Murder Follows Money

by Lora Roberts

  Kim brought in a pitcher of ice water. “This is such a beautiful room. I wish I always lived in a place like this.”

  Naomi strode into the drawing room. “The telephone in my room isn’t working.” She plunked herself down in the library alcove and dialed up housekeeping to chew them out about that. Then she punched in another number, and began cooing into the phone. “How are my sweethearts? Mommy misses you. Mommy will bring you presents.”

  She went on like this for a few minutes. I raised my eyebrows at Kim, who drew me into the kitchen. As soon as the door was closed, she giggled.

  “Her cats,” she explained. “She has three, all spoiled. She calls and talks to them on the answering machine. She says they’re happier that way.”

  Kim had washed some grapes from a complimentary fruit basket provided by the management and set them on the low table. No other food was allowed, because, according to Judi’s notes, Hannah didn’t want the interviewer to pay more attention to the food than to her.

  The great woman herself came in just before the hour, to check out the room and give me instructions. She looked more like the glamorous grandmother of her book covers, made up and with her salt-and-pepper hair arranged in her signature bun, with loose waves framing her face. She wore a well-cut lavender suit and frilly white blouse, but looked as if she could whip on an apron and turn out a panful of cookies in no time.

  “I will wait in my sitting room. You let him in”—she flicked her gaze up and down my thrift-shop-clad form— “and come to get me. I will sit on that sofa.” She turned to gesture at the grouping of furniture around the low central table. “Make sure you seat him opposite, facing the window.” She stopped abruptly, her eyes fixed on the bowl of ivy and forget-me-nots.

  “Facing the window,” I said helpfully, but Hannah wasn’t listening. Her breath came in gasps; her face froze in a look of terror.

  “What are those flowers doing there?” Her voice was a hoarse whisper.

  “They just came, and since the arrangement was low instead of tall, I thought they’d do. I know you don’t like tall flowers between you and the interviewer.” I felt I was babbling, but the expression on her face was horrible. I looked around for help. No one else was in the room; I could hear Kim moving around in the kitchen next door, and from the other side of the suite, faint sounds from Naomi’s room.

  “Get rid of them.” Hannah’s face, under the carefully applied makeup, was ashen. “I’m going to go to my room now. Wait. Did a card come with the flowers?”

  “No card. I thought that was odd.”

  “Odd is not the word,” she whispered, and tottered off toward her room.

  I carried the flowers into the kitchen. Kim stopped humming and looked askance when I pulled out the trash compactor and emptied the contents of the arrangement into it. “Why did you do that? Those were pretty.”

  “Hannah had a conniption when she saw them. Maybe she’s allergic to ivy or something.”

  “Ivy? And little blue flowers?” Kim thought for a minute. “You know, someone gave her something like that at the airport before we left, and she just about jumped out of her skin. Must be an allergy.” She looked wistfully at the flowers. “It would be nice to have people give you flowers all the time, don’t you think?”

  “As long as they don’t say ‘Drop dead’ in the language of flowers.” I put the brass bowl the flowers had come in aside. “There’s the door.”

  I went to let in Randy Nevis from the Chronicle, wondering if Hannah would be up to seeing him. Wondering who would want to upset her like that, just before a media appearance.

  Chapter 5

  The food and entertainment editor, Randy Nevis, was tall and surprisingly slim for someone who spent a lot of time eating in restaurants. I guided him to his chair facing the window, but when Hannah made her entrance, he got up to greet her and then moved to a chair at right angles from her. This did not suit her, as I saw from her glare at me, but it was no part of hostessing to make the guest sit where he didn’t want to, in my opinion. I offered drinks and retired to the kitchen to fix them. Hannah had asked for her signature Pellegrino with lime, and Mr. Nevis had seconded it.

  I made two drinks in tall glasses, put them on a tray with an unopened bottle of mineral water, a bucket of ice, tongs, and a dish of lime slices. When I took the tray into the reception room, Mr. Nevis was talking politely to Hannah, who nodded and smiled sweetly. I set the tray of drinks down on the center table, next to the dish of grapes that replaced the arrangement of ivy and forget-me-nots.

