by Elaine Viets
“I’d still like to see that video,” Helen whispered.
“Not here,” Joan whispered back. “He’s in a pissy mood.”
“I could look at it in the pier parking lot after you get off work,” Helen said.
“He’ll see us. Cy’s paranoid,” Joan said. “Thinks we’re all talking about him. We are, too. I need lunch after I get off work here in thirty minutes. You could have a drink.”
“How about the Downtowner in Fort Lauderdale?” Helen asked.
“Anyplace but Riggs Beach,” Joan said. “See you there in an hour.”
“JOANIE!” Cy yelled. “I said get your ass back to work.”
Joan shrugged and hurried away. When Helen left, Joan was filling saltshakers. Cy was sprawled at a back table, texting on his cell phone. Helen thought he moved his thumbs fast for an older guy.
The Downtowner Saloon was in downtown Fort Lauderdale, almost under the Andrews Avenue bridge on the Las Olas Riverfront. Diners could see the yachts motoring on the New River, the skyscrapers and the jail—the city’s successes and failures. The Downtowner’s historic building was a series of dark connecting rooms with big-screen TVs, electronic games and an antique gas pump. Helen snagged a table outside, just as Joan arrived. She’d changed out of her uniform shirt into a peach blouse.
“Thanks for meeting me here,” Joan said. “I want someone else to see that video. You seem sensible.”
Helen guessed that was a compliment. “Is your last name really Right?” she asked.
“It is,” Joan said. “Mom must have really loved Dad to marry him. She put up with lame ‘You’ve finally found Mr. Right’ jokes for forty years. I haven’t had her luck picking men.”
“You can eat lunch and rest,” Helen said, “and we can pretend we’re tourists.”
“Do I look that bad?” Joan asked.
Helen laughed. “We depend on tourists,” she said, “but we sure don’t want to be mistaken for them. Why do tourists check out when they check into a hotel? They drift across A1A in front of speeding cars. They wear clothes I wouldn’t put on to empty the trash. I’m sure at home they’re perfectly fine, but on vacation they forget their good sense.”
“And their manners,” Joan said. “Maybe they know nobody from home will see them misbehaving. You’ve been at the beach two days in a row. Are you a sun worshipper?”
“Just a salesclerk on a staycation,” Helen said. “The fun went out of my day at the beach when I saw that poor woman drown.”
Joan shuddered. “I hope I never see anything like that again.” A server took their orders. Joan ordered the fish tacos and a beer. “I’ll have the Stranahan salad,” Helen said. The prospect of grilled portobello mushrooms, mozzarella and roasted peppers on a pile of mixed greens made her feel so virtuous, she asked for a white wine.
After the server left, Joan said, “On the way here, I heard on the radio that tourist lady was murdered. I can’t believe I caught it on my camera phone.”
“You were going to show me the video when Cy decided to play boss,” Helen said. “Don’t keep me in suspense any longer.”
Helen tried to contain her excitement while Joan powered up her cell phone. “Is it bloody?” she asked.
“No at all,” Joan said. “Here it is. See the yellow paddleboard? It’s bumping against a piling. Still wish Channel Fifty-four had bought it.”
Helen could see why the station had turned down the video. She saw a yellow oblong moving against a dark blur surrounded by gray. There was no sound.
“What’s the dead lady’s name?” Joan asked.
“Ceci Odell,” Helen said. Their drinks appeared and Helen reached gratefully for her wine.
“Right,” Joan said. “You can’t see her, but there’s the scuba diver.” She pointed at the screen.
Helen saw a roundish dark blob that could have been a dolphin, a diver’s head or a shadow.
“Why would a scuba diver swim under the pier?” Helen asked.
“He wouldn’t, unless he was up to no good,” Joan said. “The current near the pier is dangerous. Look! Right there. See? He’s swimming away from Ceci’s body and the paddleboard.”
Helen saw more shadows and something moving far faster than a human could swim. “Weird,” she said. She sipped more wine to hide her disappointment.
“Do you think I should show it to the police?” Joan said.
