The Dead-End Job Mysteries Box Set 1

by Elaine Viets

  “Wow,” Helen said. “A limo. I’m impressed. This one is rich.”

  Margery gave a sinus-busting snort. “He spends money,” she said. “That’s not the same thing. If I were Peggy, I’d stick to lottery tickets.”

  Arlene folded her knitting into a straw bag. “Well, you ladies always keep me entertained. But I think I’ll go watch my television.” She gathered up her salsa jar and chip basket, her earrings seesawing wildly. Helen admired the woman’s astonishing grace. She couldn’t have stood with such ease.

  After Arlene closed her door, Margery said, “Okay, tell me what happened. The whole story.”

  Helen did. Margery listened and smoked thoughtfully, blowing nicotine clouds toward the palms. “Whoever killed her had a real mean streak,” she said. “He beat that poor woman to death. You stay out of this, Helen. This person likes to kill. Have you told Phil what happened?”

  “His light isn’t on,” Helen said. “He must be out walking. Either that or he’s asleep. I don’t want to bother him.”

  “Hah. You don’t want to tell him. You’re in the soup. You need all the help you can get. The cops are going to be on your tail. Soon that jerk you married will be the least of your worries.”

  “I didn’t have anything to do with Rhonda’s death,” Helen said.

  “No, but you didn’t tell that detective everything, and that will piss him off.”

  “I couldn’t,” Helen said.

  “Maybe not. But he’s going to be running off in six different directions, when you could have sent him the right way the first time.”

  Helen handed Margery the plate with the half-eaten sandwich. “It’s been an awful day. I’m tired,” she said. “I appreciate your help, but I think I’ll turn in now.”

  “You can shut your door on me, but you can’t make this go away,” Margery said. “It’s going to be there in the morning.”

  Helen knew Margery was right, but she still wanted to barricade herself in her apartment. She opened the door, and Thumbs demanded a scratch and dinner. The cat distracted her for a whole ten minutes.

  The rest of the night she kept thinking of Rhonda. The red-haired maid was now a hundred pounds of spoiled meat. Who killed her and why? Rhonda wasn’t pretty. She wasn’t exciting. She was just one of the workaday people who kept the world running, at least until the last day of her life. Then Rhonda had been suddenly generous, bragging about a rich boyfriend, though she didn’t seem the kind of woman who attracted rich men.

  Now she was dead.

  Where did Rhonda get the money—and the man? When she disappeared for three days, why didn’t her lover look for her? He should have called her mother or the hotel. Where did Rhonda meet him? Did Sam the biker see her with another man and beat her up? Or did her dream lover turn into a nightmare man?

  I should have said something to the police, Helen thought, as she twisted the sheets into guilty knots. How could the cops catch Rhonda’s killer if they didn’t have the right information? Her pillow felt like a stone. Her covers slid off the bed, but she fell into a restless sleep before she could retrieve them.

  In her dreams she was trapped in the stinking Dumpster, running from the dead Rhonda. Helen slapped at the flies and slipped in the slimy trash.

  She woke up alone and shivering, drowning in guilt and tormented by stinging questions.

  CHAPTER 12

  Pound. Pound. Thud.

  “Helen, wake up! It’s seven thirty.”

  Who was hammering on her door at this hour of the morning? It had to be bad news. Helen shrugged into her skimpy robe and staggered to the door, groggy with sleep. She flung it open, then realized she should have checked the peephole.

  “Good morning, sunshine,” Phil said.

  Any other woman would have been delighted to find Phil on her doorstep. He was freshly showered and shaved. The sleeves of his blue shirt were rolled precisely two inches below his elbows. How did he do that at seven thirty? Helen always had one sleeve longer than the other.

  She blinked at the bright sunlight and made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a whimper. Phil was relentlessly cheerful in the morning. He hummed, he sang, he threw open the windows and greeted the morning. Worst of all, he had a big, sweet smile.

  “Don’t you have to be at work at eight thirty?” Phil asked. He kissed her and she caught the luscious scent of freshly ironed clothes and hot coffee. He had a paper bag in one hand. Her traitorous cat, Thumbs, curled around Phil’s legs and begged for scratches.

  “That’s right,” Helen said. “Which means I sleep until seven thirty-eight.”

