The Dead-End Job Mysteries Box Set 2

by Elaine Viets

  As if on cue, a size zero appeared lugging a green shopping bag brimming with clothes. She was blond as a Christmas angel. Vera seemed to regard her as a heavenly savior.

  “Kelly,” she said, “what a pleasant surprise.” Helen had never heard Vera give such an effusive welcome.

  “I’m cleaning out my closet,” Kelly said, “and I wanted to bring you some summer clothes while you can still sell them. I have Versace, D&G, Gucci and—oopsie, this Vera Wang still has the tag on it. Please don’t tell my husband. Jason would have a fit if he knew I never wore it. These are shopping errors. My head cleared when I got home, so I didn’t wear them in public. I don’t know why I ever bought that hot pink Ed Hardy shirt. There are too many imitators. My maid bought one almost like it at Target. I was mortified. And these white clamdiggers make my ass look wider than Roseanne Barr’s.”

  She looked up and saw Detective McNally. “Excuse my language.” She attempted a blush.

  “I’m sure he’s not offended,” Vera said. “Let’s talk price quickly and I’ll send you on your way.”

  Vera made an offer that Helen thought was overgenerous. She suspected it was out of gratitude for Kelly’s timely arrival. The woman didn’t argue. Kelly signed the agreement and flew out of the store.

  “Well, I hope that answered your questions about my sources, Detective,” Vera said. “Now, may I ask you one? Why hasn’t Danny been arrested for Chrissy’s murder? I thought the husband was always a prime suspect. Or do you give developers a pass?”

  Helen could hear the anger in McNally’s voice. “He would be, Vera, except for one complication. He was in a meeting for the Orchid House development fifteen blocks away at the time of his wife’s death. Danny has thirty witnesses.”

  “And how did you know the time of death?”

  “His wife told us,” Detective McNally said. “The victim’s watch stopped when she was attacked. It fell to the floor and broke. Oh, one more thing. Ms. Hawthorne, your fingerprints were on that watch. And on the murder weapon.”

  CHAPTER 12

  A shattering silence followed Detective McNally’s statement. The street sounds outside Snapdragon’s Second Thoughts disappeared. A flock of chattering tourists passing the shop seemed to make no sound.

  Helen’s shocked brain scrambled to hold on to Detective McNally’s words: Your fingerprints. On that watch. And the murder weapon.

  Finally, Helen managed to ask two questions that made sense: “Why would my fingerprints be on a scarf? Can you get fingerprints off a scarf?”

  “Your fingerprints weren’t on the scarf, Ms. Hawthorne,” McNally said. “Mrs. Martlet was coldcocked by a white porcelain pineapple. We found her blood and hair on it and your fingerprints on the bottom of the ornament.”

  “I dusted it,” Helen said. “I hated it, too. I never thought pineapples were ornamental, but rich people put them on everything. They like those stupid monkeys, too. They bring in monkey lamps, bookends and candlesticks to sell. Some of them are wearing turbans. The monkeys, not the rich people. I don’t get it.”

  Detective McNally interrupted. “Now that we have your opinions on decorating,” he said, “let’s go back to your fingerprints.”

  Helen had bought enough time to gather her scattered thoughts. “My fingerprints should be on that pineapple,” she said, and grew more confident. “They should be all over this shop. It’s my job to dust the stock. You should be surprised if my fingerprints aren’t on anything in this shop.”

  “Mrs. Martlet’s watch wasn’t part of the stock,” McNally said.

  “I thought the glass on Chrissy’s watch face was broken,” Helen said.

  “We found your thumbprint on the metal back.”

  “Oh. Right. Chrissy dropped her watch. The clasp was broken. I picked it up, followed her to the dressing room and handed it to her.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?” McNally asked.

  “I forgot.”

  “How many times did you go over the events on the day of the murder?”

  “Five,” Helen said. “Or maybe six.”

  “And you forgot six times?”

  “There was a lot happening,” Helen said.

  “What about you, Ms. Salinda? Did you see Ms. Hawthorne pick up the watch belonging to the victim?”

  “Yes. But I forgot, too,” Vera said.

  “Perfect. Double amnesia. What about Ms. Drubb and Ms. Stranahan? Did they see anything?”

