The Dead-End Job Mysteries Box Set 1

by Elaine Viets

  “Do you want gloves?” Denise asked.

  The question startled Helen, till she realized Denise was talking about latex cleaning gloves.

  “I do,” Craig said. When he slipped them on, Helen noticed a wide Band-Aid on his wrist.

  “What about you?” Denise asked Helen.

  “Can’t stand the feel,” she said. “They’re hot and sticky.”

  “Amateur,” Denise said. “When you’ve worked here long enough, you won’t want to touch some of that stuff in those rooms. Craig already found that out. He cleaned the honeymoon Jacuzzi yesterday.”

  Craig grinned, showing even white teeth. “I don’t think I’ll eat a hot-fudge sundae anytime soon.”

  “He really cleaned in the corners,” Denise said.

  “The Jacuzzi has a round tub,” Helen said, wondering why she was behaving like such a jerk.

  “What I mean,” Denise said, “is this man can clean. He knows his way around a scrub brush.”

  “That’s a switch,” Helen said. “You couldn’t tell by the men who stay at this hotel.”

  “Hey, give me a break,” Craig said. “I can see why you’re down on guys after some of those rooms. But we can be neat and clean. I’ll prove it.”

  “He’s hardworking and shows up on time,” Denise said. “That’s rare in South Florida. Take good care of our new man. I have lots to do today.”

  “Do you want to dust and make beds or clean the bathrooms?” Helen said.

  “I like to alternate,” Craig said. “I don’t like routines.”

  Helen hated to admit it, but Craig lived up to Denise’s praise. He cleaned with a professional system, starting with the beds, then dusting his way around the room clockwise. He wiped inside the drawers, looked under the furniture, and checked around the beds for left-behind shoes and old condoms. He dusted the pictures bolted to the walls and checked to see if any were loose. He’d mastered the art of cleaning mirrors without smearing the glass. He used what Helen’s grandmother called “elbow grease.”

  The day seemed to go better with Craig around. People picked their towels off the floor and left five-dollar tips.

  “Hey, look at this,” Craig said. “The stay-over guest in this room didn’t put out the ‘Please Change the Bed Linens’ card. Not only that, she made her own bed.”

  “Bless her,” Helen said.

  “Does using the linens two days in a row really save our natural resources?” Craig said. “Or is that management bullshit?”

  “It saves my natural resources,” Helen said. “Less bending and lifting for me. I thank anyone who saves me a linen change. We’ve got more good news. Room 323 wasn’t rented. We can bypass the hotel’s nastiest room.”

  “I’m kind of disappointed,” Craig said. “I’ve heard so much about it.”

  “You’ll get your chance soon enough,” Helen said. “We’re making good time. It’s two o’clock and only the honeymoon suite is left.”

  She unlocked the suite door. Craig entered first. “Hey, guess what’s all over the floor and the bed?” He blocked her view with his broad shoulders. Helen noticed how his back tapered into firm buns.

  “Hershey’s syrup? Honey? Chocolate ice cream?” She’d found them all on honeymoon beds.

  Craig shook his head.

  “Not bananas again?” Helen said. “Those are worse than whipped cream.”

  “Use your imagination. It’s the honeymoon suite,” Craig said.

  “If it was my marriage, it would be Rocky Road,” Helen said.

  Craig laughed and stepped aside. A trail of white rose petals led to the deliciously rumpled bed. The sheets were covered with the fragrant petals.

  “This marriage is a bed of roses,” Craig said.

  “That’s so sweet,” Helen said. “I hope it’s true.”

  “Some people do live happily ever after. Not all men are pigs.” Craig looked sad, and Helen wondered if he’d been hurt, too. She wanted to hug him. No, she wanted to do a lot more than that. An uncomfortable silence stretched between them.

  “Well, I’d better get to work,” Helen said. “I’ll take the two bathrooms.” She closed the door behind her, hoping to shut out Craig’s words. Not all men were pigs. Phil certainly wasn’t. Why did she find Mr. Boy Band so attractive? She was worse than Rob, flirting with someone eighteen years younger.

  I’m a slut, she thought, and scrubbed harder, as if she could wipe away her flirtatious thoughts.

