The Dead-End Job Mysteries Box Set 1

by Elaine Viets

  A month after Todd jumped off his balcony, Helen picked his watch off her dresser. She took the bus to the Fort Lauderdale beach. It was the same endless ocean she’d seen from Todd’s balcony, but up close it seemed warm and friendly. She watched a young mother and her baby laugh and slap at the waves. Then a big wave drenched the pair, and Mom snatched her child back from the wild water.

  Poor Todd, Helen thought. Love took him by surprise. Men like Todd didn’t fall in love with women. They were supposed to love him. Tammie was indeed his soul mate: as coldhearted as he was and just as mercenary.

  The wave-slapped little boy had stopped crying. His mother gently dried his face with a blue beach towel and tickled him until he giggled.

  At least Todd loved someone, Helen thought, however heartless she was. That was an achievement. It was more than Tammie had managed.

  Helen looked at the sparkling Cartier watch with the broken leather band. Then she threw it into the sea. She walked to the nearest resort hotel and went in the back way to the employee entrance. She was met by a gruff guard in a beige uniform.

  “Are you hiring?” she asked.

  Ah, the wonders of Florida. Helen had no hotel skills. But she spoke English and she didn’t have to worry about a green card. She was hired on the spot as a chambermaid.

  She gave her notice to Jeff that same day.

  “Why, Helen?” Jeff seemed hurt that she was leaving. “I thought you liked it here. Didn’t I treat you right?”

  “I love you,” she said. “But I can’t stay here. I keep seeing Todd everywhere. I think I need the company of strangers.”

  “What will you be doing?” Jeff said.

  “I have a job at a hotel as a maid. I won’t be tempted to get to know people. They’ll stay a few days and leave. I’ll like it that way.”

  They shook hands, and then Jeff drew her in for a hug. “Come back if you change your mind,” he said.

  Lulu followed Helen to the shop door, her tail wagging. Lulu’s outfits were getting as outrageous as Jonathon’s. Today she swanned around in a leather biker outfit embroidered with BITCH WITH A BAD ATTITUDE.

  When Helen opened the door, Lulu made a mad dash for the Briny Irish Pub. “You go, girl,” she said, and laughed.

  It was the first time she’d laughed since Todd’s death.

  Helen still couldn’t sleep through the night. In her dreams she was forever reaching for Todd. She’d wake up to find the sheets twisted and sweaty. The bedroom walls would close in on her, and she’d go outside in the cool night air.

  Phil found her at six o’clock one morning, standing by the Coronado pool, staring at nothing. He’d just gotten up himself, and his hair had a cute little-boy cowlick.

  “Still feeling bad about Todd?” he said.

  She nodded.

  “Come for a ride with me,” he said.

  Helen would have followed him anywhere with that cowlick. They climbed into his battered black Jeep. It was a chilly morning, and the plastic windows were zipped up. The sky was streaked pink and orange. A1A, the oceanside highway, was free of the tourist hordes at that hour.

  At the old beach town Lauderdale by the Sea, Phil found a parking spot near the ocean. “Let’s walk on the beach,” he said.

  The ocean was a translucent pearly gray. The morning was theirs, except for the seabirds and another pair of lovers sitting cross-legged on the beach, watching the sunrise.

  Helen and Phil walked in comfortable silence, following the curve of the beach.

  An old man was swimming in the cold water. A young man sat on the sand in a yoga position that made Helen’s legs ache. Helen walked and watched the waves until she felt tired and peaceful.

  Finally they came to Anglin’s Fishing Pier. Warning signs declared the pier closed due to storm damage, but the Pier Coffee Shop was open. It was a gray building about the size of a boxcar. Tacked on the outside were battered turquoise booths overlooking the water.

  Helen and Phil sat at an outside booth, the sharp morning wind driving them closer together. A waitress poured hot mugs of coffee to warm them.

  “Number two,” yelled the cook from the kitchen, and the waitress scurried inside to pick up an order, then came back out for theirs.

  Helen and Phil watched a red tractor trundling down the beach, pulling a triangular attachment that cleaned and smoothed the sand, wiping away all traces of yesterday.

