by Elaine Viets
Helen grabbed her wallet, the airbill and her house keys.
“Here,” she said to the driver.
Then she threw herself on the Ferrari. She was spreadeagled on the long, slanting hood, holding her door key pointed like a dagger over the perfect red paint job.
“My Ferrari,” Joe screamed. “Don’t hurt my car, you crazy bitch.”
“Shoot the driver and I’ll rip a strip right off the car hood,” she said. “Shoot me, and you’ll put a bullet through the engine. You’ll kill two hundred thousand dollars worth of car.”
“It’s four hundred ten thousand dollars,” he said. “There are only one hundred twenty Barchettas in the U.S.”
The FedEx driver was edging toward the truck. She could hear him on his cell phone, “Possible domestic dispute. The guy’s got a gun.”
She touched the key to the paint job, ready to scrape it down the shiny hood.
“Don’t!” Joe howled, as if she was about to gut his first-born. “Don’t hurt it.”
“Then put the gun away, and get out of here,” Helen said.
She heard the sirens, and so did Joe. He ran for the Ferrari. He didn’t even open the door. He just jumped in. The powerful V-12 engine rumbled into life. Helen could feel it vibrating under her. She also realized she was still on the hood. Joe shifted the Ferrari into reverse, swung out into the parking lot, and Helen slid off the hood. Her key left an inch-wide gouge the whole length of the hood, down to the yellow prancing horse emblem.
“Aggghhhhh,” Joe screamed in agony, but kept driving.
The FedEx driver was yelling into the cell phone, “He’s escaping. It’s a red Ferrari. I think it’s heading west on Broward toward I-95. He’s got a gun. He’s armed and dangerous. He nearly ran over a woman.”
The driver turned to her. “Are you OK, ma’am? Do you need an ambulance?”
“No, I feel terrific,” Helen said. She remembered how her key had dug into the Ferrari and left that long brutal track down the hood. She hadn’t felt so good since she took a crowbar to Rob’s SUV.
“I can get that package for you now,” the driver said.
“No, thanks,” Helen said. “I definitely want to send it.”
Chapter 36
Joe was clocked going one hundred eighty miles an hour on I-95.
He had to slow down dramatically when he encountered a white Lincoln Continental driven by Mrs. Geraldine Fitzhammer, age seventy-six. Mrs. Fitzhammer was going forty-five in the fast lane.
Joe’s Ferrari glanced off her rear bumper and went spinning into the concrete highway divider. He suffered two broken legs, a broken wrist, and a broken collarbone in the collision. Unfortunately for Joe, he remained conscious.
Mrs. Fitzhammer was unhurt but mad as hell. Her late husband’s 1983 Lincoln did not have a scratch on it until Joe clipped it. Mrs. Fitzhammer was so angry at this desecration of her husband’s memory that she returned to her car and retrieved the foam box containing the remains of her early-bird special. Joe was hit with potatoes lyonnaise, half a grouper filet, broccoli florets, and a buttered Pepperidge Farm roll, then beaten with the box.
Mrs. Fitzhammer did not stop until the police arrived on the scene. She was delighted when Joe was arrested. She wanted the police to handcuff him, despite the broken wrist.
Brittney saw the Ferrari chase on TV. She was arrested later that evening at the Miami airport, boarding a flight for Rio. Brittney had always admired Brazil. It had such innovative plastic surgeons. Brittney might have made it to Rio, if she hadn’t taken time to pack twenty-two pieces of Fendi luggage, including a cat carrier.
Detective Karen Grace called Helen to tell her about Brittney’s arrest. “What happened to the cat?” Helen said.
“I’m trying to figure out what to do with Thumbs,” Detective Grace said. “Brittney doesn’t have any family. I can’t take him home. My cat would throw a fit. I’ll probably take him to the Humane Society.”
“I’ll take him,” Helen said.
“What if Brittney wants her cat back?”
“Then I’ll give him back.” But Helen was sure Brittney would not be free for a long time.
Helen did not allow Thumbs to roam free, but she did walk him on a leash by the pool every night. Since pets were not allowed at the Coronado, Margery now had to ignore Pete and Thumbs. The cat and the parrot ignored each other when Thumbs went for his nightly stroll by the pool.
