by Elaine Viets
“You’re about to get it,” Helen said as the Jeep rumbled into its parking spot. “We’re back at the Coronado in time for the sunset salute.”
Every evening, the Coronado residents gathered around the pool to toast the day. Peggy and Margery were sitting on chaise longues, sipping box wine. Helen’s landlady looked mysterious in her perpetual haze of Marlboro smoke. Her purple caftan gave her a languid air.
Red-haired Peggy seemed tired and drained after a day’s work. Pete was perched on her shoulder.
“Hello!” the parrot said, nibbling a strip of green pepper.
“Hi, Pete. Still on a diet?” Helen asked.
“Poor Pete!” the parrot said.
“How about a cold glass of wine?” Margery asked.
“Count me in,” Helen said.
“I’ll get myself a beer and be right back,” Phil said. He returned shortly with a chilled bottle, a bag of tortilla chips and a jar of salsa.
“Don’t take the lid off that salsa until you open your present,” Margery said.
She handed Helen and Phil two long, thin boxes wrapped in silver paper and white ribbons. Helen ripped off the shiny paper and opened a white box.
“Business cards!” she said. The cards read:
CORONADO INVESTIGATIONS
HELEN HAWTHORNE
They had the agency’s address, phone number and license number.
“Love the typeface,” Helen said. “Straight out of a noir movie. How did you know our agency license number?”
“That took some real detecting,” Margery said. “You have it framed in your office. I love that Florida private investigators are licensed by the Department of Agriculture. They regulate vegetables, fruit, milk, pawnbrokers, dance studios, shellfish and pest control.”
“I assume we come under pest control,” Phil said.
“Should be food service, as often as your wife is in the soup,” Margery said.
“Seriously, Margery, these cards are lovely,” Helen said. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Be successful,” Margery said. “I need your agency to overcome what happened in Apartment 2C.”
A young woman had been murdered there. Margery blamed herself, though she had nothing to do with the untimely death. Their landlady’s guilt had eased some with time, but all the paint and disinfectant in Florida couldn’t make that tragedy go away.
Margery had pulled the apartment off the market and given it to Helen and Phil as an office for one dollar a month, until their agency turned a profit.
“I can’t make a profit until you two succeed,” she said.
CHAPTER 8
Weston had cornered the market on beige paint. Helen drove through what seemed like miles of monotonous minimansions on carefully curved streets. Each had its own pool. Most were covered with black mosquito cages. Weston was the gateway to the Everglades, and the mosquitoes never let anyone forget that.
Weston was born a decade after Mark Behr was buried, the brainchild of real estate developers. Bernie’s flirtation with exotic men was long gone: Weston looked rich and regimented.
Bernie and Kevin Bennett lived well off the misery of others. Their home was a brownish stucco mansion on a perfectly landscaped cul-de-sac with palm trees as skinny as flag poles. A four-car garage stuck out of the front like a tumor. Helen heard the distant thrum of a lawn crew manicuring grass and trimming hedges.
Helen parked the Jeep and hoped it wouldn’t leak on the beige pavers in the circular drive. She stood on a narrow, arched porch and pressed the doorbell. Through the door glass, she glimpsed beige marble and mirrors. Helen heard footsteps. Someone was coming.
The woman who opened the door was big breasted and wide hipped. Her hair was cropped short and dyed the same brownish beige as the house. She wore no makeup, green surgical scrubs and white nurse’s shoes. Helen thought that was an odd outfit for a maid.
“May I help you?” she asked with an impersonal smile.
“I’d like to speak to Bernie Bennett,” Helen said.
“That’s me.”
Helen stared at the woman. Hidden in that heft was the former temptress Bernie Behr. The barroom stunner was now a hundred pounds heavier. She looked as drab as her new neighborhood. The shock froze Helen.
“If you’re collecting for the Sagemont School benefit, I’ll be at the meeting Wednesday,” Bernie said and smiled again.
Helen didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted that she’d been mistaken for a prep school mom. Maybe marriage made her look more respectable.
“Uh, no.” Helen recovered her scattered wits. “I’m here for a different reason. It’s about your brother.”
