Concierge Confessions: First Novel in the Concierge Mystery Series

by Valerie Wilcox

  I pointed to the plastic bottle in the console. “Could I have some of that water?” I asked.

  Sam seemed amused by the request. “What’s the matter?” he sneered. “Getting nervous?”

  “Something like that,” I said.

  The town car hit a deep pothole and jarred us both. “Damn it to hell!” He erupted with a few more curses at the road and the loggers who ruined it.

  “Water?” I prompted, stroking my parched throat.

  “Yeah, yeah. Take it,” he said irritably as he swerved to avoid another rut.

  The late afternoon sun barely penetrated the thick trees lining both sides of the roadway, but the closed-in gloomy atmosphere was offset by the beauty of the free-flowing river. The setting barely registered with me as I watched Sam negotiate a slight bend in the road and slow the car to a crawl. “We’re almost there now,” he said.

  From the moment Sam first seized my arm on the street corner, I knew I was in trouble. I felt it throughout my body. The feeling was probably similar to what our ancestors experienced thousands of years ago when confronted by a savage beast who thought it’d found dinner: increased heart rate and blood pressure, quickening breaths, and a burst of adrenaline to prepare for fight or flight. I’m sure those responses served the cavewoman well, but I had difficulty making them work for me. Nothing seemed real. To counteract my rattled brain, I began taking deep, controlled breaths.

  Sam braked to a complete stop and grinned. “It’s fun ’n’ games time!”

  No, it’s reality time. I took one last deep breath and fingered the pencil I’d grabbed along with the water bottle. When Sam reached for the gearshift lever, I threw the bottle at him. He flinched slightly, but still held on to the handgun. It didn’t matter. I was an adrenaline-pumping machine.

  I flung my left arm straight out, and before Sam realized what was coming, I’d jabbed the pencil deep into his neck. Blood spurted from his jugular vein as he instinctively brought his hand up to pull the pencil out. But my makeshift weapon held fast and I ground it in deeper with all the force my fear-ravaged body could muster.

  Sam cried out in rage and pain, but he still clasped the Colt tightly in his left hand. He pointed it at me and pulled the trigger. When the gun didn’t fire, his wild eyes gave way to confused disbelief.

  As I’d suspected from the beginning, Sam didn’t know anything about the Colt .45 auto. It had a manual thumb safety that must be disengaged before firing. With blood still seeping from his neck, he fumbled around with the handgun, trying to figure out how to make it work.

  Too late. I lunged at him and wrestled my gun away. I released the safety and aimed the Colt at him. At such close range, accuracy wasn’t going to be a problem. “Are we having fun yet?” I asked.

  Sam slumped against the driver’s side door. He was weak and in real danger of choking on his own blood. “Help,” he moaned. “I’m dying.”

  “Then hand over your cell phone.”

  He shivered so hard his teeth rattled. “I’m freezing.”

  “The phone,” I said, patting his pockets. “Where’s your phone?”

  He lifted a trembling finger and pointed in the general direction of the glove box. I grabbed the phone where he’d hidden it, but I didn’t call for help right away. All those scenes in the movies where the assailant suddenly rises up to overtake the heroine flashed through my mind and I panicked. Sam didn’t seem capable of such herculean feats, but I didn’t care. I wanted out of the car and I wanted out now.

  “Unlock the doors!”

  Sam’s eyelids fluttered briefly and then drifted shut. I couldn’t tell whether he was dead or alive, but I wasn’t about to take any chances. I pointed the barrel at his belly as I reached over and grabbed the keys from the ignition. Freedom was just a remote click away and I took it, slamming the door behind me.

  The signal was iffy this far out in the country, but I held the mobile in the air and hoped for the best.

  “Nine one one. What’s your emergency?”

  CONFESSION #26

  By definition, a concierge is cool, calm, and collected under pressure—unless she’s just killed someone.

