Kate Ryan is an engineer who is forced to change careers when her company outsources her job.  When she is hired as concierge at a luxurious condominium in a wealthy Seattle suburb, she naively assumes that the job will simply be a matter of smiling and kissing ass.  But catering to the rich and powerful proves more difficult than she expected–especially when one of the residents is murdered and her ex-husband is the detective assigned to the case.  She reluctantly agrees to be his paid informant–until the body count climbs higher and Kate herself comes under suspicion. 

It’s not in her DNA to sit idly by and hope that everything will be okay.  Kate is used to fulfilling outrageous requests and arranging the seemingly impossible--as concierge and engineer.  Finding a killer shouldn't be all that different.  But, as she soon discovers, playing detective is a dangerous game with deadly consequences.

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I really enjoyed Valerie's book and her style of writing. It's even more special to read a good NW author. She developed her characters in an interesting way and I felt I knew the lead characters personally. I hope their romance continues. The mystery part of the book had lots of twists and turns and kept me interested. I stayed up until 11:00 one evening to finish it. Very unusual for me! Can't wait for the next book in the series to come out. Alyce Drescher

If you want to read a flawlessly written, intricately plotted page-turner, read Valerie Wilcox's Concierge Confessions. From its mesmerizing get go to the satisfying conclusion, this book had me hooked. In addition, the reader will get a good look behind the scenes of a Ritzy Seattle condominium...and (possibly) how the other half lives. An uncommon structure--using the title's Confessions as chapter headings--adds to the intrigue. My confession: I always enjoy a good mystery. I enjoyed Concierge Confessions. It's a very smart summer read that won't disappoint. Enjoy it as much as I have.  Bob Schumacher

The author presented a well laid out story and interesting characters, mixed into a very well woven plot. My interest remained through the entire book and I found myself not wanting to put it down.  I have read her previous works and this one tops the list.  Wayne Saunders

Valerie Wilcox has an exciting new series featuring a concierge sleuth which is different and refreshing. But Kate Ryan is no ordinary concierge. She is an engineer out-of-work and taking on a brave new career. She has spunk, intelligence and an innate curiosity, and she inevitably solves the puzzle of the murders mysteriously occurring in the swanky BellaVilla condominium where she works. Along the way she is helped or sometimes hindered by her ex-husband police detective who can still move Kate emotionally although she is trying to put him in her past. Kate Ryan is a modern woman beset with all the problems facing the 21st century woman. She's current, resourceful and always looking ahead. The ending brings a pleasant surprise for her future. Wilcox is a superb writer and weaves a well-paced, intriguing tale that keeps one turning the pages. The good news is that its the first in a series, and I recommend getting started.  Marjorie Thelen

                                                                                            Confession #1
                            The primary responsibility of a Concierge is to smile  and kiss ass.
 

At first, Carla Nelson was just an annoyance.  I’d come to expect a certain amount of frustration when dealing with the rich and powerful.  Not  that Carla was rich or powerful.  We were both concierges at BellaVilla and had locked horns from the get-go.  I attributed our problems to a  generational thing.  She was young; I was not.  Moze said that I’d  misjudged the situation.  “Watch your backside,” he’d warned.   “Trouble follows Carla like stink on a fresh turd in the hot sun.”  I  laughed at the time.  I wish now that I’d taken him seriously.  

At barely nineteen, Carla was something of a party girl, judging by how hung  over she usually looked when she finally sauntered in.  Getting to work by three o’ clock in the afternoon seemed to take more effort than she cared to or was able to exert.  I’m not a clock watcher by nature, but when the end of my shift rolls around I want to go home.  Smiling and making nice for eight hours a day is exhausting.

“She be late again, huh?” asked Moze.  As head of the cleaning and maintenance crew at BellaVilla, Moses Washington (a.k.a. Moze) never missed a thing that went on in the building.  He was a skinny forty-year-old black man with a smooth bald head that shone as brightly as the floors he waxed.  He knew my shift ended at 3:00 p.m. but that I rarely left when I was supposed to, thanks to Carla.  I could always count on Moze to stop by the concierge desk to chat for a few minutes when that happened.

My weary smile said it all.

“Why don’t you report her?” he prodded.

“Peter would just make it tough for all of us.  You know how he thrives on drama.”

“Yeah, you got that right.  If it ain’t broke, Peter gets worried.  If it is broke, he blames the first person he sees—usually me.”

Moze had it partly wrong.  When it came to assigning blame, Lead Concierge Peter Westerfield singled me out more often than not.  I was new to the concierge desk and he didn’t give me much credit for knowing how to handle the job.  He’d made it clear that he wasn’t happy that he hadn’t been in charge of the hiring program.  He’d been a facility manager for several years at the condominium where he’d previously worked and his current position didn’t come anywhere close to the same pay and prestige.  As far as I was concerned, Peter was high on his own perfume.  Going to him with any problems would give him another excuse to criticize me.   I’d just have to figure out a way to deal with Carla Nelson that didn’t involve Peter.

I’d had to figure out a lot of things lately, mostly how to survive.  The economic depression that was officially just a recession had torn my world apart.  The job I’d held for most of my working life had been outsourced, my retirement fund was a joke, and I was about to lose my home.  All that was bad enough, but landing a decent paying job when you’ve reached the downhill side of forty was as difficult as winning a marathon with a half-ton weight strapped to your back.

