Murder Between the Covers dj-2

by Elaine Viets

  The photos accompanied a column called “Samantha’s Society Rambles,” which Helen thought was a remarkably accurate description. It was headed by a photo of Samantha, who looked like Dick Cheney in drag.

  Astrid was wearing a black strapless Gucci gown, according to Samantha, who pronounced her “stunning.”

  Helen wouldn’t go that far, but Astrid was regal-looking.

  Her dress must have cost a fortune. More than I make at her bookstore in a year, Helen thought.

  Samantha the society columnist had a positive mania for reporting the designers of all the women’s dresses. Helen wondered if the charity would have made more money if the women had stayed home and donated the price of their dresses.

  Samantha kept rambling, but Helen followed her to the bitter end, slogging through designer and guest names. In the last paragraph was the information she needed. Astrid had “danced till dawn to the music of Peter Duchin’s Orchestra.” There was a photograph to prove it. She and the well-upholstered gentleman were holding each other at arm’s length, as if they were coated with anthrax.

  Helen didn’t know if Astrid actually stayed until the sun peeped over the horizon, but one thing was clear. She was there late. Astrid could not have slipped out for an hour to kill her husband in Fort Lauderdale. It was a two-hundred-mile round trip.

  Astrid did not put the pillow over Page’s face, but she wasn’t off the hook. Not after what Helen saw last night.

  Astrid and Gayle were in it together. Astrid, as the most likely suspect, had established her alibi. Meanwhile, Gayle did the dirty work.

  Suddenly, all Gayle’s odd behavior made sense.

  Gayle knew Peggy had threatened to kill Page. She’d been at the store when it happened.

  Gayle knew where Helen lived because she’d been to the Coronado before. She took Page Turner there and dumped his body in Peggy’s bed to throw suspicion on her.

  Gayle was strong enough to move the body.

  Gayle knew the Coronado was being tented. Helen had talked about it and asked for the weekend off.

  Gayle could go into a building filled with poison gas.

  She had a firefighter brother with access to SCBA gear.

  Gayle hated Page Turner so much, she broke his Bawls.

  Gayle had golden hair and a silver car.

  Gayle told everyone that Peggy was guilty. Helen was sure she steered the police her friend’s way.

  When Page’s office was broken into, Gayle said nothing was missing. If something vital was indeed stolen, something that cleared Peggy, Gayle would never tell the police.

  All Gayle cared about was that the break-in would upset her precious Astrid.

  And what about poor Mr. Davies, dead in his favorite chair? Gayle could have easily slipped back from her errand to hear Mr. Davies was about to spill the beans. She could have smothered him anytime during the mommy riot.

  She certainly didn’t seem upset at his death.

  Gayle stayed with the police when they were investigating Mr. Davies’ death, “helping” them. She made sure Denny and Helen weren’t anywhere near the scene. She could easily hide or cover up anything suspicious.

  And what part did Astrid play in this? She was safely in Vero Beach, dancing till dawn in front of the photographers, while her lover made her a rich widow.

  She had the money so they could live happily ever after.

  Helen did not get more than four hours’ sleep that night, but she didn’t mind. She didn’t even care that she had to go into the bookstore on her day off. Today, she would confirm Gayle’s role in the murders. She would solve this case and save her friend. Peggy would be reunited with her pal Pete and live happily ever after.

  Brad usually took his lunch hour at one o’clock. It was a short walk from the library to the bookstore. On the way, Helen stopped at a drugstore and picked up the latest magazine tribute to Jennifer Lopez. J.Lo! it said. Twenty-four fabulous new photos! Learn her beauty secrets.

  The little bookseller was munching Miami Subs takeout when Helen walked in the break room. She had no idea how he stayed so skinny on junk food.

  “I brought you a present,” Helen said, and handed him the magazine.

  “Is this a bribe?” he joked.

  “Sort of,” Helen said.

  “I owe you for Albert,” he said, biting into a sandwich oozing lettuce and mayonnaise sauce. “Since you recited his poem, he hasn’t even mentioned J.Lo’s name.”

