Concierge Confessions

by Valerie Wilcox

  The ladies’ room included a comfy couch that I fully expected to find her lounging on just to spite me. I pushed open the door and barged inside, ready to give her an earful. A couple of ladies were at the mirror fussing with their makeup and hair, but there was no Carla on the couch or anywhere else in the room, as far as I could tell without opening up each stall. “Have you seen Carla?” I asked. They didn’t seem to understand who I meant. “Concierge? Young? Blond?” Blank stares all around. I figured she’d gone home, or better yet, quit. One could only hope.

  Just to be thorough before reporting Carla’s untimely departure to Peter, I checked the adjacent spa. The luxurious facility was designed to calm and refresh, and included a stone fireplace, leafy potted plants, a small waterfall, and the requisite bubbling Jacuzzi, accompanied by the soothing vocals of Enya on the surround sound system. A piercing scream spoiled the intended mood.

  Since the screaming seemed to be coming from a room down a short hallway, I took off running in that direction. The hallway was darker than usual and I almost ran into a sideboard adorned with an original Chihuly glass bowl. Moze must have missed the burned-out overhead lightbulb on his regular rounds through the building. It was an offense that he’d be sure to hear about from Peter if I didn’t get a chance to warn Moze first.

  BellaVilla had no on-site masseuse, but a dedicated massage room had been set up for residents who scheduled a masseuse through the concierge’s list of recommended providers. It was fully equipped with a regulation table and detachable headrest, electric sheet warmer, and a supply of towels and sheets in a corner cabinet. Candles and music were also available to provide a relaxing atmosphere. That night, not so much. The closer I got to the room, the louder the screaming.

  The door was slightly ajar and I pushed it all the way open as I charged in. Carla was no longer missing in action. She stood next to the massage table on which Vasily Petrov lay faceup with a wicked-looking knife stuck in the center of his chest. His naked body was partially covered by a blood-soaked sheet. It took me a moment to register the horrific scene, but Carla’s hysterics quickly snapped me out of my stupor. I wrapped her in a firm embrace. Her skin felt cold and clammy, her eyes wild.

  “Stop, it, Carla,” I said in a forceful but calm voice. “You’ll be all right.” I wasn’t so confident about Vasily. He looked beyond help. Carla stopped screaming but her body trembled uncontrollably. Fearful that she was suffering from shock, I helped her lie down on the floor. It wasn’t until I covered her with a blanket from the supply cabinet that I noticed the blood splattered all over the front of her blouse.

  I had just punched in 911 on my mobile when Peter burst into the room. “I heard screaming and—” Jolted by the grisly tableau, he stumbled back a step and turned his wide-eyed stare on me.

  “Oh, my God! What have you done now?”

  CONFESSION #5

  Murder is a social disease.

  A few residents who’d left the ballroom to go to the restroom got sidetracked by the disturbance at the end of the hall. As soon as they saw what was going on, word got back to the rest of the partygoers at lightning speed. By the time the police and paramedics showed up, a large crowd had gathered. There is something about tragedy that draws the looky-loos. Based on what I saw and heard, the savage murder of one of their own was both shocking and titillating.

  The men in blue wanted none of their nosy interference. They ordered the spectators to disburse and cordoned off the area with yellow crime tape across the hallway entrance. The paramedics did their thing for Carla while one of the officers took statements from Peter and me. Shortly thereafter, homicide detective Jack Doyle and his partner reported in.

  As soon as Jack saw me, he crossed himself. “Lord, have mercy,” he said. “It’s Mary Kathleen Ryan. Now my lousy day’s effing complete.”

  This is where I must make full disclosure. Jack was my ex-husband. We’d been high school sweethearts and married right after graduation. Erin was born nine months later. Somehow we managed to put ourselves through college and raise a daughter any parent would be proud of. Jack and I were together for over twenty years before everything fell apart. I hadn’t seen him in a couple of years and I’d heard from Erin that he’d been married and divorced in the interim.