  “Who’s Ms. Drubb?” Vera asked.

  “That’s Jordan,” Helen said. “I don’t think those two women were nearby.”

  “Amazing,” McNally said. “And convenient.”

  “Look, I’m sorry I forgot,” Helen said. “I only talked to Chrissy the day she died, but she seemed like a nice lady. She dropped her watch. I took it back to her while she was accusing her husband of cheating on her. She said he’d been staring at another woman’s chest the night before.

  “Commissioner Stranahan showed up back there after I returned the watch, and there was another fight. Chrissy told Danny she knew about the three thousand new jobs his project would bring into the city and also the house of the seven toilets. That made him mad, but I don’t know why.”

  “We checked that, too,” Detective McNally said. “Danny Martlet owns a house in the Idlewyld neighborhood. It has four bathrooms and two in the pool house. That’s six total. I’d call it a mansion, but what do I know? Place looks like a Greek temple.”

  “Are you sure Danny isn’t guilty?” Vera asked. “He was really mean to his wife.”

  “He may be mean, but he’s not guilty,” McNally said.

  “But they fought in front of us,” Vera said.

  “Lady, if every squabble resulted in murder, we wouldn’t have a married couple left in Florida. Let me repeat. We have no evidence that Danny killed his wife.”

  “Did you decide that because he’s rich?” Vera burst out. “Are powerful people exempt from police scrutiny? Is that why you aren’t bugging Commissioner Stranahan? Are you here because it’s easier to harass us? This murder is ruining my business.”

  Helen winced. She didn’t like McNally, but she didn’t think he was a crook. Vera was foolhardy to antagonize him.

  McNally spoke through gritted teeth. “I’d be the first to run in Danny Martlet if he was guilty. The same goes for Ms. Stranahan. I want this case closed even more than you do. I want these politicians off my back. Half of them are screaming that we’re going to ruin the deal of the century and destroy Florida’s future if we don’t stop investigating Danny Martlet. The other half swear Ms. Stranahan couldn’t kill an ant at a picnic. You know what? If either one were guilty, they’d be sitting in jail now so I could get the second-guessers to shut up.

  “But until I find the killer,” McNally said, “and enough evidence to convict that person—and I do need evidence, Ms. Salinda—I plan to be a pain in the ass to all parties involved, no matter how much money they have, or don’t have. Sorry that poor woman’s death inconvenienced you. Good day, ladies. I’ll be back. And that’s a promise.”

  He slammed the door on the way out and the bells jingled. It was not a merry sound.

  “Guess you think I was stupid to say something,” Vera said.

  “You were brave,” Helen said. “But maybe a little impulsive.”

  “I couldn’t stand it,” Vera said. “He was so snide and sarcastic. And he scared Roger after he brought me these beautiful dresses.” She hung the gowns in the dry-cleaning section.

  “Are they dry cleaning?” Helen asked.

  “Hell, no. They’re going out on the racks as soon as I can tag them.”

  “Do you think Detective McNally knows Roger?” Helen asked.

  “Yes,” Vera said. “He called Roger by his name. And Roger looked scared when he saw the detective. McNally must know Roger from somewhere. You know what else is weird? Roger’s soda can is missing. He dropped it on the counter with the dresses and I didn’t throw it away. I think McNall
y took it.”

  “It could be a possible source of DNA,” Helen said. “McNally wouldn’t need a warrant for Roger’s fingerprints if he took a discarded soda can.”

  Vera groaned. “We have to solve this murder, Helen, before I lose my store. I need help.”

  “Let’s go through who was here that morning,” Helen said.

  “Maybe we can remember something useful. I was too scared talking to the police. No wonder I forgot to tell them about the watch.”

  “From the top,” Vera said. “Chrissy arrived right after the shop opened with the pony-hair purse. You came and got me. I was talking to Roger. Chrissy looked frightened when her husband drove up. They got into a fight about money at the front counter. Then Loretta arrived. I told Danny and Chrissy to take their fight elsewhere, and Danny dragged his wife to the back. Chrissy lost her watch on the way.”

  “I followed them back to the dressing room to return the watch,” Helen said. “Chrissy accused Danny of looking at another woman. Did Chrissy sign a prenup with Danny?”