He’d been at the Coronado for a week when the six-toed cat was bitten by a spider. His huge paw swelled to twice its size. Peggy drove Helen and Thumbs to the emergency animal hospital. Helen had always thought that small animal doctors looked rather like small animals. But Dr. Richard Petton looked like a shaggy Mel Gibson.
Helen was impressed with the way Dr. Rich gently handled the hurt, angry cat. “Easy, big guy, we’re just trying to find out what’s wrong here,” he said, as he examined the grossly swollen paw. When Thumbs lashed out, the vet deftly dodged the slashing claws. Helen noticed Dr. Rich was not wearing a wedding ring but that did not always mean anything in South Florida.
Dr. Rich called the next day to check on Thumbs’ progress. That’s when he asked Helen out to dinner for Saturday night.
“We’ll go Dutch,” Helen said warily.
“No, my treat,” he said. “I asked you out.”
Rich and Helen had a lovely dinner and a walk on the moonlit beach. They talked and talked, until he kissed her in the silvery light by the soft ocean. The evening went so well, Helen asked him out Wednesday night—her treat. That one went even better. They had another date for tonight.
“So how was your evening with Dr. Rich?” Sarah asked. They were at Jaxson’s Ice Cream Parlor in Dania. Helen had won the bet and was about to claim her prize, a hot fudge sundae. Sarah swore it was nirvana on a spoon. Sarah was wearing something turquoise and gauzy that set off her curly brown hair. On her wrist was a silver bracelet with an oval turquoise stone. Sarah had plump, pretty hands, and her jewelry showed them off.
“We’re going out again tonight,” Helen said.
“And this is your second date?”
“Third,” Helen said. She thought of Rich’s kisses, and a pleasant little sizzle zapped all other thoughts.
“Earth to Helen,” Sarah said.
Helen blushed and quickly changed the subject. “So this place has been around awhile?”
“Since 1956. That’s ancient for South Florida. They make their own ice cream.” The walls were an appealing jumble of old license plates, odd gadgets, and antique ads. Helen watched the man behind the counter put the finishing touches on her hot fudge sundae. He was huge, and his skin was as dark and lustrous as the hot fudge he ladled out. Good. Helen did not trust a thin man in an ice-cream parlor.
A waitress in a candy-striped outfit brought the towering creations. Each was topped with a thunderhead of whipped cream and had a side dish of extra hot fudge.
“I’ll never eat all this,” Helen said.
“Wanna bet?” Sarah said. “And since we’re discussing betting, I should say congratulations. You were right. I was wrong. Brittney killed Christina.”
“Didn’t your carjacking investigation go anywhere?”
“It hit a dead end, pardon the pun. What do you hear from the police?”
“Not much more than you’re reading in the paper,” Helen said. “You know Joe’s going to testify against Brittney.”
“I thought they had such a hot romance.”
“They did. But now Joe is looking at a long date in the federal pen for illegal immigrant smuggling. He decided to save his one true love—himself.
“By the way, Joe claims Christina took those pictures of Brittney whacking her fiancé with a champagne bottle, so I guessed right. Joe told the police that she stood on the deck and kept shooting photos while Brittney bashed the guy. Christina bragged to Joe about how she didn’t flinch, despite the blood.”
Sarah winced. “That’s cold.”
“I think it ru
“How’s the store?”
“Not good,” Helen said. “With Christina’s murder, plus Joe’s illegal immigrant and drug mess, we’re up to our hem-lines in law enforcement. You never know when some cop or federal agent will walk in.”
“That must make the boyfriends of Juliana’s regulars nervous,” Sarah said.
“Sales are way down. Ever since Venetia’s child-sex scandal broke, we haven’t had any serious customers, just sightseers in flip-flops. Did you hear the press conference Venetia’s lawyer gave? He said she did those terrible things because she was on Christina’s pills.”
“Ouch,” Sarah said. “Look, I don’t want to make you feel worse, but do you listen to the Crazy Cracker Morning Show? He called Juliana’s the Little Dress Shop of Horrors. Said it had a real exclusive clientele. Only murderers, child molesters, and pill poppers were allowed through the green door.”
