Concierge Confessions

by Valerie Wilcox

  I grabbed a magazine from the backseat to use as an umbrella and climbed out of the car. In the brief time it took to feed the meter with a few coins I found at the bottom of my handbag, the magazine was a soggy mess. I threw it in the nearest trash can and resigned myself to looking like a rain-drenched fashion disaster. Despite the elements, scores of spectators lined the sidewalk in hopes of glimpsing whatever new drama had occurred at the condominium. I opted for a more direct route through the back alley. Used mostly for smoke breaks, it had no traffic jams or curiosity seekers and I made faster progress.

  Still, by the time I reached the building, I was soaked and shivering. I ducked into the lobby restroom and dried off with a stack of paper towels. Wasted effort. Where was one of those hot air hand dryers when I needed it? I looked in the mirror and groaned. As I’d feared, the rain had turned my hair into a frizzy red Afro. I had just thrown the sodden towels into the trash can when Carla hobbled into the room.

  She’d seemed fine when she reported to work. In fact, she’d even come in early for her shift with a smile on her face. I had no idea what had happened in the interim, but it didn’t take a detective to figure out that she’d encountered something far worse than a little cold rain. The clues—tear and mascara-streaked face, disheveled hairdo, grease-smudged blouse, ripped skirt, and broken heel—were hard to miss. I assumed her appearance had some connection to the crime that had occurred, but things weren’t always what they seemed with Carla.

  She didn’t acknowledge my presence as she grabbed a tissue from the box on the counter and dabbed at her eyes.

  “My God, what happened to you?” I asked.

  She whirled to face me. “Oh! I didn’t see you there.”

  “Are you okay?”

  Her icy stare had all the deference my inane question deserved. “Do I look okay to you?”

  “Well, no. I should’ve asked if I could help. Can I?”

  “Take over my shift. I’m outta here.” She hobbled to the door on her broken heel.

  I grabbed hold of her arm. “Wait. I’ll do whatever needs to be done, but please tell me what happened.”

  She twisted out of my grasp and spit out the words, “Murder! That’s what!”

  “Who? Who was murdered?”

  The anger she wore like a badge suddenly gave way to sobbing. She’d been hysterical when Vasily was killed, but her reaction this time was raw grief. It was as if a festering sore had been ripped open and the pain consumed her. Despite all the trouble she’d caused in the past, I felt sorry for her. When I held out my arms to embrace her, she collapsed against me.

  Like a mother comforting a distressed child, I wiped her tears and told her she’d be all right. As I held her close, I could feel her heart beating beneath her trembling chest. Carla’s sorrow touched me in a way I hadn’t expected. She was so young and so needy that I wished I’d tried harder to help her before. She required guidance, not censure.

  When her crying eventually subsided, I gently asked her who’d been killed.

  The tears welled in her eyes again as she said, “Marcus was so excited about going to Liberty Ridge. And now he’ll never make it.”

  No! Not Marcus. It couldn’t be true. The news was numbing. I felt like crying, too, but I managed to keep myself together for Carla’s sake. I’d liked Marcus a lot. His good humor and love of life was infectious. He’d scheduled a three-day mini-vacation for a Mt. Rainier climb and it was all he could talk about for weeks. I’d voiced a concern about the danger involved, but young men think they’re invincible. I hadn’t considered that he’d face more danger at BellaVilla than on the mountain.

  “Tell me,” I said, handing her a new tissue.

  She dabbed her eyes and then pulled at the tissue as she talked. “I saw him on the computer’s security screen. He was in the garage loading some supplies into his trunk for the trip and I decided to go down and see him off.” Leaving the concierge desk unmanned was a bad habit of hers. She tossed me a sheepish look. “I had a break coming.”

  “I understand,” I said. “Go on.”

  She took a deep breath. “Everything happened so fast. The speeding car came out of nowhere and headed right for us.”

