The Dead-End Job Mysteries Box Set 2

by Elaine Viets

  “She actually punched holes in Trish’s eyes with a ballpoint. Gave me the creeps.”

  Mystery lightly patted Helen’s arm with a paw. “Sorry, girl, I’ve been rinsing you long enough,” Helen said. She turned off the water and wrapped the cat in a warm towel. “When I finish Mystery, what’s next?”

  “Litter boxes and cattery cleaning,” Jan said. “Then we can go home at four. We’ll work longer hours as we get closer to the show. I need to check on my cat.”

  Huh? Before Helen could say, “What cat?” Mystery knocked over a bottle of shampoo and she forgot to ask.

  Helen came home to construction chaos at the Coronado. The dented white Fort Lauderdale Construction van and two rusty pickups took the guest parking spots. Sal Steer, the slab-faced boss, was directing a hard-hatted crew. Scaffolding covered the front of the building, and a worker with a noisy jackhammer was tearing out part of Margery’s wall.

  Helen carefully stepped around the equipment and tools and ducked into her apartment to shower and change. She could feel the rat-a-tat-tat of the jackhammer through the wall. She wondered how long the Coronado would be torn up. Thumbs must be frantic. She found her cat pacing Phil’s apartment.

  She soothed him with talk and treats, then went upstairs to their office. Phil was pacing, too.

  “Any calls?” she shouted over the jackhammer.

  “No,” he screamed back, and then suddenly the din stopped. “Nothing from the catnapper. Nancie says our client was denied bail. Trish is having a hard time in jail.”

  “She must be terrified,” Helen said.

  “I called Mort’s girlfriend, Amber Waves, and she agreed to meet me at the studio where she works part-time, teaching pole-dance fitness.”

  “You’re kidding? Who takes those classes?”

  “The women looked like soccer moms with a sprinkling of businesswomen on their lunch hour. Here. I videoed the interview with my iPhone. Amber was changing into her outfit. That’s her voice you hear. She’s in the dressing room.”

  Helen watched the grainy video. Phil wasn’t in it. He’d aimed the camera at the slatted dressing-room door. She saw a dance floor with mirrors and a ballet barre along one wall. Four poles ran down the center of the room.

  “Are you really a detective, Phil?” Amber asked. Her voice was soft and teasing. The hackles rose on the back of Helen’s neck.

  “Licensed and everything,” he said.

  “And your partner saw Rock of Ages and liked it?” Amber asked.

  “Loved it,” Phil said. “We both did. The pole dancing at the Venus Club was amazing.”

  “Well, what does your partner think of this?” Amber said, and threw open the dressing-room door.

  “Uh,” Phil said.

  “It’s my movie outfit,” she said.

  Amber was curvier than Trish. Her honey blond curls swept past her shoulders. She probably had more hair than clothes. She wore a retro black bikini sparkling with sequins, and ankle-strap heels.

  “Well?” she asked, thrusting her hips forward. “Do you think your partner would like me in this?” She stuck out her long slender legs, put her hand on her hip and twirled. Most of her well-toned bottom was exposed.

  Helen growled.

  “Uh, my partner is my wife,” Phil said. “She’d look good in that outfit.”

  “Nice save,” Helen said to her husband. Was he sweating?

  “Oh. So you’re married,” Amber said. Helen heard her disappointment.

  “Very,” Phil said. “I’m investigating Mort’s murder. I understand you used to date.”

  Amber reached into the dressing room for a white terry robe and slipped it on. “I did. Are you going to ask me where I was at the time of the murder, like in the movies?”

  “Okay,” Phil said, “where were you?”

  “Here. Teaching a class for charity.” She handed him a flyer advertising the event and a sign-in sheet, dated the day of Mort’s murder, with a list of names.

  “Thanks. This makes my job easier,” Phil said. “Tell me about you and Mort.”

  “We were going to get married once his divorce was final.”

  “How long did you go out?” Phil asked.

  “You have to understand, I never date married men,” Amber said. “As a pole specialist, I met a lot of unhappy husbands at the club where I worked.”

  “A pole specialist?” Helen said. “I bet.”

  “Hey,” Phil said. “That’s what she calls herself. Deal with it.”

