The Dead-End Job Mysteries Box Set 1

by Elaine Viets

  “Ohmigod. Imagine listening to Eric Clapton at a private party.”

  “You won’t have to,” Jessica said. “Customer care helps out at the party. That’s why you’re working late tonight. We all work on party night. We’ll get to hear Clapton. It makes up for what we have to listen to during the day.

  “It’s the social event of the season. Cordy’s guests arrive by private plane or helicopter. About twenty come by yacht. That’s twenty yachts at fifty dollars per foot per day. And none of the guests stay on their boats. They all take rooms at the yacht club for another thousand a day.”

  Jessica broke off and said, “Look at that one. It’s huge, even for this crowd. Must be over a hundred feet long.”

  The flashy white yacht’s dark windows gave it a sinister look, like a drug dealer in a white suit and sunglasses. A very successful dealer, Helen thought. The yacht had a helicopter and a swimming pool.

  Then she saw its name.

  “The Brandy Alexander,” Helen said. She didn’t even realize she’d said the name out loud.

  “Now there’s a real-life mystery,” Jessica said. “Anyone who says there are no good roles for older women doesn’t know this story. That yacht is owned by a merry widow somewhere south of sixty. She’s had five—or is it six?—husbands die on her. Her first one, the rich old one, died of a heart attack in his eighties. His death may have been natural. After that, she married one young stud after another. Rumor says they played around on her, and shortly after she found out, they died. Sometimes it was a boating accident, or a problem with a dive tank, or a fatal case of food poisoning. She’s never been charged with murder, but she’s notorious. I can’t remember her name, but she’s a club member.”

  “Her name is Marcella,” Helen said. “The Black Widow.”

  “You know about her?” Jessica said. “She’s married again. I wonder how long this one has to live.”

  “His name is Rob,” Helen said. Her voice seemed to come from far away. “I tried to stop the wedding, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  “Really. How do you know him?”

  “He’s my ex-husband,” Helen said.

  CHAPTER 2

  “I can’t work the Clapton party tonight,” Helen said.

  She stared out her office window, as if it were the portal to another dimension. She watched the Black Widow’s sinister white yacht slide into its slip like a ghost ship. There was no sign of its shady owner—or Helen’s sleazy ex-husband.

  “But you said yes a week ago,” Jessica said. “We need all the customer care staffers at that party.”

  “Nobody told me what I’d be doing,” Helen said. “Kitty just asked me to work late.”

  Nobody told me Rob would be there, she thought. He was supposed to be cruising the Caribbean with his killer bride. He doesn’t know I’m working at the club. He can’t find me here. Helen realized she was gripping her antique desk with the frolicking parrots and egrets hard enough to leave nail marks in the wood.

  “Helen, all you have to do is check the guests’ names off the list, make sure they find the food and drink, and then you can hear Clapton live. Tonight will rock. You know what I’m stuck with? Gate duty.” Jessica sounded like she’d been sentenced to a chain gang.

  “I’ll trade you,” Helen said. “I’ll take the gate.” The main gate would be safe, she thought. No chance of running into Rob. Only guests who came by car used the main gate.

  “No!” Jessica said. “Gate duty is the worst. You’ll have to check member cards. We get lots of crashers on party night. They can turn mean.”

  “I want it,” Helen said.

  She couldn’t run into her ex. She was still a wanted woman. Wanted by the court, unwanted by her ex. She’d rather go to jail than face Rob tonight. He’d be squiring his diamond-drenched wife to the social event of the season—and Helen would be passing out name tags with obsequious “sirs” and “ma’ams.”

  I should have killed the son of a bitch when I had the chance, she thought. I would have only served eight years for murder. Divorce is forever.

  I’ve been on the run for so long, trying to avoid him. I gave up my career in St. Louis. I lost my old life. This is the best job I can expect now. Rob wouldn’t get out of his wife’s bed for my salary. And what do I get?

  “Roses for my ladies.”

  Helen stared at the man in the office doorway. He was a preppie prince with spun-gold hair and dazzling tennis whites. He carried an armload of long-stemmed roses. Not rubbery hothouse flowers, but lush garden roses in hot tangerine, sunshine yellow, lipstick red and baby pink. Some were tight buds. Others were full-blown. All had a ravishing perfume.

