The Dead-End Job Mysteries Box Set 2

by Elaine Viets

  Helen held Phil’s hand and stared into his blue eyes. Her marriage to Rob vanished into another dimension. That man had never existed. Now there was only Phil.

  “We are gathered here this evening to celebrate the marriage of Helen and Phil,” Margery said. “I thank God and anyone else that these two are finally getting married. Let’s get the legal part over with. If anyone knows any reason why this couple may not marry, let that person now declare it.”

  A bent, wrinkled woman with a haystack of dark brown hair slowly stood up in the back row. She was dressed for a funeral, in deep black.

  “Stop the wedding!” she screamed.

  “I beg your pardon?” Margery said.

  The woman clung to the chair back and shrieked, “That woman is getting married under false pretenses. Her name is not Helen Hawthorne.”

  “And how would you know?” Margery asked.

  “Because I’m her mother,” the woman said. “The wedding is off.”

  Epilogue

  “Is there a lawyer in the house?” Margery asked.

  Peggy’s strapping escort stepped forward. “I am,” Daniel said.

  “But my specialty is contract law, so I’m not really up on domestic situations.”

  “Helen here has been going by another name,” Margery said. “Can she still marry Phil?”

  “I’d have to check the case law,” Daniel said. “But as I understand it, you can call yourself anything you want, as long as there’s no fraud involved.”

  The wrinkled old woman charged forward, her shriveled body powered by outrage. Her bird bones were bent and brittle-looking. Her too-thick brown hair was a dark nest. “But there is fraud,” she insisted. “That woman is trying to fool God and man. She’s still married in God’s eyes.”

  “I’m divorced,” Helen said.

  “Do you have your decree?” Daniel asked.

  “Uh, no,” Helen said. “I never wanted to see it—or my ex—again.”

  “Religion aside, can she marry?” Margery said, dragging the subject back to the present.

  “She changed her name to avoid the court ruling,” Helen’s mother said. “She didn’t want to pay Rob what was rightfully his.”

  “Rob had no right to my money, or to me,” Helen said. “My mother is a nutcase.”

  “Nutcase or not, is she right?” Margery asked Daniel.

  “I’d have to research the law,” he said. “But right now, I couldn’t say if the wedding will be valid.”

  “Then I can’t marry them,” Margery said.

  Helen could hear the guests murmuring in confusion. Thumbs set up a mournful howl, though that may have had more to do with the end of the shrimp. “It’s okay, kitty,” Tommy said, and tried to entertain the cat with the bow Thumbs had torn off his neck.

  Kathy abandoned her bouquet and put her arms around her mother. “Mom, how did you get here?” she asked gently.

  “I took the bus,” her mother said.

  “Why are you doing this?” Kathy asked. Helen could hear the tears in her sister’s voice.

  “What God has joined together, let no man put asunder,” their mother screeched. “I warned her. I sent her letter after letter, but she didn’t listen to me. She never did.”

  Helen stared in shock at the wrinkled little woman. “Mom?” she asked. “You sent those threatening letters? But you don’t live in Ocean City, Maryland.”

  “Your great-aunt Marie does. She forwarded them from different towns in the area, the way I asked her to.”

  Aunt Marie? The old woman who talked about her operations when Helen met her one Thanksgiving years ago?

  “But why?” Helen said.

  “To save your immortal soul,” her mother said. “I’d rather see you dead than burning in hell for divorcing your husband.” Her mother’s eyes were mad. She trembled and gasped for breath. Helen feared she might have a heart attack.

  “Sit down, Mother, you’re upset,” Kathy said.

  “Of course I’m upset,” her mother said. “My daughter’s soul is in peril.”

  “Grandma?” little Allison said. “Is Grandma sick?”

  “I’d better call an ambulance,” Margery said, and went inside to dial 911.

  The paramedics arrived and carried Helen’s mother to the hospital. “I’ll go with her,” Kathy said.

  Phil put his arms around Helen and said,“What do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know,” Helen said. “I feel like I’ve been turned to stone. I’ll go to the hospital later, when I’m not so shocked.”

  “What do we do in the meantime?” Phil asked.

  “Eat and drink, if we can’t be merry,” Helen said. “Otherwise, this food will go to waste. I’ll tell the guests what happened.”

