The Dead-End Job Mysteries Box Set 1

by Elaine Viets

  “What do you know about the guest in this room?” Sondra asked as they climbed.

  By the second floor, Helen was short of breath. Her words came out in quick asthmatic wheezes. “It’s a guy. One of the businessmen. Cheryl and I cleaned his room two days ago. He was a slob and a smoker. He had the Do Not Disturb sign on the door yesterday, so we didn’t have to clean the room. We slipped a card under the door so he could call housekeeping for clean towels, but he never did.”

  “I don’t like this,” Sondra said. “I dread opening that door.”

  “I’ll go in with you,” Helen said, as she paused to catch her breath.

  They tumbled out into the third-floor hall. Richard the boss was pacing outside room 322. Jason circled in his wake, lugging the boss’ coat and briefcase. His own were piled on the floor.

  Richard looked pointedly at his watch, but he gave Sondra a bright smile. Few men could resist her. “We’ve got a little problem waking up our friend Dean,” he said.

  Jason leered at Sondra. “If you go in there, that will really wake him up.”

  Sondra ignored him and knocked on the door.“Hello? Sir? Anyone in there?” she said.

  Silence.

  Sondra snicked her card through the slot and the room door swung open. Cold coppery air poured out, with a strong liquor stink underneath. Bourbon? Scotch? Something foul and sour was in that room.

  Richard wrinkled his nose in disgust. The boss did not approve of booze. Helen thought she saw a sly smile flicker across Jason’s face. She wondered if Dean was an office rival.

  Richard tried to bull his way into the room, but Sondra blocked him. “Please stay outside, sir,” she said. “I’m not authorized to let other guests inside an occupied room.”

  The boss paced in the doorway, irritated at being refused.

  The room was so dark, Helen expected to find bats on the ceiling. She braced herself for an unpleasant sight as Sondra flipped on the light.

  The bed was empty. Helen let out an involuntary sigh of relief. Dean wasn’t dead in his bed.

  “Maybe he stepped out for coffee,” Sondra said.

  “We told him we’d pick him up at nine,” Richard said from the doorway. His tone said any other alternative was unthinkable.

  “Maybe Dean forgot,” Jason said. “He skipped part of the conference to score some serious sightseeing. Maybe he’s on the beach now.”

  “I don’t think he left the hotel,” Helen said. “His wallet is on the dresser and his pants are on the chair. His shoes are by the bed.”

  “I’d like to see old Dean running around naked,” Jason said, and giggled.

  I bet you would, you little suck, Helen thought. She’d worked with her share of Jasons during her corporate years.

  The bathroom door was closed, but a yellow sliver of light shone under the door. Helen listened for running water, but all was quiet. The carpet was dry, and no puddles seeped under the door. That was a good sign.

  Sondra knocked on the bathroom door. “Hello? Hello, sir? Are you OK?”

  More silence.

  “Hope he didn’t do an Elvis,” Jason said. “You know, die on the crapper.”

  “Shut up,” Richard said, and Helen silently thanked him for that executive order.

  Jason clamped his jaws closed.

  “I’d better go in there,” Sondra said. She rattled the handle. The door wasn’t locked. “Sir, I’m opening this door. I’m coming into the bathroom.”

  The silence stretched on.

  Very slowly, the door opened. Then it hit something with an odd rubbery thud. Helen saw the glitter of broken glass on the floor and dark red-black splashes on the tile. Blood was everywhere.

  “Ohmigod,” Helen said.

  Sondra backed out of the bathroom, stepping on Helen’s foot. “You don’t want to go in there,” she said, her voice shaky. She closed the door behind her. “Call 911. I’ll stay here and guard the room.”

  Richard was on the threshold, ready to invade. “Tell me what’s going on,” he said. “I have a right to know. Is Dean sick? Does he need an ambulance?”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Sondra said. She stopped and tried to phrase her next words carefully. “I’m very sorry. Your friend is beyond that kind of help.”

  “Shit,” Richard said. “What am I going to tell his wife?” He was wringing his soft manicured hands.

