Murder With Reservations (8 page)

“Now, that makes sense,” Helen said. She thought honest trash smelled better. She’d caught an unpleasant whiff of decay under the perfume. But she didn’t say anything. Denise seemed proud of this pungent cost-cutting innovation.

“We had a stroke of luck this morning,” Denise said. “A new cleaner showed up at eight o’clock. That’s a minor miracle right there, someone in South Florida looking for work so early in the morning. He saw our ad in the paper. Sybil and I had him clean room 112. He did a good job. We hired him on the spot.”

“He?” Helen said. “Rhonda’s replacement is a man?”

“A cute one, too,” Denise said.

“Cute?” Helen said. Sister Mary Justine never said
cute.
Denise no longer looked like the stern nun. She was smiling like a love-struck teen. “How old is this guy?”

“He’s twenty-four,” Denise said. “They were very good years.”

“Why is a guy that age cleaning rooms?” Helen said. “He could make real money in construction. If he’s that cute, he could park cars on South Beach for big tips.”

“Maybe he likes it,” Denise said. “His grandma cleaned houses. She taught him well. A man can clean as well as a woman. I’m not prejudiced.”

“Especially against cute guys,” Helen said, but she grinned, and Denise knew she was kidding. “Hey, I’ve nothing against scenic coworkers.”

“You won’t see him until after break today. You’re working the third floor again with Cheryl, until your ex leaves the hotel. We figured you’d be safest up there. Sondra and I will keep an eye out for your ex. Here’s your smock.”

Helen put on her cloak of invisibility, but she was jumpy and distracted all morning. There was no reason for Rob to come upstairs, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t.

The cleaning did not go well. Some of it was the guests’ fault. The rest of the blame went to Helen. The couple in room 308 left two used condoms on the floor. Room 310 was a checkout, which required a deep cleaning. It didn’t seem especially difficult until Helen opened the nightstand drawer to dust the inside.

“What’s this stuff?” she said. “Looks like mulch.”

“Don’t touch it. Let me see.” Cheryl pulled a red bag out of the trash. “I thought so. Sunflower seeds. The guy spit the hulls into the drawer.”

Helen’s stomach flopped like a fresh-caught fish. “What’s wrong with the waste can?” she said.

“He doesn’t have to use it. He’s not at home,” Cheryl said. “People go to hotel rooms so they can indulge their fantasies. For some it’s sex, drugs or booze. But others enjoy being slobs. Women who have to pick up after their families love to throw towels on the floor. Men whose wives nag them for being sloppy Joes leave nasty surprises like this.”

Cheryl found a shirt cardboard in the trash and scooped the damp sunflower hulls out of the drawer.

“Doesn’t that make you mad?” Helen asked.

“No,” she said. “I just wish they’d tip when they go on a slob bender.”

“Did Mr. Sunflower leave anything besides those hulls?” Helen asked.

“Seventeen cents.”

“Bringing our tip total for today up to a dollar twenty-three,” Helen said.

“I’ve fought to stay off welfare, because I want my daughter to be proud of me,” Cheryl said. “But it’s a struggle. If everybody tipped a dollar a room, my life would be much easier.”

“Twenty rooms. Ten bucks a day for each of us,” Helen said. “If I was making an extra fifty a week, my uninsured root canal wouldn’t have been so painful. A bellman carries the bags thirty feet across the lobby and gets tipped two bucks. We’re up here lifting mattresses and cleaning spit seeds out of drawers, and people won’t tip us.” She flipped the spread off the bed so hard she knocked the lamp shade crooked.

“Helen, don’t waste your energy getting angry over what you can’t change,” Cheryl said. “It will wear you down.” She scraped out the rest of the drawer and sprayed the inside with cleaner.

Suddenly Helen understood why Rhonda refused to clean the whipped-cream Jacuzzi. After years of dirty diapers on the bedspreads and wet towels on the floor, something had snapped. Rhonda was tired of being used and angry at the inhumane expectation that she’d clean up anything, no matter how disgusting. She felt wiped out, invisible. No wonder she ran off with a man who gave her fifty-dollar bills. It beat dollar-twenty-three tips.

Cheryl didn’t seem to be afflicted with that same anger. She serenely vacuumed the carpet. Helen straightened the lamp shade and turned out the lights. They closed the door on another clean room.