  “Mr. Giles.” Kitty held out her arms. “You never forget us.”

  “How could I forget the ladies who love my roses almost as much as I do?” He filled Kitty’s arms with the flowers. She breathed in their scent, radiant as a Miss America contestant.

  “Helen,” she said, “meet our favorite club member. Mr. Giles always brings us roses from his garden.”

  “Lovely to meet you, Helen,” he said. “My court awaits, ladies. Off to tennis. TTFN.”

  Ta-ta for now? “Who was that?” Helen said.

  “A gentleman of the old school.” Kitty rummaged in a cabinet for vases.

  “What’s he do?” Helen said.

  “Mr. Giles plays tennis and grows roses.” Kitty filled six vases with water and cut the flower stems at an angle.

  “Does he have a crush on you?” Helen said.

  “Me?” Kitty looked surprised. “No, sweetpea. The roses are for all of us. He’s just generous.” She arranged the roses and set the vases on the customer care desks. Helen’s were vibrant orange with a spicy perfume.

  “This is heaven,” Jessica said, and inhaled the perfume of her soft yellow roses. Helen thought the actress looked like she was auditioning for a florist commercial.

  The clerk next to her reacted as if Kitty had handed him a vial of Ebola virus. “Not on my desk,” Cameron said, waving away the bloodred blooms. “Roses are bad for my allergies.”

  Xaviera, who sat in front of him, laughed. “Give them to Helen,” she said. “She’s new. She needs more reminders that club members can be nice.”

  Jackie, the fourth clerk, took her pink roses and said, “Giles has grown into such a thoughtful young man. His mother would be pleased.”

  Helen’s phone rang. “I need to speak to Solange,” said a woman with a little-girl voice. “This is Roz Cornelia.”

  The heiress? Helen wondered, and quickly checked her computer. That was her. Roz was no child. Her age matched her millions—a healthy fifty.

  “I acted up at lunch.” Now Roz sounded like a little girl who had to see the principal.

  Helen thought she was joking. “Just what did you do?”

  “I called a waitress at the Superior Room a stupid bitch. Then I threw my dessert at her. She knows I hate chocolate chip cookies.”

  Helen hesitated, unsure what to say. The Superior Room waitresses were grandmotherly women who wore starched white pinafores.

  “I have to talk to Solange,” Roz said. “She’ll be so disappointed.”

  “Why don’t I take a message? She’ll be back soon,” Helen said.

  “Thank you,” Roz said, meekly.

  Helen hung up the phone.

  “Wish you could see your face,” Jessica said. “That call must have been a doozy.”

  “Roz Cornelia cursed a Superior Room waitress and threw her cookies,” Helen said.

  “Tossing her cookies again,” Jessica said. “Her rehab is unraveling.”

  “What will happen to her?” Helen said.

  “Nothing much. Solange will write another letter of reprimand,” Jessica said.

  “The club puts up with that behavior?”

  Xaviera looked up from her computer. “Check out Roz’s account.” She typed in some numbers, carefully arranging her long, red nails around the keys.

  Helen stared at Xaviera
’s screen. “Jeez. She shells out twenty thousand a month for club restaurants and services.”

  “That doesn’t count her dues,” Xaviera said. “As long as you spend money here, you can do what you want.”

  “But what about the other members?” Helen said. “Do they want to associate with her? People are banned from redneck bars on the Dixie Highway for less.”

  “The Superior Club used to have the cream of the Social Register,” Xaviera said. “Now our membership looks like the FBI’s Most Wanted list. We have convicted felons, disbarred lawyers, wife beaters, cokeheads, and members of the Russian, Italian and Asian mobs.”

  And at least one murderer, Helen thought. This was probably the only club that would let in the Black Widow.

  Xaviera glanced at the clock. “It’s noon. The new rules say two customer care staffers must go to lunch now. Come on, Helen. I’ll explain the facts of club life.”

  “I want to go first,” Cameron whined. “I didn’t have breakfast. I have low blood sugar.”

  “Then learn to eat right,” Xaviera said. “You’re almost thirty. You went first yesterday.”

