The Dead-End Job Mysteries Box Set 1

by Elaine Viets

  “What are you doing?” Helen said.

  Denise dropped the plant and it landed crookedly in the pot. “I’m checking for root rot.”

  “I thought we had a plant-care service,” Helen said.

  “We do,” Denise said. “But they’re not very good. That palm tree is in bad shape.”

  She mopped her forehead with the wad of tissues she kept in her pocket.

  The plant looked OK to Helen, but she couldn’t tell a palm from a petunia. “Have you seen my pretzels?”

  “I moved them over by the time clock when I was folding sheets,” Denise said. She stood awkwardly by the crooked palm until Helen left the floor.

  Helen enjoyed her ten remaining minutes of peace. Cheryl silently nibbled her candy bar. Neither woman spoke. Helen wondered what Denise had really been doing with that plant.

  Last night, Rhonda had disappeared somewhere and returned with a head full of dust bunnies. Sondra, their ambitious African-American clerk, had been rooting around in an air-conditioning vent, ruining her clothes. Now Denise was pulling up palm trees. What was going on at this hotel? Helen could think of no explanation for their odd behavior.

  At eleven fifteen, Cheryl said, “Now that we’re rested, we can clean room 323 if the occupants are out. The Do Not Disturb sign was still on the door when I checked.”

  “It can’t be worse than yesterday,” Helen said.

  “Don’t bet on it,” Cheryl said.

  When they rolled their cart down the hall, they saw a huge man closing the door to room 323. His beer gut flopped over his low-hanging jeans, and he had a Seminole Sam tattoo on his wrist. His dirty brown hair and gray beard were in biker braids. A lush blonde with brassy hair and bad skin was hanging on his arm. Beside her, drinking Busch out of a can, was a woman so skinny her tube top didn’t bulge in front. The biker nodded to the two maids and said, “It’s all yours, ladies. We’re outta here.” His grin showed a missing eyetooth.

  Beer cans rolled across the floor when Cheryl opened the door. They were hit with the odor of cigarettes and the feral, meaty smell of sex.

  “Glad you’re making the bed,” Cheryl said. She flipped on the bathroom light and groaned.

  “What is it?” Helen said.

  “Someone peed in the coffeepot,” Cheryl said.

  Helen gingerly gathered up the twisted bedsheets. She felt something odd and hard buried in the sheets. She shook them and out fell a longish green object with straps. It took Helen a few seconds to realize she was looking at a strap-on dildo.

  “Ohmigod,” she said.

  “Holy cow,” Cheryl said, peeking around the corner. “That thing’s big.”

  “Should it go to the hotel’s lost and found?” Helen said.

  “Can you imagine anyone going to the front desk and asking, ‘Did I leave my dildo in room 323?’ ” Cheryl said.

  “Yeah. Those three characters who just left here,” Helen said.

  “Throw it out,” Cheryl said. “Sondra is a nice girl. She shouldn’t see something like that.”

  Helen used a pillowcase to carry the object to the trash. She threw the case away, too.

  “Ugh,” she said. “Let me wash my hands.”

  “Use a fresh bar of soap and a clean towel,” Cheryl said. “Don’t touch anything they used.”

  While Helen washed her hands, Cheryl reached in her pocket for a plastic holder. “Here,” she said. “You need to see something nice.” It was a photo of a little girl with long dark hair and soft brown eyes with an upward slant. She wore a pink party dress iced with white ruffles, and smiled happily for the camera.

  “She’s beautiful,” Helen said.

  “Yes, she is,” her mother said. “My daughter, Angel. She has Down syndrome.”

  Of course, Helen thought. That explained the upward-slanting eyes and slightly flat face.

  “How old is she?” Helen said.

  “Six. I’m really lucky. She doesn’t have a lot of the symptoms. No heart defects, thank goodness. The retardation is mild. She goes to regular school, and she’s proud of that. She wears thick glasses, but not for pictures, and she has a hearing aid, but you can’t see it with her long hair. Someday I’m going to get her an operation and she won’t need those glasses anymore, not the Coke-bottle-thick ones, anyway.”

  How was Cheryl going to afford an operation on her salary? Helen wondered. “She looks happy,” she said.

