by Elaine Viets
The group inside looked even more forlorn. Gayle the manager was dressed in her usual black, but today it was not a fashion statement. It was an undertaker’s outfit. Gayle didn’t actually say the store was closing. But even the youngest bookseller, Denny, figured it out.
“We’re fucked,” he whispered to Helen. “We’re going to wind up shoveling fries at Mickey D’s.”
“If we’re lucky,” Helen said.
Albert glared at them, and they lapsed into guilty silence.
“So, to recap before we open this morning.” Gayle began counting on her fingers. “One, no new stock will be delivered. We will not be getting any new books until further notice.
“Two, we will not be receiving any more new magazines.” Brad’s sharp face went red with anger. The magazines were his domain. He managed the section, fussed over the stock, worried about the snowfall of subscription cards. Now he was demoted to an ordinary bookseller.
“Three, staff hours will remain reduced.
“Four, there will be no new hires, even if someone quits.
“And five, if customers ask if the store is closing, the answer is no.”
Helen didn’t believe that. In her experience, business declines were rarely reversed. Page Turners was on a downward slide. They were enforcing Page’s destructive last decisions and had made more bad ones. She had to find another job.
Albert stood there, shell-shocked. He did not ask if the store was closing. Even his optimism was dead. The starch had gone out of his white shirt, and his tie was spotted. Helen heard him muttering, “At my age, what am I going to do?”
When she went to the break room to get her name tag, Denny was putting on his café apron. His normally curly auburn hair stuck out in porcupine spikes. His innocent face was troubled.
“Here’s what I don’t get,” he said. “We have people lining up to buy books. Look at the crowd waiting for us to open. It will be like that all day. In the café, I’ll be cranking out five-dollar coffee drinks and selling four-buck slices of cake nonstop. But they’re acting like the store is a loser. Where’s the money going—up someone’s nose?”
Maybe once upon a time, when Page and Peggy romped in the upper room. But Page had stopped using coke when he’d married Astrid. Gayle said the late owner was all about money. Where did the store’s money flow? Was it an underground river, diverted to some unknown source? And what—if anything—did it have to do with the penniless Peggy?
Gayle opened Helen’s cash register, unlocked the doors, and greeted the customers with her usual smile. But they were not fooled. They knew Page Turners was in trouble.
A skinny elderly man who smelled of cigar smoke and solitary soup lunches waved a newspaper clipping in Helen’s face. “Why don’t you have that book? It’s on the New York Times best-seller list.” He pointed out its place on the list, as if that could make her produce it.
“Our shipment was delayed,” Helen lied.
“You’re supposed to be a bookstore,” he said. “Where are your books?” He threw the clipping on the counter and stormed out.
Behind him was an unhappy old hippie. His bald dome tapered off into a pony tail. His red eyes were dilated from weed. “Don’t you have more of these music books? That’s a pathetic selection, man.” The Grateful Dead biography he handed Helen was well thumbed and sticky with spilled whipped-cream coffee.
“That’s our only copy, sir. But I can check with the manager. We could sell it to you for ten percent off.”
“I can’t give this as a gift,” he said, leaving the stained book on the counter next to the newspaper clipping. “Hey, no prob. I’ll go to one of the chains. I just wanted to support your store.”
Brad mourned the fact that the floors were no longer strewn with subscription cards. “The new magazines come out this week,” he said. “These magazines are so old all the cards have fallen out. That People magazine story on J.Lo is four weeks old. I have to get my news about her on the Internet.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“You can’t take a computer into the bathroom,” Denny said as he passed by with a tray of abandoned café plates and cups.
Brad glared at him. “It’s not like that,” he said. “J.Lo is a lovely person. The Internet runs the same four photos of her.”
The only bright spot in Helen’s depressing day was when Sarah walked in the door. Her friend wore a long cool dress the color of lemon sherbet. A shell cameo bracelet showed off her plump, pretty arm.
“When do you get off work?” she said.
“Half an hour. I’m on a shortened schedule. Everyone’s hours were cut back.”
“Then you need some serious cheering up. I’ll be waiting in the café.”
