The Dead-End Job Mysteries Box Set 1

by Elaine Viets

  God or the devil handed me a crowbar when I walked in on that cheating scum, she thought. She could feel its sun-warm heft in her hand and its heavy, destructive strength. If I had it again, I wouldn’t slaughter an innocent SUV. I’d smash Rob.

  Peggy went rigid, watching her face. She knew Helen was serious.

  The taut silence stretched into the black night, as the three women sat there. Helen nursed her hate, Peggy held her fear, and Margery stayed a silent sorceress in sexy shoes.

  Then Margery laughed and blew smoke, and the red demon eye of her cigarette winked. “Helen, I’m an old lady living in Lauderdale. All I know are other old women. All they’d do is love Rob to death.”

  The spell was broken. Helen’s brutal anger fled like a mugger who’d heard a police siren. She could barely hide her relief. Margery hadn’t taken her seriously. She’d saved Helen from her own murderous impulse by pretending she didn’t mean it. Helen felt weak with relief. How many of the divorced wished their exes dead, just for a moment? How many gave in to that temptation?

  Helen looked up and saw a man with ice-white hair shimmering in the moonlight. It was Phil. How long had he been standing there? What did he hear? Did he know Rob was looking for her? Did he know she’d wanted to kill her ex-husband? Could he love a woman with her ugly desires?

  Phil gave his crooked grin, the one that made the corners of his eyes crinkle, and said, “Hi, Helen. I’m cooking dinner for you tonight.”

  He sounded so ordinary, so good, Helen was sure he couldn’t have heard their conversation. A normal man would have run from her unnatural rage.

  “Sexy, and he cooks,” Margery said. “Why didn’t they make men like Phil when I was young? Helen, get out of here. Go have some fun.” She made shooing motions with her glowing cigarette.

  “Have a good night, you two,” Peggy said. She rose from her chaise as if from a trance, and began picking up the wineglass shards. Pete stayed silent, but he watched Helen with beady eyes.

  Helen was eager to get away from the scene of her temptation. She hurried Phil to her little apartment at the Coronado. He’d left an ice chest full of food and a pitcher of margaritas on her doorstep. As she reached in her pocket for her keys, Phil put his arm around Helen and drew her to him. They were hidden in the shadows of a bougainvillea. Something sweet bloomed in the night air. Helen wondered how she’d been so lucky to find this man. For a while it seemed like she’d dated every druggie, drunk, and deadbeat in South Florida—after seventeen disappointing years with Rob.

  “Damn, you look good,” he said.

  “I do?” Helen was always surprised that Phil found her sexy. She was forty-two, with long chestnut hair, longer legs, and good skin. Her eyes were an interesting hazel, and her mouth was generous, or just plain big. She felt the years of unhappiness were etched in her face.

  “Mmm. You smell nice, too,” he said, as he kissed her hair. “How about dinner?”

  Helen liked everything about Phil: the soft skin on the back of his neck, his long silver ponytail, his hard chest and freshly ironed shirt. She wanted him, right now.

  “How about dessert first?” Helen said, opening her door. They dumped the cooler of food in the kitchen and kissed their way toward her bedroom, leaving a trail of clothes. Helen wondered if her evil impulse stirred up some primal hunger, and then she didn’t care. She just wanted him.

  At her bedroom door, Phil tripped over her cat. Thumbs let out a startled yelp, and stalked away with offended dignity. Helen and Phil were too wrapped up in each other to worry about the cat’s wounded feelings. Somehow they were on her bed, under the sheets. Helen reached for him, and Phil groaned.

  “Oh God, you’re good,” he said.

  “No, I’m bad,” Helen said.

  “But in a good way,” he said, and that was the last coherent exchange for some time.

  It was nearly an hour before Helen and Phil were back in the kitchen, barefoot, slightly woozy, and wrapped in matching terry robes. Phil was at the kitchen counter, carefully dipping the rim of her margarita glass in bar salt.

  “Quit fussing and serve it,” Helen said. “I’m thirsty.”

  “Some things are worth fussing over,” he said, finishing her drink with a perfectly cut lime slice. “A well-built drink is one of them. Now, stand aside and let me concentrate on my shrimp fajitas.” He smiled at her, and Helen got another close-up of those sexy eye crinkles. Her heart, and something else, gave an interesting flutter.

