by L C Hayden
Bronson wrapped her in his arms. “What’s wrong?” He could almost hear her heart beat at a fast pace.
“Someone’s been in our motel room.”
The maid? Had she taken something? Could Carol have simply lost it? “What do you mean?”
“I opened the middle dresser drawer, the one where I keep my underwear. You know that prior to putting anything in the motel drawers, I always check them to see that they’re clean, empty.”
“Yeah?”
“Someone went through my underwear and put this inside those navy-blue panties I have.” She raised her closed hand and handed Bronson something. She let the item fall on his opened hand.
Bronson looked at the closed vial. He opened it and smelled it. The distinct odor of almonds reached his nostrils. “Shiiiiit!”
“What? What is it? Is it something bad?”
“Yeah, I’d say so. Most likely, this is the vial that contained the poison that killed Trent.”
Carol’s eyebrows arched as she pinched her lips together, making her look like a comical cartoon character. “Oh my God. What does that mean?”
It means that the vial now contained both of their fingerprints. “We need to call Quaid.”
Carol gasped. “You don’t think. . .he’ll think, you. . .we. . .”
“Yes, he will and that’s exactly what the perpetrator wants him to think. I’m quite certain you weren’t meant to find the vial, and I bet you anything Quaid has received an anonymous call. He’s probably right now in the process of gettin’ a search warrant.”
“We could drive out to the desert and bury it.”
“Carol, that would be destroyin’ evidence.” His voice came out harsher than he had intended. He hugged her and stroked her hair. “We’re going to do the right thing.”
“But you told me Quaid already thinks you’re guilty. This will only add to that.” Her eyes beamed with tears.
“Maybe not. This might have been the killer’s biggest mistake. Someone let the killer in. We’ll be able to trace him that way.”
Bronson reached for the phone and dialed the sheriff’s number.
Chapter Thirty-one
“You wanted to play detective. Here’s your chance,” Bronson told Carol. She sat at the edge of the bed, her back ramrod straight, her complexion matching the white bed sheets.
Bronson sat beside her, placed his hand on her leg, and rubbed it. “You okay?”
She barely nodded a response.
“You sure?”
She sighed and shook herself as though attempting to shake away the problem. “I’m a detective. Tell me what you need done.”
“I want you to go over every bit of space. Check under the bed and under the mattress. Check inside every drawer and make sure nothin’ is taped to the top or bottom of the drawers. Check the medicine cabinet and our suitcases. In general, check every area you can think of and those you didn’t.”
“What am I looking for?”
“Anythin’ that doesn’t belong to us.”
“And if I find something?”
“Don’t touch it. Show it to Quaid.”
“You’re leaving.” A statement, not a question. Resignation in her voice.
“I’m not going far. Just downstairs. I’m going to talk to as many maids that I can find. Hopefully, one of them will be the one who cleans this room. Maybe she’ll know somethin’ or have seen somethin’.” Bronson stood up. “You sure you’ll be okay? Would you rather I stay with you?”
She reached for her blouse and fixed it. “Don’t be silly. We detectives are strong and tough. You go do your thing, and I’ll do mine.” She flashed him a smile filled with both determination and strength.
Bronson hugged his wife and kissed her. “You’re worth more to me than all the gold in the world.”
“That doesn’t mean much. Now, if you had said than all of the coffee in the world. . .”
“Don’t push it.”
She stuck her tongue out at him. He tried to grab it. Both giggled and Bronson walked out.
* * * * *
The manager’s office seemed unusually small, perhaps because of the excessive amount of furniture cramped into the room. A large wooden desk with four leather chairs dominated the area. Four file cabinets, a bookcase, and a small table with six fold-down metal chairs completed the lets-have-the-office-appear-to-be-cramped look.
“I don’t really understand, Detective Bronson, do you want to file a complaint?” The manager, a short man with a receding hairline and thick glasses peered at Bronson.