“Let’s see what delights 314 has for us,” Cheryl said. She started to open the door when she heard a low feral growl, and slammed it shut.

“Is that a guest?” Helen said. It sounded like the room was rented to a werewolf.

“It’s an illegal dog,” Cheryl said. “Probably a little ankle biter, but I’m not going in there. I’m a maid, not a postal worker. I’ll tell the front desk. The guests sneaked in that animal to avoid the twenty-five-dollar pet fee.”

Any other day, Helen would have laughed. But the growling dog made her more jittery. It was something else she didn’t expect when she wanted no surprises. Helen was so rattled, she pulled the sheets off a bed she’d already made.

Every time Cheryl’s walkie-talkie squawked, Helen jumped or dropped something. Denise, the head housekeeper, kept her alerted to Rob’s progress. She called Cheryl’s walkie-talkie every half hour. Rob was in his room at nine, nine thirty and ten that morning. Ditto for ten, ten thirty and eleven. At noon he finally emerged from 210, looking freshly showered and shaved. Denise called upstairs, and Helen hid in an empty guest room until she gave the all-clear.

When Rob’s car was gone for twenty minutes, Denise searched his room. She came upstairs to deliver her report. “Your ex wears expensive clothes, throws his socks on the floor, leaves beer cans by the bed and has a woman’s phone number on the dresser.”

“Nothing has changed,” Helen said. “He’s still skirt chasing. At least he’s single now.”

“He’s taking Rogaine, too. He’s losing his hair.”

“Good.” Helen felt a small, secret satisfaction. Rob was proud of his thick blond hair.

“What’s the unlucky woman’s name?” Helen said.

“Juliana,” Denise said. “I wrote down her phone number.”

That was the dress shop where Helen used to work. She felt dizzy with relief. The former boutique was now a coal-fired-pizza place. “Thank God,” Helen said. “Juliana isn’t a woman. It’s where I worked four or five jobs ago. There’s no way Rob can trace me from that number. The dress shop is out of business.”

“Oh,
that
Juliana,” Denise said. “I remember reading about it in the newspapers. Or maybe I saw it on TV. Wasn’t there a murder there?”

A murder. And a trial. Helen’s testimony didn’t make the paper, but some of her coworkers’ did. Her ex could find the details in the old newspapers at the library. He could track down the shop’s staff and find Helen. She frantically ran through her mental files. Who had testified? The owner was in Canada. One coworker was dead. But there was Tara. Right. Helen had to call Tara and warn her. She would be an easy target for Rob’s greasy charm.

“Quick! I need to use the pay phone in the lobby,” Helen said. “Will you stand guard for me? There’s someone I have to warn, a woman from my old job. Rob may be able to find her.”

“Use my cell,” Cheryl said.

Helen looked up Tara’s home number in a guest room phone book and punched it in with fear-clumsy fingers. There was no answer. Good, she thought. If I can’t reach her, neither can Rob.

She didn’t leave Tara a message. Helen didn’t want the former saleswoman to know her current job. Rob might be a flirtatious old white guy, but Tara was susceptible to old white guys, especially if they looked rich. Rob would look rich even when he was down to his last dime.

“No luck,” Helen said, and handed the phone back to Cheryl.

She tried to work, but she was useless. In room 317 Helen knocked over a half-full can of Pepsi. The sticky liquid ran over the edge of the dresser and dripped onto the carpet. Helen tried to wipe it up, and smeared it further.

“Good thing this room is a checkout,” Cheryl said, scrubbing the stained carpet. “There would be hell to pay if you spilled soda on a guest’s belongings.”

When she finished rescuing the dresser and the carpet, Cheryl gave Helen her cell phone. “Try again,” she said. “You won’t be any good until you reach that woman.”

Helen called. Still no answer. She didn’t have Tara’s cell phone number. She imagined a hundred disastrous scenarios, each one a horror movie starring Rob. In
The Great Giveaway,
she saw Tara handing Helen’s home address to Rob. In
My Little Runaway,
Helen saw Tara abandoning her current boyfriend for Rob. Helen knew that last movie would never be made. Paulie might be crude as a bus-station toilet stall, but he was filthy rich. Exotic-looking Tara, with her size-two figure and long dark curtain of hair, had an adding machine for a heart. She’d figure out Rob didn’t have any money the first time he hit her up for the dinner check.

