by Elaine Viets
“Why would she set up her employer?” the detective asked.
“Because Miguel Angel fired her.”
“So she framed him?” McNally said. “I don’t think so. People get fired every day.”
“But not from Miguel Angel’s salon,” Helen said. “That was a big deal. If she’d worked here a year, she could have gone anywhere. An Angel-trained stylist makes big bucks. He ruined her chances when he threw her out.”
McNally abruptly switched the topic by pulling out a photo of someone in a blue dress arguing with King Oden in his ugly tux. The two were in profile, facing each other, but the face of the person in the blue dress was hidden by long blond hair. She—or he—was shorter than the beefy Oden.
“Do you recognize the man in this photo?” McNally asked.
“That’s the dead groom, King Oden,” Helen said.
“Who’s wearing the blue dress?”
“I have no idea,” Helen said. “I didn’t know most of the wedding guests. I was there to work.”
“You should recognize your own employer.”
“Miguel Angel has never worn a blue dress to work,” Helen said. “He wears black pants and a black shirt with the sleeves rolled.”
“Cute,” McNally said. He sounded disgusted. He produced a second photo. This one was blurry and seemed to have been taken from a distance. “Why is Miguel Angel paying this man?”
He showed Helen a photo of Phoebe’s stringy-haired boyfriend, Ramon. Miguel Angel seemed to be handing him cash. Ramon was giving Miguel a fat, white paper bag.
Helen’s heart seized. Was Miguel Angel really buying drugs? No, that wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be. She looked around the salon wildly, as if the answer was written on the walls.
“Uh.” Helen took a deep breath, and hoped her voice was steady. “Miguel Angel likes Cuban sandwiches. Aren’t those grease spots on that bag?”
She pointed to some gray splotches that could have been grease or shadows. It was hard to tell. “That must be an old photo,” Helen said. “Miguel hasn’t bought anything from Ramon recently. He’s been on a diet. There’s no such thing as diet Cuban food.”
“Yeah, right,” Detective McNally said. She could tell he didn’t believe her.
Chapter 11
Helen felt like Detective McNally had removed her brain and pumped her skull full of air. She probably had the IQ of a carrot after his inquisition. She just wanted to sit and veg in the cool evening.
Helen couldn’t wait to get home to the Coronado Tropic Apartments, her peaceful haven. Night was falling. Her fiancé, Phil, would be out by the pool with a sundown beer and spicy chips. She missed him. She hadn’t seen him since breakfast, and he’d been ridiculously cheerful this morning, singing at six a.m. She’d snapped at him.
Helen owed him an apology. What the heck was the matter with her lately? Well, she’d make it up to him.
Her plans were dashed as soon as she walked in the backyard. To get to Phil, she’d have to pass her landlady, Margery, talking to two shirtless twenty-somethings. Damn. She was in no mood for polite conversation.
“Helen!” Margery said. “I want you to meet your new neighbors in 2C—Josh and Jason.”
Both were bare-chested, broad-shouldered, and tanned a tempting light brown. Josh had a goatee. Unless it was Jason. Their features were so bland, Helen couldn’t tell them apart. Both were sucking Coors from bottles, and Helen wondered how long they’d keep those flat bellies flat. The lads grunted greetings.
“I hear you have a special rate for senior citizens with your construction business,” Helen said. “That’s very nice.”
“Lotta geezers here,” Josh said. Unless it was Jason. The two vanished upstairs.
“So what do you think?” Margery asked, as she handed Helen a glass of white wine fresh from the box. Helen took a sip and then a long gulp.
“They’re okay, if you like dumb guys,” Helen said.
“But you don’t like them?” Margery said.
“How can I? They communicate in grunts. I’d get more conversation out of a chimp.”
“Well, at least they won’t cause problems in 2C,” Margery said.
“That remains to be seen,” Helen said. “So far, that apartment has been a den of thieves.”
“It’s hard to find good renters,” Margery said.
“Your record for finding bad ones for 2C is unblemished,” Helen said.
“Don’t be cruel to a poor old woman,” Margery said.
