by Elaine Viets
“I’m here for my sister Leanne’s last paycheck,” the woman said, her jaw thrust out like a bulldog’s. “And don’t try to deny it. I’ve been through her books and I know she’s owed one more.”
“I’m sorry, but we have no one named Leanne working here,” Helen said, more politely than the woman deserved.
“Oh, yes, you do. You just don’t know her God-given name. She called herself Christina. She liked that phoney foreign froufrou. Our parents gave us honest, down-to-earth names, Leanne and Lorraine, but Leanne’s name wasn’t good enough for her. Arkadelphia wasn’t good enough, either. She left home more than twenty years ago. Said we were hicks.” From the set of the woman’s jaw, the insult still rankled. “Then she went and took an Eye-talian name instead.”
“Oh, of course, you’re Christina’s sister, Lorraine,” Helen said, and as soon as she said it, she saw the woman had Christina’s eyes, without her clever makeup, and her pale skin, powdered into flour whiteness. Her thin lips could have used some collagen.
“The police said you would be in town,” Helen said. “I am so sorry. We’re all in shock. Christina’s death was so sudden, so unexpected.”
“I always expected it,” Lorraine said. “My sister was a sinful woman. She lived a life of shame and degradation, and God struck her down so she would no longer infect the righteous.”
Tara gasped. Helen felt a sudden rebellious urge to defend Christina. “I think you are mistaken, Lorraine. Christina managed a fashionable store and was much loved by her clientele. Many of them were her friends.”
“Whores and kept women,” Lorraine said, looking directly at Tara, “who use their bodies for shameless display and immorality.” Tara backed into a rack of blouses until they almost covered her bare middle.
“I said to Leanne, maybe I don’t have your looks, but I have something more lasting, my immortal soul.”
“Yes, well, I’m sure in that case that you won’t want to stay here any longer than necessary,” Helen said frostily. “You wouldn’t want to jeopardize it. Let me get Christina’s check out of the safe.”
Helen came back with the check and a release form. Just because she could, Helen made Lorraine show her driver’s license for identification. She saw the birth date. Lorraine was forty-three, only four years older than Christina, but she could have been her mother.
This woman is cold, Helen thought. She finds out her sister is dead, and by the next morning, she has already counted her money and wants her last paycheck.
Lorraine’s black purse swallowed the check and snapped shut. “It’s not for me,” she said, as if she could read Helen’s mind. “This money will be used for the Lord’s work.”
“Will there be a memorial service for Christina here in Florida?”
“No, I am taking my sister away from this Sodom and Gomorrah. She will be buried back home where she belongs.” Then the woman’s mouth snapped shut, remarkably like her purse, and she marched out.
Tara was weeping and wiping her runny mascara on the back of her hands. Helen handed her a tissue. “Poor Christina,” Tara said. “Going back to Arkadelphia. She wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like that!”
Helen thought Tara’s statement made a weird kind of sense. “Reminds me of what Mark Twain said about heaven for climate, hell for society.”
“I see why she never mentioned her sister,” Tara said. “I’d want to forget I was related to that, too.”
In her mind, Helen saw Christina again, slender, smart, and so sophisticated. Helen understood at last why Juliana’s green door had a lock. Christina was not barring all those nameless women with bad T-shirts and cheap shoes. She was keeping out one person only, her terrible sister.
She had lost that battle. Lorraine was taking Christina home—a fate worse than death.
Chapter 19
It was still dark at five-ten in the morning. Helen heard the sound she’d been waiting for, the sliding doors of the panel truck.
She slipped on her cutoffs and sandals and ran outside into the warm black morning. The Coronado apartments were silent. One light was glowing yellow in Margery’s kitchen. Her landlady seemed to get by on about three hours sleep.
Helen crunched out to the newspaper box in front of the Coronado. She saw the red tail lights of the departing delivery truck. Helen bought a morning paper, slipping the coins in the yellow metal box with trembling fingers. Her heart was pounding, and her mouth was dry with fear. Her whole future was wrapped in a thirty-five-cent paper.
