Concierge Confessions: First Novel in the Concierge Mystery Series

by Valerie Wilcox

  “Residents on Floor 24 kept calling and calling to complain about the barking. I phoned Ms. Windham, but she never answered. So I went upstairs and knocked on her door, but that just made the barking get worse. Her neighbors were having a fit about the noise, so I got Ms. Windham’s spare door key from the safe and brought the dog down to the lobby. Please don’t tell Peter.”

  “Not a problem.” When Bitsy trotted back to eat the rest of her treats, she allowed me to pet her. “Amy and Bitsy were practically inseparable,” I said. “She must have gotten lonely and scared when Amy never came home.”

  “After I rescued her dog, I found out about her murder,” Tom said, shuddering. “This place is jinxed.”

  “Nah,” said Moze as he joined us. “Just not so boring anymore.” He lifted his coffee mug in my direction. “Just made a fresh pot. Want some?”

  “Desperately,” I said. He went off to fetch a cup while I cradled Bitsy in my arms. She seemed content now, but Tom hadn’t calmed down. Whether it was the ordeal with Bitsy or because another BellaVilla resident had been murdered, he looked completely undone. He mumbled some gibberish as he gathered up his books with trembling hands and stuffed them in his backpack.

  In his hurried dash out the door, Tom bumped into Sam Caldwell and a couple of books fell out of the unzipped pack. “Hey, buddy,” Sam said, stooping to retrieve them. “Take it easy there.”

  Tom grabbed the books without apology or thanks and scooted off to the safety of his car.

  “What’s his problem?” asked Sam as he ambled over to the desk. His leathery face was unshaven and his dark eyes were rimmed in red. He looked to be in immediate need of a good night’s sleep. I could relate, but hoped fatigue hadn’t scarred me as much as it had him.

  “Tom’s a little rattled by recent events.”

  “Murder tends to do that. Hope he doesn’t get waylaid by the reporters out there. I managed to escape their hungry jaws, but they’d chew up a guy like Tom and spit out the pieces in five seconds flat.”

  “I’m glad I came in the back way and missed them. How’d they get the word so soon?” I asked.

  “Police scanner, I suppose,” Sam said. “Even Carlton Leavy has one.”

  Although Mr. Leavy often hung out in the lobby jabbering with other residents, I’d had little contact with the man since the elevator incident. That’s not to say he didn’t keep an eagle eye on me. My probation period was almost over and he seemed determined to catch me in another blunder. But a scanner?

  “Why does he need a police scanner?”

  “Leavy fancies himself a true-crime writer. I’m always driving him to some writers’ workshop or related outing. He’s a stickler for research.” Sam chuckled. “But now he doesn’t even have to leave the building.”

  “Heaven help us,” I said.

  When Moze returned, he carried a steaming mug in one hand and a dog bed in the other. He set the mug on my desk and the bed on the floor. “This should help both of you get through the day,” he said.

  I eased Bitsy into the bed and grabbed the mug. One sip later, she was curled up and fast asleep. Oh, to do the same.

  We chatted about Bitsy and dogs we’d owned for a few minutes. Then, eyeing our coffee, Sam said he was headed to the kitchen for a cup. “You two want a refill?”

  I still had half a cup left, but Moze took him up on the offer. “Thanks, man,” he said. He gestured to the cleaning carts lining the wall. “I gotta get these carts ready or I’d go myself.” Moze had three cleaning carts for his six-person crew. He checked the carts each morning before his crew arrived to make sure they had all the supplies they’d need for the day.

  While he busied himself with the carts, I logged on to the computer. Some of the residents liked to send their requests or complaints via e-mail, which actually made things easier than dealing with them in person. There were several complaints about a dog barking on the twenty-fourth floor, which I assumed had been resolved when Tom rescued Bitsy. Just to make sure, I’d check with the residents later. Good follow-up was appreciated and sometimes even rewarded with a thank you. The only other e-mail was from Peter. As usual, he had written a long rambling treatise about what the concierge staff was doing wrong. Instant delete. It would’ve been nice to read, just once, what we were doing right. That e-mail, I’d frame.

