The Dead-End Job Mysteries Box Set 2

by Elaine Viets

  “The big question is, Are you? Are you two still an item?” Margery asked.

  “I’m still hoping,” Helen said, guardedly. She was glad Phil wasn’t listening in. “How do you feel about . . . things?”

  “About you?” Margery said. “I’ve decided you were dumber than a box of hammers, but I may forgive you if you take that yowling fur ball off my hands. He gorped on Phil’s floor and I’m not cleaning it up. I assume you aren’t calling me from jail. Did you catch the blackmailer? Who was he?”

  “Rob,” Helen said, and told her the story.

  “So he’s dead for real?” Margery asked.

  “Had to scrape him off the road,” Helen said.

  “Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy,” Margery said.

  “Good old Margery,” Helen said.

  “Don’t expect me to cry crocodile tears,” she said. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Be at Riggs Pier tonight at eight thirty and go fishing.”

  “And what am I catching?” Margery asked.

  “A crook,” Helen said.

  CHAPTER 26

  “Valerie Cannata, are you really wearing pink Crocs?” Helen said.

  The woman in the gray sweatpants and supersized T-shirt was the same size and shape as the investigative reporter. But Helen was sure Valerie had never been in a Target parking lot, unless she was on assignment. She locked the Igloo and ran toward her.

  Valerie looked worried. “Quick!” she said, sliding into the driver’s side of the shiny black Mercedes. “Get in before someone sees me.”

  “I never thought I’d use ‘Valerie Cannata’ and ‘Crocs’ in the same sentence,” Helen said. “Are they more comfortable than your usual sky-high Manolos?”

  “My feet shriveled when I stepped in these things,” Valerie said, and shuddered delicately. “The sacrifices I make for my profession.”

  Helen had barely buckled her seat belt when Valerie roared out of her parking spot toward the exit.

  “Which designer did your T-shirt?” Helen teased. “Nice cat. Love the glitter.”

  “It was a gift from a sweet fan,” Valerie said. Her long nails were stripped of polish and her chic dark hair was hidden under a frizzy gray wig.

  Valerie dodged a woman pushing a shopping cart and was out on the street and over the speed limit.

  “We’re okay for time,” Helen said, hoping Valerie would slow down. “It’s only eight o’clock. We’ll have no problem getting to Cy’s restaurant by eight thirty.”

  “I’m not worried about time,” Valerie said. “One of our satellite trucks is two blocks over. I don’t want anyone from the station to see me. I’m sneaking out to tape this.” She sounded giddy with excitement.

  “Your boss doesn’t know?” Helen said.

  “He knows I’m working on the Riggs Beach story,” Valerie said. “But he doesn’t know I’m taping the commissioner.”

  “Valerie, is that a good idea?” Helen asked.

  “I’m silent taping—video but no audio,” she said. “That’s legal in Florida. My boss has been in meetings all day. It’s sweeps. He’ll be thrilled when I bag another exclusive.”

  “Did you bring the hidden camera?” Helen asked.

  “I borrowed it,” Valerie said.

  “Borrowed it how?” Helen asked.

  “Sneaked it out without authorization,” Valerie said. “But don’t worry. All is forgiven for a good story. This will work out, won’t it?”

  “It has so far,” Helen said. “We’ve done risky stories before.”

  “And the ratings made them worth it,” Valerie said.

  “Where’s the camera?” Helen asked.

  “Check out the bag in the back,” Valerie said.

  Helen saw a frumpy brown vinyl purse as big as a gym bag. “I cut a hole in the vinyl near the clasp for the lens,” Valerie said. “Hideous, isn’t it?”

  “That purse will age you twenty years,” Helen said. “Speaking of hideous, what do you think of my outfit?”

  “You look different as a blond,” Valerie said.

  “I look awful,” Helen said. “This blond wig makes my skin look jaundiced. I stuck with the classic tourist look: an ‘I Heart Florida’ shirt and polyester pants.”

  “What happened to your face?” Valerie asked. “Your forehead is bruised and that cut looks nasty.”

  “It looks worse than it feels,” Helen said. “I’ve got a floppy fishing hat in my purse that will hide it.”

  “Will the person who gave you the tip be at the restaurant tonight?” Valerie asked.

