by Elaine Viets
“I risked being an accessory to his murder for you. How could you do that to me?” Margery wrapped both hands around the vine, braced her legs and pulled. It came free and she staggered backward.
“I don’t know,” Helen said. “I don’t.”
She was crying now, her tears falling hard and fast. She tried to stop and save some of her dignity, but she couldn’t. The sun beat on her without mercy, while she wept for her lost love and ruined friendship. She wanted Margery to gather her into her arms. Instead, her landlady wiped her muddy hands on her shorts and folded her arms.
“Is there anything I can do to make this right?” Helen asked.
“You’ve got one hope and one hope only,” Margery said. “Phil agreed to fly to St. Louis to catch the blackmailer. You also have to find the killer of that tourist. That means the two of you will be working together at least a little longer. Maybe while he’s working those two investigations he’ll calm down and forgive you.”
“I was going to e-mail him the information my sister sent me about possible suspects,” Helen said.
“Then go do it,” Margery said. She yanked out one last stubborn weed with such ferocity that Helen fled to her place.
The cozy apartment had been Helen’s refuge since she’d lived at the Coronado. Now it seemed empty. Five years ago, if someone had told Helen she’d be living in two rooms in Fort Lauderdale, she would have laughed. Then she’d been on the corporate fast track, living in yuppie splendor in a twelve-room home. Those rooms had been furnished by a decorator. The huge windows were draped with sixty-dollar-a-yard fabric. Everything in that house had been perfect—except her husband, Rob.
That same decorator would have drooled over the midcentury antiques that came with Helen’s apartment: the boomerang coffee table and the turquoise lamps shaped like nuclear reactors. The turquoise Barcalounger looked inviting, but Helen couldn’t afford to curl into a ball right now. She had work to do.
She sat on the couch and powered up her laptop. A fluff of cat hair made tears start in her eyes. She missed her cat already. She missed Phil. If she was going to get him back, she had to start working.
This time, she tamped down the tears.
She forwarded Phil her sister’s e-mail about the suspects, as well as their travel plans. They had to leave tomorrow around five a.m. to catch the first flight to St. Louis. That would give them the day to work on Sunny Jim’s case, have dinner with Kathy and Tom, catch the blackmailer, then fly back to Fort Lauderdale the next morning.
Helen checked the time. Nearly nine o’clock. She called Joan’s cell. The server was home from Cy’s on the Pier.
“How did the interview go with Kevin?” Joan asked.
“He was extremely helpful,” Helen said. “I’ll be out of town until tomorrow night, but you can reach me by e-mail or at this cell phone number.”
“Just as well you don’t come by the restaurant right now,” Joan said. “I think Cy is getting suspicious. He saw me at Kevin’s bus stop and asked why I was parked in the shopping plaza on Seashell Road. I told him I liked frozen yogurt.”
“How long should I stay away?” Helen asked.
“He’ll forget about it in a day or so,” Joan said. “He’s still got the two commissioners in here, those bloodsuckers. Wyman nearly reached a deal with him, but then he upped the ante.”
“Still angling for Cy to host his daughter’s reception?” Helen asked.
“Yeah,” Joan said. “And Cy’s howling like every dollar is being stripped off his hide. Commissioner Wyman wants the restaurant for a Saturday night, steak and lobster on the menu, an open bar and now—get this—free parking. Cy is balking at the free parking and making our lives sheer hell.”
“Now I’m really glad I’ll be gone,” Helen said.
“If I hear anything useful,” Joan said, “I’ll call or e-mail.”
Helen hung up, then checked her e-mail. She had two new ones.
The first was from Kathy:
“Hi, Helen. Hope this is okay,” it said. “I’ve set up two interviews for you and Phil tomorrow morning. You’re supposed to talk to Maureen Carsten. She’s my friend who knows Daniel and Ceci. She lives next door to them in the white house with the red door. I think Maureen will be more comfortable talking to you. She likes to gossip, so be prepared to sit and drink coffee.
“Soames Welch lives on the other side of the Odell house. Yes, that’s really his first name. He’s about eighty and lives in the two-story brown shingle with the white porch. Soames is a nonstop talker, retired and kind of lonely since his wife died. He knows everything that happens on that street.
