Cinderella and the Cyanide

by Amorette Anderson

  Trixie didn’t answer. Instead, she whispered, “This is a nightmare,” while shaking her head. “An absolute nightmare.”

  There were two staff members, both dressed in white chef jackets, just in front of Cinda. Cinda stood up on her tip toes and managed to peer over their shoulders.

  There, on the tile floor, was a woman who had clearly collapsed. On the stainless steel counter next to the woman, there was a cutting board and a knife. The cutting board had a tomato on it, cut in half. The knife was between the two halves, as if Helena had just been in the midst of cutting it when she collapsed.

  Next to the cutting board, there was a green 12-ounce glass bottle that looked like it might contain beer, or maybe soda water. It had a screw-on top, which made Cinda think maybe it wasn’t beer. The label was turned away from Cinda, so she couldn’t read it. But she could see a little apple logo on the corner of the label that was just barely visible to her. A shiver ran up her spine as she recalled the conversation she’d heard up on the third floor: “Put it into his cider...”

  Cinda poked her nose between the two staff members in front of her.

  “Excuse me,” she whispered. “Do either of you know what that’s a bottle of, there next to the cutting board?” she pointed.

  One worker shook his head. The other, who was as tall as a lumberjack and had a hair net around his thick beard, nodded. “It’s a special kind of sparkling cider,” he said. “Organic. We had one bottle in the walk-in cooler. Looks like Helena decided to drink it.”

  The other worker scoffed. “She sampled everything. I’ve only worked with her for a few days, and I picked up on it right away. Sticky fingers, that one has. Sticky fingers that she likes to lick.”

  Cinda furrowed her brow.

  Was the woman with the raspy voice referring to this cider?

  “Excuse me!” Cinda called out. She was so nervous, her voice didn’t carry. She tried again, and this time her shout cut through the commotion. Everyone turned to her. “I might have some information about this,” she said, her cheeks flushing with the discomfort of being the center of attention. “I heard two people talking a few hours ago, and they were talking about putting something into cider. That’s cider there on the counter, and it looks like this girl was drinking it.”

  “Who are you?” the police officer asked. “What do you mean, ‘something?’ What did they put into the cider?”

  “I’m—I’m Cinda,” Cinda managed, stuttering just a bit with discomfort. “I’m here to clean. I just—I just thought it might be relevant. I heard someone say this girl has diabetes, but that might not have caused her collapse. What if she was poisoned?”

  “It would make sense,” one of the paramedics said. “Her blood sugar was within the normal range. And poisoning could explain why she went into cardiac arrest.”

  “Should we pump her stomach?” another medic asked.

  He looked at the first, who nodded. “Get a tube in, and get it started. Let’s give her another shock, too.” With that, they went back to work.

  Cinda, feeling more horrified by the second, turned away. She couldn’t watch any longer.

  A tap on her shoulder made her look up. It was the young, fresh-faced police officer with a blond buzz-cut.

  “Mind if I ask you a few questions?” he asked.

  Cinda shook her head. “Not at all,” she said with a shaky voice.

  She and the officer stepped aside, and for the next fifteen minutes, she told him everything she had overheard, word for word, between the woman with the Southern accent, Serena, and the woman with the raspy voice.

  “You’re sure the woman with the raspy voice said ‘put it in his cider?’” the officer asked.

  Cinda nodded. “Absolutely sure,” she said. “I was listening carefully. It was so quiet and unnerving up there, I was on high alert. I was paying close attention.”

  “But the cider may have killed Helena,” the officer said. “A woman.”

  “I’m sure I heard ‘his’,” Cinda said. “Maybe it was intended for someone else—a man. It sounds to me like Helena was known for sneaking bites and sips of things while she worked. Seems like she snuck that bottle of cider for herself, and is now paying heavily for it.”

  “Huh,” the officer said, jotting down a few more notes. “You’re right. She could have chosen the wrong drink to sample.”

  “So if the poison was intended for a man...” Cinda said thoughtfully, “It’d be good to figure out who, right?”

  “Let’s just take one thing at a time,” the officer said.

