by Elaine Viets
“I’ll go to the front door and ask about renting the room,” he said.
“You look too rich to rent here,” Helen said. She took time to admire her fiancé’s tight black T-shirt and jeans.
“It’s not for me,” Phil said. “It’s for my imaginary construction manager, José. I’ll stall whoever answers while you get a closer look at the place.”
“Give me time to sneak around the side first,” Helen said.
She crunched across the dead brown grass and looked in the garage window. Helen saw three mattresses on the concrete floor, two flat pillows and a tangle of gray white sheets. In one corner a white toilet squatted in the open. It looked oddly naked.
That’s one, she thought.
A tiny back room had a pink sheet tacked over the window, but Helen could see scuffed turquoise walls, a sleeping bag and a mattress on a tile floor and a toilet in the corner.
Two toilets, she thought.
The third room was bigger, probably intended as the master bedroom. It had four mattresses, egg-yolk yellow walls and a toilet.
The long, narrow bathroom did not have curtains or frosted glass on its window. Helen looked into a shower black with mold. Through the parted plastic shower curtain, she could see a bedroll in one corner and a toilet in its proper place.
The kitchen had a toilet, too, opposite the stove and a fridge that hummed and groaned. The kitchen counter was cluttered with cans and boxes, most with Spanish labels. The sink overflowed with dirty dishes. Helen saw a huge roach on an open loaf of bread. A futon mattress and two sleeping bags were piled in a corner. A listing chrome-legged table with six mismatched chairs took up most of the room.
Helen hurried to the living room. The sliding doors also had sheet curtains, but she could peek inside. These walls were dark brown. A plaid couch sagged against the opposite wall. It looked like someone bunked on it. Helen counted five mattresses on the floor and more tattered sheets. A small brown TV was perched on a cinder block. Yet another toilet sat in the far corner. The count was up to six.
A sunporch had been converted into a room, thanks to unpainted plywood. Helen couldn’t see in, but she bet this makeshift room had a toilet, too. She tugged on the door. Locked. Before she could explore further, she heard shouts from the front of the house.
Helen slipped around the side and ran for the Jeep. She was sitting sedately inside by the time Phil jumped in, started the engine and screeched toward I-95.
“Nice work,” Helen said. “You kept him distracted while I looked. I could hear you didn’t get along well with José’s potential landlord.”
“That slime,” Phil said. “He told me the room would cost six hundred a month and José would have to share it with four people. He wanted three months’ cash up front.”
“Well, at least your imaginary supervisor would have his own in-room toilet,” Helen said. “I think we’ve found the house of the seven toilets. I couldn’t see into one room in the back, but all the others, even the kitchen and the garage, had toilets.”
“The kitchen, too?” Phil asked. “That’s disgusting.”
“The house is a slum, Phil. Those poor people are sleeping on the floor. I counted maybe eighteen mattresses and sleeping bags. If Commissioner Stranahan is charging six hundred per person, she’s raking in almost eleven thousand dollars a month from that house.”
“Only if the renters are sleeping one person to a mattress,” Phil said. “If they share, she’s making even more.”
“It’s greedy and wicked,” Helen said. “How does she get away with it?”
“She rents to illegal immigrants who don’t dare complain,” Phil said. “She may be paying off officials, too. Or the inspectors don’t bother with poor neighborhoods. You can find houses like that throughout Florida. They’re luxury accommodations. Some illegals send home most of their pay, or make so little they can’t afford to rent. They camp in the woods and risk getting beaten and robbed.”
“How do you think Chrissy found out about Commissioner Loretta Stranahan’s house?” Helen said. “She’d never go to a Latino neighborhood. Chrissy thought visiting Snapdragon’s was an adventure.”
“Chrissy suspected her husband was cheating on her,” Phil said. “Didn’t she say Danny called Loretta a hundred times a day?”
“She did,” Helen said. “I didn’t understand that. Loretta is against Danny’s Orchid House project. Why would Danny talk to her?”