The landlady looked anything but old and helpless. Margery’s gauzy purple top fluttered in the evening breeze. Purple flip-flops trimmed with lavender crystals showed off her tangerine-painted toes. She was smoking a Marlboro. Margery surveyed Helen with her shrewd, old eyes. “I’ve got some things to do. I’ll leave you lovebirds alone.”
“Good,” Helen said, then realized that was rude. “Bye,” she added as she fell into Phil’s arms. He smelled like sandalwood soap with a slight hint of beer.
“I missed you, my Silver Fox,” she said, kissing his neck and face.
“Your what?” Phil said.
“That’s what the gossip magazines call a mature man who lets himself age naturally,” she said, ruffling his thick, silver-white hair.
“Thanks, I think,” Phil said.
“It means you don’t need Botox to cover the lines in your forehead or the laugh lines,” she said, kissing a laugh line.
“This just gets better and better,” Phil said.
“I’m sorry I barked at you this morning,” Helen said. “I’m not a morning person.”
“I sort of figured that out,” Phil said as he kissed her back. “Rough day?”
“You wouldn’t believe,” she said, nipping his ear. “You have cute ears. They’re covered with light fuzz, like summer peaches.”
“I don’t think my ears caused your problem today, though you can keep nibbling them if you want. I like how you apologize. What happened that has you so upset?”
“Detective McNally came to the salon and all but accused Miguel Angel of dealing drugs and killing King Oden. It was horrible.”
She kissed Phil lightly along the neck to his jawline.
“Did they arrest him yet?” Phil asked.
“No, but the police did a field test on some suspicious substance they found in his makeup case. Turned out to be heroin.”
“Ouch,” Phil said.
“Did I hurt you?” Helen asked.
“Not yet,” Phil said. “I was referring to the suspicious substance.”
“Miguel Angel doesn’t use drugs,” Helen said.
“Are you sure, Helen? Did you ever go to a party with the man?”
“No, we travel in different circles, as you well know. But he’s never used them around me. I think he was set up by Phoebe, his worthless assistant. She has a drug dealer boyfriend. Miguel Angel begged the police to test his hair for drugs.”
“That’s smart,” Phil said. “Hair will show drug use for about ninety days.”
“The cops are waiting for the test results. They should have them back in two or three days.”
“Mmm. You say the sweetest things.” Phil rubbed her taut neck. “Let’s finish this at my place.” He unbuttoned the top button on her blouse.
“I’d love to,” Helen said. “But let’s discuss how to make this legal first.”
“We’re consenting adults,” Phil said. “It is legal.”
“I meant our wedding plans,” Helen said, prying Phil’s hands off her.
“Why don’t you sit down with your wine, so I can think straight?” he said. “Do we really need to talk about the wedding again? I’ve already said whatever you want is fine with me.”
“But it’s not my wedding,” Helen said. “It’s our wedding. I bet you can’t tell me a single detail.”
“Sure, I can,” Phil said. “We’re not having a big church wedding. It’s going to be here at the Coronado. By the pool, right?”
“Close,” Helen said. �
��After Honey’s wedding day, I’d rather you didn’t stand too near the water.”
That memory made her queasy, and she took a comforting sip of wine. Then she took a gulp. “I’d like our wedding to be in Margery’s garden, under the palm trees, with box wine”—she patted the box next to her—“and party food. If that’s okay with you,” she added quickly.
“Can we have beer and spicy Doritos?” Phil said.
“Yes, and champagne for the toast, and some real wine with a cork in it, along with the box wine. And a wedding cake. What do you think of chocolate cake with white icing and sugar roses?”
“I like carrot cake,” Phil said.
“We can have that, too. I’ll get a caterer for the hors d’oeuvres. I’d like Peggy and my sister, Kathy, to be bridesmaids. My little niece Allison is probably too young to be a flower girl, and at ten—or is he eleven?—my nephew Tommy Junior is probably too old to be a ring bearer.”
“Boys that age don’t like hanging around weddings, wearing good clothes, anyway,” Phil said.
