Free Irish Alibi by Ralph McInerny

turned it and pushed.
    â€œHousekeeper.”
    There was a sound behind her, and she turned. She breathed again. It was Rosita.
    â€œWhat’s going on?”
    â€œI think they must have left already.”
    Rosita brushed past her and sauntered into the room as if she were the manager. Maria was about to follow when Rosita screamed.
    She rushed out of the bedroom, still screaming, her eyes wide with fright.
    If Rosita had daring, Maria Concepción had calmness. She leaned into the bedroom and looked around.
    The woman lay on the bed, more undressed than dressed, and she stared at Maria with wide unblinking eyes, the eyes of the dead.

PART THREE

1
    Mike Beatty, the Tranquil Motel manager, gave the excited jabber of the cleaning women only half an ear, but he heard them. A dead body in 302, nombre de Cristo ! But it was important to him to retain the hierarchical gap between himself and Maria Concepción and Rosita and all the rest of them who reminded him of how far he himself had come, and how easily he could be tugged back down to their status. Of course, new employees couldn’t put together his name and the fact that he looked like one of them. He had picked up the name when going through Texas.
    â€œExcuse me?” he said to Rosita.
    She repeated the message in English.
    â€œHow do you know she’s dead?”
    â€œHow do I know you’re a dumb sonofabitch?” She said that in Spanish, which Beatty pretended not to understand.
    He fluttered a ringed hand at the women. “I’ll check it out in a minute.”
    They withdrew across the lobby, whispering fiercely to one another. Rosita went right on outside and lit a cigarette. Beatty was aware of her glaring eyes upon him as he feigned work at the counter. It was in such small ways that one established and then retained authority. Then he went down the hall to Kitty Callendar’s office. Kitty, the bookkeeper, had in her own mind fallen on evil days and regarded the Tranquil Motel as little better than a brothel. She took obvious delight when they raised the rates during Notre Dame home game weekends. She could hear the raucous celebrating in the bar and restaurant; she was kept informed by the housekeepers of what went on in the rooms.
    â€œYou speak Spanish?” Michael had asked her.
    Kitty Callendar opened a gap between thumb and forefinger.
    Now she swung away from her computer when he entered her office, her brows lifting imperiously. She wore her dyed hair in a kind of bird’s nest atop her narrow head, which seemed put on display by the scrawny neck that emerged from her fluffy blouse.
    â€œWhat is it, Miguel?”
    He ignored that. His secret was their little secret, that’s what calling him Miguel implied.
    â€œThere’s a dead body in 302.”
    â€œMy God.” But her eyes lit up as if all her theories of the motel were suddenly realized.
    â€œAt least that’s what the housekeepers say. Of course they’re hysterical. I want you to come with me while I check it out.”
    â€œMe?” Her facade cracked and threatened to crumble, but then she straightened her bony shoulders and stood. The gleam was back in her eyes.
    He led the way down the long corridor, the muffled clump of Kitty’s heels assuring him that she was following. He held the master key before him as if they were engaged in some sort of ceremonial procession. Before turning the corner, he looked back. Kitty’s expression was one of eager dread. Maria Concepción was watching them from a distance. Michael made an ambiguous gesture in her direction and then resumed the march to 302.
    The door was wide open. He put the master key in his pocket and put his head inside the door.
    â€œManager.”
    Kitty went past him into the suite and stood in the middle of the sitting room, looking about her with disgust. The glasses and bottles and overflowing ashtray spelled mindless riot to her, and she was