Concierge Confessions

by Valerie Wilcox

  He might have been my ex-husband, but I still cared for the man. I hated to see him so troubled. “Want to tell me about it?”

  “I may be on my way out.”

  I didn’t understand what he meant. Was he sick? Dying? “What are you saying?”

  He sighed again. “I’m saying I’m a screwup. A few months ago I was having a really bad time of it. Becca was hounding me about back alimony payments, the rent on the condo was overdue, my bum knee was killing me, the doc said I needed surgery, and my drinking was out of control.”

  I tried to counter the negative litany. “At least you still have your job. And you’re good at it.”

  He looked down at his empty coffee cup. “That’s the thing. I let my problems affect my work. Right now I’m on probation. The union went to bat for me, but if I don’t come through on this case, I may be out on my ass for good.”

  “But you’d have your pension, right?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve borrowed against it until there’s not enough left to buy underwear at Wal-Mart.”

  I sat back in my chair and studied him. If what he said was true, the informant deal he came up with had more to do with helping him than me. “So,” I said, “you thought if I gave you inside information about the residents and staff at BellaVilla, it could help you solve the case and save your job.”

  “Guilty as charged,” he said. “But don’t judge me too harshly. I thought we’d both benefit. You could use the money and I could use your help. We’re not making a hell of a lot of progress on the case. You might make the difference.”

  I didn’t know whether to feel sorry for him or yell at him.

  He noted my frustration. Jack was perceptive, if nothing else. “Think of it this way—we used to be a good team once upon a time, but love got in our way. Since we don’t have to worry about that anymore, we should make a dynamite team now.” He ended his plea with a full-out dimpled grin.

  How do you argue with such ill-reasoned logic? “You sure have a way with words, Jack.”

  “So, we’re a team again?”

  To my utter amazement, I heard myself saying yes. He’d played me again.

  CONFESSION #7

  A responsible concierge hears all, sees all, and says nothing. An irresponsible concierge is a rat in a uniform.

  We stayed at Starbucks a few more minutes to discuss some logistics regarding my employment as an informant. Jack laid out his expectations, some departmental do’s and don’ts, how much and when I’d get paid, and a reminder about the confidential nature of the job. “It shouldn’t be dangerous,” he assured me. “But since we believe the killer is either one of your coworkers or a resident, you need to have your wits about you. Don’t take chances, especially if there’s any possibility that your role could be discovered and put you in harm’s way.”

  “All that’s fine,” I said. “But I have a few ground rules of my own.”

  Jack eyed me with a frown. “Like what?”

  “Like you won’t pump me for gossip about specific residents or my coworkers. I’ll only relay information I deem relevant to the case.”

  “And just how will you determine what’s relevant?”

  “I was your wife for over twenty years. It’s not like I haven’t picked up a few things about an investigation during that time.”

  Jack wasn’t convinced, but in the end he reluctantly agreed to my terms and we were off to the races.

  The first time I thought I had something Jack could use occurred during a routine monthly guild meeting. Hotel and condominium concierges don’t have a union. What we do have is a regional guild. The Olympic Guild Association doesn’t advocate for better wages, health care, or working conditions like a union does. The purpose of our organization was to exchange information that would help us serve our residents or hotel guests. It was also an opportunity to get to know one another better. Networking was alive and well. You never knew when someone you met at one of our functions would be the key to unlocking future career opportunities.

  We met in a different restaurant each month. Our host restaurants tended to be ritzy establishments frequented by a high-end clientele list, the type who preferred a fine dining experience and had the bucks to pay for it. Nothing against Denny’s or IHoP, but paper placemats and senior discounts weren’t in the same league as linen tablecloths and valet parking. The restaurant managers liked having us on site for our meetings so they could promote their menu offerings, amenities, and the like. They’d serve us a variety of appetizers, wine, and assorted menu items during the social hour. The point was to so impress us that we’d suggest their place when we were asked by our residents or hotel guests for a recommendation.