“Who do you want to be your best man?” Helen asked.
“I don’t know,” Phil said. “Maybe I could get a vice cop.”
“Nice touch,” Helen said.
“I gather you’re being sarcastic. What about Cal the Canadian? He’s in town, isn’t he?”
Helen thought that could be awkward. Cal lived at the Coronado, when he wasn’t in Canada so he could qualify for his national health insurance. He was notoriously cheap. Helen had dated him briefly, long before Phil, and he’d stiffed her for his share of the restaurant tabs.
“Maybe he’ll give me my share of those expensive dinners for a wedding present,” she said.
“The man lives on boiled Brussels sprouts and baked potatoes,” Phil said. “I doubt you’ll ever see your money.”
“Maybe having Cal in the wedding party is a way to mend fences,” she said, without much enthusiasm.
“Have we decided where we’re going to live?” Phil asked. “Your place or mine?”
“Both,” Helen said. “We only have a total of four rooms together.”
“Including two kitchens,” Phil said.
“We could make my kitchen into a sitting room—or a closet. I rarely use it except for making coffee,” Helen said. “What if we keep both apartments for now and run back and forth to them? They’re right next door, anyway. It will give our marriage a nice illicit feel until we get used to holy wedlock. When we tire of commuting, we can move in together. But we’ve been single for a long time. I think we still need the safety of separate retreats.”
“Where will Thumbs sleep?” Phil asked.
“Wherever he wants,” Helen said. “Probably with you, since you bribe my cat with shrimp.”
“Who’s going to marry us?” Phil asked. “You don’t want a religious ceremony. How about a judge?”
Oh no, Helen thought. How could I forget that major detail? “No judge,” she said. “A judge caused too much trouble when I divorced Rob. Maybe Margery knows a minister. I’ll ask her.”
Helen set down her wineglass and ran across the damp grass to knock on Margery’s jalousie door. Her landlady came out holding a homemade screwdriver in a tall glass. She trailed cigarette smoke and fluttering gauze.
“Come join us,” Helen said. “We’re planning our wedding.” She gave Margery the details.
“You want your wedding here in my yard?” Margery asked.
“I hope that’s okay. I’ve always wanted a garden wedding,” Helen said.
“Garden is a grand term for a bougainvillea and a couple of palm trees. How many people are invited?”
“Peggy and her date, of course. And Pete.”
“Her parrot is invited to the wedding?” Margery asked.
“She’s had him longer than Daniel,” Helen said. “Elsie. Anyone Phil works with. The stylists at Miguel Angel’s salon. I’m thinking fifty people, max.”
“Where are they going to sit? On the ground?”
“I’ll rent chairs and a bridal arch.”
“Who’s doing the food?”
“I thought I’d have a caterer for the hors d’oeuvres.”
“That’s expensive, Helen,” Margery said. “Spend the money on your honeymoon. What if we all brought some food? Peggy can make her Thai chicken salad. I’ll bake brownies. Cal will drag out those same two tomatoes he brings to every party. You can provide a few other snacks and the cake, plus the wine, beer and soft drinks.”
“But won’t that be a lot of work for all of you, making so much food?” Helen asked.
Margery shrugged. “Cal never even bothers to slice the tomatoes. He plops them on a plate. I can make the brownies ahead of time and freeze them. I’ll have to mow the lawn. That’s it.”
“I can mow the yard,” Phil said. “I’ll set up the chairs, put up the arch and put out some tables.”
“See, it’s not a big deal,” Margery said. “I’m in charge of the bachelorette party, too.”
“Let’s not have it the night before the wedding,” Helen said. “I don’t want to walk down the aisle hungover.”
“The bachelorette party will be the Sunday before the wedding. You’ll have time to recover.”
“Sunday? How will we party on a Sunday?”
“Wait and see,” Margery said. “Who’s giving you away?”
“I’m old enough to walk down the aisle by myself,” Helen said.
“What about music?”
“I could hire a DJ, or we could just get a boom box and some tapes.”