Still, the movies didn’t stop. Helen continued to torment herself. She dropped a room phone and hopelessly tangled the cord. She tripped over a wastebasket full of cigarette ashes.

Cheryl slapped her cell phone into Helen’s hand for the third time. “Call again.” She sounded out of patience. Her daughter might be named Angel, but Cheryl wasn’t a saint yet.

Helen hit redial, the only button on the phone she could manage, and prayed.

Tara picked up on the third ring. “Helen,” she said.

Helen heard the pleasure in Tara’s voice. After a rocky start, they’d genuinely liked each other.

“I haven’t heard from you in ages,” Tara said. “I guess you’re calling to thank me. Congratulations. No one deserves good luck more than you.”

“What good luck?” Helen said, knowing she didn’t have any.

“The St. Louis lawyer who’s trying to track you down, silly,” Tara said. “That’s why you’re calling me, isn’t it? He said you’d inherited almost a million dollars. He wanted to get in touch with you. I didn’t know your phone number—oh, wait, you don’t have one, do you? I couldn’t remember your address, but I said you lived in that cute little place near the old shop, the Cranford.”

“The Cranford?” Helen said, relief flooding her voice.

“Yes. That’s the name of your apartment house, isn’t it?”

“Right,” Helen lied. “The Cranford Apartments. I just called to say thank-you. It was a complete surprise. How is Paulie these days?” She played a brief game of catchup. As they talked, Helen wondered if Tara still flipped her waist-length hair. It had seemed to be in constant motion at the store.

When Helen hung up the phone, she sank down with relief on a freshly made bed.

She was safe. At least for now. Tara had accidentally sent Rob to a dead end.

H
elen spent her break staring at the rain. This was a Florida frog strangler, a lashing rain that turned the long lobby windows into tropical waterfalls. Even through the gray veil of water, Helen could see the Full Moon’s lawn was a lake and the parking lot was flooded. She watched the headlights of the cars trying to negotiate the hubcap-deep water.

A storm so fierce would be over soon, but so would Helen’s break. She morosely munched her pretzels, gone soggy in the humidity. She might as well eat salted sawdust. Nothing was going right today.

“Helen!” Cheryl said. “Get away from those windows. What if your ex-husband sees you?” Her dark curls were crinkled with concern.

“He won’t be out in this weather,” Helen said. “Rob is holed up in a bar somewhere.”

“You’re taking an unnecessary risk,” she said. “Let’s go upstairs. Ready to tackle room 323?”

“Do we have a choice?” Helen tossed the rest of her limp pretzels in the trash and brushed the salt off her smock.

“There’s always a choice,” Cheryl said. “But we may not like it.”

Helen was in no mood for philosophy. Even a stoic would have trouble facing room 323.

She nearly gagged when Cheryl unlocked the door. The greasy odor of old pizza and stale cigarette smoke smacked her in the face.

“No doubt about it,” Helen said. “A smoker slept here.”

“Slept badly, too,” Cheryl said. “You can tell a lot looking at a bed someone’s slept in. You can see if he was alone or with someone. When you see the sheets all tumbled and twisted, you know he had a night full of worries.”

Helen hoped she didn’t have many nights like this guest. The sheets were tortured into knots and the pillows were punched into unyielding lumps. She pulled off the bedding and put on new sheets, the king-size expanse of linen flapping like a ship’s sails. As she raised her arms, lightning strikes of pain threaded down her shoulders and stabbed her neck and back. Her body still wasn’t used to hard labor.

“Doesn’t this job wear you down?” Helen said, rubbing her sore shoulder. She had another date with the Motrin bottle tonight.

“Working at the convenience store was worse,” Cheryl said, carefully dumping a butt-filled wastebas-ket into the trash bag. That was supposed to be Helen’s job, but Cheryl wasn’t taking any chances today. “I worked the late shift and lived in constant fear I would be gunned down by a robber. Drunk guys yelled at me. Women screamed when I didn’t move fast enough. After two weeks I quit to clean homes, but I burned out on that, too. You can’t please some people. When this job opened up, I took it and was glad. I do my work. No one breathes down my neck. When I’m done, I go home.”