“I told Soames that Phil wanted to talk to him. He’s really impressed to talk to a real private detective. Sorry, Sis, but I thought a man his age would take Phil more seriously.
“Your e-mail said your plane gets in about eight thirty. Your interviews are both at eleven o’clock. I figure that gives you plenty of time to pick up your rental car and check into your hotel. I’ve included their addresses and phone numbers if there’s a problem.
“Looking forward to seeing you. Love you, Big Sis.”
Helen forwarded Kathy’s e-mail to Phil with a little note: “Dear Phil, Looks like Kathy has made some contacts for us. Okay with you? Love, Helen.”
Phil’s e-mail was painfully curt:
“Got trip info. Meet me at the Jeep tomorrow at 5 a.m.”
Each word felt like a small stab wound. Helen shut off her computer and tried to read an old Agatha Christie mystery. Miss Marple and her well-ordered world were literary comfort food. Even a murder at a vicarage could be explained and the criminal caught. If only my mysteries could be solved so easily, Helen thought. She waded deep into the story as if it was a warm pool.
Helen must have fallen asleep. She was awakened by pounding music. Was that “I Shot the Sheriff”? She listened a moment longer. Yes. Phil was blasting Clapton’s version. Helen could feel the wall behind the couch vibrating.
She beat on the wall and pleaded, “Phil! Phil, turn that down, will you?”
No response. Maybe he couldn’t hear her.
No, wait. He turned Clapton up even louder. Now the skinny glass slats in the jalousie door were rattling. She needed her sleep. She had to get up at four thirty. To hell with crawling to that man. Yes, she was wrong to hide what she had done about Rob, but by damn, she wasn’t malicious. And she wasn’t a doormat.
Helen marched outside and slammed her fist on his front door.
“Phil!” she said. “I asked you to turn that music down.”
He turned it up again.
“Turn it down!” she screamed.
Still louder.
“Keith Richards is a better guitar player than Clapton,” she shouted.
That was childish, but it felt good. Helen had just committed the ultimate heresy, as far as Phil was concerned. So what? It was true, she thought.
Phil turned the Clapton song up another notch, and the lights popped on in Margery’s apartment. Their landlady came flying out her kitchen door, tying the belt on her purple robe. She pounded on Phil’s door until he poked his head out.
Helen saw her man in the moonlight, that strong, noble nose, those sculpted lips, his hair like spun silver.
“What are you two idiots doing?” Margery said. “It’s eleven o’clock at night and you’re blasting music like a teenager, Phil Sagemont. And you, Helen Hawthorne, are howling like a fishwife.”
“But—” Helen said.
“She—” Phil said.
“Shut up!” Margery said. “Both of you. Phil, turn off that music now. Helen, shut up and go to bed. What time are you two leaving tomorrow?”
“Five o’clock,” Helen said.
“Go to bed, both of you,” Margery said.
They went to their rooms like sulky children.
CHAPTER 21
Helen didn’t see a glimmer of dawn at five o’clock the next morning. She felt smothered by the heavy, humid air and dark
sky as she rolled her suitcase down the sidewalk of the now-silent Coronado Tropic Apartments. All the apartment lights were off, including Phil’s.
He was waiting in his Jeep. Helen threw her case in the back and climbed in, weary after a sleepless night.
“Is Margery watching Thumbs?” she asked.
“Yes,” Phil said. His one-word answer bristled with such anger and contempt, Helen didn’t dare say anything else. They rode in black silence to the airport.
Phil parked the Jeep in the long-term lot. Helen saw a few early travelers moving toward the shuttle bus shelters like the walking dead. He yanked out his suitcase and slammed his door. Helen grabbed her case. Phil locked the Jeep and they rolled their bags to the bus shelter.
Helen saw headlights pierce the graying darkness. “Is that our bus?” she asked.
It was, but Phil said nothing. He ignored Helen and lugged his bag onto the bus. The driver helped Helen hoist hers onto the luggage rack. She sat next to Phil and he flinched when her arm brushed his.