It was two o’clock when Helen finally balanced her cash drawer. Sarah was drinking something frothy with whipped cream. “Come on,” she said. “There’s still time to make it.”
“Make what?” Helen said.
“Butterfly World. It’s better than Valium.”
“Is that the butterfly preserve in Coconut Creek? How much is admission?”
“About fifteen dollars,” Sarah said.
Fifteen dollars was pocket change in Helen’s old life. Now she didn’t have the money, unless she wanted to skip meals. She’d learned to judge costs by how long she had to stand behind a counter. A Butterfly World ticket was two and a half hours on her feet.
“I can’t go,” Helen said. “I can’t afford it.”
“I’ll pay for your ticket.”
“I’m not a charity case,” Helen said huffily.
“So pay me off at a buck a week. Consider it an investment in your mental health.”
The world looked different riding high in Sarah’s luxurious Range Rover. She’d bought it with the proceeds of some shrewd investments. Sarah was smart, no doubt about it. Which was why Helen downplayed the possibility of the bookstore’s closing. Sarah wanted Helen to quit her dead-end job and get something that used her number-crunching talents. Helen couldn’t tell her friend why she needed to steer clear of corporate and government computers. So Sarah delicately probed and Helen dodged her questions on the interminable trip.
The long drive to Butterfly World was made longer when they got stuck behind a car with a Quebec license plate, going twenty miles under the speed limit. “Can he go any slower? Why do Canadians drive like they’re on ice?” Sarah grumbled.
“Why are South Floridians so prejudiced against Canadians?” Helen said.
“Because they’re slow on the road and slower to pull out their wallets. You should see the anti-Canadian graffiti on my supermarket walls: ‘Canadians, give us your money or go home.’”
“Every country has cheapskates,” Helen said.
“You ever met a Canadian big spender?”
Fortunately, Helen didn’t have to answer. They’d arrived at Butterfly World.
Helen looked at the names of the buildings on the tour map. “Isn’t this a little overdone? The Paradise Adventure Aviary. What kind of adventures can you have in an enclosed building?”
“You’ll see,” Sarah said. “Go inside.”
Helen stood in the entrance, dazzled. She’d never seen so many butterflies. There were hundreds. No, thousands. A big white butterfly looked like a piece of flying lace. A huge electric-blue one fluttered past, glowing in the sunlight. A flock of butterflies with camouflage owl eyes on their giant brown wings feasted on bananas.
Everywhere she turned was another strange and beautiful sight. An orange-and-brown moth the size of a dinner plate clung to a green branch.
“You have a butterfly on your back,” Sarah said. “One of those electric-blue ones.”
“He’s wearing track shoes,” Helen said, as the butterfly walked up her back. “For something that looks so light, he sure stomps around.”
“You do attract the good-looking ones,” Sarah said.
“Yeah,” she said. “But they take off in a hurry.” The blue butterfly was suddenly gon
e.
Mozart played softly in the background. A waterfall tumbled into a koi pond.
“This is so romantic,” Helen said. “Maybe I could take Gabe here.”
“Gabe?” Sarah said. “What happened to Rich?”
Helen pulled back her sleeve and showed her wrist. The bruises were now an ugly yellow-green.
Sarah looked shocked. “Good Lord. That’s assault. Did you report it to the police? No? Well, I hope you at least took pictures of those bruises. Are you getting a restraining order on that man?”
Helen didn’t want Rich around, but she wanted the police even less. Sarah was overreacting. “It was an accident. I don’t think he realized his own strength. I’m not worried about Rich. He won’t bother me. He hasn’t had the nerve to come near me since. If he does, I’ll sic Gabe on him.”
“You aren’t woman enough to do your own dirty work?” Sarah said disapprovingly. “Who is this Gabe and where did you meet him?”
Helen told the story of how they met, as a pair of sunshine-yellow butterflies fluttered nearby. Helen saw the pretty pair as an omen.
Sarah listened, a frown creasing her smooth skin, her brown eyes serious.
“Look, Helen, I’m glad you quit seeing Rich. I don’t think those bruises were an accident. You don’t want to date any man who would do that. But I wish you weren’t getting serious about this Gabe so soon.”
