by Elaine Viets
“But this is a cordless self-igniting hot-melt glue gun,” Peggy said.
“That’s right,” Phil said. Somehow, he managed not to sound smug. Helen loved him for that. “Same specs, but a much lower price online. Work-at-home scammers make their money selling you overpriced ‘professional’ equipment and supplies.”
“What do I do now?” Peggy asked. “I’ve lost a thousand dollars from the lottery on this scheme.”
“You have some nice aprons,” Phil said. “You could sell them somewhere else.”
“Snapdragon’s might take them on consignment,” Helen said. “I could ask.”
“Would you?” Peggy looked relieved. “At least I’ll get some money back. Wouldn’t you know it? The only time I’ve ever won anything in the lottery and I lost it anyway.”
“Bye!” Pete said. He groomed a green wing feather with his beak.
“Right,” Peggy said. “Good-bye to my money. The natural order at the Coronado has been upset. All the scammers used to live in apartment 2C. Now I’m the idiot who fell for a scam and we have a murderer in 2C.”
“Who has a murderer?”
Helen heard the reedy voice and stared at the small, bent woman. “Good morning, uh—Margery,” Helen said. She almost didn’t recognize her landlady. Margery wore dull beige flats and a flapping flowered housecoat. It wasn’t even purple.
“I said, who has a murderer living here?” Margery said. It wasn’t a demand. It was a polite request.
“You do,” Helen said. “Mark in 2C was arrested for Jordan’s murder.”
“That doesn’t mean he did it,” Margery said mildly. “You’ve been arrested, too, and so has Peggy. Don’t go calling someone a murderer unless you know what you’re talking about. Where are my cigarettes?”
“In your hand,” Peggy said.
“Awk!” Pete said.
“Right,” Margery said. “I’d better have one to calm my nerves.” Their landlady lit a Marlboro with trembling hands.
Helen wanted to weep for the ruin of the magnificent Margery. “Margery, you have no reason to blame yourself,” she said. “You didn’t kill Jordan. Mark did.”
“I ordered her upstairs to her death,” Margery said. “I should have kept Jordan in my apartment and she’d still be alive.”
“You don’t know that,” Helen said.
“I acted like a fatheaded old fool, ordering people around without thinking about the consequences. Now that poor girl is dead. Where’s Phil?” Margery asked in a querulous voice. “He’s supposed to do some work for me.”
“Right here,” Phil said, raising his coffee cup. “What can I do?”
“Prove Mark didn’t kill Jordan,” Margery said.
“I don’t know if I can prove that,” Phil said. “But I will look into his background for you. I’ll need Mark’s last name, Social Security number, date of birth and previous address.”
“I have that on his lease application. Here.” She pulled the papers out of her housecoat pocket.
Phil read it. His eyes widened in disbelief. “His name is Mark Smith?”
“There’s the copy I made of his driver’s license,” Margery said. “That’s his picture on it. He used to live in Chicago. I checked. There is a Mark Smith in Chicago.”
“There are probably five or ten of them there—and in every other major city in the United States,” Phil said. “Margery, I promised I’d investigate Mark, but I can almost guarantee you won’t like what I find. I believe he killed Jordan. This ‘Smith’ driver’s license only adds to my suspicions. I’ll bet you it’s a fake. You have a murderer living in 2C.”
“Hah!” Margery said. “I know a murderer when I see one.” She glared at Helen until Helen wondered if her landlady knew about Rob’s death. I didn’t kill Rob, she thought. I just buried him.
“Margery,” Phil said gently, “you know you’ve had some problems before with the renters who lived in 2C, and you never believed they were crooks. Some were ordinary thieves, others were scammers. One has infomercials on late-night television. Four are still in jail.”
“So?” Margery said. “Florida is a rootless society.”
“That makes it a perfect home for a murderer.”
“Mark is not a killer,” Margery screeched until her old voice cracked. “I want you to find who really killed Jordan. I ask you to do one little thing and you give me excuses.”
Helen felt cold in the warm summery sunshine.
Where was her shrewd landlady? Would Margery ever return?