Helen fought hard not to cry.
By the time they got through security, their plane was boarding. Southwest Airlines did not have assigned seats. Phil chose a middle seat between two other flyers. Helen took a window seat behind him, pulled down her shade and pretended to sleep for the next two and a half hours.
Except she did sleep. When she woke up, sun was streaming into the cabin and the plane was making its final descent into St. Louis. She could see the sun gleaming on the silver skin of the Gateway Arch and the yellow-brown Mississippi River.
Helen was comforted by these familiar sights. St. Louis would never be home again, but she no longer felt so alone.
She pulled her suitcase out of the overhead bin and rolled it to the rental car shuttle. Phil was already standing in a thicket of sober-suited business travelers. She tried not to admire his lean good looks or the casual cut of his blue shirt. He wore her favorite shirt. Was that a good sign? Or was it the last clean shirt in his closet?
Their rental car was a white PT Cruiser. Helen knew it was absurd, but she took that as a good sign, too. They completed the paperwork and tossed their bags in the back.
“I’ll drive,” Helen said, “since I know the city.”
“Fine,” Phil said.
He didn’t sound quite so angry. She gathered her courage and asked, “Did your Internet search turn up anything about Kathy’s neighbors?”
“A little,” he said. “Nan Siemer, the dog walker, is in the clear. She’s a bright schoolgirl who wants to be a journalist. She’ll probably get a scholarship and her parents have a good college fund for her.
“Mrs. Kiley, the old widow next door, lives off her Social Security, has a comfortable nest egg and no debts. She lives frugally and gives ten percent of her income to the Church.
“Her teenage grandson, Matt Madley, is a piece of work. He knows how to charm Grandma Kiley out of her cookies, but he crashed his car last summer and was charged with DUI. He broke his leg in the accident and lost his part-time job, which may be why he has time to help Grandma. He still owes his lawyer major money.”
“How much?” Helen said.
“Seven thousand dollars,” Phil said.
We’re having an actual conversation, Helen thought. Phil is so cold, we don’t need the Cruiser’s air-conditioning, but at least we aren’t screaming at each other.
“Kathy’s other neighbors, the Cook family, are desperate for money,” Phil said. “Lee Boyd Cook was one of the six thousand people who lost his job when Chrysler closed its St. Louis plant in 2009. He found another job, but not with the same salary or perks. He just had knee surgery and his new insurance didn’t cover it because it’s a preexisting condition. Their older daughter, Chloe, is going to Mizzou in September and she didn’t get a scholarship. Their credit cards are maxed. The Cooks still owe sixty thousand on their mortgage.”
“Exactly the amount the blackmailer is demanding,” Helen said. “We’re here. This is our hotel.”
In their room, Helen eyed the big bed hopefully. A king bed would be a good place to make up.
“What time is it?” Phil asked, parking his suitcase by the couch.
“Ten o’clock,” she said. “I want to check in with my sister. We won’t get to talk with her alone tonight at the barbecue.”
Phil shrugged and went into the bathroom. Once the door was shut, Helen called Kathy. Her sister answered on the second ring. She could hear her niece, Allison, shrieking in the background.
“Allison,” Kathy said to her daughter. “Quiet, please. I’m talking to your aunt Helen.
“Sorry about that,” Kathy said. “Excitement is running high because Aunt Helen and Uncle Phil are coming. How is Phil? Did you tell him?”
Helen glanced at the closed bathroom door. She could hear water running.
“Yes,” she said, lowering her voice. “He’s furious. He threw me out. He says when we solve these two cases, we’re through.”
“Divorced?” Kathy sounded shocked.
“He hasn’t actually said the D word,” Helen said, “but it’s definitely in the air.”
“You see why I didn’t tell Tom?” Kathy asked.
Helen was irritated by her sister’s smug tone. “No, I don’t. If we’d called Tom and Phil right away, we wouldn’t have these problems.”
“We’d have worse ones,” Kathy said. “Maybe I can talk to Phil. If he understands why I insisted, he’ll feel differently.”
“He won’t,” Helen said. “Don’t.” She didn’t hear the water running, so she changed the subject. “Phil found out some interesting things about your neighbors. The Cooks are hard up for money.”