“We can’t survive that kind of publicity. Juliana’s is done for,” Helen said.
“I saw Tara on TV a couple of times, but you’ve never been interviewed. How did you avoid that?”
“It wasn’t easy. The reporters were camped in front of Juliana’s for a week. Each morning, I went inside wearing dark glasses and a headscarf and carrying a bag of cleaning supplies. I told the reporters: ‘No spik English.’ ”
“And they believed you?”
“Sure. I have dark hair.”
“I love it. How’s your job search going?”
“It’s not. I can’t find a thing. It doesn’t help when I tell them where I work.”
“Helen, I don’t want to nag, but I can get you a good job at a decent company.”
Helen couldn’t accept Sarah’s generous offer. She had to stay out of corporate computers. Rob would find her.
“The cat DNA test results came back yesterday,” she said, switching subjects with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Sarah, deep into her hot fudge, did not seem to notice.
“The tests proved the cat hair found on Christina’s body, the cat hair in her penthouse, and the cat at Brittney’s home were the same animal. Sunnysea Beach is taking credit for the whole thing. They’re bragging about their pioneering investigative techniques.”
“But it was your idea,” Sarah said.
“I don’t care. They’re picking up the bill for the DNA test. Two tests, actually, since I got the first round of cat DNA without a warrant. They want a second test that will stand up in court.”
“That is good news.”
You don’t know how good, Helen thought. She’d planned to pay for that DNA test out of the twenty-five-thousand-dollar reward for finding Christina’s killer. But she could not claim the money. The merchants association insisted on media interviews, including USA Today. Helen could not risk nationwide publicity. Her ex, Rob, or the court might find her. So she turned down the reward. It was the price she had to pay to stay in South Florida.
Helen could not suppress a sigh as she thought of the lost money.
“See, I thought you’d like Jaxson’s,” Sarah said. She thought Helen was sighing in delight over her sundae. Helen realized she was scraping the last of the fudge out of the side dish. She’d eaten the whole thing.
“That was a terrific lunch,” Helen said. “I’m glad we skipped the sandwiches and went straight for the sundaes. No point wasting good stomach space on ordinary food. Now I have to go back to work. Just drop me off at Federal Highway and Broward. I need the walk.”
It was nearly one o’clock on a sunny winter afternoon. Flowers bloomed. Palm trees rustled like taffeta dresses. Passersby looked trim and chic. Even the signs in the store windows were attractive. Especially the one in the window of Page Turners bookstore. It said, “HELP WANTED. Immediate openings for booksellers.”
Helen went straight in and asked for the manager. Gayle was small and blonde and dressed in black, like a Juliana’s regular, but she wore Doc Martens, a shoe that never trod Juliana’s carpet.
Helen breathed in the smell of hardbacks and reveled in their colorful covers. She saw a sign announcing that Burt Plank would be signing there Saturday. A real bestselling mystery writer. No more empty-headed bimbos. Helen knew she would like it here. Then she remembered what the other manager said on her first interview at Page Turners.
“Will I have to clean toilets?” Helen said.
“Not if you work days,” Gayle said.
Helen could live with that, especially after Gayle went upstairs to talk to the owner about her special circumstances. She was back in ten minutes.
“He says he can pay you six seventy an hour in cash,” Gayle said. “That’s twenty cents less than our other booksellers make, but he says it’s really more because there are no taxes and withholding.” Gayle looked like she did not believe this. Helen said the money was fine. She wanted out of Juliana’s.
“When can you start? I’d like to begin training you today,” Gayle said.
“Let me make a phone call. I’ll be back in half an hour.”
Helen felt no loyalty to Mr. Roget, not after he’d docked her pay for the champagne. Dead-end job workers were powerless. They were yelled at by customers and abused by cheap bosses. Their hours were changed without notice. They were fired for no reason.
They had only one weapon, and Helen was about to use it. She marched into Juliana’s. “Tara,” she said. “I’m calling Mr. Roget. You’ll want to be here for this.”
Tara waited expectantly, rocking from one dainty foot to the other, while Mr. Roget’s secretary found their employer. Finally, he came on the line.
