Murder with Strings Attached Page 2

  Tomorrow, when Operation Violin began for real.

  Chapter 3

  Wednesday. Showtime!

  I again left my coat in the Ladies’ Lounge and of course used the toilet. Having to pee in the middle of a job can only lead to trouble of one kind or another. Passing the front desk on my way to the elevator, I wanted to avoid eye contact with any of the clerks on duty. But, like Lot’s wife, I couldn’t resist just a peek. Unfortunately, one of the check-in clerks, an older woman with gray hair pulled back into a tight bun, happened to be looking in my direction and our eyes met.

  The woman immediately called to me, “Miss, would you please step over here?”

  I returned a mimed “Who, me?” gesture. The bun lady nodded in the affirmative.

  I just had to look, didn’t I? But I knew I now had no choice but to comply. I walked over slowly as I tried frantically to think of answers, having no idea what the questions might be. Would I be asked who I was and what I was doing here? If so, would my answers be credible? When I reached the desk I tried to act nonchalant.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  The bun lady said, “Just a moment, please,” and reached under the desk.

  Totally irrationally it flashed through my mind that the woman was going to pull out a pistol and place me under arrest. Good thing I’d just peed, or I’d probably have done it now. It’s amazing what tricks a guilty conscience can play on you. What she actually pulled out, however, was a stack of letters. She handed them to me and, motioning toward a mail box mounted on the far wall, said, “Would you be a dear and drop these in the box over there?”

  I accepted the letters and the assignment with relief. “Certainly, ma’am. No problem.”

  I marched directly over to the mail box and deposited the letters. I then continued on my way to the service elevator, this time resisting any urge to look anywhere but straight ahead.

  I hoped to ride up to the Concierge Level alone, to avoid any further awkward moments with real employees. To my chagrin, however, no sooner had I punched in the code I had purloined the previous day than a fresh-faced young man, wearing a conservative gray suit and burgundy red tie, drew up beside me. His badge identified him as Larry Avery, an assistant manager. He said nothing, but just waited, smiling at me when I glanced sideways to size him up. When the elevator did not come, both I and Assistant Manager Avery began to fidget, me with my duster and he by rocking slightly back and forth on his heels, hands clasped behind him. We looked at each other; he smiled again.

  Suddenly it occurred to me that the reason the elevator was not coming was that either I had pressed a wrong button when putting in the code or somehow the code had been changed since yesterday. Geez, who are they afraid is going to use the damn elevator? But of course I was in fact the very type of person they were afraid might use it, as I well knew.

  I turned and smiled at Larry. “I must have pressed a wrong key,” I said in my most innocent and ingenuous voice—a good trick when over 40 and far from being either. I resisted batting my eyelashes or giggling and adding, “Silly me.”

  As I had anticipated, Larry, being a gentleman—and more to the point being a man in a position to aid a somewhat attractive lady—stepped over to the key pad and gallantly punched in the current code. More smiles. Good old Larry.

  I watched carefully and memorized the new code as best I could. “Thanks,” I said.

  Smile and nod from Larry.

  The elevator arrived as requested, and Larry stepped aside to let me enter. The cab was twice as big as the guest elevator I had ridden the day before, and instead of polished walnut it was lined with metal “diamond plate” sheets protected all around with painted wooden rails. I was followed in by Larry, and behind him trundled a room service cart, pushed by a waiter wearing a white apron, with the most delicious aromas—I guessed bacon, eggs, and waffles—wafting from under two elegant silver plate covers. The waiter maneuvered his cart toward the back of the car, parking it next to me. The contrast in bouquet with the stinky cigar odor of the previous day’s elevator ride was extreme. But pleasant as was the aroma, it reminded me that I had had no more than a cup of coffee as I rushed out of my apartment that morning, and it was all I could do to keep from surreptitiously snatching the bran muffin sitting on a plate next to me. But I could hardly risk blowing my cover, not to mention being arrested for muffin theft, when there was so much more at stake. Other than the rumbling of my stomach, I suffered in silence.

