by Elaine Viets
Jan laughed. “Exactly.”
“Is it my imagination, or does Chessie know she’s a winner?” Helen said. “Look at the way she fluffs out her fur.”
“Oh, she knows,” Jan said. “She was born and bred to be admired. Chessie and Red are in the ring again this afternoon. Want to break for lunch and sit outside?”
They bought sodas, limp turkey sandwiches and chocolate chip cookies, and sat on a bench under a tree by the parking lot.
“It feels good to get away from the noise,” Helen said. “Here comes the judge. How can she wear black without getting cat hair on it?”
“They teach it at judges’ school,” Jan said.
Two thirtysomething men strolled out with Lexie, flirting with her. “Are those cat exhibitors?” Helen asked.
“No, they’re vendors,” Jan said. “The guy in the plaid shirt sells toys. The other man sells organic cat food.”
Both men extravagantly admired the judge’s car, a shiny black Jaguar with a red leather interior.
“What year is that?” Plaid Shirt asked.
“An ’eighty-six Jaguar,” Lexie said. “I’m a cat person. I even drive a cat. These cars are high maintenance but worth it. There’s nothing like them on the road. I drove here all the way from North Carolina and loved it.”
Helen asked Jan, “What do you know about Lexie?”
“The judge likes fast cars and faster men,” Jan said. “She was a breeder for many years. She bred shorthaired Orientals—long, skinny cats with wedge-shaped heads and large ears. Then she switched to Persians. Since she’s bred both long- and shorthairs, you could say she’s unbiased.”
Helen thought she heard some hesitation in Jan’s voice. “Would you say that?” she asked.
“She has a good reputation in the fancy,” Jan said. “Lexie went to the Gold Cup judges’ school and she knows cats. She’s judged at cat shows in Canada, France and Britain, as well as the USA.”
Britain! Helen wondered if she’d judged at the Gold Cup Coventry cat show. Phil could check. Maybe cleaning up after Chessie had paid off after all.
“But,” Helen prompted.
“Here she comes,” Jan said. “We’d better get back to work.”
CHAPTER 18
Saturday
Helen and Phil weren’t dancing Saturday night—they were facing the music. Nancie demanded to see them both in her law office as soon as Helen came home from the cat show.
Phil waited for his PI partner in the Coronado parking lot, and motioned for her to roll down her window. “Quick!” he said. “Nancie wants us now. I’ll drive if you’re too tired.”
“I’m fine, but what’s going on?” Helen asked, as he climbed into the Igloo’s passenger seat.
“We’re not getting results fast enough,” he said.
On the drive over, Helen updated him on what Jan told her about Judge Lexie. “She didn’t have time to explain what’s wrong with the judge,” she said. “But something’s not right. I’ll find out more on Monday, when I go in early to wash the cats.”
She slammed on the brakes as a young couple talking and carrying longnecks wandered out into the road. Helen lightly beeped the horn to bring them back to this planet. The startled pair waved and boozily stepped back on the sidewalk.
Helen’s heart was pounding. “That was close,” she said. “The Saturday-night celebrating is starting early.” She was relieved to park the Igloo at the law office.
“Brace yourself for a chewing-out,” Phil said.
“I’m wearing so much cat hair, I may not feel it,” Helen said, trying to brush a clump of red fur off her shorts.
“Hurry!” Phil said. “She’ll have to take you as is.”
Inside, Helen felt like she’d been called into the principal’s office. Nancie frowned at them from behind her desk. “So, have you two made any progress?”
“We’re working on some promising leads,” Phil said.
“I don’t want promises,” Nancie said. “I want action. I saw our client today in jail. Trish is unraveling. I’m afraid she’ll crack under the strain. Jail is wearing her down. We have to get her out of there. Between the kidnapped cat and Mort’s funeral, she’s ready to snap.”
“Has Mort’s body been released?” Helen asked.
“Finally,” Nancie said. “His mother claimed it. His memorial service is Thursday, and Trish wants to go, preferably not in handcuffs. Their marriage was over, but she still has feelings for the man.”
“Who’s planning the service and the funeral?” Helen asked.
