Murder With Reservations (11 page)

Helen kicked some bags aside. “Nope,” she said. “I’m almost to the bottom. There’s nothing. Wait! I see something orange, like cat fur. No, not orange. More like—”

Red. Long red hair and a stick-thin arm.

“Rhonda’s sleeping with the trash,” Helen said.

I
‘m standing on a dead woman, Helen thought. She stepped back and her foot sank into something sticky. Her stomach made a sickening sideways shift. Please God, don’t let it be Rhonda. Helen looked down and saw she’d squashed a carton of ice cream.

A fat fly stung her neck, and she slapped it. Maybe I can slap some sense into myself. Poor Rhonda’s dead and I’ve insulted her.
Rhonda’s sleeping with the trash.
How could I say something so stupid?

The parking lot was unnaturally quiet, except for a soft, steady weeping. She peered over the side of the Dumpster and saw Cheryl was making that mournful sound. Denise stood as if she’d been turned to stone. Even her curly white hair didn’t move.

“I’m sorry, Cheryl,” Helen said. “I should have never said that about Rhonda. I guess I was in shock, but that’s no excuse.”

Cheryl cried harder, a roller coaster of wails that raised the hair on Helen’s neck. I’ve got to get out of here, she thought. Denise was still paralyzed, staring at the body with her mouth hanging open in surprise. Helen wondered if one of the buzzing flies would sail inside, and almost giggled. Do something, Denise. You got me into this mess.

Helen looked down again at the tangle of orange-red hair and the pale greenish arm lying across a clear plastic bag. She could see a red-and-white can through the plastic.

“Rhonda is hugging the honeymooners’ whipped cream,” Helen said. “She’d hate that.” She almost giggled again, but managed to control herself. What’s wrong with my mouth? Why are all these wretched things coming out of it?

Cheryl howled louder. The sound jarred loose a wild, hopeful thought in Helen. Maybe the woman in the Dumpster wasn’t Rhonda. Maybe it was some stranger and she wasn’t dead. She was a homeless person who’d crawled in there for a nap and fainted from the heat.

Helen moved the head gently to see the face. She heard a shriek of shock and horror, then realized she’d made that sound. She was screaming. The woman was definitely Rhonda, though Helen hardly recognized her. She was also definitely dead. Her face was a dreadful mix of dark reds, vile greens and purples. It was oddly lopsided. She’s been beaten, Helen thought. Someone hit her so hard they broke the bones in her face.

Helen slowly lowered the battered head back on the trash bag, as if it were a pillow. Rhonda had had a hard life and a harder death.

Cheryl was making odd birdlike screeches. They finally broke Denise’s trance. “Cheryl,” she said. “Stop that.” It was her stern-nun voice, and it worked, sort of. Cheryl subsided into soft weeping.

Denise issued her next order to Helen. “Get out of that Dumpster,” she said. “You can’t do anything more for Rhonda. You crawled in there to find her, and that was brave. You saved her from being buried in a landfill.”

Helen looked once more at Rhonda’s broken body. She was wearing a high-collared blue blouse, bloody and ripped, exposing an arm with black-red streaks. The arm was limp. So was her neck. Rigor mortis had come and gone. Helen remembered the last time she’d seen Rhonda alive. She’d watched her disappear into the night shadows, an arresting figure in her old-fashioned blouse.

“Rhonda died the night she left work,” Helen said. “She wore this blouse. Her mother was right. Rhonda never abandoned her cat. She didn’t make it home. She was here in this Dumpster all the time.”

“God forgive me for my hard words,” Denise said. The big woman seemed to collapse under the weight of her guilt. Even her tight white hair looked pressed down. Cheryl’s soft tears continued, an endless reproach.

The back door banged open and Sondra rushed out, a cell phone in her hand. “What’s wrong?” she said. “Who’s screaming? Is someone hurt?”

“Call 911,” Denise said, taking charge once more. “We’ve found Rhonda. She’s dead.”

“Dear Lord.” Sondra punched in the number while Denise helped Helen out of the Dumpster. Helen’s legs were wobbly. She would have fallen off the recycling bin, but Denise caught her. Her jeans were covered with odd stains, and her T-shirt was wet with sweat.

“The police are on their way,” Sondra reported. “Nobody can leave the hotel. We can’t check in any more guests or let anyone leave until the police question everyone. We all have to stay here. Where’s the new guy,

Craig?”

“I guess he’s getting dressed,” Helen said. “I’ll go find him before he goes home.”

She was glad to get away from Rhonda’s battered body, the reeking Dumpster and the weeping Cheryl. The festering stink of death nearly smothered her. Flies hummed a frantic requiem.

Helen checked the laundry room on the first floor. Craig’s smock was in the dirty laundry, but there was no sign of him. Did he leave already? She checked the second floor, praying her ex hadn’t sneaked back into the hotel during the commotion. No Craig. No Rob, either.

Helen finally found Craig in the third-floor housekeeping room. He was on his knees, his bright yellow head wedged under a storage shelf. “Craig?” she said.

Startled, he jerked his head up and hit it on the gray metal shelf.

“Ouch,” he said. Craig backed out slowly, giving Helen a heavenly view of his hindquarters. What’s the matter with me? she wondered, angry at herself. Rhonda’s lying dead outside and I’m staring at some guy’s buns.

“I’m sorry,” Helen said. “I didn’t mean to surprise you.”

“You can surprise me anytime,” Craig said. “But there are more interesting ways. I dropped the cap to the spray polish. It rolled under the shelf.” He stood up, dusted off his knees, and held up the yellow plastic cap, treating her to his bad-boy grin.

Helen was in no mood to flirt. “Listen, there’s a problem,” she said. “There’s been an accident. We found a dead woman in the Dumpster.”

