Body Blows

by Marc Strange

  “She doesn’t know it, she thinks it. Maybe. Says she saw footprints from the terrace, dirt tracked in, and a different set with no dirt. Maybe. She was just spitballing. Cop talk.”

  “Regular Chatty Cathy,” says Rachel. “You must’ve turned on the old Gritchfield charm.”

  “Hey, she was stuck guarding an empty hallway. We were comparing notes. Technically, I was first on the scene.”

  “What the hell were they after?”

  “Beats me,” Gritch says. “If they were looking for something, they either found it in a hurry or quit looking. They didn’t go down the hall.”

  “Maybe they were after her,” says Rachel. “Lot of talk this morning. The general opinion is she was more than his housekeeper.”

  “She was,” I say.

  “Ahh,” says Rachel.

  “Do me a favour,” I ask them both, “check out where the brothers were. They both had invitations to the dinner, neither one showed up.”

  “Not a lot of togetherness,” Rachel says. “We had twenty-seven at our last family gathering, and not everyone could make it.”

  “They all get along?” Gritch asks.

  “Heck no,” she says, “but they came. It’s family.”

  Housekeeping is located on the third floor, east side, close to the service elevators — supplies, equipment, lockers and dressing rooms for the maids and cleaning staff, and Mrs. Dineen’s office, from which she rules every aspect of the Lord Douglas’s domestic management. It isn’t a part of the hotel I have need to visit often.

  Two women in uniform are emerging from their cloister at the end of a corridor. The murmured conversation can only be about one subject.

  “Hi,” I say. “Is Mrs. Dineen in?”

  “She’s there,” says a woman whose name is, I think, Christine.

  “It’s Christine, right?”

  “Mr. Grundy,” she says in reply. “Yes. We’ve met. Twice.”

  “Better than my average,” I say. “Usually takes me four meetings to put a name to a face. I’m not all that quick on the uptake. I’m sorry, I don’t know your friend’s name.”

  The other woman has more important things to attend to than loitering in the hall with an interloper. She’s already headed for the service elevators.

  “That’s Tricia,” says Christine, who is moving past me. She looks over her shoulder toward Mrs. Dineen’s closed door and I know that the last thing on earth she wants is for that door to open.

  I follow her to the elevators where Tricia (I’m repeating the name in my head in a conscious effort to memorize it) is checking supplies and consulting a list of room numbers with notations of checkouts and special requests — extra towels, more coffee filters.

  “Hi, Tricia,” I say. “I’m Joe Grundy, you’ve probably seen me prowling the halls. You know what happened last night, I guess.”

  Tricia’s hair is cut short and square across the front; she keeps her voice down but speaks clearly. “We don’t know anything, for sure. Raquel was killed up in the penthouse. That’s all.”

  “Must be a hundred rumours going around,” I say.

  “Just gossip,” says Christine.

  “Mrs. Dineen doesn’t encourage gossip,” says Tricia.

  “I’m investigating a murder,” I say, although I’m certain Mooney and Pazzano would characterize my intrusion otherwise. “What sounds like gossip right now could be helpful later on. May I talk to you for a minute?”

  “Get on,” Tricia says, as the elevator doors open.

  The two women wheel their service carts aboard and I join them.

  “Nine,” Tricia says. “In back.” She presses 9. Christine stares at the numbers climbing. Tricia looks directly at me. “Can you be trusted?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t mean as a human being,” she says. “That would be asking too much. I mean can you be trusted that as far as Vera Dineen is concerned, this meeting never took place?”

  “Scout’s honour,” I say.

  “I’d prefer something a bit more binding,” she says. “My brother was a scout. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could toss him.”

  “Raquel was my friend,” I say. “I liked her.”

  I hear a sudden sob from Christine and see her burying her face in both hands. The rear doors of the car open and Tricia ushers us into an empty corridor. “This way,” she says.

  A cul de sac around the corner, a small window facing the parking garage across the street, a table and a pair of plastic chairs, and an ashtray, hidden (poorly) behind a sad, potted cactus on the sill. Christine sits in one of the chairs. She is wiping her eyes with a wadded Kleenex. Tricia remains standing, facing me.