  “Maybe we could return the tuxes this afternoon and get our money back,” Cal said.

  Helen could hear Eric Clapton singing his song of hopeless love, “Layla.” “You’ve got me on my knees,” Clapton howled.

  “Helen, we will get past this. We will marry,” Phil said.

  Helen slipped out of Phil’s arms and sank down in a rented chair. Her fashionably painted face dissolved in her tears. “Do you really mean that?” she asked, trying to smile. “Do you still want to marry me when you’ll have a crazy mother-in-law?”

  “I’ll have a beautiful sister-in-law, a terrific brother-in-law, an adorable niece and a nephew who wrestles alligators and wrangles cats.”

  Helen managed a half smile.

  Phil got down on his knees and took her hand. “Sweetheart, we will get married. I swear it. I’ll go to St. Louis, clear your name, and we’ll live happily ever after.”

  Helen looked at the bare spot on her left hand where her wedding ring was meant to be. “You will?” she said.

  “I promise, if it’s the last thing I do.” Phil kissed her.

  Half-Price Homicide

  For Sherry Schreiber, who said I would be amazed

  by what happens at designer consignment shops.

  You were right.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  There is no Snapdragon’s Second Thoughts. It doesn’t exist, nor does its clientele. Fort Lauderdale has lots of designer consignment shops. I researched this novel at Hibiscus Place Emporium, 1406 East Las Olas Boulevard. Special thanks to former owner Manny Lopez, Laurie Hooper, Chris Lopez and Josefina Rivas, who does the finest alterations in Fort Lauderdale. I did button shirts at Hibiscus Place, and dusted the stock, including those pineapples. Why those pineapples are so popular is a mystery I will never solve.

  Special thanks to D. P. Lyle, MD, for helping me determine signs of death. His Writer’s Forensics Blog (writersforensicsblog.wordpress.com) is recommended for all your forensic needs. Fred Powers of Powers Bowersox Associates, Inc., told me how to bury a body in a basement.

  If you follow my account of body disposal and get caught, those mistakes are mine, not theirs.

  Librarian Doris Ann Norris helped me plan a traditional Catholic funeral.

  Steven Toth, of Mr. Entertainment and the Pookiesmackers, answered my questions about punk/indie bands, even after I admitted to liking the Dandy Warhols.

  Thanks to the tax experts and lawyers who advised me on Helen’s tangled financial and legal affairs, including M. Susan Carlson of Chackes, Carlson & Spritzer.

  A special thank-you to editor Sandra Harding at NAL, her assistant Elizabeth Bistrow, Kara Cesare and Lindsay Nouis, and the NAL production staff. Thanks also to my long-suffering husband, Don Crinklaw, who eats the orange chips and butter-and-onion sandwiches like Phil does, and to my agent, David Hendin, who is always there when I need him.

  Many other people helped me with this book, including Detective R. C. White, Fort Lauderdale Police Department (retired), Synae White and Rick McMahan, ATF special agent.

  Special thanks to Valerie Cannata, Colby Cox, Jinny Gender, Karen Grace, Kay Gordy, Jack Klobnak, Kevin Lane, Robert Levine, Janet Smith and Carole Wantz, who could sell fur coats at a PETA convention.


  Les Steinberg of Steinberg & Steinberg, LLC, is my expert on boys’ toys, not to be confused with boy toys. Tom Barclay and Mary Lynn Reed told me how to get fired from radio.

  Librarian Anne Watts lent me her cat, Thumbs, for the Dead-End Job series. Thanks again to the librarians at the St. Louis Public Library and Broward County Library. Yes, I could get information from the Internet, but I’m not smart enough to know what’s solid and what’s misleading. I need librarians for that.

  Thanks also to my sister bloggers on The Lipstick Chronicles, for their advice and encouragement—Nancy Martin, Harley Jane Kozak, Sarah Strohmeyer, Lisa Daily and Kathy Sweeney.

  I’m also grateful to the many booksellers who hand-sell my work and encourage me.

  Finally, any errors are my own. If you want to complain or, better yet, tell me what you like about the novel, please e-mail me at eviets@aol.com.

  CHAPTER 1

  “I need to see Vera right away,” the pocket-sized blonde said.

  Her voice was a sweet whisper.

