Murder With Reservations (9 page)

A good attitude, Helen thought, though she wasn’t sure that 323 would ever get done. The room had more ash than Pompeii. Helen sprayed the furniture with lemon wax, but the cigarette ash floated into the air and settled somewhere else. She sprayed the dresser so much, the ash stuck in the lemon muck.

Enough, Helen decided. Smokers sleep here. They’re not going to mind a little ash. She started dusting inside the drawers.At least this guest didn’t spit sunflower seeds in them.

Helen wiped out the top drawer in the long dark dresser. It wouldn’t shut. She pulled it out a little more and shoved it back in. The drawer was stuck. She yanked it harder, and pulled it out completely. Helen tried to force it back into the dresser. No luck. Helen felt like a befuddled baby trying to shove a square puzzle piece into a round hole.

“What’s wrong with this drawer?” Helen asked, trying to slam it into the dresser.

Cheryl popped out of the bathroom. “Another problem?” she said.

“This drawer won’t go back in,” Helen said, sounding like a petulant child.

Cheryl put down her bathroom spray and got on her knees before the dresser, as if bowing to a dark beast. She expertly jiggled the drawer, while making soft, soothing sounds. It slid smoothly into place.

“I’m sorry I’m so much trouble today,” Helen said.

“That drawer is not your fault,” Cheryl said. “It’s left over from the bank robber.”

“You had a bank robber stay here?”

“I thought everyone knew about Donnie Duane Her-kins. Robbed the Seafield Bank and Trust six months ago. It was all over TV.”

“I don’t follow the news as well as I should,” Helen said. “I guess I missed that story.”

“Donnie Duane didn’t actually rob the bank,” Cheryl said. “He carjacked a depositor on her way to the bank in broad daylight. She was an office manager delivering the cash deposits for a telemarketing company. The owners were too cheap to hire an armored car service.

They made their office manager take the money to the bank. Donnie Duane pistol-whipped the woman and stole a hundred thousand dollars in cash.” Helen whistled.

“That’s a lot of cash. What were they selling?”

“Septic tank cleaner,” Denise said. “The cops thought it was way too much cash, too. Once they started poking around, the telemarketing company suddenly pulled the plug. They’re out of business—at least under that name.

“Donnie Duane got all their dirty money, then took a room at our hotel, two miles from the bank.”

“That was dumb,” Helen said. “Why would he do that?”

Cheryl shrugged. “Didn’t make the slightest sense to me. The FBI believed he had an accomplice in the area and was waiting for the guy to show up when he got caught.”

“Did the robber go to prison?”

“He wasn’t that lucky,” Cheryl said. “His picture was on TV every ten seconds. An anonymous caller spotted him at our hotel and told the police. They surrounded the place and evacuated everybody so he couldn’t take hostages. Donnie Duane was asleep in this very room— 323. He didn’t realize what was going on until it was too late. He tried to climb out the window.”

“I thought the windows were sealed,” Helen said.

“They are. He threw a chair through the glass and tried to escape. He didn’t make it. They shot him right out of the window. Donnie Duane died in the parking lot. He looked so young lying there on the blacktop. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that sight.”

Helen stared at the ordinary square hotel window with its plain blue curtain. It was hard to believe a man died there. Cheryl leaned against the bathroom door, her chores forgotten. Her voice was sad, but her eyes were bright and her face was pink. Donnie Duane’s death was the most exciting thing that ever happened at the Full Moon.

“The FBI took this room apart looking for the money,” Cheryl said. “They never found the hundred thousand dollars. They think he may have been setting up a drug buy, and that’s why he stayed here, waiting for his contact.”

“Do you think his accomplice made off with the hundred thousand?”

“No,” Cheryl said. “If the deal went through, Don-nie Duane would have cleared out. There was no other reason for him to stay. It was plain foolish with a manhunt going on. The loot was never found. That cash just vanished.

“The FBI searched the hotel for days. The dresser drawers have never been right since they worked the room over. You never saw such a mess, but the feds didn’t find a dollar. Rhonda and I used to joke that we were gonna find that money ourselves and disappear.”

“Do you think it’s still here in the hotel?” Helen said.

