by Elaine Viets
“Yes,” Helen said. “That SOB will definitely call again.” She reached for a paper napkin from the holder on the kitchen table and wiped away her little sister’s tears.
“He’s doubled the amount with each demand,” Kathy said.
“It’s only been two payments so far,” Helen said.
“First five thousand, then ten thousand. You’ve paid fifteen thousand dollars in less than two months.” Kathy’s voice was rising again. “At that rate, he’ll go through your savings and my kids’ college fund in a year or so. How are we going to stop him?”
“We’ll catch him next time,” Helen said. “We have no choice. I’m supposed to be a detective. I should have known better. That kind of surveillance takes two cars.”
“So you’re going to tell Phil after all,” Kathy said. Anger and betrayal flattened her voice.
“No, I’ll keep my promise to you,” Helen said. “I don’t like lying to Phil. It may cost me my marriage. But I’ll make that sacrifice for Tommy Junior. The new generation comes first. My Phil is like your Tom. He’ll go trustingly to the police and destroy both our families. I don’t believe the police or the courts will do the right thing, and I have the personal experience to prove it.
“We still need two drivers, but next time, you’re going to drive a second tail car. You’ll make the drop, park your van in a side street, then get into the second car. I’ll rent another car and park it nearby. Then we’ll both tail him. We’re going to show this dirtbag that sisterhood is powerful.”
“I wish you’d said he wouldn’t call again,” Kathy said. “You’re telling me what I need to hear, not what I want to hear. I’ll jump every time my phone rings from now on.”
“You’ll have to live with that,” Helen said, “the way I live with my lies to Phil.”
“And my lies to Tom,” Kathy said. “I used to worry that we didn’t have enough money and wish we both didn’t have to work so hard to make ends meet. Now I’d do anything to return to those days.”
“At least the blackmailer lost the power to surprise you anymore,” Helen said. “We’ve gained that much. Next time he calls, see if you can stall him another day.”
“Helen, what were you going to do if you caught the blackmailer?” Kathy asked. “Did you have any kind of plan?”
Helen didn’t, but she wasn’t going to say so. She had to protect her older-sister status as the sophisticated, worldly one. “If you’d seen someone burying a body in a church basement, what would you do? I mean, before we got involved in this mess?”
“I’d call the police, of course,” Kathy said.
“So why didn’t our blackmailer call them?”
Kathy shrugged.
“Because he—or she—has something to hide,” Helen said. “If Horndog Hal was the blackmailer, he couldn’t call the cops because he was running around on his wife. He’d have to tell them why he was in that parking lot instead of at choir practice.”
“Maybe it’s someone who needs money,” Kathy said. “Their kid needs braces, or they’re starting a college fund.”
“They wouldn’t risk blackmail charges for legitimate expenses,” Helen said. “Every parent in your neighborhood needs that kind of money. They can borrow it or get it from their families. Look out your kitchen window.”
Kathy dutifully went to the window and pulled back the print curtains. The moon shone on the quiet old houses. Helen heard the faint sound of a distant television. The leaves rustled.
“You’re surrounded by solid citizens,” she said, “but one of them has something to hide.”
“Then the blackmailers are the Cooks on the west side,” Kathy said. “The Kerchers were on vacation then, and it couldn’t be Mrs. Kiley.”
“Did the Kerchers have a house sitter while they were gone?” Helen asked.
“No. But they hired someone to come by and take care of the dog,” Kathy said.
“Mrs. Kiley lives alone, right?” Helen said. “Does Mrs. Kiley ever have anyone over?”
“Her son comes once a week to do her yard work, and her daughter checks on her every day. She cooks dinner for her college-age grandson. I think she went to bed early that night. But I don’t know for sure.”
“We weren’t exactly able to check who was coming in and out of her house,” Helen said. “We’ve broadened our suspect list. Our blackmailer is someone who doesn’t want police attention. He—”
“Or she,” Kathy added.
“Right. The blackmailer is sneaking around on a spouse, embezzling money, maybe running up gambling debts. Could be they’re sick of their life and getting money together to leave here and live in Tahiti. For whatever reason, they want to stay under the official radar.”
