She sounded aggrieved and I didn’t want to end the conversation on that note. “I for one am very glad you came here for a fresh start,” I said, “because of you I got one myself.”
“Well, let’s just hope that plan doesn’t backfire on either of us,” she said gloomily and then rang off.
Once Mosey returned I gave him a quick treat and a hug before I checked voicemail. I had a message for a job in Charlotte for a hotel where there had been a suicide. It was an ASAP cleanup, so I decided I might as well get it done now and left a message with the front desk accepting the job. The pending assignment I had planned for later today was an estate for heirs and not as time sensitive.
I made sure Mosey had plenty of food and fresh water before I started checking my supplies.
Mosey should actually have ended up elsewhere after they found him to be increasingly ineffective as a cadaver dog, but he had done a bang-up job for me on that score lately. A better person probably would have returned him. He had just needed a respite from the constant carnage. But Mosey is my miracle dog; I would definitely count his appearance in my life as a rescue. Mosey is in sync with my moods, knowing when I am slammed with work I will make it up to him, sensing when I am sad and pushing up against me to snap me out of it. He has so much empathy I am surprised experienced handlers didn’t seen he merely needed more time between tasks.
Still, he came to me by way of a partner in my old firm, Dallas who, under his crusty exterior had more empathy himself than his terrified underlings would suspect. I'm still amazed at how much pull he had in bypassing the wait list for these well trained dogs. It possibly also helped that I’m a wildlife rehabilitation volunteer. People automatically infer a great deal about my own character from that work.
I suppose my character is somewhat tarnished by not turning Mosey back over, but somehow, my recovery and Mosey’s were entwined. I like to think we’ve been responsible for each other’s ability to heal. More experienced eyes than mine had proclaimed him unfit. I wouldn’t second guess them any more than I would second guess my old firm Micheaux for firing me.
I checked my billfold for cash for parking and tipping downtown and gathered my gear. When I picked up the gloves a thought was nagging at me, but the thread of it snapped when my cell rang.
It was Jared and he seemed to have recovered from his bad mood. “Since you were curious I thought I’d let you know, Herb said he was surprised the divorce decree wasn't filed and that he didn’t really know how these things work. He just assumed when she told him she was going last time it was all in process by now and he would get it delivered for him to sign any day now. He stopped by the department to see where things stood. Since he came in on his own I was able to share that much.
Herb asked when he could get inside but he wanted your number first. He seemed pretty squeamish about going there before you clean it. Evidently the publishers aren't as impressed with the dead as they are with deadlines though and that book is due. Herb said they were co-authoring it and he's already been in touch with them.”
“Mae was still family to Herb.” I said, “He’s bound to be grieving. Has anyone been by with supper for him?”
“Not so I noticed, but you know this town, people are pretty quick to take food over if you get a bad haircut. They’re probably more concerned with Bill. What's the sudden fascination with Herb?”
“I just feel sorry for him. He doesn’t seem to have a lot of friends. If you want to officially go in there you can get a copy of the book today or I can get it when he leaves me a key to clean the place. I'll take him a pie along with the book.”
“Huh,” Jared said, “You signing my next paycheck? And I’ve heard about your kitchen skills; hasn’t the man been through enough already?”
“I’m heading to Charlotte,” I said indignantly “for a job. But I was planning to buy him a Diva Mama chicken pie for him this week. Besides, your attitude is kind of chauvinistic don’t you think? I bring home my bacon, who says it can’t be take-out?”
“Nobody,” he said hastily, “I can’t help it if it’s still considered to be a boon for a woman to cook well, any more than being handy around the house or with cars is kind of on the wish list women have for guys. Women always assume guys know how to change a flat right? Well, most men just have an expectation that a woman ought to be pretty and sweet or a good cook. You only have one out of three in that group but the one kind of makes up for the rest.”
I believe that’s the worst compliment I’ve ever had.”
“There is an exception, if you’re good in some other room in the house for example,” his voice had a leer in it designed to make me laugh.
He hung up quickly before I could think of a retort and if my heart was drumming a little quickly, well, it had been a very long time since I had been in a relationship. We aren’t talking months here either. It was no wonder Jared was beginning to grow on me. But I was still annoyed with myself over my disappointment when he hadn’t stuck around earlier to chat.
I started getting ready to head uptown. Lucy had recently convinced me to have new coveralls made by her tailor and sat there barking out instructions to poor Mr. Lee while I was being fitted. They were periwinkle blue and fit like a second skin. With that change my wardrobe was suddenly limited to stretchy V-necks and close-fitting pants or jeans.
I put my nicest Ralph Lauren riding breeches on, which I probably would not be riding in until my old ones were in tatters and topped it off with an upscale tee-shirt and a lightweight asymmetrical blazer. I pulled on my black label Ralph Lauren boots and scratched Mosey behind his ears, promising Lucy would be by to let him out again and he perked up.
I locked the door and slung my supply bag in my old Range Rover, Bessless, and called the hotel to give them an ETA.
The manager said he would meet me at the front desk personally to let me into the room if I would have him paged. He didn’t want the staff gossiping more than necessary.
