by Elaine Viets
Margery stood with her arms crossed in front of her. “Let me guess. Your mother refused to come to your wedding.”
“She said I was going to hell,” Helen said. “Poor Kathy had to listen to the hellfire lecture.”
“I don’t understand people like your mother,” Margery said.
“Neither do I,” Helen said.
“Well, you tried. That’s all I asked. I’ll marry you and Phil.”
“Okay,” Helen said, “but you’re sending me on the road to hell.”
“I think you set yourself on that path without my help,” Margery said.
Phil unfolded his long body from a kitchen chair. “We’re going to dinner,” he said. “Want to join us?”
“Thanks. You kids run along,” Margery said. “I’ll have a cold drink and sit outside. Call it my meditation session—or getting plastered.”
“I meditate a lot,” Phil said.
Ferdos, a quiet restaurant with white tablecloths, was a good place to talk. Helen had something important to discuss with Phil. She waited until they’d placed their orders. After their hummus and warm pita bread arrived, Helen said,“How can we help Miguel Angel? I know he didn’t kill King.”
“Any idea who did?” Phil said.
“It could have been King’s bitter ex-wife. But his former business partner had a good reason to kill him. So did his stripper girlfriend and any woman he’d hit on, including the photographer’s assistant. And let’s not forget the celebrities whose careers he ruined with his gossip blog and TV show.”
“What about the bride?” Phil said.
“Honey didn’t kill him,” Helen said. “She’s too sweet.”
“She’s a gold digger,” Phil said.
“If gold fell into her lap, she’d take it. But Honey’s not violent.”
“Oh, Helen,” Phil said. “You barely know the woman.”
“I’ve seen her at the salon,” Helen said. “That tells me a lot. People pull tantrums there that would embarrass a two-year-old. Honey is not demanding. She has a fairly realistic view of herself—except she thinks she’s old at thirty-eight.”
“She was pregnant and desperate to marry. Two good motives,” Phil said, using a hunk of pita to scoop up more hummus.
“But she was safely married to King—without a prenup. Why would she be desperate?”
“The prospect of having to live with King would make any woman desperate. How come I can’t find pita bread this good at the supermarket?”
“Publix isn’t known for its Middle Eastern cuisine,” Helen said. “I understand what you’re saying about Honey, but for a Miguel Angel client, she’s fairly sane.”
“You’re talking about people who pay three hundred dollars for a haircut,” Phil said.
“That includes a blow-out, too. Some of the salon customers expect miracles. They get furious because Miguel Angel can’t make them look thirty years younger. You’ll find more delusional people in that salon than in an insane asylum.”
Phil mopped up the last of the hummus with the pita bread as their entrées arrived. Then he spread a chunk of white onion with raw chopped lamb. Helen averted her eyes from the bloody sight.
“I wonder why more restaurants don’t serve this,” Phil said.
“Because it’s Florida and it’s hot,” Helen said. “In a less careful kitchen, people can get sick from raw meat. Salmonella is not the catch of the day.”
“They don’t know what they’re missing,” Phil said. “I meant to ask you something about King’s wedding. There was a photographer, right?”
“A photographer with a very pretty assistant who took still photos and videos,” Helen said.
“What about security cameras?” Phil said.
“I know there were security guards,” Helen said. “I don’t know about the cameras.”
“What’s the name of the security force?”
Helen gave him the name she’d seen on a lawn sign.
“Good. I know someone who works there. I should be able to find out. I can check around for the autopsy report.”
“Can you get one during an open investigation?” Helen asked.
“I have my ways,” Phil said, and waggled his eyebrows.
“The only way to help Miguel Angel is to find the real killer,” Helen said.
“Yep,” Phil said. “If the pressure mounts, the police will quit ordering pizza and arrest Miguel Angel. The Hendin Island force is small and underfunded, and that could be the easy way out for them.”
“We need to talk to some people who were at the wedding,” Helen said.
“I’ll talk to Tiffany,” Phil said.
“King’s stripper ex-girlfriend? You volunteered for that assignment in a hurry,” Helen said. “I bet you’ll interview her at her work, too.”