  Jason turned dead white. He stared at his foot. Maybe he was eager to put it in his mouth again. But he was a well-trained corporate minion. He’d been ordered to say nothing. Jason slumped against the wall and hung onto the boss’s coat as if it were a life preserver.

  “Helen!” Sondra said. “Don’t stand there like a statue. Call the police now.”

  Helen ran on wobbly legs to the room she’d been cleaning. She felt sick and sad. She’d made the dead man’s bed and picked his towels off the floor. She’d dusted his family photo. What was Richard going to tell Dean’s pretty wife and two smiling children?

  They wouldn’t be smiling today.

  How did Dean die? Where did the broken glass come from? Blood was spattered all over the walls. Did that mean it was murder or suicide? Maybe it was natural causes. Maybe he broke a glass and bled to death. Helen wished she’d seen the body, but it was too late now. Sondra was guarding the door like a pit bull.

  She hoped it wasn’t murder. If the hotel had another violent death, the Full Moon would turn into a media madhouse. The press would be permanently camped in the parking lot. The dead man wasn’t a minimum-wage maid. He was a businessman and a visitor to South Florida. Murder was bad for the tourist industry, and it got lots of official attention. Helen had helped find the body—again. Her name and picture would be splashed all over. Her ex-husband would see her for sure—unless he was still with Marcella the Black Widow.

  Now there was an ethical dilemma the nuns never discussed: To save yourself, could you pray that your ex-husband kept sleeping with a serial killer?

  Helen pushed aside the cleaning cart blocking the door and dialed 911 on the room phone.

  “Is this a medical, fire or police emergency?” the operator asked.

  “Police,” Helen said. “I’m at the Full Moon Hotel. There’s a man dead in room 322. Blood and glass are all over the bathroom. I don’t know how he died, but he has two little kids.”

  “May I have your name, please?” The operator was unnaturally calm.

  “I forgot,” Helen said, and slammed down the phone.

  CHAPTER 24

  “So, you found another body,” Detective Bill Mulruney said.

  This time the homicide detective didn’t seem bored when he talked to Helen. He was way too interested in her.

  “Not really,” Helen said. “The boss couldn’t wake the man up. He asked me for help.”

  Helen and the homicide detective were back in the hotel breakfast room, sitting at the same table with the view of the cereal bin. This morning Mulruney had a face like an unmade bed. Helen itched to put a pillow over it and press down hard. If the detective could read her thoughts, he’d arrest her.

  Be calm, she told herself. Be careful. If you leave here doing the perp walk, you’ll be smeared all over TV. Rob will find you for sure. If you want your nice life with Phil at the Coronado, then watch what you say. Snappy answers are luxuries poor maids can’t afford.

  Helen concentrated on the Cheerios in the Plexiglas bin. Staring at the hundreds of holes had a soothing effect. Each one was a crispy little “ohm.” The Zen of breakfast cereal.

  “Miss Hawthorne,” the detective said, “you seem to be helpful when there are dead bodies to be found.”

  She took a deep breath and said, “Two guests at the hotel were banging on a room door, trying to get their colleague out of bed. I was afraid they’d disturb everyone on the floor. I asked if I could help them. They wanted me to open the door, but I’m not allowed to do that. I ran and got Sondra at the front desk. She found the body.”

  “But you were there with her in t
he room,” the detective said.

  “Yes, but—”

  “And you found the other victim, Miss Rhonda Dournell. In fact, you climbed in the Dumpster and went looking for that body.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “We found out that you were present at another murder earlier this year. You discovered the body at that big wedding. Your fingerprints were all over that scene.”

  “Yes, but—”

  Did he know about the other murders? Helen was sweating now. She wondered if the cop could see the drops popping out on her forehead like zits at prom time.

  “But what, Miss Hawthorne?” the detective said.

  “There was no connection between the wedding murder and the hotel murder,” Helen said.

  “Except you,” he said.

  “Me?” Her voice spiked to an un-Zenlike squeak.

  “We’ve found your prints in the victim’s room,” Detective Mulruney said.