  “Good,” Helen said. “You remember the night Page Turner died?”

  “How could I forget? He was a bastard to the end.”

  “Was it busy here that night?”

  “Nonstop. It was a full moon, too, and every weirdo in South Florida was in the store. I was working the register. I had to call Gayle up front because some wacko wanted to order a book on devil worship, but wouldn’t give us his name, phone number, or address. He was one scary dude.

  Dead-white skin, black clothes. Looked like he slept in a coffin. Gayle told him no phone or address, no order. I’m convinced he put a curse on us. In fact, that would explain everything that’s happened to this store since.” Helen thought Brad was only half kidding.

  “Is that the only time Gayle came up front?”

  “I think so. I handled the other crises myself. She stayed in the office the whole night, working on the accounts and the new schedule.”

  “Did she go out for lunch?”

  “She ate an eggplant sandwich from the café at her desk,” Brad said. “I saw her buy it.”

  “But you didn’t actually see her in her office the whole night,” Helen said. “You were at the front cash register. She could have easily slipped out for an hour.”

  “She could have, but she didn’t,” Brad said. He’d dripped a spot of mayo on his chin. “I hope you aren’t trying to pin Page’s murder on Gayle. You obviously haven’t worked as many shit jobs as I have. She’s a good manager.

  She’s too decent to murder anyone. I don’t really feel like reading, thank you.”

  He handed Helen back the J.Lo tribute. She did not think anyone could look so dignified with mayonnaise on his chin.

  Helen should have felt ashamed. But she didn’t. She couldn’t wait to get back to the Coronado with her news.

  “The wife had to have an unbreakable alibi,” Helen said.

  “She would be the logical suspect. Gayle did the killing.

  She has no alibi for that night. She was alone in the office.

  She could have slipped out the back door and no one would have seen her.”

  “Now all we have to do is prove it,” Margery said. “We are going back to Palm Beach tonight, aren’t we?”

  “You bet,” Helen said. “I’ve stirred things up at the store.

  I think we might see something interesting tonight.”

  This time, there was no rain on the hour-long drive. Even the traffic seemed saner. But the stakeout was just as boring. They parked in the same spot. Helen and Margery kept the same routine, watching for an hour, then driving around, then returning to their post. They encountered a security patrol, but no one questioned the formidable Margery.

  After eleven p.m., they looked up hopefully every time a car came down the street. But Gayle did not arrive until twelve-thirty. The house lights went off about one a.m.

  At one-ten, a hand yanked open the passenger door and pulled Helen out by the collar. She landed on her knees and found herself staring at a pair of shiny black Doc Martens.

  Helen could hear Margery say, in her best grande-dame voice, “Young woman, what do you think you are doing?”

  “You!” Gayle said, pulling Helen up. “What are you doing here? Why is an employee spying on me?”

  “I ...”

  Margery batted her eyes at Gayle and said, “We needed some privacy. Some quality time together. Surely you understand.”

  Helen was always astonished at how boldly and easily Margery could lie. Now she was pretending to be Helen’s lover.
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  Gayle wasn’t buying it. “Nice try. But you forgot I work with her. I got nothing on my gaydar. She’s straight as an arrow. Explain yourself.”

  “I ...” Helen tried again. But nothing came out. Even Margery seemed flummoxed now. Helen knew she’d be fired.

  “Let me guess. You think if you can blame Page Turner’s murder on me, your friend Peggy will go free. Brad told me you asked him where I was that night. It’s easy to blame the gays, isn’t it? We’re already doing something unnatural.

  Why not murder?”

  “It’s not like that, Gayle. I like you. I respect you.”

  “You like me so much you think I murdered Page. That worthless shit deserved to die, but I didn’t do it.”

  “You have good reason to be angry, Gayle. I’m desperate, and I did something dumb. But I know Peggy is innocent. I just can’t figure out who did it.”

  “I thought it was Peggy,” Gayle said, her voice calmer.

