Killer Cuts

by Elaine Viets

  “That looks lovely.” Helen forced herself to smile at the budget bouquet.

  “Good,” Patrice said. “For the bride, may I suggest a single rose? Very inexpensive.” Again, the nostril flare. Patrice couldn’t keep her contempt hidden.

  “I’d prefer a small bouquet,” Helen said. “Something in the forty- to fifty-dollar range.”

  “We can do some nice carnations with a stargazer lily,” Patrice said.

  “I’d like that,” Helen said. She signed the papers and left a cash deposit.

  Helen hurried back to the salon, feeling bluer than the delphiniums. Should she have spent more on her flowers? Would it make any difference?

  The salon was no place for someone in low spirits. Helen listened to the squawks of the vultures and the odd silences whenever Miguel Angel passed them. Paolo was amusing himself by giving Carlos’ dark hair yellow highlights. Helen didn’t like them, but she kept her mouth shut. She’d been called too conventional twice yesterday—once by a seventy-six-year-old woman.

  At five o’clock, Helen caught a bus to Melody’s home in Pompano Beach, north of Fort Lauderdale. The bride’s sister lived in a pink stucco duplex three blocks from the ocean. Melody answered the door and looked blankly at Helen.

  “Hi, I was with Miguel Angel the day of your sister’s wedding,” Helen said.

  “Ah,” Melody said. “I remember now. That hairdresser guy.”

  “The police keep asking me questions about what happened that day,” Helen said. “I was working most of the time. I thought you might be able to help.”

  “Come in,” Melody said.

  Helen was amazed by how much puffy, pale furniture was stuffed into the tiny living room. Nearly every surface was covered with clothes, magazines, soda cans and dirty plates. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors reflected the chaos.

  Melody picked a pile of dirty clothes off a chair and dropped them on the floor. “Excuse the mess. I’ve been helping my sister and haven’t been home much. You’re lucky you caught me here.”

  “How is Honey doing?” Helen asked.

  “Well, she’s upset, as you can imagine. And the baby is making her uncomfortable. She’s big as a house. But Honey will land on her feet. She always does. My sister got all the breaks—looks, money and men. Her baby turned out to be the girl she really wanted. Now her husband up and dies and leaves her rich. I never had her advantages.”

  Helen tried to hide her shock. Did Melody just say that a dead husband was an advantage?

  “Do the police really think Honey killed her husband?” she asked.

  “Well, the wife is always the first suspect, as they say on the TV shows,” Melody said. “But I don’t believe it. Honey had a soft heart. That’s why she became a nurse.”

  Helen had known nurses with hearts as tough as combat boots, but she kept silent. Melody was anxious to talk. “I remember when our cat Smokey was sick. Honey took it to the vet. Smokey was eighteen years old, and it was time for that cat to die. But Honey spent two hundred dollars to have it treated. Cat lasted another four months. She could have spent the money on something better than a mangy old cat. I could have used a new dress.”

  Helen felt chilled as Melody talked, and it wasn’t the air-conditioning. This woman was cold. Melody’s blond hair was a little brassier than her sister’s. Her skin was limned by the sun. She looked tough and a little mean.

  “But really,” Melody said. “I don’t know how I can help you. I didn’t see anything at the wedding. I told the police that. I was at the head table when Honey asked me to look for King. I figured he’d went into the bathroom for a quick snort—”

  “You knew he did drugs?” Helen said.

  “He did drugs, strippers and for all I know, French poodles. My sister saw what she wanted, and she wanted his baby and his bank account.”

  “Oh,” Helen said.

  “I don’t mean to run her down, but Honey was practical. She cleaned up vomit and hauled bedpans. She could put up with King for several million bucks.”

  “Right,” Helen said. Was she comparing her brother-in-law to vomit?

  “But Honey didn’t kill him. She told me his health was bad and she doubted he’d live long. You can stand anything—or anyone—for a while.”

  Chapter 18

  Helen was stunned by the way Melody had talked about her sister. On the bus back to the Coronado, she brooded over the conversation.