“I don’t think so,” Cheryl said, “or we would have found it.” But her eyes shifted and she studied her sturdy shoes. Helen saw a dark flush steal across Cheryl’s cheeks.

She’s a terrible liar, Helen thought. The staff thinks the cash is still hidden here. That’s why Denise was pulling up palm trees, Rhonda had a head full of dust bunnies and Sondra was taking apart air vents.

“What would you do if you found the money?” Helen asked.

Cheryl didn’t hesitate, and Helen knew she’d given this question a lot of thought. “I’d take my Angel and move to Ohio.”

“Why Ohio?” Helen said.

“Because I’m sick of the Florida heat. Because my mother treats my daughter like a second-class citizen. Because my Aunt Claire lives in Ohio and she loves Angel. There’s another little girl like her in Aunt Claire’s neighborhood. She’s the same age as Angel. They could go to school together, and Angel wouldn’t be so alone.”

“Are the kids mean to her?” Helen said. “They used to call me Four Eyes because I wore glasses.”

“It’s nothing that obvious,” Cheryl said. “The teachers watch for that kind of thing. Only her grandmother calls her a retard.” The bitterness in those words made Helen wince. “The other children are nice and polite, but they don’t invite Angel to their birthday parties, and she sits by herself in the cafeteria. Don’t get me wrong. I’m in favor of inclusion. I’d just like Angel to be in a school where she’d be more included.

“But I can’t afford the move, so I’m stuck here. It’s another dream that will never come true. I looked for that money.We all did.The most I ever found was a five-dollar bill on the hall floor—and that was before the robber checked in.”

Rhonda had been waving fifty-dollar bills before she took off. Did she stumble across the bank money? She’d told Helen what she’d do if she found it. She’d disappear, same as Cheryl.

Now Rhonda was gone.

Then Helen was struck by another thought. Maybe Donnie Duane’s accomplice wasn’t a man. Maybe it was a woman. A woman who worked at the hotel. That’s why he checked into the Full Moon. She put him in touch with the drug dealer. And she knew where the money was. She tipped off the police and got Donnie Duane killed. Then she waited six months, dug around in some dusty hiding place, and disappeared with her boyfriend and the hundred grand from the holdup.

Nah, that had to be a complete fairy tale. Rhonda dressed like an old woman. She wouldn’t date drug dealers. But she was definitely gone.

“Has anyone heard from Rhonda?” Helen said.

“Not a word,” Cheryl said. “I never liked that girl. Leaving us in the lurch is so typical. I’m glad she’s gone.”

Helen bet Rhonda was happy to be out of here, too. Cheryl seemed strangely eager to end the conversation. They finished their rooms early, at two thirty. Helen’s ex-husband still wasn’t back at the hotel.At least the sun was shining for Helen’s walk home. Cheryl sneaked her out by the smelly Dumpsters and Helen promptly stepped in an ankle-deep puddle. She squished down to a pay phone hidden behind a dripping ficus tree and called Margery.

“Is Rob there?” she asked.

“Haven’t seen a tail feather on that buzzard,” her landlady said. “Come on home.”

It was too wet to sit out by the pool, but Helen knocked on Margery’s door. She was making homemade screwdrivers with a juicer she’d confiscated from one of the hightailed tenants in 2C. The juicer sounded like a buzz saw as it gleefully gutted the oranges. Margery held down the hapless orange halves, a maniacal grin on her wrinkled face. She looked cool in a tie-dyed purple top and lavender shorts. Slender thong sandals showed off her bold tangerine pedicure.

“Where’s Peggy?” Helen said. “Still at work?”

“Out on a date with that guy from the other night,” Margery said, fretting and measuring.

“That’s good,” Helen said.

“Is it?” Margery asked. She handed Helen a tall, frosted glass. “Vitamin C with a little anesthesia.”

“I need it,” Helen said. “I’d like to forget this whole day.”

She told Margery how Rob had tricked her former coworker, Tara, into giving away her address. “He told her I had a big inheritance. The louse couldn’t even give me an imaginary million dollars. He said ‘almost a million.’ What’s wrong with a full seven figures?”