“Not exactly. All I want to do is talk to the maids who clean my room. Maybe one of them saw someone lurkin’ outside the room. Or maybe even while they were cleanin’, someone came in. I don’t want to cause any waves. I just want to talk to them.”
The manager frowned. “I just don’t see how you can talk to them without filing an official complaint.” He opened his side drawer and thumbed through his folders. He pulled out a paper and shoved it toward Bronson. “You fill that out. I’ll go see who was on duty.”
Bureaucracy, Bronson thought. He hated it. He reached for the form and started filling it out.
* * * * *
As soon as Lupe received the call to report to the manager’s office, she knew she was in trouble. Somehow no matter where she went, what she did, bad things always happened to her. Well, not anymore. If she kept quiet, if she didn’t reveal anything, everything would be all right. She hadn’t, after all, done anything wrong.
Now more than ever, she needed this job. Jobs weren’t too plentiful in a small town like Stafford, especially if you were Catholic instead of Mormon. Maybe if she had stayed in school, she could have. . .
Don’t go there. She forced herself to stop thinking along those lines. She didn’t have, after all, a single regret. No, sir. Not a one. In less than a month her little one would be born. Then she wouldn’t be lonely anymore. Not ever.
She stroked her tummy and looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her normal brown skin looked so pale. Maybe it was the pregnancy. Maybe it was the fear of losing this job. Maybe it was both.
“I promise you, little one, I will keep the job. I won’t be fired. I’ll be a good mommy. I’ll provide for you.”
Lupe stepped out, determined to play the I-don’t-know-anything role. She was good at that.
* * * * *
It startled Lupe to see Vicky already there. Both of them cleaned the same rooms along the same hallways. She eyed the stranger sitting in Mr. Lamont’s office. He was tall and powerful looking. Probably rich, too. What did he know about working as a maid? All he wanted was to create problems for a poor, hard-working girl like her.
“Ladies, this is Detective Harry Bronson from the Dallas Police Department.”
The police! Lupe hated policemen. Trouble always surrounded them. Now, more than ever, she realized she had been right. Mum’s the word.
Bronson looked at both her and Vicky and Lupe felt as though the detective scrutinized her soul. Did he know about her past? Did it somehow show? She focused on the floor. She spotted two places that needed to be cleaned.
Bronson placed his hands behind him and paced as he spoke. “Ladies, thank you for comin’. Me and Carol, my wife—we’re stayin’ in 304. You ladies know that room?”
“That’s our floor. Me and Lupe clean it. Something wrong with the service?” Vicky stood proud and tall. Her voice boomed with courage. Lupe envied her.
“No, none at all. I think you ladies are doing an outstandin’ job. Place couldn’t be kept better.”
The gentleness in his words, the soft, kind voice startled Lupe. What kind of policeman was this? She looked up at him and found he had stopped pacing and stared at her. She immediately looked down at the floor.
“Thank you, sir.” Vicky’s tone sounded more relaxed. “So what’s the matter?”
“I’d like for you ladies to think back. Was there ever a time maybe while you were busy cleanin’ the bathroom that someo
ne came into my room? Perhaps you heard a noise. Saw someone. Naturally you’d think this person belonged in this room. It’s only natural.”
Vicky’s eyebrows shot up in the air. Her eyes opened as wide as saucers. “Someone broke into your room? Stole something?” The look of fear replaced the initial shock. “Wait a minute. It wasn’t me.” She looked at Lupe. “Us. We clean. We’re honest people. We find money on the floor, we put it back on the dresser.”
“That’s very commendable of you both. Not many people would do that.” Bronson walked over to Lamont and patted his shoulder. “In fact, your boss here had already told me what hard workers both of you are and one-hundred percent honest."
Vicky sighed and gave out a small smile. “Then. . . .”
“Bottom line: someone came into my room. There’s never been any sign of a break in. Someone either has a key or someone let them in, willingly or unwillingly.”
“Not us.” Vicky stepped closer to Lupe. “We always put the cart in front of the opened door. No way someone can come in without us hearing. It’s as much for our protection as for the customers’.”