  “You have to act quickly, though,” Cinda said. “Maybe start by questioning Serena. She’s one of the models that’s up for the brand ambassador position—she should be easy to track down.”

  “I don’t need tips on how to do my job,” the officer said. He looked annoyed. He lifted his radio from his chest pocket and clicked a button on the side. As he requested backup, Cinda looked over to Helena’s body just in time to see one of the medics covering her with a white sheet. “Time of death: 12:59,” he announced.

  The police officer stepped between the sheet-covered body and the little crowd of onlookers. “I’m going to need everyone to back up, carefully, and exit the kitchen,” he said. “Do not touch anything on your way out. This is now a crime scene. I’ll also need statements from each and every one of you.”

  Cinda felt jittery by the time she and the officer exchanged contact information and he excused her. She made her way back toward the room she’d been in the middle of cleaning.

  Poor Helena. To be slicing a tomato one minute, while sipping pilfered sparkling cider, and then -BAM!- on the floor the next. It’s so sad.

  Cinda was so lost in thought that she almost ran smack into a guy who was walking down the hall in the opposite direction.

  She stopped short just in time, and looked straight into a broad chest, clad in a black tee shirt. Her eyes traveled upward as she gave a flustered, “Sorry about that! Almost walked straight into you...” until finally she was looking right into a set of handsome green eyes.

  The man looked right back at her, and for a moment, neither spoke. Then, he shook his head slightly and said “No, no. It’s my own fault. I was distracted... lost in thought.” A crease formed on his brow. “Hey, do you happen to know what’s going on in the lobby? I was in my room and I heard sirens. I looked out my window and saw a bunch of emergency vehicles parked out by the entrance.”

  “It’s a kitchen worker,” Cinda said. “She collapsed while cutting a tomato.”

  The man frowned. “Is she okay?”

  Cinda shook her head. “She didn’t make it. She’s... “

  “Dead?” the man supplied.

  Cinda bit her lip. “Yeah. Dead....”

  They both stood in silence for a minute. The man wore jeans and a tee, and had bare feet, as if he’d left his room in a hurry. His hair was brown, his chiseled jaw covered in a layer of stubble. He ran his fingers over the shadow of a beard, and it made a scratching sound. “Whistler Weston isn’t going to like it,” he said. “A death on the weekend of the grand opening. It’s got to be a bad omen. And what is Trixie going to think?”

  “You know them?” Cinda asked.

  The man nodded. Then he stuck out his hand. “Sorry—I should have introduced myself right away. I’m Pete. I’m in the running for the title of Prince of this place. Whistler and his head of marketing and PR, Trixie, interviewed me during the first round of the application process, which is how I got to know them. Now that was nerve-racking.”

  Ah ha! So this was the handsome guy that Gretta was talking about. No wonder Gretta had been so worked up about spotting him. He really was good looking.

  He was also friendly. Though she’d only just met him, Cinda felt comfortable standing next to him, almost like he was a familiar friend. Maybe it was the bare feet and stubble that made him so approachable, or maybe it was the kind sparkle in his eyes. She wasn’t sure. All she knew was that it felt good
to shake his hand, and she didn’t hesitate to introduce herself.

  “I’m Cinda,” she said. “I’m on the cleaning staff. Speaking of...” she held up her brush and used it to point down the hallway. “I’d better get back to work. I’m trying to get a stain out of the carpet in room 207.”

  “I’ll walk with you,” Pete said. “My room’s up that way, too. I might as well go back to my room instead of adding to the confusion out there. Sounds like the hotel staff has enough to deal with.”

  They ducked into a hallway and took the stairs side by side in silence. Once out in the hallway on the second floor, they fell into step together. “Why was your interview nerve-racking?” Cinda asked, as they passed rooms 201, 202, and 203.

  “Whistler Weston isn’t exactly an easy man to talk to,” Pete said carefully. “He’s very polite, and even friendly sometimes, but beneath the surface, I sense he’s a calculating businessman to the core.”

  “Oh, really?” Cinda said. “I haven’t met him.”

