A Clean Kill

Eighteen

Wayne had given Remy her orders while the police were still in the house.

"Don't tell the boys what happened," he said. "Just get them settled in the hotel room. Give them dinner, put on the TV, and tell them we're on vacation." His expressive face was doing funny tics, and she gathered he didn't want her talking.

"And I want you to move there with us," he added as if it was an afterthought.

"Oh, no, I can find someplace to stay. Don't worry about me," Remy had said quickly. She couldn't believe he was taking the boys to the Plaza and telling them they were on vacation.

"Remy, they need you. And I need you, too. You have to come with us."

"To the hotel?" She didn't get it. How could she move to a hotel with them? It wouldn't look good. But she saw that determined expression of his and hesitated. He didn't seem to understand the significance of her being there with them.

"Of course, to the hotel. The boys can't stay alone."

"It won't look good," she almost whispered. She was afraid of thwarting him, and she held back on the heavy-duty protest.

They'd been standing inside the front door of the house, where the stairway went up to the second floor and the echo from the marble floors was loudest. They had only a few minutes together. The police were watching. Wayne's Louis Vuitton suit bag hung by its strap over one shoulder, his duffel slung over the other. He shook his head, his face set in its Don't go there expression.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, hardly knowing what, of all the horrible things that had happened, she was sorry for the most.

Then she cringed as his hand struck the air, brushing the awkward condolence away in a clear gesture that he didn't want to talk about it. He didn't mention Maddy at all. If he was sad or upset about what had happened to her, it didn't show. All she could see was anger at his situation. He'd packed his things and was leaving the house. Clearly, he expected her to be the one to lock up and set the alarm when the police were done. She wasn't sure when she'd see him again. She was dying to ask, but didn't want to sound like his dead wife—always asking where he was going and when he was coming back. Maddy's questions had irritated him so much that sometimes he'd just walk out to go to the bathroom or have a cigarette in the garden, and disappear until he felt like coming back. When he did return hours or even days later, he acted as if nothing had happened. It had made poor Maddy frantic.

And now he was doing it to her. As she waited for some word as to when he would join his children, he just walked out. She'd seen him do it to Maddy over and over, but he'd never done it quite like that to her. She felt rebellion rise in her as she had so often before in that household. I'm not a maid, she told herself for about the ten thousandth time since she'd begun working there. She moved away from the door cursing Jo Ellen Anderson, who'd placed her here.

When CI graduates left cooking school, occasionally they worked for a short time as a chef in a private house, usually for the suminer in a resort area. These were the kind of houses where more than one staff member was on hand to take care of the children, do the laundry, and clean the house. That was what Jo Ellen had promised her— a cushy cooking job with a restaurant owner who was opening a new restaurant and would soon give her a place there. That was two restaurants ago. CI students weren't maids. They weren't housekeepers. She'd never intended to work in someone's home.

Now she was at the center of a murder. It was horrible! Her sweatshirt and jeans, even her skin, felt dirty. She hadn't changed since she'd done the unthinkable and stuck her hand in the shower to turn off the water that was pounding down on Maddy. The second she did it she actually felt death reach out and fill her pores. It was the most amazing thing. As soon as she turned off the water, the odor of death seemed to fill up the space. Maddy, who in life had smelled so amazingly lovely, always layered with perfume, was already beginning to decay. Maybe Remy had imagined it, but that was what she'd thought. It made her skin crawl even now. This was different from any other death in her experience. So many creatures had died in her hands—lobsters, shrimp, clams, and oysters, all kinds of fish. Chickens, when she was young. She'd even hacked off the head of a squirming eel once. She was used to carving up the carcasses of cows, calves, lambs, pigs. She knew what was under the scales and feathers and hides—what innards and eyes and brains looked like outside their hosts. Meat and organs had held no fear for her. Fresh meat was sweet. There was nothing sweet about death's alteration of Maddy Wilson.