“You’re kidding,” he said.

“I’m not. It’s the maid you replaced, Rhonda. The police don’t want us to leave the hotel. You can wait with us downstairs.”

“Why do I have to stay?” he said. “I didn’t know her.”

“It’s what the cops want,” she said. “Denise sent me to get you.”

“OK,” he said, and shrugged. He trotted alongside her like a puppy. But now Helen had no thoughts for her cute companion. Rhonda’s death—no, murder— had finally sunk in. The police were on their way to the Full Moon. They’d be Seafield Village cops. Would they know the Lauderdale police? She’d had bad luck finding bodies. She didn’t want the homicide detectives getting too interested in her.

In the sun-flooded lobby, a gaunt older man was violently shaking the hotel’s front door.

“Why is this door locked?” he demanded. He had bird legs, Bermuda shorts and an angry red complexion. “I demand an explanation.”

Denise came hurrying in, making soothing sounds. “I’m sorry, sir, but there’s been a problem. The police have requested that all staff and guests remain in the hotel for a short time.”

“What? I’m a prisoner? What kind of problem? I’m not here for problems. I’m on vacation.”

“One of our maids was found dead, sir,” Denise said. “The police are on their way.”

“What does that have to do with me?” he said.

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” Denise began.

“Inconvenience! I have dinner plans at the country club. This isn’t my problem. I don’t talk to the help.”

You’re talking to the help right now, you old creep, Helen thought.

“I’m sorry, sir, but our instructions are—”

“I’ll make sure this hotel loses its stars and AAA rating, young lady,” he said. “This is an outrage. I can’t believe I’m delayed for a maid.” He spit out the last word, then stalked over to the elevators, leaving behind an ugly silence.

“I’d better stay at the front desk in case more guests show up,” Denise said. “Sondra’s guarding the Dumpster and talking to the 911 operator on her cell phone. She has to stay on the line until the police arrive. Helen, will you and Craig go into the laundry room and fix Cheryl a cup of tea?”

Tea. Denise’s remedy for everything from man trouble to murder. Rhonda had been the last person dosed with hot tea, after she found the body in room 323. Now we’ve found her body. It was a sickening thought.

Cheryl was sitting on a pile of unfolded sheets, still sniffling. Craig threw himself down on a wide laundry table.

“Don’t get too comfortable.” Helen filled a cup with tap water and handed it to him. “Go find a tea bag in the breakfast room and nuke this.”

Craig did not look pleased to be an errand boy, but Helen was not going out in the hall. She couldn’t risk running into Rob.

Cheryl’s eyelids were swollen and puffy, and her cheeks were wet with tears. Helen patted her back, like a mother soothing a sick baby. Cheryl is a kind person, she thought. She must feel really guilty about the mean things she said about Rhonda. But we all said them. I blurted something far worse in the Dumpster.

Craig returned with the tea, then went back to sprawling on the laundry table. Helen added three packs of sugar to the cup and took it to Cheryl.

“Here,” she said.”Drink this.You’ll feel better. Cheryl, don’t blame yourself. We all said things we wish we hadn’t about Rhonda. We didn’t know she was dead.”

Cheryl took a sip of tea, wiped her eyes, and said, “I feel bad about Rhonda, but that’s not why I’m crying. When the police get here, they’re going to find out about my record.”

“What record?” Helen said. She looked at Cheryl’s curly brown head and innocent eyes and wondered what kind of trouble the little maid could get into.

“I got busted for shoplifting right after Angel was born,” Cheryl said.

“What did you take?” Helen asked.

“Disposable diapers.”

Craig burst out laughing. It was a hard, cruel sound. Suddenly Helen didn’t think he was quite so cute.

“It’s not funny,” Cheryl said. “Diapers are expensive. Angel’s daddy wouldn’t give me any money and I didn’t know what to do. The store prosecuted me and I got probation.”

“We’re not laughing at you,” Helen said. “But you aren’t exactly Ted Bundy. You were just a mom with money worries. This is murder. The police are going to be looking for someone who did more than boost diapers.”

Someone like me, she thought, who keeps finding dead people.

Cheryl took a gulp of tea this time. “You’re right. I feel guilty saying nasty things about Rhonda. Three days ago she offered me a hundred dollars to buy presents for my little girl. I turned her down because I didn’t want to be beholden to anyone. How could I be so mean? She was just trying to be nice.” Her voice wobbled, but this time she didn’t cry.

Helen wondered where Rhonda got a hundred bucks—and the fifty she flashed with her dinner invitation. Who was paying her, and why? Was it the mysterious boyfriend?

Or did she find the bank robbery stash? The Full Moon was one giant treasure hunt. Illegal, illicit, ill-gotten money trailed through the hotel, making people crazier than crack. It had sensible Denise looking in the potted-palm pot and Sondra taking apart the air vent. Cheryl admitted she’d searched every room in the hotel. They were all obsessed with finding that money.

Suppose Rhonda had found it and refused to share the wealth? Would a coworker murder her in a burst of rage?

Helen thought of plump, solid Denise. Could she kill for cash? She was strong enough to beat Rhonda to death. What about Cheryl, hoping for a better life for her child? Would mother love drive her to murder? Did clever Sondra, working long hours to make it through school, finally snap? A cold cash compress could cure their ills.

Suddenly Cheryl was crying again. Her loud wails were joined by the sirens. The police had arrived.

T
o meet the homicide detective, Helen donned her cloak of invisibility. The hotel cleaning smock had amazing powers—it could transform a hot babe into a hag. When Helen put it on, she felt like she’d been cursed by an evil witch. Her shoulders slumped, her waist thickened, and her hips widened. Its mustard color turned her skin the tone of old curry.