“You don’t wear anything obvious with a logo on it?” He asked this apologetically, as if he were overstepping some etiquette boundary with a question about my attire.
“I do actually, but it’s a small logo. It’s on the coveralls, sort of like a jumpsuit. There’s nothing on my SUV at all. Anyway, I put the coveralls on over my clothes and I only do that once I’m in the room. I don’t want to answer morbid questions any more than you want them asked.”
“Ah,” he said gratefully, “I’m sure you might pick up more business if you did, but we appreciate discretion.”
“No problem,” I said, “I count on word of mouth more than shock value and it works out for everyone. I usually bring a professional carpet cleaning machine, do you want to reserve a space so I can park myself and bring it up from the loading dock?”
“No, no,” he said hastily, “we’ll have you parked and leave one of our own machines outside the room.” He named the model and I told him that would do the job just fine. I offered to cut my rate since I was using their equipment, but he wouldn’t hear of it.
“You normally would get to use your own machine; it’s our need for discretion that hampers you. By the way do you also clean up after celebrities?”
I assured him, with a mixture of trepidation and enthusiasm that I would consider it. I was excited about gaining a new market stream but had read horror stories about musicians trashing their rooms. At least, hopefully, there wouldn’t be a lot of blood in those.
I’ll need a photo emailed for each job if you want a quote beforehand,” I explained.
“Not necessary,” he said genially, “we charge their cards whatever the costs are anyway. Their managers know their clients; we receive no complaints about billing.”
As soon as I got to the hotel, valets swarmed over me as though I were royalty instead of a contract employee. I like to do everything myself, including carrying my own bags and parking, but I knew the hotel and had expected as much.
A beautiful African American girl and a Nordic l
ooking young fellow with a slightly German accent greeted me and paged the manager immediately.
When a short elegant man in a suit approached, his eyes widened a bit as I turned to him before he replaced the expression with a suave mask and extended his hand.
“Forgive me for staring,” he said, “you aren’t what I expected, although I did know your appearance was more than presentable. That’s why I had you come in the front despite your profession.”
“You aren’t regretting that I hope?” I looked around quickly to see what other people were wearing. I seemed to fit in more than adequately. Even my supply bag from my past well-salaried life, made of Italian leather, was appropriate. It was actually once a carry on for the harried well-paid young executive on the rise I used to be.
While I acknowledged silently that it was worth more, even used, than a month’s caretaking salary now, I had clung to it. In situations like today where subtle class was called for, the bag and the blazer more than fit the bill.
The hotel manager interrupted my inner musing, “Not at all, I’ve just learned in this business that voices rarely match faces—you have a lovely voice and may I say you are quite beautiful? I saw photographs in the paper when that terrible incident occurred, but they didn’t do you justice. Of course they were mere headshots of you right after--.”
“Thank you, Mr. Elliott” I said growing uncomfortable, “would you like to give me a key to the room?”
“Christopher, please, and I’ll accompany you” he said, and over my protests he did.
I had some idea of what I was walking into, but Christopher made it difficult to concentrate as the door to the room shut behind us and we surveyed the damage. He rolled in the steam cleaner which someone had left in the hall and gave me a key card in case I needed a break. He wandered about the room for a moment and I took the opportunity to toss my blazer onto a chair, wriggle into the jumpsuit and gloves and start unpacking my industrial strength supplies.
Ignoring Christopher’s gaze as much as possible, I tested the cleaner fluid on the carpet in the closet to make sure it wouldn’t ruin the fibers, then filled the machine with it. I examined the drapes and it looked as though one panel could be salvaged but the other was torn from the top. There was quite a bit of blood including a stain near the couch and a dark thin trail on the floor. The bathroom looked like the death scene it was. Evidently she had finally settled on the old fashioned method of slitting her wrists. The grout was going to be a challenge for the old electric toothbrush I kept charged and in the bag.
“We found her in the bath,” Christopher said, startling me. The close quarters in the ancient elevator had made his proximity to me awkward, but now he was definitely invading my personal space and with no excuse this time; the room was spacious. I walked over to where I had flung my blazer and draped it more carefully over the back as a pretext to move away from him a bit before replying.
I was puzzled by the amount of blood in the bedroom. “I’m not an expert on suicide by any means,” I said, “but don’t people generally settle on a place before slitting their wrists? That seems kind of strange to slit your wrists then draw a bath.”
“I think we could agree that someone who slits their wrists is already crazy,” he said smoothly.
“No, not really, I have to say I respectfully disagree. I think there are plenty of people who just hit an unbearable patch, or take medications that tip the balance the wrong way.”
He nodded seriously, although I could tell he didn’t buy it or simply wasn’t interested. While I went about my business, he chatted and since he was ruining my work flow by asking questions I started becoming the interrogator. He obviously wanted me to know as much about himself as possible, so he expounded quite nicely on each topic while I largely ignored his replies.
Finally I said, “I’m afraid conversation will be impossible once I turn the cleaner on, you’ve been very kind.” He recognized his cue and asked me to have him paged again when I finished. I agreed as I adjusted the settings on the machine.
