The Dead-End Job Mysteries Box Set 2

by Elaine Viets

  “At what?” Phil asked, as he opened the door.

  Margery was wearing a purple caftan trimmed in silver. Phil whistled. “I like the outfit.”

  “Thanks,” Margery said, waving away his compliment and her cigarette smoke. “I wanted to remind your future wife that her bachelorette party is tomorrow. Helen, you need to be outside at ten thirty in the morning.”

  “Who’s invited?” Helen asked.

  “Your minister and your bridesmaids,” Margery said. “That’s Peggy, Elsie and me. Your sister is welcome, but she won’t be in town until next Friday and you don’t want a party the night before your wedding.”

  “I don’t want to get married with a hangover,” Helen said. “You never told me where we’re going. What should I wear?”

  “What you have on now is fine. Don’t dress up. It’s Florida. Oh, one more thing. You got another letter.” Margery handed it to Helen and left.

  Helen opened it and choked.

  “What’s wrong?” Phil asked.

  “It’s another one of those creepy anonymous letters. This one says, DEATH IS THE ONLY SOLUTION.”

  “What’s that mean?” Phil said.

  Helen shrugged.

  Phil got out his fingerprint kit and checked the letter for prints. “Only a few useless smudges on the envelope,” he said. “Besides, we don’t have any suspects to compare them to.”

  “I must be getting somewhere with this investigation,” Helen said. “I’m getting death threats.”

  Chapter 22

  “More champagne?” Sister Mary Rebecca asked.

  “Sure,” Helen said. She’d never had anyone in a nun’s habit pour champagne. But then, Helen had never been waited on by a nun in drag.

  Margery had one hell of a surprise for Helen’s bachelorette party. She took the women to the drag queen gospel brunch at Lips in suburban Fort Lauderdale. Lips was a nightclub that offered “the ultimate in drag dining.” The decor was high-camp glitter—cheesy gold statues guarding the stage, oodles of pink and purple, mirrors and sequins.

  A gospel singer in a gold choir robe and enough makeup to stock a Revlon counter was belting out a song.

  “These gospel singers are divine,” Elsie said, and raised her glass of champagne and orange juice. She’d convinced herself that mimosas were a healthy way to get vitamin C.

  Helen thought Elsie was too buzzed to know she was punning.

  Sister Mary Rebecca poured Helen more champagne and topped off Elsie’s mimosa. Elsie looked right at home among the sequins and shimmering beads. The drag queens—the Sisters of Sequins—made her feel welcome.

  “Heavenly dress, sweetie,” Sister Mary Rebecca said, nodding at Elsie’s blue sequin, strapless tube topped with a ruffled cobalt chiffon coat. The tube bulged like a water balloon. Elsie’s short, spiky hair was dyed lime green. It looked startlingly good with the blue.

  “Oh, do you like it?” Elsie blushed like a young girl. “I got the outfit for ten dollars at a resale shop. It’s so important to recycle. That’s what my granddaughter says.”

  “Go green,” Sister said, and flitted to the next table. Elsie patted her lime hair, slightly missing the point.

  The gospel show was fast, funny and lip-synched. Helen thought most of the tunes weren’t traditional gospel, but she and her friends hadn’t been in a church for so long, they wouldn’t know gospel music if it walloped them in the key of G.

  Sister Mary Rebecca put down her champagne bottle and ran onstage for an energetic version of “This Little Light of Mine.”

  “She has a nice voice,” Elsie said.

  “Just like Milli Vanilli,” Margery said.

  Elsie looked puzzled.

  “She’s lip-synching,” Peggy explained. “Sister is singing along with a recording. Milli Vanilli got in trouble for doing that.”

  “Amazing,” Elsie said. “I’d never guess that wasn’t Sister’s voice.”

  Sister went back to serving champagne, and Nicollette, the glitzy emcee, was back on stage. Nicollette strayed often from the path of good manners and good taste. She told one young blond female,“You’ve got more roots than Alex Haley.”

  She called another woman with short hair and a baseball cap “my little dyke tyke” and asked, “Would you change my oil?”

  Helen prayed the emcee would ignore her, and she did. Instead, Nicollette turned her attention to a visitor from England. “Don’t they have enough queens there?” she asked.

