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Authors: Perri O'Shaughnessy
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of the hallway as if looking for her. She shrank back, though she was a long way away.
He seemed to look right at her, but that was impossible. She could barely see him. Although Brenda squinted, she couldn’t make out features, except for his build—tall. She stepped back behind the building.
Now she watched passively, hidden, as the man slipped out of Room 102 into the parking lot and disappeared behind a line of hulking SUVs. He wasn’t carrying anything.
Okay. Fine. She had let her imagination go wild.
Brenda dragged the Dyson vacuum cleaner, purple and red, something new and expensive the hotel liked because the cleaners were bagless and cheaper in the long run, from under the stairway, edging toward the door. She frowned. He had left the pillow blocking it.
She got closer to the door and could peek inside a little. Heavy drapes held tight, closed against the daylight. The furniture all appeared gray and gloomy. Brenda listened.
To nothing.
A slight breeze rustled the curtains.
“Housekeeping!”
Nobody came. No sound came out of the room. She turned the knob to push the door open wider.
Curious and bolder now, she stepped inside. For a few moments, her eyes needed to adjust. The furniture turned itself from shadows into innocuous things, the usual TV, desk, chair.
She flicked the light switch.
On the bed the body of a woman lay, arranged with her hands folded on her stomach. She wore a blue bra. Brenda came close, breathing fast, and looked into open eyes, a slack mouth. She grabbed the woman’s hand. It felt too cool but not cold.
Brenda knew her. “Cyndi! Cyndi, wake up!” It was one of the receptionists for Prize’s, Cyndi Backus.
Cyndi didn’t move. Something had fled from her. A chill swept over Brenda.
Brenda had seen Cyndi the day before, such a pretty girl with a husband and babies and—
Brenda stood there, overwhelmed for a second. More clothes lay on the floor . . .
He might come back!
She ran screaming out the door.
N earby guests came out of their rooms blinking, tucking in shirts, pushing back scraggly hair, and made a bunch of cell phone calls. To her surprise, her boss’s wife, Michelle Rossmoor, appeared out of nowhere, put her arm around Brenda, and tried to settle her down. Pretty fast, three guys from Security cordoned off the room.
The El Dorado County Sheriffs arrived within five minutes. Brenda sat on a chair in the hallway with a bottle of water, sick in her gut, Michelle by her side murmuring quietly. They closed down the whole hallway and made Brenda stay and Michelle go. She got hungry, but knew she couldn’t eat. There were sirens and detectives arrived, then technicians, a woman doctor she had never before seen, and finally a couple of men who looked like lawyers. No one talked to her. Inside that room, she heard them scurrying around, important, taking calls, making them, coughing, speaking, moving furniture.
Her boss, Stephen Rossmoor, arrived to talk to her and the police. He had a long face above the sport coat he always wore when she saw him.
“The police need to talk with you, but then you need to take the rest of today off,” he advised her, looking at her badge. “You recognized her, Brenda?”
Brenda nodded. “Cyndi Backus. I saw her yesterday!”
He looked down and shook his head. “She’s worked here for what, five years? Who did this, Brenda?”
“How should I know! I only found her! I saw the man, but I didn’t recognize him, nothing like that. Why kill her?”
“You saw him? Have you told the police?”
“I will, but it won’t do much good. Do you think other employees are in danger, Steve?”
Rossmoor bit his lip. “I don’t know anything yet. Take some time off, Brenda, as much time as you need, okay?” He and Michelle had two young children to worry about and a big business to run. They always looked so happy together, so solid, but right now, he looked as shell-shocked as Brenda felt.
“Can I borrow your cell phone?”
He seemed to look right at her, but that was impossible. She could barely see him. Although Brenda squinted, she couldn’t make out features, except for his build—tall. She stepped back behind the building.
Now she watched passively, hidden, as the man slipped out of Room 102 into the parking lot and disappeared behind a line of hulking SUVs. He wasn’t carrying anything.
Okay. Fine. She had let her imagination go wild.
Brenda dragged the Dyson vacuum cleaner, purple and red, something new and expensive the hotel liked because the cleaners were bagless and cheaper in the long run, from under the stairway, edging toward the door. She frowned. He had left the pillow blocking it.
She got closer to the door and could peek inside a little. Heavy drapes held tight, closed against the daylight. The furniture all appeared gray and gloomy. Brenda listened.
To nothing.
A slight breeze rustled the curtains.
“Housekeeping!”
Nobody came. No sound came out of the room. She turned the knob to push the door open wider.
Curious and bolder now, she stepped inside. For a few moments, her eyes needed to adjust. The furniture turned itself from shadows into innocuous things, the usual TV, desk, chair.
She flicked the light switch.
On the bed the body of a woman lay, arranged with her hands folded on her stomach. She wore a blue bra. Brenda came close, breathing fast, and looked into open eyes, a slack mouth. She grabbed the woman’s hand. It felt too cool but not cold.
Brenda knew her. “Cyndi! Cyndi, wake up!” It was one of the receptionists for Prize’s, Cyndi Backus.
Cyndi didn’t move. Something had fled from her. A chill swept over Brenda.
Brenda had seen Cyndi the day before, such a pretty girl with a husband and babies and—
Brenda stood there, overwhelmed for a second. More clothes lay on the floor . . .
He might come back!
She ran screaming out the door.
N earby guests came out of their rooms blinking, tucking in shirts, pushing back scraggly hair, and made a bunch of cell phone calls. To her surprise, her boss’s wife, Michelle Rossmoor, appeared out of nowhere, put her arm around Brenda, and tried to settle her down. Pretty fast, three guys from Security cordoned off the room.
The El Dorado County Sheriffs arrived within five minutes. Brenda sat on a chair in the hallway with a bottle of water, sick in her gut, Michelle by her side murmuring quietly. They closed down the whole hallway and made Brenda stay and Michelle go. She got hungry, but knew she couldn’t eat. There were sirens and detectives arrived, then technicians, a woman doctor she had never before seen, and finally a couple of men who looked like lawyers. No one talked to her. Inside that room, she heard them scurrying around, important, taking calls, making them, coughing, speaking, moving furniture.
Her boss, Stephen Rossmoor, arrived to talk to her and the police. He had a long face above the sport coat he always wore when she saw him.
“The police need to talk with you, but then you need to take the rest of today off,” he advised her, looking at her badge. “You recognized her, Brenda?”
Brenda nodded. “Cyndi Backus. I saw her yesterday!”
He looked down and shook his head. “She’s worked here for what, five years? Who did this, Brenda?”
“How should I know! I only found her! I saw the man, but I didn’t recognize him, nothing like that. Why kill her?”
“You saw him? Have you told the police?”
“I will, but it won’t do much good. Do you think other employees are in danger, Steve?”
Rossmoor bit his lip. “I don’t know anything yet. Take some time off, Brenda, as much time as you need, okay?” He and Michelle had two young children to worry about and a big business to run. They always looked so happy together, so solid, but right now, he looked as shell-shocked as Brenda felt.
“Can I borrow your cell phone?”
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