  Hannah offered Randy Nevis one of the glasses and took the other one, flashing me a steely glance after she looked at the tray. Obviously I’d done something wrong. Kim would have been able to put me straight, but she and Don had gone out for a bit, and anyway, would the world come to an end if I put the tongs on the tray instead of in the ice bucket? At least, that was my guess for what was wrong.

  Neither of them asked for anything else. Mr. Nevis got out a tape recorder and put it back when Hannah indicated that she didn’t care for the infernal machines. Regal, composed, she looked capable of handling any trouble that came up. When the phone rang, I went into the kitchen to answer, leaving him to start the interview. As a freelance writer of magazine articles, I’ve done my share of interviews. I’d already decided what questions I’d ask if granted the privilege of talking to a celebrity like Hannah. I thought it would be amusing to hear how he went about it.

  Jennifer from the front desk wanted me to know I had a delivery from FanciFoods. I asked if they could bring it up to the back door, assuming there was one, and she said yes. After I hung up, I went through the little hall at the back of the kitchenette to find the trade entrance to the suite.

  Two ordinary-looking hotel rooms opened off the back hall. No brocade, no gilt, but the rooms looked comfortable, and each had its own bathroom. That made five bathrooms so far: one for each bedroom, and the powder room off the foyer. The suite was about four times larger than my little house in Palo Alto, where I had one of each room—bedroom, bath, living room, kitchen.

  A door at the end of this hall opened into a service corridor, complete with freight elevator. This was the way the maids came. The elevator doors opened, and our personal bellhop appeared with a hand truck stacked with shopping bags and wooden crates. The FanciFoods people had done me proud.

  The bellhop unloaded all the produce in the kitchen. I doled out more tip money, enjoying the lavish feeling of being generous with someone else’s dough.

  When I got back from seeing him out, Naomi stood in the kitchen doorway. “Don’t make so much racket,” she hissed. “Where’s my glass?”

  “In the cupboard, same as the rest of them.” I waited a beat, then raised my eyebrows. “Shall I get you one?”

  “Yes.” She folded her arms and stood there, a tall woman much better suited to pulling down glasses from the cupboard than I am, since I’m only five-foot-two.

  I focused on how much I was being paid and stretched to reach a glass. She wouldn’t take it when I handed it to her.

  “I want that one,” she said, pointing back up to the shelf. “With ice and water and lime.”

  I set the glass down and looked at her. With her hair pulled back and that scowl on her face, she looked a lot like the Wicked Witch of the East. “Help yourself,” I said, with a bit more emphasis than it needed. “I’ve got a bunch of stuff to prep here, so I’ll just get on with it.”

  “You’re making far too much noise,” Naomi grumbled. She didn’t move to get her own glass. “And you don’t seem to understand your position. You are here to take care of our needs. If I need a glass, you get me one.

  “Here’s something for you to understand.” I put both hands on my hips. “I’m here to facilitate Hannah’s media contacts. If you want a personal maid, you can hire one.”

  “Sssh!” She looked over her shoulder and closed the kitchen door behind her to seal us into the little room.

  “How dare
you talk like that! I’m certainly going to let Judi Kershay know.”

  “You do that. And let her know that she’ll have to find someone else for this job, because I don’t put up with the kind of treatment you’re trying to dish out. Maybe Judi will act as your personal servant.”

  This didn’t sit well. “You can’t do that. We have a contract!”

  “Not with me, you don’t. I have a contract with Judi. And nowhere in my contract does it say that I have to wait hand and foot on mean-spirited, able-bodied people. Get your own damned water and get out of my way, or I’m outta here.”

  Two red spots burned on Naomi’s sallow cheeks. She seized the glass I had put on the counter and marched out, shutting the door behind her with an angry click.

  When I turned around, Kim and Don were standing in the little hall that led to their rooms. Kim looked at me with mingled awe and dread.

  “I’ve never heard anyone talk to Naomi like that. What did she do to get you so mad?”

