by Elaine Viets
“That’s what husbands do,” Phil said, and kissed her on the cheek.
“Only the good ones,” Helen said. “Reese Witherspoon’s husband threw her under the bus when she was arrested for disorderly conduct.”
“Well, movie stars don’t have much luck with men,” Phil said. “Look at Sandra Bullock and Jesse James.”
“I’m no movie star,” Helen said, “and I didn’t have much luck with men until you. My ex-husband, Rob, would have sold me out in seconds.”
“But he’s dead,” Phil said, kissing her harder. “And forgotten. Let’s keep the past buried. Mm?”
Helen realized the front of her blouse was unbuttoned and so were her pants. She removed Phil’s hand reluctantly. She wanted hot high school sex right there in the front seat, but for the first time today, her better judgment prevailed.
“Wait till we’re back home at the Coronado,” she said. “Let’s not embarrass Nancie when she comes charging out the front door.”
“Uh, right,” Phil said, but he didn’t sound completely convinced.
“We’ve got a bed. Two beds. A couch. The kitchen table. The floor. Your desk. My desk. We have two apartments and an office.”
After their marriage, Helen and Phil had kept their separate apartments. Both places were small, and the two detectives needed their privacy sometimes.
Helen could almost see Phil trying to figure out his favorite spot. “There’s nothing better than love on a lazy summer afternoon,” she said, buttoning her clothes. She started the car. “We’ll be home in ten minutes and we’re free until Nancie calls again.”
But the apartment’s parking lot was surprisingly busy for a Monday afternoon. A dented white van marked FORT LAUDERDALE CONSTRUCTION was parked in a guest slot.
“Uh-oh,” Helen said. “I wonder what’s wrong.”
“On a building this old, who knows?” Phil said. “When was it built—1949?”
“That’s what Margery told me,” Helen said. “It’s old, that’s for sure.”
In the harsh afternoon light, they could see cracks in the white stucco, chips in the turquoise trim, and rust trails cascading down from the rattling window air conditioners.
Helen heard a heavy suitcase rumbling down the cracked sidewalk. Cal the Canadian, brown-haired and bearded, snapped the handle into place and stowed the suitcase in the trunk of his big white sedan.
Helen parked next to his car.
“Hi, Cal,” Phil said. “Going on a trip?”
“Going back home,” Cal said. “I need to take care of my mother in Toronto. She’s too old to be living on her own. I won’t be coming back.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Phil said.
Helen was relieved. She’d dated the man long before she’d met Phil. Cal, who was notoriously tightfisted, had stuck her with the dinner tab. Twice. He claimed he’d forgotten his wallet and would pay her back, but he’d done his best to avoid her ever since. It was awkward with him living at the Coronado.
“Can I help carry your things to the car?” Phil asked.
“I’d be grateful for the help,” Cal said. “I’m nearly finished. I rented the place furnished, so there’s not much more.”
“I’ll help, too,” Helen said. Anything to get you out of here, she thought.
“No, no, there’s not enough for you to carry,” Cal said. “Just a box each for Phil and me.”
Helen peeked into the open trunk and saw a teakettle, a toaster and a coffeemaker wrapped in Margery’s distinctive purple sheets and towels. Cal was giving himself going-away presents. Should she say something? If today taught her anything, it was the value of silence.
Cal and Phil returned with two heavy cardboard boxes and stashed them in the backseat.
“Well, that’s it,” Cal said.
“Want a farewell beer before you hit the road?” Phil asked.
“No, thanks. I should get started before the rush-hour traffic gets bad. I’ll say good-bye to Margery and be on my way.”
Their landlady was in the backyard, sitting in the shade of an umbrella table by the pool. She looked like an ad for some summery product: The breeze lightly ruffled her flowing purple caftan and swirled her cigarette smoke softly around her. Margery was seventy-six and wore her wrinkles like stylish accessories.
The meaty, red-faced man wearing khakis and a white hard hat spoiled the scene. He sat across from Margery, talking earnestly and scribbling figures on a yellow legal pad.