“A Detective Ebmeier is in charge of the investigation,” Helen said. “Maybe he could enhance the video for a clearer view.”
The server brought their food. The two women watched a sleek white yacht glide past on the New River while they ate.
“I can’t believe your boss takes ten percent of your tips,” Helen said, “if diners put them on a credit card. That’s rotten.”
“That’s Cy,” Joan said. “He’s greedy. Servers don’t even make minimum wage. We only get four seventy-seven an hour, and tourists aren’t big tippers. Cy helps himself to the little we do get in tips.”
“Is your boss hard up for money?” Helen asked.
“He’s rolling in dough,” Joan said, and finished her beer. “And you’re not a local taking a staycation. Your questions are too sharp. Why are you talking to me?” Joan’s eyes were sharp with suspicion.
Helen decided to tell the truth. Well, some of it. “Busted. I’m a private detective,” she said. “A partner in Coronado Investigations. I’m looking into the goings-on at Riggs Beach, and Cy seems to be the key.”
“You want to bring down Cy for corruption?” Joan asked. “You’ve come to the right woman.”
Helen signaled the server for another round of drinks.
“What all does Cy own?” Helen asked.
“The restaurant. It’s a gold mine,” Joan said. “The bait shop does well, too. He also owns the Riggs Beach T-shirt Shop and Cerise, the upscale boutique. Plus, he’s got that parking lot by the pier. He charges ten dollars an hour for those spots.”
“I know,” Helen said. “There’s no street parking.”
“All the public parking was removed after Cy made generous donations to several commissioners’ reelection campaigns. He has a monopoly on the beach. It’s a fifty-space lot, so on a busy day he’s raking in five hundred dollars an hour. But that’s still not enough for the old greed head. He wants Sunny Jim’s space. He figures he can cram six cars in there and make another sixty dollars an hour.”
“But that will reduce the size of Riggs Beach,” Helen said.
“He doesn’t care,” Joan said. “But Cy may not get Jim’s location. My boss is in hot competition with Bill’s Boards. Bill wants it for his paddleboard rentals.
“The Riggs Beach City Commission is split. Three commissioners think Cy’s expanded parking lot is good for city business. Three others say it should stay beach property, but they want it for Bill’s Boards. Two commissioners are on the fence: Charles Harrison Wyman and Frank Lincoln Gordon, better known as Frank the Fixer. It all comes down to who gives them the biggest payoff.”
“How do you know?” Helen asked.
“They’re both in and out of Cy’s restaurant all the time. Commissioner Wyman—Charlie Want More—has a daughter who’s getting married again. Cy volunteered to close his restaurant on a Saturday in January so Wyman could have the reception there. The commissioner is being cagey. Sometimes he says his daughter is going to elope. Wyman is too slick to take cash. Cy can’t be sure of his vote and he’s nervous. He wants that parking lot.
“Frank is easier to buy. He has a free lunch at Cy’s every day and doesn’t tip. I wait on him. Frank and Cy talk a lot. I hear things. The commissioner’s kid needs new braces. We’re talking about ten thousand dollars for the kid’s dental work.”
“That’s a lot of money,” Helen said.
“He needs more money and he needs it fast,” Joan said. “He has this spectacular house on the water. The last hurricane damaged his seawall. Unless he comes up with cash quick, his waterfront property, his pool, even part of h
is house could be washed away in the next storm.”
“And hurricane season starts in a month,” Helen said.
“Tell me about it,” Joan said. “He moans about it constantly. The pier parking lot is open twenty-four hours. The bribe is maybe one day’s take.”
Helen whistled. “That’s twelve thousand dollars.”
“That’s what Frank the Fixer and the owner were talking about—how many days he should get for his support. The commissioner is holding out for a week. The owner wants one day, but I think he’ll settle for a long weekend. What time is it?”
Helen checked her watch. “Seven o’clock,” she said.
“I can’t believe we’ve talked this long. I’d better get going,” Joan said. “It’s been fun talking to you.”
“You too,” Helen said and signaled the server for the check. “Dinner’s on me. You’ve been a big help.”