  The mobile signal was intermittent, but I was able to briefly explain what had happened and request medical assistance before losing reception altogether. I’ve since heard a replay of my call and I have to give the 911 operator points for staying calm and professional. I was anything but. I’d kept my wits about me long enough to disarm and disable Sam, but now I was on the verge of collapse. Asking me to pinpoint our location only made things worse. “I don’t know where the hell we are!” I shrieked.

  If it hadn’t been for the reassuring voice on the other end of the phone, I might have shut down altogether. Despite the phone’s spotty service and my near-hysterical responses, the emergency dispatcher was able to keep me focused in order to assist in the rescue efforts. I don’t even know her name, but she was wonderful. Without her, the authorities wouldn’t have found us as soon as they did. The media labeled me a hero, but she was the real deal.

  When I knew help was on the way, I was able to think about Sam’s condition. I didn’t know if he was still alive, but I was afraid to find out. I’d been reminded by the operator to take deep breaths to calm myself. Even so, it took several moments before I could force myself to climb back inside the town car. Sam was still slumped against the driver’s side door, but he’d managed to pull the pencil out of his neck before passing out. Blood seeped freely from the open wound now and gave off a sick, metallic stench. His pale face was frozen in an ugly grimace as the life force oozed out of his body.

  Fighting back nausea, I scrambled across the blood-splattered seat to check his pulse. He’d dropped the pencil and his hand lay loosely atop his urine-soaked trouser leg. I held my breath and felt his wrist for a pulse. The beat was weak, but he was still alive—barely. I fashioned a bandage with my sweater, wrapped it around Sam’s neck, and then cradled him in my arms so I could apply pressure to his wound.

  When the paramedics arrived, they had to physically pry my hand from his neck in order to treat him. “Will he live?” I asked.

  They were noncommittal about Sam’s chances, but they didn’t hold back about expressing their concerns for me. “You’re in shock.”

  “I’m fine,” I told them. The medics disagreed. They treated me at the scene and then insisted I go to the hospital to be checked out. They’d just placed me on a gurney when Kevin Gleason showed up.

  The paramedics were volunteers with the local fire department and had been first to arrive, followed shortly thereafter by a significant number of King County’s finest law enforcement personnel. The deputies secured the scene and had already taken a preliminary statement from me. The medics had advised that further questioning would have to wait until I’d been cleared by a doctor. None of this mattered to Gleason. He hopped out of his vehicle and started ordering everybody around as if nothing had been done right. In short, he pissed everybody off.

  The deputy in charge had a round, craggy face that had seen fifty years and then some. He carried his authority with dignity and courtesy, but there was an unstated don’t-mess-with-me aura about him. His uniform was spit-and-polish perfect, but you just knew there were some badass tattoos underneath. The vibe he gave off was Hell’s Angel biker with a badge. He took Gleason’s measure and found him wanting. “You’re kind of late to the party, old buddy. We’ve got this case under control.”

  “The hell you have! This is my case,” Gleason fired back.

  The paramedics had stopped just short of lifting me into the ambulance when Gleason assumed command. The deputy turned to them now and said, “What are you waiting for? Get her out of here.”

  I don’t know what went on after the ambulance sped off with Sam and me, but it couldn’t have been pleasant for Gleason. He was still red-faced and wild-eyed when he stormed into the emergency room an hour later. He started spouting attitude the minute he saw me. “I have some questions,” h
e said, stomping up to my bedside. “And by God, this time I’m going to get some answers.”

  “Too late,” Jack said. He’d been partially hidden from view by the privacy curtain. He stepped in front of the bed and faced Gleason. “She’s answered all the questions necessary. You, on the other hand, need to answer a few of mine.”

  “Wha…what do you mean?” Gleason stuttered.

  “Let’s start with why you never told me Kate had called and left a message about Sam Caldwell. Or why you took the union list off my desk.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, man. I didn’t take any damn list.” He glanced at me. “When Kate called, you were in the office with the lieutenant. I’d have told you when you came out, but you were too agitated to listen. Since Kate said she was coming over right away, I figured it didn’t matter. As far as the list goes, it’s not my fault you can’t remember where you put things.”