  Cam pouted. Xaviera tossed her long, curly brown hair and ignored him.

  “He’s such a baby,” she said, as they clocked out.

  Cam did look like a giant rubber baby doll. He was six feet tall and pudgy, with tight dark ringlets and a red cupid’s bow mouth. His hands were small and feminine. Helen thought hard ambition lurked under Cam’s soft surface. He’d worked his way up from valet to customer care too quickly.

  “You want to take the back way?” Helen asked.

  “Of course.” Xaviera pushed the EMPLOYEES ONLY door to the scuffed passage that ran behind the elegant club rooms. Her high heels clicked on the worn green linoleum. Her curvy figure swayed with the rhythm.

  “I’m not wasting my lunch time on the rich idiots at the club.” Xaviera gave her long hair another toss. “The last time I went through the lobby a new member wanted to know where the Endicott Room was, and I spent ten minutes taking her there. I barely had time to eat.”

  “That’s another unfair rule,” Helen said. “If a club member needs directions, why should we have to escort the person to the place, even on our lunch hour? Any moron can find the Endicott Room. It’s straight down the main hall, with a big brass sign.”

  “I’m lucky she didn’t want to go to the beach,” Xaviera said. “I wouldn’t have been able to eat at all. Besides, it hurts to go through the lobby after that hotshot decorator destroyed it.”

  “He’s a big deal in New York,” Helen said.

  “Just because you’re from New York doesn’t mean you’re good. He threw out a fifty-thousand-dollar wrought-iron chandelier designed by Elliott Endicott himself, tore out the tropical gardens, and replaced the lobby orchids with silk because artificial flowers have more ‘durability.’ Silk flowers at the Superior Club. No class.”

  “I never saw the old chandelier,” Helen said. “The new one looks like it’s from Pier 1.”

  “That’s not the worst,” Xaviera said. “The decorator painted the original cypress paneling white because it was ‘too dark.’ The old club members were up in arms.”

  The staff lunchroom was painted hospital cafeteria green. Two wide-screen TVs blared E-SPAN.

  “Football game reruns,” Xaviera said. “We can’t escape them. We have to eat here. Staffers are not allowed to eat on the grounds, at their desks, or heaven forbid, in any club restaurant.”

  “We wouldn’t want to spoil the lower orders,” Helen said.

  A cheer went up for a touchdown made last Sunday. “At least no one can hear us over the football fans.” Helen slid her tray past the gooey chocolate cake and took a crisp apple. She felt so virtuous, she laced her coffee with cream and sugar.

  “No hot coffee for me,” Xaviera said. “I need a big cold cock.”

  Helen nearly dropped her tray until she realized Xaviera had slightly mangled her English.

  “It’s Coke,” Helen said. “Be very careful that you say Coke.”

  “What did I say?” Xaviera said.

  “You asked for a big cold penis,” Helen said.

  Xaviera giggled. “I think I’d want that hot. My English is so bad.” “Your English is excellent,” Helen said. “You speak better than most club members.”

  “I learned English in school in Peru. It’s different when you speak it every day.”

  They set down their trays at a table behind a pillar. Xaviera began her club history lesson.

  “The old country club had Social Register types, rich social climbers, and executives who did business on the golf course. It was an easygoing place.

  “The old management respected us and understood what the members wanted. They didn’t have all these stupid rules. Then the club was sold to Mr. Ironton’s group. He’s determined to make it profitable. He says the Old Guard don’t spend enough. He’s bringing in expensive trash—South Beach cokeheads, high-priced hookers and mobsters. He wants big, splashy spenders.”

  “But they’ll drive away the old members,” Helen said.

  “That’s fine with him. Mr. Ironton wants rid of what he calls the ‘fifteen-dollar hamburger’ crowd. He doesn’t realize they pay their bills.”

  “Or that fifteen dollars is nearly three times what most people pay for a burger,” Helen said.

  “The flashy new members throw money around, but they’re living on the edge,” Xaviera said. “They’ll go bankrupt, wind up in jail or in rehab. Roz is a good example. She’s busy snorting her inheritance. She came in the office once and I thought she’d had a powdered sugar doughnut. Instead, she had a fortune in coke on her black sweater.