  The doors closed and Assistant Manager Larry stepped over to the console. Please don’t be going to the Concierge Level. I was greatly relieved when he pressed “8,” then turned to ask for my floor. “Nine, please,” I replied shyly, and he duly pressed the corresponding button. He made the same inquiry of the waiter, who fortunately was going only to the second floor with his aromatic breakfast banquet.

  The service elevator’s progress was much slower and noisier than that of the guest lifts, perhaps because of its hard surfaces and the heavier loads it was meant to carry. After what seemed like minutes (it was actually about 20 seconds) the display above the console flashed “2,” the noise and motion stopped, the doors rattled open, and the waiter and his cart, bran muffin and all, backed out of the elevator. The doors closed, the elevator resumed its creep upwards, and the assistant manager and I were alone.

  I hoped Larry would skip the strained small talk so common when only two people share an elevator ride. My hopes were dashed, however, before we had reached the next floor.

  “I don’t recall seeing you around before,” he said with a cheerful smile.

  “No, I’m a replacement for one of the girls who called in sick.”

  “Oh, I see. Who was that?”

  Geez, can’t this thing go any faster? I smiled and said, “I’m sorry, they didn’t tell me that. Just that I was needed for the day.”

  “Well, welcome to the Regency,” Larry said magnanimously, as if he were the owner and not a hired flunky like me. “Let me know if you have any questions about anything.”

  “Why, thank you, sir. I certainly will.” This time I suppressed the urge to curtsy.

  Larry got out at the eighth floor, with another smile and a nod. I smiled and nodded back. The door closed. Then I finally exhaled.

  ****

  At nine, the Concierge Level, I straightened my skirt, hitched up my bra, and adjusted my duster as I stepped off the elevator, hoping I looked as if I belonged there. It was 9:50 a.m.

  Although I had intended to arrive a few minutes before the cleaning staff, I saw that in fact I was late, or at best just in time. All the maids were already busy in the rooms, as evidenced by the cleaning carts parked outside of three rooms with their doors open. And yes, one of those rooms, the second from the elevator, had a plaque outside that proclaimed it to be the “Royal Suite.” Target sighted; prepare to attack.

  My plan required the door to be open and the maid to be busy somewhere she could not see the front room, preferably cleaning the bathroom. Then I could slip into the Royal Suite undetected, hide in a closet or other suitable place, wait until the maid left, then search for the violin. I knew it was the “undetected” part that could prove tricky.

  Acting as casual as I could, I sauntered past the door of the Royal Suite, duster dusting, and as I passed the open door, I peeked inside. There was the maid—the real maid—apparently beginning to straighten the front room, which did not look like it needed much straightening. The maid glanced up just as I was passing, our eyes briefly met, and I was certain the woman would say something…awkward. But she only smiled and returned to her duties. Maybe she’s new here too.

  Did you ever try to hang around a place where no one is supposed to be hanging around at all, looking innocent and inconspicuous, when you pretty clearly were neither? I adjusted my uniform, pretended to look for something I dropped on the carpet, and generally tried to be invisible. It wasn’t easy.

  During the ten minutes or so it took the maid to finish cleaning the
living room of the Royal Suite, the only dangerous person I encountered was one of the guests, a young, elegantly-dressed blonde woman, who came out of a room down the hall and walked past me to the elevator. After pressing the “down” button, she turned toward me. I was still on my hands and knees pretending to look for the nonexistent bauble I dropped, deliberately facing away from the intruder, trying to ignore her. Just as the elevator was arriving, the woman said, “You, down there!” I looked up. “When you clean Room 914, make sure you empty all the wastebaskets this time. I don’t want to find one of them still full, like yesterday. Understand?”

  My mouth dropped open. I was speechless, both because I had nothing useful (or civil) to say, and because before I could think of an appropriately cutting response, the elevator door was already closing behind the silly bitch. Just as well.