She spread the paper out on her coffee table. Nothing on the front page. Nothing in the entire front section. She began to breathe easier. Then, when she went through the whole paper, fear gripped her again. There was no story. Helen would have to do this again tomorrow and the day after that.
She took a deep breath, then went through the paper once more, slowly this time. She saw the small headline on page 13A: “Police ID Biscayne Bay Body.”
The story began, “The body found in Biscayne Bay Friday has been identified as Christina Smithson, 39, manager of Juliana’s dress shop, a longtime retail fixture on Las Olas, police sources said.”
The article repeated the awful details but added one thing new. “The murder is believed to have taken place at Ms. Smithson’s luxury condo in Sunnysea Beach.”
So that’s where she died, Helen thought. At home, in a building with a burly doorman and a security system.
She read on. “Sunnysea Beach homicide detectives are conducting the investigation with the assistance of Miami Palms police.” That meant Crockett and Tubbs were no longer running the investigation.
“The Downtowner Merchants Association has announced a $25,000 reward for anyone who has information leading to the arrest and conviction of the person or persons who killed Ms. Smithson. Anyone with information is requested to contact Sunnysea Homicide Det. Sgt. Dwight Hansel at 954-555-1252.”
Helen’s name was nowhere in the story. She nearly cried with relief. She was safe. The TV stations did not have any video of the barrel being pulled from Biscayne Bay, so they weren’t interested in Christina’s story.
Christina’s murder would not be a big story. Helen’s name would not be in the newspaper. The court and her ex Rob would not find her. She would not have to go home to St. Louis. Helen felt relieved and guilty at the same time. Christina had been buried twice, once in Arkadelphia and now in the newspaper.
The twenty-five-thousand-dollar reward was a sad commentary, Helen thought. The local merchants association cared more about Christina than her own sister did. Lorraine was giving her nothing, not even a Florida memorial service.
When Helen realized how many people read that little news story, she was even more relieved her name was not in it. At Juliana’s, the phone rang nonstop that Tuesday. Christina’s faithful customers wanted to talk about her terrible death. Some were sobbing. Some wanted to know about funeral arrangements. Others wanted to make sure that Juliana’s was staying open.
“Yes. The owner, Mr. Roget, said Christina would want it that way,” Helen said.
“Thank God. I have a party Saturday night,” said the tongue-pierced Tiffany, who had finally lost her lisp. “I need a new dress. It’s a matter of life and death.” But not Christina’s life—or her death, Helen thought.
She’d barely hung up when the phone rang again.
“Helen, are you OK?” It was Sarah, the woman judged too fat for Juliana’s. “I saw the article in the newspaper. The one about Christina. I’m so sorry. You must be worn to a frazzle. Let me take you to lunch today. Can you get away for half an hour? I’m working downtown.”
Helen and Sarah ordered chicken crepes at an outdoor restaurant on Las Olas. The bright flowers, green plants, and pretty wrought iron offered a soothing, sheltered spot to discuss Christina’s murder.
“Do the police know Christina was skimming money and selling drugs?” Sarah asked, mopping up béchamel sauce with a forkful of crepe.
“I didn’t say anything to
them,” Helen told her.
“Why not?”
“Because it was worse than I told you,” Helen said. “I think she also arranged a murder for hire.”
Sarah’s crepe landed with a splat on her silk jacket and skidded down her suit. The alert waitress brought Sarah a glass of club soda, and she scrubbed at the stain with her napkin.
When Sarah could talk seriously again, she lowered her voice. “Christina arranged a murder? You heard this and did nothing?”
Helen felt another stab of guilt. “I didn’t think I could go to the police. I wasn’t sure. I didn’t know the woman’s name or where she lived. I had no proof, just what I’d overheard, and I didn’t even hear the whole conversation. I could have been wrong.”
“But you weren’t,” Sarah said. Helen abandoned her crepe. She’d lost her appetite.
“Helen, you’ve got to go to the police.”
“I don’t want my name in the paper,” Helen said.
