The Dead-End Job Mysteries Box Set 1

by Elaine Viets

  “Where have you been?” Blythe said. “I’ve been waiting here ten minutes.”

  “We don’t open for another fifteen,” Helen said.

  “Do you know who I am?” Blythe said.

  Her face was set in a dissatisfied frown. Helen wondered if she could put up a sign: CAUTION: FROWNING CAUSES WRINKLES.

  “The rules do not permit me to unlock the door for members before the appointed time,” Helen said. It was technically true, but the staff made exceptions for some members, like nice Mr. Giles who brought them roses. He could walk in anytime he wanted.

  “That’s outrageous,” Blythe said. “I spend a lot of money at this club.”

  What did Margery tell her to say? Oh, right. “Rest assured that topic will be brought up to the staff,” Helen said.

  “It better,” Blythe said. But she seemed satisfied with Helen’s answer. Maybe Margery’s customer service phrases really did work.

  Helen unlocked the door and quickly shut it in Blythe’s face. Then she turned on the office lights, opened the curtains, clocked in and booted up her computer. The phone was ringing already.

  Blythe was staring at her watch when Helen unlocked the door at precisely ten o’clock.

  “Finally,” Blythe said. “I need a guest pass for eleven tomorrow morning. I’ll be golfing with two friends and what’s-her-name in your office.”

  “Brenda?” Helen asked.

  “She doesn’t need a guest pass, of course, but my friends do,” Blythe said. “They’re from out of town.”

  That explained it. No one in Golden Palms would golf with Blythe.

  Helen printed out the passes, then ran for the ringing phones.

  “What took you so long?” screamed a woman with a New York honk. “I had to call twice.” She said this as if she’d had to swim the English Channel.

  “My guest is coming in fifteen minutes,” she said. “I want a guest pass. Now.” No please or thank you. “Hurry up. I don’t want them waiting.”

  Helen hurried. It went like this all morning: last-minute demands for guest passes and members’ friends who had to be called in at the gate. If the members had called yesterday, when the office was fully staffed, they would have had faster service. But they wanted what they wanted when they wanted it.

  The flurry of phone calls stopped about eleven thirty. Helen felt frazzled. She’d forgotten all of Margery’s advice. Her good mood was gone, buried by the problems of people who had no problems. She took a deep breath, and then prepared herself to tackle the phone messages. She knew those would be extra rude.

  “I want to speak to a human being,” a petulant woman said on the tape. She slammed down the phone without leaving a number.

  “Me, too,” Helen said, and picked wilted rose petals off her desk. The roses from nice Mr. Giles had all died. Helen couldn’t remember the last pleasant conversation she’d had with a member.

  She flinched when her phone rang again. She recognized that cold voice immediately. Mrs. DeVane must have a layer of permafrost on her phone. She never wasted time on pleasantries, or even hello. Each frigid word conveyed that she was forced to speak to a servant.

  “I haven’t received my copy of the Superior Magazine,” Mrs. DeVane said, in a voice like wind off a glacier. “This is the fourth time I’ve called this month. You promise that you’ll send it, but you never do.”

  “I do?” Helen said.

  “I mean those people in your office.” An icicle pierced Helen’s ear.

  She checked the database. Jessica, Xaviera and Cam had taken Mrs. DeVane’s calls. They all noted that Mrs. D was “very nasty” and reported that they mailed out the magazine.

  “Perhaps the problem is with your mail carrier,” Helen said.

  “It is not,” Mrs. DeVane said. “The problem is with you people. I want my magazine. I’ve paid for it.” Another layer of frost settled on Helen’s phone.

  “Which address should I send it to?” Helen said.

  “The only address I have.”

  Helen wondered if acid could freeze. “Many of our members have two or three homes,” she said. “I was checking if you had multiple residences.” She enjoyed inserting that little needle. “I’ll note your request in the file and send out the magazine today.”

  “See that you do,” Mrs. DeVane said. “And get it right this time.” Her glacial voice disappeared into a cold soundless sea.