  Phil ignored her snippy tone. “Today you’re going to spend eight minutes having breakfast with me. Call it quality time.”

  He barged into her tiny kitchen in two strides, reached into the bag, and put two hot cups of coffee and a warm apple strudel on the table. Now her kitchen was fragrant with cinnamon. He helped himself to a pile of paper napkins and pulled up a chair. Helen plopped down. Thumbs jumped into Phil’s lap.

  “The strudel is from the Edelweiss German bakery on East Commercial,” Phil said as he stroked the cat. “That’s to remind you of your St. Louis roots. But you don’t need any reminders, do you, Helen? Rob’s in Lauderdale, looking for you.”

  Suddenly Phil’s smile wasn’t so sweet. There was a hardness under it. Thumbs jumped off Phil’s lap and ran for the bedroom. Helen wished she could run, too. She was trapped in her own kitchen. Margery must have ratted her out.

  “It’s too early to talk about Rob,” Helen said. She burned her tongue on the too-hot coffee.

  “And tonight it will be too late,” Phil said. “Then it really will be too late, because that bastard will be here and I won’t be able to protect you.”

  “I don’t need your protection,” Helen said.

  “Right.You’ve done a terrific job of taking care of yourself. That’s why he’s hunting you down like a dog. Don’t let him do this, Helen. Face him in court. You can win. I can help, if you’ll let me. You can’t keep living like this.”

  “I owe him thousands in alimony!” Helen burst out. “He’s entitled to half my earnings and he doesn’t have to lift a finger. Is that your idea of justice?”

  “No,” Phil said. “No reasonable judge would think that.”

  “There’s no such thing as a reasonable judge in a divorce court,” Helen said.

  “You’re wrong,” Phil said. “There are good judges—and good lawyers, too. I can find you one. I’ll prove Rob lived off you. I’ll—”

  Helen looked at him, so earnest in the new morning. His eyes were a sincere blue. His white hair was a shocking contrast with his young face. She traced a finger along the bridge of his slightly crooked nose. “You really believe in the system, don’t you?” she said.

  “Yes. The law makes mistakes, but it works if you give it a chance.”

  “I gave it a chance, Phil. It took my money. Next time it can take my freedom. That’s too big a risk.”

  “You won’t try?” He was angry now.

  “No,” Helen said.

  “Then Rob’s won,” Phil said.

  “Technically,” Helen said. “But what did he get? My empty bank account. He spent more money on detectives than he ever got from me.”

  “But you had to run,” Phil said. “Are you going to skip again?”

  “If I have to,” Helen said.

  “What about us?” Phil said.

  A long silence stretched between them, the kind of silence that said too much.

  “I hope you’ll come with me.” Helen could feel her heart tearing inside. She’d lost so much. Now she would lose Phil, too.

  “I love you,” he said. “I’ll help you face him. But I won’t run.”

  He stood up and walked out of her home.

  “You just ran now!” Helen screamed at the closed door.

  She gulped down her coffee. She thought of tossing the strudel, but decided not to take out her anger on an innocent pastry. She ate the
whole thing. Then she threw on some clothes, fed the cat, and slammed her door.

  The walk to work was quicker than usual. Helen was on fire with anger. How dare that man try to run her life. She’d traded one controlling male for another. She’d—

  Helen stopped abruptly at the hotel parking lot. The building looked like it was under siege, surrounded by enemy TV trucks and reporters.

  Helen panicked. She couldn’t be seen on television. She ran to the pay phone down the block and tried to call the hotel. The line was busy. It took half an hour of dialing and pacing before she could get through.

  A frazzled Sondra answered the phone. “Where are you? We need you. It’s crazy here. We’ve got radio, TV and newspaper reporters. Two shock jocks did a routine about how you could check out but you could never leave the Full Moon and played ‘Hotel California.’ Now all the nice quiet guests want to leave this very moment and a bunch of raggedy-asses want to stay at the murder hotel.”

  Sondra never talked like that. Her nerves were seriously frayed.

  “They’re acting like we’re some sort of theme park,” Sondra said. “None of the rooms are cleaned, and we’re shorthanded. Craig called in sick, so we’re down to Denise and Cheryl.”