  “Mort came to the club often,” Amber said. “He was so generous and so unhappy, well, our love just happened. He knew I wanted to leave the club. He helped pay for my dancing lessons and hired a professional photographer to take head shots that showed my full range. He even paid for a video. He found me a good agent, not some sleaze. That’s how I got the part in Rock of Ages.

  “He wanted to finance my pole-dancing fitness studio. Pole dancing is a difficult discipline. It’s Pilates, yoga and ballet all rolled into one.”

  What position is that hip thrust? Helen thought. She didn’t dare say anything.

  “Mort was so invested in my career, I thought we’d play house and open the studio once he left Trish. We would have, too, if it hadn’t been for that stupid cat.”

  “Justine?” Phil said.

  “Yes. That cat groomer, Jan Kurtz, wormed her way into Mort’s life, telling him she could help Justine be a Gold Cup Cat Show national winner. He started spending less time with me, but I didn’t notice. I was busy with the movie. I met Tom Cruise when we made Rock of Ages. He plays the rocker, Stacee Jaxx. Tom is the nicest man. Those tattoos he wore in the movie were fake and he’d get so sweaty they’d come off. Juli—that’s Julianne Hough—she was Sherrie, the small-town girl. She said I was a marvelous dancer.”

  “So, which pole dancer were you?” Phil said. “There were five.”

  “Pole specialist,” she said. “My part wound up on the cutting-room floor. You’re the only person who knows, except for my mom and my agent. I got paid and everything. And there’s no shame in being cut. Juli and Tom did an incredible pole dance to ‘Rock You Like a Hurricane’ that was cut from the cinema release. But you can see it on the extended-cut Blu-ray version.”

  Phil quickly tap-danced back to the topic.

  “Your secret is safe with me,” he said. “But while you were working on your career, this Jan Kurtz worked on making Justine into a champion.”

  “Right. She has a job with a big-time breeder. Next thing I knew, Mort told me he was engaged to Jan. She’d signed a prenup giving him custody of Justine.”

  Phil made a sympathetic noise. Amber sniffed back tears. A bit too dramatically, Helen thought.

  “Mort was a good, decent man. He fell for Jan, and she killed him.”

  Helen wished she could have seen Phil’s face when Amber dropped that bomb.

  “Why would Jan kill him?” Phil said. “They were getting married.”

  “He changed his will,” Amber said. “He left half his money to Jan, his future wife. A cat groomer will inherit millions. You do the math.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Thursday

  “The Coronado is saved. Come on down and celebrate!” Peggy called. Their neighbor knocked on Helen and Phil’s office door to invite them down by the pool, the scene of so many sunset salutes.

  “Party hearty!” Pete the parrot said. He looked like a feather corsage perched on Peggy’s shoulder. She looked relieved and happy.

  “I’ve got wine, cheese and appetizers. It’s party time,” she said.

  “That pink sundress looks stunning with your red hair,” Helen said.

  “Thanks. Daniel’s picking me up in an hour, but I want to celebrate this good news now. Let’s call Elsie.”

  “Not a good idea,” Helen said, and told her why. “We’re playing it by ear, waiting to see if Margery says anything about forgiving Elsie. Now let’s get that drink.”

  “And the appetizers,” Phil said. “
I’m hungry.”

  Margery was already by the pool, loading her plate with hummus, olives, cheese, chips and crackers spread out on the umbrella table. Beer and white wine with a real cork sweated in a tub of ice.

  “You look gorgeous, Margery,” Phil said, and kissed her cheek.

  Their landlady wore a striking long lilac tie-dyed caftan and earrings the size of coasters. Cigarette smoke circled her like an enchanted spell.

  The hard-frost Margery of last night was gone, but Helen felt the barbed wire and Keep Out signs guarding the subject of Zach and Elsie.

  Pete eyed the appetizers and edged toward them.

  “Can he have a cracker?” Helen asked.

  “He can have a carrot,” Peggy said, and handed him one from the hummus platter. “He’s an ounce overweight.”

  Pete dropped the carrot on the concrete.

  “Bad,” he said.

  “I agree,” Helen said. “Margery, what’s that big brown patch in your lawn?”

  “The weed killer worked,” she said. “The dollarweed is dead. I still have more to kill under the palm tree. When the construction is finished I’ll resod the yard. How are you doing with the cat woman?”