  “Nowhere near,” Helen said. “Cy set this bribery scheme up in advance so only one server will be on duty. The kitchen staff has been ordered to leave at nine, even if their work isn’t finished. I’ll meet my source for coffee late tomorrow morning.”

  “Think she’ll talk to me? I can disguise her voice and hide her face for the interview.”

  “She’d still be too scared,” Helen said.

  “Does she work for Cy?” Valerie asked.

  Helen searched for an answer and couldn’t think of anything.

  “You don’t have to say it. She’s right to be afraid,” Valerie said. “Cy is a big deal in the Riggs Beach Chamber of Commerce, but he played rough when he ran drugs in the eighties.”

  “You know about that?” Helen said.

  “I’ve heard rumors,” Valerie said. “No proof. But two of his associates disappeared in 1986. Cy claimed they left the country. All I can find out is they’ve never been seen again. That’s why I’m going out on a limb to tape this tonight. It may be the only way to get Cy.”

  She turned into the pier parking lot. “Okay, Helen. From now on, we’re tourists. Where are you from?”

  “St. Louis,” Helen said.

  “I’m from Oyster Bay in New York.” Valerie reached in back for the ugly bag. “Keep talking tourist.” She locked the Mercedes while Helen clapped the floppy beige fishing hat on her wig.

  “So what’s the weather like back home?” Helen asked as they walked toward the main entrance to Cy’s on the Pier.

  “I called my sister,” Valerie said. “She says it’s drizzling. I always feel like I get my money’s worth if it’s yucky back home.”

  Helen scanned the pier, which was lined with anglers. She spotted Margery about halfway down. Their landlady had rented a fishing pole and bought bait. She didn’t bother with a disguise. She blended in well wearing a purple shorts set and lavender tennis shoes.

  Good, Helen thought. Margery can run if she has to.

  The restaurant looked almost romantic at night. The low lights mellowed the corny fishing nets and dusty seashell decor. Each table had a thick white shell with a lit candle.

  “Isn’t this cute?” Valerie said. “I love the candles.”

  “How’s your kitty now that you’re gone?” Helen asked.

  “The cat sitter says Fluffy is sulking,” Valerie said. “Looks like I’ll get the cold shoulder when I get home.”

  “Thumbs does that to me,” Helen said, “for about ten minutes. The closer we are to dinnertime, the sooner I’m forgiven.”

  “Cats are so cynical,” Valerie said.

  “They’re practical,” Helen said.

  Inside the restaurant, Phil was eating a burger at a table by the door. He had on his redneck disguise. His distinctive hair was hidden by a gimme cap with its own curly brown hair. He wore a SILENCE IS GOLDEN—DUCT TAPE IS SILVER T-shirt and disreputable jeans.

  He snapped his fingers at the lone server, a generously proportioned woman with a sweet, plain face. “I’ll take some more coffee, darlin’,” he drawled.

  The server fought hard to conceal her distaste. “As soon as I seat these ladies,” she said.

  “Please,” Helen said in a low voice. “Not near him.”

  “I’ve got a nice table for you ladies here with a view,” the server said. Her name tag said she was Bridget.

  “Perfect,” Helen said.

  Their
table for four had a splendid view. It was in a direct line with the booth containing Cy Horton and Commissioner Frank Gordon. They could also see a small strip of the pier and the ocean. Just past the booth was the door to the pier.

  “I love the view,” Valerie said, and plopped her purse on the chair facing the booth, the clasp aimed at the two diners.

  “Do you ladies want time to study the menus, or do you know what you want?” Bridget asked. “The kitchen closes at nine tonight.”

  “I’ll have a turkey burger and black coffee,” Helen said.

  “Mixed green salad with the dressing on the side,” Valerie said, “and black coffee.”

  Bridget buzzed over to the booth and took Frank’s nearly empty platter. Once again, Frank the Fixer was a stellar member of the Clean Plate Club. His steak platter was bare except for a T-bone without a shred of meat and an empty sour cream container. He must have eaten the baked potato, skin and all, plus his vegetables. The roll basket was empty, too.

  “How about a slice of Key lime pie and coffee?” Cy asked the commissioner.

  Frank nodded.

  “Two pies and two coffees,” Cy said.