  Was Melody honest—or jealous? She practically said that Honey wanted to get rid of King. His murder was convenient:The couple was legally married. The bride didn’t sign a prenup. The groom died before he knew his treasured son was really a daughter. And the ultrasound tech made a mistake—or did she make a mistake? Did clever Honey trick King into marriage?

  Helen wanted to run this conversation by her landlady. Margery was a shrewd judge of people. When Helen arrived at the Coronado, Margery was even more anxious to talk to her.

  “You’ve got a letter,” her landlady said.

  “I do?” Helen asked. “I never get anything but junk mail.”

  “No, this one is personally addressed to you.”

  Helen looked at the ordinary white envelope. Her name and address were in printed in blue ink. There was no return address.

  Helen opened the envelope. On a plain sheet of white typing paper, in black letters cut from newspapers and magazines, was this message: STOP OR YOU WILL BE PUNISHED.

  “What’s wrong?” Margery asked. “You look sick. You’re as pale as milk.”

  “I am sick,” Helen said. “Look at this anonymous letter. It says I will be punished.”

  “For what?” Margery said.

  “I don’t know. The letter is only six words. It tells me to stop.”

  “Sensible advice,” Margery said. “Which means you won’t take it. What is the postmark?”

  “Ocean City, Maryland.”

  “Do you know anyone there?”

  “No,” Helen said. “But this letter is creepy. The words are cut from newspapers and magazines like some weird ransom note.”

  “You’ve been messing around in a murder again, haven’t you?” Margery handed Helen the letter.

  Helen picked it up between two fingers, as if it were a scorpion. “A little. I was trying to help Miguel Angel.”

  “He can help himself. He shouldn’t have run from the police after that gossip guy died.”

  “Miguel Angel got scared,” Helen said. “He’s not from this country.”

  “So what? Most of South Florida wasn’t born here. More than half of Miami doesn’t speak English. Does that mean everyone should run?”

  “No,” Helen said. “But I can see why Miguel was worried. He’s a gay Cuban.”

  “Former Cuban,” Margery said. “He’s a U.S. citizen now. As for gays, Fort Lauderdale may have more gays than San Francisco. They’re hardly an oppressed minority in this city. Helen, why don’t you leave this puzzle to the professionals? You’ve been conducting your own amateur investigation, haven’t you?”

  “I asked a few questions,” Helen said. “That’s all.”

  “And you went alone, without Phil?”

  “I can take care of myself,” Helen said.

  “King Oden was big and strong and a lot more powerful than you,” Margery said. “Now he’s dead.”

  “He was easy to kill. King was using drugs and alcohol,” Helen said. “And he was sick.”

  “Everyone is easy to kill, if the killer is motivated,” Margery said. “You can be pushed under a bus, or hit on the head and dropped in the ocean, or rolled in a rug and taken to the Everglades. No one will ever find your body.”

  “Thank you for those lovely thoughts,” Helen said. “But I doubt that a pregnant woman could drag my body to the Everglades.”

  “You think the widow did it?” Margery asked.

  “I ran into Honey today. She was hugely pregnant. And her little boy suddenly morphed into the girl she’s always wanted. A very convenient sex change, now tha
t Daddy is dead—and before he found out his marriage was a mistake.”

  “Honey won’t have to haul your body around. If King is really worth ninety million, she can afford to hire a killer,” Margery said. “And you’re walking around unguarded. Where’s Phil?”

  “I think he’s interviewing someone right now.”

  “For work?” Margery demanded.

  “For me,” Helen said.

  “Terrific,” Margery said. “Do you two want a double funeral? I can perform that service, too.”

  “No, I just want King’s murder solved, so I can have a normal life.”

  “You’ll never have a normal life,” Margery said. “But now we’re back to the question I wanted to ask: What are you wearing for your wedding?”

  “I have a nice off-white suit I’ve only worn once,” Helen said.

  “I love the symbolism,” Margery said. “Slightly used—just like the bride. What is the matter with you?”

  “I’ve been broke for so long, I got out of the habit of shopping.”

  “If you don’t have the money, I’ll buy you a wedding dress,” Margery said. “Is Phil wearing a tux?”