  “It’s bizarre.” Helen cut herself a generous slice of cheddar and slid it onto a cracker. “Trish treats her cat like a kid. No, an only child. The cat has her own room.”

  “Sad,” Peggy said. “I like cats, but they’re not children.”

  “The client knows that,” Margery said. “It’s just her way of saying, ‘I have something in my life that’s lots of trouble but makes me happy.’ How you and Phil can stand that yowling flea bag is a mystery to me.”

  “Thumbs is cute and cuddly, but I’d never treat him like a kid,” Helen said.

  “Oh yeah? You defrosted shrimp for Junior. He howled all afternoon till you babied him. I don’t know which was worse, the cat or the jackhammer.”

  “Maybe I can take him to work with me,” Phil said.

  “Aw, what the heck, the construction will have this place torn up for weeks,” Margery said. “I’ll put up with your cat if you’ll put up with the Coronado.”

  “Deal,” Helen said.

  “You’ve saved a bit of Old Florida from the developers,” Peggy said. “Thank you!”

  “To Margery!” they cried, and raised their glasses.

  Their cheers died as a long black shadow darkened their table. A man with a gray suit and a grim voice asked, “Which one of you is Margery Flax?”

  He looked like a fire hydrant with a bad haircut—short, stout and no-necked, with bristly brown hair.

  “I am,” Margery said. “Who are you?”

  “Detective Millard Whelan, Crimes Against Persons, Snakehead Bay Police. Do you know a Zachariah Flax?” he asked.

  Margery’s eyes flashed and her nostrils flared. Uh-oh, Helen thought. She’s getting mad all over again.

  “He’s my ex-husband,” Margery said. “What about him?” She blew a cloud of smoke at the detective.

  “When’s the last time you saw him?” Detective Whelan asked.

  “Last night,” Margery said.

  “Did you have dinner together at Beachie’s seafood restaurant?” he asked.

  “I didn’t intend that. A misguided . . . matchmaker arranged that. Zach had a drink. He didn’t stay for dinner. Neither did I.”

  “Did you have an altercation and throw a glass of wine in his face?”

  “Two glasses,” Margery said. “I divorced the SOB and never wanted to see him again. I wanted to make sure he got the message. What’s he done now?”

  Helen sat frozen, wishing she could find some way to shut up Margery.

  “Did you kill him?” Detective Whelan asked.

  “What?”

  Margery’s eyes widened. Helen felt like someone had walloped her with the wine bottle. Zach was dead? She didn’t dare look at Phil or Peggy.

  “You heard me,” the detective said. “Did you kill him?”

  “No,” Margery said.

  “He was found dead in his condo this morning,” he said.

  “Good!” Margery said. “He should have died years ago.”

  What’s wrong with you? Helen thought. Quiet!

  “It looks like he was poisoned,” the detective said.

  “Rat poison, no doubt,” Margery said, narrowing her eyes. She stubbed out her cigarette in a tin ashtray. “Look, Detective, if you’re expecting me to burst into tears, it ain’t gonna happen. He’s been out of my life for thirty years. Recently, he tried to worm his way back in, but I made it clear we were through. I don’t need a seventy-six-year-old stalker.”

  “What caused that brown spot on your lawn?”

  Helen nearly got whiplash from the abrupt switch in topics.

  “Weed killer,” Margery said. “Are we finished?”

  “For now.” Detective Whelan stalked out, leaving the Coronado celebrants stunned silent.

  “Bye!” Pete said, nervously patrolling Peggy’s shoulder.

  “What was that about?” Peggy said.

  “Damn Zach. I knew he’d come to no good end,” Margery said, trying to light another cigarette with shaking fingers. Phil took the lighter out of her hands and lit the Marlboro for her. She took a deep drag, then said, “Why the hell did he have to screw up my life again?”

  Phil refilled Margery’s wineglass and said, “Margery, this is serious. Zach was poisoned. They’ve figured out he was at Beachie’s, and you had a very public fight with him there and he walked out.”

  “So? He didn’t eat anything. How could I poison him?”

  “He drank that glass of wine,” Phil said. “The wine that was sitting at his place for some time. You could have put poison in it.”

