The Dead-End Job Mysteries Box Set 2

by Elaine Viets

  “Interesting,” Phil said. “Maybe I need to see if Randy or his sidekick Buzz have had a sudden increase in their income—or if any local divers have been spreading money around the beach bars.”

  “I guess Ceci’s husband is no longer a suspect,” Helen said, “now that Detective Ebmeier released Ceci’s body so he could take her home.”

  “The detective said Daniel Odell wasn’t a suspect,” Phil said. “But this is Riggs Beach, remember? I want to do some checking up on Detective Ebmeier. We don’t know if Ceci had any life insurance. The detective could be getting a payoff from Ceci’s husband.”

  “And I found out Commissioner Frank the Fixer desperately needs cash,” Helen said. “His kid needs dental work and the seawall around his mansion is crumbling. Why is the commissioner called Frank the Fixer, anyway?”

  “He owns a TV repair shop near the beach,” Phil said.

  “Do people still get TVs fixed?”

  “Not enough so Frank can afford a waterfront mansion,” Phil said.

  “So what do we do tomorrow, partner?” Helen asked. “I thought I’d check out Cy’s two Riggs Beach shops. I may be forced to do recreational shopping.”

  “I’m looking at another day in the beach bars, knocking back beer and looking for that diver,” Phil said.

  “You’re getting paid to drink,” Helen said. “Tough job.”

  “It takes discipline,” Phil said. “I have to drink enough to look like I’m sloshed while still being able to follow conversations. It took years to build up that kind of tolerance. Now I’m finally being paid for my expertise.”

  “We’ve done well today,” Helen said, wrapping her arms around Phil’s shoulders. “I think it’s time for that undercover work.”

  CHAPTER 13

  NICE STORY, BABE—NOW FIX ME A SANDWICH.

  FOR MY NEXT TRICK I’LL NEED A CONDOM AND A VOLUNTEER.

  I PEE IN POOLS.

  Ick, Helen thought as she surveyed the T-shirts in the window of the Riggs Beach T-shirt Shop.

  Do people really wear those? Somebody must buy them, or they wouldn’t be taking up expensive display space. Tourists must feel their vacation isn’t complete without a tacky T-shirt.

  She couldn’t imagine anyone in St. Louis coming home wearing a shirt with a cartoon chef leering: TONY’S ITALIAN—IF YOU LIKE MY MEATBALLS, YOU’LL LOVE MY SAUSAGE.

  More evidence that tourist brains softened in Florida’s subtropical sun, Helen decided. She read the handmade sign on the shop door: NO FOOD, PETS, WET FEET. WE HAVE CAMERA SURVEILLANCE!!

  Could a camera see if people’s feet were wet? Helen tried to recall the grainy gray Sunny Jim’s surveillance video she and Phil had examined last evening. She couldn’t tell if those trailer burglars were damp or dry.

  “May I help you, miss?” a pleasant brunette asked. She was holding a feather duster. Her name tag said KAREN.

  “Are you the manager?” Helen asked.

  “No, I only work here one day a week,” Karen said. “I’m hoping for more hours. That’s why I’m dusting souvenirs. I’m going the extra mile so I’ll get extra hours.”

  “Do you know the owner, Cy Horton?” Helen asked.

  “I’ve never met him,” Karen said. “But I’m prepared. If he comes in here while I’m working, I’m going to ask him for more hours.” She paused and cocked her head like a bright-eyed bird. “But maybe the store manager wouldn’t like it if I went over her head. What do you think?”

  “Probably not a good idea,” Helen said.

  “Well, let me know if I can help you with anything,” Karen said, going back to shining ceramic flamingos.

  Karen can’t help me with information about Cy, Helen decided as she flipped through stacks of shirts, one more repulsive than another. There were stacks of shirts that said: PLEASE TELL YOUR TITS TO STOP STARING AT MY EYES. Helen couldn’t imagine a woman desperate enough to date a dude wearing that. The only shirt she’d consider said REEFER MADNESS over an underwater scene.

  Her stomach turned when she saw a display for Florida Gator Poop. This shop could sell the real thing. She sidled closer and was relieved when it turned out to be chocolate-nut candy. “Chocolate Lore,” the package said. “To reduce calories, store your candy on top of the refrigerator. Calories are afraid of heights and will jump out of the candy to save themselves.”