“His mother,” Nancie said. “She believes her daughter-in-law is innocent. Mort will be buried in New York, where he’s from, but she wants to have a service for him here in Fort Lauderdale, where he lived.
“Now let’s get back to this case. What are those leads, Phil?”
“I’m working on the red medallion found by Mort’s body,” he said. “We believe it may have been a souvenir from the Coventry cat show in England. The woman who can confirm it should be home late Sunday night. It may be Monday before I reach her, because of the time zones.”
“Forget the time differences,” Nancie said. “Wake her up. What’s she going to do? Fly over here and sue you? Get the information and get it fast.”
“I’d also like to talk to someone who worked in Mort’s office,” Phil said. “Can you give me those names?”
“Mort had a one-person office,” Nancie said. “But he had an amazing executive assistant, Carol Berman. She’s smart.” The lawyer pulled out her cell phone and began tapping on it. “I’m sending you her contact information now and I’ll let her know she can talk to you.”
“Besides the cat-show judge,” Phil said, “I also talked to the pole-dancing girlfriend, Amber Waves. She says Jan Kurtz, Mort’s fiancée, inherits half his income.”
“She does,” Nancie said. “His mother gets the rest.”
“Amber has an alibi for the time of the murder,” Phil said. “She was teaching a pole-dancing class, so she’s out.”
“See what you can find out from Mort’s assistant,” Nancie said. “Carol’s peeved because the cops never talked to her. I swear, I’ve never seen such a shoddy investigation. I can’t wait to go after those clowns. Helen, what do you have?”
“Remember the cat-show judge Mort helped with financial advice?” Helen said. “I found out she’s an international judge. Phil will check if she judged at that Coventry cat show. There’s something off about her. Jan tried to tell me exactly what, but we got distracted at work. I’ll find out more when I go back to the cattery early Monday morning. I’m still working there.”
“I can see that,” Nancie said, and nodded at Helen’s cat-hairy T-shirt.
Helen brushed at the hair, but it clung to the fabric. “Let it alone,” Nancie said. “You’ll just get more on the furniture.”
“I also followed Jan, Mort’s fiancée, home because I thought she had a gray cat. She did, but it was an ordinary striped tabby, not Justine.”
“She’s got a motive,” Nancie said. “Helen, see if you can find out what Jan was doing the night of the murder. Amber has a motive, but she’s in the clear. The judge is a possibility, if your inquiries pan out, but why would she kill Mort?”
“No reason,” Helen said. “Not if Mort was making her money. She sure spends it—lots of it—on her car and clothes. Maybe younger men, too.”
“Nothing more on the catnapping?” Nancie asked.
“We would have called you,” Phil said. “We’re not supposed to hear anything from the kidnapper until Tuesday morning. Do you have the cash?”
“In my safe,” Nancie said.
“We should take it with us and stash it in our office safe,” Phil said. “The SmartWater CSI kit arrived and we have to mark the money. The catnapper may not give us time to get the money from you and mark it on Tuesday.”
“Are you sure SmartWater works?” Nancie asked.
“Oh yeah. Neighborhoods in Fort Lauderdale, Oakl
and Park and other places are testing it. SmartWater is a clear liquid with a unique chemical signature for each user. You mark your jewelry, computers, TV sets, even cars with a little dab. When the cops catch the thieves or the stolen goods turn up in a pawnshop, your property’s chemical signature can be identified with the special black light.
“It works better than the bank’s dye packs. The thieves can’t see the SmartWater. Even if the catnapper tries to burn this money, the SmartWater signature will show in the ashes.”
“Amazing,” Nancie said. She hauled a lumpy black nylon duffel out of her safe. “Half a million in used twenties. Two hundred fifty packs, with a hundred bills in each pack. It would have been simpler if the catnapper had asked for fifties.”
“He knows South Florida,” Phil said. “Counterfeit fifties are rampant down here. Even small stores check each fifty-dollar bill with a special test pen.”
Helen and Phil left Nancie’s office half a million dollars richer. Phil hid the money in the back of the Igloo.