CHAPTER 25
“Well, well. You’ve decided to honor us with your presence today,” Vera said. She wasn’t dripping sarcasm. This was a flood.
“That’s right,” Helen said. “You knew I was in St. Louis for my mother’s funeral. Is something wrong?”
Dumb question. One look at Vera, and Helen could see something was wrong. Vera’s style had slipped from hobo-chic to plain hobo. Her eyeliner ran crookedly up one lid, as if her hand had shaken. Her pink cotton sweater needed washing. So did her hair.
“The cops arrested Roger, my best source.” Vera spoke slowly, spitting out each word.
“The hunky valet who brought you the top designers?” Helen asked.
“That one.” Vera ran her fingers through her unkempt hair. “Turns out he was stealing those terrific clothes.”
Helen wasn’t surprised, but she thought “I told you so” wasn’t a good comment. She tried a neutral “How?” It failed to defuse the dangerous situation.
“Oh, Roger had quite a system,” Vera said. More sarcasm. “When he parked women’s cars at the hair salon, he’d go through their shopping bags in the backseats. He either knew where they lived or he’d get the address from the salon computer. Then he’d break into their homes, usually within a day or so after they were at the salon.
“That’s how Roger got this season’s styles so fast and sold them to me with the tags still on. If he saw anything else that looked new in his victims’ closets, he took that, too. The greedy dumb ass did it once too often and got caught.”
“And Roger said you were buying his stolen goods?” Helen asked.
“Didn’t have to. The police already suspected him. Remember how weird Detective McNally acted when Roger dropped off those dresses?”
“Oh, yeah,” Helen said. “Roger said he was bringing in a salon customer’s dry cleaning, but even I thought he was lying. And you couldn’t find the soda can Roger had left on the counter after McNally left here.”
“Roger left his fingerprints behind at the last house he broke into,” Vera said. “He was in a big hurry to get the clothes to me. That’s why Detective McNally took that soda can. He had a hunch Roger was stealing clothes and selling them to me. McNally was right. He was in here crowing like a freaking rooster.”
“So that’s how the cops caught Roger?” Helen asked.
“No, it gets worse,” Vera said. “Yesterday, one of his burglary victims was shopping here. Little size-two Mitzi, a bleached blonde who definitely needed that salon’s services. Mitzi saw the dress she’d bought for her daughter’s wedding on my ‘new arrivals’ rack. Roger had stolen it from her home two days before. Mitzi screamed so loud I thought she’d been murdered. Before I could calm her down, she called 911 and accused me of being Roger’s partner in crime.
“Me!” The air seemed to glitter with Vera’s electric anger. “That stupid bimbo. Thanks to Mitzi, the cops came busting in here. All the other customers scattered like scalded roaches. Mitzi was weeping and screeching.”
“How long did it take to calm her down?” Helen asked.
“Hours,” Vera said miserably. “There wasn’t anything wrong with her dress, but Mitzi said she can’t wear it now that it’s been ‘pawed’ by strangers. She claimed she suffered irreparable emotional damage. Her husband is a lawyer. I’m looking at a new suit, all right—a lawsuit—thanks to that face-lifted freak.
“I’m the one who’s had the irreparable damage. The cops confisca
ted three pairs of True Religion jeans and a Versace evening dress, all traced back to Roger. The burglary squad crawled over this place like ants on a candy bar. The cops wanted to know where I got every designer label in my shop—down to the last shirt and shoe. I had to close the store for the rest of the day while they examined my records. They didn’t finish until two this morning. The store looked like a hurricane hit it. I was up all night trying to make it presentable.”
“Ouch,” Helen said.
“Double ouch,” Vera said. “A major legal mess and more damage to my reputation. Now Snapdragon’s Second Thoughts is linked to murder and burglary. I’ve lost stock and another day’s sales.”
“Are you in trouble for receiving stolen goods?” Helen asked.
“No, but it was close.” Vera gnawed a ragged nail. Helen saw three were broken. “The cops tried to say I was Roger’s partner and profited from his theft. They acted like I was some criminal mastermind directing that dimwit. If I was really going into a life of crime, I’d choose a smarter partner.”