Joan took out her slim black wallet and said, “At least let me pay the tip.”
“No way,” Helen said. “That’s a gorgeous wallet.”
“Gucci,” Joan said. “But it doesn’t have those big dumb G’s all over it, shouting ‘I paid too much for this.’ Boyfriend got it for me. Kept the wallet, got rid of him.
“Look what else I got.” Joan pulled a pink ticket from the depths of the wallet. “I bought a raffle ticket for a Mercedes.” Helen saw Joan’s name, address and phone number scrawled on the ticket.
“My luck is turning,” she said. “I can feel it.” She tucked the ticket carefully back inside.
“Here’s my card with my e-mail and phone number,” Helen said. “Please e-mail me that video. Maybe I can have it digitally enhanced.”
“I will. And I’ll call you if I hear anything,” Joan said. “I want Cy caught.”
“Won’t you be out of work if he is?” Helen asked.
“Someone else will take over that restaurant,” she said, “and I’ll get a better boss. I sure can’t get a worse one.”
CHAPTER 12
“You’re working late tonight,” Helen said, opening the jalousie door to the Coronado Investigations office. The only light was the pale blue glow of Phil’s computer screen. Six half-empty coffee cups were scattered on his desk.
“Good. You’re home,” he said. “I think I’ve found something on Sunny Jim’s security video. Take a look. I need to know if you see it.”
Helen rolled her desk chair next to Phil’s.
“Your eyes are red,” she said. “You look like a bloodhound.”
“I’ve been on this trail since I got back to the office about five,” he said. “Look at this.”
The security video, in flickering gray and black, was time – and date-stamped “1:38 AM 03/06/2013.” “That’s a Wednesday,” Phil said. “Not many people on Riggs Beach at that hour.”
Security lights cast a pale gray glow on the ocean side of Jim’s Riggs Beach trailer. Two stocky men about five feet eight entered the frame from the north. Both wore black head-to-toe dive suits, gloves and hoods. Full-face dive masks covered their features.
“Creepy,” Helen said. “They look like insects.”
“Locusts, in Jim’s case,” Phil said. “Watch the destruction. It starts with that one breaking the trailer’s padlock with a bolt cutter.”
The other diver opened the trailer door, and both entered. Their motion triggered the inside camera. The gray illumination was fainter, but Helen had a clear view into Jim’s trailer at night. The plywood desk was folded flat against the wall and the rack of paddles and boards was rolled into the trailer.
Helen watched one black-suited diver pull a paddle off the rack and smash it against the trailer wall. The other did the same. Then both men were gleefully smashing paddles in a riot of ruin.
“This looks even scarier because they’re faceless and soundless,” Helen said. “How many paddles did they break?”
“A dozen, at two hundred bucks apiece,” Phil said.
Snapped paddle shards were tossed about like downed branches after a windstorm. Then one vandal hoisted a paddleboard off the rack. The other followed him. Helen watched them walk out of the frame with the two boards.
“Look at the man on the left,” Phil said. “Is he limping?”
“I’m not sure,” Helen said. “He could be adjusting his gait because he’s carrying that heavy board.”
“Look at it one more time,” Phil said. He reversed the video until the two men were once again leaving the trailer carrying the boards, then slowed it so Helen could watch it frame by frame. Now she saw it.
“He’s definitely favoring his right ankle,” Helen said. “See how carefully he goes down the ramp?”
Phil sighed with relief. “We might have him,” he said. “Those men are the right size to be Jim’s former employee, Randy, and his buddy Buzz. They both have alibis for the time of the break-in. Each one says he spent the night with a girlfriend and the women confirm it.”
“Not exactly airtight,” Helen said.
“Is it too late to call Sunny Jim?” Phil said. They checked the office clock.
“It’s only eight,” Helen said.
Phil put the office phone on speaker and punched in Jim’s cell phone number.
“You got something for me?” Jim asked.
“I might,” Phil said. “Does your old employee, Randy, walk with a limp?”
“A limp?” Long pause. “No, he doesn’t limp. Where’d you get that idea?”