  “He’s renting one. But I can’t see myself in a long white gown with a veil,” Helen said. “Been there, done that, tried to forget it.”

  “So you picked a bad husband the first time around,” Margery said. “Big deal. You think you’re the only woman who ever got divorced? Rob is gone, and you’re marrying a good man. Not many women get a decent second chance. Celebrate your fresh start. Even tough guys are romantics at heart.”

  Margery pointed a bloodred nail at Helen’s chest. Her cigarette’s angry glow matched her eyes. The landlady looked like an ancient goddess demanding a sacrifice. Helen knew there was no escape.

  “Okay,” Helen said. “I’ll look for another dress. But I’ll only buy one if I like it.”

  “We’re going to three places. You’ll find something, or get married in the nude,” Margery said. “Go change, and feed your cat, while I ask Peggy to come with us. Maybe she’ll talk some sense into you.”

  Helen did as she was told. She was greeted by a howling Thumbs. She fed her big-pawed cat, then opened the old Samsonite suitcase she kept in her bedroom closet and took out her emergency cash. A root canal had pared it down to $750. She found another hundred bucks in her teddy bear. The bear stash would cover the flowers.

  She changed into fresh clothes and put on her best heeled sandals. Margery was pacing the sidewalk in front of Helen’s apartment, Peggy walking alongside her. The three women piled into Margery’s roomy white Lincoln Town Car.

  “Where are you registered for your wedding?” Peggy said.

  “Tiffany and Williams-Sonoma,” Margery said, her voice dripping sarcasm.

  “Really? That’s nice,” Peggy said.

  “It’s also not true,” Helen said. “Phil and I don’t need another toaster or more china. We’d rather you donated money to our favorite charities.”

  “That’s what the movie stars do,” Peggy said. “It’s a nice trend for adult weddings.”

  “I like Kiva,” Helen said. “Phil would like money donated to Habitat for Humanity.”

  “Is Kiva the organization where you give small loans to people in developing countries to help their businesses?”

  “That’s it. And Habitat for Humanity builds houses for people.”

  “Very uplifting,” Margery said. “But we’re at our first stop, Britt’s Bridal Boutique.”

  A sign in the window screamed FREE TIARA!

  “A tiara—just what I need for a backyard wedding,” Helen grumbled.

  They were met by a bubbly brown-haired saleswoman. “I’m Stacey,” she said. “Who’s the lucky bride?”

  “I am,” Helen said.

  “Oooh. A mature bride,” Stacey cooed.

  “She’s not young, but I wouldn’t call her mature,” Margery said.

  “What style of dress are you looking for?” Stacey asked, bravely attempting her job.

  “Ask her,” Helen said, pointing to Margery.

  Stacey looked confused. “I thought you were getting married,” she said to Helen.

  “I am,” Helen said. “But she’s directing the dress search.”

  “Are you the mother of the bride?” Stacey asked.

  “I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life, but she’s not one of them,” Margery said.

  Stacey’s smile dimmed. She looked like a hurt puppy. Peggy took pity on her. “My friend Helen has a bad case of bridal nerves. She’d like something for an outdoor wedding.”

  Helen told Stacey her dress size, and the three women crowded into the shop’s largest dressing room. It had a triple mirror and a small dais for the bride-to-be. The carpet was littered with straight pins, tags and white threads. Margery sat in the only chair. Peggy propped herself against the wall.

  “I hate looking at myself in dressing room mirrors,” Peggy said. “I look all saggy and horrible.”

  “At least you get to keep your clothes on,” Helen said. “If I could dress in the dark, I would.”

  “Quit whining,” Margery said. “When you’re as old as I am, you’ll both wish you looked as good as you do today.”

  Stacey thrust a white dress into the room. “Try this mermaid gown,” she said, and ran as if she were pursued by an ax murderer.

  Helen climbed into the stiff white satin gown. The strapless dress fit tight at the bust, waist and hips, and then fanned out like a mermaid’s tail below the knees.

  “I look like a forties torch singer,” Helen said. “Unless you’re holding the marriage in a cocktail lounge, this dress is out.”