“He told Tara you inherited a fortune and she fell for it,” Margery said. “Oldest trick in the book, but it still works.”

“If Tara wasn’t such a ditz about names, Rob would be here at the Coronado.” Helen downed nearly half a drink at the thought.

“How good a detective is your ex?” Margery said, taking a healthy swig of her own drink. “Think he can find you?”

“He couldn’t find a job,” Helen said. “He looked for one for seven years.”

“I’m serious,” Margery said.

“I don’t know,” Helen said. “I thought I knew the man, but I didn’t. He sponged off me. He strung me along with promises, borrowed money he never returned, let me buy him expensive presents, and all the time I felt sorry for him because he couldn’t find work equal to his vast talents.”

“He’s a good con artist,” Margery said. “He’s highly motivated to find you. He needs money. He hates work. He’s smart, and he knows how to use women.”

Helen felt stupid. It was all true, and the woman he’d used most was her.

“It’s not going to take him long to find out there are no Cranford Apartments in this neighborhood,” Margery said. “Then he’ll look at similar names within walking distance of your old dress shop. There’s the Randell House, two blocks away. He might see the Crumley Arms, the Brandford—or the Coronado. He could be knocking on my door in a day or two.”

“Unless he thinks Tara lied to him and starts looking somewhere else,” Helen said. “I’m harder to track down than you think. I don’t have a phone, a bank account, a credit card or a driver’s license. I’m not in any employer’s computers. I get paid cash under the table. I’m not traceable.”

“Except you have this habit of getting mixed up with murder,” Margery said.

“But so far, my name’s stayed out of the paper,” Helen said.

“Then you’ve been lucky.”

“And I’ll stay lucky,” Helen said.

“Your luck ran out when Rob got on that plane for Fort Lauderdale,” Margery said.

T
his was Helen’s second day of slipping into the hotel the back way. She paced by the rusty door for about a minute, but it seemed longer. The nearby Dumpsters made the wait longer. The cloying perfume didn’t mask the decay. It made the reek worse.

Hiding never works, Helen thought. I ran from Rob and look what happened. He’s here in this hotel, digging into my past and ruining my future. How am I going to get out of this? My mother was right: We’re bound till death parts us. But will it be my death or his that sets me free?

She wanted to get away from the foul smell, but she had to stick close to the Dumpsters. Rob might look out his window and see her loitering.

Helen heard a creak and the door opened. The head housekeeper, soothing, motherly Denise, was smiling on the threshold. Helen felt calmer already.

“I’m glad you’re here. I was about to gag on that trash perfume,” Helen said. “It smells like someone poured cheap aftershave on spoiled meat.”

Denise wrinkled her small, turned-up nose. “That trash does seem extra stinky,” she said. “Too bad it won’t be picked up until tomorrow. I’ll tell Sybil we should go back to three pickups a week. While we’re talking trash, your ex-husband was up and out early this morning.”

“Rob is never awake before ten unless there’s money involved,” Helen said.

“I searched his room,” Denise said. “This time he’s got the name of a septic-tank cleaner on his dresser. Maybe he’s full of shit.”

Helen felt the blood drain from her face.

“What’s the matter, hon? You’re dead white,” Denise said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make a tasteless joke.”

“He’s getting closer,” Helen said. “I used to be a tele-marketer. I sold septic-tank cleaner. The company is out of business now. The feds raided it. Most of my old bosses are in jail.”

“Wish mine were,” Denise said. “If the company’s gone, there’s no way he can track you down. Relax.”

Helen still felt sick and scared. Rob could read the stories about the raid in the newspaper files at the library. He’d find her coworkers. Which one would talk to him? Taniqua? Maria? She didn’t think they had her home address, but did they know where she worked now? Some thirty people were crammed into that telephone boiler room, but they didn’t socialize like normal office workers. Did she even know their last names? What was Taniqua’s—Johnson? Smith? Washington? She had one of those last names that went on for pages in the phone book. Maria was the same thing—Rodriguez. Or was it Gomez? She knew it was the Hispanic version of Smith. Rob wasn’t going to find them. But he might find out her next job. She had to get in touch with Millicent’s bridal salon. She’d call Millicent today.