his signature greeting from the kitchen pass-through. “Benvenuti!”

  It took him a moment, but as soon as he recognized us, Tony wiped his hands on his chef’s apron and rushed out of the kitchen.

  “Signor et Signora Doyle! Buon giorno!” He bussed me on the cheek and shook hands with Jack. “Come stai? How are you?”

  Originally from “Old Napoli,” Tony was a big guy in his late sixties who, despite the gray hair and bulging waistline, had the energy of a twenty-year-old. He was a bubble of good cheer who gave everyone the personal treatment. If you were regular patrons, he went all out. We hadn’t been regulars or even intermittent customers for years, but Tony prided himself on never forgetting. Jack and I didn’t have the heart to tell him we weren’t even regulars with each other anymore, our latest arrangement notwithstanding.

  He put on a sad face. “Long time you no come ’round. Where you been?” He waved off the question. “No matter. You here now. Tony take good care of you.”

  While other restaurants claimed to be Italian, their décor and food never quite lived up to expectations. Tony’s place was the real deal. His restaurant was decorated with original works of art, statues, and other memorabilia from his many trips back to his homeland. One whole wall was dedicated to portraits of his large family, both living and deceased. There was always a good opera by Verdi, Rossini, or Puccini playing on the stereo. My favorite, La Traviata, was today’s feature.

  “See, I no forget,” Tony said. “Your special table, she ready just for you.
”

  He’d steered us to the corner table where we used to sit. It wasn’t that special, but we’d long ago claimed it as ours. As with all the tables at Tony’s, it was adorned with a red-and-white-checkered tablecloth and wine-bottle candle.

  “Sit, sit,” he said, pulling out a chair for me.

  Even though daylight streamed through the restaurant’s front window, Tony lit the candle. “For the amore,” he said, winking at Jack.

  Tony’s granddaughter, a teenaged beauty with long dark hair and sparkling eyes, had followed us to the table. When she offered us menus, Tony stopped her. “No, no, Lara. I give Signor et Signora Doyle my specialties. You getta the vino.”

  He turned to Jack. “Bianco o rosso?”

  Jack knew I preferred red. “Rosso,” he said. “Grazie.”

  As Tony and Lara left us, I picked at the wax-encrusted candle. All the attention had made me uncomfortable. Tony meant well, but Jack and I weren’t a couple. Our amore had faded long ago. Permanently. Yet memory is a strange ghost. Sitting with Jack at our old table stirred feelings for him that I thought were dead and buried. Our meeting had begun to feel too much like a date. I looked at Jack and frowned. “I swear to God, if Tony changes the music to Dean Martin crooning some love song, I’m outta here.”

  Jack laughed. “I hear ya. But he’s more likely to choose Pavarotti singing ‘Ah! Maria, Mari’ just for you.”

  When Lara brought our wine, she set a plate of antipasti on the table. “Buon appetito!” she said.

  Jack held his wineglass up for a toast. “Here’s to a strictly professional relationship,” he said.

  I clicked his glass with mine. “Si,” I said. “Professionale only.” I pushed any remaining qualms aside and enjoyed the feast in front of us.

  Between the soup and salad courses, we got down to business. “So,” Jack said, “how’d it go with Gloria Windham?”

  I swallowed the last of my minestrone soup. “She’s determined that Amy’s murder won’t destroy her.” I told him about how she was dressed and the so-called test she had prepared for herself. “Gloria wants to cooperate with your investigation any way she can.”

  “That’s good. Did she have any ideas about who might’ve killed her daughter?”

  “No, but like I said on the phone, she wasn’t so grief-stricken that she couldn’t talk to your partner about what she knew. Didn’t Gleason tell you?”

  Jack poured himself another glass of wine. “Why don’t you tell me.”

  Since his partner was apparently off limits, I plunged ahead. “Gloria said Amy told her she’d overheard Carla arranging for a meeting between Vasily and a potential investor. Gloria didn’t remember his name, but she says it sounded Arabic. I think it was probably Abdul Azim. I saw them together at the party, but I thought Carla was just flirting with him.”

  “So your little Carla was pimping for Vasily.”

  “I guess that’s one way to put it. But Amy didn’t have any faith in the soundness of Vasily’s business dealings. According to her mother, Amy tried to stop the meeting with Abdul from taking place by confronting Vasily first.”

  “That must be the argument that both Moses Washington and Sam Caldwell told us they overheard,” Jack said.

  “Amy was going to warn Abdul, but she never got the chance. Bitsy took off and she had to chase after her.”

  Lara stopped by the table with our salads and an overflowing basket of garlic bread. “How is everything?” she asked.

  “Delizioso!” Jack assured her. “Please tell Tony.”

  She noted our empty wineglasses. “I’ll bring you more vino.”

  “I’m already full,” I said, snatching some bread from the basket. “But I can’t stop myself.”

  “So,” Jack said. “Carla arranged for the meeting to take place in the massage room?”

  “That’s what Gloria said. For privacy, supposedly.” I had another thought. “Did Carla say why Vasily was undressed? Did she plan to give him a massage before the meeting?”

  Lara was back with a fresh bottle of wine. She opened it and let Jack take a sip before pouring it into both glasses on his acceptance.

  After the distraction, I repeated my question about Carla and the massage.