  On her way to the door, Helen passed Karen dusting souvenir seashells and said, “Thank you.” The only thing she’d learned was that the shop’s T-shirts were childish.

  Next door, she heard joyless pounding music. Helen held her head high when the bar rats whistled and jeered “Nice tits!” as she walked by. She wondered why more women didn’t go postal when men behaved that way. She sure wasn’t flattered.

  This section of Riggs Beach alternated beer dives with scuzzy T-shirt shops. Helen thought there must be a kind of mathematical formula: the sleazier the bars, the nastier the T-shirt shops. At least she could enjoy the day. The sun shone in a cloudless sky, the soft sea breeze was soothing and the constant sighing surf sounded relaxing.

  As Helen marched north along A1A, Florida’s east coast beach highway, she passed shops promising GIANT SALES. Racks of $15.99 bargain beach cover-ups, slightly salty to the touch, were wheeled out on the sidewalk. Helen never saw anyone buy anything from the racks, but they lured in shoppers.

  Boys on skateboards charged through the strolling pedestrians, rudely whistling at people to get out of their way.

  When she crossed Riggs Beach Road, the stores changed for the better. Now there were brightly painted frozen yogurt shops, sophisticated wine bars and cheerful restaurants promising “fishbowl margaritas.”

  Helen was tempted by the pies and pastries in a case at a coffee shop but didn’t stop. Cy’s upscale beach boutique, Cerise, was next door. The two-story building was easy to find. It was painted cerise with a turquoise door. A window sign screamed 10% DISCOUNT FOR TOURISTS.

  Helen heard more screaming inside Cerise. A stringy woman with tightly curled black hair waved a purple blouse and shrieked abuse at a slender, sheep-faced blonde.

  “What do you mean, I can’t have the discount?” Ms. Black yelled. “I don’t live in Riggs Beach. I came here to visit on my day off. I’m a tourist and I want my discount!”

  Helen noticed the blonde kept the cash register between herself and the irate Ms. Black, while she tried to placate the woman.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” she said, nervously tugging on her straight golden hair. “I can’t give you the discount. You live in Hallandale Beach, right down the road. Broward, Palm Beach and Miami-Dade counties are all considered local.”

  “I’m reporting you to the manager. What’s your name?” Ms. Black screeched, then slapped her palm on the counter. Helen jumped.

  “My name is Alana, and I am the manager,” she said. She seemed to grow calmer as the customer got angrier. Helen admired her professional cool in the face of the woman’s shrill demands. “It’s not my policy, ma’am. It’s the owner’s.”

  “Keep your blouse,” Ms. Black said, throwing it at Alana. “It’s locals like me who keep your shop going when the tourists go home.”

  She charged out of the store, knocking two skirts off a rack on her way to the door.

  Helen picked up the skirts and hung them back up. Now the shop seemed unnaturally silent. She could see these clothes were a world away from the items in Cy’s T-shirt shop.

  Alana appeared at Helen’s side. “Thanks,” she said. “Sorry you had to listen to that.” The store manager wasn’t conventionally pretty. She had a long nose and an overbite. But her golden brown skin, gauzy gold Indian print shirt and intricate gold earrings gave her an exotic, sensual look.

  Helen shrugged. “I’ve worked in retail,” she said. “The customer is not always right.”

  Alana laughed. “How can I help you? What are you looking for?”

  “A new blouse,” Helen said. “A bright color—turquoise, pink, red. Size ten.”r />
  Alana pulled out floaty prints and cool cottons that would be comfortable in Florida’s humid summer. Helen selected a sheer-sleeved turquoise blouse, a deep green tunic with melon-colored lace, and a hot pink butterfly-sleeved top banded in black. She tried them on in the dressing room and settled on the hot pink.

  “Nice,” Alana said, carrying it like a trophy to the cash register. “Are you local?”

  “Fort Lauderdale,” Helen said.

  “I’m sorry I can’t give you a discount,” Alana said. “You also walked in on a fight. I don’t want you to have a bad impression of the store. How about a coupon for a free coffee at the coffee shop next door?”

  “Nice. I was eying the Key lime pie before I came in here,” Helen said. “Care to join me?”

  “I’m due for a break,” Alana said. “Lisbeth is here now. She can mind the store and call me if any rabid customers attack.