Phil was out of the bathroom, rummaging in his suitcase.
“But Lee found another job within three months,” Kathy said. “We were at the barbecue to celebrate.”
“He got the job, but not his old salary,” Helen said. “Or the same perks. Phil says his health insurance didn’t cover his knee surgery.”
“They just bought new storm windows,” Kathy said. “Those are supposed to save them a fortune in utility bills. The utility bills are killing them, just like everyone else here. But Lee Cook wouldn’t blackmail me.”
“Really?” Helen said. “Phil found out that sixty thousand dollars would pay off his mortgage.”
“I still can’t believe it,” Kathy said. “The Cooks go to our church.”
“Well, Mrs. Kiley’s grandson doesn’t. Matt is jobless and he crashed his car. He owes his lawyer thousands.”
“I still think it’s Rob,” Kathy said.
“We’ll find out tonight,” Helen said, her voice sharper than she intended. Why did she fall back into sisterly squabbling so quickly? “Kathy, honey, thank you for setting up those interviews for us. Phil and I are going to them now. We’ll see you tonight about six.”
“Helen, do you have the money?”
“I’ll get it after the interviews.”
She clicked off her cell phone and said to Phil, “Shall we go?”
He nodded.
On the way to Clafin Drive, Helen had a chance to admire her hometown. The Odells lived in Kirkwood, an old suburb with big houses and broad, shady streets. The trees were still a tender spring green, and the gardens were bright with flowers. The houses on Clafin Drive were about a hundred years old. The Odells had a two-story white house with black shutters and a walkway lined with old-fashioned flowers: fragrant lavender, purple phlox, lilacs and iris. Purple-blue hydrangeas banked the foundations. Helen wondered if Ceci had planted them.
“Margery would love all those purple flowers,” Helen said.
“Hrmph,” Phil grunted.
Okay, he doesn’t want chitchat, Helen thought as she parked the car in front of Soames Welch’s brown-shingled house. The old man was outside, digging in his yellow day lilies. He stood up slowly, laid his trowel on a porch step, then carefully came toward the car.
“You that detective fellow?” he asked.
/> “Yes, sir,” Phil said, getting out of the car.
“Pleased to meet you. Soames Welch. You want a beer or iced tea?”
“Beer,” Phil said.
“Good,” Soames said. “A man’s drink. Sit on the porch and I’ll fetch us both one.”
Sounds like Kathy sized up Soames correctly, Helen thought.
Maureen Carsten lived in a two-story brick home with a generous white-painted porch. Helen was halfway up the stairs when a trim woman in her late thirties opened the door.
“Helen?” she asked, and smiled. “I’m Maureen. Come on in.”
Helen followed Maureen into a pleasant blue living room with Colonial-style furniture. The room smelled of cinnamon and lemon polish. A braided rug warmed the hardwood floor. Maureen’s brown hair had bounce. In her sneakers, shorts and T-shirt, she looked athletic. Helen wondered if she’d played soccer in school.
“Are you really a private eye?” Maureen asked. “It must be exciting.”
“Sometimes,” Helen said, following her into the kitchen, a shining showcase.
“Coffee or tea?” Maureen asked.
“Black coffee, please,” Helen said. She sat at a round maple kitchen table with a cinnamon coffee cake in the center. Maureen cut them both generous squares, then sat down and leaned forward a little, in the “girl talk” pose.
“What can I tell you about Ceci?” she said. “She was my best friend.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Helen said.
“It is a loss,” Maureen said. “Ceci and I ran in and out of each other’s houses a dozen times a day. She told me everything.”
“Was her marriage happy?” Helen asked.
“It was until Ceci put on weight. She turned thirty-five and dieting became torture. Poor Ceci was hungry all the time. She lived on lettuce and grilled chicken. She gave up her favorite desserts—like that coffee cake. But she’d gained forty pounds and she couldn’t shake them.
“Daniel nagged her constantly, and that didn’t help. She’d be dieting and dieting and he’d say something like ‘You used to have a cute figure. Now you’re a fat slob.’