  She finished both bathrooms in record time. When she opened the door, the suite smelled of lemon polish. Craig had made the enormous bed and was vacuuming up the last rose petals. She watched the long, strong muscles in his arms as he worked the heavy vacuum.

  When Craig turned off the shrieking machine, she said, “That’s it. We’ve finished early.”

  “I really enjoyed working with you today.” Craig looked shyly at the freshly vacuumed floor. “Care to join me for a drink on Las Olas?”

  Helen searched for the nicest way to say no.

  “We could have coffee if you don’t drink,” he said.

  “Thanks, Craig,” Helen said, “but I’m meeting my boyfriend.” How was that for subtle?

  “The good ones are all taken,” he said, and flashed that engaging grin. “I’d still like to have coffee with you sometime—as a friend. But I won’t keep you. I’ll go change.”

  Craig pulled off his smock, revealing the tight white T-shirt. Running a vacuum cleaner sure pumped his pecs. Then he was down the hall and gone.

  Helen was flattered and flustered. She pushed the cart to the housekeeper’s room, humming a little tune. Denise and Cheryl were inside, counting supplies.

  “How was the new guy?” Denise said. She looked way too innocent.

  “He’s a good worker,” Helen said.

  “A fast one, too,” Denise said.

  “He ask you out?” Cheryl said.

  Helen said nothing, but a blush gave her away.

  “Hah. I thought so,” Denise said.

  “He asked me out, too,” Cheryl said. Suddenly Helen saw how pretty she used to be, with her pink complexion and curly dark hair. “I told him no. I had to get home to Angel. But it felt good, anyway. It’s been a long time since a hottie asked me out.”

  “How did you know I said no?” Helen said.

  “You wouldn’t be stupid enough to throw away a man like Phil,” Cheryl said. “But I bet you enjoyed the invitation, same as me.”

  “Maybe the guy has a mother complex,” Helen said. “I’m a lot older.”

  “I’ve got news for you, sweetie, you don’t look like anyone’s mother,” Denise said.

  “Anything I can help you with before I leave?” Helen said.

  “For that subtle change of subject, you can help us haul the trash bags to the Dumpsters,” Denise said. She called Sondra on the walkie-talkie.

  “It’s clear,” Sondra said. “No sign of you-know-who. Come down the service elevator. I’ll distract Helen’s ex if he shows up.”

  “I bet you will,” Denise said. She handed Helen and Cheryl each a huge, heavy industrial trash bag, then took two more in her muscular arms. Helen was pretty sure Sister Mary Justine didn’t have muscles like that.

  When Denise unlocked the fence around the Dumpsters, hordes of flies poured out. “Pew. Get a whiff of that,” she said. “Something must have crawled inside and died, maybe a raccoon.”

  “That smell is strong for a raccoon. Must be something bigger. Maybe it’s a dog,” Helen said.

  “How can a dog get into a tall Dumpster behind a locked fence?” Denise said.

  “It’s just rotten trash,” Cheryl said. “Nothing’s dead in there. The trash man’s coming tomorrow. Let it go.”

  “I hope he comes early,” Denise said. “By tomorrow we’ll be able to smell it out front.”

  “It is powerful,” Helen said. “You don’t think some kid was playing around in the trash and fell in?”

  “No!” Cheryl said. “That’s a ridiculo
us idea.”

  “Sybil chases off any kids,” Denise said. “That’s one reason why we put that perfume all over the trash, to keep the kids out.”

  But the wind shifted and the sickly sweet odor was stronger. Helen’s stomach turned. She smelled death.

  “Let’s go back inside,” Cheryl said. She sounded frightened.

  “I’d better check those Dumpsters,” Helen said. “If some kid fell in, I’ll never forgive myself.”

  “What are you doing?” Cheryl said as Helen dragged a small, sturdy recycling bin over to the tall Dumpster with the most flies.

  “I’m going to take a look inside,” Helen said.

  “No, don’t,” Cheryl said. “There could be things in there. Snakes. Rats.”

  “They’ll run at the first sign of humans,” Helen said. She hoped that was true.

  “Diseases,” Cheryl said desperately. “There are diseases and bacteria in there. You’ll catch something.”

  “I’ll take a shower,” Helen said.

