L is for Lawless

I positioned my cart two rooms away from Laura's door and checked my watch. Rawson was waiting to make his call at 10:00, allowing me time to get myself set up. It was 9:58. I occupied myself with a load of towels, which I folded and refolded, wanting to be busily engaged when Laura Huckaby came out. The corridor was dead quiet, and the acoustics were such that I could hear the telephone begin to ring when he called her room. The phone was picked up after two rings and a tidy silence ensued. I could feel my stomach churning with anticipation. Mentally I rehearsed, picturing her trip down the hall, into the elevator, over to the desk. Chat with the clerk, the search for the package, frustration and assurances, and back she'd come. I'd have at least a five-minute window of opportunity, more than ample time for the task I'd assigned myself.

I checked my watch again: 10:08. What was taking her so long? I thought she'd be wildly curious about the arrival of a package, especially one that required her signature. Whatever the delay, it was 10:17 before she emerged. I kept my face averted, avoiding her gaze as I picked up my clipboard and made random marks. She closed the door behind her and then caught sight of me. "Oh, hi. Remember me?"

I looked up at her. "Yes, ma'am. How are you?" I said. I put the clipboard down and picked up a towel, which I folded in half.

"Did you come across my key when you serviced the room last night?" She wore the usual heavy makeup, and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, tied with a scarf of bright green chiffon.

"No, ma'am, but if it's missing, you can get a duplicate at the front desk." I folded another towel and put it on the stack.

"I guess I'll do that," she said. "Thanks. Have a good day."

"You too." I studied Laura's backside as she moved toward the elevators. She wore a white cotton turtleneck under a dark green corduroy jumper that may or may not have been designed for maternity wear. The hemline was longer in the back than it was in the front. She tugged at the garment, which was bunching up around the middle. She wore her red high-top tennis shoes, and her tights today were dark green. If my suspicions were correct and she was the victim of spousal abuse, it might explain her tendency to keep herself covered up. I slid my hand into my pocket, where her five-dollar tip was still neatly folded from the night before. That bill was the only flicker of recognition I'd netted in my guise as a char. I wished she hadn't seemed so friendly. I suddenly felt like a dog for what I was about to do.

She rounded the corner. I set the towels aside and took out the key. There was a pause. I felt like I was waiting for a starter gun to go off. I heard the indicator ping as the elevator reached the floor, then the muffled sound of doors sliding shut again. I was already moving toward the door to 1236. I shoved the key in the lock, turned it, opened the door, and tagged the knob with the laminated Maid in Room sign, just in case she came back without warning. 10:18. I did a quick check to verify that both the room and the bathroom were empty as expected. I flipped the light on in the dressing area.

Since last night, additional toiletries had been unpacked and arranged around the sink. I moved to the closet and opened the door. The duffel was right where I'd seen it before, with her handbag tucked beside it. I hauled the duffel out of the closet and propped it up on the counter. I did a superficial examination, making sure the bag wasn't booby-trapped in some way. The duffel was made of heavy-duty beige canvas, probably waterproof, with dark leather handles and a pocket on one side for magazines. There was a flap-closure compartment on each end of the bag, where smaller items could be tucked. I unzipped the main compartment and sorted through the contents at breakneck speed. Socks, flannel pajamas, clean underwear, panty hose. I checked the compartment on either end, but both were empty. Nothing in the outside pocket. Maybe she'd removed the cash and put it someplace else. I checked the time: 10:19. I probably still had a good three minutes to go.

I put the duffel back and picked up her handbag, riffling through the contents. Her wallet held a Kentucky driver's license, assorted credit cards, miscellaneous identification, and maybe a hundred bucks in cash. I put the handbag back beside the duffel. How much cash could we be talking about, and how much space could it occupy? Standing up on tiptoe, I checked the closet shelf, which was bare to the touch. I felt inside her raincoat pockets, then slipped a hand into the pockets of the denim dress she'd worn, now hanging beside the raincoat. I tried the cabinet under the sink, but all it contained was the water pipes and a shut-off valve. I did a quick survey of the shower surround and the toilet tank. I went into the main room, where I slid open drawer after drawer. All were empty. Nothing in the TV cabinet. Nothing in the bed table.