  “Of course,” Helen said. “I cleaned it. My prints are probably in every room in the hotel.”

  “When was the last time you saw the victim alive?”

  “I’m assuming the dead man is Mr. Dean Stamples.”

  “That is correct.”

  “How did he die?” Helen asked.

  “Why don’t you tell us?” Mulruney said.

  “I didn’t see the actual body,” Helen said. “Just the blood on the walls and the glass on the floor. Was he murdered?”

  “We’re treating it as a suspicious death,” Mulruney said. “You’ve avoided my question again. When was the last time you saw Mr. Stamples alive?”

  “I never did,” Helen said. “I mean, I never saw him alive. Or dead, either. Sondra wouldn’t let anyone see the body. She shut the door. I never saw the dead man when he was alive, except for a photograph on his desk. He was in it. In the picture, not the desk.”

  Helen realized she was twisting her name tag on her smock. She also wasn’t making any sense. She took a deep breath and tried to explain. “I may have seen Mr. Stamples in the hall or on the hotel elevator, but I didn’t know it was him. He was just one more businessman who threw his towels and socks on the floor and left cigarette ashes all over his room.”

  “And you resented that,” the detective said.

  “No!” Helen said. “That’s what people do when they stay at hotels. They act like slobs.”

  “And slobs make you angry,” he said.

  Helen studied the Cheerios, hoping they would give her the minimum daily requirement of patience. “I get paid to clean up after them. I’m better off than their wives, who have to do it for free.”

  “When was the last time you were in the victim’s room?” Detective Mulruney said.

  “A couple of days ago,” Helen said. “Cheryl and I cleaned it about eleven o’clock. You can check the exact time. It’s in the housekeeper’s records in the office. We keep a list of rooms that needed to be cleaned and the times we did them. I didn’t see him then. He wasn’t in the room.”

  “What was the condition of the room?” Mulruney said.

  “It was a smoker’s room, a little messier than most,” Helen said. “He slept alone.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Helen blushed at the thought of some of the beds she’d seen. “When you’ve made as many beds as I have, Detective, you can tell.” She could see the heaped ashtrays, the ashes coating the furniture, and the lonely bed.

  “So, as an experienced bed detective, what did you see?”

  Don’t let him get to you, Helen told herself. “The sheets were all twisted and one pillow was tossed on the floor. He drank Scotch. He had a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black. It was three-quarters full. There was melted water in his ice bucket.”

  “Any glasses?”

  “Just the four plastic ones we give guests,” Helen said. “Three in the bathroom were still in the wrappers. One by the bed was used.”

  “No signs that he had a second drinker in the room?”

  “Not that I could tell,” Helen said.

  “And you’re an expert at that, too,” he said.

  Helen didn’t answer.

  “What about food?” Detective Mulruney said.

  “We didn’t find any pizza boxes or carryout cartons,” Helen said. “He didn’t eat dinner in the room. He smoked, though. He had ashes all over his desk, the floor and his computer.”

  “You remember a lot about this room for a man you claim you never saw,” the detective said.

  “The guy wore his Phi Beta Kappa key on his bathrobe,” Helen said. “That stuck in my mind.”

  “Why?”

  “It was kind of pathetic,” Helen said. “It was like he had to prove he was somebody, even when he was alone.”

  The atmosphere seemed to lighten slightly, as if the interrogation had turned a corner. Maybe he believes me now, Helen thought.

  “Anything else you remember about the room?” Detective Mulruney said.

  “The man kept a photo of his wife and two kids in a folding leather frame on his desk. Some people who travel a lot pack their family photos. This struck me as a particularly nice family.”

  “So you looked at it?”

  “Of course.”

  “And you picked it up?” The investigation turned the corner and ran into a brick wall.

  “I dusted it,” Helen said. She shifted uneasily in her chair, and her hand went to her name tag. She pulled it back down. Mulruney didn’t need to know the conversation she’d had with Cheryl about powerful husbands and helpless wives. That would sound resentful.

  “What did you do after you cleaned his room?” the detective said.