  “Please, don’t! I’ve got a bad feeling,” Cheryl said.

  “All the more reason for me to look,” Helen said.

  She hoisted herself up onto the bin. The Dumpster was sticky with unknown substances, and she wished she were wearing those gloves. An evil yellow liquid oozed down one corner.

  She held her breath and pulled herself inside. The bags shifted and squished under her feet. The smell was overpowering. Flies buzzed frantically, bombing her face. She tried to shoo them away, but there were too many. Ouch! Did flies bite or were there mosquitoes in there, too? Helen slapped and fought the crazed insects as she pawed through the trash. A metal rod poked through a bag and scratched her leg. She hoped her tetanus shots were updated.

  “There’s nothing up here,” Helen said. “I’ve shifted two layers.”

  “It could have crawled under those bags at the bottom and died,” Denise said.

  “No, it didn’t,” Cheryl said. “Get out of there now before you get hurt.”

  Helen kicked some bags aside. “Nope,” she said. “I’m almost to the bottom. There’s nothing. Wait! I see something orange, like cat fur. No, not orange. More like—”

  Red. Long red hair and a stick-thin arm.

  “Rhonda’s sleeping with the trash,” Helen said.

  CHAPTER 10

  I’m standing on a dead woman, Helen thought. She stepped back and her foot sank into something sticky. Her stomach made a sickening sideways shift. Please God, don’t let it be Rhonda. Helen looked down and saw she’d squashed a carton of ice cream.

  A fat fly stung her neck, and she slapped it. Maybe I can slap some sense into myself. Poor Rhonda’s dead and I’ve insulted her. Rhonda’s sleeping with the trash. How could I say something so stupid?

  The parking lot was unnaturally quiet, except for a soft, steady weeping. She peered over the side of the Dumpster and saw Cheryl was making that mournful sound. Denise stood as if she’d been turned to stone. Even her curly white hair didn’t move.

  “I’m sorry, Cheryl,” Helen said. “I should have never said that about Rhonda. I guess I was in shock, but that’s no excuse.”

  Cheryl cried harder, a roller coaster of wails that raised the hair on Helen’s neck. I’ve got to get out of here, she thought. Denise was still paralyzed, staring at the body with her mouth hanging open in surprise. Helen wondered if one of the buzzing flies would sail inside, and almost giggled. Do something, Denise. You got me into this mess.

  Helen looked down again at the tangle of orange-red hair and the pale greenish arm lying across a clear plastic bag. She could see a red-and-white can through the plastic.

  “Rhonda is hugging the honeymooners’ whipped cream,” Helen said. “She’d hate that.” She almost giggled again, but managed to control herself. What’s wrong with my mouth? Why are all these wretched things coming out of it?

  Cheryl howled louder. The sound jarred loose a wild, hopeful thought in Helen. Maybe the woman in the Dumpster wasn’t Rhonda. Maybe it was some stranger and she wasn’t dead. She was a homeless person who’d crawled in there for a nap and fainted from the heat.

  Helen moved the head gently to see the face. She heard a shriek of shock and horror, then realized she’d made that sound. She was screaming. The woman was definitely Rhonda, though Helen hardly recognized her. She was also definitely dead. Her face was a dreadful mix of dark reds, vile greens and purples. It was oddly lopsided. She’s been beaten, Helen thought. Someone hit her so hard they broke the bones in her face.

  Helen slowly lowered the battered head back on the trash bag, as if it were a pillow. Rhonda had had a hard life and a harder death.

  Cheryl was making odd birdlike screeches. They finally broke Denise’s trance. “Cheryl,” she said. “Stop that.” It was her stern-nun voice, and it worked, sort of. Cheryl subsided into soft weeping.

  Denise issued her next order to Helen. “Get out of that Dumpster,” she said. “You can’t do anything more for Rhonda. You crawled in there to find her, and that was brave. You saved her from being buried in a landfill.”

  Helen looked once more at Rhonda’s broken body. She was wearing a high-collared blue blouse, bloody and ripped, exposing an arm with black-red streaks. The arm was limp. So was her neck. Rigor mortis had come and gone. Helen remembered the last time she’d seen Rhonda alive. She’d watched her disappear into the night shadows, an arresting figure in her old-fashioned blouse.