“It’s a good theory,” Kathy said. “But I don’t know how it can help us.”
“Keep an eye on your neighbors,” Helen said. “Keep an ear out for gossip. If you find out anything useful, let me know.”
Helen thought she’d done a good job of cobbling together a blackmail plan on the spur of the moment. She glanced at the cheerful rooster clock on the kitchen wall, crowing over this gruesome discussion of murder, blackmail and secret burial. “It’s after midnight. I need some sleep. I have to see the lawyer tomorrow.”
She tried to reassure her little sister. “We’ll get him,” she said in a forced, bright voice. “We’ll make him stop. We have no choice.” Her smile slipped, and she went wearily to bed.
CHAPTER 26
“How did the interview with your lawyer go?” Kathy asked as Helen jumped into the waiting minivan outside Drake Upton’s office in downtown Clayton.
“I need to get to a bank, quick!” Helen said.
“Is there an emergency?” Kathy didn’t wait for Helen to answer. The minivan charged into the suburb’s concrete canyons, threading the maze of streets.
“Not yet,” Helen said. “I’m trying to prevent a problem. I have one bit of good news: Drake said that ten-thousand-dollar withdrawal I made probably won’t be reported to the IRS if I don’t do it again. Banks are required to report ten-thousand-dollar withdrawals, but if it only happens once, they tend to forget to report it.”
“You told him about the money!” Kathy said. She slammed on the brakes at a red light.
Helen braced herself, and her seatbelt snapped. “He’s a lawyer. He’s sworn to confidentiality.”
“Did you tell him why you needed that ten thousand dollars?” Kathy couldn’t keep a quaver of fear from her voice.
“I said an old Florida boyfriend has some embarrassing photos of me in bed with him. Drake knows I’m newly married. I said I didn’t want Phil to find out, so I was going to pay the blackmailer to go away.”
“Helen! How could you do that to yourself?” Kathy asked.
“Better me than Tommy Junior,” Helen said. “Drake turned so red, even his patrician dome was scarlet. He’s a Harvard man, so maybe I should say his head was crimson.”
“Be serious!” Kathy said. “What did the lawyer say?”
“Drake said I should go to the police with my problem and they would be sympathetic. I explained why that wouldn’t work. I said my new husband was a private eye and knew the local police. Phil would find out about the photographs.
“Drake fluffed himself up like a hen and said he would never suggest ignoring the laws of the land, but if he had a similar problem, he’d open a second bank account. Then he’d take the money out of the two accounts in five-thousand-dollar increments.”
“Do you think any risqué photos of Drake Upton ever made the rounds?” Kathy asked.
Helen laughed. “Not a chance. Drake is too stuffy. That man wore a club tie with his bib.”
“You’d be surprised what the quiet ones do,” Kathy said. “I had a supervisor like that when I worked in an office, before I married Tom. Mr. Graham was the dullest, quietest man I ever met—a stuffed shirt. His wife found out he had a mistress in San Francisco. He took a business trip there. His wife was supposed to join hi
m on the weekend, but she showed up early and surprised him in bed with his honey. He lost everything in the divorce, including that shirt.”
“I wonder if Drake Upton wears his black executive-length socks when he’s in the sack,” Helen said.
“Stop it,” Kathy begged. “St. Louis is a big small town. I’ve met that man. What if I run into him again? I won’t be able to look him in the face.”
“So stare at his shoes,” Helen said.
“I’m going to have to wash my mind out with soap,” Kathy said. “My brain is seared by thoughts of Drake Upton cavorting between the sheets.”
Kathy giggled. Helen snorted. The two sisters burst into hysterical laughter, then guffawed until they had tears in their eyes. “Enough,” Kathy said. “We’re at Highway 40. Which bank do you want to go to?”
“Your bank,” Helen said. “I want to open a savings account there with half of my three hundred thousand.”
“That much?” Kathy said.
“I hope we don’t have to make another blackmail payment,” Helen said, “but I want the money ready when he strikes again. You’ll be co-owner of the account, with your name on the signature card.”