“I’m not serious. And Gabe is the exact opposite of Rich.”
“An even better reason to avoid him,” Sarah said. “Do you know anything about this man except he likes books?”
“That’s a good start,” Helen said.
“Who are his friends? Where’s his family? Where does he work?”
“He has his own contracting business,” Helen said, avoiding the other questions because she couldn’t answer them.
“Contractors can be one step above drug dealers in South Florida. Shouldn’t you at least check with the Better Business Bureau?”
“Why? He’s not remodeling my kitchen.”
“No? I bet he’s got some plans for your bedroom. Be careful, Helen. Rich did more than bruise your wrist. He hurt your pride. And you aren’t letting yourself heal. Instead, you’ve run straight to another man. You’ve spun some fantasies around this Gabe. You need time to find out if he’s the real thing before you jump into another relationship.”
Helen said nothing. Sarah had never met Gabe. Once she saw his handsome, open face and easy manner, she’d change her mind. Right now, Helen would change the subject.
“Look at that,” she said. “A butterfly lounge.”
A dozen red-and-black butterflies rested on a leaf the size of a hubcap. Butterflies with stained-glass wings sailed through dappled sunlight, sipped nectar, or sat on frilly purple orchids.
It was the last place to talk about murder. It was also the best place. Page Turner’s ugly life and death seemed far away. So did Peggy’s wretched jail cell. Helen recounted her sad visit to the county jail.
“Peggy is not telling me something,” Helen said.
“Maybe she did it,” Sarah said.
“No, Peggy said she didn’t kill him. I believe her.”
Helen was grateful that Sarah did not question her judgment, at least on this subject. If Helen thought her friend was innocent, that was good enough for Sarah.
“Then who did?”
“Just about everyone wanted Page dead. Look how many people hated him at the store. Even his own wife couldn’t stand the man. Astrid must have known about all his girlfriends and that locked video cabinet in his office.”
“Maybe they had some sort of arrangement, and he got sex elsewhere,” Sarah said. “Some rich people have marriages of convenience.”
“Astrid called him a son of a bitch the day he died. That’s an angry woman, not an indifferent one,” Helen said.
She looked up, startled, as a bright green leaf flew away. It was an emerald swallowtail. She was sprayed with mist.
“I think we’re in the rain forest,” Sarah said.
But nothing stopped Helen’s speculations, not even indoor rain. “There’s also Madame Muffy, the preppy psychic. There’s something off about her, but I can’t figure out what it is.”
“She was at the barbecue, right?” Sarah said. “She was weird. You offered her a soda and she made a big deal about not drinking caffeine and chemicals.”
“That’s it!” Helen said. Suddenly she knew what was wrong. “The day Page died, Astrid called the store and wanted to talk with him. He wasn’t answering his page. Rather than keep the owner’s wife on hold, I went to his office. I heard people arguing inside. I knocked on the door and guess who came out? Madame Muffy, carrying an open bottle of Bawls with a straw. Bawls is laced with caffeine. So what was Miss I Don’t Touch Chemicals doing with that bottle?”
“Sneaking a drink?” Sarah said. “I stayed at a hotel that had a fundamentalists’ convention. All day long, they condemned dancing, fornication, and alcohol. All night long, the bar was empty, but room service went crazy delivering booze to the rooms.”
Sarah was being unusually dense. Helen tried again. “I think Muffy spiked his drink with sleeping pills or poison. She couldn’t leave that bottle behind. The police would find it. So she took it with her. When Page left that last afternoon, he practically staggered out the door. I thought he was drunk. What if he was drugged?”
“OK, you saw Madame Muffy remove the evidence. Then what?”
“She’s the mysterious person who picked him up after Peggy brought him back to the store. Muffy called him on his cell phone and sweet-talked him. Or offered him something he wanted.”
“You’re not suggesting . . .”
“Madame Muffy wouldn’t be bad-looking if she took off those boring clothes.”
“Thanks for that mental picture,” Sarah said.