  “Tell us what happened, first,” she says. She lights a menthol cigarette in defiance of at least three of Mrs. Dineen’s edicts. I take it as an affirmation that she’s decided to trust me.

  “Leo and I went to the award dinner at eight last night, got back to the penthouse around two a.m. Raquel was dead, in the kitchen. It looked like she’d been stabbed. Things were broken. The police said she put up a fight.”

  Christine sobs again.

  “That’s all?” Tricia asks.

  “There was evidence that people were on the terrace, and someone ran down the fire stairs, but we don’t know who that was, or if they had anything to do with anything. And there was a body at the bottom of the Warburton excavation. It could have fallen from the terrace. I don’t know that for a fact. The police haven’t released any details.”

  “Did they do anything to her?” Christine asks.

  “Do anything?”

  “Was she … molested?”

  “No. I don’t think so,” I say. “No, I’m sure not. It looked like a break-in. Maybe she surprised some burglars.”

  “That’s good,” says Christine. “Not good, but good. She was a very moral person.”

  “She was living with him,” Tricia says.

  “I know,” says Christine, “but she really loved him, and it was the best she could get.”

  “I’m not judging her,” says Tricia. She exhales a plume of smoke. “I don’t blame her. She’s not the first maid got invited to the penthouse.”

  “She’s the first one who moved in,” says Christine firmly. “Five years. More. It was serious, not like the other ones.”

  “So,” I say. “What’s the gossip?”

  “Her husband murdered her.”

  “Her husband?”

  “She was married. He’s an American, he was never around, but he wrote letters here, he made phone calls. He was after money.”

  “She was giving him money?”

  “Maybe. He’d stop harassing her for a while, then it’d start up again. Once she moved upstairs the letters didn’t come to Housekeeping any more, so I don’t know. They might have been delivered straight up, if there were any.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “Ramon or something,” says Christine.

  “It was Ramon.” Tricia is certain. “Ramon Mendez. The postmarks were California.”

  “The gossip is that her husband came here and killed her?”

  “He went up there to kill her and Leo. Catch them in bed together. The Unwritten Law. Very Spanish,” says Tricia. “A question of honour.”

  “Have either of you ever seen him? Know what he looks like?”

  “Not a clue,” says Tricia.

  “She had his picture in her locker for a while,” Christine says. “She took it down after a while. I never got a good look at it. He had dark hair. He was wearing a suit.”

  “Any other rumours circulating?” I ask.

  “Mrs. Dineen did it,” says Christine, then immediately clamps a hand over her mouth and giggles, then sobs.

  “Wouldn’t put it past her,” says Tricia.

  “Why would she do a thing like that?” I’d like to know.

  Tricia laughs. “Spite,” she says. “She was Number One, for a while. He didn’t live here then, but he vi
sited a lot.”

  “Mrs. Dineen and Leo?” I’m shaking my head at the image.

  “There was a time …” says Christine.

  “Lady Muck,” says Tricia. “Queen of towel cupboard.”

  “And Raquel supplanted her?”

  “Oh, she was supplanted long before Raquel showed up.” Tricia butts her smoke in the hidden ashtray. Grabs a can of air freshener and gives the air a spritz. “What was the next one called?”

  “I don’t remember,” Christine says. “Vera fired her.”

  “I guess my boss was more of a ladies man than I knew,” I say.

  “Ladies man?” Tricia snorts. “He thought he was a sultan or something. Housekeeping was his harem.”

  Mrs. Dineen reminds me of a nun who used to smack my knuckles with a yardstick. Sister Clarissa was a world-class knuckle-smacker; humourless, chilly, and fully informed of all your secret sins. Vera Dineen has that same look. When she sees fit to spare me a frosty glance, I’m certain I missed a spot shaving.

  “Mr. Grundy? Something I can do for you?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Dineen, there is. You’ve already spoken to the police, I suppose?”

  “Oh, yes, they were here.”

  “Checking on who had access to the penthouse?”

  “That’s correct. I explained to them that I personally hadn’t had occasion to visit Mr. Alexander’s private chambers for some time.”