  Helen made the same notes in her computer as Jessica, Xaviera and Cam, then didn’t send the magazine. She suspected her three co-workers did the same thing.

  That small revenge cheered her. She wondered if Mrs. DeVane would call poor Jackie next. Jackie might actually send the magazine. Mrs. D passed through the customer care office at least three times a week on her way to the tennis courts, but she wouldn’t sully her fingers by picking up the club magazine. It had to be mailed to her.

  Helen poured herself a cup of coffee, then looked at the clock. It was nearly three. The phone calls and last-minute requests for passes had slacked off. The phone messages were all returned.

  Finally, Helen had time to do some work for Marcella. She wanted to search the staff desks. One of her co-workers had been in touch with Rob, and she had to find out who it was. Her ex had paid big money—a thousand dollars a pop—for information in the customer care files.

  What did she know about the people she worked with? Only that they all needed money. But then, so did she.

  Helen felt guilty going through Jessica’s desk, but her friend was a loser in the Florida hurricane lottery. She and her husband, Allan, did not get hurricane insurance, which was horribly expensive.

  “We figured what we would have paid in premiums could be used for repairs if we got hit,” Jessica had said. The plan would have worked, except they spent the premium money instead of saving it.

  Hurricane Wilma did thirty thousand dollars’ worth of damage to their townhouse. They were saddled with massive bills. Jessica was driven nearly crazy dealing with city inspectors and contractors.

  Helen found bills and work orders stashed in an envelope in the top drawer. The painters wanted seven thousand dollars. The hurricane glass estimate was for ten thousand dollars. There were second notices from the painters and a carpet company.

  Poor Jessica. What a load of worry was stuffed in that envelope. A thousand dollars would go a long way toward staving off her hungry creditors.

  In another drawer, hidden under a stack of blank guest passes, was a photo of Frank Langella signed, “To my elegant Jessica. Here’s to our next success.” Jessica had one line in a Broadway hit he’d starred in five years ago, when her acting was on the upswing.

  Jessica’s acting career was another victim of the hurricane. The lucrative commercials and movie parts were gone. Florida no longer looked as lush after Wilma stripped the trees and blew away their branches. The movie and commercial makers wouldn’t come back until the trees grew back and the damaged signs, roofs and windows were repaired.

  Searching Jessica’s desk was easy. Outside, it was as bare as Mr. Ironton demanded. Inside, it was a moil of paper, pens, broken pencils and paper clips. Helen wouldn’t have to worry about putting things back precisely. She opened the rest of the drawers and pushed around more papers, but found nothing else except a list of casting agents.

  She felt like a rat when she closed Jessica’s last drawer, but her search had just begun. It was four o’clock and she had to hurry.

  Jackie’s desk was harder to search. Everything was lined up with neat precision inside and out. There were special holders for sticky notes, paper clips and stationery.

  She couldn’t find anything personal in Jackie’s desk. There were no photos of her former glamorous life, but Helen hadn’t expected those. Jackie was a loser in the marriage sweepstakes. What must it be like to be a servant at the club where you were once a queen?

  Brenda, a bully who sensed an easy target, made Jackie’s life miserable. Jackie probably kept her desk free of personal i
tems so she wouldn’t give the assistant manager more ammunition. The staff knew Brenda searched desks when no one was around.

  Like I’m doing, Helen thought.

  Buried in the back of Jackie’s last drawer, Helen uncovered a small cardboard box. Inside were coupons, a hosiery club card from a discount store and a small bottle of run-stopper.

  Helen remembered the hard-boiled egg lunch. Jackie was so desperate for money even a run in her panty hose was a financial disaster. She didn’t drive to work, except when it rained. Jackie walked to save gas. Helen knew she worried about paying her rent. She struggled to hang on to this last vestige of her old life.

  A thousand-dollar bribe would buy salvation.

  The phone rang. It was Jim in security, asking for information on a member. Helen looked up the man in the computer.

  “He’s in good standing?” Jim asked.

  “Definitely.”

  “OK, I’ll note that when I file my report.”

  “What did he do?” Helen said.