“A man like Danny has business friends and business enemies,” Phil said, “and he’s smooth enough to keep in touch with all of them. In public, Danny would be polite, even friendly to his enemies. His type would hire investigators to look into the commissioners’ lives.”
“They can do that? Isn’t it illegal?”
“It may be illegal and it’s certainly unethical,” Phil said. “But it happens.”
“Who would take an investigation like that?” Helen asked.
“Some detective agency desperate for money, usually a small operation,” Phil said. “The big agencies are taking over the lucrative national and international security and investigations. The small agencies live off the scraps, and some of them cross ethical lines to stay in business. If you’re not burdened by ethics, looking for dirt on the commissioners would be a plum assignment with unlimited billable hours. It wouldn’t be hard to get information about Loretta’s houses. I found it in one day.
“Let’s say Danny got the information on Commissioner Stranahan from a private investigator,” Phil said. “Then Chrissy went through her husband’s papers and found it. At Snapdragon’s, she taunted Loretta with the house of the seven toilets.”
“And wound up conveniently dead,” Helen said. “Before she could ruin Loretta’s career.”
Phil expertly guided the Jeep through a construction lane change, then said, “Look, Helen, I wanted to have this conversation sooner, but your mother took a turn for the worse and we had to go to St. Louis. I may have to quit my job, possibly this afternoon.”
“Oh, Phil. Why?” Helen asked.
“Last month, a multinational company, Mortmane, tried to hire the agency I work for to investigate ten state representatives. Mortmane wanted information about key committee members for an environmental issue. My section boss turned down the job. But now the economy is worse and jobs are fewer. He has a quota to make.”
“Is Mortmane the big defense contractor?” Helen said.
“They do everything,” Phil said. “What they don’t do, they hire us to do for them. Office scuttlebutt is that two of our operatives will be sent to Mexico to bring home the Mortmane CFO’s daughter. She ran off with a young man her father thinks is unsuitable. He wants her back in college. I won’t do kidnapping. The woman is twenty-one, old enough to make decisions without a disapproving daddy dragging her home.
“I have to show up at four o’clock today to get my next assignment. I may come home without a job. I have some money saved, Helen. We can still get married.”
“I have money, too,” Helen said. “Remember my three hundred thousand dollars? The IRS may get a chunk of it later, but we can live on that until you find another job.”
“Then let’s get going,” Phil said. “I researched marriage licenses online and brought the paperwork with me. It’s in the folder in the backseat. I even filled out our online application.”
“You expected me to say yes,” Helen said, in mock anger. “We’re not even married and you’re already taking me for granted.”
“I expected you to keep your promise to marry me,” Phil said. “We have to apply in person to the Clerk of Court’s office. We have five location choices, from the downtown county courthouse to Rick Case Honda.”
“You’re making that up,” Helen said. “You can’t get a marriage license at a Honda dealership.”
“You can, too,” Phil said. “It’s called a One Stop Division and it’s in the used-car building.”
“Love the symbolism,” Helen said. “Stop by for a used wife
and a used car.”
“Hey, I hear Rick gives one hell of an oil change,” Phil said. “And he’ll make your carburetor purr.”
“I’ve got too much mileage on me for a used-car dealer,” Helen said. “I want the downtown courthouse.”
“Then let’s go now.” Phil took the downtown exit off I-95. “Do we want a civil marriage ceremony for thirty bucks?”
“Now that Margery is her old uncivil self, I’d rather she married us,” Helen said.
“Me, too,” Phil said. “Let’s keep it in the family.”
Phil parked in the courthouse garage. An hour later, they had their marriage license. “We can get married in three days,” he said. “You’ll really take me for better or worse, with no job and no prospects?”
“We’ll live on love,” Helen said, and kissed him.
“I still have forty bucks cash,” Phil said. “There’s a terrific lunch place called the Eleventh Street Annex. No booze, but delicious homemade desserts. I think they have mango cheesecake today.”
“I’ll postpone living on love for mango cheesecake,” Helen said.
Phil threaded the maze of downtown streets.
“What kind of job will you look for if you quit?” Helen asked.