  “I love you, Helen,” Phil said. “But I won’t live with lies and secrets. Tell me what happened to you. If you don’t trust me, I understand. But then it’s over between us.”

  Helen saw her life without Phil, stretching into lonely infinity.

  “I want to, Phil,” she said. “But then you’ll know too much about me. You can send me to jail. I trusted a man once and he betrayed me, and that’s how I wound up on the run. What if I trust you, and you do the same thing to me? I’ll lose everything: my life, my home, my new friends. I can’t start over again, Phil. I won’t. I can’t give you that power over me.”

  “But I gave you that power,” Phil said. “You know I do undercover investigations. You can burn me. You can kill me.”

  Helen felt as if he’d slapped her. “I would never do that to you,” she said. “How could you even think that?”

  “And I would never betray you,” Phil said. “My life is in your hands, as your life will be in mine. If you tell me, we will be equals. We will both have everything to lose—and give.”

  Helen looked at the man she loved, and saw he was right. It wasn’t a question of power anymore. They both held the same power over one another. And so she told him her story. Phil didn’t offer solutions. He didn’t interrupt. He seemed to listen with his whole body until she finished.

  “My ex-husband, Rob, and the court are looking for me and if they find me I’ll have to go back to St. Louis,” she said. “Nobody but my sister, Kathy, knows where I am. I can’t even trust my mother. She wants me to go back to Rob.”

  “What do you want to do?” he said.

  “I want to stay at the Coronado,” Helen said. “I want to keep on living this life. I want to love you.”

  “Then that’s what you’ll do. If you ever want to try to straighten things out in St. Louis, I will help you.”

  “I don’t trust the law, Phil,” Helen said. “I don’t believe in legal justice, not anymore.”

  “Then we’ll do it your way.”

  Seagulls screamed around them. They held hands and watched two shaggy dogs play in the surf.

  “This place is enchanted,” Helen said. “But I read somewhere they may sell the pier to developers and close the coffee shop.”

  Phil shrugged. “I hear that rumor every other week, and the place is still going strong. It’s true the coffee shop could close someday. A hurricane could come by next week and blow it away. Or the hurricane could blow us away. Unless we’re hit by a car or run over by a bus.

  “It’s here now, Helen, and so are we, and that’s all that matters.”

  Then he kissed her, and at that moment she believed him.

  Murder with Reservations

  For the hotel maids—the people we don’t see but do need

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Special thanks to the staff at the Holiday Inn Express in Highland, Illinois. This hotel has earned its reputation for excellence. Manager Lorie Huelsebusch, Julie Genteman and Justin Gibbons at the front desk, and the housekeeping staff of Jan Bryant, Ronie Hanson, Sharon Smith, Cindy Ford, and LeAnne Shoot gave me excellent advice and careful instructions in the arts of dusting, vacuuming, and bed making.

  Their hotel in no way resembles the Full Moon, an imaginary hotel in another place and time.

  Thanks also to Nancy Genteman, who drove me around Highland and took me to dinner at Farmers Restaurant & Bakery, which has fried chicken and green beans almost as good as my grandmother’s.

  I wish I could thank all the booksellers who helped with my books, but there isn’t room. Please know that I am gratefu
l for your help and handselling. Books are sold with love and recommendations, and you’ve given me lots of both.

  Thanks to my husband, Don Crinklaw, who uses his English-teacher abilities when he reads the manuscript, and his acting abilities when he says it’s the best yet.

  Thanks to my agent, David Hendin, who always takes my calls.

  Special thanks to Kara Cesare, one of the last of the real editors. I really appreciate her careful readings and editing. Thanks also to her assistant, Lindsay Nouis, to the NAL copy editor and production staff, and to the folks who do the terrific covers.

  Many people helped with this book. I hope I didn’t leave anyone out.

  Particular thanks to Detective R. C. White, Fort Lauderdale Police Department (retired), and to ATF Special Agent Rick McMahan. Any mistakes are mine, not theirs.

  Thanks also to Susan Carlson, Valerie Cannata, Colby Cox, Jinny Gender, Karen Grace, Kay Gordy, Jack Klobnak, Bob Levine, and Janet Smith, and to Carole Wantz, who could sell air conditioners in the Arctic.