  “It’s a little formal,” Peggy said.

  Stacey knocked timidly on the dressing room door. “Well, what do you think?”

  “Pretty, but not for me,” Helen said. “Satin is too warm for an outdoor wedding.”

  Stacey was back with a simple white dress. “Here’s a nice, cool linen.”

  Helen tried it on. Margery zipped up the back while Helen buttoned the cuffs. Stacey waited for the verdict.

  “Too wrinkled,” Peggy said.

  “She’s talking about the dress, not the bride,” Margery said.

  “Wrinkles are the hallmark of natural fabrics,” Stacey said. “First Lady Nancy Reagan had wrinkles painted into the suit she wore in one portrait.”

  “I’d better try something unnatural,” Helen said. “I’ll look rumpled halfway through the ceremony.”

  “How about this lovely cotton dress?” Stacey said. “It will look fresh. It has sheer sleeves and an empire waist.”

  Helen tried on the dress and looked at herself in the mirror. “The sixties live,” she said.

  “Looks like a nightgown,” Margery said.

  After four more dresses, they waved good-bye to Britt’s.

  Margery and Peggy dragged Helen through the discount Bridal Barn. They made snarky remarks while Helen struggled in and out of wedding dresses.

  A long dress with masses of white lace ruffles “makes you look like a country singer,” Margery said.

  “I don’t want to remind Phil of Kendra, his ex-wife,” Helen said.

  “I like the trumpet sleeves on that one,” Peggy said.

  “Too bad you have to wear the dress that goes with them,” Margery said.

  A high-necked dress was “too matronly.” A plunging neckline was “too slutty.” A princess style was “too young.” A dress with creamy layers of satin looked like “melting ice cream.”

  The rude comments didn’t upset Helen. She needed to be distracted from memories of her disastrous first marriage. Her mother had lectured her on purity and faithfulness while they shopped for dresses. Too bad Mom didn’t lecture Rob, Helen thought, as she adjusted a halter-top gown.

  “That halter is a seventies throwback,” Peggy said.

  “More like a seventies throw-up,” Margery said.

  She and Peggy both nixed a simple white cocktail suit t
hat Helen liked. “Makes you look like an accountant,” Margery said.

  “I am an accountant,” Helen said. “At least, I used to be.”

  “It usually doesn’t show,” Margery said. “Are you getting married or going for an audit?”

  “It’s easier to find the right man than the right outfit.” Helen was starting to despair. Peggy kept collapsing into fits of giggles.

  “Okay, ladies, we’re getting silly,” Margery said. “Let’s go to Nordstrom. That department store has good clothes.”

  Three dresses later, Peggy zipped Helen into a short cream dress with a scoop neck.

  “Perfect!” Peggy said.

  “Shows lots of leg,” Margery said. “Phil will like that.”

  “I like it, too, if that counts for anything,” Helen said.

  “Well, praise the Lord,” Margery said. “Those sandals you have on will work, unless you want to buy new ones.”

  “I wore new shoes at my first wedding,” Helen said. “My feet were blistered the next day. These are comfortable. If they look good, I’ll keep them.”

  “What are you going to wear on your head?” Margery asked.

  “Flowers are nice,” Peggy said.

  “How about a short veil?” Helen said.

  They quickly approved a small, sheer veil. The ordeal was over.

  “You have the perfect dress and the perfect man,” Peggy said. “The weather is supposed to be good. What more could a bride want?”

  “I’d like the wedding day to go without a hitch,” Helen said.

  “Won’t happen,” Margery said. “You can count on that.”

  Chapter 19

  Thunka. Thunka. Thunka.

  The music was loud, fast and hard, like bedsprings rocking. Am I thinking about bedsprings because I’m getting married, Helen wondered, or because I’m at a strip joint?

  King’s Sexxx was as sleazy as its name. The shabby pink stucco building was striped with rust stains. It squatted in a black, nearly empty parking lot, broiling in the late-afternoon sun like a crab cake on a griddle. The club was nearly empty at five o’clock. Helen was glad. She didn’t want anyone to see her in King’s old strip bar.