  “Cheryl and I cleaned seventeen rooms that day,” Helen said. “We took two ten-minute breaks. We finished about three thirty and then I went home.”

  “What about lunch?” Detective Mulruney said.

  “The maids don’t eat lunch,” Helen said. “Lunch makes us too sleepy to work. It slows us down. We snack on our breaks. I had popcorn on my first break and pretzels on my second.”

  “What happened when you went into his room yesterday?”

  A trick question. The detective enjoyed setting little traps. “I didn’t go into his room yesterday. The Do Not Disturb sign was on the door,” Helen said. “It’s a rule that we can’t knock or otherwise disturb the guest when the sign is out. We slipped a card under the door giving him a number to call if he wanted fresh towels. He didn’t call.”

  “Did this man know the maid, Rhonda Dournell?”

  “I don’t think so,” Helen said.

  “Has he stayed here before?”

  “I don’t know,” Helen said. “The hotel records would tell you that.”

  Helen remembered the photo. Surely that bland, balding businessman wasn’t Rhonda’s dream lover. True, he was handsomer than Sam the biker. Or at least cleaner. Maybe when he gave Rhonda fifty dollars that improved his looks. But a man wouldn’t travel with a photo of his wife and children and cheat on them with a hotel maid, would he?

  Happens all the time, she thought.

  “Could the victim have had an affair with Miss Dournell?”

  Helen jumped, as if Detective Mulruney had been poking around in her thoughts. “Rhonda? No! She wasn’t like that.”

  How do I know? she wondered.

  “How do you know?” the detective said.

  Helen was seriously rattled. She concentrated on the beige breakfast food. “Mr. Stamples didn’t check in until after Rhonda was dead.”

  “And how do you know that?” Mulruney didn’t bother to hide his contempt. “Oh, I forgot. You’re the bed expert, the rumpled sheets specialist. Then how about this one, Miss Mattress Maven? The victim knew her. He got a little nooky whenever he was in Florida on business. Except this time he was killed by her jealous lover.”

  But Helen didn’t think any man was jealous of Rhonda. She couldn’t see the skinny, unhappy maid with anyone but scaly Sam, who used her and took her money. The Rhondas of thi
s world were meant for mistreatment.

  Except her friend Amber swore that Rhonda had a handsome lover.

  “I don’t think so,” Helen said. “But I really can’t tell you much about Rhonda’s personal life. I didn’t know her outside of work.”

  “What about your personal life?” the detective said. “You have a talent for finding dead bodies, Miss Hawthorne. Some people just happen to have lives like that. Some people make their lives like that. Which one are you?”

  “I—”

  “Why don’t you sign a statement for us? Just for the record. In case you happen to find another body.”

  Helen twisted her name tag so hard, the pin ripped off the fabric. She’d failed. Detective Mulruney thought she was lying. She couldn’t look at the man. She might see what he thought of her.

  She stared at the breakfast cereal. The Cheerios stared back at Helen like a heap of eyeless skulls.

  CHAPTER 25

  “Another murder today at the Full Moon Hotel in Seafield Village.” The reporter looked earnestly at the TV camera, her face professionally serious.

  Helen knew that thirty seconds earlier the same woman had been giggling with the cameraman and checking her tight blouse for wrinkles. Its brilliant blue was a perfect match for her contact lenses.

  Helen could watch the TV crews on the parking lot from the hotel manager’s office. It was weird to see the hotel on the TV screen, while she hid inside the same building.

  Helen did not have a peaceful refuge. Sybil was furious that the reporters were back, ruining her hotel’s reputation. Her fluffy white hair looked like a puff of smoke coming out of her head.

  “This time,” the reporter said, widening her eyes, “the victim is Dean Stamples, a thirty-one-year-old businessman from Cincinnati. He was found dead in his room by a hotel employee after he failed to respond to wake-up calls. A police spokesperson said the victim had been slashed repeatedly.”

  Helen sighed with relief, which made her choke on Sybil’s cigarette smoke. This was good news. No hotel employees were named in the news stories.