Murder With Reservations (14 page)

“Ohmigod,” Helen said.

“That cherry juice is stickier than honey,” Denise said.

“Maybe we should make a list of the six stickiest things you can clean in a hotel room,” Cheryl said.

Helen’s stomach gave a lurch. “Let’s not go there,” she said. She crawled into the awful empty sundae bowl and started scrubbing. It took an hour and two broken fingernails to get it white and sparkling again.

“Tell me the happy couple left a tip,” Helen said.

“I found a penny on the dresser,” Cheryl said.

“I hope their mother-in-law moves in with them,” Helen said.

Denise came in, a dust rag slung over her shoulder. “Helen, we’re going to Rhonda’s mother’s house after work to pay our respects. I bought a sandwich tray at the supermarket. We took up a collection. You can chip in if you’d like. There’s no funeral time yet because of the autopsy, but we thought we should make a condolence call.”

“I’d like to go,” Helen said, “but my T-shirt’s a sweaty mess.”

“There are some decent blouses in the lost and found,” Denise said. “Your jeans look OK. They’ll dry out by the time we get there. Rhonda’s mom will understand you’re coming from work. But she won’t understand if you don’t show up.”

Helen found a plain white blouse that was fairly clean. It was a little tight at the neck, but she opened the two top buttons and rolled up the sleeves (crookedly). She rode in Denise’s creaky car with the sandwich tray on her knees. Cheryl followed in an old red minivan.

Rhonda’s mother lived in a cinder-block house that looked like a bigger cinder block painted a peeling pink. It had a flat stretch of dusty yard and a discouraged palm tree. A metal hurricane awning hung halfway off the picture window.

Rhonda’s mother looked like her daughter, except she seemed made out of leather. Her skin was tanned dark brown and creased with wrinkles. Her red hair had faded to a rusty gray, and she’d pulled it off her face with a rubber band. Helen couldn’t bear to look at the woman’s eyes. She was afraid she might drown in so much sorrow.

“I’m Shirley.” She held out a strong, calloused hand for Helen to shake. “Thank you for coming.”

“I didn’t know your daughter nearly long enough,” Helen said.

“None of us did,” Shirley said.

Helen stepped into a living room fat with furniture. A huge plaid couch, two plump chairs, and a burly oak coffee table hogged the room. Cheryl, Denise and Helen sidled over to the couch and made awkward small talk.

“Did the police talk to you all?” Shirley said. “Do you think they’re taking her murder seriously?”

“They asked me if Rhonda had changed in the last week or two,” Helen said. “I didn’t know her well enough to answer. Did your daughter seem suddenly worried or happier? Did she come into some money?”

You really are low, Helen told herself. Now you’re pumping a grieving mother.

“She was no more worried than usual,” Shirley said.

“Happiness didn’t follow Rhonda around. As for sudden money, my daughter never had two nickels to rub together.”

Shirley didn’t seem to know about Rhonda’s cash windfall. Her daughter never gave her the plane ticket to Mexico. Poor Shirley. That dream was dead, too. Helen felt another stab of sadness. She didn’t have the nerve to mention the handsome boyfriend.

A white cat came out of the kitchen and sat down in front of the three women, meowing piteously. “That’s Snowball,” Shirley said. “She’s been like that since I found her. She’s looking for Rhonda.”

Cheryl started crying.

Helen heard a thud of boots and a jangle of chains, and a fat biker came out of the kitchen with a beer in one hairy hand. “Looking for food is more like it,” he said. “That cat doesn’t care about anything but dinner.”

“That’s not true,” Shirley said. “Snowball loves Rhonda. She’s hardly touched her food since—” Shirley stopped, unable to go on.

“Who’s that creep?” Helen whispered.

“Sam, the biker boyfriend,” Denise said. She spoke so low her lips barely moved.

Cheryl stopped crying abruptly and stared at the man. Helen thought he looked familiar, or maybe he looked like every mother’s nightmare. His gut flopped over his belt. His dirty hair was braided. A full beard nearly hid the stains on his Sturgis T-shirt.

Then Sam took a gulp of beer and Helen saw the tattoo on his wrist—Seminole Sam. The recognition was like a gut punch. This was the scuzzy guy from room 323 with the two women and the strap-on dildo. Helen wondered who’d used it.