They sat on a wooden bench surrounded by palm fronds and flowers. Butterflies fluttered and darted in every direction. So did Helen’s thoughts.
“It would be easy for Muffy to lead a drugged Page Turner into Peggy’s apartment. The Coronado was closed for the tenting then, as Muffy well knew.”
“And how would Madame Muffy get into Peggy’s apartment without a key?”
“She could have crawled through an open window.”
“Could she fit through those little windows?”
“I don’t know. How about this? Madame Muffy lived at the Coronado. Peggy sat out by the pool most nights and left her house keys on the picnic table. Muffy could have made a wax impression of Peggy’s house key. Then she could have her own key made.”
“But why would Madame Muffy take Page to Peggy’s apartment?”
“To frame her. Everyone had heard the story about her threatening Page.”
“It’s plausible. Except the Coronado was pumped full of poison gas. How did Madame Muffy survive that? How did she open the locked door shield? And why did she want Page dead?”
“I don’t know. But I’m going to find out,” Helen said.
It was time to leave the butterfly paradise. Outside, they walked around a lake and a fragrant rose garden. There was a tiered fountain by the closed snack bar. Helen tossed in some coins.
“Throwing your money away?” Sarah teased.
“Wishing that Peggy would go free,” Helen said.
“You don’t get that by wishing,” Sarah said. “You get that by working. Madame Muffy is your first target.”
Chapter 15
Purple sunset clouds had drifted across the sky when Sarah dropped Helen off at the Coronado. She breathed in the warm evening air, an exotic mix of sweet night-blooming flowers, Cal’s boiled broccoli, and Phil’s burning pot.
The afternoon’s pretty butterflies were gone. Now leathery-winged creatures were flapping in her stomach, stirring up her anxieties. Helen had work to do if she was going to save her friend. She needed to get into Madame Muffy’s apartment, and Margery was the key. She had to persuade her landlady to do something
illegal.
Margery was slouched in the same chaise longue where Peggy used to sit, smoking and staring into space. Her shorts set was dappled with purple butterflies. Helen took that as a good omen.
“You look thoughtful,” Helen said.
“I’ve been thinking of wringing that blasted parrot’s neck,” Margery said. A rude squawk came from Margery’s home.
“He misses Peggy,” Helen said.
“We all do,” Margery said, and blew out a dragon tail of smoke. “I’ve tried to think how I could have headed off this disaster, but I didn’t see it coming. Now I can’t see how to fix it.”
“I do. I’m going to find Page Turner’s killer. I think Madame Muffy had something to do with his murder.”
“That’s the best news I’ve heard all week,” Margery said.
She sat up straight, suddenly bright-eyed and alert. “You really think we can pin it on that obnoxious preppy?”
Helen told her about Madame Muffy and the bottle of Bawls. Margery smoked and listened. Finally, she said what Helen hoped: “Muffy’s definitely mixed up in something. We need to take a look inside her apartment. I have a passkey. I can use it in case of emergency.”
“Is this an emergency?” Helen said.
“It’s a matter of life and death. I’m going to kill that parrot if he doesn’t shut up. I want Peggy cleared so she can take Pete home.”
Margery pointed to the lights in Madame Muffy’s apartment. “She’s home,” she said. “It’s only seven. We’ll wait and see if she goes out tonight.”
Margery smoked her way through half a pack by ten o’clock. Helen paced nervously by the pool until Margery said, “Sit down, will you? You’re wearing out the grass.”
Madame Muffy didn’t budge.
“What’s wrong with that young woman? She should be out enjoying herself,” Margery said. “I don’t think she’s going anywhere tonight. What time do you go into work tomorrow?”
“Eleven a.m.”
“That will work. Muffy usually leaves about eight-thirty and doesn’t come back until late afternoon, unless she has a palm-reading client. We’ll search her place at nine o’clock.”
The next morning was dark and humid. Thunder echoed across the sky. Lightning flashed in strobelike flares. The palm trees shook and shivered, and fat raindrops plopped on the concrete. Helen was soaked by the time she ran over to Margery’s place. She saw Pete’s cage still had the cover on. He was asleep and silent.