“Gus?” Bernie asked. A frown creased her smooth skin. “Is he okay?”
“Gus is fine,” Helen said. “He asked us to look into the circumstances surrounding your brother Mark’s death.”
“Who are you?” Bernie asked. The smile was gone, replaced by angry suspicion.
Helen produced one of her new business cards.
“Coronado Investigations?” Bernie said. “My brother Gus hired you to look into Mark’s death? Why?”
“He doesn’t believe Mark committed suicide,” Helen said. “You can call him and talk to him if you want.”
“Oh, I’ll call him—don’t you worry,” Bernie said. “But not while you’re here. I don’t believe in airing our family business, but Gus sent you here, so the gloves are off.
“My brother, a car mechanic”—Bernie said his profession as if it were somehow shameful—“doubts the decision of the police and medical professionals? He’s going to get an earful from me. Look, Miss Hayward—”
“Hawthorne,” Helen corrected.
“Whatever,” Bernie said. “My brother Mark’s suicide was a terrible shock to our family. But even before Mark died, Gus was strange. The rest of us knew how to have fun, how to relax. Gus always had his head under a car hood.
“Mark gave Gus’s business a jump start. He sent Gus a lot of luxury-car business. Gus has plenty of bucks. He could have sent his son to a good prep school like Sagemont or Pine Crest. But he and Jeannie let Gus Junior go to public school, and the kid turned out exactly the way you’d expect: He’s nothing but a mechanic, like his father.”
Helen did not like Bernie, not at all. “Gus is a good, honest mechanic,” Helen said. “My landlady uses him, and she’s no fool.”
“I never said Gus was dishonest, did I?” Bernie asked. Her eyes were narrow, flat and yellow. The fine beauty was gone from her face. “But I made something out of myself. I married an executive.”
Helen didn’t think a health insurance executive was anything to brag about, but she kept quiet.
“Gus has never accepted Mark’s death. If you knew my brother Mark, you’d understand why his death was so hard on our family. After Mark died, I tried to get Gus in treatment, but he refused to talk to a counselor. That was Gus’s problem. Now he’s made it mine.
“Mark shot himself. The police investigated his death and said it was suicide. The case is closed. My poor mother is dead. I’ve moved on with my life. Only Gus stays stuck in the past.”
Bernie stopped her tirade long enough for Helen to squeeze in a question: “Why did you tell Gus that Mark shot himself in Plantation, when he really died in Sunset Palms?”
“Is that what Gus told you?” Bernie said. “He has a bunch of weird theories about Mark’s death. My therapist said it’s guilt that makes him talk crazy.”
“If I could just come in for a minute,” Helen said.
Bernie blocked the door. “There’s nothing to talk about. There’s nothing to investigate. My brother Mark killed himself. The past is dead. Only Gus tries to keep it alive.”
Her face turned as hard as the driveway pavers. “Good-bye,” she said. “I have to go to work now. If I catch you near my home again, I’ll sue you up one side and down the other.”
She slammed the door in Helen’s face. Helen heard her turn the dead bolt.
CHAPTER 9
That was some skilled interrogation, Helen told herself as she drove home from Bernie’s house. If you’d worked for the Allies during World War II, the Nazis would be goosestepping down Federal Highway.
Every time Helen thought about her talk with Bernie, she burned with shame. She’d bragged to Phil that she would be better at getting information from the woman. Deep inside, Helen knew she’d steered her husband away from Bernie because she’d seen the opulent redhead strutting on that video. Bernie had been shockingly sexy—a quarter century ago. Bernie had grown up since then.
Helen tormented herself all the way back to the Coronado. When she wasn’t giving herself a blistering lecture, the heat scorched her. Sweat soaked her blouse and plastered her damp hair to her neck. Even when the Jeep got rolling on the road, the air was like a burning breeze through a blast furnace.
I need a car with air-conditioning, she told herself. A few more successes like this morning and we won’t be able to afford gas for this one. I have no business being a private detective. I couldn’t find the cap on the toothpaste. I’m lucky I found my way home.