  The audience sang along: “If you’re gay and you know it, clap your hands. If you’re gay and you know it, then your fashion sense will show it.”

  The straight version was: “If you’re straight and you know it, then your Kmart clothes will show it.”

  There was a lot of hand clapping for all the songs, and each table got tambourines. Elsie never let go of hers. Her arms shook like Jell-O in an earthquake when she clapped along to the music. Her chins wobbled in time.

  The Sisters of Sequins escorted a muscular man onstage to a chair covered with crystals and sparkles. He was blond and pouty. The drag queens serenaded him with “There She Is, Miss America.”

  “Are you single?” Nicollette asked.

  “Yes,” he said in a hesitant voice.

  Nicollette plopped herself in the lad’s lap and said, “Then you want me. Because when I take off this drag, I’m a man, and that will make you happy. But I look like a woman, which will make Mommy and Daddy happy.”

  “I wonder if Milton would enjoy this,” Elsie said as she finished her fourth mimosa. “The food is really quite nice and the music is lovely. The sisters are very kind.”

  Margery put her hand over Elsie’s glass when a sequined server came by with another pitcher of mimosas. “That’s enough alcohol for you,” Margery said. “Your son is so straight, he wore cuff links on his onesies. Take him to this place, and I’ll be visiting you at the assisted living facility before Nicollette can whip off her wig.”

  “Milton’s not like that,” Elsie said, but she quickly shut up. She loved her conservative son, but the massively uptight Milton was too clenched to tolerate Lips.

  “Those drag queens are beautiful,” Peggy said, in a frantic effort to change the subject. “I feel sort of scraggly compared to them, and I’ve got the factory-installed equipment.”

  In the glittering light, Peggy was an exotic creature with her shock of red hair and elegant nose.

  “They are beautiful,” Helen said,“if you like the way women looked fifty years ago. Drag queens go for the heavy glamour that we women liberated ourselves from long ago—except on special occasions.”

  “But looking at them, I’m getting lonesome for sparkly dresses, chandelier earrings and evening gowns cut down to there,” Peggy said.

  “Most of these men have a pretty good ‘there,’ ” Helen said. “I know those are probably implants, but the guys walk and talk like real women. I suspect some have had their Adam’s apples altered—I didn’t see much evidence of that telltale giveaway.”

  “The only figure fault I can see is that some of the drag queens are a tad chunky around the waist,” Peggy said. “But then, so are many of the genuine women in the audience.”

  “That’s why I’m glad the kitchen ran out of Hollandaise sauce for my eggs Benedict,” Helen said. “I have to fit into my wedding dress on Saturday.”

  A drag queen flounced past them in a fabulous bias-cut sequin gown. “How would I look in bias-cut fringe?” Helen asked.

  “Excuse me,” Margery said, grinning wickedly over the top of her champagne glass. “Is that Miss I Think I’ll Wear My Old White Suit for My Wedding? He’s a man, sweetie. You’d look terrific in that sequin outfit. You could wear it lounging around the pool or feeding the cat.”

  “Look at that!” Elsie said. “How did that performer step off that stage wearing four-inch heels? She—”

  “He,” Margery interrupted.

  “She or he negotiated a drop of nearly three feet in those high shoes. Even when
I was young, I’d cripple myself trying that.”

  The Sisters of Sequins passed long-handled collection plates while the emcee reminded the audience to tip the performers. “It takes a lot of money to look this cheap,” she said.

  Helen pulled out a ten-dollar bill. Margery countered with a twenty. “This is my party,” she said, shoving Helen’s money aside.

  “And I live on tips,” Helen said, dropping the ten in the plate on top of Margery’s money. “Easy come, easy go.”

  The brunch was over by three o’clock. Helen and her friends staggered out into the merciless Florida sunlight. Helen was pleasantly dizzy from the champagne. The four waited under a canopy emblazoned with enormous red lips while the valet fetched Margery’s car. Helen’s landlady lit a cigarette with an addict’s trembling fingers and inhaled deeply.

  The hunky valet drove up in Margery’s white Lincoln Town Car and opened the doors.

  “This car is becoming a white elephant in more ways than one,” Margery said, buckling up.