  When the social hour concluded, the business portion of the meeting began. I usually zoned out during most of it until the final item on the agenda was reached. It was what everyone really came for. We called it “goody bag time.” Each concierge would receive a large decorative shopping bag filled with goodies donated by various merchants to market their stores and products. Again, the point was to let us experience their offerings for recommendation purposes. Attendance at guild meetings could be very beneficial to a concierge. Still, as a new member of the hourly-wage earner set, I’d have preferred a good union over goody bags.

  Peter, Marcus, and I represented BellaVilla at the meeting this evening. Carla didn’t attend, as she was supposedly still recovering from post-traumatic stress. She had just returned to work that morning and didn’t feel up to socializing. She wasn’t missed. Peter spent the social hour chatting with his lead concierge counterparts from other condos. He had no use for the hotel concierge contingent. Since he didn’t consider their role as important as his, he snubbed them. I think they were relieved.

  Marcus watched Peter sprint across the room and said, “He doesn’t even try getting to know us better.”

  An array of mouth-watering appetizers on a nearby table caught my eye. “Does that disappoint you?” I asked, grabbing a plate and loading up. I was starved.

  Marcus laughed. “You’ve got a point.” He paused and then said, “I saw you leaving with Detective Doyle yesterday.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  My noncommittal response didn’t satisfy him so he tried the direct approach. “What did he want?”

  “Just going over my statement again.” I speared a bacon-wrapped shrimp with a fancy toothpick and popped the delicacy in my mouth.

  “Did he spill anything about the case?”

  “Nope.”

  “That man scares me.”

  I stifled a laugh. “He’s not so bad if you ignore his colorful vocabulary.”

  “I wonder if he’s connected the dots to Dr. Dean.”

  My ears perked up. “What dots?”

  A waiter stood at the table pouring wine. When he offered us a glass, I declined but Marcus chose a Pinot Noir.

  “I thought you knew about Mrs. Dean,” he said. “Her affair and all.”

  “I’m aware of it.” It was an awkward situation, but I didn’t see the connection. And then it hit me. “She and Vasily?”

  “Exactly,” he said, sipping his wine.

  “Are you sure?”

  He nodded and said, “I saw them together downtown. I was meeting a friend for drinks at the Hilton when I saw them checking in at the front desk. Not exactly incognito, but I guess it was better than dodging the cameras at BellaVilla.”

  It had never occurred to me that Vasily was Mrs. Dean’s lover. They seemed like an odd pairing. She was in her late forties, and had a model’s figure with a strikingly beautiful, wrinkle-free complexion. Thanks to good genes or a good plastic surgeon, the woman was a knockout. Vasily hadn’t been blessed in the looks department, but sexual attraction is a strange magnet. Throw money into the mix and anything’s possible. Given Vasily’s reputation with the ladies, I should have at least considered it.

  “I’ll take a glass of that wine now,” I said to the waiter.

  “Dr. Dean is such an u
ptight prick about rule breakers,” Marcus said. “I can imagine how he’d feel about breaking the marriage vows. Not pretty.”

  Well, now. That certainly added a new twist. The good doctor as suspect had just been a fantasy of mine. Maybe I hadn’t been so far off the mark after all. Our conversation came to a halt when a couple of other concierges approached us. I advised Marcus to keep quiet about Dr. Dean and his wife. “We don’t know if there’s a connection to the murder yet. Even if there isn’t, the affair is a confidential matter. We shouldn’t be discussing it.”

  Marcus agreed, but I doubted whether he’d follow my advice. The two young women who joined us were too good-looking and too interested in the murder for Marcus not to oblige their curiosity. I grabbed a handful of appetizers and left the restaurant.

  I called Jack on my cell phone as soon as I climbed into my Miata. The roadster was ten years old and looked it, but I wouldn’t trade my Little Green Bomber for the world. It was a true sports car that was responsive and fun to drive, especially with the top down on a warm sunny day. It was a freedom that felt even better when combined with not having any more car payments to make.

  “I have some information for you,” I told Jack when he answered the phone.

  “Good girl. I knew you’d come through. Meet me at the Topside and we’ll grab a bite to eat while you fill me in.”