  “I’ve been trying to add up how many special elevator keys there are.”

  “To my knowledge there are seven. One held by the manager, Mr. Gruber, one in your possession, one here in Housekeeping, Mr. Alexander kept two, one for himself and one for Mrs. Mendez.” She gives me a pointed look. “You knew she was married?”

  “I didn’t know her all that well,” I say. “Nothing about her personal life.”

  “I never met her husband,” says Mrs. Dineen. “I believe he lives in Spain, or Mexico, or somewhere. I take it they were estranged, had been for some time. She no longer wore her wedding ring.”

  “Oh.”

  “Was there something else, Mr. Grundy? I’m quite busy.”

  “Let’s see. Lloyd has one, Security has one, Housekeeping one, Mr. Alexander, two. That makes five. You said seven?”

  “I believe I did.”

  “And the other two?”

  “Mr. Alexander’s sons, Theodore and Leon.”

  “Oh. That’s a surprise. I didn’t think they were all that welcome upstairs.”

  “Perhaps not. Nevertheless …” She starts rearranging her desk, straightening already straight piles. “If there’s nothing else …”

  “No. That’s it. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Dineen.”

  Leon? I always thought his name was Lenny. Gritch has the same reaction when I see him in the lobby. “Leon?” he says. “You ever see him up there? You ever see either of them up there?”

  We start heading back toward the office. I should eat some lunch. My stomach isn’t happy.

  “You’d think the wives at least would’ve jumped at the chance to go to a fancy-dress ball,” he says. “Get their hair done, hire babysitters, get out of Burnaby or wherever.”

  “One lives in West Van, one in North Van.”

  “Gee, lemme guess,” says Gritch. “Theodore is high up the British Properties, and ‘Leon’ is on the wrong side of the Capilano.”

  “Hard to believe they’re brothers,” I say. “They don’t look anything like each other.”

  “Half brothers,” Gritch says. “Theo’s from the first marriage. Lenny’s arrival was, shall we say, unsanctioned.”

  More evidence, if I needed any, that I know precious little about the man I work for. In fact, I may know less than anyone in the hotel.

  “You find out why they didn’t put in an appearance?”

  “Theo’s out of town, according to his wife. Las Vegas or L.A. Playgrounds of the rich and famous. Probably accompanied by his ‘design consultant,’” he throws in. “Mrs. Theo sounded a wee bit sarcastic when she mentioned that part.”

  “The ‘design consultant’ is female?”

  “Impression I got,” he says.

  “What about Lenny?”

  “Ah, that too is interesting. Lenny, or Leon if you prefer, has moved out of the hacienda, current whereabouts unknown. Wife Jackie says as long as the support cheques show up, she couldn’t care less.”

  “I guess I’ll have to track him down.”

  “Lenny’s a thug but I can’t see him doing something like that,” says Gritch.

  “The rumour, in Housekeeping anyway, is Raquel’s husband did it.”

  “Husband, hunh?” He shrugs philosophically. “He living nearby?”

  “American. California. Ramon Mendez. A couple of the maids say he was sending her threatening letters, hitting her up for money.”

  “Yeah, yeah, that could be,” Gritch says. “She lets him in, figures they’re gonna sort it out, pay him off, or cut him off, turns into a domestic, violence ensues.”

  “Another rumour is that Vera Dineen did it.”

  “Ha!” Gritch barks. “Lordy, do they hate her guts up there or what?”

  “Did you know she once had a thing with Leo?”

  “Oh, yeah, I heard that. Ancient history, but it lasted a while,” he says.

  There is a delicious aroma lingering in the office that gets my stomach talking to me again. Grundy, the starving sleuth, is almost certain there’s something to eat in here. Rachel recently hired a bookkeeper, a woman named Mariah who hails from a place where the waters are bright blue and the sun shines every day except during hurricane season. Mariah wears bangles and vivid colours and Gritch likes it that she doesn’t look the least bit Presbyterian. She also makes the neatest numbers I’ve ever seen. Mariah shows up once a week for a couple of hours to keep JG Security solvent, legal, up-to-date, and square with the taxman. Something else I always planned on doing. Sometimes she brings food.