  Bitsy had begun to snore. No cream-puff sleeper, this one. She had a big dog rumble that echoed off the walls. Moze laughed and came over to the desk to take a look. “Guess her new bed is comfy,” he said.

  “Where’d you get it?” I asked.

  “Where else? The Dumpster.”

  Dumpster diving was a popular sport for the staff. It wasn’t allowed, of course, but we all did it. The rich folk we served discarded all manner of good, usable stuff, from clothing with the tags still attached to barely used furniture. It was our own personal Goodwill bin. I generally passed on the clothing, but my living room was furnished with a spiffy oak cabinet and a tasteful oil painting, among other finds. Some of our better discoveries wound up on eBay, a little extra coin for our pockets courtesy of the BellaVilla Dumpster.

  I moved Bitsy and her new bed to the storage room, where she could sleep undisturbed. Mostly, though, it was so Peter couldn’t see or hear her and come unglued. If he had his way, no pets would be allowed at BellaVilla. Without Amy around to claim her, Bitsy would have a one-way ticket to the pound.

  “Hey,” Moze said. “I never had a chance to thank you for telling me about the faulty lightbulb the night of the party.”

  “No worries.”

  “I changed it before Peter had a chance to rag on me. It was sort of weird, though.”

  “How so?”

  “The bulb wasn’t burned out. Just too loose in the socket to make a connection.”

  “Loosened on purpose?”

  Moze shrugged. “Maybe. I’d been up there moments before to check on a water leak in the spa. The light was working fine then.”

  “You were on duty during the party?” It was hard to believe Peter would okay overtime for Moze. I didn’t think Danielle and her social committee had that much clout. Not when he made double the concierge wage, thanks to a good union contract.

  “No, Peter called me in special to deal with the leak. One of the residents complained.” He paused and scratched his bald head. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have seen them arguing.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “Amy Windham and Vasily Petrov.”

  Sam came back and handed Moze his coffee. “Yeah, they were really going at it,” he said.

  “You were working Saturday night, too?” His regular hours were Monday through Friday.

  Another driver had weekend duty.

  “Yeah, Denny was sick and I had to fill in.”

  “So you both heard the argument. What was it about?”

  Moze shook his head. “Didn’t catch the drift, but Amy was awfully upset.”

  Sam agreed. “If looks could kill, she wouldn’t have had to use the knife.”

  “You think Amy killed Vasily?” asked Moze. “She didn’t strike me as the violent type.” He paused to take a sip of coffee and then said, “But if it’s true, who killed Amy?”

  It was the question we’d all asked ourselves, but we could only guess at the answer. I didn’t know about them, but I was fresh out of guesses. I needed facts.

  “Sam,” I said. “You drive her to the doctor each week. What about yesterday? Did she keep her appointment?”

  It was a straightforward inquiry, but Sam seemed reluctant to respond. He sipped his coffee and shifted from one foot to the other. He finally said, “Yeah, she was upset then, too.”

  I hesitated to press him further, but I had promised Jack I’d help as much as I could. Sam often said he was like a priest on wheels. The residents seemed comfortable confiding in him from the pseudo-anonymity of the backseat confessional. Like me, he didn’t discuss what he’d heard as a matter of principle. I thought Amy’s murder made
the situation different and told him so.

  “Did she indicate what was bothering her?” I asked.

  “Not in so many words, but I got the impression it was connected to Vasily’s murder.” He paused as if another thought had just occurred to him. “But then, maybe she wasn’t upset. Maybe she was just relieved.”

  Moze broke in. “What do you mean?”

  “Vasily had been hitting on Amy almost from the day she moved in. She wanted nothing to do with him, but he wouldn’t let it go. Now that he was dead, she didn’t have to worry about his advances anymore. She could come out on her own time frame.”

  “Come out?”

  “Didn’t you know? Amy was a lesbo. That’s why she’s been meeting with a psychiatrist every week. Trying to get the courage to be herself.”

  “Coffee klatch time is over, folks!” Jack blurted out, striding through the lobby doors.

  Gleason followed closely behind. He countered Jack’s gruff greeting with a pleasant “Good morning, all.” Intentional or not, they were the perfect good-cop, bad-cop partnership. “We’re here to search Amy Windham’s condo,” Gleason said.