  The Topside Bar & Grill was located at Larstad’s Marina on Elliot Bay. Jack always claimed he liked to go there for the great burgers they served, but I knew better. The marina was the real draw. He used to sit by the window long after he’d finished his meal and stare at the yachts tied up at the docks. His big dream was to own one someday, but Larstad’s was a rich man’s marina. The yachts Jack coveted would never be within his wallet’s reach.

  The appetizers I’d snatched hadn’t been enough to fill me up. A hamburger and fries sounded good. “I’ll be there in half an hour,” I said.

  The Topside used to be an old waterfront warehouse that was transformed some years back into a trendy watering hole, with a big mahogany bar, mirrors, brass ceiling fans, and an elaborate marine motif. The place retained enough of its former roots to give it a casual, working class atmosphere that appealed to folks like Jack and me. Plus, the food and drinks were good and the service fast. Most importantly, the price tag was cheap—a factor not usually associated with Larstad Marina’s upscale image. People with money to flash around usually hung out at the marina’s other restaurant, the exclusive Pacific Broiler, where they could avoid the beer-guzzling riffraff and mingle with their own kind as they sipped martinis and compared portfolios.

  I paused at the entry to get my bearings and scan the cavernous room for Jack. The air was heavy and warm with onions, grease, beer, and lively talk. The raucous crowd was an eclectic mix of boaters decked out in their Helly Hansen gear, shoppers who’d wandered in from the many shops along the waterfront, and working stiffs fresh from the office or construction site.

  I spotted Jack at the bar with a pint of Guinness and a bowl of peanuts in front of him. He was dressed casually, but was clean and well-groomed in jeans, turtleneck, leather jacket, and loafers. It was a nice change from the scruffy detective look he seemed to prefer. He appeared deep in conversation with a guy wearing jeans and a WSU sweatshirt sitting on the stool beside him.

  I squeezed through the crush of bar patrons and tapped Jack on the shoulder.

  He whirled around and flashed a wide grin. “Here she is now,” he said.

  His greeting was so cheerful that I thought he was going to hug me or, worse yet, kiss me. I backed up a step as his bar partner turned around to look me over.

  “Allen Kingston, meet Mary Kathleen. Best ex-wife I’ve ever had.”

  I felt my face flush as Kingston held out a hand. “Pleased to meet you,” he said, matching Jack’s grin.

  His handshake was firm, but no bone-crusher. “Hi,” I said. “Call me Kate.”

  Kingston was in his mid-forties and had the tight, well-toned body of a much younger man. He was good-looking, with a warm olive complexion that hinted of Italian or maybe Native American ancestry. His most striking feature was dark penetrating eyes. This was a man who could get me to confess all my sins with one brief look. I immediately pegged him as a cop.

  “Here,” he said, unwrapping his long legs from the stool and standing upright. “Take my seat.”

  I hesitated, feeling somewhat awkward. Jack and I needed to talk and I was dying for a burger, but I didn’t want to run the guy off. “You don’t have—”

  “It’s okay,” he said, assessing my dilemma with those piercing eyes. “I have to split anyway. I’m supposed to meet my fiancée down at the dock.”

  “She’s a sailing instructor at the marina,” Jack said.

  “And a stickler for starting class on time,” Kingston added. He glanced at his wristwatch and grimaced. “I’m gonna suffer some ugly fallout.”

  Jack nodded sympathetically and chuckled. “That’s a redhead for you.”

  I kicked his foot. Hard.

  “Ouch!” Jack cried, grabbing his ankle and rubbing it.

  Kingston laughed. “You should’ve seen that one coming, man.” He turned to me. “Nice meeting you, Kate. You’ll have to meet Kellie one of these days. Two redheads saddled with uncivilized brutes like Jack and me should have a lot to talk about.”

  “Great guy,” Jack said, watching Kingston make his hasty, if not timely, departure.

  “What’s his rank?”

  “Sergeant. How’d you guess?”

  “He has cop written all over his face.”

  Jack deadpanned, “We were married way too long.”