  “If it’s not, I haven’t a clue. Don’t you think I’d go to the police if knew? I want the killer in prison. Astrid and I will have to sneak around until Page’s murderer is convicted.”

  Gayle’s voice turned soft. “If Peggy is innocent, then this is a miscarriage of justice. I’m glad you’re doing something about it. You’re looking at the wrong person, but you’re at the right place. Page Turner was his bookstore. In some way, that bookstore killed him.”

  Then she turned and left them, her black clothes and bright hair vanishing into the rich darkness.

  Chapter 25

  “Do you think she’s innocent?” Margery asked.

  “Either that, or she put on a good act of outraged innocence,” Helen said.

  They were driving back to Fort Lauderdale, both grateful for the anonymous night. Their faces were crimson with shame. Helen’s still felt hot when she remembered being yanked out of the car. Both knees were bruised and she had a scrape on her hand.

  “The problem is, Gayle’s good at deception,” she said.

  “No one at the store knew she was having an affair with Astrid. I wouldn’t have believed it until I saw her drive up.

  But did she kill Page Turner? Gayle can’t prove she didn’t leave the store that night. I can’t prove she did.”

  “Stalemate,” Margery said. “So tomorrow—I mean today—you go back to the bookstore and start all over again?”

  “Do you think she’ll let me work there again, after I accused her of murder? When she tells Astrid, I’ll be lucky to live in Lauderdale, much less work here. I’ll call in sick this morning and look for a new job. Gayle can fire me when I show up tomorrow.” Helen let out a yawn. “These hours are getting to me.”

  “Well, it is one a.m.,” Margery said. “Got any good prospects?”

  “Yeah, Down & Dirty Discounts is taking applications at ten a.m.”

  “Be there or be square,” Margery said.

  “That’s what the ad said.”

  At nine-thirty the next morning, Helen arrived at the new discount store. Red-and-yellow flags were flying the Triple D logo. A big banner said, WELCOME TO THE FUN! Job seekers were already lined up outside the building. It was not a promising selection: skinny sunburned guys with prison tattoos, tough young women in tube tops, old men mumbling to themselves, poorly dressed people who spoke rapid Spanish and halting English. Helen, in a neat beige Ann Taylor suit and pumps, knew she was a prize.

  I will get this job, she told herself. Forty hours a week at eight dollars an hour. That’s another one-hundred-nineteen dollars a week, an extra four-hundred-seventy-six a month.

  It seemed like untold wealth after the bookstore salary; especially now that she was working thirty hours a week.

  At ten-ten, the doors opened on a barn-like room furnished with long brown folding tables and chairs. Each table had a box of pencils and a stack of yellow job applications.

  “Take a seat and fill out the application forms, people,” said a callow young corporate type. He had no-color hair that looked like a bristle brush and a smile Helen didn’t trust. “You have twenty minutes.”

  Helen set to work lying about her experience, her qualifications, and her background. There was no way she could list her real degrees or her former high-paying job.

  A young woman in a hot-pink blouse with a plunging neckline read her application carefully, moving her lips.

  Then she asked Helen, “They want to know if we have any felony convictions. Do they count if you were a juvenile?”

  “Juvenile records are sealed,” Helen said. She was planning to lie about her own run-in with the court.

  “At the top of your application is a number,” Mr. Bristle Head said. “We will call it for your interview.”

  Six other suits came out. Mr. Bristle Head called the first seven numbers. Nearly an hour later, Helen heard her number, sixty-three. She got Mr. B himself. “Follow me, please,” he said, and walked back to a white cubicle the size of a phone booth. There was room for a chipped brown Formica table, a leather swivel chair, and an uncomfortable orange plastic chair. Bristle Head took the good chair.

  “Now, Helen, your age is forty-two, right?” He talked to her as if she were a little slow. He did not bother to tell her his name.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “And you work at Page Turners. That’s very good. Can you operate a cash register?”

  Helen explained her bookstore duties and skills for nearly ten minutes.