Margery kept shaking her head, her chin-length gray hair swinging back and forth like a gunmetal curtain. She lit another Marlboro with her current cigarette, then stubbed out the old one in a tin ashtray. Helen had never seen the unflappable Margery so upset.
No way Helen would interrupt that conversation. But Cal barged right in.
“I’m leaving now, Margery,” he said.
“Bye, Cal,” she said, absently.
“Uh, Margery, when do I get my security deposit back? Would you like to inspect the place now?”
“No, I wouldn’t,” Margery said. “I’m in the middle of a business conversation, Cal. I’ll inspect your apartment tomorrow.”
She turned and looked him in the eye. “I’ll also take inventory of all the furniture and household goods. All of them. If anything’s missing or damaged, I’ll deduct the cost. Got that?”
“Uh, right. Yes. Of course.”
Margery must have seen Cal carrying out her kitchenware and linens, Helen thought. Not much gets by our landlady.
“I’ll mail you the check within thirty days,” she said. “Have a safe trip.” She turned back to the man in the hard hat, who showed her another column of figures.
“I’ll walk you to your car, Cal,” Phil said.
“No need,” Cal said. “I, uh, forgot a few items.”
Helen saw Cal rummage in his car trunk, then return to his apartment with a cardboard box. When he came back out, he shook hands with Phil, waved good-bye to Helen and drove away.
“Now, let’s go find that bed,” Phil whispered. “Your place or mine?”
“The bed’s made at my apartment,” Helen said.
“Let’s go mess up your bed,” Phil said.
They never made it.
Helen and Phil barely passed the umbrella table when an older man appeared at the back gate. He didn’t walk up. He seemed to materialize.
Helen stared at him. He was Margery’s match in every way: dramatically handsome with an unconventional edge. Six feet tall, slender, with broad shoulders and thick hair like fine white silk. Blue eyes. So blue Helen could see the color from this distance. He wore Florida dressy casual: crisp, blue fitted shirt, rolled at the forearms, white linen slacks and boat shoes.
His bouquet of purple flowers belonged in an Impressionist painting.
“Margery!” he said, striding toward her with the flowers. “Margery, my darling, I’m back.” He kneeled at her feet.
Margery jumped back as if she’d been attacked, and knocked over her chair. Her lit cigarette rolled across the concrete. “You!” she said. Her eyes were fierce with rage.
“I love you, Margery,” he said. “I always have. I know purple is your favorite color and brought you these.” He held out the bouquet. Helen could see velvety lavender roses, pale, fragrant lilacs and star-shaped asters.
“I don’t want your damned flowers, Zach!” Margery said. She hit him in the face with the heavy bouquet.
“Get out!” she said. “Get out and don’t come back!”
CHAPTER 4
Monday
Zach had a bloody scratch on one cheek, like a dueling scar.
Even the mystery man’s flaws are attractive, Helen thought. Zach ignored the flung flowers and rose gracefully off the grass, without holding on to the umbrella table. He was in good shape for seventysomething.
He stared down the furious Margery and said, “No, I’m not going. Not till you hear me out.”
He’s her equal, too, Helen thought. Not many people would ha
ve the courage to get in a glare-down with our landlady.
“I haven’t listened to you since we divorced thirty years ago, Zach Flax,” Margery said. “It’s one of the breaks I got when we split.”
Divorced? Helen glanced at Phil. Her husband looked like he’d been walloped with the flowers. He stared bug-eyed at the warring couple. We thought Margery was a widow, Helen thought, though I wondered why I never saw any photos of her husband. Our landlady never mentioned her ex. Some private eyes we are.
The meaty red-faced guy in the hard hat whose scribbled figures had disturbed Margery watched the scene as if it were a play put on for his entertainment.
“I understand you might be upset,” Zach said.
“Upset!” Margery said. “You understand nothing! You never did.” She reached for her pack of Marlboros and lit another one. Her hands shook so badly it took two tries.
“I understand how much you love the Coronado,” Zach said. “I knew that from the day I met you, when you were eighteen. We got married six months later.”
“Please,” Margery said. “No ancient history.”
