by Elaine Viets
“That was fast,” Peggy said. “Didn’t you apply for your license today?”
“It’s same-day service if you apply in person and have the right paperwork.”
“What are you doing with that illegal license?” Peggy asked.
“I’m cutting it up,” Helen said.
“You can use my special apron scissors,” Peggy said. “They were free with my overpriced glue gun. I’ll go get them.”
She returned with a triumphant Pete riding on her shoulder. Peggy bowed and presented Helen with a foot-long pair of shears on a green velvet throw pillow. The little parrot clung to Peggy’s shoulder when she bent forward, flapped his wings to keep his balance and squawked.
Helen snipped the old license in two and said, “Meet the new Helen, all legal, all the time.”
“Thanks for removing one worry,” Phil said. “Aren’t you home early from work? It’s only four thirty.”
“I got fired—maybe,” Helen said. “Vera blew up and ordered me out of the shop. She told me to take tomorrow off. Then I call the store to see if I still have a job.”
“What happened?” Phil asked.
“Vera was upset because the police arrested Roger, her hot source. Turned out Roger was hot in more ways than one. He was stealing designer clothes. The police hassled Vera about her connection to Roger for hours. She was tired, worried about her business and on edge. She accused me of stealing shoes and murdering Chrissy, and that was the last straw. She had a better motive for killing Danny’s wife, and I said so. Vera went ballistic and told me to leave.”
“You don’t really believe she’s the killer?” Phil asked.
“I don’t want to,” Helen said. “But I’ve never seen Vera so angry. She sure seemed capable of killing. Vera was in the back of the store when Chrissy was murdered. Chrissy knew Vera bought stolen goods. Vera swore she wouldn’t kill her best source. Now I don’t know what to believe.”
“She’ll calm down,” Phil said. “I’m glad you have tomorrow off. I’ve checked the property lists. Vera owns a four-room house near Snapdragon’s. I drove by it today. The street has tiny one-bedroom cottages built in the nineteen twenties. Her home may have two toilets, max.
“Roger doesn’t own any property. He’s two months behind on his rent. His motorcycle was repossessed, he owes three thousand dollars on his credit cards and his phone has been disconnected.”
“No wonder he stepped up his stealing,” Helen said.
“His financial trouble started when Roger lost his job at the Exceptional Pool Service.”
“He’s certainly hot enough to work there,” Helen said.
“What’s so exceptional about that pool service?” Peggy asked.
“They’re sort of Chippendales with chemicals,” Helen said.
“You seem to know a lot about hot pool boys,” Phil teased. “Would you care to tell me how you acquired that knowledge?”
“Vera said Chrissy was one of their customers,” Helen said. “Did she get Roger fired?”
“Technically, he wasn’t fired,” Phil said. “Roger was allowed to resign. A woman customer complained that Roger helped himself to a hundred dollars in her wallet. Roger said she gave him the money as a tip. The woman—who was married—refused to press charges. Roger resigned, but didn’t get another job for six months. While he was out of work, his motorcycle was repossessed.”
“Was this married woman Chrissy?” Helen asked.
“I didn’t get her name,” Phil said. “I had to pay my source plenty to get this dirt on Roger. Finding out more will cost me extra.”
“How much?” Helen said.
“Five hundred dollars, minimum,” Phil said.
“I can come up with the cash,” Helen said. “It would be worth the investment if we could prove Roger killed Chrissy.”
“Let’s use our free option first,” Phil said. “That’s Commissioner Loretta Stranahan. She owns a condo in Broward County in her district. I checked the real estate listings for her building. She lives in the east wing. The units on that side have three baths. The real estate agent told me no unit in the building has more than three.”
“I guess that rules her out,” Helen said.
“Not quite,” Phil said. “Loretta also owns two houses in Palm Beach County.”
“Two Palm Beach houses,” Peggy said. “That’s a ritzy location.”
“Palm Beach County likes you to think it’s for the rich and glamorous, but not everyone has a mansion with live-in servants,” Phil said. “Palm Beach has poor neighborhoods and modest homes. I’m guessing Stranahan’s two houses fall into those categories. Both cost under two hundred thousand dollars.”
