by Elaine Viets
Mrs. Rodriguez yelped. “Ouch! Be careful, you fool!You burned me.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. So very sorry,” Miguel Angel said. His voice was a soft, insincere coo.
Helen suspected Miguel Angel had burned the woman’s scalp on purpose. Helen didn’t know when the stylist came to the United States, and she’d be fired if she told Mrs. Rodriguez what she really thought: If Fulgencio Batista and his cronies did such a terrific job running Cuba, Castro would have never taken over the island.
Many Batista supporters left the island when Castro came into power in 1959. They took their ill-gotten gains in suitcases—if they hadn’t already stashed fortunes in foreign banks. They had a rich cushion when they landed in the United States, but they weren’t above playing the “poor immigrant” routine when it served their purpose.
After Mrs. Rodriguez hobbled out on her Jimmy Choos, Miguel Angel spent ten minutes mumbling to himself in the prep room. Then he fixed a Cuban coffee with enough caffeine to power IBM headquarters and went back to work.
Miguel Angel spent the afternoon spinning hair like straw into sensuous gold.
Connie, his two o’clock customer, confided that her husband was having an affair with his office assistant. George had just told her he wanted a divorce, and Connie ran to her hairstylist for comfort and a makeover.
She looked like a portrait on a candy box. Her hair was curly blond and her makeup was perfect. She moved in a welter of ruffles, ribbons and lace, and wore a big-brimmed white hat to shade her delicate complexion. Connie reached into her little pink purse and pulled out the only lace handkerchief Helen had ever seen used by a woman under thirty.
“He took me by surprise,” Connie said. “Until George told me our marriage was over, I thought we were happy. I feel like such a fool.” She twisted the handkerchief, then blotted her wide blue eyes. Helen didn’t see any tears.
“Then you deserve some fun,” Miguel Angel said. “I will give you a new hairstyle so that he will regret wanting another woman. Has he cut off your credit cards?”
“Not yet,” she said.
“Then I advise you to buy some new clothes as soon as you leave, before it’s too late. Zola Keller on Las Olas has a fabulous sale. I will call Zola and tell her to take good care of you.”
A conversation between a woman and her stylist was as intimate as talking to a confessor, Helen decided. Except hairdressers passed judgment on your style, not your sins.
Connie clip-clopped out of the shop in her pink high heels on her way to a new husband-funded wardrobe. After she left, Helen said,“Did you know George was cheating on her?”
“Everyone did, except Connie. She will find another man soon. He’ll be just as bad as this one, but she will believe she is happy—for a while.”
At four o’clock, the shop was quiet. The roaring blowdryers and hissing cans of hair spray were silent. “You might as well go home,” Miguel Angel told Helen. “If you sweep the floor one more time, I will go crazy.”
Helen left. She arrived at the Coronado slightly sick from the walk in the heat. She saw Josh and Jason tanning themselves by the pool and went over to say hello. “I hear you have a special discount for older people,” Helen said.
“Yep,” Josh said. Jason took a big gulp of beer.
“And you want to help my friend Elsie,” she said.
Jason belched loudly. “Gotta go,” Josh said. “Later.” The sullen pair left their beer bottles by the pool. Helen thought they were slippery, and it had nothing to do with their Coppertone. How could Margery like them?
Helen unlocked her door, fed Thumbs and gave him an ear scratch. Then she changed out of her work clothes into shorts, fixed herself a cold drink and knocked on Phil’s door. He met her, carrying a cup of coffee. Once again, Helen was struck by her lover’s cool good looks. She kissed him and said, “Mm. You’re wearing my favorite blue shirt. How many days before you’re mine?”
“If you’re counting today, four and a half,” he said. “I’ve spent the day working for you. First, I checked out your latest anonymous letter and found nothing useful—no fingerprints. The letters were cut from a newspaper, but I don’t know which one, and stuck on with ordinary Elmer’s Glue. The letter was postmarked Dover, Delaware.”
“I don’t know anyone in Delaware,” Helen said. “The other one was from someplace in Maryland.”