“You said you’d come to St. Louis the next time he calls,” Kathy said. Helen saw her little sister’s lip tremble.
“You look like Allison being sent upstairs for a nap,” Helen said. “I will, Sis. I’ll come home like I promised. But Phil and I have our private eye business now. I may not be able to get back to St. Louis immediately if we’re working a case together. This is just a precaution if I can’t drop everything and fly to St. Louis. That way you can take the money out yourself.”
“I don’t want to,” Kathy said.
“Of course you don’t,” Helen soothed. “But we have to plan ahead.”
Kathy wasn’t soothed at all. Helen tried to distract her. “Where is my favorite niece?”
“It’s nap time,” Kathy said. “I asked Mrs. Kiley to watch her. We’re lucky we live next to an older woman who loves kids. We have a better television, so Mrs. Kiley watches her soaps at our place and gets paid a little. Here’s my bank.”
The cube was just as beige as it had been yesterday, and the rectangle of grass in front was still bright green. Helen opened a savings account with Kathy as co-owner.
“Will this account show up on my taxes?” Kathy asked the bank clerk.
“The taxes are paid by the first Social Security number on the account,” the clerk said. Helen thought Kathy looked relieved.
Helen transferred $150,000 from her old St. Louis bank to the new account.
When the sisters left the bank, Helen checked her watch and said, “It’s about time for me to get to the airport.”
“I thought it would be,” Kathy said. “Your suitcase is stowed in the back of the van.”
The highway to the airport was lined with signs advertising the local casinos.
“You and Tom ever go to the casinos?” Helen asked.
“That’s one vice we’ve managed to avoid,” Kathy said. “Locals get sucked into the casino life way too easy. Ruth at our church has a daughter who gambled away her home. Lost the mortgage payments at the casino. The daughter handled the family finances. Her husband didn’t know what was happening until he saw the foreclosure notice. By then it was too late.”
“I read where St. Louis is the sixth-biggest casino-gambling destination,” Helen said. “This city is ahead of Tunica, Mississippi, and Reno, Nevada. Nobody thinks of it that way.”
“We pretend the casinos don’t exist,” Kathy said, “until a family member develops a gambling problem.”
“That strengthens my theory that our blackmailer ran up a big debt,” Helen said. “Start listening for clues that one of your neighbors likes to hit the casinos.”
“Why would they talk about gambling if they’re in trouble?” Kathy said.
“They might say they went to the casino for brunch or to see a show,” Helen said.
The long shadow of a jet slid over the roadway. “We’re almost at the airport,” Kathy said. “Did your lawyer have any word about your IRS case?”
“No progress yet,” Helen said. “Drake wants to set up a meeting with them. He says the IRS wants me to pay taxes, not overwhelm me with penalties. I hope he’s right.”
Kathy pulled the minivan in front of the airport terminal.
“I can’t believe we’re at the airport already. It seems like I just got here,” Helen said.
“You did,” Kathy said, handing Helen her suitcase. She kissed her sister good-bye and said, “Beautiful, clear sky. Not a cloud anywhere. It should be an easy flight home.”
It was. Helen’s plane touched down at the Fort Lauderdale airport fifteen minutes early. Phil was waiting at the gate. Helen ran to him, suitcase bumping over the colorful carpet.
“I missed you,” she said, throwing her arms around him.
They exchanged light kisses and conversation on the way to the parking garage. While travelers rushed past them, Helen told her husband about Kathy and Tom and her niece and nephew. She waited until the parking garage door was in sight, then mentioned that her lawyer was planning to set up a meeting with the IRS. They pushed through the air lock into the evening heat. Phil didn’t ask any more questions about Helen’s tax problems. “Your manager called this morning,” he said. “Derek wants you to report to the gym tomorrow.”
Helen sighed. “I knew it was coming. I have to work on Shelby’s case.”
The soft, salt-tinged Florida humidity felt like a welcome caress to Helen. “I think it’s cooler here than in St. Louis,” she said.