  “You must remember one thing. Never trust any member, old or new.”

  “Not even Mr. Giles?” Helen said.

  “Very few people—rich or poor—are as nice as Mr. Giles. The new club members are vicious and crazy. The Old Guard are mean and cheap. They’ll get you fired to save themselves fifteen dollars.

  “Normal people would be ashamed to be so cheap. The old rich will order a glass of water and ten lemon slices and make their own lemonade, using the sugar on the table. They’ll steal shampoo from the locker rooms. Their thousand-dollar Prada purses are stuffed with five bucks’ worth of cookies stolen off the tea trays.”

  “My Aunt Marie did that,” Helen said. “She took the bread and sugar off tables in restaurants.”

  “Your Aunt Marie didn’t have a hundred-foot yacht.”

  “No, she lived on Social Security and was afraid she’d go broke,” Helen said.

  “These people are afraid, too,” Xaviera said. “Afraid they’ll lose their money and have to work. That’s why they hang on to every dime. Old rich or new, document everything they do in your files. That will be your salvation.”

  “How do you stand working here?” Helen asked.

  “I love to fight. I love to say, ‘You signed the documents, sir, and you must abide by them.’ I love to make people who think they are above the rules follow them. I get paid to do it. We have a good crew in customer care. Jessica is a delight. Cam is spoiled, but he’s not a bad person.”

  Helen kept her opinion of Cam to herself. She’d seen too many Cams in other corporations.

  “Jackie is too beaten down to bother anyone,” Xaviera said. “She used to be a member here.”

  “What happened?” Helen said.

  “She divorced badly. Her husband got a shark lawyer and stripped her of her share of their money.”

  Helen felt a pang of sympathy for a sister sufferer.

  “Jackie never worked a day before her divorce. Her friends got her this job at the club where she used to be a queen. They take every opportunity to make the poor thing feel bad. When they don’t, Brenda does. You’ve probably figured out Brenda is a witch.”

  “In about two seconds,” Helen said. “Is she working tonight?”

  “Of course. Right now she’s golfing with that nasty Blythe St.
Ives.”

  “I thought staffers couldn’t associate with club members,” Helen said.

  “They can’t. But Blythe got an exception because she’s another big spender. None of the members want to play with her. She cheats. Brenda lets her win. Brenda can golf with Blythe, but she can’t have a club locker. She has to change in her office.

  “Brenda is after Kitty’s job. She does everything she can to make Kitty and the rest of us look bad. Kitty tries to defend us, but she’s too sweet to be a good fighter. Don’t expect that ditz Solange to protect you. She’ll do anything to save her job. With the old regime, she’d wiggle her boobs and bottom. But the only bottom Mr. Ironton is interested in is the bottom line.” Xaviera checked her watch. “We’d better run. If we don’t clock in on time, we’ll be docked. More new rules.”

  Helen tagged the time clock, slid into her antique desk and snagged her panty hose on an ancient splinter. A fat ladder ran down to her toes.

  “Shit,” she said.

  “That word is not part of the Superior vocabulary,” Jessica said. She began a mocking version of the Superior Club ad: “Superior Service. Superior Surroundings. Superior People.”

  The entire staff chanted the final line: “You deserve a Superior life at the Superior Club.”

  “What is the meaning of this?”

  Brenda was back. The spindly brunette was red with rage. Her furious face matched the ruby-and-diamond bumblebee on her pink golf visor. She seemed made of geometric shapes: cones for breasts, a triangle for her face, a trapezoid for her dark sharp hair. The hard angles clashed with her baby pink golf outfit.

  “Doesn’t Brenda know anger causes wrinkles?” Helen whispered to Jessica.

  Cameron tried to turn his laugh into a cough and managed a barnyard snort.

  Jackie kept her head down. She never laughed.

  “Can you wear a tennis bracelet with a golf outfit?” Jessica whispered back.

  “I always wondered who wore those ugly jeweled bugs from Tiffany’s,” Helen said. “I didn’t realize lady golfers stuck them on their visors. If a real bumblebee buzzed her, she’d scream bloody murder.”