  Helen Hawthorne could barely see the woman’s curly head over the counter. She reminded Helen of a cream pie with her high-piled sugar white hair and lush curves. A size two, Helen estimated, based on her years in retail.

  Cutie-pie was no tourist vacationing in Fort Lauderdale. She belonged on fashionable Las Olas Boulevard. But Helen figured Cutie-pie would pay full price for her skimpy white dress, not hunt used bargains at Snapdragon’s Second Thoughts, the high-end clothing consignment store where Helen worked.

  Cutie-pie dropped a stack of soiled men’s shirts on the counter. They landed with a thud that told Helen extra starch wasn’t what weighed them down. She hoped the dark red stain on the white shirt was ketchup.

  “Do you have any dry cleaning for pickup?” Helen asked.

  Cutie-pie looked around as though checking for spies, then said, “Tell Vera it’s Angelina Jolie. It’s urgent.”

  This Angelina wasn’t bringing up babies with Brad Pitt. Vera gave all her prime clothing sources celebrity code names. She had to make sure the up-and-coming lawyers, businesswomen and social butterflies who bought her designer consignment didn’t travel in the same circles as the sellers. Selling your barely worn clothes was a worse faux pas than sleeping with your friend’s husband. As with adultery, the real sin was getting caught.

  But Vera cleverly provided Cutie-pie and her selling sisters good excuses to come into the store. Snapdragon’s also did first-rate dry cleaning and sold expensive knickknacks. Cutie-pie could say she was at Snapdragon’s doing her wifely duty and dropping off hubby’s shirts.

  “She’s in the back room,” Helen said. “I’ll get her.”

  “Hurry,” the blonde said. “He can’t know I’m here.”

  The sellers were always in a hurry. What if a friend came in to sell her castoffs? The shame would set off seismic shudders in their circle.

  Helen didn’t run through the narrow store, packed with high-priced clutter. But her long, loping stride covered several yards at a time. She cut through bins of dirty laundry, dodged a display of designer purses, tiptoed past the Waterford and powered through the consignment clothes racks. Versace, Gucci, True Religion and other designer names flashed by.

  After booking nearly a block through this pricey obstacle course, Helen stopped at the print curtains leading to the office of Vera Salinda, Snapdragon’s owner.

  She could hear a man’s voice say, “What do you think of me now? Do you love me?” His voice was the sort of whisper that made good women do naughty things.

  Vera’s was light and teasing. “Love you? Keep performing like this and I’ll marry you.”

  Oops, Helen thought. I’m interrupting a private moment.

  “Please, hurry!” Cutie-pie pleaded. Helen could hear her all the way in the back of the store.

  Helen knocked on the doorjamb, and Vera said, “Come in.”

  Helen tried not to stare at the man next to Vera, but he was a fallen angel with a narrow waist, broad shoulders and artfully tousled golden hair. He seemed surrounded by sunshine. Or maybe it was a halo.

  “This is Roger,” Vera said.

  “Who should be leaving,” Roger said.

  “No, don’t go,” Vera said. “I still need you. I’ll be right back. Wait here.” She pulled the print curtains shut. Helen and Vera stepped into a dressing room. Vera’s sleek dark hair was like an ax blade. Her plump red lips looked like fresh blood. Her pearl white skin had an otherworldly glow in the underlit room.

  “What?” she asked Helen.

  “Angelina Jolie is here,” Helen said. “She wants to see you. She says it’s urgent.”

  “Hell’s bells,” Vera said. “Not her. The only thing worse would be Kate Winslet.”

  Vera hurried toward the front, adjusting her bloodred mouth into a scary smile. Tight black Versace jeans and a pink tank top showed off her gym-toned body.

  Helen picked up the Windex and started cleaning the costume-jewelry case, where she could watch and listen, but not be noticed. Snapdragon’s odd acoustics amplified voices.

  “Chrissy Martlet, how are you?” Vera asked. She swung her cutting-edge hairstyle and leaned on the counter. Muscles rippled under her hot pink top.

  “In a hurry,” Chrissy said. Her sweet breathy voice was a breeze through a bakery. “I have something to show you.”

  She moved the soiled shirts to reveal a brown leopard-print purse with a Prada logo. “It’s a pony-hair purse. Still has the original tags and the certificate of authenticity.”