“I did find out a little information on your ex-coworker, Phoebe. She was a runaway who had connections with the sex industry before she went to beauty school and hired on with Miguel Angel.”
“What kind of connections?” Helen asked.
“Looks like a little prostitution, some drugs, maybe some porn or nude modeling.”
“Where did she run away from?” Helen asked.
“Granite City, Illinois,” Phil said. “I’ve never heard of it. Is it a mining town?”
“No, Granite City was named for kitchenware,” Helen said. “Graniteware is enameled metal that looked like granite, like those old turkey-roasting pans.”
“My mom had one,” Phil said.
“Everyone’s mom did,” Helen said. “Granite City is right across the Mississippi River from my hometown, St. Louis. It has steel mills, and parts of town can look pretty depressing. Granite City has some beautiful old homes, but many people still think it’s a good place to be from. When I was in high school, there was a T-shirt that said, MY GIRLFRIEND WANTED ME TO KISS HER SOME PLACE DIRTY, SO I TOOK HER TO GRANITE CITY.”
“Bet the city loved that,” Phil said.
“Phoebe sounds like a dead end,” Helen said. “Maybe we should investigate the groom. How did King Oden get in the strip club business? Where did he get the money?”
“I’ll check that out, but you realize I may have to look at a lot of women in skimpy outfits?” Phil asked.
“You can make the sacrifice for me,” Helen said, and kissed him again.
Chapter 24
Helen sat straight up amid the sex-tossed sheets in Phil’s bedroom. “It’s not Miguel Angel,” she said. “He didn’t kill King.”
“Huh? What?” Phil had his head buried in a pillow and his long legs tangled in the covers.
They’d fallen asleep in each other’s arms about midnight. Helen had sighed contentedly, and the cares of the day slid away. So did her worries about her upcoming marriage. She began to think about the drag queen brunch. She’d seen something. Something important. Something she had to ...
Helen didn’t know when she’d drifted off to sleep, but she was wide-awake now, her heart pounding in the dark room.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Helen said. “I just realized Miguel Angel didn’t kill King.”
Phil sounded groggy and slightly confused. “You’ve always said Miguel Angel is innocent. What time is it?” He rolled over and turned on his bedside light.
Helen blinked at the sudden brightness, then squinted at the bedside clock. “Three twelve,” she said.
“In the morning?”
“I think so, since there’s no daylight coming through the blinds,” Helen said. “I can prove Miguel Angel is innocent. He doesn’t have a waist.”
“I still don’t get it,” Phil asked. “So what if he doesn’t have a waist? He’s a guy.”
“Exactly. Let me show you.” Helen climbed out of bed, put on Phil’s blue shirt and ran to the living room, where the fatal wedding videos and photos were piled on the coffee table. She rooted through the photos until she found the picture of the blonde arguing with King. This photo had made her boss a “person of interest” to the police.
“Look at that picture,” Helen said. “That’s a woman.”
“I could figure that out,” Phil said. “Even at three in the morning.”
“What I mean is the person has a very feminine shape,” Helen said. “A narrow waist, rounded rear end, and a firm, high bust.”
“Gee, if I say that, I get in trouble for being a pig,” Phil said. “But I still don’t see why that’s
a big clue.”
“The waist is the key. Remember my bachelorette party at the drag queen brunch at Lips? The drag queens were beautiful, but they didn’t have waists like real women. Miguel Angel did a good job in a hurry with his hair and makeup when he ran from Honey’s wedding. He could pass as a female if you didn’t look too close. But I had a chance to study him on the ride back to the Coronado. His bust was obviously padded. The dress he wore was too tight around the middle because Miguel Angel doesn’t have a woman’s figure.”
“I can’t believe we’re having this conversation at three in the morning,” Phil said. “How does that prove he’s innocent?” He rubbed his eyes like a sleepy little boy.
Helen kissed him. “You are so darn cute,” she said.
“True,” Phil said, “but please explain why you woke me up.”
“All the police have to do is make Miguel Angel wear Honey’s blue dress.”
“Where are they going to get it?” Phil asked.