  “Anybody see me?” she said, defiant.

  “Maybe not. But they sure as hell saw the fight and the wine tossing.”

  “Zach didn’t look good when he left,” Helen said. “He stumbled, and Peg the server caught him. I’m sure she told the police.”

  “That doesn’t look good, either. You need to hire a lawyer,” Phil said. “I recommend Nancie Hays.”

  “The hell I will,” Margery said. “I’m not paying some shark five hundred an hour.”

  “Then at least retain us to investigate Zach’s murder. That way the police can’t question us. Anything we know will be confidential under Florida law.”

  “You can’t beat our price,” Helen said. “We’re free.”

  “Oh no,” Margery said. “I’m no charity case.”

  “Give us a dollar to seal the deal,” Phil said. “Helen will get the paperwork now. We’ll work out the money later.”

  Helen didn’t give their landlady a chance to say no. She ran upstairs for a standard contract and a pen.

  “Sign here,” she said.

  Margery signed, dusting the contract with cigarette ash. Peggy witnessed, then said, “Pete and I are going in. Daniel will be here any minute.”

  “Night,” Pete said.

  “Helen and I are starting our investigation tonight,” Phil said. “If the detective is asking about weed killer, I’m assuming he believes that’s what poisoned Zach. Who do you think killed him?”

  “I haven’t a clue,” Margery said. “Like I said, he’s been out of my life for decades.”

  “What about Daisy, the woman he was living with?” Helen asked. “He split up with her after thirty years. Would she kill him?”

  Margery shook her head and exhaled a long stream of smoke. “Daisy Detmer? I don’t think so,” she said. “From what I remember of Daisy, she wouldn’t touch a fly. Unless it was unzipped.”

  Ouch, Helen thought. No hurt feelings there.

  “Maybe Zach committed suicide after being rejected by you,” Phil said.

  Margery’s laugh was hard and ugly. “Do you really think I’m the kind of woman men die for?” she asked. “Whoever heard of a wrinkled femme fatale?”

  “Okay, then tell us who killed Zach,” Phil said. “What
pops into your mind?”

  “One of his drug-dealing buddies,” Margery said. “Thick as thieves, and that’s what they were. I think he ripped one off when he left town suddenly after the feds showed up here.”

  “Do you remember their names?”

  “Those bums? I went out of my way to forget them.”

  Helen was frustrated with Margery’s stubborn refusal to help. “Do you have any of Zach’s things?” she asked. “Didn’t you say the lawyer gave you back a cardboard box of Zach’s belongings from 1983? One he never picked up.”

  “That’s in the hall closet,” Margery said.

  “Dig it out,” Phil said. “We’re driving up to Delray Beach tonight to meet Daisy.”

  Delray is one of the beach towns dotting South Florida’s east coast like a string of pearls. Some forty miles north of Fort Lauderdale, downtown Delray is a pleasant mix of low-rise restaurants and high-end shops, prettily painted and draped with bougainvillea.

  Daisy lived in a bungalow about three blocks west of downtown, with an actual picket fence. It was periwinkle, and the cottage was turquoise trimmed in hot pink. Tropical plants and red and yellow flowers rioted in the yard.

  “Let’s hope she’s home,” Helen said, and then rang the doorbell.

  Daisy answered the door, looking like she’d escaped from her own garden. She wore a long, black sleeveless dress dotted with giant red poppies. She had a pleasant round face, a plump body, and fluffy gray-blond hair. She held a Diet Coke. Helen could hear a television in the living room.

  “Well, hello,” Daisy said, fluttering her eyelashes at Phil. “What are you doing on my doorstep?”

  Daisy might be in her mid-seventies, but she was still a flirt. Phil flirted right back. “I’m glad you’re home,” he said. “I’m a private eye.”

  “That’s exciting,” Daisy said. “I’ve never met one before.”

  “Well, now you get to meet two,” Phil said. “I’m Phil Sagemont and this is my partner, Helen Hawthorne.”

  He didn’t mention we’re married, Helen noticed. He’ll probably get more out of Daisy that way.

  “Nice to meet you, Helen,” Daisy said, but it sounded like “Get lost, will you?”

  “I’d like to talk to you about Zach Flax,” Phil said. “He listed this as his address.”