  “Yes,” Vera said. “She told me she’d only get a measly two hundred thousand if she divorced him. She acted like she’d be living on welfare. I wish I could have her poverty.”

  “Then Danny wouldn’t lose any money if he divorced Chrissy,” Helen said.

  “He’d lose a little,” Vera said, “but he’d lose a lot less if she were murdered. Go back to remembering.”

  “Loretta the commissioner walked into the middle of Danny and Chrissy’s fight,” Helen said, “and started trading barbs. Chrissy did not like Loretta. She thought Loretta was after her husband. Chrissy said she knew about the three thousand new jobs with Danny’s project and the house of the seven toilets.”

  “The police said Danny didn’t own a house like that,” Vera said.

  “Maybe the cops overlooked it,” Helen said. “Phil is good at property searches. I can ask him to check the records.”

  “Good,” Vera said. “Back to what happened. You stepped into the three-way fight between Danny, Chrissy and Loretta. I tried to get everyone to cool off. I gave Danny the Bruno Magli shoes, showed Chrissy a summer dress and took Loretta to the back to look at new arrivals.”

  “Danny threw down the shoes,” Helen said, “and had a tantrum like a two-year-old. He walked out. Do you think Danny is having an affair with Commissioner Stranahan?”

  Vera laughed. “She’d make a lousy corporate wife. She’d have to give up her power to marry him. Poor Chrissy never understood that some women don’t need men to have money.”

  “How much does Danny need Commissioner Stranahan’s vote for his project?” Helen asked.

  “He doesn’t,” Vera said. “He has a majority of the county commission already. Loretta has publicly denounced his hotel project. She’s fought him every step of the way. That’s why I tried to keep those two apart in here.”

  “Then why did Chrissy say Danny was on the phone with the commissioner a hundred times a day?” Helen said. “Wouldn’t he avoid Loretta?”

  “He’s trying to negotiate with the commission,” Vera said. “He’s revamped the project designs twice, because Loretta said the luxury hotel looked like a shoe box. Six neighborhood associations agreed with her and that made Loretta a hero. She got the voters what they wanted. Next Loretta and Danny fought about the hotel complex adding more traffic to an already clogged road. Danny caved in and said it would be routed through the hotel garage. Loretta won that fight, too.

  “Sometime while he was changing the designs, Danny made the hotel project five stories above the legal height limit. Now he wants a height variance, which is really a change in the zoning laws. He says it’s the only way he can make a profit after all the compromise changes he’s had to make.

  “Loretta’s career took off when she started dogging Danny. If she’s smart, she’ll keep fighting him until the next election.”

  Dead end, Helen thought. She stared at the battery-operated toy chicken on the counter that ran around in circles. She had a lot in common with the tourist toy.

  “What about your neighbor Jordan,” Vera asked, “the one in the dress so tight it could have been a tourniquet?”

  “She acted like she knew Danny and came on to him really friendly,” Helen said. “He cut her dead. When he left, Jordan called him a prick. Maybe Danny didn’t know her. Maybe he didn’t want Chrissy to meet the woman he’s been seeing behind her back.”

  “Is Jordan Danny’s backstreet girl?” Vera asked.

  “If she is, she’s a fool,” Helen said. “She’s using her current boyfriend, Mark, to pay for dresses to snag herself a new man. Jordan is expecting this new guy to pop the question.”

  “That’s lousy,” Vera said.

  “Danny and Jordan deserve each other if they’re planning to marry,” Helen said. “Jordan is using Mark’s money to buy clothes to lure a rich man. She’s a cold-blooded little thing. Margery says it’s none of my business, but I think Jordan is ambitious and greedy enough to kill Danny’s wife.”

  “Well, well,” Vera said. “I think we found our murder suspect. Jordan killed Chrissy. It would be a lot easier for Danny to marry Jordan if he was a widower.”

  CHAPTER 13

  The limo pulled up in front of the Riverside Hotel on Las Olas, long as a funeral procession and just as black. Even the windows were dark.

  That’s odd, Helen thought. Why was the limo parked on busy Las Olas Boulevard, blocking traffic? Usually drivers went to the hotel entrance on a quieter side street. Helen had had a day of odd occurrences at Snapdragon’s. Now she encountered a mystery limo on her walk home from work. She stopped abruptly for a better look, and the man behind her nearly dumped his drink down her back.