“That’s very impressive. I hope that’s a policy all cleanin’ engineers follow.”
“Everyone at this hotel does.” Vicky’s face beamed with pride.
“That is commendable.” Bronson once again placed his hands behind him and resumed his pace. “You’re awfully quiet. Do you have anythin’ to add?”
Without looking up, Lupe knew the policeman was talking to her. Yes, she had something to say. She remembered the customer demanding the towels. Lupe had brought them up and opened the door. What a fool. She had assumed. . . How could she know? Would she be fired now? “It’s as Vicky says. We’re careful to place the cart so that it blocks entry to the room.” Did her voice really sound squeaky? Could he hear her heart beat ever so loudly?
Seconds dragged and Bronson remained quiet. Lupe could feel his gaze focusing on her. He knew. Best to say something. It had been an honest mistake. She opened her mouth to speak but Lamont spoke up, interrupting whatever she might have said.
“I suppose that clears you both.” He looked at Bronson. “I’m sorry they couldn’t help.”
Bronson frowned as he looked away from Lupe to Lamont. “Thank you, ladies, for comin’.” He handed each a card. “I wrote down my room number and my cell. If either of you remembers somethin’ or sees someone unusual by my room. . .”
Vicky grabbed the card. “We’ll call you.”
Bronson turned to Lupe. “Ma’am?”
She reached for the card and wished her hand wouldn’t shake so badly.
Bronson smiled. “Talk to me. I’m not the enemy.”
Lupe almost felt like smiling back. For a policeman, he sure was nice. She’d have to think about what she should do. It could all be a trap. Better to keep quiet.
Vicky and Lupe turned and walked out.
* * * * *
There were several things Bronson wanted to do before heading back to the room. But by now Quaid had probably arrived and it wasn’t fair to leave Carol by herself. He quickly headed for the elevators.
While waiting for it to open, he saw Tom sitting on a couch, reading a newspaper. Bronson glanced at the numbers indicating the floor the elevator was on. The elevator was stuck on the sixth floor. He had enough time to at least get a reaction from Tom.
Bronson considered walking up to him and calling him by his real name just to see how he’d react. As Bronson approached him, he realized that might involve more time than he had to give. Instead he said, “Hey, Tom.”
Tom looked at Bronson and set the newspaper down. He nodded a hello.
“Ever heard of Solomon?” Bronson asked.
“Solomon? Like in the Bible?”
Bronson smiled. “No, the town. Supposed to be maybe a twenty-minute drive from here. Me and Carol, my wife, are going there to eat in a restaurant called La Paloma. Supposed to be real good Mexican food. I know you want to talk to me, and heaven knows, I want to talk to you, too. We’ll be there in maybe an hour or so.”
“I’m sure Marie and I can find the place. You said in about an hour?”
“Or so.”
Tom nodded. “We’ll talk then.” He picked up the newspaper and continued reading.
Bronson walked away.
Chapter Thirty-two
Mighty coincidental. That’s what Quaid would call it.
First he gets a call about searching for a vial in Bronson’s room. Then Bronson calls, reporting finding the item. Too easy. Too convenient.
Quaid hated it when that happened. Didn’t believe things fell in place like that. Sure as weeds spring, something was brewing. What that happened to be, Quaid couldn’t be sure but he’d bet his reputation, Bronson had to be at the root of it all.
The sheriff pulled into the lodge’s parking lot, parked the car, took a deep breath, and stepped out. Here goes nothing.
He wondered what kind of a story Bronson and his wife—what was her name?—concocted. He knocked on the door and waited. And waited some more. What the—
The door slowly opened just far enough for a lady to peer out.
He flashed his badge. “You must be Bronson’s wife.”
She nodded.
“I’m the sheriff. Quaid’s the name and your husband called me.”
She nodded once again, closed the door, unbolted it, and reopened the door. “Come in, Sheriff. My husband will be back any minute.”