  Despite Jack’s over-the-top reaction, we’d always been on fairly good terms after our divorce. I believed his profanity-laced greeting had more to do with too many civilians at the crime scene than any animosity he felt toward me. At least that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. In any event, I was glad Jack was on the case. Whatever faults he had—and it’s a long list—he was the best of the best when it came to solving crimes.

  “Hello, Jack,” I said. “Nice to see you, too.” Working as a concierge had honed my ability to take whatever was dished out with a smile on my face. Even if it came from my former husband, which is saying a lot about my newfound skills.

  “Don’t give me that,” he said. “You’re compromising my crime scene.”

  Angry scowl or not, Jack had a certain magnetism that hadn’t faded with the years. His unruly black hair could use some Grecian Formula to cover the gray, and I noted he’d put on a few pounds around the middle, but the man still looked good to me. Sexual attraction had never been our problem. That he hadn’t lost the ability to make my heart race after so many years ticked me off.

  Jack turned to the officer who’d taken my statement. “Why haven’t you cleared the room?”

  “She’s a witness, sir.” He pointed to Peter and Carla. “Them, too.”

  Jack’s abrasive attitude was offset by a resigned weariness. His shoulders slumped as he let out a heavy sigh. “Who else don’t I know about?” he asked.

  “There was a big party in the ballroom,” the officer said. “Most likely at the time the murder occurred.”

  Jack groaned. “Suspects one and all.”

  His partner said, “I’ll handle it. The uniforms are holding them for questioning.”

  I used to know all of Jack’s partners when we were married, but this guy was new to me. Jack hadn’t bothered to introduce him. One of the officers referred to him as Detective Gleason. They made a Mutt and Jeff team. Jack was six foot two and still muscular at forty-five, but seemed beaten up by his many years on the job. Gleason, on the other hand, was much shorter with a thin, wiry build and the youthful, gung-ho attitude of a rookie.

  “Or do you want to question the ballroom crowd yourself?” Gleason asked, deferring to Jack’s status as lead.

  “Hell, no,” Jack said. With a pointed glance at me, he added, “I’ve got my hands full here.”

  One of the officers, looking like a freshly scrubbed youngster in a crisp, regulation-perfect uniform, spoke up. “Sir, there must be at least three hundred people in the ballroom. Detective Gleason may need assistance.” He clearly wanted to get in on the action.

  Jack looked him over and frowned. I knew exactly what he was thinking: another young hotshot scrambling to get ahead. Jack had been there, done that, and had the battle scars to prove it, including two failed marriages.

  Jack nodded his approval and Gleason hustled off with the eager-beaver officer in tow. The paramedics had finished treating Carla and were preparing to leave when a couple of forensic technicians and the medical examiner arrived. The small room couldn’t hold many more without contaminating vital evidence that, according to Jack, had already been compromised “from here to Sunday.” He ordered Peter, Carla, and me to vacate the premises but to stay close by. He wanted to go over our initial statements with us when he finished with the body.

  Since I had no desire to hang out with Peter and Carla, I told Jack I’d be in the kitchen. For all her party-planning skills, Danielle had failed to consider the need for a cleanup crew. I wasn’t partial to handling the job, but Vasily’s murder had affected me more than I realized. Some good physical work might help calm my jittery nerves while waiting for Jack’s summons.

  There was no shortage of trays an
d wine glasses to clean and I was hard at it when Marcus wandered into the kitchen. “I thought I’d find you here,” he said.

  “How’d the questioning go?” I asked.

  “No big deal. They just took down our names, addresses, and phone numbers. Said they’d contact us later if they needed more info.”

  “That was about all they could do, given how many people they had to question,” I said.

  Marcus grabbed a dish towel and began to dry the wineglasses as I finished washing. I’d already filled the commercial-size dishwasher to capacity and there was still a ton left to do by hand.