  “Watch it, bitch,” he said as he passed her on the sidewalk. Mr. Rude stank of beer, and more brew sloshed out of his plastic cup as he staggered down the street. His temper was as ugly as his neon green Hawaiian shirt. Mr. Rude had to be a tourist, Helen decided, or color-blind. Even Floridians wouldn’t wear a shirt that ugly.

  Helen saw a lithe young woman in a skimpy black dress slither out of the hotel, followed by men’s stares. Her long brown hair shimmered in the evening sun. Her nose was slightly too long, but she was definitely sexy. It was Jordan, dressed for an evening on the town.

  The limo seemed to swallow her whole. The last thing Helen saw was Jordan’s black ankle-strap heels disappearing into the interior. Talk about killer heels. Did Jordan walk the six blocks from the Coronado to the hotel wearing them? Those shoes had to be four inches high, not counting the platforms. A woman could jump off them and commit suicide.

  Helen couldn’t see who else was in the limo. She wondered if it was the “special man” Jordan wanted to snag with her “slightly slutty” dress. Was Jordan having a fling with Danny the developer? Vera said the man had at least one sweetie on the side. Was Jordan his current playmate? She certainly wasn’t dressed for a quiet dinner with a new widower. Danny seemed cold and cruel, but was he bold enough to take his new cookie clubbing in South Beach so soon after his wife’s death?

  Helen had to know. Maybe Jordan and Danny had conspired to kill Chrissy. It would make sense: Danny had the perfect alibi and Jordan had the best motive.

  Helen found an old grocery receipt in her purse and wrote down the license number. Phil could find out the limo’s owner. Helen needed to confirm it was Danny’s limo before she told Detective McNally.

  The limo slid smoothly into the stream of traffic. The long walk home on the broiling sidewalk had left Helen tired and bedraggled. A block from the Coronado Tropic Apartments, she sat down on a bus bench, smoothed her hair, added fresh lipstick and put on a smile. She didn’t want Phil to see her so bedraggled.

  Helen felt cooler just looking at the Coronado. The pink glow of the setting sun turned the old building the color of peach ice cream. The Coronado crowd saluted the sunset whenever possible. Tonight, four residents were sitting by the pool—Phil, Peggy, Margery and Mark, the mechan
ic who lived with Jordan in 2C. Five, if you counted Peggy’s Quaker parrot, Pete, a bright green bird with sober gray feathers on his head.

  Mark and Margery were stretched out on chaise lounges. Helen was relieved to see her landlady in her customary purple caftan. The timid pink polish Margery wore to the funeral home was replaced with screaming tangerine. Her brass earrings were the size of temple gongs. She was once more wreathed in Marlboro smoke. Her drink looked a little pale. That screwdriver probably had more booze than orange juice, at least the way Margery made it. Helen’s landlady was back to her colorful self.

  Mark was leading-man handsome. Put him in a tux and a limo and he would turn heads with his dark good looks. Too bad he was wearing khakis with a name tag on the pocket. Mark was never quite able to remove the oil and grease from his fingers. The mechanic was too good for Jordan, but unless his work-stained hands were clutching stacks of Benjamins, she’d have no interest in Mark.

  He raised his beer in greeting to Helen.

  Peggy hoisted her wineglass. “Hey,” she said. “Join us.” Pete sullenly crunched a green bean.

  The umbrella table was spread with potato salad, ripple chips, sliced tomatoes, onions and French bread. Phil was barbecuing chicken. Helen watched her man take a sip of Heineken, pour some on the chicken from the green bottle, then pour more into the cook. She waded through the beer-scented smoke and kissed him.

  “That chicken smells luscious,” she said. “How many six-packs before dinner is ready?”

  “As soon as the chicken and I finish this beer, dinner is done,” Phil said.

  “What can I do?”

  “Help us eat it,” Phil said. “Change into something cool. And take this to my pal Thumbs.” He handed her a paper plate with a grilled chicken neck.

  “Thumbs will love that, but he’ll smear chicken grease all over my floor,” Helen said.

  “Let the cat have some fun,” Phil said. “I’ll clean up if he makes a mess.”

  “The floor needs to be mopped anyway,” Helen said.