  “I’m at the pay phone by the Shell station,” Helen said. “I can’t get any closer or the reporters will see me. If I’m on TV, Rob will find me for sure.”

  “We’ll sneak you in,” Sondra said. “I’ll send Denise. Watch for her blue Toyota.”

  While she waited, Helen called Millicent’s bridal salon.

  “Helen!” Millicent said, and suddenly Helen saw her former boss, with her bloodred nails and cantilevered breasts. “I’ve missed you, dear. How have you been? Is your life calmer since you left the bridal craziness behind?”

  “Actually, I’m dealing with some personal wedding fallout,” Helen said. “My ex-husband is after me. He wants to know where I live or work.”

  “He won’t get it from me,” Millicent said.

  “Rob is tricky,” Helen said. “He tells people he’s a lawyer with an inheritance for me.”

  “If Ed McMahon walked in with a million dollars for you, the answer is still no,” Millicent said. “Don’t you worry. I’m used to handling difficult men. Oops. Here comes the bride. Gotta go.”

  Helen laughed. Millicent thrived on the wedding whirlwind. She’d dealt with too many delicate bridal situations to be flummoxed by a lightweight like Rob.

  Helen hung up the phone, bought a soda at the gas station, and paced in the hot sun, wondering if she’d been abandoned. Finally, a battered Toyota rattled onto the lot. Helen thought the paint between the rust spots was blue. She spotted Denise’s white hair and large, calm form. Help had arrived.

  Denise rolled down the window and handed Helen something that looked like a skinned poodle. “Here, put this on,” she said.

  “What is this thing?” Helen said.

  “It’s an Eva Gabor wig,” Denise said.

  “Where did you get a wig so fast?” Helen asked.

  “From the hotel’s lost and found.”

  “Eeuw,” Helen said.

  “Are you worried about cooties or your ex-husband?” Denise said.

  Helen put on the curly white wig, tucking her own hair underneath. The wig’s curls wobbled like Slinky toys. “I look like Medusa with a home permanent,” she said.

  “You don’t look like Helen Hawthorne. That’s the point.” Denise handed her black cat’s-eye sunglasses sparkling with rhinestones, and the hotel’s mustard yellow smock. “That should do it. You’re disguised.”

  “I’m disgusting,” Helen said.

  “Vanity is a sin,” Denise said, and for a moment Sister Mary Justine was with them. Except Sister J. never had that impish gleam in her eye.

  “We’re locked on the target,” Denise said, barreling across the Full Moon parking lot. “Prepare to exit.” She kept the bucking, wheezing car on course, heading straight for the side entrance. Denise was aiming for the TV reporters who blocked the door. A startled cameraman leaped sideways, yelling, “Hey, watch it!”

  “Hah! Missed. Too bad. I’d like to run them all down.” Denise stopped, and Helen ran for the door, head down. Reporters hurled questions at her. She flung herself at the door. It was locked. Helen banged on it, and Cheryl threw it open. She said, “I’m sorry, ma’am, but you—”

  “It’s me,” Helen said, pushing her way inside. She pulled off the wig and sunglasses. Her hair was flat and sweaty, but she was in.

  “Thank goodness,” Cheryl said. “The hotel is a mess. You’ll have to clean the third floor by yourself. I’m alone on two, and Denise is tackling one. Your ex is still in his room, so scoot upstairs before he comes out.”

  The third floor was hot, dirty and smoky as a sports bar. Some guests had checked out in an obvious hurry and left things behind, especially in the refrigerators. Helen found three cans of Coors, a peach nectar, and two frozen chicken pot pies. They would go into the maids’ community stash. Whoever wanted the left-behind loot would take it home.

  Cleaning the whole floor by herself was exhausting, but Helen was glad. She had no time to think about Rob or Phil. Just reciting their names sent her into a heated frenzy of scrubbing.

  At eleven thirty Helen’s walkie-talkie squawked. “All clear. Your ex has left the hotel,” Denise said. “But I don’t have time to check his room today.”

  “That’s fine,” Helen said. She’d already blocked his search.

  The next thing she knew, it was three thirty. Only the honeymoon suite was left. Helen wearily trundled her cart to the door. She found Cheryl and Denise already at work in the huge suite.