“They pulled it out of the Dumpster behind the salon, remember? Once Miguel puts that dress on, the cops will see he’s not the blonde in the photo.”
“Okay, that makes sense,” Phil said. “But we still have to find King’s killer.”
“And soon, before Miguel Angel is arrested,” Helen said. “The police seem to be permanently parked outside the salon. I have tomorrow—I guess that’s today—off work. We need to move quickly before Miguel Angel loses his salon.”
“I promise I’ll spend the whole day digging around in King’s past,” Phil said.
He was pacing the living room when he stopped in front of his locked front door. “What’s this?” Phil picked up a white legal-sized envelope.
Helen saw the block lettering and suddenly felt sick. “Looks like another anonymous letter,” she said. “There’s a sticky note on the envelope.”
“The sticky note is from Margery,” he said. “Do you mind if I open the letter?”
“Go ahead,” Helen said.
Phil carefully prized open the envelope along the flap with a letter opener, then used a tissue to pull out a sheet of white paper with letters cut from a newspaper.
“What’s it say?” Helen asked. She didn’t want to know.
Phil showed her the letter. This one said, YOU WILL BURN IN HELL.
Helen wasn’t even sure she believed in hell, but these notes were frightening.
“It’s postmarked Rehoboth Beach, Delaware,” he said.
“Another place I’ve never heard of,” Helen said.
“Lot of mob connections in Delaware,” Phil said.
“Lot of mobsters here in Florida, too,” Helen said.
“Let me spend some time studying this letter.” Phil went to his desk in the living room and booted up his computer, then made a pot of coffee and poured himself a cup. “Want some?” he asked.
“I need to get some sleep,” Helen said, and went back to bed. She awoke again at six in the morning. Phil was still working at his computer.
“Find anything?” she asked.
“Same old story on the anonymous letter,” he said. “No fingerprints, plain typing paper and not a clue as to who sent it.”
“Somebody hates me,” Helen said.
“That’s what worries me,” Phil said. “Why don’t you stay with me until the wedding?”
“It’s not proper,” Helen said.
“And what we did last night was?”
“No, but it’s also bad luck to stay with the groom right before the wedding,” Helen said.
“Says who?” Phil said.
“All the bridal guides. Honey and King lived together, and now he’s dead.”
“I’m sure that’s what killed him,” Phil said.
“Maybe it did,” Helen said.
“Maybe she did,” Phil said. “I’d feel better if you were someplace safe.”
“What if I move in with Margery until Saturday? Kathy, Tom and their kids will be staying at my place on Friday. I need to get it ready for them.”
“What about Thumbs?” Phil asked. “Margery hates cats.”
“He can stay with you,” Helen said. “He likes you better, anyway.”
“Thanks a lot,” Phil said.
“It’s a great compliment,” Helen said. “Thumbs doesn’t fall for just any man. Is it really six in the morning? I’d better go feed him. What time do you want to leave?”
“About eleven,” Phil said. “Sex-industry workers are not early risers.”
“Are we going to King’s Sexxx?” she asked.
“No, the current owner knows you and he’s met me. We’re going to the area near the bus station.”
“Why?” Helen asked.
“Because the runaways hang out there. That’s where King and his friends find fresh meat.”
Helen kissed Phil good-bye and made the three-step trek to her door. A tail-lashing Thumbs met her, loudly demanding fresh water, more food and a clean litter box.
“Oh, hush,” Helen said. “I have enough to do without waiting on a cat.”
Thumbs slammed his nearly empty water bowl with his giant six-toed paw.
“That’s enough, Mr. Nasty,” Helen said. “If you want to eat, you behave yourself.”
Thumbs stared at her with resentful yellow-green eyes. Helen did her feline chores, then started cleaning her apartment. The dust flew, the vacuum roared and Thumbs crawled under the bed to get away from the cat-killing Hoover.
While she worked, Helen brooded on who would send her threatening letters. Was it Honey? Phoebe? Did they have connections in Maryland and Delaware? Were they connected with the mob? King used to be a partner in a strip club, and some of those clubs were supposed to be mob owned.