“He’s not here?” Why did that not surprise him?
“He went downstairs to talk to the maids who clean this room. He thought maybe they’d seen somebody lurking in the hallway or maybe even in our room.”
Quaid shook his head. “Ever the detective, is he?”
“It’s in his blood. I don’t think we’ll ever be able to separate the two.”
Wonder why that makes her sad, Quaid thought. “Tell me about the great find.”
“Not much to tell. I took a shower, opened the drawer to get my. . .huh, clothes, and there it was.”
“On top of your clothes.”
“No, actually buried at the very bottom of everything.”
“Then how did you happen to find it?”
“The item I wanted was toward the bottom and when I pulled it out, the vial came rolling out.”
Another coincidence. Quaid retrieved his notebook and jotted down the main ideas.
“My husband does that too.”
Quaid looked up from his note taking. “What?”
“Takes notes on a little notebook he keeps in his pocket.”
Great. I always wanted to be just like Bronson. He closed the notebook and returned it to his shirt pocket along with the pen. “Then what happened?”
“Harry was in the shower.”
“Who?”
“Harry, my husband. Bronson.”
He knew that. He just wanted her to verify it. “Go on.”
“After he got out, I gave it to Harry. He opened it, smelled it, and immediately said we were calling you."
The door opened and Bronson stepped in. “Sheriff Quaid.”
“Bronson.”
“Hope you haven’t been waitin’ too long.”
“Just got here. In fact, your wife was telling me what happened. Let me hear it from you.”
“I stepped out of the shower. Carol comes in. She was visibly shakin’ and hands me the vial. Said she found it in the drawer and was sure it wasn’t there before.”
“How would she know that?”
“My wife is very meticulous. She always checks the drawers to make sure they’re clean and that no one’s left anythin’ there. If my wife says the item wasn’t there before, I simply believe her. It wasn’t there.”
Quaid nodded. “I see.” He turned to Carol. “Can you show me exactly where you found the vial?”
Carol turned bright red. “I. . .I don’t think so.”
“And why not?”
Bronson wrapped his arm around his w
ife. “Because she found it in her underwear drawer.” He turned to Carol. “Sweetheart, I realize this is embarrasin’ for you. After all, this is your personal stuff. But for us policemen—” He looked at Quaid. “—law enforcers—whatevers—they’re just clothes and nothin’ more. Why don’t you show him where you found it?”
Carol frowned and headed toward the bureau. “Second drawer to your right.” She pointed to the drawer.
Quaid opened the drawer, and Carol, brighter than Snow White’s shiny apple, looked away. “Can you show me exactly what happened?”
Carol looked at Bronson with pleading eyes. He nodded an encouragement. She frowned. “I reached for my. . .huh. . .undergarments—like I told you, the one I wanted was towards the bottom. When I pulled it out, the vial rolled out. I didn’t know what it was, so I picked it up and looked at it. I set it on the dresser while Harry showered. When he stepped out, I handed it to him.”
Quaid shook his head. “You handed it to him. So now it’s got both of your fingerprints. How very convenient for you, Detective.” He stretched out the word detective, making it sound like an insult.
Bronson made sure he maintained a poker face. “I could have simply taken it out to the desert, buried it, and it would have never been found—or if it had, no one would have recognized it for what it was. Instead, we did the right thing and called you.”
“Very thoughtful of you.” Quaid closed the drawer. “I suppose if I were to search the rest of the room, I’d come up empty-handed.”
“You’re welcome to search, of course, but while Harry was downstairs, I checked the room from top to bottom. I looked in all of the usual places as well as those unusual places, like under the drawers, between the mattress and bed frame—stuff like that. I didn’t find anything,” Carol said, “other than a lot of dust bunnies.” She dusted herself off, as though remembering all of the hidden dirt.
“Of course you didn’t find anything out of the ordinary. And if I were to search myself, I know I’d also come up empty-handed.”
“What exactly do you mean by that?” Carol’s harsh tone seemed to reprimand him.