“How many toilets?” Helen asked.
“They’re listed as having one bathroom each—but that doesn’t mean they do. Homeowners often add extra toilets without getting the permits. Want to drive with me tomorrow and see them?”
“How can I resist such a romantic date?” Helen said. “I’d love to see the toilets of Palm Beach County. I’ve been gone most of the day. How is Margery? I’m worried about her.”
Peggy looked at Phil and lowered her voice. “With good reason,” she said. “Margery has been holed up in her apartment since Phil told her the bad news.”
“Which was?” Helen asked.
“I didn’t find a Mark Smith in Chicago,” Phil said. “Not one who could be the tenant in apartment 2C. I did find a Marco Rupert Gomez of Chicago with Mark Smith’s same birth date. That Gomez is wanted for aggravated assault and the rape of a twenty-year-old college student.”
“That’s horrible,” Helen said. “How do you know he’s Mark in 2C?”
“The story ran in the Chicago paper. His victim was paying her way through college as a model. He beat her so badly she needed facial reconstruction. Even if Mark avoids being tried for Jordan’s murder, he’ll be extradited back to Illinois for that crime.”
“Brilliant detective work,” Helen said. “But you still didn’t say how you know Mark Smith is really Marco Rupert Gomez of Chicago.”
“ ‘Gomez’ is a common name, a sort of Latino ‘Smith.’ Mark used a version of his real first name,” Phil said. “People often do that when they take an alias. They’re likely to keep their same birth date, too. Makes them easier to trace. Here. Look at Marco’s photo.”
Helen studied the newspaper picture. “That’s him, all right, but he looks more thuggish.”
“It’s a mug shot. Police stations aren’t known for flattering lighting.”
“I had no idea he was Latino,” Peggy said. “Mark never spoke Spanish.”
“He’s third-generation,” Phil said. “He was born in Illinois. His parents are schoolteachers. Helen’s family is German-American and she doesn’t know a word of German.”
“I do, too,” Helen said. “Strudel. Wiener schnitzel. Bratwurst. That’s my complete German vocabulary.”
“Point taken,” Peggy said. “Do you think Jordan knew Mark had beaten and raped a young model?”
“I doubt it,” Phil said. “Mark met her when she was waitressing at Beach Buns and they moved in together at the Coronado a month later. That’s what he told me over brews by the pool, anyway.”
“Is Margery still blaming herself for Jordan’s murder?” Helen asked.
“Yes,” Phil said. “Margery says she should have hired me to do a background check on the guy. Then she could have warned Jordan. She spent most of today in Mark and Jordan’s apartment, doing heaven knows what.”
“Brooding,” Peggy said.
“Awk!” Pete said.
“Margery came hobbling down from 2C about three o’clock,” Phil said. “She turned dead white when I told her about Mark’s Illinois warrant. She shut herself in her apartment and hasn’t said a word since.”
“I’ll go talk to her,” Helen said.
“Good luck,” Peggy said. “The door is locked. Neither of us can get through to her.”
Helen knocked on Margery’s jalousi
e door. No answer. She pounded on the door until the glass slats rattled. More silence.
“Margery, open this door or I’ll break the glass,” Helen said. “You know these slats are a pain in the neck to replace.”
“Hold your horses, I’m coming,” Margery said.
Helen could see her landlady’s form against the frosted-glass slats. “What do you want?” Margery asked.
“I want to know if you’re all right,” Helen said.
“I’d be fine if you weren’t butting in my business,” Margery said. “Go away.”
“We want to help you. You haven’t been yourself.”
“You want to help? Fine. Go pack Jordan’s things in her apartment. Her parents are driving down from Orlando tonight to pick them up. I’ve piled her clothes and papers on the kitchen table. There are three suitcases in there that you can use. The cops have unsealed the apartment, so you can get in.”
“What about the key?” Helen asked.
Margery’s door opened a few inches. A liver-spotted hand slid out, holding a key. “Here. When the parents show up around six o’clock, come get me.”