“The best way to get your name in the paper is if the police find out you’ve been holding back information. You’ll look guilty. Come forward now, and you still look like a concerned citizen.”
“But what if the police never find out what Christina was doing?”
“Did those detectives look stupid?”
“No. They were very smart.”
“Then they’ll find out. Besides, it’s the right thing to do.”
Something in that corny phrase appealed to Helen’s Midwestern morality. Maybe it was because Sarah looked so earnest, so honest, she made Helen want to believe in truth, justice, and the American way.
“You’re right,” Helen said. “I’ll do it. I’ll call the Miami Palms police.”
“The paper says the investigation is being handled in Sunnysea. That’s the scene of the murder.”
“Then I’ll call Sunnysea when I get back.”
“Good. And as your reward for being a solid citizen, we’ll go out for margaritas after work. Let’s go some place close. Maybe Himmarshee Village. I’ll come by about six.”
The relief was exhilarating. Helen felt as if a backpack full of rocks had been lifted from her shoulders. As soon as she returned to Juliana’s, she called the name she saw in the paper, Detective Sergeant Dwight Hansel.
And so, Helen made the biggest mistake since she walked down the aisle with Rob.
Chapter 20
“Are you telling us this broad was running drugs, skimming money, and arranging murders?” Detective Dwight Hansel said.
“Yes, I am,” Helen said. And I’m making a hash of it, she thought.
Hansel and his partner, Detective Karen Grace, were at Juliana’s within an hour after her call. As soon as Helen saw the tall, loudmouthed Hansel swagger in the door, she knew she was in trouble. She could tell where he spent most of his time. Those massive shoulders and muscled arms were made in the gym. That beer gut came from even longer hours on a bar stool.
His partner, Karen Grace, had strawberry blonde hair and a figure Helen’s grandmother would have called buxom. She also had cops’ eyes and a way of walking that said “Don’t mess with me.”
Helen told the two homicide detectives the whole story. Hansel made it clear he didn’t believe Helen. “Did you tell the store owner this woman was stealing from him?” he said.
“No,” Helen said. “I couldn’t prove anything. The shipping charge could have been an addition error.”
Helen was sweating now. What if Mr. Roget found out Christina had been skimming? He’d fire Helen for not telling him. It would take weeks to find another job. Helen would fall behind in her bills and never catch up. She’d have to leave the Coronado. With every stupid sentence, Helen saw another piece of her new life slipping away.
“And the drugs? Why didn’t you say something about them to Mr. Roget or the police?” Hansel said.
“Uh,” Helen said.
“Didn’t you say you found Ecstasy, and this Christina sold it to a customer?”
“I wasn’t sure. Someone else could have dropped it.”
“Really? You got a lot of people dropping drugs in here?”
“No. I’d never seen any before.”
Helen felt like she was twisted into a pretzel. She couldn’t think straight. Hansel had been questioning her for what seemed like hours, asking the same things over and over.
“What did you do when you overheard this so-called murder being planned?” Hansel said.
“I wasn’t sure it was a murder. I didn’t know the victim’s name. There was no way I could find her.”
“You could have come to us. We would have known how to get in touch with Jimmy the Shirt. That’s how you find his new girlfriend.”
Helen felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. He’s right, she thought. I let a woman die because I did nothing. But what if she’d gone to someone like Dwight Hansel? Would he have taken her seriously or shrugged her off as a crazy woman? Helen knew the answer.
“The murderer had no trouble finding Desiree Easlee,” he said. “She is dead. We know that much is true. How did you find out about her murder?”
“I saw it on TV,” Helen said. She could feel the anger building, the same anger that got her in so much trouble in court. Maybe she’d made a mistake. But she was trying to do the right thing now, and this was what she got.
“And did you tell the police?”
Detective Hansel sounded so snide, so sneery. Just like that sanctimonious judge in St. Louis. Something snapped in Helen. “No, because I knew I’d encounter someone like you,” she said.
“Watch it, lady. I can haul you in as a material witness,” Hansel said. Helen was pretty sure he could not do that. But she was also sure he could make her life miserable. In fact, he was already doing that.