  Once again, thanks to the librarians at the Broward County Library and the St. Louis Public Library who helped with my research. I couldn’t write this without your help.

  Special thanks to librarian Anne Watts, who let me borrow her six-toed cat, Thumbs, for this series. Check out his picture on my Web site at elaineviets.com.

  CHAPTER 1

  The young couple looked like inept burglars sneaking through the lobby of Sybil’s Full Moon Hotel in Fort Lauderdale. They were both dressed in black, which made them stand out against the white marble. At their wedding two days ago, they’d been slim, golden and graceful, trailing ribbons and rose petals through the hotel.

  Now they moved with the awkward stiffness of amateur actors trying to look natural. The bride’s black crop top exposed a midsection sliding from sexy to sloppy fat. The groom’s black T-shirt and Bermudas failed the test for cool. They were boxy rather than baggy. He looked like a Grand Rapids priest on vacation.

  The honeymooners avoided the brown plastic grocery bag swinging between them, carefully ignoring it as it bumped and scraped their legs. That screamed, “Look at me.” They stashed the bag behind a potted palm while they waited for the elevator.

  “Red alert,” Sondra at the front desk said into her walkie-talkie. She was calling Denise, the head housekeeper. “The honeymoon couple just passed with a suspicious grocery bag. They’re getting out on the third floor.”

  “I’ll check them out,” Denise said. She was stocking her cleaning cart with sheets and towels in the housekeeping room.

  Denise turned to her coworker Helen Hawthorne. “We’ve caught the honeymooners red-handed. I’m going to investigate. You stand by as a witness. I’m rolling.”

  Rhonda, the third hotel maid, squawked almost as loud as the walkie-talkie. “I’m coming, too. This affects my life.” Rhonda, stick-thin and excitable, ran around the cart like a dog yapping at a car.

  “Quiet, please,” Denise said.

  Rhonda shut up at this stately squashing.

  A woman of substance, Denise and her cart rolled down the hall with slow deliberation. Helen followed. Rhonda skittered at the rear, skinny body rigid with rage, red hair flying. She looked like an electric floor mop.

  As the bridal couple stepped out of the elevator, Denise moved majestically past them, bumping the groom with her massive cart. The grocery bag slipped to the floor. Cans and bottles clattered on the carpet. The young woman flushed scarlet. The young man stuttered apologies, even though the accident was Denise’s fault.

  “Here, let me help,” Denise said, reaching for a bouncing bottle.

  “And me.” Helen corralled a rolling can and stuffed it back in the grocery bag. Rhonda folded her skinny frame to pick up a brown plastic container.

  Once everything was back in the bag, the young couple ran for their room. Denise waited for the slam of their dead bolt. Then her cart rumbled solemnly back to the housekeeping room.

  Rhonda and Helen crowded inside the room. Rhonda’s pale face was set with furious determination. “If you think I’m—” she said.

  “Shush,” Denise said. “I have to make my report to the front desk.”

  The walkie-talkie squawked like an angry parrot. Denise talked through the static. “Sondra, I saw two cans of whipped cream, two squeeze bottles of Hershey’s syrup and no evidence of ice cream.”

  “Suspicions confirmed,” Sondra said through the electric crackle.

  Rhonda started wailing like a storm siren. “Oh, no. I’m not cleaning whipped cream and chocolate out of their Jacuzzi.” Angry brown freckles stood out on her pasty face. “The whipped cream alone took me a solid hour. I had to climb inside the tub to clean it. I’m calling in sick tomorrow.”

  “The honey on the sheets was bad enough,” Helen said. “Sticky stuff put me off my breakfast toast. How many more nights are the food lovers here?”

  “A whole week,” Denise said. “Maybe now that they know we know, they won’t use the whipped cream and chocolate.”

  “They’ll use it,” Rhonda said. “Once a couple gets on the sauce, they won’t stop.”

  “At least they’ve stayed clear of the produce,” Denise said. She reminded Helen of a vegetable goddess. Her broad bosom was twin cabbages, her tight white hair was a cauliflower, and her powerful arms were blue-ribbon zucchini.

  “Maybe they’ll have a fight,” Helen said hopefully.