Vera was still angry, but calmed down as she told her story. “What saved my ass was I keep good records. I wrote down the date and time of everything I purchased, as well as the designer name, size and color. I also had a description of Roger, along with his right thumbprint and a signed statement that he’d purchased the items at garage and estate sales.”
“You took his thumbprint?” Helen asked.
“I should have taken his right nut,” Vera said. “But I’d followed the law to the letter. I didn’t give Roger a better deal than any other source, no matter how much he flashed those blue eyes at me. I hope he’ll be batting them at some biker in prison.”
“So you’re off the hook?” Helen said.
“Not quite,” Vera said. “The cops are going through my records, seeing if they can match the dates of Roger’s imaginary garage sales to his burglaries. If his case goes to trial, I’ll have to testify for the prosecution. Otherwise, the police can get me for a second-degree felony.”
“Do you really think they’d do that?”
“I can’t afford to find out,” Vera said. “This could ruin my business. In fact, it’s hurt it already. Notice how we’re brimming with customers?”
“Uh, no,” Helen said. “I only saw two people in the store. They said they were just looking.”
“That’s our sum total for the day, and it’s three o’clock. If you want bad news to spread quickly, try a crime connected to a hair salon. Every dye job between here and Palm Beach knows about Roger the thieving valet.”
Vera’s phone rang. She leaped on it like the instrument might escape.
“Hello?” she said warily.
Her face relaxed into a smile and her voice became syrupy sweet. “Commissioner Stranahan—I mean Loretta—how nice to hear from you. You want another suit after all? Ah, you have a television interview.”
There was a pause. Then Vera said, “No, I totally agree. We both know TV cameras are snobs. They make you look bad if you aren’t well tailored, no matter how thin you are. But we’ll fix that. I have killer suits in your size. When can you come by?”
Another pause, while Vera’s smile grew wider. “Tomorrow afternoon? Excellent. Ask for me and I’ll take care of you personally.”
Vera hung up the phone with a sigh of relief. “The bad news hasn’t reached Loretta Stranahan yet. She wants to shop for a new suit.”
“I thought she had too many,” Helen said.
“A working woman can never have too many suits. She’s being interviewed on the South Florida Sunshine talk show. She needs to look successful, but not too successful.”
“How do you do that?” Helen asked.
“The vision is all in her head,” Vera said. “And I have to put it there.” She was still smiling, though Helen thought it seemed slightly forced.
“Listen, this may be the wrong time to bring it up,” Helen said, “but my friend Peggy has some barbecue aprons she wants to sell. She bought them herself, so I know she didn’t steal them.”
“Have her bring them by and I’ll take a look,” Vera said. “Cute barbecue items and cocktail napkins with clever sayings sell to well-heeled suburbanites.” She was still smiling, but it wasn’t quite as wide.
“Excuse me.” An elderly woman with skin like old ivory held up a white jacket with gold buttons. “How much is this?”
Vera studied the tag. “Twenty-five dollars,” she said. “It’s a Gucci.”
“It has a stain on the collar and there’s a loose button.”
“Yes,” Vera said.
“Can’t you lower the price?” the woman asked.
“I’ve already dropped it down from forty-five,” Vera said. “It’s a five-hundred-dollar jacket. It was new this season. I can’t slash the price any more. But a nice pin would cover the stain. Michelle Obama made them fashionable.”
“I don’t want it.” The woman dropped the jacket on the counter and slammed out the door.
“Why did she insult something and then try to buy it?” Helen asked.
Vera’s smile had dimmed a few watts more. “It’s a ritual. The idea is to convince me I’m selling something worthless so I’ll give it away. I’m immune to that tactic. I’ll hang this jacket back up. Watch the store, Helen. I need you to dust until more customers arrive.”
Ugh. Dusting. Helen’s least favorite chore. Vera liked to leave the front door open. She thought it invited in passersby. It definitely brought in dust. The front shelves had a thick coat. Helen tackled a lamp with crystal pendants, covered with lookie-loo fingerprints.
