Guilt

She led us down a double staircase too grand for Tara through a succession of big bright sitting rooms and into a tin-ceilinged, maple-and-steel kitchen easily forty feet long. Mounted on the far wall were a dozen small screens.

Lupe Soto pointed to one. The image was inert. One of the wooden gates.

“See?”

I said, “He didn’t try to hide what he was doing.”

“Nah.”

I showed her the well-worn mug shot of Charlene Chambers aka Qeesha D’Embo aka Simone Chambord.

“La negra?” said Lupe Soto. “Yeah, she, too.”

“She went over to Senor Donny’s place?”

“All the time. But I don tell Senora Prema.”

“Why not?”

“Not my business.” She placed a hand over her heart.

“No one wanted to hurt her feelings.”

“Yeh.”

“What’s Simone-this woman-like?”

“Who she like? Him.” She sneered. “Puta.”

“What kind of person is she?”

“Smile a lot, move a lot hoo hoo hoo.” Illustrating with a brief shake of ample hips. “Then she have the baby and she go way.”

“When did she have a baby?”

“Mebbe … four, fie month ago?”

“And when did she leave?”

“I don remember, senor.”

“Where’d she go after she left?”

“Dunno. Now, I gotta work.”

We revisited the other two maids, repeated the same questions. More of the original reticence. But Imelda Rojas’s eyes were jumpy.

I said, “You’re sure you have no idea where Simone went?”

“Nup.”

“What kind of car did she drive?”

“Car? Red.” Giggle. “Rojo. Like mi nombre-my name.” More amusement. “My car is white.”

“Thought the red car was Mel Wedd’s.”

“Him? No.”

“You never saw him drive the red car?”

“Nup, I see a black one. Big.” She shaped a circle with her hands. “Like Senor Donny car.”

“Mel and Senor Donny drove the same type of car?”

“Zactly the same,” she said. “Senor Donny got a lot of cars.” She thought. “Mebbe he give one to Senor Mel.”

“He likes Senor Mel?”

“Dunno.” No objection to my usage of present tense. No idea Wedd had been murdered.

“Is Senor Mel a nice person?”

“I gue-ess.”

“He treats you well?”

“I don work with him.”

“Was he friendly with Simone Chambord?”

“Everyone here friendly. Senora Prema the more friendly.”

“More than-”

“All peoples. She for the kids.”

“Senor Donny-”

Head shake. “I gotta work.”

“What about Adriana?”

Sudden flash of smile. “She nice. Read the Bible.”

“Have you seen her recently?”

“No.”

“Any idea where she is?”

“You know?”

I shook my head.

She said, “Nice lady. She go away?”

“Looks like it.”

She shrugged.

I said, “People come and go, all the time?”

“Not me.”

“You like it here.”

“I like to work.”

“Could you show us where Senor Mel lives?”

“Building Two, we all there.”

“Could you show us?”

Prolonged sigh. “Then I got to work.”

Building Two was a pleasantly landscaped single-story structure due north of the mansion. An eight-by-eight lobby set up with dried flowers in big copper vases opened to hallways on two sides. Like a nice boutique hotel. Four doors lined each corridor. Lupe Soto said, “Okay?” and started to leave.

Evoking additional sighs, I got her to show us her quarters, a spotless, daylit bedroom with a small sitting area and an en-suite bathroom. Imelda and Maria slept in the flanking rooms.

“Same as me. Zactly.”

The farthest room was occupied by the cook, a stick-like woman in her late twenties wearing mini-check chef’s pants and a white smock. She answered our knock, filing her nails.

The layout behind her was identical to Lupe’s, but festooned with rock posters and oversized illustrations of food. The bed was unmade. The smell of gym sweat and perfume blew out into the hallway.

“Yeah, what’s going on?” Her hair was short, yellow, textured like fleece. Bruise-colored tattoos coiled up the side of her neck. I wondered if avoiding the carotid and the jugular had been a challenge.

Milo’s badge caused the skin around the illustration to pale. She lowered the nail file. “Police? What’s going on?”

“Nothing serious, we’re just here to check a few things out at Ms. Moon’s request.”

“About what?”

“An employee who worked here seems to have gone missing.”

“Who’s that?”

“Simone Chambord.”

“Sorry,” she said. “Must be before my time.”

“How long have you been working here, Ms.…?”

“Georgie,” she said. “Georgette Weiss. How long? Like a month. Make that thirty … eight days. She okay? That woman? I mean did something happen to her?”

“Don’t know yet, Ms. Weiss. You like working here?”

“Like it? You kidding?” said Georgie Weiss. “This is like a dream gig.”