“Do you want me to help or not? You know she’s not going to talk to a woman.”
“You’re right,” Helen said.
“I usually am,” he said.
Helen resisted the urge to throw her plate at his head. “I’ll visit the new widow’s sister, Melody,” she said. “I can leave after work.”
“I’ll drive you,” Phil said.
“I’ll take the bus,” Helen said. “It’s better if this is a girl talk. Two of us might make her feel like we’re ganging up on her.”
“Suit yourself.” Phil finished the last of his kibbe.
It was nearly dark by the time they arrived back at the Coronado. The sky was a soft mauve with flamingo pink clouds. Margery was lounging by the pool, drinking a tall, cold screwdriver. A rumpled Peggy dragged herself up the walk. Her dramatic red hair was cut short for the summer. Peggy was pale, especially for a Floridian. Tonight, she looked tired, with drooping shoulders and dark circles under her eyes.
“Wait! Peggy! I need to ask you something,” Helen said.
“I’ll be back as soon as I check on Pete.” Peggy unlocked her door and disappeared inside. She was out in five minutes, wearing a bright green shirt and shorts. Pete, her Quaker parrot, was perched on her shoulder like a feathered accessory.
“How are the wedding plans going?” Peggy asked.
“I’ve made a mistake,” Helen said.
“Don’t tell me the wedding is off,” Peggy said.
“No, no, that’s fine. But I want you to be my bridesmaid, and I forgot to ask you.”
“Okay, I’m asked, and the answer is yes,” Peggy said. “What should I wear?”
“Whatever you want,” Helen said. “I’m not putting you in chiffon with dyed-to-match shoes. You can even wear Pete on your shoulder.”
“Awk!” Pete said.
“Are you still seeing Daniel the lawyer?” Helen asked.
“We’re going out tomorrow,” Peggy said. “He’s quite a change after the losers I’ve dated.”
“If you want, he can be one of Phil’s groomsmen,” Helen said.
“Shouldn’t that be Phil’s decision?”
“Daniel will be fine,” Phil said. “I may need a good lawyer someday.”
They heard the back gate squeak, and a soft, fluttery voice said, “Yoo-hoo. Anyone home?”
Elsie, Margery’s seventy-eight-year-old friend, was wearing her most startling outfit yet: a tight pink leather vest covered with grinning black skulls and a sheer pink chiffon skirt. Her wispy hair was dyed hot pink. The varicose veins on her legs made Elsie look like she was wearing purple stockings. Her arms were flabby toothpicks. Black biker boots completed the ensemble.
“What do you think?” Elsie asked, twirling around. “I wanted something summery.”
“I’ve never seen summer leather before,” Margery said.
“Helen invited me to be her bridesmaid,” Peggy said.
“How wonderful,” Elsie said. “I’ve always wanted to be a bridesmaid. I never had the opportunity. I married young, and I was pregnant with Milton when most of my girlfriends married. You couldn’t have a pregnant bridesmaid in those days.”
“You can be my brid
esmaid,” Helen said.
“What kind of dress do you want me to wear?”
“Anything you want,” Helen said. “Pick your favorite style and color.”
Margery choked on her drink.
“Would you like some white wine, Elsie?” Helen asked.
“No, no. I can’t stay,” Elsie said. “I stopped by to show you my new look. I can’t wait to shop for my bridesmaid dress. Thanks for inviting me. It’s never too late to have your dreams fulfilled.”
Elsie clomped off in her biker boots.
Margery waited until Elsie left, then said, “I hope you know what you’re doing. Elsie wears some weird getups.”
“Have you looked at bridesmaids dresses?” Helen said. “They’re weirder than anything Elsie dreams up. Let her have some fun.”
“Okay,” Margery said. “But I warned you.”
Chapter 17
The white van was still in the no-parking zone across from the salon the next morning. Helen walked past it, studying the van’s reflection in a shop window. She saw no shadowy movement, glowing cell phones, or red-eyed cigarettes through the darkened glass. How did Phil spot them? The man must have X-ray vision.
At least the press was not camped in front of the salon.
Miguel Angel’s was open for business. The shades were up, the lights were on and Ana Luisa was at the reception desk.