“I was thinking of starting my own agency,” Phil said.
“Want to train a partner?” Helen asked.
“Seriously?” he said.
“Hey, it beats buttoning shirts at Snapdragon’s. But I’m moving too fast. You haven’t been fired.”
“Yet,” Phil said.
Phil parked the Jeep in front of an old-style Florida duplex, nearly hidden by a tropical garden.
“Let’s continue this discussion after some food,” Phil said.
The Annex was fragrant with coffee. The speckled terrazzo floor was dotted with stylish metal tables, funky chairs and a sofa. A cheerful jumble of teapots crowded the shelves.
Two women, one in a black-and-white blouse and the other in a red shirt, drank tea together.
The owners, Jonny and Penny, the self-named “Two Ugly Sisters,” worked behind the counter. “The day’s specials are shrimp ravioli, turkey and cheddar panini with a cranberry compote, and Mexican lasagna,” Jonny said. “The Mexican lasagna is made with turkey. We’ve sold out of the other specials.”
Phil wanted the panini and Helen had the shrimp. Both ordered the mango cheesecake. They ate in respectful silence until dessert.
“How did you find this place?” Helen asked. “The cheesecake is a religious experience.”
“I’m a detective, remember? It’s off the beaten path, but word is out among the foodies.”
“Excuse me? Are you the man who eats orange potato chips?” Helen asked.
“And finds amazing cheesecake,” Phil said, finishing the last forkful.
“Now that it can’t ruin our appetite, can we go back to Chrissy’s murder?” Helen asked. “We won’t have much of a honeymoon with Detective McNally dogging me.”
“Who do you think killed Chrissy?” Phil asked.
“Roger the smoking hot valet looks good, and I’m not talking about his handsome face. Chrissy indirectly threatened him when she tried to wheedle more money out of Vera for that pony-hair purse. She said, ‘I have the tags and the receipt. Unlike some of your sources, I don’t steal.’
“Roger was in the store then. If he thought Chrissy was onto him, he’d have a good reason to kill her.”
“He’d commit murder to avoid a burglary charge?” Phil asked.
“Roger stood to lose everything if Chrissy ratted him out,” Helen said. “Beautiful bored wives invited him into their beds. He made easy money stealing clothes. Parking cars has to be a softer job than working in the prison laundry.”
“I can see where that beats sharing a cell and a toilet with some hairy con,” Phil said.
“Danny the developer still makes the best killer,” Helen said. “Too bad he has an airtight alibi. But why didn’t Danny use his information about Loretta’s Palm Beach house to blackmail her into voting for his Orchid House project?”
“Danny doesn’t need Loretta right now,” Phil said. “He has more than enough votes to get his project passed. Loretta is his long-term insurance. The Orchid House project will be a long, drawn-out battle. It may be another five years until they break ground for the new hotel. If Danny needs Loretta’s vote for a future issue, he can ask for it.”
“What happens if she refuses to vote Danny’s way?” Helen asked.
“Danny tips off the authorities about the house of the seven toilets,” Phil said.
“More speculation,” Helen said. “But Loretta definitely had a good reason to murder Chrissy. The commissioner would lose a six-figure income if Danny’s wife shot off her mouth about Loretta’s Palm Beach rental scam.”
“It would kill her political career,” Phil said. “So how do we connect Loretta or Roger to the murder? There are no witnesses. The police don’t seem to have any useful fibers, hair or fingerprints. Roger and Loretta were at the murder scene, right?”
“Wrong!” Helen said. “Vera let the commissioner out the back door before Chrissy was killed, giving her an alibi for the time of the murder. Vera showed Roger out that way, too.”
“Couldn’t they sneak back in the front door?” Phil asked.
“Not with those bells jingling,” Helen said. “We’d have heard them return. But there are no bells on the back door. Vera doesn’t lock it during the day.”
Helen stared at her coffee cup, as if the answer were floating in it. “That’s it!” she said. “Either Roger or Loretta could have slipped in the back door to kill Chrissy. We wouldn’t have heard them.”
“You still have no evidence,” Phil said.