  “Yes, sir,” Bridget said.

  Both men studied Helen and Valerie while they talked like tourists. “Thumbs did the cutest thing when I was packing for my trip,” Helen said. “He jumped in my suitcase and refused to leave. I had to carry him out of the room. He really didn’t want me to go.”

  “My Fluffy sits on the case and looks sad,” Valerie said. She switched to baby talk. “‘I’ll be back, widdle kitty,’ I tell her, ‘and I’ll bwing you a nice big tweat.’”

  “Did you get her a treat this time?” Helen asked.

  “I want to buy some wild salmon tomorrow at the pet store on A1A,” Valerie said.

  The two women discussed cats until the men’s eyes glazed over and they went back to their conversation.

  Helen felt something nudge her foot and realized Valerie wanted her attention. “My cat can take over the whole bed, and she only weighs ten pounds,” she said, and spread her arms wide, her index finger pointing toward the booth.

  Helen shifted her eyes. Cy was handing Frank the Fixer a big, heavy carryout bag. Valerie adjusted the purse for a better view.

  “Here you go,” Cy said. “Four days’ worth.”

  “That should keep me happy,” Frank said, and winked.

  Cy didn’t smile back. He jumped up and said, “Wait a minute. These broads aren’t babbling about their cats. They’re watching us.” He pointed to Helen. “I know you!” he said. “You’re no tourist. You’re that bitch who’s been hanging around here, causing trouble with my staff. And you’re no blonde, either.”

  He flicked off Helen’s hat and ripped off her wig.

  “And I know your voice,” Frank said to Valerie. “I hear it every day on TV. You’re that reporter for Channel Seventy-seven.”

  “How dare you!” Valerie said.

  “I’m right. You wouldn’t be caught dead with that ugly purse,” he said. “Everything you wear has a designer name on it. What’s in there?”

  He lunged for the bag and unzipped it. “A hidden camera!” he screamed. “The bitch has been videoing us.” Commissioner Frank stuffed the bag under his arm like a football and charged out the pier door. Helen saw him toss the bag over the pier railing.

  “No!” Valerie screamed, running after him.

  Frank laughed at her. “You want it? Go get it.”

  Valerie tore off her wig, kicked off her Crocs and leaped into the strong current.

  Helen tried to run after her, but Cy swung at her. He missed. She picked up the heavy shell on the table and hit Cy on the head. Hard. He flopped down hard on the floor, dazed.

  Meanwhile, the lean, long-toothed commissioner leaped over the dazed restaurant owner, snatched the carryout bag of bribe money and charged toward the main door. Phil blocked his way.

  The commissioner threw the nearest shell at Phil, winging him in the shoulder. Phil wrestled him to the ground and knocked over another shell. Its candle slid across the table and landed on the dry fishing-net wall decoration. That caught fire; then the cork floats and a stack of paper napkins began to burn. A bottle of olive oil in a salad set spilled, splashed and ignited.

  The fire spread to the cash register, where a rack of potato chip bags burst into flame. The room was filling with smoke. Helen choked and tried to find Phil.

  The commissioner fought free of Phil, abandoned the bribe money and sprinted out the other way, onto the fishing pier.

  “Fire!” Helen shouted.

  Phil pulled the wall alarm and rushed back to the kitchen, where he led the server, cook and dishwasher onto the pier to safety.

  Cy tried to run out on the pier, but Helen hit him with a chair, and he was out cold. By now the fire was crackling and two walls were burning. She pocketed Cy’s cell phone and dragged him outside on the pier. Phil was chasing the commissioner. Frank ran past Margery on the pier, and she whacked the commissioner with her fishing pole. That slowed him down, but he was up and running again. Phil jumped on him and slugged him. He fought back, and Phil had a hard time subduing him. The commissioner was surprisingly strong. Helen ripped a fishnet decoration off the wall by the door and threw it over the commissioner. That stopped him.

  “We caught ourselves a big fish,” she said.

  CHAPTER 27

  “Why were you at Mr. Horton’s restaurant, Miss Hawthorne?” Detective Emmet Ebmeier asked.

