Murder With Reservations (7 page)

“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 hasn’t been caught yet,” Helen said.

“Shush,” Margery said. “Don’t let her hear you. Ar-lene 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.

“Time will tell,” Peggy said. “I’d love to talk, ladies, but I have to go.”

Helen looked closer at her friend. “Is that a new green blouse? And a very classy makeup job, including a subtle touch of eye shadow? You’ve got a date. I thought Pete was the only man for you.”

“Awk!” Pete said.

Peggy’s pale complexion was highlighted with the faintest pink. “He is. I’m meeting a guy for coffee on Las Olas. It’s not a date. It’s only a grande latte.”

” ‘This could be the start of something big,’ ” Helen sang off-key.

Peggy glared at her.

“So who is he?” Margery said.

“What is this, high school?” Peggy said. She rose out of her chaise longue so fast Pete flapped his wings to stay on her shoulder. “I’m going to be late. I have to take Pete home.”

“Coward,” Margery said. “You don’t want to talk.”

Peggy giggled and ran toward her apartment.

“I’d better say good night, too,” Helen said.

“Don’t worry about Rob,” Margery said. “I’m a light sleeper. He can’t go sneaking past me.”

Helen heard Peggy’s door slam again and watched her friend run lightly across the lawn, the full silk sleeves of her blouse fluttering like butterfly wings. Where did Peggy get the courage to date again, after her last man betrayed her with a stripper? She seemed happy, hopeful and touchingly brave.

Helen walked to her own apartment, and bolted the door against the man she’d once loved.

T
he next morning Helen sneaked into the hotel while her ex was in bed. Years ago, she’d dreamed of slipping up some sleazy back stairs and having an affair with her own husband. She’d wanted hot honeymoon sex, with the headboard thumping against the wall.

Then she found out Rob was already having hot sex, just not with her. Now she was sneaking into a hotel, hoping to avoid her ex-husband so she could rendezvous with a dust rag.

Helen’s plans had never included hiding behind a smelly Dumpster. But Denise told her to be at the back door by the Dumpsters at eight thirty. The big rusty green containers were hidden by a stockade fence, but it couldn’t hold in the powerful stink of sun-roasted garbage. Guests never used this door unless they were up to no good.

Denise was waiting at the entrance. “Hurry,” she whispered, though there was no need to lower her voice. “Your ex is still in his room.” Helen could swear the head housekeeper was enjoying this covert operation.

As she sidled past the Dumpsters, Helen caught some odd top notes to the garbage bouquet. “What’s that perfumey smell?” she said. It was somewhere between her grandmother’s dusting powder and a flowery room deodorizer.

“It’s the latest thing—trash perfume,” Denise said, leading the way up the stairs. “All the big hotels and high-class condos use it. You put this perfume on the trash and it doesn’t smell so bad. Keeps the kids away, too. Some boys were playing in the Dumpsters, but they won’t get near our trash if they come out smelling like girlie perfume.”

Hmm. The Full Moon’s owner enjoyed sneaking up on the little buggers in the Dumpsters and scaring them to death. And the rank garbage didn’t bother the guests. Most never even knew about this door. Sybil certainly wasn’t sensitive to odors. Her office reeked of refrigerated smoke.

“Are you sure there isn’t another reason?” Helen asked.

Denise stopped on the second floor to mop her forehead with her perpetual wad of tissues. Helen could see the big woman’s sides were heaving and her face was red. Climbing three flights was not easy for her, and she welcomed a chance to rest.

“Sybil thought she could cut back on trash pickup one day a week if she doused the Dumpsters with perfume,” Denise said. “It’s not supposed to be used that way, but Sybil is always looking for a way to save money.”