  “I guess we now know where Carla went after she ditched us,” Marcus said. “You think she had anything to do with Vasily’s murder?”

  I shrugged and said, “If she did, she’s a good actress. She had to be treated for shock.”

  I caught Marcus staring at the rust-red stains on my blouse. “Blood transfer from Carla,” I explained. “Her blouse was covered with the stuff. I picked some up when I hugged her. It was the only way I could calm her down.”

  “What about you?” Marcus asked. “Are you okay?”

  “For now.” Meeting with Jack again might prove problematic.

  “Poor Vasily,” Marcus said, shaking his head. “He’s barely been seen since the poisoning attempt, and the first time he ventures out he’s taken down with a knife.”

  “It certainly narrows the suspect field,” I said, handing him a newly washed glass.

  “What do you mean? Three to four hundred people had access to that massage room during the party.” He ventured another look at my bloodstained blouse. “Including us.”

  “True, but unlike the poisoning attempt, which could have been accomplished by any visitor to Vasily’s penthouse, the murderer tonight had to be a resident or employee here, whether they were at the party or not.”

  Marcus began to stow the clean wineglasses in the kitchen cabinet while I stacked the trays. “How do you figure?” he asked.

  As concierge, Marcus should have known this. All residents and staff had to use a computerized key fob to access the common areas such as the fitness center, massage room, ballroom, and so forth. Outsiders wouldn’t have the fob and therefore wouldn’t have access. “Security,” I said, holding up my own key fob.

  We didn’t have much to say to each other after that. Marcus seemed lost in thought and a little nervous. I didn’t blame him. Anyone we dealt with at BellaVilla from here on out would give us pause. I didn’t believe Marcus was a likely suspect, but I wasn’t so sure he was that confident about me.

  Our kitchen duty was just about finished when Jack’s thundering voice broke our silent musings as he barged into the kitchen.

  “What does it take for a man to get a goddamn cup of coffee around this highfalutin joint?” he growled.

  Startled by Jack’s sudden and explosive appearance, Marcus dropped the stack of trays he’d been carrying. As he scrambled to pick them up, Jack said, “Leave ’em, kid. I need to talk to the lady in private.”

  Looking relieved, Marcus scurried out the door.

  Jack sat down at the kitchen table while I prepared the coffee he seemed so desperate for. His dark-stubbled face looked haggard as he yawned and stretched. Propping an elbow on the table, he cradled his head in his hand. It was an early morning pose I’d seen many times in our own kitchen. He had to have that first cup of coffee before the day could officially begin. Nighttime usually required something a little stronger. He was out of luck this time around.

  “Here you go,” I said, setting a steaming mug in front of him.

  He breathed in the aroma and said, “Ah, that’s more like it.” After downing a noisy slurp, he grinned broadly enough for dimples to show in both cheeks. His mood had definitely improved. He even thanked me—sort of. “You remembered how I like my java,” he said with brows raised.

  It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. It wasn’t like I hadn’t served him his morning eye opener enough times in our almost-twenty-five-year history together. “A little coffee with your cup of sugar,” I said. “I don’t know how you stand it.”

  “A sugar high is almost as good as a booze buzz.”

  “I see you haven’t changed a bit,” I said, shaking my head. “Still clinging to one vice or another.”

  “And you’re still ragging on me about ’em.”

  “Oh, stop it, Jack. Let’s not rehash old battles.”

  He looked at me over the top of his mug and winked. “But making up afterward is so much fun.” He gestured to the chair across the table. “Come on, sit down and have a cup with me. It’ll do you good.”

  “It’s too late for caffeine. I have to get up in a few hours and head right back here.”

  “Speaking of which, why the hell are you working at BellaVilla?”

  “I could ask you the same thing. We dealt with another detective who led the investigation into Vasily’s poisoning. I assumed he’d still be assigned to the case.”

  “Ignowski got transferred and Gleason and I were up next.”