Remy's whole body pulsed with anxiety as she went to the boys' rooms to collect their things. The rooms had been decorated by a designer. Everything colorful and custom, even the windows and window treatments were fanciful. NASCAR racing and baseball. Ever since the day she'd arrived, she'd thought there was something wrong with all the spending—the lavish lifestyle. Her thoughts returned to her task. The family had gone on vacation so many times in the last six months that she could now pack up the boys quickly. They had their little duffels and their special toys. Then she raced downstairs and showered for twenty minutes, washed her hair, then dressed and packed a bag of her own. Jeans, jeans, sweatshirt, sweatshirt. She told herself not to think about the detectives who were watching her—where she went, what she touched. They followed her around and waited while she went to the bathroom to collect the toothbrushes. _

Just before two, Wayne sent the driver to take

their luggage to the hotel. She dropped the bags off, then picked up the kids and listened to their chatter in the car. Angus especially was full of th^e day's activities. He'd gone swimming and smelled of chlorine.

"I can do the backstroke," he said. "Want to see?"

"Me, too," Bertie said.

He mimed the stroke in the backseat of the Mercedes, Bertie copying him. They had the open faces of children who'd never been hurt. Remy could not tell them they were on vacation.

"Very good," she said about the swimming.

"Going to the Plaza, yea," Angus said.

They'd been to the Palm Court many times. They'd heard the history.

"Will Eloise be there?" Bertie asked.

"Eloise is on vacation." Remy could tell them that lie but not the other one.

They looked for her among the palm trees anyway, then became absorbed with the tantalizing prospect of room service. Their order arrived after a forty-five-minute wait. But they were happy with their tepid hamburgers and soggy fries and finally settled in at a rolling table in front of the "TV.

Remy was semi-alone for the first time all day and she immediately called Lynn.

"Remy, why didn't you call me?" Lynn cried. She sounded just like her mistress.

"Why do you think? I didn't have a chance," Remy said, now sounding like hers.

"They said on TVTV you found her."

Remy didn't say anything.

"I've never seen a dead person. What did she look like?"

"I'm not allowed to talk about it."

"Come on."

"I don't want to talk about it," Remy said. "They can listen in."

"Do they think it's a break-in?"

"Probably not. Look, I forgot about Leah. She must be very upset with all this. Tell her I couldn't talk to her this morning. They were fighting."

"She thought you were snubbing her."

"Well, I wasn't, Lynn. Maddy wanted to fire me. I had other things on my mind. Anybody could see that. Is she okay?"

"Oh, yeah. She was here all day."

"Poor you."

"Oh, she's all right. I don't mind her. Sometimes she helps."

"I'm at the Plaza," Remy said, changing the subject. "We have a suite."

"Do you have your own room?" she asked.

"What do you think?" Remy replied.

"I think you don't," she said.

In fact, Wayne's suite had two bedrooms and a living room, but Remy didn't want to discuss it. "How's Alison doing?"

"She's freaking out. I've never seen anybody so freaked. She wants to fire me, but if I go, she'll have to take care of the kids. And that's not a possibility, now, is it?"

"Lynn, you have to leave there."

"I will. But what about you?"

"Wayne promised me a job at Soleil. I don't have any doubt that he'll give it to me now. Maybe you could get a server job. Or you could work the front. I know he likes you."

"Maybe," Lynn said slowly.

"You're pretty enough."

"Look, Remy, you're in trouble. Alison's telling everyone you killed Maddy. I'll bet she told the police. I know she told Jo Ellen. Leah said Jo Ellen told her to stay away from you."

Remy's heart did that skiddy thing it had been doing all day. "But I didn't do it," she whispered. Other things, yes. That, no.

"Then you shouldn't stay there," Lynn said. "You shouldn't do everything Jo Ellen tells you to."

"Jo Ellen has always been good to me," Remy said firmly,

"I don't know about that, but I'm scared."

Remy tried to think of something reassuring to say. Since she was the one who looked like a killer because she'd slept with her boss, she thought she was the one who could use some comfort. None, however, was forthcoming. Lynn wasn't going to be any help. "I have to go," Remy said suddenly. One of the boys had spilled his drink. "I'll call you later."