Murder With Reservations by Elaine Viets

homeless person who’d crawled in there for a nap and fainted from the heat.
    Helen moved the head gently to see the face. She heard a shriek of shock and horror, then realized she’d made that sound. She was screaming. The woman was definitely Rhonda, though Helen hardly recognized her. She was also definitely dead. Her face was a dreadful mix of dark reds, vile greens and purples. It was oddly lopsided. She’s been beaten, Helen thought. Someone hit her so hard they broke the bones in her face.
    Helen slowly lowered the battered head back on the trash bag, as if it were a pillow. Rhonda had had a hard life and a harder death.
    Cheryl was making odd birdlike screeches. They finally broke Denise’s trance. “Cheryl,” she said. “Stop that.” It was her stern-nun voice, and it worked, sort of. Cheryl subsided into soft weeping.
    Denise issued her next order to Helen. “Get out of that Dumpster,” she said. “You can’t do anything more for Rhonda. You crawled in there to find her, and that was brave. You saved her from being buried in a landfill.”
    Helen looked once more at Rhonda’s broken body. She was wearing a high-collared blue blouse, bloody and ripped, exposing an arm with black-red streaks. The arm was limp. So was her neck. Rigor mortis had come and gone. Helen remembered the last time she’d seen Rhonda alive. She’d watched her disappear into the night shadows, an arresting figure in her old-fashioned blouse.
    “Rhonda died the night she left work,” Helen said. “She wore this blouse. Her mother was right. Rhonda never abandoned her cat. She didn’t make it home. She was here in this Dumpster all the time.”
    “God forgive me for my hard words,” Denise said. The big woman seemed to collapse under the weight of her guilt. Even her tight white hair looked pressed down. Cheryl’s soft tears continued, an endless reproach.
    The back door banged open and Sondra rushed out, a cell phone in her hand. “What’s wrong?” she said. “Who’s screaming? Is someone hurt?”
    “Call 911,” Denise said, taking charge once more. “We’ve found Rhonda. She’s dead.”
    “Dear Lord.” Sondra punched in the number while Denise helped Helen out of the Dumpster. Helen’s legs were wobbly. She would have fallen off the recycling bin, but Denise caught her. Her jeans were covered with odd stains, and her T-shirt was wet with sweat.
    “The police are on their way,” Sondra reported. “Nobody can leave the hotel. We can’t check in any more guests or let anyone leave until the police question everyone. We all have to stay here. Where’s the new guy,
    Craig?”
    “I guess he’s getting dressed,” Helen said. “I’ll go find him before he goes home.”
    She was glad to get away from Rhonda’s battered body, the reeking Dumpster and the weeping Cheryl. The festering stink of death nearly smothered her. Flies hummed a frantic requiem.
    Helen checked the laundry room on the first floor. Craig’s smock was in the dirty laundry, but there was no sign of him. Did he leave already? She checked the second floor, praying her ex hadn’t sneaked back into the hotel during the commotion. No Craig. No Rob, either.
    Helen finally found Craig in the third-floor housekeeping room. He was on his knees, his bright yellow head wedged under a storage shelf. “Craig?” she said.
    Startled, he jerked his head up and hit it on the gray metal shelf.
    “Ouch,” he said. Craig backed out slowly, giving Helen a heavenly view of his hindquarters. What’s the matter with me? she wondered, angry at herself. Rhonda’s lying dead outside and I’m staring at some guy’s buns.
    “I’m sorry,” Helen said. “I didn’t mean to surprise you.”
    “You can surprise me anytime,” Craig said. “But there are more interesting ways. I dropped the cap to the spray polish. It rolled under the shelf.” He stood up, dusted off his knees, and held up the yellow plastic cap, treating her to his bad-boy grin.
    Helen was