  “I thought you’d be retired by now. You’ve put in the required years.”

  His shoulders sagged slightly. “That’s a long and sorry-ass story. The Reader’s Digest version is that I can’t afford to retire yet.”

  “Say no more. I get the picture.” Still, I wondered. Had his finances taken a hit with the economic downturn, or had his recent divorce delivered the knockout punch? Maybe both.

  “How’s Sylvie doing?” he asked.

  My mother was sixty-five and suffering from dementia and a host of other ailments. I’d taken care of her for as long as I could, but she was in an assisted living facility now. “Doing pretty well, considering,” I said. “The Firs is a top-notch place and she seems to like it there.”

  “Expensive, I bet.”

  I winced. “Yeah, but you know…”

  Jack knew. Mom was the best and deserved the best. She and Jack had always been close. Our divorce hit her hard, but he didn’t let it affect their relationship. He still made a fuss over her birthday and other special occasions. Although he’d never said anything to me, I knew he was a regular visitor at The Firs.

  He held up his mug. “How ’bout a refill? I need to ask you a few questions about your statement and then we can call it a night.” He looked at his watch. “Jesus, it’s already morning.”

  I got him his refill and sat down at the table. “What do you want to know?”

  Jack sipped on the sugar-laced drink as he studied me. “Let’s start with why you have blood all over your blouse.”

  I glanced down at the dried stains. “I got them when I tried to get Carla to stop screaming. She was covered in blood and it rubbed off on me when I hugged her.”

  Jack thought about my explanation a moment and then retrieved a small notebook from his suit pocket. He flipped through a few pages and said, “According to Carla Nelson, you were the one covered in blood. She says she got it from you.”

  “That’s ridiculous. The girl was hysterical when I found her. She’s so confused she doesn’t know what she’s saying.” That’s me giving her the benefit of the doubt.

  “Either that or she’s trying to shift blame away from herself,” Jack said. “Why do you think she was in the massage room?”

  “I have no idea. She was supposed to be serving wine and appetizers in the ballroom with Marcus and me. He thought she went to the restroom, but when she didn’t come back, I went looking for her. It wasn’t until she started screaming that I found her in the massage room.”

  “What about the dead guy, this Vasily Petrov? You think he could have arranged for Carla to give him a massage? Or maybe a little hanky-panky? I understand they were romantically involved.”

  “Their relationship, or whatever it was, fizzled out after he got poisoned. I suppose it’s possible that they’d met up for some reason. Carla is training to become a masseuse now, but the timing would be odd if that was why they were together. Vasily hadn’t b
een out and about much since the first attack. It looked to me like he was in a hurry to make up for lost income by working the party for new clients. Taking time out for a massage would’ve been counterproductive.”

  “Did he have any enemies?”

  The previous detective had asked the same question when Vasily was poisoned. Silly then, silly now. “Isn’t it obvious? He had at least one enemy.”

  “Always with the smart mouth,” Jack said. “What I meant was, did you know of anyone who didn’t get along with the guy? Someone he might have had an argument with.”

  “No. As far as I could tell, everyone liked Vasily.”

  He had a few more questions that focused on establishing a timeline for certain events. “So you’re telling me you didn’t leave the ballroom until you went looking for Carla at around eleven thirty?

  “Correct.”

  “Hmm,” he said. “According to…” He ran a finger down a page in his notebook. “Here it is—Peter Westerfield. He said you left the ballroom on several occasions. His account was backed up by several other witnesses.”

  “I just went to get more wine from the kitchen and came right back.” I didn’t much care for what Jack’s comment implied. “You aren’t seriously considering that I had anything to do with Vasily’s murder, are you?”

  Jack flipped his notebook shut. “Nah, you know how it goes. We have to cover all the bases.”

  Somehow I didn’t feel reassured.

  He voiced another disquieting remark. “But your boss, Westerfield? He seems convinced you’re involved somehow.”