The tiny apartment was sparkling when Helen heard Margery’s door slam at ten thirty. Her landlady was padding out to the poolside umbrella table with a cup of coffee and a cigarette.
Helen changed into a fresh white blouse and jeans, then poured herself a cup of coffee and went out to talk to Margery. Her landlady looked tired this morning. Her brown face was like wrinkled chiffon. Helen was alarmed to see Margery huddled in her purple robe instead of dressed in some wild outfit.
“Are you feeling okay?” Helen asked.
“As good as I’m going to feel at seventy-six,” Margery said. “I saw you got another anonymous letter yesterday.” She took a long drag on her cigarette.
“This one says I’ll burn in hell,” Helen said.
“Probably.” Margery looked demonic in the cloud of cigarette smoke. “But that’s beside the point. Who is sending you threatening letters?”
“I don’t know. Phil is worried. He wants me to stay with him before the wedding. I’d rather not. I’m wondering if I could sleep on your foldout couch.”
“Nobody can sleep on that couch,” Margery said. “It’s stuffed with antlers and anvils. I bought it that way on purpose. One night on that couch and even the cheapest houseguest heads for the Days Inn. However, I do have a guest room, and it’s yours for a few nights. May I ask why you won’t move in with Phil?”
“Call me old-fashioned, but I don’t want to live with him before the wedding,” Helen said.
“I don’t think you’re old-fashioned. I think you’re nuts. That man is a hunk. Take your minister’s advice and move in with him immediately.”
“I’ll take your guest bed instead,” Helen said. She put down her coffee cup. “I hate to drink and run, but I need to meet Phil. We’re looking for King’s killer.”
“Please don’t get yourself into something dangerous,” Margery said. “I want to marry you, not bury you.”
“Do we get a group rate if we’re both dead?”
Margery threw her cigarette butt at Helen.
Chapter 25
The girl’s eyes were lined in black, like an Egyptian princess in a tomb painting. Her face was sprinkled with zits, badly hidden under thick makeup. Her pink-and-black hair fell to her shoulders.
Helen and Phil were parked i
n his Jeep on a sunbaked street at the edge of downtown Lauderdale. The Egyptian princess noted the Jeep and the two passengers, and moved on to a hunchbacked red SUV going way below the posted speed limit. She cocked her hip to show off her black leather teddy, leather shorts that bared half her cheeks, and high-heeled boots that rose to her knobby knees.
“Those boots look hot,” Helen said.
“That’s the idea,” Phil said. “The young woman is selling herself.”
“She’s not old enough to be a woman,” Helen said. “She can’t be more than fifteen.”
“She’s probably younger than that,” Phil said.
“By hot, I meant the boots look uncomfortable, not sexy,” Helen said. “What kind of sleaze likes sex with children?”
“That one,” Phil said, pointing to the red SUV.
Helen studied the driver. He had a face like a slab of beef. His shoulders had gone to flab, and his arms were thick and hairy. The man was bald, fat and frowning. The Egyptian princess opened the passenger door to his misshapen SUV, smiled coyly, and slid inside.
“Can’t you stop them?” Helen said.
“I’m not a vice cop,” Phil said. “Even if we save her, what about her friends?”
He pointed at a Tila Tequila wannabe in a teeny skirt, fishnet stockings and green platform heels, smoking a cigarette. Beside her, a short blonde with braids, Daisy Duke cutoffs and a shirt tied under her big breasts chewed gum and talked on a cell phone. A third woman in a plaid school jumper and white blouse stared at Phil’s Jeep and licked her shimmering pink lips.
“I’d guess the schoolgirl is probably the oldest,” Phil said.
These weren’t the tanned-and-toned hookers of the movies. Tila had a wide bottom, Daisy Duke had a doughy midsection and the schoolgirl was heroin-thin. Helen wondered if that hint of sickness was part of their attraction.
The SUV driver roared off with the Egyptian princess. “That fat old guy should be ashamed,” Helen said, nodding at the departing SUV.
“He should be, but he’s not,” Phil said. “This is runaway central. The pervs know where to find what they want. The bus station is only blocks away, so there’s always a new supply of girls.”