Murder With Reservations (25 page)

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.

Sybil muttered to herself and set fire to one cigarette after another. ” ‘Another murder,’ ” she said, grinding out yet another lipsticked butt in the monster ashtray. “That TV tart makes it sound like we have one every week.”

The reporter told the TV audience, “Last week a hotel maid was found dead in a Dumpster behind this same hotel in normally quiet Seafield Village. That’s two deaths in less than seven days.”

Sybil let out a bloodcurdling yowl. “You don’t have to rub it in, damn it. The viewers can figure it out for themselves. Next you’ll bring up the g-d bank robber.”

The reporter said, “Six months ago, police shot and killed a carjacker who made off with one hundred thousand dollars and hid out at the hotel. The money was never found.”

“Argggh!” Sybil shrieked.

Helen was glad the office door was bolted or there might have been a fourth killing at the hotel. The Full Moon’s irate owner looked ready to march outside and tear the blue-eyed, blue-bloused reporter limb from limb.

“It’s just TV,” Helen said. “Nobody will remember what the reporter said in a couple of days.”

“Hah!” Sybil said. “They’re ruining me. I don’t trust myself to talk to the lying buggers.”

The one smart thing Sybil did was barricade herself in her office when the reporters showed up. She was furious, but she had enough sense to know she’d lose her temper with the press and make the situation worse. That left Sondra besieged by the reporters, with only a terse “no comment” to fend them off.

Helen was hiding out with Sybil. She was sorry to abandon Sondra, but she couldn’t go out there and wind up on TV.

“What time is it?” Sybil asked.

“Six twelve,” Helen said.

“The vultures will start packing up by the time the sports reports come on. We’ll have to stick it out another ten or fifteen minutes.”

It had been a nearly endless day. Most of the guests had tried to check out as soon as they’d heard about Dean Stamples’ murder. A dead maid might add a little excitement to an otherwise ordinary hotel, but a murdered guest was too close to home—or rather, too close to their rooms. A crazed killer cut up a guest in the bath. What if that lunatic got loose in their room? They weren’t looking to star in their own personal
Psycho
movie.

The police made the guests stay for questioning, keeping the surly crowd in their rooms for most of the afternoon. It had been a waste of time. Nobody had seen anything suspicious. The last guest had finally cleared out about an hour ago. The police were gone, too.

After her rocky interview with Detective Mulruney, Helen had written her statement with a shaky hand. The letters looked like they were running for cover. By the time she finished, the hotel was surrounded by media. She knew the reporters would be doing live remotes from the death hotel parking lot. She was stuck until after the six-o’clock news, when they would chase some other tragedy.

She’d called Margery.

“I swear, Helen, can’t you go anywhere without getting involved in another murder?” Helen could hear the irritation in her landlady’s voice, and almost see the cigarette smoke curling around her hair. Or maybe that was Sybil’s smoke she saw.

“I’m not involved,” Helen said. “It’s a hotel. People die in hotels all the time.”

“Humph,” Margery said. “Stay there and stay out of sight. All we can do is pray you get lucky for a change. I talked with Marcella. She’s keeping your ex busy in the bedroom.”

Helen winced at the pictures that last sentence conjured up.

“Rob could still turn on the TV news instead of Mar-cella, and spot you,” her landlady said. “There’s no guarantee that romance will add up to anything long-term.”

Helen felt a strange stomach-tightening lurch. Was she supposed to be glad that her ex was dallying with a serial killer? As long as Rob romped in Marcella’s bed, he wouldn’t be after Helen. Or should she do the decent thing, and hope the romance died? What did Marcella do with her old boyfriends? Shove them out the door— or throw them overboard?

“Helen, are you there?” Margery demanded. “I’ll pick you up at the hotel’s back door at seven. If any reporters are still hanging around, I’ll figure some way to get you out.”

Helen stayed in the hotel’s office until six fifty, sucking in Sybil’s secondhand smoke and listening to her rant. As predicted, the pesky reporters had disappeared.

But it wasn’t Margery who pulled up to the hotel door. Phil rumbled up in his battered black Jeep, looking deliciously cool in black jeans and a tight black T-shirt. Helen rushed out and jumped in the Jeep. Phil drew her close and held her.

“You’ve had a hell of a day. How are you?” he asked, kissing her hair, neck and lips.

“Better now,” Helen said between kisses. “A lot better. You’re the best thing I’ve seen all day.”

“I do beat a dead man,” Phil said.

Helen shivered. “That was so awful. You wouldn’t believe the blood. He had two little kids, Phil.”

“Any idea who killed him?”

“The police spent a lot of time tormenting me,” Helen said. “They think I had something to do with it.”

“Believe me, if they thought that, you’d be sitting in a cell,” Phil said.

“No, you were right about Detective Mulruney. He’s a cagey one. He’s too smart to throw me in jail right away. He’ll build a case first, slowly and carefully. He kept asking me why I found so many dead people.”

“I’d probably wonder the same thing, if I were him. Coppers aren’t big believers in coincidence.”

“But it was!” Helen said.

“Shhhh,” Phil said, smoothing her hair. “Then we’ll have to convince him. That’s what I’m here for. What else did he ask?”

“If I thought the dead man knew Rhonda or had had an affair with her. It sounded like he thought there might be a connection between the two murders—the hotel maid and hotel guest.”

“Interesting,” Phil said. “How did the guy die?”

“I didn’t see the body, but there was blood and glass all over. A TV reporter said he’d been slashed repeatedly.”

“Sounds like the killer was angry,” Phil said. “Wonder if the dead man picked up the wrong woman—or man—and took them back to the hotel room?”