  Helen leaned against the counter and watched Phil mash avocados into fresh guacamole with a fork. He seemed to have at least four hands, because he also sauteed the onions and red and green peppers, then added the shrimp. His long, shapely fingers worked with quick, precise movements.

  Thumbs twined around Phil’s legs, purring loudly. The cat stopped to pat Phil’s bare feet with his huge six-toed paws, then went back to winding himself around Phil’s ankles.

  “He’s forgiven me for falling over him,” Phil said. “He’s a good guy. He doesn’t hold a grudge.”

  “Especially when you’re holding a shrimp.”

  Phil dropped the fat shrimp on the floor. “Oops,” he said. “I really am clumsy. Thumbs, will you pick that up, old buddy?”

  The big gray-and-white cat pounced and chomped the shrimp. Phil gave him another.

  “Phil!” Helen said. “Not a whole shrimp. Just the tail. You’ll spoil him.”

  “I spoil everyone I love,” he said. “Sit down, so I can bring you dinner. The tortillas are warm.”

  Helen purred nearly as loudly as her cat when Phil set the fragrant, colorful plates on the table. She carefully constructed her fajita, adding the salsa, sour cream, and guacamole in measured spoonfuls, then folding the tortilla like an origami sculpture.

  “Now who’s fussing?” Phil asked, and gave that crooked smile again. His nose was crooked, too. Helen thought it saved his face from bland handsomeness.

  “Fajitas taste better if the sour cream and guacamole are not running down my arm,” Helen said. “This is delicious. Did I thank you for dinner? I hate to cook but I love good food. Most nights I settle for scrambled eggs or tuna out of the can.”

  “Life is too short for bad food,” Phil said. “I could teach you to cook.”

  “I’m hopeless,” Helen said.

  “How come women who can’t cook are proud of it?” Phil said.

  “Because we’ve escaped a drudgery men never have to face. Some men think cooking is creative. Women like me think it’s a trap. We’re afraid we’ll have to waste our time making meals instead of doing what we really want.”

  “Which is?” Phil took a thoughtful bite of his fajita. Helen saw guacamole squirt out on his fingers, but said nothing.

  “For a long time, I thought it was my corporate job with the big salary,” Helen said. “But now, I think it’s living here. I enjoy working jobs with no responsibility, toasting the sunset by the pool, and loving you.”

  “So tell me about your low-stress day at the hotel,” Phil said, with a wicked gleam in his eyes.

  He knows, Helen thought. Somehow, he found out what happened at the hotel today. She decided to play it for laughs. “We had a flood in a bathroom and I found a body in a bed.”

  “Sounds relaxing,” Phil said. “And worry free.”

  “The guy wasn’t dead, just drunk,” Helen said. “He was in room 323, of course. Rhonda got hysterical. She’d already had a hissy fit about the whipped cream in the Jacuzzi.”

  “Which reminds me,” Phil said, “dessert is ready. Keep talking.”

  She did, while he cleared the plates and served vanilla-bean ice cream with warm cinnamon sauce.

  “Let me get this straight,” Phil said, when he sat down again with his dessert. “You’d rather clean rooms at this nuthouse than have a real job that uses your training and education?”

  Helen knew where this conversation was heading, and tried to stop it. “It’s entertaining,” she said. “I used to crunch numbers and
go to meetings. What I do now seems real and useful.”

  Phil looked at her with those startling blue eyes. “Helen, I heard your conversation with Margery.”

  Her heart seemed to stop. This was it. This was good-bye. He was letting her down easy, with love and food, but he couldn’t keep seeing someone like her.

  “Then you know I wanted to kill Rob,” Helen said, carefully choosing each word. “It was only for a moment, but I really meant it when I said it.”

  “He’s still breathing, isn’t he?” Phil said. “Too bad Margery didn’t know any hit men.”

  “You’re saying that to make me feel better.”

  “Do you know how many times I’ve thought about murdering my ex-wife?” Phil said. “I never acted on those thoughts, any more than you did. But I’d be worried if you didn’t have them, after the way he treated you.”