  “Anything that needs my attention?” I ask Rachel. Don’t want to look too desperate.

  “Not a thing, boss man,” Rachel says. “We’ve got a convention of florists. How much damage can they do?”

  “You’d be surprised,” Gritch says.

  “Joe?” Mariah is crooking one of her tangerine fingernails at me. “Excuse me for saying, my dear, but you really must start depositing your pay cheques and not leave them lying around.”

  “I keep meaning to do that,” I say.

  “There’s a new bank down in the mini-mall. No excuse. It is very bad for the accounts.”

  “Never spends a nickel,” Gritch says. “Parsimonious as a Dundee bank clerk.”

  My stomach rumbles are clearly audible. Also, my mouth is watering. I open the office refrigerator. “What’s this?” I ask in all innocence.

  Mariah looks up from her perfectly aligned columns. “Jerk ribs,” she says. “Try one. I don’t make them too spicy for first-timers.” She has a wicked smile.

  I have a bite. The metabolism signals that I’ve done a wise thing. “Delicious,” I say. They are. Also muy picante. I can feel beads of sweat breaking out on my forehead. “Lordy! How spicy do you make them for veterans?”

  “Lethal,” says Mariah.

  “Don’t dribble on your tie,” says Rachel.

  “Right,” I say. “I’ve got errands to run.”

  “Such as?” Gritch wants to know.

  “Pick up the award we forgot to collect last night, and while I’m doing that I thought I might drop by the limo company and see about the mixup with our driver.”

  “Let the police handle it,” Rachel says.

  “He hasn’t told the police,” Gritch says.

  “You haven’t?” Rachel is looking at me with disapproval.

  “Probably some disgruntled innkeeper making a comment,” I say. “Not everyone there was a fan.”

  Rachel, Gritch, and Mariah are all looking at me with stern expressions.

  “Okay, all right. I probably should have menti
oned.”

  “Definitely should have mentioned,” Rachel says.

  “And should I find that the organizers have no reasonable explanation for why Leo’s award was trashed, I’ll hand it over to detectives Mooney and Pazzano. And should the mixup with the limo drivers turn out to have sinister implications, I’ll be certain to pass that along as well. Otherwise, I won’t complicate their investigations with inconsequentials.”

  “You buying this cow-pucky?” Rachel asks Gritch.

  “Ankle-deep and rising,” he says. “You’ll be up to your knees by suppertime.”

  “Any more of those ribs?” I ask.

  “Will you promise to deposit your pay this month?” Mariah is insistent.

  “I used to run this joint,” I say. “Remember, Gritch?”

  “Those were the days,” he says.

  chapter eight

  The two construction men are taking their mandatory coffee break before tackling whatever job they’ve been assigned. They note my arrival with the considered interest of men with not much else to look at.

  “Hi,” I start. “Name’s Joe Grundy. I do security at the hotel next door.” I offer a handshake to show that we’re all on the same team.

  “Hey,” says the older one, a big man with a moustache which he obviously cares for.

  “Hi,” says the other guy. He has a half-eaten cruller that he has to transfer to his coffee cup hand in order to shake mine. I can feel the sugar on my fingers.

  “Cops all finished down there?”

  “Finally,” he says, licking his thumb. “Didn’t get the body down until ten, spent another couple hours taking measurements.”

  “Don’t know what they were measuring,” says the big guy. “They don’t have a tape measure stretches that high.”

  “I almost got run down by someone on a motorcycle who was inside here last night,” I say. “Mind if I have a quick look before you lock up?”

  “Better wear this,” says the big man. He hands me his hardhat. “I’ve got about ten minutes worth of coffee left.”

  “Easy,” says the other guy.

  “Appreciate it,” I say. “Any idea how he might’ve got in?”

  “People been camping out down there. Construction company’s had to run them off more’n once.”

  “Somebody sawed through this chain,” says the big man. He shows me where one link has had a chunk removed and used as a hook to keep the length together. The missing piece was masked with a wrapping of black tape.