Helen parked the Jeep in its slot at the Coronado. Her sandal sank into the soft, melted asphalt. She pulled it out, then slogged up the stairs to the Coronado Investigations office.
Phil greeted her with a smile. “How did the interrogation go?”
“Bernie threw me off her property.” Helen opened a bottle of cold water from the office fridge and flopped into her desk chair. It squeaked in protest.
“Good.” Phil looked pleased. “That means you’ve hit a nerve.”
“I didn’t come close,” Helen said. “I couldn’t even get in her house. Bernie ordered me off the front porch. She doesn’t want us looking into Mark’s death. She implied that her brother Gus was nuts and said she’d sue us sideways if we bothered her again.”
“Even better,” Phil said. “When a subject overreacts, it means something.”
“It means I did a lousy job,” Helen said.
“No, it doesn’t,” Phil said. “I see two signs of success: Bernie ordered you off her property. She said her brother Gus was crazy. We’re getting somewhere.”
“It would help if we knew where we were going,” Helen said.
“My turn to use the wheels,” Phil said. “I’m interviewing one of Mark’s friends, a guy named Joel who lives in Boca. Can I give you a ride into work?”
“After I change my shirt,” Helen said. “I’ve been sweating like a stevedore in your Jeep.”
She showered, changed into a cool blouse and combed the wind tangles out of her hair. On the short ride to the gym, Helen said, “Any way we could afford a car with air-conditioning? Showing up for interviews sweaty and windblown isn’t professional.”
“The heat doesn’t bother me. I’m naturally cool.” He grinned.
Helen kissed him. “I know,” she said. “I love you anyway.”
“I hate to give up my Jeep,” Phil said. “It blends in so many places. I think we could find you a good used car. Want me to start looking?”
“Yes,” Helen said. “You can save me from the clutches of the car dealers. I don’t care what I drive as long as it has air-conditioning. I’m guessing we don’t want a flashy ride for our business. We’re at the gym already. Thanks for the ride.”
The doors to Fantastic Fitness opened with that weird air-lock whoosh, and Helen was gratefully enveloped in its chilled atmosphere. Carla was at the reception desk. Bryan was leaning across it, talking to her.
As she approached, Helen heard him say, “I have a session this afternoon with my trainer, Jan. Is she in yet?”
Carla checked the schedule. “Jan’s due here in about ten minutes.”
“Okay.” Bryan shrugged and his shoulders rippled. “I’ll warm up on the stationary bike until she comes in.”
Bryan mounted the first bike in the front row when a scream split the gym air: “What the hell are you doing on my bike?”
Helen recognized the roar: Debbi the bodybuilder was in another rage. Her chest heaved. Her yellow hair stood up in outraged spikes. Helen feared she would black out from fury. Helen had never seen a young bodybuilder who looked so lean. There wasn’t enough fat on her to fry an egg. The corded muscles twisting on her arms, legs and shoulders made her look like a science-fiction creature.
Carla pushed Helen toward the stationary bike. “Go break up that fight!” she said. “I got her last two tantrums. I can’t deal with Debbi today.”
Bryan didn’t want a confrontation with Debbi. He dismounted from the bike and tried to soothe her. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know you were using this.”
“Everyone knows I always use the first bike. Even you should know.”
Debbi’s anger sizzled and crackled around her like an electric field. Helen approached the bodybuilder warily, like a zookeeper approaching a wild animal.
Bryan stayed sweetly apologetic. “I didn’t see anyone on the bike. I didn’t think anyone was using it.”
“It’s bad enough I have to watch that crap CNN instead of seeing the truth on Fox News,” Debbi said. “Then I go hydrate and you steal my bike.”
“Here,” Bryan said. “Take it.”
Helen saw that Debbi’s face was stroke red and her eyes were jaundice yellow. Even her skin had a yellow tinge. She looked trapped and hurt.
I should have a tranquilizer gun for this assignment, Helen thought. She tried to tell herself that Debbi was young and damaged by her father’s misdeeds, but it didn’t help.