  She closed her eyes, as if watching the scene play out behind her lids. “Marcus and I both heard the car and turned to look. Before I knew it, he’d pushed me out of harm’s way. I stumbled and fell, but the car missed me. Poor Marcus didn’t have time to save himself.”

  “Were you hurt?”

  She fingered her torn skirt. “No. My uniform’s trashed, but that’s nothing compared to what happened to Marcus. The car struck him so hard he flipped over its top and landed facedown on the pavement. The driver just kept on going. He didn’t even try to stop. It was a deliberate killing.”

  “Did you recognize the car? Or the driver?”

  “Not really. But the security camera would’ve caught the whole thing. Detective Doyle sent an officer up to the concierge desk to guard the computer until they could retrieve the disk.”

  “Then I’m sure they’ll catch the person responsible,” I said.

  She slipped out of my embrace with a faraway look in her eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I was too late to stop it.” Her tears began again. “It’s all my fault.”

  “Carla,” I said gently. “You couldn’t have stopped what happened. You have nothing to be sorry about.”

  “No, it’s true. Momma always said I dawdled too much. If I’d gone straight home from school that day like I was supposed to, I might’ve saved her.”

  Momma? Talk about left field. The sudden context shift was confusing. “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “I was late! Don’t you get it? Too late to cut Momma down from the rope.”

  Oh my God. How do you respond to something like that? It didn’t seem to matter. Maybe it was the emotion surrounding Marcus’s sudden death that brought everything to the surface. Whatever the trigger, some pent-up need in Carla had been released and I was the one there to witness it.

  The life story she shared was crushing in its despair. After her mother’s suicide, Carla had to take care of her younger brothers and sisters—all six of them—on her own. Her father was a drunk who blamed himself for his wife’s death and shot himself a few months later. The kids were split up by the authorities and a series of foster homes and years of sexual and physical abuse followed. When she aged out of the system at eighteen just last year, Carla had a high school diploma, one suitcase, and a tiny sliver of hope for a better future ahead.

  “I was thrilled when I was hired to work here,” she said. “I’d hoped to make enough money to find my brothers and sisters. And then the murders started.” She heaved a weary sigh. “It’s all my fault.”

  “No, you weren’t responsible for your mother’s death or—”

  A loud knock at the door. “Carla, are you in there?” It was a furious-sounding Peter. “Come out now!”

  Carla’s eyes filled with tears again. “I can’t finish my shift. I just can’t.”

  I patted her back. “You don’t have to. I said I’d cover for you and I meant it.”

  More insistent knocking. “Carla!”

  “Don’t worry about Peter,” I told her. “You go on home and I’ll deal with him.”

  “But I need my things.”

  “Wait here. I’ll be right back with your handbag and coat.”

  She offered a tentative smile. “Thank you.”

  “It’s all right,” I assured her. “You just take good care of yourself.”

  If Peter was surprised to see me, I couldn’t tell. He was too busy jostling to get a look beyond the door. “Where’s Carla?” he asked. “She’s supposed to be on duty at the desk.”

  “No, I’m on duty. Carla’s going home.”

  I guess that wasn’t what he wanted to hear, based on the round of twitching and lip quivering that followed. “What do you mean, she’s going home?” he asked, eyes blazing. “I didn’t authorize any suc
h thing.”

  I turned my back on Peter’s indignant ranting and marched off. He struggled to keep pace with my rapid clip, still chewing me out with righteous anger. The same young officer who’d been on duty when Vasily was murdered guarded the computer. When he saw us come barreling around the corner, he straightened his shoulders and rested his right hand on his holstered weapon. I didn’t blame him. A frizzy-haired woman with a determined set to her jaw being chased by an arm-waving man spouting God only knows what would give anyone pause.

  I had no use for the prize the officer guarded and told him so. “I’m the concierge,” I said, holding my security fob and badge in the air as proof. “I need to get something from the employee break room.”

  The officer let me pass, but detained Peter, who had worked himself into such a frenzy that he couldn’t even give his name. “Sir,” the officer said, “I’ll need some identification.”