  “The member gate wasn’t working,” Jim said.

  “Again?” Helen interrupted.

  “That’s what he said. When the electric arm wouldn’t go up, he rammed it with his BMW. Took out the arm—and the gate camera. Ruined his car’s front fender, too.”

  “Mr. Ironton is not going to be happy,” Helen said.

  The phone call and paperwork cut into her snooping time. The office was only open until six on Sundays, and she couldn’t stay late without alerting security.

  Cameron’s desk was next. Helen thought he was smart and ambitious with a tricky streak. She didn’t trust him.

  Cam had a small leather-framed photo in a cubbyhole on his desk, out of sight of Mr. Ironton, but in plain view of Cam. The woman in the picture had to be Cam’s mother. She had the same girlish features and plump body as her son. But on her, they were pretty. Cam towered over his mother in the picture. She was holding a small fluffy dog and staring at her son adoringly. Cam’s father was not in the picture.

  Inside, Cam’s desk was somewhere between Jessica’s and Jackie’s in neatness. Helen found the usual office supplies in the first drawer. Under a yellow legal pad was some paperwork for the infamous “stolen time” condo loan Brenda had reported to Mr. Ironton. Cam was buying a three-hundred-thousand-dollar condo on the Intracoastal Waterway. Helen couldn’t tell how much he was putting down or what his monthly payments were. But three hundred thousand was a staggering amount of money for a young man making eleven dollars an hour, even if Cam was single.

  A steady supply of thousand-dollar bribes would help make those loan payments.

  Cam’s bottom drawer was locked. That was odd. No one locked their desks in customer care, except Solange—and that was only the petty cash drawer. Everyone in the office knew she kept the key under her philodendron.

  Helen didn’t have time to deal with it now. It was after five. These old desk drawers could be opened with a skeleton key. Margery had one. Helen would open the mysterious locked drawer later.

  She moved on to Xaviera’s desk. The fiery-nailed Latina had a heart-shaped framed photo of her boyfriend in the cubbyhole on her desk. Steven looked more like a lifeguard than a security guard. With his blond hair, blue eyes and muscles, her man was definitely scenic.

  She could see why Xaviera was worried. She was turning thirty, and suddenly time was moving too fast. She wanted to marry her handsome Anglo boyfriend, buy a house and start a family. In her desk, Helen found three Modern Bride magazines, a ticket to a bridal fair, and a sheet of real estate listings for houses. Most were in the four- to six-hundred-thousand-dollar range. Even with two jobs, the couple couldn’t afford that. Not on Superior Club salaries. Was Xaviera taking bribes to get that down payment?

  Helen checked the clock: forty-five minutes till she closed the office, and she still had to do her end-of-the-day chores. Helen had just enough time to search Brenda’s desk. Solange and Kitty’s offices would have to wait, but she came in early tomorrow morning. Maybe she could take a quick peek then. Usually, the rest of the staff didn’t show up until nine a.m. or later.

  Brenda’s office, as befitted her status as assistant manager, was smaller than Kitty’s and Solange’s. It was painted ice white and decorated with photos of Miami Beach. There was just room enough for the antique desk and her golf clubs.

  Helen picked up the seven iron, removed the stupid pink cover and swung the club in the office. She hit Brenda’s desk chair with a loud thwack! Fortunately, it was a padded chair. The swing didn’t take a chunk out of it. Helen put the club back and started a serious search of Brenda’s office.

  Brenda had left her appointment calender on her desk. Helen paged through it and saw sixteen doctors’ appointments during the last three months. Brenda had her surgical enhancements and checkups on company time.

  Interesting.

  Helen would copy Brenda’s calendar first thing tomorrow. Kitty could use some ammunition next time Brenda complained that the customer care staff wasn’t working hard enough.

  The phone rang, and Helen jumped. She bumped Brenda’s desk pad, then saw something underneath that made her forget the ringing phone.

  Brenda had the lost Winderstine file hidden under her desk pad.

