The Creep

Looking out her fifth-floor window through sheets of rain to the choppy ocean below, something bright and shiny caught her eye. It was a red Corvette with a silver hardtop, which was quite distinctive, at least to her. It was inching carefully into one of the metered parking spaces that lined the street directly across from the hotel. The driver had his pick; this was surely not a beach day. In fact, all the other spaces were vacant, which was unusual since by eight in the morning they were almost always filled; at least they had been the past two days, which was how long she had been a guest at the Deerfield Beach Inn. She was intrigued, wondering who would come to the beach on a day like this, then glanced at the clock and realized she would be late for her meeting if she didn’t jump in the shower immediately. She waited a second to see who would emerge from the car, but nobody did. The lights stayed on and the motor was still running. Who could blame him, she thought, for having second thoughts about the beach on a day like this.

A mid-February business trip to Florida when you live in Maine is like a gift from God. Stella had jumped at the chance, even though she was technically not what you would call a beach person. But the relentless snow and ice back home had started getting on her nerves, so when she heard the annual sales conference would be held someplace warm, she lobbied hard and promised to cover every detail for her boss, who had to stay home because his wife was expecting twins any day. Single and with her only dependents the two Siamese cats holed up in her cozy condo, Stella was looking forward to a relaxing few days with no responsibilities other than to pay attention and schmooze with a few of the salesmen.

The room was nice enough, with a balcony overlooking the sea, high enough to be quiet but low enough to be interesting. After her shower, she dried her hair and considered her clothing, then casually glanced out the window and saw a man standing next to the red Corvette. On an impulse she grabbed her camera and zoomed in to get a better look at him. It was still raining pretty hard, but he seemed not to notice. Somehow he managed to keep his cigarettes dry. She could see that he was slightly creepy, with pock-marked skin, a worn leather jacket, rumpled jeans and cowboy boots. Certainly not beach attire. Hatless and with a full head of unkempt hair, he looked like someone who had been up all night and was now dealing with a major hangover.  He lit another cigarette and leaned against the car, checking his watch often. She assumed he was waiting for a date that obviously wasn’t coming because of the inclement weather. Still, Stella found it odd that the creep made no attempt to stay dry. That, plus his constant looking around and checking his watch, made Stella think he was up to no good. She watched as he put more money in the parking meter. Apparently he was not leaving, at least for a while. For no reason, she snapped a couple of pictures of him and his car. At the very least she imagined that Harold would find the car interesting, with its distinctive silver top.

Stella was not one to get mixed up in other people’s affairs. She had had enough of that in her youth, and now that she was over 50, she felt as if drama and excitement were best left to those younger and stronger. Since she had gotten her diagnosis of a heart murmur, which the doctors assured her was no problem if she took care of herself, she steered clear of anything stressful or taxing unless she absolutely had to get involved. Her administrative assistant position at the company was perfect, and her pleasant relationship with Harold was just fine too.  Admittedly he was a tad boring, but she had grown tired of wild sex and clubbing. Glad to be past the tempestuous "abortion years," she happily settled for a weekly bridge game with the girls, dinners out and movies with Harold every weekend, and plenty of time with her kitties.

Ready to go down for breakfast, she glanced out the window and saw that the rain was still coming down but the palm trees were not quite as bent over. The storm was passing. The creepy cowboy was nowhere in sight, although his car was still there. Well, good riddance, she thought. A quick elevator ride delivered her to the lively beachfront café that at this hour served breakfast. Because of the bad weather, a table facing the ocean was available. Stella grabbed it, happy to watch the swiftly moving clouds and the begging pigeons that clustered around the empty outside deck, hoping for a crumb here and there.  As she was trying to decide between an omelet and the cinnamon pancakes, suddenly there he was: the Creep was sitting down, in the rain, at a table quite close by.  Although a wall of glass separated them, Stella could see him perfectly. He called the waitress out and ordered something, then checked his watch. Looking around, he saw Stella. Their eyes met for only a split second, but still she could tell for sure that he was evil.