  “She is,” Cheryl said. “People think children with Down syndrome are naturally happy, but that’s not true. They have moods like everyone else. There’s a little boy at the clinic who’s mean as a rattlesnake and in trouble all the time. But Angel is just like her name. I’m so lucky.”

  Lucky. How many women would feel that way in her circumstances? Cheryl was as special as her daughter.

  “My mother wants me to put Angel in a home,” Cheryl said. “She says if I lost forty pounds and didn’t have Angel, I could marry. She even offered to pay for the home, but I told her no. Children with Down syndrome do better when they’re mixed in with the community. I can’t convince Mom. She’s got old ideas. She still slips sometimes and calls Angel ‘the retard.’ Her own granddaughter. Why can’t she see how beautiful Angel is?”

  “She’s too busy being ugly,” Helen said.

  “My mother says Angel is the punishment for my sin,” Cheryl said.

  “What sin?” Helen was too shocked to say more.

  “I wasn’t married when I got pregnant, and her daddy abandoned me. Mom says Angel’s Down syndrome is my punishment.”

  “You don’t really believe that, do you?” Helen said.

  “No! She’s a gift,” Cheryl said fiercely. “She’s the only good thing that ever happened to me. My Angel is going to graduate from school and get a job and even marry, if she wants to.” Helen got the feeling that Cheryl had repeated that last sentence to herself many times. She put the plastic-covered photo back in her smock pocket.

  After that outburst, they worked in silence for the rest of the afternoon. They finished the hot third floor and started cleaning on two. The feeling was companionable, not embarrassed. When they closed the door on their last room a little after three o’clock, Cheryl said formally, “Thank you, Helen. You’re a hard worker.”

  That was the highest compliment one maid could give another.

  “We made good time, even shorthanded,” Helen said.

  “I’m afraid Rhonda won’t be missed,” Cheryl said. “All her whining made me tired. I’m glad she’s gone.”

  Helen was, too, but she didn’t say so.

  They pushed their cleaning cart toward the housekeeping room on the second floor. When they reached the balconied section overlooking the lobby, Helen saw a man checking in at the front desk. Something about him seemed familiar. She leaned over the railing for a closer look.

  Helen nearly overturned the cart. It was her ex-husband, Rob.

  CHAPTER 6

  Cheryl saw Helen’s pale face. “Are you going to faint?” she asked.

  “No,” Helen said, as everything went dark. She woke up in the housekeeping room with a mean headache. She was stretched out on two chairs with her legs propped on a box of toilet tissue. Helen tried to sit up, but the chairs wobbled ominously, and she remembered why they’d been retired.

  “Easy there,” Cheryl said. She held an open bottle of ammonia under Helen’s nose. Helen breathed in and choked.

  “I think she’s awake now,” Denise said. “You can put that away.” The head housekeeper draped a cool wash-cloth on Helen’s forehead.

  Her head pounded. She felt foolish and angry at herself. Helen hadn’t seen her ex-husband in years. She’d spent hours imagining what she would do if she ever ran into Rob. Chain saws, crowbars and knockout punches were at the top of her list. Fainting was not.

  “Are you OK?” Cheryl said.

  “Sure,” she said. “I didn’t eat anything, that’s all.”

  “Nonsense,” Denise said in a voice that sounded like
“liar.” When the head housekeeper folded her arms and frowned, she looked like Sister Mary Justine, one of Helen’s high school teachers. Helen felt sixteen again, explaining that she hadn’t gone drag racing with Tommy McIntyre on her lunch hour.

  “You saw that man in the lobby and passed out,” Denise said. “What did he do to you?”

  “Uh,” Helen stalled. For years she’d kept quiet about Rob. It was her protection. Now silence couldn’t save her, but talking might. Helen decided to trust the two women with some information. She had no choice.

  “He’s my ex-husband,” she said. “Rob flew here from St. Louis, where I used to live. He’s looking for me. He wants my money.”

  “Don’t they all?” Denise said.

  Helen noticed for the first time that the head housekeeper wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

  “It’s always money with men,” Cheryl said. “Either they want yours or they won’t give you theirs.”

  Helen studied their faces. No one looked away. They believed her. Of course, she was telling the truth, which made convincing them easier.