  He reached across her tiny turquoise table and took her hand. “Helen, I know you’re on the run from Rob. I heard he’ll be in town. You know he’ll find you in a few days. Lauderdale isn’t that big. Margery’s right: I can help you. I can set you free. I know the top lawyers, the good cops and the best investigators. If you let me, I’ll get Rob out of your life forever.”

  “You have your own work to do,” Helen said. Phil was a private detective who did government contract work. He’d been testifying in a big case that they hoped would send a lot of crooks to federal prison.

  “The trial is winding down,” Phil said. “My work is nearly finished. I’ll have time to help you.”

  Helen felt suddenly weary. Rob had stolen her money and her life, but she wasn’t going to give him this night. It still belonged to her.

  “I don’t want to talk about Rob anymore,” she said. “Forget about him. We’re divorced. He’s my past. You’re my future.”

  “But what about—” Phil began.

  “Not now,” Helen said. “Not tonight.” She settled into Phil’s lap and kissed him, long, slow kisses with the cold, sweet taste of cinnamon. She kissed away his questions, but not her fears.

  Later that night, as she lay in Phil’s arms, Helen realized she was not alone. Rob was in her room. Not physically. Not yet. She’d run a thousand miles to get away from him, but it wasn’t enough. Her ex-husband had found her again, and he had the power to take her away from her seedy little paradise.

  Helen stared into the dark and knew this sad truth: Divorce bound her to Rob more than marriage ever did.

  CHAPTER 5

  “Rhonda didn’t show up for work this morning,” Denise said. She slammed down a stack of towels so hard the housekeeping cart bounced.

  “It’s only nine o’clock,” Helen said. “She could be late.”

  “She’s not late,” Denise said. “She doesn’t want to clean that Jacuzzi.” She heaved a pile of queen sheets with a heavy thud. The cart jumped again.

  “Maybe she’s sick,” Helen said.

  “She’s sick of work. And I’m sick of her.” Denise smacked a tower of washcloths on top of the towels. Helen jumped.

  “We could call her house and check,” Helen said.

  “I’ve called her cell and her home four times already,” Denise said. “She always answers one or the other. She’s not picking up the phone.”

  She crossed her powerful arms over her ample bosom. Her face looked like thunder under her cloud of white hair, and her eyes flashed lightning. “You heard her yesterday. Rhonda said she was going to do this. I warned her. I told her to report or she’d lose her job. I’ve had it. This is insubordination.”

  “But—” Helen said.

  “But, my ass,” Denise said. “She’s fired.”

  “But she’s a hard worker,” Helen said. When Rhonda got a grudge going, she cleaned with record speed. Helen decided not to say that. It might give Denise more ammunition. It was true Rhonda had wiped the coffeepot with the toilet rag, but since people made coffee with boiling water, Helen figured it didn’t make much difference.

  Denise didn’t want to hear pro-Rhonda remarks. “If she worked as hard as she complained, she’d be a wonder. She’s a whiner and a slacker.”

  Helen remembered Rhonda flashing that fifty-dollar bill and talking about her handsome boyfriend scoring big soon. Was that why he wanted to see her last night? Did he make his money and take her away from a life of drudgery? Helen couldn’t blame Rhonda if she didn’t call to quit. She was rich now. But how did her man make his money? In Florida, most reasons for sudden wealth were illegal: drugs, gunrunning, illegal-immigrant smuggling.

  Denise was still ranting. “I told her to show up or else,” she said. “I’m not backing down. I’d better let Sybil know. She’s not going to be happy. You want to come with me?”

  “But Sybil’s the owner,” Helen said. “I’m not management.”

  “Didn’t say you were,” Denise said. “But I might need you as backup. You can tell Sybil what you heard Rhonda say.”

  Helen didn’t like that. She felt like she was snitching. But she didn’t know how to say no.

  Denise moved at a stately pace to Sybil’s office, her anger giving way once more to her innate dignity. By the time she knocked on Sybil’s door, Denise was calm and collected.

  “Come in,” Sybil called.

  The office air was thick with chilled smoke, and the blinds were yellow with nicotine. Sybil’s puff of white hair was barely visible behind the paper piles on her desk. She had an ashtray the size of a turkey platter heaped with lipsticked butts.

  Sybil was seventy-five, but seemed older. She was small and stooped, with skin the color of an old lemon. Her face was crisscrossed with so many wrinkles it looked like a street map.