“Debbi,” Helen said softly, working to keep the fear out of her voice. “Bryan didn’t mean to take your bike. He’s rooting for you just like everyone else here. We all want you to succeed. Remember your talk with Carla? Anger is bad for your career.”
Debbi whirled on Helen as if she was going to attack her. Then her face grew softer. Her eyes looked wounded. “You’re right,” she said. “It’s not worth it. He’s not worth it.”
Bryan had climbed on another bike farther down the row and was pedaling hard. He didn’t look their way.
Debbi took a seat on the bike she’d claimed as her own. “I’ll try to do better,” she said.
“Good work,” Carla whispered when Helen was back at the reception desk. “She still scares me.”
“She’s better after you talked to her,” Helen said. “This time Debbi made an effort to calm down. Look at her. She’s fine now.”
Debbi was pedaling so furiously, Helen thought the bike might burst into flames.
“After she lost her temper,” Carla said. “Mark my words. That woman will kill someone. When she goes postal and the reporters are here interviewing the survivors, I’m going to tell them I warned everyone she was dangerous.”
“At least there are plenty of people here with muscles if she goes ballistic,” Helen said. “They’ll protect us.”
“Hard bodies are no protection if someone comes at you with a gun,” Carla said.
“Gun?” Helen said.
“Debbi’s father killed a woman in that botched holdup,” Carla said.
“That’s unfair,” Helen said. “You told Debbi you didn’t blame her for her father’s mistakes.”
“I don’t,” Carla said. “But I’m not going to forget what he did, either. Emotions get stirred up in gyms. People get murdered. Nearly everyone comes in here with a gym bag. You can hide a handgun or a rifle in one. Nobody checks gym bags. We don’t have metal detectors here. And it’s happened before.
“At a competitor’s gym, a lesbian flirted with another woman. Her partner shot her. At another gym, a man thought his girlfriend was cheating on him. He hid a gun in his duffel bag and opened fire on her aerobics class. His girlfriend was shot in the leg. Four innocent gym members died.
“Sweat, sex, ambition and half-naked people are a dangerous combination. We have cheating couples here. We have ’roid-raging bodybuilders who want to win medals. We have people working out practically naked. See
that woman over there on the treadmill? She’s wearing more makeup than clothes.”
“Is she wearing lace underwear?” Helen asked.
“That’s lingerie. That’s no workout suit,” Carla said. “Her panties don’t cover her butt cheeks.”
“She certainly can’t conceal any deadly weapons in that outfit,” Helen said. “Unless you count her implants.”
“Helen, be serious.” Carla nodded toward a massive bald bodybuilder doing pull-ups with giant chains slung around his neck. The chains could have anchored a cruise ship, but he wore them like necklaces. The links were thicker than his blush-worthy thong.
“Look at that hulk in the banana sack,” Carla said.
“Cashew sack is more like it,” Helen said. “Doesn’t look like the guy has much down there.”
“Steroids, probably,” Carla said. “Do you think that mastodon could move fast enough to help me?” Helen heard the fear in Carla’s voice. “He may be built like Superman, but he can’t stop bullets. When it comes down to it, we’re alone at this desk.”
Treadmills and bicycles whirred. Basketballs thumped and barbells clanged. Workout music pounded and the television blared.
Helen realized if she or Carla was in danger, no one would hear them. The gym was too noisy. They were marooned on a stark black-and-steel island.
She hoped Debbi’s workout would leave her too tired to follow in her father’s footsteps.
That thought made Helen feel guilty. Poor Debbi was right to worry. No wonder her eyes seemed stricken. She was tarred by her father’s lethal legacy.
Helen thought of a little red-haired boy pedaling his retro car. Would Gus the Third escape his family’s sad past?
CHAPTER 10
Helen sat up on the weight bench, gasping for breath. Her midsection felt like it had been gouged out, then wrapped with iron bands. Fantastic Fitness indeed. This place was an air-conditioned torture chamber.
Derek kept smiling. The massive manager was a sadist in spandex.
“Come on, Helen, you can do it,” Derek said. “One more set of crunches. No pain, no gain.”