  I left Peter fumbling in his pocket for his badge and key fob and continued on to the break room. The lobby crowd—ordered by the guard to stay away from the desk—had gathered nearby. Eager for whatever information I might have about the crime, they peppered me with questions as soon as they saw me.

  “Kate!”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Why’s the officer guarding the desk?”

  Crime-writer-in-residence Carlton Leavy led the attack. “We know there’s been a murder. I heard it on my police scanner.” He held a cassette tape recorder in his hands. “Who was it?” he asked, shoving the recorder at me. “Did you see the body?”

  I waved him off. “Ask Peter,” I said. “I don’t know anything.”

  After convincing the officer that he was legit and somewhat sane, Peter threaded his way through the crowd. He appeared to have calmed down and no longer focused on my misdeeds. It was my impression that the possibility of starring in Mr. Leavy’s true crime opus was of greater import. “How may I be of assistance?” he asked.

  Mr. Leavy looked back and forth from Peter to me as if he couldn’t decide who was better source material. Lead concierge won. He thrust the tape recorder at Peter and asked, “What can you tell us about the murder?”

  I escaped unnoticed into the break room and retrieved Carla’s belongings as I’d promised. While Peter was engaged in his “behind the scenes account” of BellaVilla’s latest drama, I sent Carla home and took over her duties at the concierge desk.

  Later, with the crime scene investigation officially ended and the garage no longer off limits, the lobby crowd gradually dispersed. Peter looked worn out but he still had enough energy to lecture me.

  “You know,” he said, “some people think you’ve overstepped your boundaries once too often.” He paused to let that caustic observation sink in and then added, “Why, some have even expressed concerns about your involvement in the recent tragedies here.”

  He was just blowing hot air, but I couldn’t let the accusation go unanswered. “That’s a bunch of hooey. The only stepping I’ve done is stepping up to the plate.” I looked him straight in the eye. “I had to. No one else seemed willing to take charge. In fact, I should be commended for holding this place together in spite of the tragedies.”

  He didn’t roll his eyes, but his opinion was clear: There wouldn’t be any “atta girl” s in my future. “Your probation period ends next week and I want you to meet with me on Friday to discuss your continued employment at BellaVilla.”

  Yippee, skippee. “I look forward to the meeting.”

  Jack stopped at the desk shortly thereafter to relieve the officer still stoically guarding the computer. He made a not-so-funny crack about my frizzy hair and then asked, “Where’s Carla? I thought she was on duty this afternoon.”

  “I told her to go home. The girl was a wreck.”

  He didn’t like my management decision any more than Peter had. He had a few choice comments, the gist of which was that I’d usurped his authority. What was it with men and their power trips? “Damn it all,” Jack said. “I needed to talk with her.”

  “There’s always tomorrow.” I felt surprisingly protective of Carla now. “Maybe she’ll feel more like talking to you then.”

  “Did she say anything to you?”

  “Just enough to change my mind about her. She’s had a rough life.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I don’t feel comfortable discussing her personal life with you.”

  Jack laughed. “My dear Mary Kathleen, I know all about her. It’s called a background check, which we ran on all the staff. Even you.”

  I shrugged. “Well, then, I have nothing to add.”

  “This rough life of hers, did it include anything about her wealthy parents? Anything about how they were murdered in Portland six months ago? Did she tell you that the case is still unsolved? That even though she’s the only heir, she can’t get her hands on the family fortune yet? That she’s considered a person of interest in the case, possibly the prime suspect? She happen to mention any of that?”

  To say my jaw dropped wouldn’t be accurate. I was beyond garden-variety shock and had gone straight to coma territory.

  “I assume by your reaction that Carla told you a very different sob story.”

  CONFESSION #13

  If you want something done right, ask the concierge.