  Right after the bartender took our dinner order, Jack spotted a couple about to leave their window-side table.

  “Quick,” he said, climbing off the barstool. “Let’s snag their booth before anyone beats us to it.”

  You had to fend for yourself at the Topside. I let the bartender know where we’d be as Jack mowed through the crowd and planted himself at the table. I handed Jack his half-finished Guinness and sat down across from him.

  He signaled a server who passed by on her way to the kitchen. “A refill for me,” he said, pointing to his glass, “and one for the lady.”

  Once that was taken care of, Jack’s attention turned to the window. He stared at the yachts nestled in their berths with an intensity bordering on lust. “Would you look at that beauty,” he exclaimed.

  I followed his gaze to a sleek forty-foot sailboat gliding into the marina like a graceful dancer waltzing across a ballroom. I don’t know much about boats, but even I could tell the sloop was something special. As soon as the crew tied her securely to the cleats lining the dock, Jack remembered I was there and the reason for our meeting.

  “Now,” he said, “what’ve you got?”

  I filled him in on what Marcus had told me about Mrs. Dean and Vasily. “I knew she was having an affair, but I never dreamed it was with him.”

  “So her husband, the prickly Dr. Dean, discovered they’d been doing the nasty and put an end to it?”

  “Maybe,” I said, shrugging. “You interviewed them, didn’t you? Did he seem like the killer type to you?”

  “They both struck me as the type. Ken and Barbie all grown up and sick of each other.” He frowned and was about to say something further when our burgers and drinks arrived.

  We both dug in with gusto. Satisfying our hunger took precedence over talk for a few minutes. When he’d taken the edge off his appetite by inhaling his burger in a couple of man-size bites, Jack grabbed one of his fries and pointed it at me.

  “What I don’t get is why you failed to even mention that Barbie was having an affair.”

  I took a long slow drink of beer to forestall the tirade I knew my answer would provoke. “Uh, I didn’t think it was relevant?”

  Jack came through as predicted. “Dammit all to hell!” We can forget the rest of his profane response. When he’d finally exhausted the ex
tent of his crude vocabulary, he exhaled with a heavy sigh.

  “You don’t have to swear to get your point across,” I said. “It’s unbecoming, even for you.”

  He favored me with an uncomfortable cop-like stare. “Look, if this informant thing is going to work, I have to be the one to decide what’s relevant. That’s not my ego talking. It could mean the difference between catching the killer or not. But more importantly, it could save lives in the future.”

  “Okay, okay,” I said, raising both hands in surrender.

  “Good,” he said. “So, what other stuff is going on at BellaVilla that I should know about?”

  I paused to think. I’m sure he believed I was trying to come up with some dirt to unload, but I was wrestling with my conscience. Should I divulge what I considered to be mere gossip and lay everything out for him, regardless of whether it violated my sense of responsibility as a concierge? Or should I keep my own counsel until I decided what was important to the case? Jack’s cell phone rang before I could make up my mind.

  “Doyle,” he answered. Whatever the caller said made Jack frown. He muttered something I didn’t hear, then said, “I’ll be right there,” and concluded the call.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  Jack took one last swig of beer and stood. “We’ve got another body. What is it with that place?”

  “What body? What place?”

  When he didn’t answer, I assumed the worst. “Another murder at BellaVilla?”

  “No, the vic was most likely killed elsewhere and dumped at Gas Works Park.”

  “Then how do you know the victim was from BellaVilla?”

  He dismissed me with a headshake and headed for the door. “I don’t have time for twenty questions.”

  I slapped some cash on the table to cover our tab and followed on his heels as he carved a clear path through the crowded room with his badge raised. “Police,” he shouted. “Out of the way.”

  “Let me go with you,” I said. He ignored me and climbed inside his department-issued Crown Vic.

  Jack might have liked my help, but his dislike of civilians at a crime scene outweighed whatever he thought I could contribute. And I was worse than a civilian. I was his ex-wife and most everyone he worked with knew it. He’d be the brunt of more than a few jokes if he showed up with me in tow.