  Looking straight at me, Jack said, “Why the hell are those front doors unlocked? You could have a crazed killer wandering in from the street at any moment. Worse yet, a reporter or two.”

  “My fault,” Moze said, coming to my rescue. “I forgot to set the timer.”

  He’d done no such thing, but I gave him an appreciative nod as he promptly secured the doors.

  Jack continued his bad-cop act. “Where’s Windham’s spare key?” he demanded. “Or has someone forgotten to secure it as well?”

  Moze and Sam suddenly remembered they had other things to do and scurried off.

  “You sure know how to clear a room,” I said.

  Jack grinned. “My specialty, darlin’. Now hand over the damn key.”

  CONFESSION #10

  Grief has no set protocol.

  An hour later, Detectives Doyle and Gleason were waiting for me at the concierge desk when I walked into the lobby with Bitsy tethered to a borrowed leash. We’d been on a potty break at the back of the building where reporters or Peter couldn’t spot us. As we approached the desk, Bitsy tugged at the leash and growled at Jack.

  “What’s with the mutt?” asked Jack, backing up a step.

  “She’s Amy Windham’s.”

  Growling quickly escalated to insistent barking. Jack backed farther away, but Gleason crouched to the floor in front of Bitsy. “Hey, cutie,” he said, giving the dog the back of his hand to sniff. Bitsy sniffed once and then licked him. Gleason chuckled and gently caressed her head. “She’s a charmer.”

  “Charmer, my eye,” said Jack. “Those little yappers are more dangerous than a pit bull.”

  Jack was a cat lover, but he’d never admit it. When we divorced he insisted on getting custody of Tuffy, a half-starved alley cat he’d rescued on one of his homicide calls. Jack nursed her back to health, and Tuffy was his and his alone from then on. Our dog, Pepper, was a fifty-pound black Lab with a friendly personality, but Jack never warmed to her.

  I removed the leash and tucked Bitsy in her bed. “What can I do for you gentlemen?” I asked.

  Gleason stood upright. “We’re finished with the Windham condo,” he said, handing over her door key. “Now we’re looking for Sam Caldwell. Do you know where he is?”

  “I saw him in the parking garage washing the town car. Take the elevator to the second level and turn left. The car wash area takes up the last two stalls. You can’t miss him.”

  Jack told his partner to go on ahead and he’d meet up with him in a few minutes. He kept a wary eye on Bitsy, who ignored him and settled down for another nap. “You keeping that dog?” he asked.

  After Pepper died, I thought about getting another dog, but I just didn’t have the time or money to spare. I looked down at Bitsy and smiled. “I’d like to keep her, but I can’t. I’m taking her over to Amy’s mother’s place just as soon as I get off work.”

  “That’s perfect,” he said. “I need you to ask Gloria Windham a few questions.”

  “Isn’t that your job?”

  “Gleason made the death notification last night, but she was too distraught to be much help with the investigation. Too much crying.”

  “I didn’t sign on for interrogation duty. Besides, you said last night you wanted me to come down to the station.”

  Jack ran a hand through his unruly hair. “Look, the station can wait. This is more important. But I never said anything about interrogating the woman. I just meant you should chat her up when you return the dog. You know, offer a kind ear. See what she has to say. I think she’ll be more open with a woman.”

  “Good Lord. Don’t you have any women detectives on your squad?”

  “A couple. But that’s not the point. You’re not with the department. You can talk to the grieving mother like a friend. You knew her daughter so she’s more likely to trust you. She might tell you something that could make a big difference to the case.”

  Jack made everything sound like I was the key to solving his case. “Okay, I’ll talk to her. But I’m not going to press her for information. If she happens to say anything worth repeating, I’ll pass it on.”

  Jack flashed a dimpled smile and winked. “That’s my girl.”

  He’d called me that once before, but I hadn’t said anything. I couldn’t let it pass again. “I’m not your girl. Or woman. Or yours in any way, shape, or form. We need to keep our relationship strictly professional.”

  “Hey, you don’t have to bust my balls. I wasn’t asking for a date.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.” He paused and then gave me a toothy grin. “Are we good now?”