  Jack frowned at me over the rim of his glass. I got the feeling he was weighing how much he should tell me. After a moment, he said, “According to her version of events, she just stopped by the room to make sure Vasily was ready for the meeting.”

  “Did she say it was Abdul Azim that Vasily expected?”

  “Look,” he said, “I’m the detective. I get to ask the questions. You’re the informant. You supply the answers.”

  “Okay, fine.” I picked up the wine bottle and poured myself a generous glass. “Just don’t expect me to question any more mothers, relatives, friends, or pets of victims on your behalf.”

  Jack knew he’d pushed the wrong button. “Hey, settle down. Maybe I misspoke.” He flashed an apologetic smile. “Yes, Carla said Vasily was supposed to meet with Abdul.”

  I decided to press the point. “And did she see the other man who showed up instead?”

  The question caught Jack by surprise. He set down his glass and leaned forward. “What man?”

  “I don’t know. The lightbulb was out in the hallway so Amy couldn’t see clearly who followed Vasily into the massage room. Only that it was a man. Moze said the bulb wasn’t burned out, just loosened. He figured the killer wanted it dark so if anyone happened to see him, they couldn’t make a positive ID.”

  “Makes sense,” Jack said.

  “And the killer gets worried when he sees Amy in the hall with Bitsy. So, for extra insurance, he kills her before she figures out who he is.”

  Jack considered the possibility a moment. “The hallway was dark, all right. I stubbed a toe on a damn table there. Almost toppled some foo-fah glass thing onto the floor.”

  “A Chihuly bowl.”

  “Whatever. So, given the poor lighting, how did the killer know it was Amy who’d spotted him? For that matter, how do we know it wasn’t Abdul that Amy saw? Or even a woman?”

  “According to her mother, Amy said the person was tall. Abdul is short.”

  “Tall is a relative concept.” He looked me over. “What are you? Five foot seven or so? Some people would consider you tall.”

  “But Gloria said Amy was certain it was a man she saw.”

  “Eyewitness accounts are notoriously flawed,” Jack said. “Take any ten people and they’ll see the exact same event ten different ways from Sunday. Throw a dark hallway into the mix and the witness might as well be blind.”

  I conceded the point. “I suppose you’re right.”

  Jack grinned. “Damn right I’m right.”

  Lara returned with our main course—Tony’s special shrimp primavera. Suddenly I had an empty stomach again.

  We ate without discussing the case further, preferring to concentrate on our meal and less controversial matters. Our conversation eventually turned to family. Jack asked about Sylvie and then brought up the latest with our daughter, Erin. He was concerned that there was some friction developing between her and our six-year-old granddaughter, Shannon. I dismissed his concerns as typical mother-daughter tensions. I’d certainly had my share with Erin over the years. But I assured him I’d check in with her soon and see what I could find out.

  Tony brought dessert to our table. We protested that we were way too full, but he insisted. As he set the tiramisu in front of us, he said, “I know you gonna like this.” He touched his puckered lips with his thumb and two fingers. “It’s fantastico!”

  “We can’t disappoint him,” Jack said, digging in.

  “I know,” I said, and quickly followed suit. “We really don’t have a choice.”

  By the time we finished, I had to let out a button on my skirt. Jack ordered coffee, but I declined. There was no way I could take in anything more.

  “Unless you have other questions, I have to go,” I said, s
tanding.

  His phone rang and I waited as he answered it. “Doyle.” He listened a moment and frowned. Then a fierce scowl took over. “Damn,” he said. “I’ll be right there.”

  My heart sank. This routine was getting all too familiar. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  Jack fished out his wallet and signaled Lara to the table. “We have to scoot,” he told her as he handed over his credit card. We met her at the cashier’s counter and Jack signed for our meal. I offered to pay half, but he shrugged me off. “I can expense it,” he said.

  Tony called to us from the kitchen pass-through as we left. “Arrivederci, my amici.”

  Jack waved back. “Grazie, Tony. Our meal was perfetto!”

  Once outside, I asked again, “What’s happened?”

  “Follow me in your car,” he said, climbing into the Crown Vic. “I’m headed to BellaVilla. We’ve got us another body.”

  This time I didn’t bother to ask who. I’d know soon enough.

  CONFESSION #12

  Beware of the half truth. You may have gotten hold of the wrong half.

  While we were dining at Tony’s, big dark clouds had rolled in and dirtied the sky with their heavy load. I put the top up on the Miata and followed Jack for about a block before the deluge began. Since dodging traffic in the rain while keeping pace with a speeding cop was not in the informant’s playbook, I slowed the Bomber to a more reasonable live-to-enjoy-another-day rate. When I neared BellaVilla, the street leading to the parking garage was crammed with police cars and other official vehicles. An officer stood in the middle of the intersection directing traffic away from the scene.

  Curbside parking was a crapshoot any day of the week, but with the rain, a criminal investigation in progress, and a sale at the mall, the dice were rigged against me. Driving to hell and gone to find a parking space when the gas tank gauge hovered just above empty was not a fun experience. Cursing isn’t my style, but I’d been around Jack so much lately that I let loose. It felt kind of good, especially when in the midst of turning the air blue, I spotted a car pulling away from the curb. The space was three rainy blocks away from BellaVilla but I didn’t care. I quickly snagged it and said a couple of Hail Marys. One little phrase and I’d covered both penance and gratitude.