Aside from when I made my rounds—a short tour of the building to ensure that all was in order for the day—I was expected to be at the concierge desk in the lobby at all times, ready and eager to assist whoever needed assistance. The unspoken understanding by the residents was that whatever they requested or complained about was top priority, no matter what else the concierge happened to be doing at the time.
I tried to keep all phone conversations as short as possible, because invariably a high-maintenance type (and they were all high maintenance) would stop by the desk and interrupt me mid-sentence to demand my undivided attention. I usually put a forefinger in the air to indicate I’d be with them in a moment. It would’ve been much more satisfying to use a different finger, but there was something to be said for a steady paycheck.
That’s not to say there weren’t some residents I instantly liked and could have become fast friends with under other circumstances. Peter’s golden rule of concierge work was: “Residents are not your friends. As soon as you start thinking they are, watch out. They’ll turn on you in a nanosecond.” With a couple of exceptions, I was careful to interact with the residents in a manner befitting the servant/master relationship that Peter and upper management preferred.
Carla, on the other hand, had a different take on interacting with the residents—specifically, the male residents. Her flirty ways did not concern me, but her tardiness did. I’d been on the job a month when, as usual, Moze found me waiting for Carla. We shot the breeze until finally, even he had to leave. I looked at my watch and sighed. It was now almost four o’clock and still no Carla.
The housekeepers had left for the day. The kids who lived in the building had been brought home from the park by their nannies. The Furry Friends Dog Walker Service had returned the dogs from their afternoon potty break. The U.S. mail carrier had come and gone. The packages and dry cleaning had all been delivered and logged. The phone wasn’t even ringing. Day shift was usually busy, but everything had settled down that afternoon. So there I sat, waiting for Carla and getting more bored by the minute.
Between yawns, I monitored the bank of security screens. There were over fifty cameras installed at each BellaVilla tower and we could access all of them via the computer. I’d caught my share of couples making out in the elevators or the Jacuzzi, but nothing was happening today. I’d just about finished my voyeuristic eye-in-the-sky whirl through the building when something on the fortieth floor made me pause.
There were two penthouses on the top floor. One of the penthouses was owned by an elderly couple, Mr. and Mrs. Weinstein. They’d made their money selling racy lingerie via mail order for years, but their real fortune came when they sold their business to Victoria’s Secret. The Weinsteins kept to themselves and I rarely saw them. They had a private elevator that took them directly to the garage, where BellaVilla’s town car driver could pick them up without them having to grace the lobby with their presence. The town car wasn’t for their exclusive use, but they were the most frequent passengers.
The second penthouse belonged to a bachelor in his thirties named Vasily Petrov. A recent transplant from Portland, Oregon, he was a realtor specializing in high-end real estate deals. As far as looks go, Vasily didn’t have much to brag about when he looked in the mirror. His stubby, five-foot-seven frame supported a generous beer belly and a round, pockmarked face topped with a receding hairline that had receded to almost nothing. Yet Vasily was a definite babe magnet. It might have had something to do with the fact that he rivaled Bill Gates when it came to a different set of assets.
If I saw a beautiful, well-dressed woman enter the lobby unescorted, I could just about guarantee she was headed to the fortieth floor. I was so used to seeing a woman either coming or going from Vasily’s penthouse that when the security camera caught a woman leaving his unit that day, I almost didn’t register the significance.
Moments later, Carla rushed into the lobby and flung her oversized Gucci handbag onto the desk. “Sorry I’m late,” she said, gasping for breath. “Traffic’s a bitch.”
“Hmm,” I said. “Fortieth floor hallway looks rather free of traffic to me.”
Carla’s eyes darted to the computer screen. “Oops.” She giggled. “Busted.”
I didn’t see the humor. “I really don’t care how you spend your free time or with whom, but you need to get to work on time,” I told her. “It’s not fair to keep me waiting half an hour or more for you to show up.”
Her bottle-blonde hair looked damp and was held together by a scrunchie in a disheveled topknot. She tucked several loose strands behind her ear and said, “You’re right. But don’t get the wrong idea. Vasily was just helping me study for the real estate exam.”