  “I’ve been hiding from him,” Helen said. “I need to know something: Did he check into this hotel by accident or does he know I work here?”

  “I can find out,” Denise said. “Let me ask Sondra. She’s working the front desk this afternoon. I’ll be back in five minutes. Don’t try to get up. You’ve had a nasty shock.”

  Cheryl slid a stack of sheets under Helen’s head for a pillow. “Close your eyes and relax until Denise returns,” she said.

  But Helen couldn’t. Denise was gone too long. The time stretched into ten and then fifteen minutes. Where was she? What was wrong? Helen saw Rob pounding on the front desk, demanding to see her, searching the staff rooms, calling for Sybil, the owner.

  Twenty minutes later, Denise arrived with a can of 7UP and a pack of graham crackers. “Here,” she said. “Drink this and eat a cracker to settle your stomach.”

  Helen pressed the cold soda against her temple. It helped her headache. Then she popped the top and drank. The sugar rush revived her. The graham cracker helped, too. Its homey taste was comforting.

  “What happened?” Helen said. “You were gone so long, I was worried.”

  “Your ex was hanging around the lobby, picking up a free USA Today and getting a Coke out of the machine,” Denise said. “If he’d stayed any longer, I swear I would have him arrested for loitering. Finally he went to get his luggage out of his rental car and I had a chance to talk to Sondra. She says he paid by credit card and didn’t ask about you by name.

  “He didn’t say he was looking for anyone, either,” Denise said. “He didn’t seem curious about our staff at all.” Like Sister Mary Justine, she seemed to see through Helen. “Sondra said he acted like a normal guest. No odd questions or unusual requests. He also hit on her.”

  “That’s Rob,” Helen said. “I’m sure Sondra had too much sense to say yes.”

  “Sondra isn’t going to throw herself away on some old white guy,” Denise said, then looked embarrassed. “I mean—”

  “I know what you mean,” Helen said. But they knew she’d thrown herself away on him.

  “When I left he was back in the lobby, asking for the ice machine,” Denise said. “Sondra will call me when he goes up to his room. He’s staying in 210.”

  “That’s on this floor,” Helen said, panic clawing at her insides. Suddenly the housekeeping room seemed small and suffocating. She wanted to rabbit down the stairs and out into the fresh air. The past and all her mistakes were too close. “I have to get out of here. I can’t come back to the hotel until he checks out, and he won’t leave until he finds me. What am I going to do? I’ll have to quit this job. I like it here.” That last sentence was said with a slight tremble. Helen realized it was true.

  “You don’t have to leave,” Denise said. “We’ll protect you.”

  “How am I going to get out of here without Rob seeing me?”

  “We’ll sneak you out while he’s in his room. There’s no reason for you to quit work. We’ll bring you up the back stairs and you can clean on three. He won’t go up there.”

  “But he’ll see me when I leave,” Helen said.

  “Not if you take the stairs. Only the health nuts use them. Most guests take the elevator. We can get you safely in and out.”

  “Don’t forget you’re a maid,” Cheryl said. “No one notices us. That smock is your cloak of invisibility.”

  There was a squawk on Denise’s walkie-talkie. “Subject heading for his room,” Sondra reported.

  Denise waited a few minutes, then grabbed a stack of towels. “Reconnaissance,” she said. “I’ll be back.”

  She returned shortly, without the towels. “Your ex has the Do Not Disturb sign on his door. It’s safe to leave.”

  “What happened to your towels?” Helen said.

  “Guy letting himself into 212 wanted extras,” Denise said.

  Helen stood up, surprised at how good she suddenly felt. She wasn’t afraid anymore. The other maids would protect her. She would survive.

  “Let’s get you out of here,” Denise said. She opened the door and studied the hall. “We’ll make a run for the stairs on the count of three. One. Two. Three.”

  Denise and Cheryl surrounded Helen like trained bodyguards. They briskly crossed the hall to the stairs and threw open the door without stopping. Helen ran down to the parking lot. Once outside, she breathed in the humid air. She was free.

  “I’ll drive you home,” Cheryl said.

  “I’d rather walk,” Helen said. “Thank you both for your help. I appreciate it.”

  “Any woman would do it,” Denise said.