“How is Miguel Angel?” Helen asked.
“He’s not here yet,” Ana Luisa said. “Good thing his first appointment isn’t until ten.”
“Is business any better?”
“More vultures,” Ana Luisa said. “All tourists. When we’re no longer a sensation, they won’t come back here. We need celebrities to survive. A hint of stardust attracts the media and the big names who will pay the big prices. You know we don’t get many walk-ins.”
With that, the front door opened and a woman of size strutted into the salon. She had a generous bottom and gigantic breasts shoved into white spandex. Her red hair was piled into a towering beehive. Black fishnet stockings clung to her legs and her large feet were forced into red heels. Her false eyelashes fluttered like black butterflies.
Helen was speechless. No one dressed like this had ever entered the ultrahip salon.
Ana Luisa was her usual cool self. “May I help you?” she asked, as if the woman was fresh from a Paris runway.
“I am Cachita,” the woman announced dramatically. Her accent was as thick as Cuban coffee. “I want you to fix my hair for a party.”
“Where is the party?” Ana Luisa said.
“I am the party,” Cachita said, sticking out her massive chest. She ripped off her red wig and said, “Don’t you recognize me?”
“Miguel Angel,” Helen said, “where did you get that outfit?”
He was laughing so hard he nearly fell out of his spike heels. “I went as Cachita one Halloween,” he said. “Even my own sister was fooled.”
“I’m going to kill you,” Ana Luisa said.
“How did you grow a double-wide rear end?” Helen asked.
“It’s foam,” he said, waggling the massive bottom. He pulled the fake pink-orange flesh out of the tight white miniskirt and pointed to its lumpy surface. “See, it even has cellulite. Just like the bosoms.”
He yanked the enormous fake breasts out of the oversized halter top. Collapsed spandex pooled around his body.
“I have my regular clothes in here,” he said, holding up a red purse the size of a suitcase. “I wanted to get past the police. They didn’t recognize me.”
“Just don’t disguise yourself as a pizza,” Helen said.
Miguel Angel looked puzzled.
“The cops had one delivered to the van yesterday while they were watching the salon,” she said.
Miguel Angel stowed his disguise in the back room and washed off his bright makeup. He was combing his wig-flattened hair when Ana Luisa told him, “Suzi is here.”
Suzi had squeezed herself into sky-high heels, tight jeans and a ruffled crop top as if she were sixteen instead of fifty-six. She was a regular with country-singer hair who resisted Miguel Angel’s efforts to update her look. Her rumpled husband, Dave, dressed as if he’d robbed a Goodwill donation box. Helen guessed his age at seventy.
“Miguel Angel!” Suzi squealed and kissed him on the cheek. “I missed you, sweetie.”
Helen saw Miguel freeze at the unwanted contact.
“May I bring you something to drink?” Helen asked her.
Suzi wanted a diet soda. Dave asked for black coffee. He gave Helen a sneaky pat on the rump when she passed him. She moved backward and stepped hard on Dave’s sandaled foot, then gushed apologies.
“I’m so sorry,” Helen said. “I didn’t mean to be clumsy.”
Miguel Angel caught her eye and winked. He must have seen Dave’s sly pat-down.
Suzi bounced out two hours later, her hair artfully cut and curled. Dave paid the bill and left generous tips all around. Even Helen got a twenty for the coffee and the foot crush. Apparently, clumsiness paid.
After that, the day was a dreary repeat of yesterday. A society wedding canceled. So did another magazine photo shoot and a fashion show.
Even Honey, the woman who started their trouble, canceled her regular weekly appointment.
“She’s devastated from planning the funeral,” Ana Luisa told Miguel. “The doctor has ordered her to stay in bed.”
“Poor thing,” Miguel Angel said.
“Poor us,” Ana Luisa said. “We’re losing one major client after another. I hated to lose that fashion show.”
“Why? Cookie is a nobody,” Miguel Angel said. “He designs clothes for drag queens.”
“I thought they were pretty,” Ana Luisa said.
“Would you wear a swimsuit that had one arm?”
“Well, no.”