“I drove the Igloo,” Phil said. “Thought you’d appreciate the cool air.”
Inside the PT Cruiser, Phil gave her a deeper kiss, then stopped.
“What’s wrong?” Helen said.
“We have to work tonight,” he said. “Mark Behr’s old friend Danny Boy Cerventi will be tending bar at Granddaddy’s. I’ve been there enough that I’m becoming a regular. Danny starts drinking most afternoons, and he’s pretty bombed by evening. I thought we could sit at the bar, have a burger and a beer, maybe talk about old times.”
“I’m always willing to eat a burger in the line of duty,” Helen said solemnly.
“This time order your own fries,” Phil said.
“Let’s go there now,” Helen said.
“Can’t. You need to go home and change. Granddaddy’s is a bit of a dive,” Phil said. “You’re too well dressed. Ditch the pantsuit for jeans.”
“With pleasure,” Helen said.
It was Helen’s favorite time of day, when the setting sun stained the subtropical sky a delicious pink. The icy white Coronado apartments turned a soft peach and the palm trees cast long blue shadows. Margery was waiting in one of those shadows, wrapped in cigarette smoke.
“Hey, gumshoes,” she hissed.
“Huh?” Phil said.
“Got the drop on you,” Margery said. “There’s a dame out by the pool waiting to see two shamuses.”
“Shelby?” Helen asked.
“That’s her,” Margery said. “She’s here for the dope, if you get my drift.” She blew a cloud of smoke at Phil and Helen.
Margery dropped the forties talk and led them to the pool. Shelby was dressed for work Florida style—a yellow summer dress and heeled sandals—and chatting with Peggy. Pete watched their client. Helen thought the parrot had a skeptical look.
Shelby smiled and waved when she saw Helen and Phil. “Thought I’d better stop by,” she said. “You haven’t been returning my calls. You two been busy with my case? I want to know how the investigation is going.”
“Pete and I better turn in for the night,” Peggy said, getting up from her chair.
“Bye!” Pete said. Margery had melted into the shadows.
“I’ve seen Bryan every day the gym has been open,” Helen said. “He usually works out four to six hours a day. He was at the gym at six o’clock the morning Debbi was murdered,
but the police wouldn’t let anyone inside. Bryan spends a lot of time with his trainer, Jan Kurtz, but their relationship is professional. There’s no one else he’s interested in.”
“There is,” Shelby said. Helen thought she saw tears sparkling in their client’s eyes. “He’s been restless as a caged cat since the gym closed. He wanted to show houses this afternoon but said he didn’t have time to clean his car because he had to go running. I said I’d take his car in to be washed.
“I found an open condom wrapper under the front seat. I’m on the pill. Why would a married man need a condom?”
“Maybe it fell out of a client’s pocket,” Helen said.
“I don’t think so,” Shelby said. “He’s up to no good. I know it. I hate being a fool. You wouldn’t understand.”
“You’d be surprised,” Helen said.
CHAPTER 27
Helen walked into Granddaddy’s Bar and stopped dead. Phil ran into her back.
“What’s wrong?” he whispered. There was no need for him to lower his voice. The customers were screaming at the Marlins game on the three big TV screens. Cries of “Yeah!,” “Go, go, go!” and “Boo-yah!” drowned out everything, including the game’s announcer.
“This is like walking into that video of Mark’s birthday party,” Helen said, “except the bar is a quarter century grimier. I think these are the same people, too, just older.”
The men definitely had useful jobs in an area better known for beach bums. Sitting at the long, dark-wood bar (also jumping up and down, cheering and twirling) were mechanics, cable-company workers and hurricane-shutter installers, all holding beers. Helen knew their occupations by the trucks parked in the lot and the uniforms on their backs.
The rest of the customers wore T-shirts, mostly Marlins shirts.
The neon palm tree was still on the wall, but one side flickered. Helen thought the booze brands had gone down a notch since the 1986 video. There were no fancy blender drinks on the menu board. Helen was one of the few women in the bar. Even in jeans and a shirt, she was the best-dressed woman. Granddaddy’s was no longer a place to bring a date.