Denise stood up. “We have a little something for you from everyone at the hotel.” She put the envelope in Shirley’s worn hand and patted it.

“Rhonda always spoke so highly of you all,” her mother said.

Helen didn’t dare look at Denise and Cheryl. She wanted to crawl away.

As Shirley shut the front door in a flurry of blessings and thanks, Helen heard Sam say, “Shirl, could you loan me twenty?”

Back in the car, Denise said, “I feel like slime. I want to eat every ugly word I ever said about Rhonda.”

“I’d get a fork and help,” Helen said. She used De-nise’s cell phone to call Margery. “There’s no sign of Rob,” Margery said. “Come on home.”

Denise dropped her off at the Coronado with barely a good-bye. They felt too low and ashamed to say more.

Out by the pool, Helen drank more wine than usual. She tried to follow Arlene’s chatter, but she kept seeing poor, battered Rhonda. When Arlene finally went inside, Margery smoked in silence and Helen stared at the black night sky.

Peggy came dancing back to the Coronado about ten o’clock. “We made it an early night because Glenn has an appointment at six in the morning.” Her voice was soft with suppressed happiness. “We had dinner at a little French bistro, then walked along the water.”

“Sounds romantic,” Helen said.

Margery said nothing.

“Except Glenn kept taking calls from Japan,” Peggy said. “Some deal he’s doing there.” She seemed secretly proud that her man had business half a world away.

“Sounds like a real wheeler-dealer,” Margery said.

Was that sarcasm? If so, Peggy missed it. “Oh, yes,” she said. “He’s involved in a big deal. He’s talking about millions.” She chatted for a few more minutes, then was gone in a rustle of silk.

Helen heard a car door slam and sat straight up. “Is that Rob?”

“Let me look,” Margery said. “You stay behind this bougainvillea.”

Margery came back a few moments later. “Arlene was getting out of Glenn’s limo. What was she doing with him?”

Helen didn’t have to speculate. Arlene was running toward them, almost as excited as Peggy. Her outrageous striped dress looked like a circus tent in a windstorm.

“I’ve always wanted to ride in a limo,” Arlene said, “so I went out and introduced myself to Peggy’s boyfriend as he was leaving. He gave me a ride down Las Olas. The limo has fabulous upholstery and a built-in bar with Waterford crystal. I felt like a queen. Glenn was so nice to me. That’s what I like about being old. Nobody takes you seriously.”

Margery said, “It beats the alternative.” Then she blew a great cloud of smoke.

T
he army of reporters had deserted the Full Moon the next morning. Helen wondered what had lured them from the murder hotel. She slipped in the side entrance and found Craig and Cheryl in the laundry room, listening to a radio turned low. “What’s happening?” Helen asked. “Shh!” Craig said. “It’s Bad Barry and Big Andy.”

“The nasty shock jocks who did the ‘Hotel California’ routine yesterday,” Cheryl added, as if Helen could forget.

“We’re waiting to see if they do their routine again.”

Craig flashed his boy-star smile and turned up the radio a notch. Helen and Cheryl leaned in toward the speaker. She heard maniacal laughter, followed by jackass brays.

“You’re shitting me,” Barry said. “Sweet Cindy, the Channel 19 anchor, was really decapitated?”

“Just confirmed,” Andy said. “Happened on I-95 this morning. A beer truck rolled over her convertible. Way to go, Cindy!” Andy could hardly get the words out. He was snorting like a mad bull. Helen wondered if he pawed the studio floor.

“Gives new meaning to ‘talking head,’ Andy,” Barry said. The pair laughed like demons.

Cheryl looked stunned. “I can’t believe they’d joke about that,” she said.

“I can,” Craig said. He had an odd little grin.

Denise walked in and switched off the radio. “I’m sorry that poor young woman died. But at least we won’t have to spend another day with all those reporters. They’re on to the next tragedy. Now, everyone go to work. Cheryl, you and Helen start on three. Craig and I will clean on two.”

Craig followed Denise quietly, like a puppy off his feed. Maybe he really had been sick yesterday.

Up on three, Helen and Cheryl went about their work swiftly. Soon they were in the zone, dusting, sweeping and scrubbing with hardly a word between them. The thrill seekers had checked out, leaving behind mounds of beer cans and pizza boxes.