Talk about putting a positive spin on things. “Okay,” I said without challenging her. But I couldn’t resist adding, “Seems like a rough time to be starting a real estate career.”
“Not at all,” Carla assured me. “Vasily says it’s the best time of all. He believes there’s a turnaround coming and I want to be ready for it.”
When she wandered in late again the next day, I assumed a lay-down-the-law stance and tone. “Look, Carla,” I said, hands on hips. “This has got to stop. I’m not going to keep covering for you. If you’re not here when three o’clock rolls around, I’m going to leave anyway.” It was a bluff and she knew it. Peter would have a fit if he came by the lobby and saw the desk unmanned. I would be on the receiving end of his wrath just as much as Carla. She might not need the job, but I did.
Carla rolled her eyes like a teenager exasperated by her unreasonable mother, which was, no doubt, how she thought of me. “Oh, get off your high horse,” she said. “A few minutes longer at the desk won’t kill you.”
My inner brat was screaming and ready to strike, but I managed to control the urge. I gathered up my handbag and thermos and left without further comment.
The fit hit the shan, so to speak, a few weeks later. By then Carla’s “tutoring” sessions with Vasily had become a daily thing. The upside was that her tardiness was no longer an issue. I’d had a private chat with Vasily and convinced him to rush Carla out the door no later than two forty-five p.m. It was an easy sell, especially when I advised him that doing so was in his best interest. He got my drift. It wasn’t necessary to spell out the difference between the prompt concierge service he’d come to expect and…well, not-so-prompt service.
In his charming Russian accent, Vasily said, “For you, Miss Katie, I do this think.” He was as good as his word—until the day he couldn’t keep his promise. When Carla didn’t show up as scheduled, I phoned Vasily to remind him of our agreement. Getting no answer after several attempts, I grabbed my mobile and took the elevator to the fortieth floor. His door was slightly ajar so I called his name through the opening as I knocked. Nothing. More calling and knocking. Still nothing. A bit angry now, I pushed the door all the way open and walked inside the penthouse.
Entering a resident’s home uninvited was a firing offense, but I was fed up with Carla. If dragging her out of Vasily’s home by her bleached blonde roots was what it took to get through to her, then so be it. The penthouse reflected Vasily’s taste for the finer things in life. No IKEA for him. The décor was urban chic, but had a touch of the Old World with a half dozen oil paintings by the masters lining the walls. I didn’t come to gawk, but couldn’t help myself.
Carla was nowhere in sight and neither was Vasily. I called their names as I wandered from room to room. I’d begun to think they’d gone out and I’d missed them somehow. Then I opened the door to the den. Carla wasn’t there, but Vasily was slumped over a highly polished executive-style desk. His ash-gray face rested in a splotch of putrid stuff that had pooled on the desk next to his mouth. My first thought was that he’d choked to death on his own vomit. I could hardly keep from gagging as I flipped open my cell phone and called 911.
The good news was that Vasily wasn’t dead. The paramedics arrived in time to get him to the hospital, where he was
treated and released after a couple of weeks. Everyone called me a hero for summoning help when I did, which made it difficult for Peter to justify firing me. He never bothered to ask why I had entered the penthouse in the first place and I didn’t enlighten him. The bad news was that the police did ask.
They launched their investigation as soon as the medical staff treating Vasily reported that he had been poisoned. A thorough analysis of all the food in his home determined that a box of chocolate truffles had been laced with arsenic. It was well known that Vasily had a fondness for anything chocolate and frequently received candy from friends and business associates alike. The police confiscated BellaVilla’s security camera tapes and interviewed the staff and all the residents, plus a long list of girlfriends, clients, and others who’d had contact with Vasily in the past few weeks.
Carla did not take the ordeal well. She freaked out when she learned I’d told the police about her daily study visits at Vasily’s home, and accused me of trying to set her up. I’m not sure what she told the police about me, but you can be certain it had little resemblance to the truth.