  CHAPTER 13

  Helen stared at the missing Winderstine file. Solange had driven them crazy, demanding that manila folder. They’d searched their desks again and again, trying to find it.

  All that time, it had been hidden on Brenda’s desk.

  Helen knew what that meant: Brenda was Rob’s spy. She was selling him club information.

  “Yes!” Helen said out loud, and pumped her arm in the air. Could any story have a happier ending?

  This was beautiful. This was perfect. Helen would get the Black Widow off her back. She’d make her report to Marcella. Then her obligation would be finished and she’d never have to speak to the Black Widow again. The woman gave her the creeps, with her spooky makeup, silent staff and dead husbands.

  Helen could guess what Phil would say: She was jumping to conclusions. He’d give her a dozen other reasons why Brenda would conceal that file under her desk pad.

  But Helen knew better. Something in this file was worth a thousand dollars.

  She picked up the battered legal-sized folder with a coffee ring on one side. There were some five thousand files like it in the club storage room.

  At first glance, its information seemed routine: Mr. Sawyer Winderstine III had had a few small problems at the club. But he was nowhere in the mobster Casabella’s league when it came to outrageous behavior.

  The worst was a report written by Xaviera two years ago. Helen waded through her co-worker’s convoluted English. The short version was that a club bartender had refused to serve Mr. Winderstine another double scotch and offered to call a cab for the tipsy member.

  “When Mr. Winderstine became belligionerent”—Helen winced at Xaviera’s free-form spelling—the bartender had called security. Security had confiscated Winderstine’s car keys and escorted him to a waiting cab.

  The incident didn’t even rate a letter of reprimand. It was noted in the file and forgotten.

  Last year, Mr. Winderstine was sixty days behind paying his club bill. He’d owed eight hundred dollars, a measly amount at a club where people ran up ten and twenty thousand dollars a month in charges.

  The club sent Mr. Winderstine a sixty-day overdue notice. He paid by check immediately and sent a letter explaining that he’d been traveling and forgotten the bill. Again, it was a minor problem. No further action was taken and he was now a member in good standing.

  Helen went through his club charges:

  Mr. Winderstine rarely spent more than five hundred dollars a month, usually for business lunches or drinks. He was one of the “fifteen-dollar hamburger people” that Mr. Ironton sneered at. Except for that one past-due notice, he paid his bills on time.

  Otherwise, Mr. Winderstine had stayed off the club radar until r
ecently, when he called a Superior waitress a “stupid bitch” because she was slow with his salad. That incident hadn’t yet made his paper file.

  Maybe I’m wrong about Brenda, Helen thought. Rob would never pay a thousand bucks for this information. The Winderstine file was a big yawn.

  But she remembered all those expensive nip-and-tuck procedures on Brenda’s calendar. Her medical insurance wouldn’t cover them, and Brenda didn’t make enough money to pay for them. She had to be taking a bribe.

  Helen knew valuable information was hidden in that file folder. She had to find it. She read and reread each page until the words blurred. Then, in “spouse information,” she found it: Winderstine was a dull corporate type, but he’d married an heiress. Sonny Hamptin Winderstine wouldn’t inherit major money until Daddy died, but in the meantime, he’d given her three Early American paintings by Jared Poole. Sonny had loaned them to the club for its Art of the Americas exhibit last September. The paintings were valued at between five and six hundred thousand dollars each. The exhibit was not open to the public or covered in the newspapers. Club members didn’t want their art exposed to the risk of theft. The club was a safe place to show off their possessions.

  More than a million and a half dollars’ worth of art was in a starter mansion at Lighthouse Point. The Winderstines spent one month each year in Paris. The date varied. Sonny Winderstine had sent a note on thick cream Crane’s stationery to customer care, asking that any club correspondence be forwarded to the Paris address for the month of February.

  That information was definitely worth money to the right people—or the wrong ones. The Winderstines would be out of the way for a whole month. Helen was pretty sure they didn’t have live-in help. Most houses in that neighborhood weren’t big enough. The property would be unguarded, except maybe for a burglar alarm—and any decent burglar could get around one of those.