  “Well, we’re definitely interested,” he said.

  Here goes, Helen thought. This is the big test. “I’d like to work for you. But I need to make cash only.”

  There was only a momentary hesitation. Then Mr. Bristle Head said, “I think that can be arranged, although you might have to work for a little less. Maybe seven fifty an hour. We can arrange it through me. I’m the new store manager.”

  Well, well, Helen thought. This definitely was a Down & Dirty store. I’ll lose about twenty dollars a week, but I can live with that.

  “Fine,” she said.

  “We’d like you to start next Monday. The store won’t be open for another week, but we’ll need help with the shelving, and, of course, we want to train you the Triple D way.

  Are you available to start then?”

  “Yes,” Helen said. Oh heck yes.

  “Good. Now, there’s just one more thing. We’d like you to take a little test.” He handed her a piece of paper with an 800 number on it. “Just call this phone number. The prompt will ask for a special code. That’s this number here.”

  “What’s the test for?” Helen said.

  “To see how good an employee you’ll be,” he said. “You can take it anytime, night or day. It’s automated. We’ll call you within twenty-four hours after you take the test. If you pass, we’ll see you Monday morning.”

  He stood up. The interview was over.

  Helen should have felt happy. She almost had the job, except for that test. But it made her uneasy. What kind of test was this? She’d ask Margery, who knew all sorts of odd things. Besides, she needed to use her landlady’s phone.

  Margery was sitting by the pool, painting her toenails the color of Red Hots. “Thought this color would set off my new shoes,” she said. She pointed to a pair of polka-dot slides. She wore a matching polka-dot shorts set. All those white dots were making Helen dizzy.

  “Very cute,” she said. “I think I’ve got the job, but I’m supposed to take this automated phone test. Ever heard of anything like this?”

  Margery studied the paper. “One of those,” she said, as if Helen had handed her a palmetto bug. “It’s an honesty test.”

  “Why are they worried about my honesty? They plan to cheat the government and pay me in cash under the counter.”

  “They’re afraid you’re going to steal them blind,” she said. “The test is a piece of cake, as long as you don’t follow your natural instincts. Never give a humane answer.

  For instance, they’ll ask something like, If you see a sta
rving person steal a loaf of bread, you should:

  “One, call the police and have them arrested.

  “Two, turn a blind eye. What is bread compared to a human life?

  “The correct answer is one.”

  “You’re kidding,” Helen said. “Even the nuns, who were as conservative as you could get, said it was OK to steal food if you were starving.”

  “We’re not talking nuns,” Margery said. “We’re not even talking humans. Think like a robber baron. No, like an Enron executive. Never show an ounce of compassion.

  Screw the widows and orphans. The bottom line is what matters. If you have any doubts, ask yourself, ‘What would Enron do?’ ”

  “Right,” Helen said. “Bottom line. To heck with widows and orphans. I’m ready. Can I use your phone?”

  “Soon as I finish painting,” Margery said. Ten minutes later, when she had foam thingies separating her red-hot toes, Margery hobbled into the house. Pete greeted them with his usual angry squawk. Margery threw the cover over the cage.

  “That will shut him up. We can’t have featherhead screeching during the test. You take the kitchen phone. I’ll be listening on the bedroom extension if you need help.”

  Helen dialed the 800 number, then punched in the code.

  A mechanical voice asked for her Social Security number.

  Helen punched in her number, with two digits off, and prayed they didn’t check it.

  A stern female voice said, “Congratulations. You are taking the job test. Please answer honestly. Press one for yes.

  Press three for no.” It was the voice of authority. It was the voice that said Helen did not quite measure up. She felt a sudden urge to confess she’d sneaked a cigarette in the girl’s bathroom, she’d skipped school on a sunny spring day, and she’d taken two dollars off her mother’s dresser.

  But there was no need. The voice knew every venal act.

  The first couple of questions were easy.

  “Are you always pleased with your job performance?” the voice asked in crisp, no-nonsense tones.