  “I’m sure you’ve heard of him, though,” Pete said. “He’s the billionaire who got into all that trouble for mistreating his staff a few years back. That’s why he’s staying so quiet about his ownership of The Palace hotels. He doesn’t want his name associated with the brand. He has plenty of enemies that would be happy to see this place fail, and the general public wouldn’t want to give him business, thanks to his reputation.”

  “I guess that’s where you come in,” Cinda said. “The new face of the company.”

  “If I get the gig,” Pete said, tossing a self-deprecating smile to Cinda. “The jury’s still out on that one.”

  “Until tonight, is that right?” Cinda said.

  Pete nodded. “That’s right! There’s going to be a vote at the grand opening party. One of us will be crowned royalty, and it’ll be announced at 5:30, right before dinner is served. Are you going to be there? Going to vote?”

  Cinda shook her head. “I’ll be working,” she said. “After I’m done cleaning I have an article to write.”

  “That’s too bad,” Pete said, giving her a lingering look. “I’d really love the support.”

  They reached room 207 and stopped. The door was still ajar, and she pushed it open further but did not step in. Instead she said, “I’m sure you’re going to do just fine. My stepsister says you’re the crowd favorite.”

  “Thanks,” Pete said. “But I’m not so sure. Serena has quite a large fan club down South, thanks to her modeling career in her home state. And Chanel is pretty popular herself. She used to be an Olympic swimmer, you know, before she got into modeling.”

  “I didn’t know,” Cinda said. She knew she should get back to work, but she didn’t want to leave Pete. He was pleasant to be around, and she preferred talking to him than stepping into the vacant hotel room. She still had the jitters, thanks to the dead body she’d just witnessed.

  I’ll just talk a little longer, she thought, after glancing over her shoulder into the shadowy room. It beats being in there all alone, with a murderer on the loose.

  “What’s Serena like?” she asked Pete. “She’s from the South, you said?”

  Pete nodded. “Yeah, some small town in Georgia. Seems like a nice girl. It’s her agent that I’m not all that fond of—Evian. Have you met her yet?”

  Cinda shook her head. “Haven’t met her. Like I said, I’m on the cleaning crew. I haven’t been socializing much. I’m here to work.”

  “You’re lucky,” Pete said. “I wish I’d never met her. Then again, maybe she’s just so rude to me because I’m the competition for Serena. Evian’s fixated on getting the gig for Serena. I’m sure she knows it will reflect well on her agency, if one of her models gets a gig as big as this one.”

  “I see,” Cinda said, narrowing her eyes. “This Evian—she doesn’t happen to have a raspy voice, does she?”

  Pete nodded. “Yeah! That’s her. She smokes a fair amount—I’ve seen her outside several times with a cigarette in hand. Her voice is always hoarse.”

  Cinda felt a chill go up her spine. Her breath quickened, and she looked left and right down the hallways to make sure no one was around to overhear what she was about to say next. Then she leaned in closer to Pete. He smelled good—not like the heavy cologne of the guys she met out at bars the few times she had been dragged out by her girlfriends—but like a pleasant mix of fragrant shampoo and soap, and perhaps some incense, though that was very faint.

  “I overheard something, just a few hours ago,” she said in a low voice. “Upstairs, on the third floor.”

  “What?” Pete asked, leaning in closer to her, too.

  Cinda looked into his eyes. Could she trust him?

  The open room at her back gave her the heebie jeebies. She needed to talk to someone about what she overheard in order to calm her nerves. Pete seemed like a better option than Gretta or Lucas, who were so self absorbed that she wasn’t even sure they would care about the death of Helena. And Pete seemed so nice.

  “It was a conversation between two women,” Cinda said. “One had a Southern accent and sounded young. The other had the voice of a heavy smoker, and she referred to the first as Serena. I’m starting to think it was Serena and this Evian woman.”

  “Certainly sounds like Serena and Evian,” Pete said.

  Cinda nodded. “I think so, too. Evian said to Serena, ‘put it in his cider.’ Then, the girl in the kitchen turns up dead after drinking a glass of sparkling cider. I think it was poisoned—”

  Pete’s eyes grew wide. “By Evian and Serena?” he asked.