Besides Carla and whoever else made their radar zing, the police seemed to focus on Moze. He’d had a couple of minor brushes with the law in the past, which was a red flag, I suppose. The fact that he also used arsenic to trap mice at BellaVilla was what really piqued their interest. Moze was convinced he’d hit the suspicious character trifecta—a black man with a record and access to arsenic. Not to mention that as maintenance chief, he had a set of keys to every unit in both towers.
According to the investigative details published in the Seattle Times, there weren’t any solid leads as to who had tried to kill Vasily—or at least any that the police would reveal to the public. “It’s lucky I’m allergic to chocolate,” Carla said after reading the latest article. “I could’ve been killed.”
She figured she was off the hook since she had an alibi. Carla was taking the real estate exam—which she flunked—at the time Vasily almost died. I explained to her that an alibi in this case didn’t wash because the culprit didn’t need to be around when Vasily ate the tainted truffles. “The killer just needed access. You had access, Carla.”
“So did you,” she said.
“If I wanted him dead, I wouldn’t have called 911.”
She thought about that a moment. “Oh. Well, maybe you changed your mind. Maybe you just wanted to look like a hero instead of the nagging bitch you are.”
I gave up and went home. Late, again.
The BellaVilla Bulletin
Dear Residents,
On behalf of the residents, management team, and staff at BellaVilla, we wish Mr. Vasily Petrov a speedy recovery. A special thanks goes to our concierge, Kate Ryan, for her quick action in getting Mr. Petrov the medical help he needed in a timely manner.
William Matthews, Facility Manager
MEMO
To: Concierge Staff
From: Peter Westerfield
Subject: Emergency Procedures
ENTERING A RESIDENT’S UNIT BY A STAFF MEMBER WITHOUT PERMISSION IS PROHIBITED UNDER ANY AND ALL CIRCUMSTANCES.
This policy is for your protection as well as to avoid any liability issues for the company. If you become aware of a life-threatening emergency, you are to call 911 and notify me immediately so that I can assess whether further action is warranted.
CONFESSION #3
It’s always the concierge’s fault.
Although no viable suspects had surfaced following Vasily’s near-death experience, there were plenty of rumors and speculation floating around BellaVilla. Having no interest in playing amateur detective, I tried to stay above the fray, but it wasn’t easy. Without any prompting, people somehow felt the need to confide in me. Everyone, including the reclusive Weinsteins, seemed hellbent on advancing their own particular theory. “It’s the money, honey,” Mr. Weinstein insisted. “Always follow the money.” He was convinced that the most logical suspect would have to be one of Vasily’s business associates.
My coworkers freely shared their opinions with me whenever they stopped by the concierge desk. After ensuring that no residents were in the lobby to overhear us, town car driver Sam Caldwell seconded Mr. Weinstein’s opinion. “Rich dudes hate to part with a dime if they don’t have to,” he said. He based this observation on the fact that Mr. Weinstein, with all his wealth, refused to subscribe to the newspaper. “He don’t have to,” Sam explained. “Not when he can get it for free at any hotel in town.” Sam drove Mr. Weinstein to a different hotel every morning just so he could pick up a complimentary guest copy of the Seattle Times at the registration desk.
Moze thought Carla was involved somehow. I told him I couldn’t see what she would have to gain by Vasily’s death. “Maybe those chocolates were meant for her,” he countered. That opened up a new angle for everyone to toss around. “Yeah,” said Sam, “maybe one of his other girlfriends got jealous.”
As for Vasily, he wasn’t talking. The once outgoing man about town had become a virtual recluse. He and Carla were no longer an item, and the stream of women in and out of the penthouse was but a distant memory. Carla clarified why her status with Vasily had changed. “He’s probably depressed,” she explained. Stunningly perceptive, our Carla.
Sam gave her a pained look. His narrow, craggy face always looked somewhat pained. The lanky fifty-year-old driver was a former construction foreman whose job went away in the real estate downturn. Like me, he had embarked on a new career. The forced change hadn’t done much for his attitude. Carla’s observation about Vasily hit a nerve. He shot back with a cranky, “Depressed? Gee, ya think?”