  Pony hair, Helen thought. A purse made from a baby horse? She decided the material wasn’t any creepier than calfskin.

  Vera ran her fingers over the gold Prada logo, prodded the hairy purse with her long, bone white fingers and unzipped it. Helen saw the brown signature lining.

  “It’s the real deal,” Vera said. “I can sell it for four ninety-five.”

  Chrissy went even whiter. “What? That means I’ll only get half. Two hundred fifty dollars.”

  “Two forty-seven fifty,” Vera corrected. “And that’s if I sell it.”

  “I can’t do anything with that kind of money,” Chrissy said. Her sweet whisper changed to a thin vinegar whine. “That purse was three thousand dollars.”

  “It’s like a car, Chrissy. Once you drive it off the lot, it loses its value. Leopard print is so last year.” Vera’s voice was harder than her fake nails.

  “What about Tansey? Call her. She’ll take it.” Chrissy couldn’t hide her desperation.

  Chrissy must be a regular, Helen thought, if she knows the names of the women who buy her clothes.

  “Tansey hasn’t been buying,” Vera said. “Her ad agency is laying off staff.”

  “Couldn’t you give me a little more money? I have the tags and the receipt. Unlike some of your sources, I don’t steal.”

  “Nobody cares about your receipt,” Vera said.

  “The police would.” Chrissy returned to sweet-talking. “Please, Vera. You know me. My code name is—”

  “I know your real identity, Angelina,” Vera said, quickly cutting her off. “Hush. You never know who could walk in.”

  With a screech of brakes, a black BMW with a grille like a hungry mouth slid into the loading zone in front of the shop. The driver’s door slammed. A man filled the shop door, blocking out the harsh August sun.

  Chrissy looked frightened. “It’s Danny,” she whispered. “I think my husband followed me here. He’s getting suspicious. That’s why I asked your girl to hurry.” Chrissy hastily dropped the soiled shirts back on top of the pony-hair purse.

  Big didn’t begin to describe Danny Martlet. He was dark and threatening as a thunderstorm. His black eyebrows were like low-hanging clouds. His eyes flashed with barely controlled anger. He wore a navy suit, but didn’t sweat in the sweltering August heat.

  “Chrissy, pumpkin, you’re up early,” he said. “It’s not even noon.” His smile showed sharp teeth that made Helen shudder.
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  “I’m taking your shirts in for laundering.” Chrissy’s voice trembled slightly. “Vera is the best dry cleaner in town. I want only the best for my hardworking man.”

  “Be sure and show her that ketchup stain on my white shirt,” Danny said. He grabbed the Hugo Boss shirt, exposing the pony-hair purse.

  “What’s that?” he said.

  “It’s a purse,” Chrissy said.

  “I can see it’s a purse. I also see that Gucci bag on your shoulder. Since when do you carry two purses? Are you trying to spend twice as much of my money?”

  Helen heard him accent that “my.”

  “No. I must have picked it up by accident.”

  “Unless you were trying to sell it. This is a designer consignment shop. Was she bringing in that purse to sell, Vera?”

  “I told her leopard print is so last season,” Vera said.

  “You didn’t answer my question, Vera,” Danny said. “You sell designer clothes on consignment and my wife is addicted to logos.”

  “So what if I am?” Chrissy exploded. “You want me to look better than all the other wives, but you won’t give me any money.”

  “I don’t trust you around cash, sweetie,” Danny said. “It disappears at the touch of your little white fingers. But I let you shop as much as you want. You have unlimited credit at Neiman Marcus, Gucci, Prada and every other major shop from here to Miami.”

  “Did it ever occur to you I might want my own money?” Little Chrissy looked like a Chihuahua yapping at a Doberman.

  “Then get off your lazy ass and make some,” Danny said.

  “I can’t! I gave up my acting career when I married you.”

  “I hardly think a mattress commercial and a straight-to-DVD movie counts as an acting career,” Danny said.

  “I didn’t have a chance to develop my art,” Chrissy said.

  Danny snorted. “The only acting you do is in the sack.” He meanly mimicked a woman in the throes of pretend passion: “ ‘Oh, Danny, more. More. More.’ More sex or more shopping, dear heart?”

  Helen kept her head down and scrubbed the already-clean display case. This was way too much information. They were talking so loud, she felt like she was inside their argument.