“Nineteen fifty-five wasn’t that long ago,” Zach said. “You wouldn’t have the Coronado if it wasn’t for me. When your father had a heart attack in 1949, your family had enough money to hang on to these apartments, but not to finish them. I did most of the final work myself, with these hands.” He held them up—slender and pale with curiously coarse nails.
“You always were handy, Zach,” Margery said, and from her sarcasm, Helen knew she wasn’t talking about his construction skills.
“I dealt with the city inspectors, too,” Zach said.
“You bribed them,” Margery said. Cigarette smoke streamed from her nose and mouth. She was burning with fiery rage.
“I got the place open, didn’t I? I paid for the furniture.”
“We paid for it,” Margery said. “You forgot I worked in an office back then, and you tended bar during the season and in the summer took tourists on your guided fishing tours.”
The way Margery said “fishing” makes it sound like another f-word, Helen thought. What is going on here?
The couple was now eye to eye, two badly wounded warriors fighting a long-forgotten battle.
“We had some good years running this place, Margery,” Zach said.
“Yes, we did,” Margery said. “Until we needed a new roof in 1978. You’d lost your job at the bar, so you went into the fishing-charter business full-time. At least, that’s what you told me.”
“I made money, Margery,” he said. “I got the Coronado a new roof and a new paint job.”
“You didn’t tell me you were fishing for square grouper,” Margery said.
Drugs, Helen thought. “Square grouper” was the nickname for bales of pot, especially the ones tossed overboard when the Coast Guard was around. Zach might have been running coke, too, in the late seventies and early eighties.
“You didn’t mention your little sideline,” Margery said. “I found out when a DEA agent came here to question me in December of ’eighty-three. I didn’t believe him. Not my Zach. You wouldn’t be mixed up in that dirty business. You wouldn’t put me at risk by trafficking drugs. It was too dangerous. So I denied that you had any involvement with drugs. I said you made your money as an honest captain. The federal agent laughed at me and said, ‘Have it your way, but I’ll be back.’
“After the fed left, I got to thinking. Maybe he was right. Suddenly, a lot of things made sense. Now I understood why you put all our assets, including our bank accounts, in my name.
“‘Life at sea is dangerous,’ you told me. ‘If anything happens to me, I don’t want you to have trouble paying the bills while the estate is probated.’”
She breathed out a bitter stream of smoke.
“That’s why you leased your boat instead of owning it. You didn’t give a flying fig about me, Zach. You didn’t want the feds to seize everything we had if you were arrested for drug smuggling.”
“Margery, darling, that’s not true,” Zach said. But Helen could hear his shame. His shoulders were slumped. It was true, and they all knew it.
“I didn’t want to believe it,” Margery said. “I knew if I asked you, you’d tell me the truth. So after the visit from the fed, I drove to the dock where you kept your boat, hoping you’d be back from your morning charter.
“You were back, all right, and down below. Way down with Daisy Detmer. You didn’t even hear me on the boat. I surprised you going at it with the catch of the day—Daisy.
“Daisy! A bleached blonde with bad legs and big tits,” Margery said. “The woman who held her own personal Fleet Week for every sailor she met. You cheated on me with the biggest tramp in Lauderdale.”
Helen, who’d been married to an unfaithful rat, heard Margery’s pain. Zach’s betrayal still hurt thirty years later. He’d not only had a fling, but a low-rent one. Margery considered his poor choice a reflection on herself. Zach seemed to realize the magnitude of his error. “Margery, she wasn’t worth one hair on your head,” he said softly.
“No, she wasn’t,” Margery said, her voice harsh and hard. “But that didn’t stop you from hopping on board, did it?”
Zach hung his head. Phil stood motionless. And Helen suddenly understood the bond she shared with Margery. Her landlady was not only a surrogate mother—they’d also shared similar delusions. Helen had once happily believed she’d had a perfect life in St. Louis. She was on the corporate fast track, living with her charming husband in a McMansion in the burbs. She lived this fantasy until the afternoon she came home from work early and found Rob frolicking with their next-door neighbor, Sandy.