  “It’s so nice to sit in a big, comfortable auto,” Peggy said, as she climbed into the backseat.

  Helen tried to steer Elsie to the front passenger side, but she said, “No, dear, you’re the guest of honor, and you have long legs. You sit in front. There’s plenty of room for me in the backseat.”

  Elsie staggered slightly as she slid into the car. “This party was lovely, Margery,” she said, as she settled herself. “So unique. Helen, dear, what would you like for your wedding? Do you need a nice toaster oven? I sometimes find that young couples who’ve been living on their own neglect the basics for housekeeping.”

  “Thanks, but we already have one,” Helen said. “Phil and I are asking guests to donate to our favorite charities.”

  “That’s very generous,” Elsie said, her words slightly slurred.

  “We really don’t have room for any more stuff,” Helen said. “I’ll get you the information for the charities when we’re back at the Coronado.”

  “Thank you, dear. Not many people turn down gifts, no matter how many things they have. I’ll be happy to make a donation in your honor.”

  Elsie pulled a colorful brochure out of her purse and perused the Lips schedule. “I’d like to come back for the drag karaoke. I’ve always wanted to sing onstage. The brochure says, ‘Remember . . . frozen cosmos alleviate stage fright!’That’s so true.”

  Margery nearly swallowed her cigarette in surprise.

  “I was brought up Catholic,” Helen said. “I’m tempted by the Bitchy Bingo with Misty Eyez on Wednesday nights.”

  “I’m going for Dinner with the Divas,” Peggy said. “I can ‘dress to impress’ and dine with drag versions of Cher, Madonna, Diana Ross, Tina Turner and Bette Midler.”

  “If you want to dress up, you should go for the Glitz and Glamour Las Vegas Style on Friday and Saturday,” Margery said.

  “Those are my date nights,” Peggy said. “I don’t think Daniel would enjoy it.”

  “But they’d like him,” Margery said. “Daniel is cute.”

  “I can’t wait to meet your new gentleman,” Elsie said. “Helen, thank you so much for letting me be in your wedding. You’ve made me very happy. I’ve had such fun choosing my bridesmaid dress.”

  “What color is it?” Helen asked.

  “Pink,” Elsie said. “But the rest is a surprise.”

  “Whatever you wear is always a surprise,” Margery said.

  Helen glared at her landlady. She didn’t want anything to interfere with Elsie’s fun.

  “My granddaughter went with me and helped me pick out the outfit,” Elsie said. “I hope you’ll like it.”

  “I’m sure I will,” Helen said. The bachelorette party had been hilarious, but something about it bothered her. There was something important Helen had to remember. Something she had to tell Phil.

  “Now, you must tell us how the wedding plans are going,” Elsie said, interrupting her thoughts. For the rest of the trip home, Helen talked about ordering the flowers, the food, the cake and all the other wedding trivia. She was bored by it, but they seemed interested.

  They reached the Coronado at the peak of the afternoon heat. The old apartment complex had a sunburned look. Josh and Jason, the renters in 2C, were sunning themselves by the pool. Both had bottles of beer and matching sneers.

  Margery introduced them to Elsie. “So pleased to meet you,” Elsie said in her fluttery voice. “You look familiar. What do you do?”

  Josh and Jason pointedly ignored Elsie.

  “They’re in construction,” Margery said.

  “I have that charity information in my apartment,” Helen said, hurrying Elsie away from the rude boys. She didn’t want that gentle soul to get her feelings hurt.

  “I know I’ve seen them before,” Elsie said. “I think those are the young men working on my neighbor’s house.”

  “You’re drunk,” Margery said. “Guys that age all look alike.”

  “I am drunk,” Elsie said. “But I know what I saw. Those boys are repairing my neighbor’s roof. They said they had a special discount for people over sixty-five. I’m thinking of asking them to look at my roof, too.”

  Helen had a sick feeling that the curse of 2C had struck again.

  Chapter 23

  Miguel Angel came into the salon Monday morning, drenched from a tropical downpour. He was so angry, the water seemed to rise off him in a cloud of steam. He tracked damp footprints across the salon floor. Helen wiped them up with a mop.