  Helen had lost track of how many times he’d asked her that. The Riggs Beach detective looked as bad as Helen felt: He had a five o’clock shadow at two in the morning, his scrawny body was jittery as a junkie’s, and his weary eyes were buried in dark bags.

  His thin slit of a mouth opened like a trap. “I asked you a question. Why were you at Cy’s on the Pier?” His words were soft and menacing.

  Helen fought to remember the story she and Phil had cooked up before the Riggs Beach cops shoved them into separate patrol cars, then stuck them in two smelly, barren police interrogation rooms. They’d agreed on three things: They wouldn’t mention they were PIs, say why they were at the restaurant or ask for an attorney.

  All three decisions were risky, but the last one was downright stupid, Helen thought. “I told you. I was having dinner with my friend Valerie Cannata.”

  “And both of you were wearing wigs?” the detective said.

  “No law against that,” Helen said. She felt like a stuck DVD. She couldn’t go forward or backward and the picture was breaking up.

  “But there is a law against assaulting a restaurant owner,” Ebmeier said. “And slugging a city commissioner.”

  “I didn’t hit the commissioner,” Helen said.

  “You started a fire,” he said. “That’s arson.”

  “No, I did not,” she said. “A candle was knocked over when the commissioner ran away. Did he tell you why he ran?”

  “Any smart person runs from a fire,” he said. “The fire chief tells me Mr. Horton’s restaurant is a total loss.”

  Helen noted the respectful “mister” and “commissioner” titles. Phil said the detective was a crook. Ebmeier would serve the men who let him take bribes.

  “The fishing pier’s saved,” he said. “Good thing all those innocent fishermen escaped, or I’d be charging you with murder. You’re damn lucky.”

  Why do people always say “You’re lucky” when something unlucky happens? she wondered. I’ve answered these same questions for four hours straight. Sorry, Phil. I’ve had enough.

  “I’m not saying another word,” Helen said. “I want my lawyer, Nancie Hays. Either charge me or set me free.”

  There was a knock on the door. Detective Ebmeier cracked it. Helen heard mumbled conversation; then the detective stepped into the hall, leaving her alone. She must have nodded off. She started when he reentered the room. Her eyelids felt heavy and crusted.

  “I’m supposed to let you go,” he said. “C
ommissioner Gordon and Mr. Horton have decided not to press charges. Your husband is in the lobby, along with that reporter. And don’t thank me. If I had my way, your ass would be in jail.”

  Helen staggered out of the room, so tired she had trouble focusing. She saw a bedraggled Valerie and Phil, huddled like castaways on a bench in the lobby.

  Valerie’s usual straight dark hair hung in stringy clumps and her glitter cat shirt was wrinkled, stained and baggy. She’d lost the Crocs and the wig.

  Under the fluorescent lights, Phil looked vampire white with fatigue. Still in his lowlife disguise, he fit right in as a cop catch of the day. Margery, pacing near the door, was the only one who seemed alert. The nerve-wracking evening had energized her.

  “We need to talk,” Margery said.

  “Valerie will have to drive me to my car,” Helen said.

  “We’ll collect it in the morning,” Margery said. “You’ll all fit in my car. I drove here.”

  “We can talk while you drive me to my car at the pier,” Valerie said. “I have to be at the station at five tomorrow.” The night was moonless, sticky and unnaturally still. Margery had parked under a streetlight across from the police station. She lit a cigarette and took a long drag while Phil and Helen slid into the backseat. Helen moved close to her husband, but he scooted away. Okay, she thought, if that’s the way you want to play it. She slid back toward the window and crossed her arms.

  Valerie didn’t notice this domestic drama. She collapsed in the front seat, put her head back and closed her eyes.

  Margery crushed out her cigarette and climbed into the driver’s seat, bringing a whiff of cigarette smoke. “I needed that,” she said.

  When the landlady’s white Lincoln Town Car was headed toward the pier parking lot, Helen asked, “How are you, Valerie? The last time I saw you, you were diving over the rails for your camera. Did you find it?”

  “It’s gone,” Valerie said, her voice flat and tired. “I was nearly swept away, too. The current was so strong, I had to hang on to the pier pilings. I’m lucky I was able to pull myself out of the water. I’m just glad you’re not in jail.” She yawned. “Keep talking, please. I’m exhausted. I want to listen for a bit.”