  “Hah,” Rhonda said. “Those types never do. They just bring in weirder and grosser stuff, and we have to clean it up. And they never tip.”

  “If you want your job, you’ll be here tomorrow at eight thirty,” Denise said.

  The head housekeeper silenced any further discussion with a glare. Her massive arms maneuvered the cart out the door. “Helen and Rhonda, take the third floor. Cheryl will work the second floor, and I’ll do one.”

  “I hate three,” Rhonda said, when Denise had trundled out of earshot. “It’s the hottest and dirtiest floor in the hotel.”

  “And we’re the newest workers,” Helen said.

  “After two years, I’m entitled to some consideration,” Rhonda said. She yanked their cleaning cart so hard it smacked the door frame. “Denise saves the best jobs for herself. She cleans the lobby and the free breakfast room. They’re easy.”

  “I don’t think mashed bananas in the carpet are any easier to clean up than whipped cream in the Jacuzzi,” Helen said. “The lobby’s white marble and glass show every scuff and fingerprint, and people leave disgusting things in the fountain. They’re supposed to make a wish and throw in money, not half-eaten candy bars.”

  “You missed the kid who threw in his baby brother and wished he’d drown. Sondra had to leap the front desk and do a lifeguard rescue in the lobby. Ruined her good blouse.”

  The memory of Sondra’s loss cheered Rhonda. The woman ran on resentment. She was an odd creature with a round white face like a cocktail onion. Her vibrant red hair seemed to suck the color out of the rest of her. Helen thought she was plain, but she saw men stare at Rhonda. They found something about her bony body compelling.

  “We’re not going to get anything done standing around yammering,” Rhonda said. “Might as well get started.”

  “What’s the room count today?” Helen said.

  “Full house,” Rhonda said, checking her sheet. “All twenty rooms on this floor are occupied: seventeen queens, two kings, and the honeymoon suite.” Thirty-seven beds and a foldout couch, twenty refrigerators, twenty-one toilets, twenty tubs, and the dreaded Jacuzzi. Sixty-five mirrors and sixty wastebaskets. Twenty carpets to vacuum and twenty-one bathroom floors to mop.

  “Checkouts versus stay-overs?” Helen asked.

  That was the crucial question. After the guests checked out, the rooms required a deep cleaning. Even the insides of the drawers were dusted. For stay-overs, the maids scrubbed the bathrooms, made the beds, and emptied the wastebaskets. If they were lucky, guests piled suitcases, clothes and papers on all t
he furniture, and it couldn’t be dusted. More stay-overs meant a shorter cleaning day.

  “Six stay-overs,” Rhonda said.

  Fourteen checkouts. A long day. More sore muscles. Helen had worked at the hotel one week and she was just beginning to get over the back pain and muscle aches. She still winced when she had to kneel at the tub or reach for a mop. Cleaning hotel rooms required back-breaking amounts of bending, stooping and lifting. After her first day Helen went home at three thirty in the afternoon and curled up with a heating pad and a bottle of Motrin. She woke up at seven the next morning, feeling like she’d been stomped in an alley.

  Helen figured she was combining work with working out. She wouldn’t have to waste time exercising when she got home. She’d have more time to sit by the pool and drink.

  “Our first room is a stay-over,” Rhonda said. She maneuvered the cart so it blocked the door, then knocked. “Hello? Anyone home?” Rhonda pounded and shouted until Helen thought she overdid it.

  “I’m not taking any chances,” Rhonda said between shouts. “Not since I surprised that naked geezer getting out of the shower. He was too deaf to hear me knock.”

  “Ever see any flashers?” Helen asked.

  “All the time,” Rhonda said. “It’s always the guys with the little weenies. A man with something worth seeing never shows it.”

  Satisfied that the room was empty, Rhonda opened the door with her passkey card. The room looked like an explosion at a rummage sale. Dirty clothes and smelly shoes littered the floor. Shirts and shorts spilled out of suitcases. Hamburger bags and drink cups cluttered the dresser. Something crunched under Helen’s foot.

  “What’s that?” Helen asked. She was afraid to look.

  “Cheerios,” Rhonda said. “Usually means there’s a baby in the room. People with little kids are big slobs.”

  “Is that a diaper on the bedspread?” Helen said.