  “We finished our floors and came up to help,” Cheryl said, pulling the sheets off the king bed.

  “Thanks,” Helen said.

  “Don’t thank us too much,” Denise said, wiping a mirror with broad, practiced strokes. “We saved the Jacuzzi for you.”

  Judging by the housekeeper’s knowing grin, it had to be a doozy. Helen stepped past mounds of wet towels and groaned. The Jacuzzi looked like a giant empty ice-cream-sundae dish. Globs of whipped cream, streaks of chocolate sauce, and squashed maraschino cherries were smeared on the white surface.

  “Ohmigod,” Helen said.

  “That cherry juice is stickier than honey,” Denise said.

  “Maybe we should make a list of the six stickiest things you can clean in a hotel room,” Cheryl said.

  Helen’s stomach gave a lurch. “Let’s not go there,” she said. She crawled into the awful empty sundae bowl and started scrubbing. It took an hour and two broken fingernails to get it white and sparkling again.

  “Tell me the happy couple left a tip,” Helen said.

  “I found a penny on the dresser,” Cheryl said.

  “I hope their mother-in-law moves in with them,” Helen said.

  Denise came in, a dust rag slung over her shoulder. “Helen, we’re going to Rhonda’s mother’s house after work to pay our respects. I bought a sandwich tray at the supermarket. We took up a collection. You can chip in if you’d like. There’s no funeral time yet because of the autopsy, but we thought we should make a condolence call.”

  “I’d like to go,” Helen said, “but my T-shirt’s a sweaty mess.”

  “There are some decent blouses in the lost and found,” Denise said. “Your jeans look OK. They’ll dry out by the time we get there. Rhonda’s mom will understand you’re coming from work. But she won’t understand if you don’t show up.”

  Helen found a plain white blouse that was fairly clean. It was a little tight at the neck, but she opened the two top buttons and rolled up the sleeves (crookedly). She rode in Denise’s creaky car with the sandwich tray on her knees. Cheryl followed in an old red minivan.

  Rhonda’s mother lived in a cinder-block house that looked like a bigger cinder block painted a peeling pink. It had a flat stretch of dusty yard and a discouraged palm tree. A metal hurricane awning hung halfway off the pictur
e window.

  Rhonda’s mother looked like her daughter, except she seemed made out of leather. Her skin was tanned dark brown and creased with wrinkles. Her red hair had faded to a rusty gray, and she’d pulled it off her face with a rubber band. Helen couldn’t bear to look at the woman’s eyes. She was afraid she might drown in so much sorrow.

  “I’m Shirley.” She held out a strong, calloused hand for Helen to shake. “Thank you for coming.”

  “I didn’t know your daughter nearly long enough,” Helen said.

  “None of us did,” Shirley said.

  Helen stepped into a living room fat with furniture. A huge plaid couch, two plump chairs, and a burly oak coffee table hogged the room. Cheryl, Denise and Helen sidled over to the couch and made awkward small talk.

  “Did the police talk to you all?” Shirley said. “Do you think they’re taking her murder seriously?”

  “They asked me if Rhonda had changed in the last week or two,” Helen said. “I didn’t know her well enough to answer. Did your daughter seem suddenly worried or happier? Did she come into some money?”

  You really are low, Helen told herself. Now you’re pumping a grieving mother.

  “She was no more worried than usual,” Shirley said. “Happiness didn’t follow Rhonda around. As for sudden money, my daughter never had two nickels to rub together.”

  Shirley didn’t seem to know about Rhonda’s cash windfall. Her daughter never gave her the plane ticket to Mexico. Poor Shirley. That dream was dead, too. Helen felt another stab of sadness. She didn’t have the nerve to mention the handsome boyfriend.

  A white cat came out of the kitchen and sat down in front of the three women, meowing piteously. “That’s Snowball,” Shirley said. “She’s been like that since I found her. She’s looking for Rhonda.”

  Cheryl started crying.

  Helen heard a thud of boots and a jangle of chains, and a fat biker came out of the kitchen with a beer in one hairy hand. “Looking for food is more like it,” he said. “That cat doesn’t care about anything but dinner.”

  “That’s not true,” Shirley said. “Snowball loves Rhonda. She’s hardly touched her food since—” Shirley stopped, unable to go on.