Helen had been cleaning hotel rooms long enough to know even the mildest homebody could misbehave on the road.

“That would make sense,” she said. “But it would be hard on his wife and kids.” She started to unbutton his shirt, and was surprised when Phil stopped her.

“We can’t neck on the hotel parking lot, pleasant as it is,” he said. “We have an appointment at seven thirty. I got a lead on Rhonda’s boyfriend. I thought you’d want to come with me to talk to the person.”

“Who is it?” Helen said.

“Waitress at the pancake house down the road. I got Rhonda’s picture from the newspaper’s Web site and showed it around. This waitress recognized Rhonda. She waited on her and a dark-haired man. The waitress was too busy to say much when I was in there at dinnertime. She said I should come back at seven thirty, when the dinner crowd died down. I’m hoping she remembers something more about the man except ‘he was cute.’”

“You need a translator,” Helen said.
“Cute
is a very precise term for females. It depends on how it’s used.”

Phil eased into the wild tourist traffic, dodging the cars that zigzagged from lane to lane. “What does
cute
mean?” he said. “Puppies are cute. Babies are cute. Guys are not cute.”

“Fat lot you know,” Helen said.

“Am I cute?” he said. An SUV honked rudely and roared around them.

“No, you’re hot,” Helen said. “But someone who’s cute can also be hot.”

“But I’m not? Cute, I mean.”

“Well, the back of your neck is cute,” Helen said. “And the way your hair falls over your forehead is cute. But basically, no. You’re not cute.”

“I don’t get it,” he said.

“I’m glad. If you did, you probably wouldn’t be interested in women, and that would be a tragedy.” She kissed him lightly on the ear. “I think your ears could be cute, too.”

Phil made a left turn across the oncoming traffic to a chorus of horns. The diner was one of the new ones designed to look old. At this hour there was only one other occupied table, but the busboy was clearing away piles of dirty plates. The restaurant must have been a madhouse an hour ago.

Phil nodded at a thirtyish waitress in a cheerleader costume. The short pleated skirt made her thighs look thick, but the outfit was oddly sexy. The waitress’s name tag said she was Penny.

“Are you hungry?” Phil asked Helen.

“Starved. I’ve been living off pretzels and Sybil’s secondhand smoke.”

Helen ordered blueberry pancakes, two eggs over easy and a side of ham. Phil had a western omelet with extra onions.

“I remember you,” Penny said. “You were asking about that woman who was in here a couple of weeks ago.” The waitress had eyes like brown velvet and long silky lashes, which she batted at Phil.

Phil put a twenty on the table. “Do you have time to talk now?”

“Let me coffee the other booth, and then I can talk until your order is up,” Penny said. Her dark curls bounced with enthusiasm as she rushed off to pour for the other table.

Penny sat down at their table, just a little too close to Phil. Helen’s hackles went up, but Phil winked at her. This was no time to get territorial, Helen reminded herself. She needed information if she was going to get the police off her back.

“What were Rhonda and her date like?” Phil asked.

“She was kind of a dog.” Penny smiled provocatively. “She dressed like she was religious or something in a high-collared blouse and old lady’s skirt. He had dark hair, was about twenty-five and cute.”

Phil rolled his eyes. “Anything else you can tell us?”

The waitress shrugged. “He was just a cute guy. We see a lot of them here.”

“Cute how?” Helen said. “Tom Cruise cute? Surfer cute? Boy-next-door cute?”

“Not like Tom Cruise,” the waitress said. “Cruise is not cute. He’s boring. He’s what Hollywood thinks women think is cute.”

“You got that right,” Helen said. “Cruise was totally miscast as the vampire Lestat.”

She could see Phil shifting impatiently.

“Cruise had no sense of inner evil,” the waitress said. “That would have made him really interesting. The guy with Rhonda was more the bad-boy type, you know what I mean?”

“I do,” Helen said.

“He was cute like a surfer, except his hair was dark. You usually think of those California types as blond.”

“Anything that made him stand out or seem a little different?”

“Nothing really. Once you got past the cute, he was just another guy. Well, there was that tattoo on his wrist.”

“What kind of tattoo?” Helen said.

“Something to do with a cow or a cowboy or a ranch. I’m not sure. I just caught a glimpse of it when he looked at his watch. It was mostly hidden by his shirt. That’s all I remember.”

A bell dinged in the kitchen and a man at the other table called, “Waitress! Check!” He scribbled in the air.

“Gotta go,” Penny said, leaping up from the table and pocketing the twenty in one motion. “Your dinner’s up.”

“You’ve been a big help,” Helen said.

As he poured ketchup on his omelet, Phil said, “Well, I’m glad you settled the Cruise casting problem. Otherwise we’ve wasted the evening.”

“No, we haven’t. The waitress really was helpful,” Helen said. “I know exactly what kind of guy she’s talking about.”

“So what’s he look like?” Phil asked.

“I’ll know him when I see him,” Helen said. “I’m looking for a particular kind of cute.”

“I just hope you don’t run into him in the shower,” Phil said.

“Maybe you should come home with me. I may need protection,” Helen said, fluttering her own eyelashes. “Now that’s cute,” Phil said.

H
i, it’s Glenn. I’m sorry I’m not here to take your call. You know how much I want to talk to you—”

Peggy’s cell phone speaker blasted her lover’s voice mail message around the Coronado pool. She quickly snapped the phone shut.

“He doesn’t sound sorry,” Margery said. She wore shorts the color of twilight and sunset red toenail polish. Helen wondered how her landlady got the knee-high lace-up sandals to stay up. She was sure the straps would slide down her legs.