Helen, shocked and outraged, filed for divorce. The judge awarded the unfaithful Rob half of Helen’s future income. She swore he’d never see a nickel of her money. Helen fled St. Louis and wound up in Fort Lauderdale, working dead-end jobs for cash under the table. Rob began a relentless search for his money that ended with his death a few months ago.
Now Margery stood face-to-face with her cheating ex-husband and their disappointed dreams.
“Our fine life together was nothing but lies,” Margery shrieked. “You repaired the Coronado with your filthy cash. I made the only honest money working in an office.
“As soon as I found out what you’d done, I told you to pack up and get out. And you did. You sailed away with Daisy, and that’s the last time I saw you until today.”
Helen was confused. If Margery never saw Zach again, how did they divorce?
“Now you show up out of the blue, wanting to come back to me. I’ll tell you now what I said thirty years ago: I won’t live with a drug smuggler. I won’t even have you on this property.”
“Margery, sweetheart, I’ve changed. Can’t you see that?”
“I can see you’re a hell of a lot older, Zach Flax. Well, so am I. Older and wiser. Smart enough to know that people don’t change. We just find out more about them. I know all I need to know about you.”
“No, I’ve really changed,” he said. Helen could hear his desperation. “I’ve reformed. I don’t have anything to do with drugs anymore. I’m legit. I’m in the lucrative business of pet furniture. I make custom-made cat houses.”
“Figures!” Margery said. Her contempt should have wilted the battered bouquet.
“I mean those kitty towers that cats like to roost in,” he says. “Some call them cat condos. The ones with all the shelves and a cat-sized hidey-hole. I always was a good carpenter. I did solid work on the Coronado. Now I custom-make Zen Cat Towers for rich cat owners. They sell for seven hundred dollars each. I use the finest mahogany, sisal for the scratching pads, and real wool carpet.”
At the mention of Zen Cat Towers, Helen and Phil looked at each other. Justine the show cat had a Zen tower. Someone had brained Mort Barrymore with it. Was Justine’s cat tower made by Zach?
Helen and Phil could both testify that Zach’s work was well built and expensive, but they weren’t wading into
this argument.
“Margery, my business is doing so well, I bought a beachfront condo in Snakehead Bay,” Zach said.
Phil raised one eyebrow. That community was as upscale as Palm Beach.
“Hah! Only a tourist thinks that name is cute,” Margery said.
“Boca Raton means ‘mouth of the rat,’” Zach said, “and it’s exclusive.”
“It sounds better in Spanish,” Margery said. “Most gringos down here are too dumb to know what Boca Raton means. But a snakehead is a predatory fish with a big mouth that screws up its home. It’s the perfect place for you.”
“That’s harsh,” Zach said.
“But true,” Margery said. “You don’t recognize the truth when it’s right in front of you.”
“Neither do you,” Zach said. He tried to take Margery’s hand, but she fended him off with her lit cigarette. “I still love you. I’ve always loved you.”
“What about Daisy?” she said.
“She refused to move into my new condo. She stayed in Delray Beach.”
“So she wised up, too,” Margery said. “Took her long enough. And now that she’s left, you come running back to me.”
“No,” Zach said. “She said she wouldn’t live with me anymore because she knew I was still in love with you.”
“Well, I’m not and never was,” Margery said, with a fierce fervor that made Helen think there was still plenty of heat there.
“There’s not enough room in South Florida for both of us, Zach. But your timing is flawless. You picked the perfect day to return. Sal Steer there, head of Fort Lauderdale Construction, just delivered the Coronado’s death sentence.”
The slab-faced contractor gave an uneasy smile and an odd little wave.
“Sal told me that under that old stucco is rusted rebar. Rebar are the reinforcing bars.”
“I know what rebar is,” Zach said.
“Then you know that as it rusts, it expands and cracks the stucco and concrete,” Margery said. “Sixty-some years of storms and salt air have ruined it. It will cost at least a hundred grand to fix it, and there’s no point in spending more money on this old wreck. I’m tearing down the Coronado and selling the land to the developer who makes me the biggest offer.”