  Jack left me to ponder the bombshell he’d dropped while he transferred the security video from the computer to a thumb drive. Call me naïve, but I’d believed every emotionally wrenching word out of Carla’s mouth. I got that she wouldn’t want anyone to know she was a suspect in her own parents’ murders, but why the whopper? Did she think that gaining my sympathy vote would mend our turbulent working relationship? Or was there some other motive behind her “woe is me” tale?

  “Here’s something else for you to think about,” Jack said when he’d finished the transfer. “Carla has been running her mouth off to Gleason. About you.”

  “What about me?”

  “Let’s just say you aren’t her BFF. She’s convinced my partner that you know more about these murders than you’ve disclosed.”

  “Have you told him I’m your informant? That I’m telling you everything?”

  “Get real, Kate. Those so-called nuggets you’ve been feeding me aren’t anywhere near the whole story. It’s time to come clean with what you know before Carla has everyone thinking you’re hiding something. Or worse yet, that you’re involved.”

  “What possible motive would I have? I need this job, as you well know. Killing off the residents one by one isn’t what I’d call job security.”

  “Carla’s theory is that your engineering job loss was a bigger deal than you’ve made it out to be. Working for a condo full of rich snobs as a lowly concierge has sent you over the edge. A murderous edge.”

  “Ridiculous! Besides, if what you told me about Carla is true, I wouldn’t think anything she had to say would have much credibility.”

  “She knows how to spin a plausible tale. Even you fell for one of her sob stories, but let’s leave that issue aside for the moment. What I want from you going forward is a complete rundown on every goddamn resident and employee in this fancy loony bin. That means all the dirt, gossip, rumors, and so-called irrelevant piece of crap you have ever heard or seen since you started this job. Have I made myself clear?”

  Jack’s cranky attitude told me a lot. The bodies were piling up fast and the case was in the toilet—along with his future. Mine didn’t look so hot, either. If spilling my guts about BellaVilla’s residents and staff would somehow help his case—and me—then so be it. “Perfectly clear,” I told him.

  “Good. You have a nice evening now,” he said without an ounce of sincerity. “I’ll see you at headquarters first thing in the morning.” He pocketed the thumb drive and headed for the door.

  “Wait,” I called after him. “I’m working a double shift. Unless you want to meet when I get off at eleven tonight I won’t be free until tomorrow afternoon.”

  He sp
un on his heels and scowled at me. “Already with the excuses!”

  “It’s not an excuse, just a fact.”

  Jack didn’t usually let facts get in his way, but he relented. “Okay, be in my office as soon as you’re off duty tomorrow afternoon.”

  After he left I made a pot of strong coffee. Working swing shift wasn’t as bad as pulling an overnighter, but I needed all the caffeine I could get. Drowsiness wasn’t the problem; focus was. As an engineer, I was used to figuring out how to make things work in difficult environments. Same with my new career. As concierge, I had to figure out how to get clients what they wanted, when they wanted it, and for the best price. Despite Peter’s low opinion of my abilities, I felt I’d used my newly developed concierge skills very well at BellaVilla. But the revelations about Carla had thrown me off center.

  I needed time to process what to do next. Unfortunately, time was a luxury I didn’t have. Paltry though it was, my paycheck had been enough to temporarily stall the bank’s foreclosure threats against my house and keep up the payments on Sylvie’s assisted living care. I could lose my house and survive, but there was no way I’d let my mother get kicked out of The Firs. If I was going to save my job and, just as important, offset whatever suspicions Carla was spreading about me, I had to take action now.

  As I drank my coffee, I jotted down some notes—random thoughts, mostly. By the time I’d finished off a second pot of coffee, though, I had the beginnings of a workable plan. Or so I thought. Meanwhile, I had to finish Carla’s shift. Unlike day shift, there wasn’t a set routine to follow, but the duties were similar. I spent the bulk of the evening responding to miscellaneous complaints, admitting visitors, making dinner reservations, obtaining hard-to-get tickets to concerts and plays, and assisting residents who’d forgotten their keys. Then there was the phone call from Danielle Livingston.