“The beer cans are all empty,” Cheryl said. “You’d think they could have left us a couple of full ones if they weren’t going to tip.”

Helen kept sticking her head out the room door, looking for Denise. The head housekeeper had promised to search Rob’s room. It was nearly noon when Helen saw her in the doorway of 312, hands on her hips. Apparently Denise had struck pay dirt, with the accent on
dirt.

“I waited until Craig was on break,” Denise said. “It wouldn’t do to have a trainee see me violate the rules. Your ex-husband left about ten this morning. I just now had the chance to go through his room. Does Rob swing both ways?”

“No,” Helen said. “He only inflicts himself on the female sex.”

Cheryl turned off the water in the bathroom and leaned against the doorjamb to listen.

“Well, he’s got a guy’s name and phone number on his dresser today—a Jeffrey Tennyson Barker,” Denise said. “There’s also a newspaper story about this Jeffrey. I don’t want to sound prejudiced, but Jeff looks a little light in the loafers.”

Helen sat down hard on the queen bed she’d been making. “Ohmigod. Jeff. Yes, he’s gay. He was also my boss at my last job, the Barker Brothers Pampered Pet Boutique. I’ve got to get to him before Rob does.”

What was I thinking? Helen asked herself. Why didn’t I call Jeff yesterday, after I talked with Millicent at the bridal shop? Phil wasn’t the one who underestimated my ex.

Denise handed Helen her cell phone. “Here,” she said. “Make the call now.”

She stood so close, Helen could smell her old-fashioned soap. Camay? Denise acts like I’m going to bolt out the door, Helen thought. She wished she could. Suddenly Helen wanted to be far away from this hotel. She felt a brief stab of nostalgia for Jeff’s dog boutique, with Lulu the well-dressed beagle-dachshund.

“Hello,” Helen said into the cell phone.

Jeff recognized her voice even before she identified herself. “Sweetie, how are you?” She could hear frantic barking. “Lulu, quiet! I’ll give you a treat, but only if you’re a good girl.” The barks turned into hopeful whines.

“You must have been a very good girl, Helen, for someone to leave you nearly a million dollars,” Jeff said.

“Rob was at your store.” Helen gripped the phone as if it would leap out of her hand. She tried to make her voice sound normal, but it skidded up and down like a teenage boy’s.

“Yes, he was. Such a cutie,” Jeff said. “Nice buns on that boy, and bearing gifts, besides. Aren’t you the lucky one? We’re so sorry we couldn’t remember the hotel where you’re working now.”

Helen let out the breath she didn’t know she was holding.

“But we remembered the name of the divine little Art Deco apartment building where you live,” Jeff said. “Irk,” Helen said.

“Don’t thank us,” Jeff said. “Although any part of that million you want to give us as a token of your regard will be just fine. Lulu, don’t nip the nice customer. Helen, I have to go.”

The line went dead. Helen felt like her brain had been disconnected at the same time.

“Rob found you,” Denise said.

“He found my home,” Helen said. “I need to call my landlady.”

Helen’s fingers fumbled so badly with the phone buttons she couldn’t make the call. After the third try Denise took the phone from her hands. “What’s the number?” she asked.

Denise punched in Margery’s number and hit send, then handed Helen the phone.

Margery answered on the first ring. “He’s here,” she said, her words flat and clipped. “Outside by the pool. I’m making him a drink. Call me in an hour.” She hung up before Helen could ask anything. If Margery made him a drink, Rob wouldn’t be able to cause trouble this afternoon. Her screwdrivers could anesthetize a rhino.

Helen spent a miserable hour trying to clean the rooms. She knew she was doing a terrible job. The beds were lumpy. The freshly polished furniture looked like it was smeared with grease. Cheryl kept straightening the bedspreads and wiping down the dresser tops after her.

At one o’clock Helen called Margery. “All clear,” her landlady said. “Rob’s gone, but I don’t think he’s going back to the hotel right away. I’ll give you the details when you come home. Don’t worry. You’re safe.”

Helen didn’t feel safe. She stumbled through two more rooms, tripping, dropping things, and putting the sheets on sideways. When Helen sprayed a mirror with furniture polish, Cheryl said, “You need to go home.”