“We can handle it for you,” Helen said.
“It’s my apartment complex and my responsibility,” Margery said. “Jordan’s parents are Bud and Susan Drubb.”
“Nobody’s named Bud Drubb,” Helen said.
“Do you want to help or yammer?” Margery slammed the door.
“What did she say?” Peggy asked when Helen returned to the umbrella table.
“She insulted me,” Helen said. “That’s a good sign. She wants us to pack up Jordan’s things for her parents.”
Apartment 2C stank. Helen opened the door and the unpleasant tang of rotted meat, old blood and Florida mold rushed out, along with top notes of floral air freshener. As she and Peggy walked into the living room, they heard the peculiar hollow deadness of an empty apartment.
Helen was relieved the couch where Jordan had been murdered had been taken away. She winced at the blood on the living room walls. The door to the bedroom where the drunken Mark had passed out was shut. His empty beer bottles were gone.
Peggy shivered. “This used to be such a cute apartment. Now it’s horrible.”
“I don’t think Margery will be able to rent this for a long time,” Helen said.
“Let’s pack up and get out of here,” Peggy said.
Helen recognized many of the dresses she folded into a black suitcase as Snapdragon’s bargains. Peggy packed shoes, underwear and makeup into another suitcase, then started stacking photos, bills and papers into the third.
“This photo here must be her parents,” Peggy said. A couple in their fifties smiled at the camera from a sunlit beach.
“The mom looks like Jordan with short hair,” Helen said. “Jordan had her same green eyes. Her dad has a nice, craggy face. They seem too young to have a twenty-something daughter.”
“Had,” Peggy said. “I dread meeting them tonight. Looks like we’re finished here. We can take these suitcases downstairs. Jordan’s parents shouldn’t see this apartment. Are we going to tell Margery when the Drubbs show up?”
“She wants us to, but let’s let her sleep,” Helen said.
The two women carried the suitcases out by the poolside table. Then Peggy brought out two glasses of cold wine, and Phil added a bag of cheddar-and-sour-cream potato chips.
“Ew,” Peggy said. “They’re orange.”
“They’re pretty good once you get past the first bite,” Phil said.
Helen and Peggy stuck to the wine. Helen hoped one glass would be enough anesthesia to get her through the meeting with Jordan’s parents.
The couple who came to the Coronado that evening could have been the grandparents of Bud and Susan in the photo. Bud’s hair was nearly white. Susan’s face was lined and sagging. They walked as if some monster had stripped off their skin and sucked out their souls.
“We came to get our daughter’s things,” Bud said. His dignity was heartrending. They refused any drinks, even water. They did not want to sit down. Phil helped Bud carry the suitcases to their white Buick.
“We want to get back on the road,” Susan said. She seemed to be fighting back tears. “We knew our baby would get in trouble someday, but we hoped it wouldn’t happen. Jordan always said she liked bad boys. She thought good men were dull.”
“Did she know Mark was wanted for assault and rape?” Peggy asked.
“Oh, yes,” Susan said. “She told us. We were so frightened for her. We sent her money so she could get a place of her own, but she said she wanted to stay with Mark. Mark told Jordan that he didn’t really rape and beat that young woman. He said she’d liked rough sex—then afterward she’d changed her mind and cried rape. Jordan believed him. She said Mark was the kindest, gentlest man and deserved another chance. Well, look where his chance got my daughter.”
Helen couldn’t bear to see the pain in Susan’s eyes.
She heard the rattle of glass and saw Margery in her doorway, standing straight and tall. She wore a violet caftan, dangling earrings and purple sandals with flowers on them. A cloud of cigarette smoke covered her face like a veil.
“Margery,” Helen said. “You’re back.”
“You were supposed to tell me when Jordan’s parents arrived,” Margery said. She took Susan’s hand in her own and said, “I’m so sorry about your daughter.”
“Thank you,” Susan said. “I was telling your friends that my little Jordan was too trusting. She knew Mark had a violent past, but she thought he’d reformed.”