“So what we have here is a criminal mastermind with fake tits?” Hansel said, sarcastically.
“Implants don’t lower a woman’s IQ, detective—just a man’s,” Helen said. His partner, Karen Grace, snorted. “Christina was smart and beautiful. How do you think she got that million-dollar ocean-view penthouse?”
“On her back,” Hansel said.
“Not at almost forty, detective. You’d better investigate a little better.”
“I apologize for my partner. He can be insensitive,” Detective Grace said.
“Hey, what is this?” Dwight Hansel said. He sounded indignant, but they might have been playing good cop, bad cop. Helen didn’t care. She wanted them to leave.
“We drive all the way over here, and you tell this wild story,” Hansel said. “We haven’t found anything to support it: no drugs in the woman’s condo. No shoeboxes full of cash in her closet. Yes, she had more money than a store manager should, but her sister says she received a nice cash gift from an aunt in Arkansas. A sort of off-the-books legacy before the old lady died. We’re not the IRS. We don’t care about that. Her sister says this Christina was smart about investing and turned it into a lot of money. And we did find evidence that she knew her way around the stock market.”
Lorraine made up that story, Helen thought. Christina’s older, colder sister was greedy. Helen wondered if Lorraine had found the cash and hauled it home with Christina’s body. Lorraine concocted the story of the legacy, so the police wouldn’t look too closely at Christina’s bank account. Lorraine wanted to inherit all of her dead sister’s money, legal or not.
But Helen didn’t say any of that. Who would Hansel believe: salt of the earth Lorraine or Helen with her wild tale of drugs and murder at a dress shop?
“Did you find Christina’s cat?” she asked instead.
“Cat? There was no sign of one,” Detective Grace said.
“We didn’t find no cat,” Hansel added.
“She had a cat named Thumbs. It had six toes.”
“She must have given it away,” Hansel said.
“She’d never do that,” Helen said. “Christina loved that cat. Maybe Thumbs ran away when the police opened the door.”
“And took its
litter box?” Grace said. “I’m telling you we found no sign of a cat. No toys, no litter box, no food or bowls. Nothing.”
“Any cat hair?”
“Some. She worked in a public place. She could have brought those hairs home with her. Her condo was clean. Nothing was out of place, except in one room.”
“What was in there?”
Hansel cut in. “Can’t tell you. It’s part of an ongoing investigation.”
“Did you find any purses in her condo or her car? She took a box of expensive evening purses with her when she left that last Saturday,” Helen said.
There were no purses. There was no cat.
When the two detectives finally left, Helen felt beat up. She was mad at herself and snippy with Sarah when she showed up at the store. “You got me into this, Dudley Do-Right,” she said.
“I still think it’s better that you went to the police,” Sarah insisted, stubbornly. “What if Hansel found out that information on his own?”
“He’s too dumb to find anything but the next brew.”
“And his partner? Is she dumb, too?”
“No,” Helen said. “She didn’t talk much, but she didn’t seem stupid.”
“Then you did the right thing,” Sarah said.
But Helen didn’t think so. She hardly spoke as they walked around the old Himmarshee Village. It was old for Fort Lauderdale, anyway. The museum buildings hailed from about 1905. The commercial buildings were from the 1920s. Helen could find blocks of buildings much older in St. Louis, but Florida was newly hatched.
A Florida historical district was not a sober affair. Most of the buildings were bars and restaurants, with plenty of beer and live bands. Sarah and Helen stopped at a bar and had margaritas. Helen liked the salty-sweet taste, but she was restless sitting in the dark bar. Sarah didn’t want to sit long, either. They saw huge crowds streaming toward Sammy’s Good Tyme Saloon.
Helen and Sarah followed the crowd. Every inch of Sammy’s was packed. People were hanging off the upstairs decks, sitting on the balconies and staircases. More were crowding the open first-floor windows, watching the partyers lucky enough to get inside. Sammy’s set up auxiliary bars at the entrance, selling beer, wine, and bottled water to those who couldn’t get in.