  Cinda bit her lip. “That’s what I’m coming up with,” she says. “I mean, first I hear that, and then the girl dies. Her coworkers knew she had diabetes, so I’m sure they thought that her illness caused her to collapse. But the medics said her blood sugar was normal. When I saw the cider on the table, it made me remember what I overheard. I told the police officer. They’re going to look into it.”

  Pete drew in a deep breath and then exhaled. “Wow,” he said, raking his hand through his hair. “This is big. Really big. Why would Evian and Serena come up with a plot like that? They’re here to win a brand ambassador competition, not poison innocent kitchen workers.”

  “They may not have been trying to kill the kitchen worker,” Cinda said. “Based on what I overheard, I think they were after a man. Also, Serena didn’t sound totally on board. It was Evian who was so insistent. Serena even tried to protest a little bit, but Evian kept overriding her protests.”

  “Evian can be very controlling,” Pete said. “I’ve seen the two of them interact plenty of times, since I’ve gone through several application rounds with Serena. Evian always seems to really breathe down Serena’s neck.”

  “I think I heard her slap Serena.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Pete said, “as sad as that is. It just seems like that kind of relationship. Too bad, since Serena seems like a nice person.”

  “But would a nice person willingly put poison into a bottle of sparkling cider?” Cinda wondered aloud. “I mean, yes, she tried to protest, but she didn’t try that hard. I understand that Evian can be controlling, but everyone has free will. Serena could have said no.”

  This seemed to stump Pete. After a moment of thought he said, “Serena doesn’t seem like the type to do such a thing. Besides, what could she possibly have against a kitchen worker?”

  “It’s like I said—I think they were after someone else,” Cinda said. “Evian said, ‘put it in his drink.’ His. That means they’re trying to poison a man.”

  “Who?” Pete asked.

  Cinda shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe Whistler Weston? You said he has a lot of enemies.”

  “True,” said Pete.

  “I wish the police had taken me more seriously,” Cinda said. “I told them what I heard, but they didn’t act as if it was an urgent situation. They couldn’t even be bothered to formally question me yet. The police officer I spoke to was so young, too.” She pictured
the baby-faced officer. “I hope he knows what he’s doing.”

  “Maybe you should try to talk to them again?” Pete suggested.

  Cinda sighed. She knew he was right. “They did ask me to come forward if anything new came to light. I’d better go tell them that the woman with the raspy voice might have been Evian. If I can hear her talk, I can ID her.”

  “Good thinking,” Pete said. “And good luck.”

  “Thanks,” Cinda said. “I’m going to need it. But not with the police—the real issue is that I have eight more rooms to spruce up in the next...” she checked her phone quickly and saw that it was already 1:15. “Yikes—45 minutes,” she said.

  He chuckled. “You don’t need luck, you need superpowers.”

  This made her grin. “Super cleaning powers,” she said. “I’d like that. Hey, good luck with your contest, too. I hope you win.”

  “Thanks,” Pete said. “Oh, I’m in room 219... just so you know—in case you need more info about Serena or Mr. Weston or anything.” With that, Pete turned to head away.

  Cinda hurried into room 207 and placed the cleaning brush down on the cart. Then she went back out into the hallway and pulled the door to room 207 closed. The potato stain could wait. She had bigger fish to fry—there was a murderer or two on the loose. The information she had could help the police put them behind bars. On her list of items to do, catching a killer or two had to take priority. The rest could wait.

  4

  Figuring that the officer might be in the lobby where she’d last seen him, Cinda headed in that direction. She had barely made it to the lobby when she heard a woman crying.

  The sobs echoed off of the high ceilings and polished surfaces. She located the sound of the sobs. They were coming from Serena, who was standing with her back turned to an officer that Cinda had never seen before, as the officer slipped cuffs around the girl’s wrists.

  “I didn’t kill that woman,” Serena said between sobs. “I’m not a murderer. I promise you that.”

  A woman in her sixties with long black hair streaked with silver, and plenty of plastic surgery and Botox, judging by the perfection of her nose and the smoothness of her brow, was standing by Serena’s side. She had heels with spikes that looked as sharp as daggers, and she wore a snug black bandage dress that looked like it might better suit a much younger woman. That must be Evian, thought Cinda.