“Helen!” Vera screamed.
Helen went running to the back. Vera held up a black-and-white blouse on a hanger. “Is this yours?” she said. “It doesn’t have a tag.”
“No,” Helen said. “I like it, though. I’ve seen a lot of black-and-white blouses this season. That’s a nice one.”
“It is not,” Vera said. “It’s a crappy polyester knockoff. I had a real silk St. John black-and-white blouse and it’s gone. Some thief stole it and left this cheap imitation. I’m going to straighten the back room after the police wrecked it. Go back to your dusting and watch the store before they steal us blind.”
Helen was glad to put down her dust rag and help a pert brunette in white cotton shorts who looked like Betty Rubble.
“You had a pair of black Manolos when I was in the other day,” Betty said. “I can’t find them. Do you still have them?”
“They may have been sold. Let me check.”
“That’s okay,” the woman said. “I’m in a hurry. Do you have any polka-dot heels?”
“I thought we did, but I can ask the manager,” Helen said.
“No, I don’t want to wait.” Brunette Betty was out the door before Vera came up front.
The shop owner was definitely not smiling.
“What did she want?” Vera asked.
“Shoes,” Helen said. “Didn’t we have a pair of polka-dot heels? You were going to freshen them and put them back out for sale.”
“I stuck them on a shelf somewhere,” Vera said. “They were too worn to sell. You could have shown that woman the Ferragamo slingbacks.”
“She didn’t want them. She asked about the size-eight Manolos, but I couldn’t find them.”
“This pair?” Vera typed on her computer and called up a photo on a designer-shoe Web site. The $845 heels, decorated with silver studs and metal buckles, were called Mary Jane.
Mary Jane must work in a torture chamber, Helen thought. There was nothing schoolgirlish about those shoes.
“We had that pair on display a few days ago.” Vera started checking the shoe racks and shelves, then moved her search to the back room, furiously shifting boxes and bags.
Half an hour later Vera came charging out of the back. Anger seemed to stick out of her skin, like glass shards. “I can’t find those shoes. Did you take them?” she demanded. “You’re the only other person who goes in the back room.”
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br /> “What would I do with size eights? I wear an eleven,” Helen said. “The police have been all over this store. Maybe they misplaced them. The shoes will turn up.”
“When they’re out of style,” Vera snapped. “Are you sure you didn’t know Chrissy?”
“Never saw her except in this store,” Helen said. “We didn’t travel in the same circles. It wouldn’t help Danny’s career to socialize with a shopgirl and a private investigator.”
“Too bad you didn’t know her,” Vera said. “You had the perfect opportunity to kill her.”
“What?” Helen drew herself up to her full six feet. “First, you accuse me of stealing shoes. Now I’m murdering customers. If anyone had a motive to kill Chrissy, it was you, Vera.”
“Me? Why would I kill my best source?”
“Because she knew you were buying stolen goods,” Helen said. “Before Danny showed up, Chrissy asked you for more money. She said, ‘I have the tags and the receipt. Unlike some of your sources, I don’t steal.’ I couldn’t figure out why she’d say that. But now her argument makes sense. Chrissy knew some of your stock was stolen. We’ve already seen why that’s bad for business.”
There was an ominous silence. Something seemed to break in Vera, some last restraint on her patience. Her eyes were wild with rage. Her mouth seemed full of sharp teeth, outlined in red lipstick.
“Get out!” Vera screamed. “Get out now!”
“Am I fired?” Helen asked. She’d never seen this crazy-mad side of Vera before. The woman seemed capable of killing Chrissy, then machine-gunning every tourist on Las Olas.
“Yes. No. I don’t know. Take tomorrow off,” Vera said. “Then call me. I’ll see if I can stand the sight of you.”
CHAPTER 26
“Look! I’m legal at last!” Helen held her new driver’s license over her head like an Olympic gold medal.
Peggy and Phil whistled and applauded. Phil jumped up from his poolside chair and said, “Let me see.” He frowned at her license photo. “You look better than that.”
“I should hope so,” Helen said.