Okay, Stella--hang on, she thought. So he’s sitting in the rain, big deal. Just eat something and get to work. The waitress finally came over, after delivering a beer to the Creep. It’s nine in the morning, Stella thought, somewhat shocked—after all, what kind of person drinks beer at nine in the morning?  Having settled on the pancakes, with juice and coffee, she opened her briefcase and checked the morning's work schedule to get her mind off all this silliness with the strange man. But then he got up and went inside, and before she knew it she was following him to the front desk. She got there in time to hear him ask the concierge if there were any other entrances to the hotel besides the front door. Afraid he would see her, she turned and quickly went back to her table. Her breakfast arrived and she ate quickly, trying to shake her mind clean of all this foolishness. Still, she wondered why he asked about other entrances.

He came back to his table and checked his watch. Stella hoped it was the waterproof variety since there he sat, drinking his beer, in the rain, with no overhead protection. What was wrong with him? At close range he looked even worse than he had from five stories up. She guessed he was about 40, and seemed quite down on his luck. His clothes were grimy and his wet hair was dirty too. Just an unemployed beach bum, she thought once and for all, and turned her thoughts to the day ahead. She checked her phone and read the few emails that had come in, then got up to go to the ladies’ room. Right then the Creep stood up too, and for a second she was overcome with panic that he would follow her. But no, thankfully he just crossed the street, put more money in the parking meter, and went back to his beer.

When Stella returned from the ladies’ room she was surprised to see the Creep out in the middle of the street, engaged in what appeared to be an argument with a pretty blonde woman who was quite well-dressed. He seemed to be twisting her arm. She pulled away from him and ran into the hotel’s front entrance; the Creep followed. By now Stella was too involved to let this go, so she hurriedly signed for the bill and all but ran from through café’s back door and directly into the lobby. She got there in time to see the Creep follow the woman into the elevator and watched it stop at the third floor. Well, I guess that’s that, she told herself. It’s probably just a bitter divorce and certainly none of my business. Still, she wondered if maybe he was a hit man and she was his target, then scolded herself for watching too much TV.

Later that day, at about five o’clock, Stella returned to the hotel. The conference had been dull and fairly tiring, but she had met some nice people, in fact one couple in particular who were also from Maine. They had made plans to meet for an early dinner, and Stella was hoping to take a quick dip in the pool before then, so she was slightly alarmed to see several police cars parked in the hotel’s circular driveway. She hoped it wasn't a fire drill or some such silly thing that would hold her up. Entering the lobby, it became even more evident that something out of the ordinary was going on. She asked at the desk, but the clerk simply said there was “a problem” with one of the guests. She guessed it had to do with non-payment of a bill, and went up to her room to change into her bathing suit. In the elevator she tried hard not to think of the Creep and the blonde woman.

Stella turned on the TV seeking tomorrow’s forecast. She hoped for sun since she would be leaving the day after and planned to spend the morning on the beach to at least get some color in her cheeks.  After all, she was going back to Maine where it was below freezing and probably would be for quite some time.  Channel surfing to find the weather, she was stunned to see a picture of her hotel on the news, with a graphic that said “Heiress Murdered.” Apparently, a rich woman had been found dead in her room on the third floor of the Deerfield Beach Inn that very afternoon. There was no picture of the victim but Stella knew immediately who she was, and who had killed her.

She weighed her options. She could go to the police with her story, but what did she have for them, really, besides a vivid imagination? Of course there were those photos in her camera, of the man and his car.  Those might be helpful. But she had seen enough cop shows to know they would probably keep her there all night, asking questions over and over, and she had a panel to moderate tomorrow afternoon. And she would likely have to miss dinner with that nice couple. And who knows, they might think she was involved somehow. And what if it really was the Creep who had murdered that woman, and he got off on a technicality and found out she had told them about the fight in the street--then what? She would never feel safe again. Besides, the dead woman was already dead. And if they were good at their jobs, the police would find him. And there must be plenty of other witnesses, God knows, the man had made a spectacle of himself. Anyway, I’m not to get excited, she reminded herself. The doctor said so explicitly.

Stella turned off the TV and went down for a swim. By then the hotel was crawling with cops, but luckily none of them were at the indoor pool. She did her standard 20 laps, then went back up to her room and changed and walked the few blocks to a popular sushi restaurant for dinner with the couple from Maine.

The next day was bright and sunny and she got to sit on the beach all morning while the salesmen were out on a fishing expedition. Packing to go home the following day, she noticed she had good color in her face. She even detected the slightest bit of a tan line from her bathing suit straps. By the time she arrived at the airport, the newspapers and the TV were full of photographs of the pretty blonde woman the Creep had argued with in the street. According to all reports, there were no suspects.