  But Helen knew her own mother wouldn’t help her. She’d send Helen back to Rob’s lying arms. She’d say it was Helen’s wifely duty to put up with his infidelity. She’d endured her own husband’s tomcatting, and she expected her daughter to do the same.

  Helen found a pay phone two blocks from the hotel and called Margery. “Rob’s staying at my hotel,” she said.

  “On purpose?” Margery asked.

  “By accident.”

  “He hasn’t come to the Coronado,” Margery said. “Come home and relax. We can see any cars that pull into the parking lot. There’s no way he’s getting by me.”

  On the walk home, Helen was acutely aware of small, odd scenes: A bright burst of red flowers. A brown lizard with a throbbing orange throat. A dignified old woman in a motorized wheelchair, her Boston terrier riding at the helm. Could Rob take her away from this rich, colorful life? Then she remembered Rhonda, whose lover promised to take her away to something better. She hoped the troubled maid was enjoying the lush life.

  Margery met her by the gate to the pool. Her landlady was wearing purple espadrilles and ruffled shorts the color of an old bruise. “There’s no sign of that buzzard,” she said. “I’ve been on the lookout for him. Peggy’s on the alert, too. Even Pete’s watching. We’re all out by the pool. There’s someone I wanted you to meet.”

  “Please don’t tell me Cal’s back. I can’t face him right now.” Helen had had an embarrassing romantic interlude with the long-term Coronado tenant. He still owed her money.

  “No, Cal’s in Canada through December.”

  Helen looked at Margery. “You’ve rented 2C.”

  “Yes,” Margery said too cheerfully. “I have a nice older woman in there.”

  “What’s she do? Cheat orphans? Rip off widows? Steal from dead men?” Helen said.

  “There’s no need to be sarcastic. I admit we’ve had a few problems with the tenants in 2C.” Margery picked at her nail polish, which was an improbable tangerine.

  “A few? One’s in jail, one runs ads on late-night TV, and the rest skipped town, usually with your towels. Age is no guarantee of honesty. The old ones are as slippery as the young ones.”

  “Arlene’s different,” Margery said. Her mouth was set in a stubborn line.

  “That means she has
n’t been caught yet,” Helen said.

  “Shush,” Margery said. “Don’t let her hear you. Arlene is very normal.”

  Helen caught a flash of red and black, and realized Margery meant normal for South Florida. In Helen’s hometown of St. Louis, Arlene would make jaws drop. She was about sixty-five, with spiky gray hair and a short, sturdy build. Her bright red muumuu made her look like a fireplug. Swinging red earrings and flowered flip-flops completed the ensemble.

  Arlene was talking to Peggy, and the parrot lady looked like she might be enjoying the conversation. Pete was perched on Peggy’s shoulder, watching Arlene with alert eyes.

  “Arlene, meet another neighbor, Helen Hawthorne,” Margery said.

  Arlene stood up, which didn’t make her much taller than when she was sitting down, and held out her hand. “Pleased to meet you. Have some onion dip and chips. It’s my special recipe, with olives and pimento. Can I pour you a drink?”

  Helen had to admit Arlene was a pleasant change from some 2C tenants, who disapproved of drinking. Her olive-and-onion dip was good, too.

  “Can you believe this weather?” she said, throwing out her stubby arms. “Back home in Michigan I’d be shoveling a path to my car. Here I’m sitting by the pool. This is paradise.”

  For thirty minutes, Arlene talked about the fine weather, the rotten move down here, and the impossible traffic, all polite Florida topics. Then she said, “Nice meeting you. Think I’ll turn in.” She gathered up her empty chip dish and flip-flopped to her apartment.

  “What do you think she really does?” Helen asked Peggy after Arlene closed her door.

  “It could be anything,” Peggy said. “Murder, arson, and armed robbery. She has the gift of looking innocent.”

  “Awk!” Pete said.

  “Stop it, you two,” Margery said. Her cigarette looked red and irritated. “Don’t make Arlene pay for my mistakes. She’s not a crook. I checked her out. She has references. She worked at an insurance company for twenty-eight years. She’s retired now. I saw her pension check stub.”

  “And getting a pension proves she’s innocent,” Helen said.

  “It shows she held a steady job for a lot of years,” Margery said. “She is what she says she is.” But her voice lacked conviction. She knew her track record for 2C was not good.