  “I can’t believe this,” he said. “Mrs. Morton wanted me at her house at eight o’clock this morning—all the way up in Palm Beach. I drove there in my Jeep, which has a leak in the driver’s window. I got there at eight, and her maid says she is asleep. Asleep! I am wet and she is asleep. The maid won’t wake her. I got up at six thirty to be at her house on time. That’s it! She is off my list. I will never go there again. Never. I have her credit card, and I will charge her for a missed appointment. She deserves it.”

  Miguel Angel grew angrier as he talked, and his Cuban accent thickened. But Miguel didn’t yell when he was angry. The madder he got, the more he lowered his voice. His furious whispers carried over the other salon noise.

  blowdryers roared. Clouds of hair spray hovered in the salon air. Helen, like an acolyte, bore glasses of water trimmed with lemon slices and artfully folded in napkins to two clients wrapped in salon robes. They were regulars from before King’s murder. Helen could hear them gossiping about a television reporter.

  “Lydia is divorcing her husband,” said a skeletal brunette in her sixties with unnaturally tight facial skin. “She caught him in bed with a blonde.”

  “How boring,” a buxom redhead said. “Can’t he think of an original sin?”

  “The blonde was a man,” the skeleton said.

  “Well, Lydia is built like a boy,” the redhead said.

  They giggled maliciously.

  Other women lounged in the salon chairs, talking on their cell phones and reading glossy magazines. Their handbags and shoes were branded with logos. They were so rich they didn’t care if the pouring rain ruined their six-hundred-dollar shoes.

  “You have just enough time to dry your hair before your ten o’clock appointment,” Ana Luisa said. The receptionist was not afraid to interrupt Miguel Angel’s tirade.

  That ominous white police van was still watching the salon, but some longtime customers were back, and tipping generously, for the first time since that dreadful video. There were still no celebrities. When it came to major names, the appointment book was empty as the Gobi desert.

  But Helen saw the returning regulars as a hopeful sign. The celebrities would be next, wouldn’t they? Maybe Miguel Angel’s salon would be saved if she and Phil could find King’s killer.

  “Who is my appointment?” Miguel asked.

  “Mrs. Rodriguez wants her roots done and her hair blown out.”

  Miguel Angel made a face, but didn’t protest. He was in no positio
n to object to anyone. But Helen didn’t like the woman.

  Mrs. Rodriguez wore gold bracelets that jangled and clothes that clung to her gym-toned body. Salon gossip said her husband was unfaithful. Mrs. Rodriguez behaved as if she were a queen and spent like an empress. Her only talent was shopping, but she condescended to Miguel Angel as if he were a peasant.

  Mrs. Rodriguez was robed and waiting in the chair when Miguel returned. He’d changed into a fresh black shirt, and his dark hair was dried and styled.

  “How do you want your hair?” he said.

  “Not short,” she said, tossing her dark curls. “And not frizzy, either.”

  Mrs. Rodriguez would strut naked down Las Olas before she would admit she was in the throes of menopause, but she’d reached the age when her hair had lost its glossy, youthful thickness. Miguel Angel could give her young hair, for a price.

  As he worked, she chattered about the things she’d bought. “I got my son an Alexander McQueen tie with little skulls to wear with his tux for the school dance.”

  Helen tried to hide her surprise. Mrs. Rodriguez had bought a teenage boy a designer tie that cost more than two hundred dollars—and the kid would wear it maybe once.

  “You must have the coolest kids in school,” Miguel Angel said.

  “I want them to have everything I didn’t,” she said. “My family ruled Cuba for centuries before we came here in 1960.”

  Helen was beginning to understand this was the Cuban version of “my family came over on the Mayflower”—a way of bragging. Mrs. Rodriguez was letting them know she was part of the Latino elite.

  “You wouldn’t understand, since you came here so much later, Miguel Angel,” she said. “It was 1980, wasn’t it?”

  A double slap, for those in the know. That was the year of the Mariel Boatlift, when more than 120,000 Cubans came to South Florida from the port of Mariel. Many of the older, often conservative immigrants looked down on the Mariel refugees, considering them criminals and homosexuals. Many right-wing Cubans did not tolerate gays.

  Miguel Angel said nothing at the implied insult, but he held the blowdryer a fraction closer to her head.