  Jack snorted. “Yeah, like I’d put anything—let alone valuable case evidence—in the bottom drawer of your desk.”

  Gleason’s fists clenched. “Are you calling me a thief?”

  “Matter of fact, I’m calling you worse than a thief. You’re a lying sack of crap. You’re a stupid gung-ho rookie who almost got Kate killed by trying to save the day at my expense.”

  My phone call to Jack was what started it all. Gleason hadn’t been interested in the union angle until then. He’d been too busy trying to make a case against me. His curiosity now piqued, he snatched the list off Jack’s desk and quickly put two and two together. This was the big break he’d been hoping for. He helped Jack look for the “missing” list for a few minutes and then left to track down Sam on his own. He’d just discovered my abandoned SUV and handbag when the report of my 911 call came in. He sped away with sirens wailing, and the rest is history.

  “Are you threatening me?” Gleason asked.

  “I’m doing more than threatening. I’m going to knock you on your ass.”

  And he did. It was a good thing the fight happened at the hospital. Both men got immediate treatment for their injuries. Kevin got the worst of it, but he was able to talk his way out of responsibility for the incident. He even got the credit for Sam’s arrest that he’d been aiming for all along. Jack’s injuries were minor and his fellow detectives thought he’d given Gleason exactly what he deserved, but he didn’t fare as well with the department. The stunt cost him his job. He was already on probation and the fight with his partner didn’t strike the brass as particularly helpful to his cause.

  I lost my job, too. The media was all over the case for weeks, but most of the reporting didn’t come close to what actually happened. The headlines ran along the lines of “Concierge Takes Down Killer—and Gets Fired for Her Trouble!” But this came later. Despite some legal wrangling as to whether I’d acted in self-defense, the coverage of my abduction and escape was positive. I was praised for my bravery, and credited for single-handedly solving the BellaVilla murders as well as the Novikov case.

  The cloud that had been hanging over BellaVilla was finally lifted and life was good once again. There’s nothing like the capture of a crazed killer to get the champagne corks popping. Carlton Leavy even got an agent interested in representing his true crime book about the case—when and if he ever finishes it.

  I didn’t think the positive publicity would change Peter’s mind about me and I was right. If anything, the attention I got from the media only made things worse. He had a copy of the Seattle Times on his desk when I walked into his office for our Friday morning meeting. He pointed to the photo of me on the front page. “I see you’re still the media’s darling.”

  “Fame is fleeting,” I said.

  Peter was his usual puffed up, haughty self. “Well,” he said, “this changes nothing about your probation status.”

  “I understand.”

  He rambled on at length about how I’d undermined his authority and generally screwed up as concierge. “You should never have been hired in the first place. I thought maybe you’d prove me wrong, that maybe you’d rise to the occasion, so to speak. But, alas, you’ve been a big disappointment.” It went downhill from there, but the main point was I’d failed my probation period. “So, you see,” he concluded, “I have no other choice but to let you go.”

  It wasn’t like I hadn’t seen the end coming. Everyone else, though, was astonished. Danielle Livingston was outraged. “What was that little pipsqueak thinking? You’re the best damn concierge I’ve ever known. Texans included.” She wanted to go to Billy Matthews and plead the residents’ case for my reinstatement. “We all feel the same way. Billy should fire Peter and put you in charge.”

  I thanked her for her support, but I declined to fight Peter’s decision. The facility manager’s job was still mine if I wanted it, but I had another idea percolating. In the meantime, I had a birthday party to attend.

  The BellaVilla Bulletin

  Dear Residents,

  It is with regret that we announce the departure of Concierge Kate Ryan. We thank her for her service at BellaVilla and wish her well in her new endeavors.