  “What is it now?” she said, looking up from an account book. A cigarette dangled from her red lips.

  “Rhonda didn’t show up for work,” Denise said. “I warned her, but she didn’t come in.”

  Sybil stubbed out the cigarette and said, “That girl’s always been trouble. I hire ’em reliable. It’s my one talent, but it failed me this time.”

  “We have to fire her,” Denise said.

  “She’s gone, and good riddance,” Sybil said. “I’ll get the ad in tomorrow’s paper. You realize it’s not going to be easy to find qualified help. You, Cheryl and Helen are going to have to take up the slack till somebody else turns up, and we’ve got a full house.”

  “Full? Did you rent 323 already?” Denise said.

  “Sure did,” Sybil said. “Carpet was a little damp, but the guy paid cash and didn’t care. Watched him on the security camera, sneaking two women up the back stairs to his room. He thought I didn’t know. I don’t care what they do as long as they’re quiet and don’t break the bed.”

  Helen giggled.

  “I’m not joking, young lady,” Sybil said, pointing her cigarette at Helen. “They crack my mattresses and ruin my bedposts doing God knows what.”

  Denise looked anxious, as if she sensed an impending tirade. “What happened to the guy who was hauled off in an ambulance?” she said.

  “Nothing wrong with him but a hangover,” Sybil said. “He flew home to Minneapolis late last night. Wished I could have been there when his wife met him at the airport. When she called here and found out he was in the hospital, she knew he’d been on a bender. Sounded mad as a wet cat.”

  Denise shrugged. “She’s welcome to him, smelly old drunk. I’d rather sleep with a pound of Limburger. Helen, we need to start cleaning. I’ll start on the first floor. You and Cheryl can take three, and we’ll meet somewhere in the middle.”

  It was hot up on the third floor. Air-conditioning couldn’t keep the hall and rooms completely cool when the Florida sun pounded on the Full Moon’s flat roof. The dirty, bitter odor of cigarettes lingered everywhere upstairs, even in the nonsmoking rooms.

  Cheryl met Helen at the elevator with a stocked cart. She was about thirty, with dark brown hair turning gray and tired brown eyes. Worry lines were etched into her forehead and some forty extra pounds cushione
d her frame. Comfort weight, Helen thought. She bet Cheryl secretly soothed herself with sweets.

  “Shall we begin?” Cheryl gave a dazzling smile. “I like to clean bathrooms. What about you?”

  “Beds,” Helen said. “I like making beds. We’re going to get along just fine.”

  They made an excellent team, and were soon in the zone, that mindless place where they cleaned automatically, heaving heavy blankets, hauling vacuums, and wiping surfaces smoothly and efficiently.

  “People think this is like cleaning house,” Cheryl said. “It’s like cleaning fifteen houses in one day. The only thing worse than hotel work is cleaning houses.”

  “Did you do that?” Helen asked.

  “Yes, after my daughter was born,” Cheryl said. “I hated it. I had to please ten different people, and they were impossible. I like this job: regular hours, regular pay, no excuses on payday and no bounced checks.”

  Cheryl sprayed the bathroom mirrors with rubbing alcohol. There were no wasted movements as she wiped the glass.

  “I learned a lot from Sybil,” Cheryl said. “Like her trick of using alcohol to clean glass and mirrors. Works better than glass cleaners, and it’s cheaper. Sybil knows how to squeeze a dollar, but she’s smart.”

  Helen was surprised when Cheryl said, “Break time. I’ll be outside at our place.” The morning had gone faster than she realized.

  The staff used the bench in the side garden as their rest spot. The maids didn’t eat lunch. Food made them sleepy in the afternoon. But they’d stop for a smoke or a snack. In the laundry room, Cheryl pulled a Hershey bar the size of a license plate off a shelf. Helen searched for the bag she’d brought that morning.

  “I can’t find my pretzels,” she said. “Maybe Denise knows what happened to them.”

  Denise’s cart was parked in front of room 119, but there was no sign of her. Helen walked the length of the hall, then turned the corner to the elevator alcove. The head housekeeper was standing by the plant urns. She’d pulled a small palm out of a pot and was running her fingers through the dirt at the bottom.