“And what about those swimsuits where the models had scarves around their necks—long scarves, for winter. With summer swimsuits. They cover up drag queens’Adam’s apples. No real woman would wear them.”
“Well, I couldn’t afford them, anyway,” Ana Luisa said.
The flock of vultures gossiped. Helen could hear their sly, knifing whispers swirl through the salon:
“Do you think he killed King? He doesn’t look like a killer.”
“They never do.”
“Is he . . . you know . . . gay?”
“Do you think he does drugs? They all do, don’t they? Drugs and little boys. I hear he goes to Jamaica. . . . Mitzi says it’s probably sex tours of Thailand. She says they all do it.”
Whenever Miguel turned off his dryer, the conversations stopped suddenly. There were loud silences while the women sipped their diet sodas.
At one thirty, Helen was relieved to escape. She virtually ran out the door, eager to order her wedding bouquets. She ran smack into Honey. The new widow waddled. Her ankles were puffy and her hair was straggly. She was carrying a garment bag from the ultrachic shop Las Olas Baby Mama. A small shopping bag bulging with pink lace hung from one arm.
“Honey? Is that you? I thought you were sick,” Helen said.
Honey turned a blotchy red. “Oh. Yes. Right. I needed some fresh air. I had to pick up my black maternity suit for the funeral.”
Helen could see the red SPECIAL ORDER tag. That black suit had been ordered three weeks before Honey’s wedding.
“King wanted to take me to NewYork next week,” Honey said. “For his show. I bought black because you have to wear that color in New York. It’s a law or something. I’m lucky I can use it for the funeral.”
“Lucky,” Helen repeated. “At least you bought something cheerful for later. That’s a pretty shade of pink.”
“Clothes for my little girl,” Honey said, holding up the shopping bag. “That silly tech read the ultrasound wrong. She called this morning. I’m having a girl. Isn’t that wonderful? Poor King would have been so disappointed. He had his heart set on a boy. I don’t care what I have, as long as the baby is heal
thy. But a little girl will be so much fun to dress. Well, I hate to keep you. Better run.”
Honey moved fast for a pregnant woman.
Helen stood on the sidewalk, frozen with shock. The tech made a mistake? And Honey just found out, right after King’s death? And she just happened to special-order a black suit that arrived in time for his funeral? Helen didn’t think so. Honey was a nurse. Wouldn’t she be able to read the ultrasound herself? Maybe she bribed the tech to give a false report, with the promise of big money later. When King was safely out of the way.
The cheery bells on the door of Orlando’s Blooms jarred Helen out of her trance. The tiny shop was bursting with colorful flowers. Pink, white and red roses, stargazer lilies, and birds of paradise filled the flower coolers with a riot of color. A fiftyish woman with spiky blond hair stood behind the counter, snipping the stem on a pink rose. Her skin had been mummified by the Florida sun.
“I’d like to order flowers for my wedding,” Helen said.
“Lovely,” the woman said. “My name is Patrice. When is the happy event?”
“A week from Saturday,” Helen said.
“Then we’d better hurry, hadn’t we? What is the color theme for your wedding?”
“I don’t have one. The bridesmaids are wearing whatever color they choose.”
“Oh.” Patrice clearly didn’t approve of bridal anarchy.
“We’re getting married in a friend’s backyard,” Helen said
“An outdoor wedding can be fresh and informal. How many bridesmaids?”
“Three,” Helen said.
Patrice pulled out a sample book with photos of bouquets. “We have a gorgeous bridesmaid bouquet with white orchids,” she said. “It’s only three hundred dollars.”
Helen gulped. “Uh, that’s a little out of my price range.”
“How about pretty pink gerbera daisies, dark blue irises and yellow freesias for one hundred fifty?”
There went a big bite of the reception food budget. “Uh, no,” Helen said.
“Still too high?” Patrice said. “Maybe blue irises and lavender roses for thirty-five?”
Helen quickly estimated how much she had in the emergency fund she hid in the belly of her teddy bear, Chocolate Truffle. Maybe she should buy a couple of supermarket bouquets and tie ribbons on them. “I might be able to afford that.”