  Peter Westerfield, Lead Concierge

  MEMO

  To: Concierge Staff

  From: Peter Westerfield

  Subject: Lesson Learned

  As you know from the media reports, one of our concierges was involved in the apprehension of the person responsible for the recent tragedies at BellaVilla. While we are grateful that she wasn’t hurt, it is important to emphasize that she violated company policy when she became involved in the case. She not only put herself at risk but others could have been harmed as well. Because her actions subjected BellaVilla to an untenable liability position, we had to terminate her employment.

  The lesson learned is that all staff members will be held accountable for actions that violate company policy and/or cause a liability issue for BellaVilla.

  CONFESSION #27

  Once a concierge, always a concierge.

  A skating party at the Starlight Roller Rink was Shannon’s choice for her birthday celebration. From the looks of things, the skating rink was the number one birthday party destination for the under-twelve set. I counted no fewer than ten tables reserved for the girl or boy celebrating their special day. Along with skate rental for up to eight guests, the festive arrangements included decorative table placemats and balloons, ice cream, and soft drinks. All the parents had to do was provide the cake and gifts—and a check or credit card to cover the cost of the birthday package.

  Starlight was a premier facility that had won several awards for its kid-friendly and parent-approved activities. Erin never said how much the shindig had set her back, but it couldn’t come anywhere near the princely sums that BellaVilla parents routinely spent on their kids’ parties. I’d arranged a few of their over-the-top extravaganzas and the expense took a backseat to fulfilling whatever their little darlings’ hearts desired. A ski trip to Aspen for a dozen kids? Of course. Their own private day at the circus, including elephant rides? No problem. A special appearance by the latest teen idol singing a personal rendition of “Happy Birthday”? You got it. By these standards, a skating party at the fanciest rink in town seemed uninspired—but very reasonable.

  “Shannon is a good skater,” I said.

  Erin followed my gaze to the crowded skating floor and smiled. “So’s Dad,” she said.

  When the rink’s deejay announced a couples-only number, Jack had quickly laced up his skates. “Time to show these kids how it’s done,” he said, rolling onto the rink. Shannon giggled with girlish delight as he bowed in front of her like Prince Charming and asked her to be his partner. They skated hand in hand to the music like seasoned pros.

  Shannon certainly looked happier than the last time I saw her. Erin had taken my advice and sought professional help for her behavior problems. The diagnosis was Attention Deficit Disorder, which Jack dismissed as a flavor-of-the-month conclusion. He couldn’t admit his granddaughter had any problems, e
specially anything that could be labeled a deficit. Whatever the cause of her troubles, Shannon seemed to be responding well to a combination of medication and counseling. I watched her face light up as Jack whirled her around the rink in a dance-like move that generated applause from the sideline audience. “They’re both having fun,” I said.

  “You should join them,” Erin said. “After all you’ve been through, you deserve a little fun.”

  I couldn’t argue the point, but I was content to confine my role to appreciative onlooker. Jack and I had had our share of applause-filled twirls at many a roller rink in the past, but it’d been years since I’d put on skates. I told Erin I didn’t want to embarrass Shannon by falling flat on my face in front of her friends. But that wasn’t the real reason I preferred to watch from the sidelines. I’d been the focus of too much attention in the weeks following my escape from Sam, and I was still trying to process what had happened.

  “I am having fun,” I said. “Right where I am.”

  Erin’s raised eyebrow registered her doubts. “If you say so.”

  It was the same response I’d gotten when I told her I’d turned town the facility manager’s job that Billy Matthews offered me. “But you’d be using your engineering skills again,” she said at the time. “I can’t believe you passed on the opportunity.”

  I didn’t know how to explain to my daughter or anyone else that everything had changed the moment Sam forced me into the town car at gunpoint. They weren’t there. They couldn’t know how scared and desperate I felt. They couldn’t understand how I believed killing a man was my only option, my only way out. They couldn’t feel the relief that surged through my body after I escaped, after hearing repeated assurances that help was on the way. I didn’t know how to explain any of this. Nor could I explain why I turned around and climbed right back in the car to save the life of the man who wanted to kill me.