“I’m quitting,” Helen said. Tara’s eyebrows shot straight into her hair. She could hear Mr. Roget sputtering and protesting.
“When? Right now. What? You’ll give me a dollar-an-hour raise? No, thank you. Don’t worry about sending me this week’s pay. I’ll take the money out of the till before I leave. I’ll also take the money you docked me for the champagne. I know you weren’t serious. You couldn’t possibly be that cheap.”
Tara let out an audible snort.
“Stealing? I don’t think so. But you can report me if you wish, Mr. Roget. Of course, you’d have to explain our unusual financial arrangement.
“You want to speak to Tara? She’s right here, Mr. Roget.”
Helen handed the phone to Tara, who listened for a moment and said, “No way. I’m outta here, Old Tightwad. Get someone else to work for your miserable money.”
Tara hung up the phone, laughing. “Free at last,” she said.
Helen paid Tara her wages out of the till, then took the money she was owed, but not a penny more. She balanced the cash drawer and put it in the safe, turned off the lights, and turned on the alarm.
As she was locking the door, a skinny woman wearing a Harley T-shirt and missing two teeth rang Juliana’s doorbell. Two weeks ago, she would never have dared.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we’re closed,” Helen said. Then she shut the green door for the last time.
Epilogue
Juliana’s never reopened after Helen shut the green door.
The store is now a wood-fired pizza restaurant. The pizza place kept the painting of the notorious Juliana, bought at the Episcopalian rummage sale. The red-lipped, hard-eyed Juliana looks down disdainfully on chicken-and-artichoke pizza. The green door has been painted tomato red.
Helen still has Thumbs. Brittney wanted Maria to care for the cat. If Brittney had arranged for her slave-maid to have the proper papers, she might have had her wish. But Maria did not have a green card. She was too busy worrying about the INS to concern herself with a cat.
Helen is still dating Dr. Rich, although she is no longer sure whose turn it is to pay for dinner.
“Is this serious?” her landlady, Margery, asked Helen one evening as they sat by the Coronado pool.
Helen thought of their last night together and smiled. “It’s too early to tell,” she said. “But I may have found the one single man in South Florida who’s not a deadbeat, a drunk, or a druggie.”
“We’ll see,” Margery said. She still had not forgiven the male species for Daniel, the divinely handsome con man, not even when she read that he’d be going to prison for his frauds.
Helen lived in Daniel’s old apartment, 2C, for ten weeks while her home was repaired. Margery threw a party when Helen’s place was ready. Her apartment looked just the same, only better. The boomerang table and the Barcalounger were back in their usual places. The new bed did not squeak. Sitting on a turquoise chenille spread was a brown teddy bear with a slit in its back. This was indeed a stuffed bear. It was stuffed with a hundred dollars. Margery claimed not to know how the money got inside. Helen loved everything about her new place except the faint odor of smoke, but she only smelled it on rainy mornings.
Everyone at the Coronado attended Helen’s party except her neighbor Phil. Helen had tried to thank the invisible pothead several times, but he never answered the door. One night, she left double-stuffed Oreos and two quarts of Cherry Garcia ice cream packed in dry ice on the doorstep and yelled, “Thank you, Phil.”
The cookies and ice cream were gone in the morning.
Tara and Tiffany did not have to reveal their imperfect pasts to their boyfriends. Tara’s return to her old job-free life had one unfortunate side effect. Her neighbor, Mr. Rodriguez, suffered a mild heart attack when she stepped nude into the hot tub at three in the afternoon.
Tiffany with the bad eye job still has the same boyfriend, Burt, but she did get a new pool service.
Although the hit man who killed Desiree Easlee was never found, Niki was arrested for her murder. Under Florida law, the person who joins in a crime is as guilty as the one who pulls the trigger. Niki was charged with first-degree murder and conspiracy to commit first-degree murder.
Her husband, Jimmy the Shirt, hired the best criminal defense attorney in Fort Lauderdale. He got Niki out on bond. Jimmy put up the money. At a press conference, he said his lovely wife could not possibly be guilty of this terrible crime, and he stood behind her one hundred percent.
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