  “Rhonda died the night she left work,” Helen said. “She wore this blouse. Her mother was right. Rhonda never abandoned her cat. She didn’t make it home. She was here in this Dumpster all the time.”

  “God forgive me for my hard words,” Denise said. The big woman seemed to collapse under the weight of her guilt. Even her tight white hair looked pressed down. Cheryl’s soft tears continued, an endless reproach.

  The back door banged open and Sondra rushed out, a cell phone in her hand. “What’s wrong?” she said. “Who’s screaming? Is someone hurt?”

  “Call 911,” Denise said, taking charge once more. “We’ve found Rhonda. She’s dead.”

  “Dear Lord.” Sondra punched in the number while Denise helped Helen out of the Dumpster. Helen’s legs were wobbly. She would have fallen off the recycling bin, but Denise caught her. Her jeans were covered with odd stains, and her T-shirt was wet with sweat.

  “The police are on their way,” Sondra reported. “Nobody can leave the hotel. We can’t check in any more guests or let anyone leave until the police question everyone. We all have to stay here. Where’s the new guy, Craig?”

  “I guess he’s getting dressed,” Helen said. “I’ll go find him before he goes home.”

  She was glad to get away from Rhonda’s battered body, the reeking Dumpster and the weeping Cheryl. The festering stink of death nearly smothered her. Flies hummed a frantic requiem.

  Helen checked the laundry room on the first floor. Craig’s smock was in the dirty laundry, but there was no sign of him. Did he leave already? She checked the second floor, praying her ex hadn’t sneaked back into the hotel during the commotion. No Craig. No Rob, either. Helen finally found Craig in the third-floor housekeeping room. He was on his knees, his bright yellow head wedged under a storage shelf.

  “Craig?” she said.

  Startled, he jerked his head up and hit it on the gray metal shelf.

  “Ouch,” he said. Craig backed out slowly, giving Helen a heavenly view of his hindquarters. What’s the matter with me? she wondered, angry at herself. Rhonda’s lying dead outside and I’m staring at some guy’s buns.

  “I’m sorry,” Helen said. “I didn’t mean to surprise you.”

  “You can surprise me anytime,” Craig said. “But there are more interesting ways. I dropped the cap to the spray polish. It rolled under the shelf.” He stood up, dusted off his knees, and held up the yellow plastic cap, treating her to his bad-boy grin.

  Helen was in no mood to flirt. “Listen, there’s a problem,” she said. “There’s
been an accident. We found a dead woman in the Dumpster.”

  “You’re kidding,” he said.

  “I’m not. It’s the maid you replaced, Rhonda. The police don’t want us to leave the hotel. You can wait with us downstairs.”

  “Why do I have to stay?” he said. “I didn’t know her.”

  “It’s what the cops want,” she said. “Denise sent me to get you.”

  “OK,” he said, and shrugged. He trotted alongside her like a puppy. But now Helen had no thoughts for her cute companion. Rhonda’s death—no, murder—had finally sunk in. The police were on their way to the Full Moon. They’d be Seafield Village cops. Would they know the Lauderdale police? She’d had bad luck finding bodies. She didn’t want the homicide detectives getting too interested in her.

  In the sun-flooded lobby, a gaunt older man was violently shaking the hotel’s front door.

  “Why is this door locked?” he demanded. He had bird legs, Bermuda shorts and an angry red complexion. “I demand an explanation.”

  Denise came hurrying in, making soothing sounds. “I’m sorry, sir, but there’s been a problem. The police have requested that all staff and guests remain in the hotel for a short time.”

  “What? I’m a prisoner? What kind of problem? I’m not here for problems. I’m on vacation.”

  “One of our maids was found dead, sir,” Denise said. “The police are on their way.”

  “What does that have to do with me?” he said.

  “I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” Denise began.

  “Inconvenience! I have dinner plans at the country club. This isn’t my problem. I don’t talk to the help.”

  You’re talking to the help right now, you old creep, Helen thought.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but our instructions are—”

  “I’ll make sure this hotel loses its stars and AAA rating, young lady,” he said. “This is an outrage. I can’t believe I’m delayed for a maid.” He spit out the last word, then stalked over to the elevators, leaving behind an ugly silence.