  Returning my attention to the Royal Suite, I peeked in the door and saw that the maid had picked up her portable carrier containing cleaning supplies and was heading into the bathroom. I hurriedly got to my feet. As soon as I heard the bathroom water running, after checking to see there was no one else in the hallway at that moment, I darted into the suite, glanced around, spotted a closet, and as quietly as possible opened the door, entered, and closed the door behind me.

  And there, as the maid dutifully sanitized the bathroom and then tidied up the separate bedroom, I sat, and sat, for almost an hour. Or rather squatted some, sat on the floor some, stood some. Despite the relative luxury of the suite’s appointments, the management had neglected to provide its guests with a chair or other suitable place to sit in their closet.

  Finally the maid left the suite, taking her cleaning supplies and her sweet time, closing the door behind her, and I was finally alone.

  And I believe this is where you came in.

  ****

  I silently exhaled and opened the door of the closet a bit. I peeked out, and finding the coast indeed to be clear, stepped out.

  The hunt was on.

  From Janice’s description, the violin should have been in the closet, but I had been in the closet for quite a while, and so far as I could tell, I had not been accompanied in there by a violin. But it had been hard to search carefully without light and the risk of making noise, so now I opened the closet door again and checked more carefully, using my flashlight.

  No violin.

  I looked around the room, which was almost as dark as the closet. Although it was a bright day, the real maid had closed the heavy red-and-gold tapestry drapes that were covering the full-wall windows, letting in almost no light. I didn’t want to risk turning on the lamps or the chandelier, casting light that might be noticed under the door from the hallway, so I still had to rely on my small flashlight to make my inspection of the premises. Waving it around to get my bearings, I could see that the fancy chandelier that hung from the ceiling was comparable in elegance to those hanging in the lobby, but on a smaller scale. Even in the limited light, its crystal bangles twinkled and sparkled expensively. Unfortunately, it was too big to take away with me.

  The rest of the room’s décor was similarly opulent. The coffee table, either antique French provincial or a good imitation thereof, was painted in a light cream color, as was the large credenza against the far wall, probably filled with complimentary drinks and snacks. Two overstuffed chairs were upholstered in the same pattern as the drapes. The walls were covered in an old-fashioned floral-patterned wallpaper, with the carved-wood moldings painted to match the furnishings. I aimed my flashlight on all the room’s surfaces, looking for my prize.

  Alas, no violin.

  I tried the doors on the far wall. The bathroom provided no place for a violin to hide. Behind another door was a bedroom, in which a four-poster bed resided. It was covered by an elegant canopy of red and gold tapestry that matched the drapes and chairs. A highboy and a vanity table completed the bedroom furnishings. I saw nothing interesting in plain sight, so I checked the bedroom closet and then lay flat on the carpet and peeked under the bed.

  Still no violin.

  I was beginning to think that Aaron Levy had deliberately thwarted me by taking his violin with him or putting it in the safe—an ungentlemanly thing for him to do, given all the time and effort I was putting into finding it. I returned to the front room and was about to check the last remaining door—probably a connection to the neighboring suite—when I almost tripped over something sticking out from under the sofa. I reached down to shove it back out of the way.

  The violin.

  How could someone treat an instrument so valuable in such a cavalier manner? More and more it seemed as if Mr. Aaron Levy was entirely too careless and had to be relieved of this heavy responsibility before someone…well…stole the damn thing!

  And I was just the woman to do it. I opened the case and lifted up my trophy, held my flashlight close to it, and with great satisfaction, began to examine it lovingly.

  And that’s when the lights came on.

  Chapter 4

  “It’s a fake!”

  The words were spoken simultaneously by me, as I was staring down at the now-fully-illuminated violin in my hand—a beautiful violin, but missing that all-important Guarneri label—and by a smiling man of medium height and build standing in the doorway with his hand on the light switch, presumably the rightful owner of said violin.