  “She was pushing me to see where I’d break. I have a low breaking point, that’s all.”

  Don shook his head. “You’ve got an enemy there. A bad one.”

  “Yeah, well, there’s nothing she can do to me. I’m a temp, not making a career out of this. And from what Judi Kershay says, Hannah and Naomi are definitely considered hardship cases around the media-escort scene. Naomi can complain about me all she wants, but everyone else will know whose fault it is really.” I shrugged. “And if I get fired, big deal. Back to the temp pool.”

  Kim patted me on the shoulder. “You won’t get fired right away. Naomi will want to have someone else in place before she boots you.”

  “Well, two can play that game.” My dander was up. I don’t expect royal treatment; I have worked hard for everything I have and in every job I take. But I also don’t expect deliberate put-downs and snotty behavior. I had the dangerous thought that it might be time for someone to teach Naomi a lesson.

  Kim looked at the crates and bags. “Is this the stuff from FanciFoods? I guess I’d better get busy.”

  “I’ll help.” I lifted a wooden flat of avocados. “They certainly sent enough.”

  “It’s good to have a lot, because sometimes things get spoiled.” Kim sorted through the grocery bags, putting things into order. “What great tortillas! We don’t get them so fresh in Boston.”

  “The avocados are just right,” I said, squeezing one gently. “Not too ripe.”

  “So here’s the drill,” Kim said briskly. “We don’t cut up everything, because Hannah likes to show things before they’re fussed with.” She held up the knobby jicama and pretended to be Hannah. “You can easily find these at most markets. Peel off the skin to reveal the crunchy, sweet white flesh beneath.” Her mimicry of Hannah’s voice was surprisingly apt.

  “You’re good. You could do this.” I took the jicama. “Shall I peel off the skin?”

  “Yes, and cut it into batons—little sticks an inch and a half long and about half an inch wide. I’ll check the crepe batter, then make the salsa fresca.” She took out a tall plastic container of liquid from one of the refrigerator drawers and peered at the contents. “Setting up well.”

  She picked up a bunch of cilantro and went back to the last conversation but one. “At the restaurant, we have kind of contests to see who can sound the most like Hannah. Us counter people, I mean. And I won a lot. But I couldn’t be on TV.” She glanced over her shoulder. Don had melted from the room in the quiet, unobtrusive way he had. Kim confided, “I’m scared of the camera. One time this news magazine was interviewing us about working for Hannah Couch. They wanted me to say a sound bite thingy, but I couldn’t do it with the camera on me.”

  She chopped tomatoes while I made jicama batons. We had to work shoulder to shoulder in the little kitchen, but we were getting it done. Kim was very fast with her knife; she had the salsa assembled before I’d finished my task.

  “Put that jicama in this lemon-water,” she instructed, splashing some water into a container and squeezing in half a lemon. “Then it won’t discolor.”

  “You have to bring along all these containers and everything?”

  “Yes, because when you transport prepped food, it has to stay nice.”

  “Did Hannah pack the equipment, or did you?”

  “I did, mostly, though Naomi told me a few things not to forget.”

  “Well, you did a great job for someone who’s never done it before.”

  Kim blushed. “I just tried to think of it as a massive catering job. I’ve done a bunch of those.” She cleared away the cilantro stems and tomato seeds. “I’m going to get fruit ready for the compote now. You can cut up some more limes and lemons, and slice some avocados, and then we’ll pack the cooler bags. When do we leave?”

  I looked at the kitchen clock, wondering if I should get a watch. “In about forty minutes. I’d better call and make sure the limo will be waiting. And then check on the interview before I slice anything.”

  The front desk assured me that they’d find the limo and make sure it was out front precisely at four. I hung up the phone and went into the drawing room.

  The interview appeared to be going well. Hannah was laughing in ladylike tinkles.

  “Really, Randy,” she said to the interviewer. “How do you expect me to answer that? Of course I don’t put myself on a level with Brillat-Savarin, or Escoffier. I am not trying to break ground in my work, simply saying that home cooks can hold their standards high and achieve more than they think.”