  “Order two slices and two coffees and I’ll join you as soon as Lisbeth opens her register.”

  Helen found a table, and their pie and coffee arrived as Alana fluttered to their table in her gauzy outfit. Her coffee-colored eyes and long golden hair were a striking combination.

  “Sugar and caffeine,” Alana said, digging into her pie. “Just what I need after that awful woman. Cy posted all the rules on that sign, but you need a magnifying glass to read anything but the ten percent discount part. I think it loses him more customers than it brings in.”

  “But he’s very successful, isn’t he?” Helen said.

  “Hell, yes,” Alana said, taking a big drink of her coffee. “Cy owns most of Riggs Beach and the people who run it. Oops, guess I shouldn’t talk about my boss that way.” She grinned.

  “I’ve never met the man,” Helen said truthfully.

  “He’s not bad,” Alana said, and shrugged, sending the sheer sleeves of her blouse floating on the breeze. “The pay’s decent and the rent’s cheap on my apartment up over the shop. There’s no way I could afford an ocean view.”

  “Are you single?” Helen asked.

  Alana nodded while she sipped her coffee.

  “Must be fun living at the beach when you’re single,” Helen said.

  “Yes and no,” Alana said. “There are supposed to be plenty of fish in the sea, but I’ve met some real stinkers. Dudes think dinner comes with a free hump for dessert. Last one, Jordan, gave me a case of crabs, and I’m not talking about the special at Red Lobster.”

  Helen sat there in slightly shocked silence, which Alana interpreted as sympathetic.

  “Jordan stole from me, too,” she said. “I woke up the next morning, and he’d taken my TV, disk player and twenty bucks.”

  “Did you call the police?” Helen asked.

  “Couldn’t,” Alana said. “I didn’t know Jordan’s last name. I didn’t want the Riggs Beach police to know I’d been slutting around. Those boys gossip like a bunch of old ladies. Anyway, it was my own fault. I took Jordan home because I was horny. He had a fine six-pack and it wasn’t Coors. The man was ripped. But that night with Jordan scared me. He cleaned me out and I slept right through it. That was my wake-up call. I was lucky something worse didn’t happen. From now on, my yahoo palace is closed to strangers.”

  Whoa, Helen thought, way too much information. She took another forkful of pie so she wouldn’t have to say anything.

  Alana didn’t seem to expect an answer. She kept babbling. “At least he didn’t take my battery-operated boyfriend. I call him Pete, which is short for—”

  “I get it,” Helen said, quickly. She could feel her face getting redder and hoped Alana didn’t notice she was blushing. Some tough detective she was.

  “Pete’s Eveready, and I don’t just mean his batteries. I keep Pete in my bedside drawer.”

  “Ah,” Helen said.

  “I guess you wonder if I ever want a real man,” Alana said.

  No, I don’t, Helen thought, but she let Alana keep talking.

  “I have a nice married dude when I want the real thing,” she said. “He’s not much in the looks department, but he’s not bad in the sack and he won’t give me any diseases. He’s got a kid, so there won’t be any complications. He’ll never leave his wife.

  “Most of the time, though, I like Pete. I don’t have to listen to him complain about his family. When I get tired of him, I turn him off and put him in a drawer. Pete doesn’t wake me up getting dressed in the middle of the night, either.”

  Their server was standing at the table. “May I bring you anything else?” she asked. Helen was grateful she’d interrupted Alana’s monologue.

  “What time is it?” Alana asked. She checked her watch. “I’ve stayed too long. I should have been back at the store ten minutes ago.”

  “I’ll take the check,” Helen said. “I have a coffee coupon.”

  The server presented it. Helen put down a twenty and said, “Keep the change.”

  “Thanks,” Alana said. “I hope you’ll stop by the store again.”

  “I will,” Helen said.

  Alana ran lightly back to the boutique, gold sandals gleaming in the noonday sun.

  Helen sipped the last of her coffee and thought, Alana is worth cultivating. Once she starts talking, she’ll say anything. Next time, I hope we can talk about Cy Horton.

  CHAPTER 14

  “My liver may not survive this assignment,” Phil said.

  Even on Helen’s tinny cell phone, she could hear the clink of glasses and the wail of a country song in the background. “It’s two o’clock and I’ve been to six bars already.”