  Our two voices probably could not have achieved a more harmonious duet if we had rehearsed for weeks; despite the unfortunate blend of Aaron Levy’s raspy baritone with my unsteady contralto, it was not too badly out of tune.

  For several seconds we simply stared at each other: the discoverer and the discoveree; the violated and the violator. Then, just when the tension seemed to be building to a peak, we both began to laugh. Although that is not a usual result of the owner of valuable property surprising a burglar in the act of stealing it, clearly neither of us perceived the other as a threat, and I guess we both appreciated the comic irony of the situation. But still neither of us was inclined to begin a conversation.

  Well, someone has to break the ice. Although I couldn’t recall whether Emily Post had anything specific to say about this particular social occasion, I decided that, as the uninvited guest, it was my place to go first.

  “You know,” I began, a bit more breezily than I felt, “generally it isn’t considered polite to disturb a woman in a…um…an intimate activity.”

  The man in the doorway—for he still had only one foot in the room and his hand on the doorknob—smiled and said, “I suppose I could come back later. But it will still be a fake. Or more precisely, a copy.” I thought he had a nice smile.

  “Yes, I suppose so.” I looked sadly at the ersatz Guarneri. At least I wouldn’t be making a very embarrassing attempt to hold for a king’s ransom a violin hardly worth the ransom of a poor vassal. On the other hand, Aaron Levy’s untimely entrance might mean my very first trip to the pokey, which I definitely did not relish.

  “But why,” I asked, “do you keep a fake Guarneri in your room, when you own the real thing? Just to toy with people like me?” I guess I almost sounded indignant. In a way, I was.

  “Whoa,” the violinist responded, stepping into the room and closing the door, “it wasn’t my idea to have you break into my room and try to steal my violin. I think you’ll have to take some responsibility for that.” Fortunately, he was still smiling.

  “Oh, I do,” I hastened to assure him, meanwhile turning off my flashlight and putting it in my pocket. “It was all my idea. But just the same, if you hadn’t put this imitation in such a vulnerable place and tempted people like me—well, me anyway—I wouldn’t be standing here like a damn fool facing a long stretch in Alcatraz.”

  Levy began to laugh again, but he quickly controlled himself. “First of all,” he said, “I think they closed Alcatraz, at least as a prison, several years ago. And second, who said you were going to prison?”

  “Well, no one,” I admitted, “but I guess that’s the usual result when, as
I believe they say in court, the lawful owner of valuable property comes upon a burglar attempting to dispossess him of said property.”

  Now Levy did start to laugh. He sat down in one of the suite’s overstuffed chairs, softly cushioned and fitted with carved wooden feet, and he gestured for me to do the same. I reluctantly complied and sat in the matching chair, not sure what this strange musician was up to. I lowered myself cautiously into the billowy sea of a down-filled cushion, immediately sinking what felt like several feet into its depths. I wondered whether I would be able to get out without assistance.

  Apparently what seemed like a straightforward case of caught-in-the-act to me was more complex, or at least more nuanced, to Levy. He appeared to be thinking the entire situation through. Finally he said, “The way I see it, when I found you, you were contemplating ‘dispossessing’ me, to use your fancy term, of what was in fact a relatively valueless piece of property, at least by Stradivarius or Guarneri standards. But as I interrupted you before you could carry out your nefarious intention, the most I could accuse you of would be unworthy thoughts and grandiose plans. And how often do our grandiose plans fail to come to fruition?”

  He paused to consider this philosophical query, giving me time to do the same. “And of course there is the fact that you snuck into my room without my knowledge—I assume you’re not a real chambermaid, am I correct?”

  I acknowledged as much with a nod of my head and an appropriately contrite expression.

  “As I thought. But seeing as how I don’t really live here, and God-knows-how-many strangers come in and out during the day without my knowledge, to vacuum the carpet, fix the air conditioner, or leave those awful little chocolates on the bed, why should I be concerned if you come in to do a little unworthy contemplation?”