  Naomi had taken a seat near the interviewer. This plainly did not make Hannah happy; she kept shooting venomous looks at her partner. I checked the time again. Randy Nevis would have to go in twenty minutes, if Hannah was to have any time to change and rest before we left.

  I felt a reluctant sense of admiration. Hannah might be a self-centered bitch, but what she did wasn’t easy. This was only the second stop on her multi-city tour. She would be at the media’s beck and call until Friday, always having to chat and be nice to them, and then fly to another city and do it all over again. No wonder she liked to vent on the hired help. I felt a little sorry for her.

  But not for Naomi. There were no media pressures on her. She could act like a human being if she wanted to. Now she was glancing at her watch every few minutes, keeping Randy Nevis aware that his time was running out. She didn’t need to do that—it was my job. But I assumed she would keep at it, making it unnecessary for me to stay in the room. I went back to the kitchen. Kim was slicing avocados, squeezing lime liberally over them as she worked.

  “What can I do?”

  “You can get those cooler bags out and set them up.” She pointed her avocado-smeared knife at the pile of what looked like folded knapsacks. I picked one up and found that it was actually an insulated square container with a zip top and a handle. “I put the ice packs in that little freezer when we got here,” Kim said, rubbing her cheek and leaving a smear of green behind. “They probably aren’t frozen, but they’re better than nothing.”

  “Shall I put them in now?”

  “Better wait until just before we’re ready to go.” Kim slid the last sliced avocado into a container and sealed it. “I’m storing everything in the fridge for another half hour.” She illustrated by putting the avocado into the refrigerator drawer, with the tidy stack of containers already there. “Good thing you got them to deliver the food. We’d never have been prepped in time otherwise.”

  “You have green on your cheek.” I pulled off a paper towel and handed it to her.

  “I’m going to go take a bath anyway.” Kim waved a hand. “Soon as I clean up this mess.”

  “You go ahead. I’ll clean this up, since I didn’t do much of the prep.”

  She took me up on it, vanishing down the little hall to her room. I cleaned the counters and the sink, then peeked into the reception room to see how things were going there.

  Randy Nevis was on his feet, thanking Hannah with what appeared to be sincer
ity for the opportunity to interview her. And she was all charm and goodness, thanking him for his patience and adding a motherly tip about his new baby. I went to act as doorperson and opened the door for him as Hannah ushered him to it, smiling graciously.

  I shut the door behind him. Hannah turned, and all traces of graciousness vanished from her face.

  “You’re fired,” she said to me in passing.

  I blinked.

  Hannah advanced on Naomi. “And you. Simpering and mewing and injecting yourself into my interview. Why do you think he was here, to interview the famous Naomi Matthews? What did you think you were doing?”

  “I was trying to keep you on schedule,” Naomi said shrilly. “Since she wasn’t doing her job.” She glared at me. “You said you wanted to rest before going to the TV station. You said you didn’t want the interview to go past three-forty-five.” She looked at her watch. “Well, I got him out of here just on time, and now you’re having a temper tantrum. I won’t put up with this, Hannah!”

  “So don’t put up with it. Run all the way back to Boston.” Hannah’s voice lost its usual quiet steeliness and began to climb toward shrill. “But don’t think you can threaten me, Naomi. I know how to defend myself against that.”

  “You’d better hope your lawyer knows.” Naomi’s face was splotched with angry red. Her eyes were venomous slits. “I mean it, Hannah. If you don’t listen to me, you’ll be very, very sorry.”

  I didn’t like to interrupt their hate fest. When I opened the foyer closet door to get my knapsack, both of them switched their glares to me.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Hannah was the first to speak. Her voice could have cooled all the veggies Kim had prepped earlier.

  “You fired me. I’m leaving.”

  “She’s an insubordinate bitch.” Naomi strode up to me. Before I saw it coming, she dealt me a stinging backhanded slap.

  The room was silent. I rubbed my cheek, staring at Naomi, who stared back at me, her gray eyes blank. I looked at Hannah. She looked away.