  Now she heard the squeak of a door. Phil must be talking outside the bar. “I’ve talked with dozens of customers and bartenders,” he said. “Nobody’s heard of any scuba diver who suddenly came into money. I was sure Ceci’s killer would be throwing money around in the beach bars, celebrating his windfall.”

  Helen sat on a weathered gray bench under a spindly palm tree and listened. She’d needed a soft ocean breeze to blow away the sour residue of Alana’s confessions.

  “Maybe the killer’s being smart,” Helen said. “He could be waiting to spend his money after the uproar over Ceci’s murder dies down. Could be he’s a night owl and won’t be at the bars until after midnight.”

  “Could be he doesn’t exist,” Phil said, sounding slightly testy.

  “Then how else was Ceci killed?” Helen said. She was in no mood to coddle him. “We don’t even have another theory. Joan, the server who photographed the diver, says he was under Riggs Pier and he didn’t help Ceci when she fell off the board. I’ll stop by Cy’s restaurant and have another late lunch. Joan might remember more details.”

  “Did you get any information at Cy’s shops?” Phil asked.

  “Too much, but nothing we can use,” Helen said. “I’ll tell you about it tonight. Alana, the manager at his upscale boutique, Cerise, could be useful eventually. I’m about six blocks away. I’ll start walking back to the restaurant now. I love you.”

  “Not as much as I love you,” Phil said.

  They were still newlywed enough to heal a small fight with words of love. Their slight impatience with each other was quickly forgotten.

  Helen kicked off her sandals and ambled along the water’s edge, the surf tickling her toes. The beige sand felt warm. South Florida had few natural sandy beaches. The Riggs Beach sand had been trucked in years ago and replenished after the hurricanes. Carefully cultivated stands of round-leaved sea grape and slim, elegant sea grass helped keep it in place.

  Helen’s dark hair was a rippling flag in the brisk west wind. This weather felt like the weather the day Ceci died: warm, clear and windy. Helen couldn’t stop replaying scenes from Ceci’s death in her mind, but she never remembered anything useful.

  Far off on the horizon, she saw a heavily loaded container ship stacked with wooden crates big as boxcars. Sailors called those crates “wooden icebergs.” When the crates fell off the ships in storms, they bobbed in the water just out of sight, a ha
zard to small craft.

  At last Helen saw the lifeguard towers and the gray sweep of Riggs Pier. She dropped the bag with her new blouse in the Igloo and slipped her sandals back on, ready for lunch at Cy’s on the Pier.

  The restaurant must have had a noontime rush. Nearly every table was piled with dirty plates, glasses and silverware. Helen saw Joan loading crockery into a gray plastic tub.

  Cy sat in his booth like a pasha, eating across from a lean strip of a man in a beige suit. Cy’s guest shoveled in his food like he was being paid to clean his plate. His face was long and brown. So were his teeth.

  “The way I see it, Frank,” Cy said, stuffing a thick chunk of meat into his mouth, “I could see my way to two days.”

  Frank. Was that the city commissioner Frank Lincoln Gordon, better known as Frank the Fixer? Joan had complained that Commissioner Frank dined free and never tipped.

  How does Frank stay so skinny when he eats like that? Helen wondered. A thick steak covered his entire platter. The steak was heaped with onion rings and crowned with a baked potato dripping melted butter and sour cream.

  “I was hoping for four days,” Frank said, and somehow managed to swallow a third of his sour-cream-slathered potato.

  Was Cy trying to kill the commissioner with a cholesterol overdose? Helen sneaked a peek at Cy’s platter. He was eating the same food. No wonder he looked so pale and doughy. He could barely fit into the booth.

  “Three?” Cy asked, and chomped an onion ring.

  Frank attacked his steak. “I’ll think about it. Your cook does a mean T-bone for a Mexican, Keith.”

  Who was Keith? Helen wondered. Frank was eating with Cy.

  “The boy does all right,” Cy said. “Once he tried to hold me up for a raise. I said the magic words—green card—and he forgot all about it.”

  The two laughed harshly. Frank crammed another bloody hunk of steak into his mouth, then said, “Wish that worked on city employees, Keith. Always wanting more money for less work.”

  Joan came out of the kitchen with a bottle of spray cleaner and a cloth. When she saw Helen standing at the entrance, she waved and said, “Helen! Are you here for lunch? Come sit here.”