I rang Ben up and left a message that I was uptown at the Dunbarton if he was free later while I unpacked the remainder of my supplies.
Without the distraction of Christopher I went through my routine step by step. The cleaner was not as good as my own and I used a little too much force. As I attempted push it under the bed it made a heavy thud, and the clattering sound which followed made me wince. I stopped the machine and checked the bed to make sure I hadn’t chipped the wood and examined the rollers which appeared to be fine. I had the hang of it once I turned it back on and used a little less pressure.
The comforter on the bed would be a challenge to clean, with deep stains that didn’t bear thinking about, but my specialty cleaners often exceed my expectations. Rather than wrestle the heavy drapes and the comforter down through the lobby, I picked up the phone to call the front desk. The line was dead. I reached under the bed to reattach the cord but didn’t hear the satisfying click as I pressed the clip into the outlet. The end was smashed. I hoped I hadn’t done that in my haste to push the carpet cleaner about. I felt around as far as I could, but there were no pieces. So that was the clatter. I was a little relieved it was something so inexpensive to replace as opposed to a priceless chip of furniture. Running over a telephone cord clip wasn’t the end of the world.
I was suddenly repulsed by my own petty concerns. A young girl’s world had ended in this very room and I was becoming so accustomed to death I had actually spent a moment worrying about damaging something so relatively insignificant.
I took a moment to say a little prayer for her then took a deep breath and resolutely pressed on with the job. I had the front desk in my call log and used my cell to reach them. I requested a replacement cord and asked if I could move my car to the loading dock.
The staff said it would be done for me and asked if I needed help getting the items to the old Rover.
I had finished with everything that could be salvaged and requested fresh bedding and a spare drapery panel be brought up. I had gone over the carpet twice, and I was pretty sure the stains wouldn’t be back. I kept the booties on as I checked over the loveseat and under the cushions. I’m pretty picky about my own hotel accommodations and one thing that ruins a hotel for me is any evidence anyone else has left behind from a previous stay. It’s illogical; I know that other guests preceded me, but I do not want to think about it. I have way too much imagination.
There was an earring caught between the loveseat and the wall and I pocketed it, intending to hand it in at the desk when I was finished. I answered a firm knock on the door and a burly young valet named Stan was there with bags for me to hang the new panels. I stuffed the old comforter and drapes in one of the now empty plastic bags and he insisted on taking them down to Bessless at the loading dock. He was so nervously adamant I handed everything over along with a tip. After he left, I noted that both the sheets and comforter were in the package he had brought me. Blessing my height, I stood on the chair and hung the panel. I caught a maid just finishing a room and asked if she could pop in and do the toiletries and the finishing touches. She insisted on making up the bed and efficiently gave the room its final cleaning.
I handed her a few dollars as she was removing the booties I had given her and I went over the room again while making a mental note that the gratuities would go on my bill. I paused to put them all in the memo portion of my smart phone. I checked the closets to make sure the fluid I had tested there was gone. I love leaving a room in perfect shape.
Before I ducked back out under the wooden closet rod I happened to look up and noticed it was out of place. I tried to push it down and when that didn’t work I shoved the recalcitrant end up, praying it wouldn’t scar the drywall. When I couldn’t get it fitted properly a second time, I felt around in the little rod cradle. There was something nestled inside and I pulled it out. It was a torn fingernail, it wasn’t enough to prevent the rod from settling into place; that was just extremely p
recise workmanship, but it was a puzzle. I studied closet more closely and noticed a few scuff and dent marks on the walls about five inches off the carpet and on the interior of the door.
I called down to the front desk and asked for Mr. Elliott or his assistant manager—whoever was available. Within minutes, there was a knock at the door and somehow I wasn’t surprised to see the manager rather than one of his underlings.
Before he stepped in I handed him a pair of booties so he could walk on the damp carpet. He put them on obediently, came in and surveyed the room.
“Perfect!” he pronounced. “I can have it available as soon as the carpet is dry?”
“Absolutely, if you get guests who want to stay in here so quickly, but that’s not why I called you here.”
We walked over to the closet and I showed him the scuff and tiny dent marks which he might want to have addressed and handed over the earring and fingernail in a baggie. Plastic bags of different sizes are always part of my supply stash.
I explained that I had found the loveseat cushions reversed with a stain on one and the earring trapped behind it. The stain had come out fine, but it was all just a little odd and I wanted to hand over the earring in any case.
“Diamond?” He asked, barely glancing at it as I placed the bag in his palm.
“No, just an expensive imitation, but I thought you’d better have it for the family and maybe that fingernail should go to the police—just in case.”
He looked at the bag in distaste. “This is all a little...?" He stopped, searching for the right word.
“Off.” I finished casually.
“Yeeesss, off.” He said agreeably although he looked shaken.
I pulled off my jumpsuit unselfconsciously and slid into my jacket while he watched a little too attentively. I’m a tad ashamed to say I took advantage of that distraction as I removed the clothing by quizzing him about the suicide.
“There was just the one girl staying here?”
“Yes,” he replied solemnly.
2 Maid in the Shade Page 5