Bud came up to his wife and said, “We should leave now, sweetheart. We have a long drive ahead.”
“Would you be my guests at a hotel for the night?” Margery asked.
“No, we want to leave this place,” Bud said. “No offense.”
“I understand,” Margery said.
They watched the couple drive off.
“Margery, did you hear them?” Helen asked. “Jordan knew that Mark had raped and beaten a woman. You’re not responsible.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Margery said.
“You’ve been punishing yourself for Jordan’s death.”
“Oh, now you’re a psychologist as well as a sales clerk,” Margery said. “I’m so relieved. When I need a psychiatric evaluation, I won’t have to bother with a professional. I have an amateur on call to hand out half-baked diagnoses.”
“You’re angry,” Helen said.
“No,” Margery said. “I’m furious.” Her voice was no longer a quaver. She thundered. “I asked you to tell me when the Drubbs arrived, but you didn’t bother.”
“You’re wearing purple,” Helen said.
“Well, alert the media,” Margery said. “I always wear purple, you twit.”
“You’re cussing, too.”
“Hell, yes. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing,” Helen said. “Everything is fine.”
CHAPTER 27
Ameat market. A doctor’s office. A tiny storefront church with a sparkling window framed by white curtains. At least, Helen guessed that’s what these businesses were. She translated the signs as Phil’s black Jeep rolled down the street past a carnicería, a médico, an iglesia. They were on a potholed road near the Dixie Highway, literally on the wrong side of the tracks in Palm Beach County. The area between Dixie and I-95 was considered poor by Palm Beach standards.
“We’re a long way from Worth Avenue,” Helen said. “Tourists never see this.”
“They’re missing the interesting part,” Phil said. “You can find Brooks Brothers, Neiman Marcus and Tiffany stores at any upscale mall. These shops are one of a kind. I bet that meat market has sensational hot sausage. And look how the congregation has fixed up that church. They painted red roses and a gold cross on the window.”
“I didn’t realize there were Latino neighborhoods here,” Helen said.
“Who do you think works in the mansions?” Phil said. “I bet if I y
elled ‘green card,’ I could make half the people on this street disappear.”
“You wouldn’t, would you?” Helen asked.
“Of course not,” Phil said. “Then we’d never find Commissioner Stranahan’s two houses.”
He turned right, then left, then right again. “Be careful,” Helen said. “If anything happens to you, I’ll never find my way out.”
“Your concern is touching,” Phil said.
She yanked his ponytail playfully and said, “You know I can’t live without you.”
They were on a dusty sunbaked street lined with square cinder-block houses in faded tropical colors. The lawns were brown and dry. Most of the homes had chain-link fences and iron bars on the windows.
Phil stopped in front of a lime green house with its screen door hanging off the hinges.
“Shame on the commissioner,” Phil said. “I see a dozen housing-code violations just standing here.”
Helen and Phil walked carefully up the cracked concrete steps. Phil reached through the torn screen and knocked on the door.
After a long wait, a Latino built like a melting ice-cream cone answered. His eyes were frightened. “No spik English,” he said.
“Do you know if—,” Phil began.
The frightened man interrupted. “No. Go away. Vete.” He made shooing motions with his hands and slammed the door.
“Do you think he really doesn’t speak English?” Helen asked when they were back in the Jeep.
“Who knows?” Phil said. “It’s a good way to get rid of strangers. You speak Spanish, don’t you?”
“Gringo Spanish,” Helen said. “That’s what my old Cuban boss, Miguel Angel, called it. My Spanish is slow and my vocabulary is small. I couldn’t help you if anyone started firing rapid Spanish.”
“Let’s drive to her other house,” Phil said. “I don’t want to attract more attention here.”
Commissioner Stranahan’s second house was almost a copy of the first, except it was sun-scorched turquoise and had a handmade “se renta cuarto” sign.
“I think that sign translates as ‘room for rent,’ ” Helen said.
Phil coasted by the house and parked his battered Jeep half a block away, between a rusty pickup and a brown seventies beater with the trunk wired shut.