“I mean,” she chattered on, “it’s got to be a downer knowing that someone hates you so much that they’d try to kill you.”
“Well put,” Sam said. “Knowing that you’re hated can be a bummer. And yet, your spirits seem okay.”
The zinger was wasted on her. “Yeah, I’m fine,” she assured him. “Vasily and my real estate plans didn’t work out, but I’m studying massage therapy now.”
Sam sighed and took out his cell phone. After a quick glance, he said, “Gotta go. The Weinsteins need their chariot.”
The buzz eventually waned when no arrests were made and other intrigues—although minor by comparison—took center stage. I’d just settled into my chair at the front desk a few days later when our newest resident, Mr. Bingwen Li, stormed into the lobby. It was his moving-in day and it didn’t appear to be going well.
The theme of the BellaVilla complex, as you might have guessed from the name, was all things Italian. I didn’t know what Mr. Li thought of the décor, but he definitely wasn’t pleased with its lack of feng shui—at least as far as the elevator was concerned.
“No, no, no! Feng shui, no.” Mr. Li’s command of the English language was limited, but he had a firm grasp on what “no” meant. He tossed the word around like a two-year-old who’d been told playtime was over. Short and slightly built, he had a high-pitched voice with plenty of volume. Glaring at me while simultaneously pointing a bony finger at one of the lobby’s three elevators, he repeated his “No, no, no!” mantra. Wait, forget mantra. The man had begun to shriek. “No feng shui! No feng shui!”
The elevator causing Mr. Li’s ear-splitting outburst was elaborate by anyone’s standards. Like the other two elevators, it had dark walnut wall paneling, crystal dome lighting, and imported Italian black tile flooring accented in gold inlaid swirls. Unlike the other elevators, though, it had been designated as the elevator for residents’ deliveries and moves. Accordingly, it had been outfitted with wall pads and floor mats to protect its beauty.
“What the hell’s his problem?” Mr. Leavy asked. Carlton Leavy was a resident who just happened to be passing through the lobby when Mr. Li began his tirade. Mr. Leavy was about the same size and build as Mr. Li, but he had a self-important air that made him seem much taller. Dark fiery eyes and the nasty scar marring his narrow jawline gave him a formidable appearance. Crossing
him was a scary proposition.
“I don’t think he believes the elevator has good qi,” I offered without bothering to explain further. As an engineer, I’d dealt with the term on a few projects for Asians. It was my understanding that the goal of feng shui is to situate the human-built environment on spots with good qi. The “perfect spot” is a location and an axis in time. The elevator designated for Mr. Li’s move might have been pretty, but apparently it had come up short in the perfect-spot department.
I’d already lost Mr. Leavy with the mention of qi. “Say what?”
I gestured to the guy by the elevator holding a cardboard box as big as Mr. Li in his tattooed arms. Grinning, he set the box down and planted himself in front of the elevator like a burly tree stump. Paid by the hour, he didn’t appear eager for the situation to be resolved. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying the show. All he needed was some popcorn and a soda.
“It’s my guess that Mr. Li wants to use another elevator for his move,” I said.
“That’s a load of crap. We were specifically instructed to use the first elevator for move-ins and deliveries. That’s why it has all the pads and mats.” He directed this information to Mr. Li, who clearly had no idea what the man was talking about. Mr. Leavy, in a futile attempt to make himself understood, cranked up the volume. “Use the goddamn padded elevator!” he yelled.
By this time a few more residents had drifted into the lobby. Nothing like a little yelling and profanity to draw a crowd. One old duffer in the bunch was particularly outraged that Mr. Li didn’t speak English. “Damn foreigners are everywhere,” he said, waving his cane at Mr. Li. “They don’t even try to speak English.”
His rant generated a lot of head nodding and grumbling, which seemed to encourage further disparaging remarks. Mr. Li didn’t need to know English to get their drift. The animosity directed his way caused him to backtrack from the mob and sidle up next to the safety of his beefy mover-in-waiting.
Concierge Confessions Page 2