“Just a thought,” Phil said.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Jim said. “He doesn’t walk with a limp, but he sprained his ankle this spring. Happened late January, early February.”
“One of the guys on your security video has a limp,” Phil said.
“That’s Randy,” Jim said, his voice triumphant. “You got him.”
“Not really,” Phil said. “Not unless he’s still limping.”
“No, his ankle healed up in about six weeks. He’s walking fine now.”
“Did he go to the ER for his ankle?” Phil asked.
“Doubt it,” Jim said. “Randy doesn’t have health insurance. Well, at least we know he did the break-in. But that doesn’t help me.”
“We’ll keep at it,” Phil said. “Unless you need me, I’ll be tracking down the killer tomorrow.”
“Go ahead. I can handle the beach rentals alone,” Jim said. “Business is still slow.” He hung up.
“That information may not help Jim, but it helps us,” Phil said. “That was no spring break prank. Those two thieves were wearing about fifteen hundred dollars’ worth of dive gear. His ex-employee probably did steal his boards and break his paddles.”
“Did you hear anything in the beach bars?” Helen asked.
“Lots,” Phil said. “Sunny Jim’s ex wants part of his rental business. Wilma Jane Wyman, the commissioner’s daughter, actually went to a city commission meeting. Wilma told the commission she helped build Sunny Jim’s business and she was entitled to a share of his profits when his lease was renewed. She’s quite the looker, too.”
“You met her in a beach bar?” Helen asked.
“Nope,” Phil said. “The Riggs Beach City Commission meetings are taped. You can see them online. Watch.”
Phil tapped more keys on his computer and called up a grainy color video. The sound was boomy, but the speakers were captioned. He fast-forwarded it until Helen could see an impressive wood-paneled room where the Riggs Beach commissioners sat in a U-shaped arrangement, with the mayor in the middle.
“That’s Mayor Eustice Timmons, also known as Useless,” Phil said. “Man bends with every political wind. He acts as moderator at the meetings. Petitioners come into the blue-carpeted horseshoe to talk. They have exactly five minutes to state their case; then a red light flashes on in front of the mayor’s desk. Wilma will appear next.”
Wilma was a curvy brunette in a tight-fitting white bandage dress that made all the male commissioners’ eyes bulge—and possibly another body part. Only Wilma�
�s father shifted slightly in embarrassment and stared at the paperwork in front of him. The commissioners let Wilma continue to state her case against Sunny Jim for nearly two minutes after the red warning light was on.
“He built that business because of me,” she said. “I’m the one who risked skin cancer standing out in front of that trailer, attracting customers. I’m the one who posed for the video on the Sunny Jim Web site. I built his business, and then when our marriage fell apart, he went on working without me. When his license is renewed, I should have a share of those profits. I worked for them. Gentlemen, I stood in the sun and sweated for that man.”
“Miss Wilma Jane, we’ve known you since you were knee-high to a sandpiper,” Mayor Timmons drawled. “But, honey, we can’t help you. Anything you get from Mr. James Sundusky is a matter for the civil courts and should have been settled when you divorced the man. Does your decree say you’re entitled to a percentage of his future income?”
“No,” Wilma Jane said. Her voice was so low, Helen had to see the two letters appear on the computer screen to be sure she’d said them.
“I’m sorry,” the mayor said, “but you have no claim on Mr. Sundusky anymore. But let me congratulate you on your January nuptials. I’m glad you’ve found a man who appreciates your . . . um . . . intelligence.”
Helen snorted.
“What’s so funny?” Phil asked.
“Mayor Timmons couldn’t take his eyes off her double IQ the whole time she spoke,” Helen said. “Wilma may be mad at her ex, but I doubt she’d kill an innocent tourist—or hire a hit man to do the job, either. She’s looking for more money, not to ruin Jim.
“I learned some things today, too, when I had a late lunch with Joan Right,” Helen said. “She’s a server at Cy’s. Joan says there was a diver under the pier when Ceci died. She videoed it, but I couldn’t see anything. Well, one thing: if it was a diver down there, he moved faster than any human I’ve ever seen.”