“I’d like a boom box,” Phil said. “We can play Clapton CDs. I’ll make up the playlist. Any particular songs?”
“Whatever you want,” Helen said. “We do have one problem, Margery. We need someone to marry us.”
“I will, if you want,” Margery said. “I am an ordained minister.”
Helen nearly dropped her wine. “You are?” She’d never seen her landlady darken a church door.
“Universal Life Church,” Margery said. “I’m just as legal as any reverend or JP. I’d be honored. I have a purple robe and white dog collar.”
“Where did you find a purple robe?” Helen asked.
“On eBay. I think it was from a Baptist choir, so at least part of my getup has been in a church. Now it’s my turn for a question: Helen, are you going to invite your family?”
“My sister, Kathy, certainly, and her husband, Tom, and their two kids.”
“And your mother?”
“No way. She says I’m still married in the eyes of God. She never accepted my divorce from Rob.”
“But Rob married Marcella,” Margery said. “You couldn’t remarry him if you wanted.”
“Maybe they were married,” Helen said. “The records and the witnesses for that ceremony have disappeared. So has the groom. Marcella, the Black Widow, claims she has no idea where Rob is, but she gave him lots of money to go away. Rob runs through money the way you go through Kleenex when you have a cold. If Rob and Marcella never married, my ex can come after me for the money that stupid judge says I owe him. Mom will turn me in, for sure.”
“I can’t believe that,” Margery said.
“You’ve never met Mom. That woman is more Catholic than the pope.”
“Why don’t you get an annulment? Wouldn’t that make her happy?”
“Only Catholics with a lot of money qualify for annulments. Maybe if I was a Kennedy, I could get one, but not as some nobody who works in a hair salon.”
“That’s a little cynical,” Margery said.
“The church has cracked down on the rules for annulments. They felt Catholics were using them like divorces. Rob and I were married seventeen years and we were both adults. It’s hard to claim that marriage never took place. Anyway, Mom is so weird on the subject of religion, I’m not sure she’d accept an annulment.”
“Helen, my fee for this wedding is that you invite your mother,” Margery said. “If she doesn’t want to come, that’s her business
. But it’s time you grew up and ended those old feuds. Don’t start your new life with old baggage.”
“Margery, if I invite my mother to the wedding, we’ll both regret it.”
Chapter 12
“You’re lucky you’re an orphan, Phil,” Helen said, pulling herself out of the comfortable chaise longue.
“Ouch. That’s a rotten thing to say. Mom was a nice woman. You’d have liked her. Besides, my ex-wife, Kendra, more than makes up for any lack of relatives on my side.”
“Sorry.” Helen gave Phil a conciliatory kiss. “I’ve been snapping at you a lot lately.”
“Yes, you have,” Phil said. “Should I put it down to bridal nerves?”
“That’s a good reason,” Helen said. “But I don’t know what excuse I’ll have after we’re married. How about,‘That was an ugly thing to say and I’m sorry’?”
“Apology accepted,” Phil said.
She filled her wineglass with more liquid courage and trudged toward her apartment. Phil followed, clutching his spicy chips and beer.
“You can use my phone if you want,” Phil said when they reached her door. He opened his apartment, and Helen sat on his couch.
He massaged her neck. “Your shoulders are tight.”
“Just thinking about talking to my mother makes me tense,” Helen said. “Mom’s not only in another time zone, she’s on another planet. I’ll call Kathy first. I can deal with my sister.”
Helen still didn’t have a phone. She kept a cell phone she hoped was hard to trace when she had to talk to her family. Kathy was the only person she trusted to know how to reach her. She had Margery’s phone number. Helen checked her watch. It was seven thirty in St. Louis—not so late her call would alarm Kathy. Helen’s sister lived in the near-perfect suburb of Webster Groves. She and Tom had a big, old house that needed paint and new plumbing. Tom didn’t make much money teaching. Kathy worked part-time as a checker at Target. She rarely mentioned their money worries.
Helen took a deep breath and dialed.
“Helen?” Kathy said, as soon as she heard her sister’s voice. “What’s wrong?”