  His grin was irritating, but I managed a tight smile. “Super.”

  “Alrighty, then. Call me when you’re done meeting with Gloria Windham.”

  Amy’s mother lived in the city of Redmond, which was about six miles from BellaVilla. Her home was located in an area called Education Hill, so named because two elementary schools, a junior high, and high school were all within walking distance of each other. I knew the neighborhood well since Jack and I had lived on Education Hill for several years when Erin was in school. A sign leading into town touted Redmond as “the bicycle capital of the Northwest,” but most people knew it as the home of Microsoft and Nintendo.

  I didn’t tell Jack, but I’d met Gloria Windham several times when she’d come to visit her daughter. They’d often stop by the desk to say hello on the way to lunch or to shop at the mall. They seemed to have a close relationship and I could only imagine how devastated Gloria was. I wasn’t looking forward to seeing her again under these circumstances. I’d called ahead to tell her about rescuing Bitsy and she seemed eager to have me bring her over. I hoped the dog would give her some comfort.

  Gloria’s home was a small, seventies-era ranch style with a well-tended yard. I parked the Miata at the curb and cradled Bitsy in my arms a minute. I needed to steel myself for the task at hand. Handling residents’ requests and complaints was one thing; comforting a mother who’d just lost her only child was on a whole other level altogether.

  Like her daughter, Gloria was a striking brunette with pageboy-length hair and a slim build. She had fortysome odd years on her, but the woman knew how to use makeup and wardrobe to good effect. I often thought Amy’s mother could have passed for her older sister. I didn’t picture her that way today.

  Shock and grief couldn’t help but cause bags under the eyes and maybe even a few new wrinkles. As I rang the doorbell and waited, I expected to see a changed Gloria when she opened the door—no makeup, hair a tangled mess, still dressed in bathrobe and fuzzy slippers.

  So much for insight into the grief process. Gloria looked stunning. She wore a smart Evan Picone houndstooth jacket and matching skirt that looked new. No fuzzy slippers, messy hair, or tear-streaked face for this lady. She greeted me graciously and without any visible signs
of distress.

  “It’s so good to see you again,” she said, smiling. She took Bitsy from my arms and thanked me again for taking care of her.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said. “Amy was a wonderful woman.” I assumed from the way she was dressed that she had an appointment somewhere. “I won’t keep you,” I said, starting to leave. “You must have a lot to do today.”

  “Please, come in. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Her high heels clicked on the entryway’s polished hardwood floor as she led me into a living room decorated in an eclectic mix of styles, from arts and crafts to the modern, including a striking Jackson Pollock on the far wall. The home’s interior had been remodeled from the boxy look of the seventies to a spacious great-room concept. The highlight was an impressive stone fireplace with gas logs ablaze. Combined with the sunlight streaming in through a large bay window, the effect was warm and cheerful. Soothing music by Sarah McLachlan added to the pleasant ambiance.

  I sat down on a beige couch adorned with several brightly colored pillows, while Gloria settled into one of the matching wingback chairs across from me. A glass coffee table separated us. It held no magazines or decorative touches you usually see on such furniture. Instead, an unopened fifth of Jack Daniels and carton of Marlboro cigarettes sat squarely in the middle of the spotless glass top. A shot glass, Bic lighter, and ashtray were nearby.

  Gloria lovingly stroked Bitsy’s fur as she held the dog in her lap. She caught me staring at the odd tableware. “It’s a test,” she said.

  “A test?”

  “Would Amy’s death plunge me into the same miserable downward spiral that I fell into when my husband died? Or could I rise above my grief and become a stronger person for it?” She fingered her jacket collar. “That’s why I’m dressed this way. Amy always said, ‘If you look better, you’ll feel better.’”

  She gazed at the whiskey bottle hungrily. “I put temptation right out where I can’t miss it. Believe me, I’d love to drink all the liquor I could get my hands on.” She gestured to the empty ashtray beside the bottle. “And I’d dirty that with a thousand butts, but I owe it to Amy not to slip. She got me into AA and helped me quit smoking. I’m not going to let her down now.”