The tea drinker in the black-and-white shirt stood up to leave. Something clicked in Helen’s mind.
“Yes, we do. We have shoes!” Helen said.
CHAPTER 28
Helen dragged a dazed Phil out of the restaurant. “What’s the rush?” he asked. “I didn’t finish my coffee. What are you doing?”
“Praying Vera will still talk to me after yesterday.” Helen speed-dialed Snapdragon’s Second Thoughts on her cell phone.
“Quick!” she said to Phil. “Drive me to Snapdragon’s while I call her. It’s an emergency.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Phil said. He was clearly put out by her curt command.
“Vera, it’s Helen. Are you still mad?” she said into her phone.
“No. I was going to call you,” Vera said. “I’m sorry I flew off the handle. You’re a good employee. I don’t want to lose you.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Helen said. “You’ve been under a lot of pressure. I bet you’re swamped with customers.”
“I wish,” Vera said. “You could fire a shotgun through this store and not hit anyone. The bad publicity is killing me.”
“I think I can help,” Helen said. “Did you throw out those polka-dot heels?”
“What? That pair I decided not to sell?” Vera asked. “They’re around here somewhere.”
“Why couldn’t you sell them?” Helen asked.
“They were too worn,” Vera said. “They had stains on the bows.”
“What kind?” Helen asked.
“Dark blotches,” Vera said. “Could be paint or chocolate.”
“What about blood?” Helen asked.
“I can’t tell what the hell is on those shoes,” Vera said. “All I know is I can’t sell them. We’re going to have to change our shoe policy. Some woman tried on those heels barefoot. She had something icky on her foot and got it on the shoes. Now they’re ruined. I thought I’d get a box of those footies like they use in shoe stores.”
“Forget the footies,” Helen said. “Find the shoes as fast as you can.”
“Why?” Vera said. “I’m going to throw them out. If you want them, take them.”
“No!” Helen screeched. Phil slammed on the brakes, then realized she was yelling at Vera.
He shook his head and kept driving.
“Vera,” Helen said slowly. “You must find those shoes. Better yet, I’ll come in and find them for you. I’m at Eighth and Las Olas. I should be at the store in less than ten minutes. For heaven’s sake, don’t throw out them out. Those polka-dot heels are our salvation.”
“You’re not making any sense,” Vera said.
“I’ll explain when I get there,” Helen said. She shut her phone.
“Helen, what are you up to?” Phil said. He narrowly missed two tourists who wandered into the street to see a wild parrot. “Why are you in such a hurry to find shoes?”
“They’re the key to Chrissy’s murder,” Helen said. “Loretta Stranahan wore those polka-dot heels the day Chrissy was murdered.”
“How do you know?” Phil asked.
“I remember when she came in the store. I thought her shoes were cute. She hit Chrissy on the head with that stupid porcelain pineapple and knocked her out. That’s why Loretta couldn’t wear her own shoes. Chrissy’s blood had dripped on them. After Loretta stunned Chrissy, she hanged the poor woman with a scarf.
“Loretta left her bloody shoes behind and wore other heels out of the store,” Helen said. “It’s a shoplifter’s trick. Now we’re missing an expensive pair of Manolos in Loretta’s size. I remembered them when I saw the woman in the black-and-white blouse at the restaurant. It was shoplifted.”
“The woman at the restaurant had a shoplifted blouse?” Phil asked.
“No, she wore a blouse like one that was shoplifted from our store,” Helen said. “That’s what jogged my memory.”
“Do they give Olympic medals for jumping to conclusions?” Phil asked. “I think you’ve won the gold.”
“You aren’t listening,” Helen said. “A couple of days after Chrissy’s murder, a customer found polka-dot heels with no tag on them.” Helen was talking too fast, hoping to convince Phil. They were only two blocks from the store. “Vera says they have dark stains on them. I think those stains are Chrissy’s blood. The shoes are size eights. I’m sure those are the heels Loretta wore into the shop.”
“And they’re the only size eights in the whole store?” Phil didn’t bother hiding his sarcasm.