When times were tough, my Irish grandmother would put the teakettle on.  “While there’s tea, there’s hope,” she’d say.  When times were really tough, she would add a jigger of whiskey to the brew.  “While there’s Tullamore Dew, there’s courage.”  If Grandma had still been alive, she would’ve poured me a healthy dose of both drinks.  I needed all the hope and courage I could get.

 Things started to look up when I learned about multiple job openings at BellaVilla—a new luxury condominium complex in a tony suburb east of Seattle.  Despite the uncertain economy, BellaVilla had opened to much fanfare.  It comprised an entire city block and included two 40-story residential towers, a boutique hotel, high-end restaurant, and several retail businesses.

I was determined (okay, desperate) to snag one of the many positions available in the large enterprise. Concierge seemed to be my best bet.  Getting hired was a long shot, given my age and lack of relevant experience, but I sent in my résumé anyway.  Surprisingly, I landed an interview a week later, which turned out to be a cattle call.

With the unemployment rate still spinning in orbit somewhere, everyone and his dog must have applied for the positions available at BellaVilla.  And everyone except his dog had been invited to interview.  After one look at the applicants milling about the spacious lobby I knew my long shot had just plummeted to slim and none.  I could’ve passed for the mother of just about everyone in the room.

 Girls in black power suits with perky, can-do attitudes and boys in shiny shoes with trendy, gel-spiked hair looked like kids playing dress-up.  About the only thing I had in common with this group was hope for a better future.  It didn’t matter what age you were, the bills still needed to be paid.  Each time the hiring coordinator entered the lobby, our smiles got a little wider and our spines a little straighter for that all-important first impression.

The room had thinned out considerably by the time I finally heard the coordinator call, “Mary Kathleen Reilly.”  She’d only glanced at the clipboard in her hands, which probably explained why she got my name wrong.

“It’s Mary Kathleen Ryan,” I said in a pleasant, anyone-can-make-a-mistake type voice.  Most people know me as Kate, but I didn’t want to confuse her further by mentioning my nickname.

“Oh, right,” she said, checking her clipboard again.  Shoulder shrug.  “Whatever.  Follow me, please.”

She led me down a long hallway painted a boring shade of taupe to the temporary interview room.   “Have a seat.  Mr. Matthews will be with you in a moment.”

The moment dragged on and on.  By the time Mr. Matthews finally showed up I had to pee really bad.  But it was make-or-break time, so I just crossed my legs and smiled as he settled into his chair.  Mr. Matthews looked vaguely familiar, but he made the connection first.  “Mrs. Ryan?” he said.  “Erin’s mom?”

It was worse than I feared.  The interviewer was my daughter’s first steady boyfriend.  She’d dumped him rather callously her senior year in high school to take up with a football jock, who had in turn dumped her for the head cheerleader.  Such is life in the fast lane of high school dating.  This job was toast if I couldn’t find a way to rescue the situation.

“Billy,” I said, “I mean William.  It’s so good to see you again.  How are you?”

“Uh, I’m good,” he said blinking rapidly.

He seemed confused, which, come to think of it, was Erin’s main complaint about him way back when.  She said Billy was cute, but clueless.  I suppose she’d still consider him cute, although his long brown hair was short and thinning now.  He’d traded teenage jeans and hoody for a dress-for-success Brooks Brothers suit complete with diamond cuff links and vest.  The look was somewhat spoiled by a ketchup stain in the middle of his designer tie, which I tried not to focus on.

“Why are you here, exactly?” he asked, frowning.  “I thought you were an engineer.”

“Yes, I am an engineer . . . was an engineer.  Things change.  It’s time for a new direction.”  It was bad enough that he knew I was an
engineer.  If he knew I was also the project engineer for the company that built the BellaVilla complex, I think he’d be even more confused.

It took a few seconds for the light bulb above Billy’s head to blink on.  “Oh, I get it,” he said with a sympathetic nod.  “The economy.”  He dispensed with any further chitchat and got right to the heart of the interview.

“What do you consider your greatest strength?”

I can make a mean lasagna.  “The ability to follow directions.”

“What is your greatest weakness?”

Other than chocolate?  “Some people say I tend to be obsessive about work.”

And on it went.  After we’d played a few rounds, Billy finally hit on the one question I’d been dreading.  He paused to eye me over the top of his stylish glasses.  “If I hire you, Mrs. Ryan, what guarantee do I have that you won’t up and leave as soon as the economy bounces back?”

I sighed.  The deal breaker still lives.  I’d been asked this question so many times in interviews that I’d finally omitted any reference to
engineering on my résumé.  Just my luck that Billy knew the true score.

 “What can I say?  I dance with whoever brung me.  If that’s you, William, I’ll keep on dancing as long as the music keeps on playing.”

 “Huh?”

 I’d totally lost him.  “Look, it’s like this:  I’m committed for the long haul.  That means no jumping ship once I’m aboard.  Hire me
and you won’t have to worry about whether I’ll show up every day, or whether I’ll be on time.  I won’t drink on the job, call in sick when I’m not, fight with my co-workers, fudge my timecard hours, or steal the paperclips.  I’ll be a reliable, responsible, and respectful employee who’ll consistently exceed expectations.  In short, you can count on me.”

 When Billy didn’t say anything for a moment, I was afraid I’d laid it on way too thick.  Then he burst out laughing.  “In other words,” he said, “you’ll kiss our collective ass?”

“Absolutely,” I said, smiling a bit sheepishly.

 “Congratulations,” he said, offering his hand.  “And welcome to BellaVilla.”

Tea and whiskey rule.