“Are we going to have to mark each dollar bill?” Helen asked. “That will take us till next Tuesday.”
“Nope, I have a plan,” Phil said. He stopped at a garden store and bought a plant mister. “We can do this over dinner. How’s Chinese sound?”
“Delicious,” Helen said.
On the way home, they swung by their favorite take-out Chinese place, Bei Jing, on the corner of Federal Highway and Oakland Park Boulevard. The tiny take-out shop was staffed by a hardworking Asian family, and those in the know said Bei Jing had the best Chinese food this side of Shanghai. Helen ordered her favorite: steamed shrimp with broccoli and garlic sauce. Phil got spicy General Tso’s chicken, and the woman behind the counter gave them a large free container of wonton soup.
“Hurry home,” Phil said. “I’m so hungry, I’m ready to eat this in the car.”
“Me, too,” Helen said.
She was practically drooling when she rounded the corner to the Coronado. Helen carried the takeout, and Phil hauled the duffel full of money to their office. “You set out the dinner,” he said, “while I mark the money.”
Phil opened the navy blue cardboard SmartWater CSI box, took out a bottle of pinkish liquid, and poured it into the plant mister. Then he stacked the money bundles so the edges were standing up and sprayed the edges with a light SmartWater mist. Twice he stopped to wash the mister. “The SmartWater particles can clog it,” he said. Once all the money was misted, he carried the table to the window air conditioner and turned it on high. “Should be dry in a minute or two.”
“That was easy,” Helen said. “Sit down and eat.”
But they heard sirens outside and saw uniformed officers and a stout, bristly haired figure striding through the yard.
“What the heck?” Phil said.
“Oh no!” Helen said. “Why are the police here?”
“Quick!” Phil said. “The money’s dry. Drop it in the bag and let’s go see.”
They quickly bundled the bag into their safe, left the food and sprinted downstairs. A uniformed cop stopped them. “Snakehead Bay Police,” he said. “We have a warrant to search Margery Flax’s apartment.” Phil talked his way past the uniform, explaining they had to feed the cat. The officer could hear Thumbs howling.
They gave their cat dinner, then watched a swarm of latex-gloved cops carry boxes out of Margery’s house. Two especially unlucky uniforms were rummaging in the spiderwebbed storage area behind her apartment. Their landlady was chain-smoking at the poolside umbrella table under the watchful eye of a young, sandy-haired cop.
“Margery,” Phil said. “What’s happening?” The sandy-haired cop looked uneasy but didn’t interfere. Phil and Helen stayed on the sidewalk.
“That Snakehead Bay detective showed up with a search warrant,” she said. “He and his pals are tearing my place apart.”
“Whelan? Why?” Helen asked. “What’s he looking for?”
“Why? Because Zach not only left me his condo, but also a six-figure insurance policy.”
“Oh,” Helen said.
“The Snakehead Sherlock said that was enough to cover the work on the Coronado. I didn’t know a thing about it.”
“Maybe Zach forgot to change your name as a beneficiary after you divorced,” Phil said. “It happens.”
“No, he changed it back two months ago, the dumb bastard,” Margery said.
“And speaking of dumb, Detective Whelan made a big deal out of finding weed killer in my storage area. He knows I had it. Last time he was here, he asked me about it. He saw me killing weeds. So why’s he carrying on about it now?”
“The autopsy must have shown that’s what killed Zach,” Phil said. “Did you talk to this detective?”
“Of course I did,” Margery said. “I’ve got nothing to hide. I told him I cashed in a CD. That’s a matter of record.”
Phil sighed. “Margery, Snakehead Bay is a small force, if you get what I mean.”
“You mean they don’t always hire top-notch people,” Margery said. “I already figured that out.”
The young cop turned bright red to the tips of his ears.
The parade of cops carrying boxes and evidence bags out to the cars had finally stopped.
Detective Whelan swaggered out of Margery’s apartment, shutting her door hard enough to rattle the glass slats in the jalousie door. He strutted over to the umbrella table with two uniformed officers.
“Margery Flax,” he said. “I’m arresting you for the murder of Zachariah Flax.”
“What?” Helen said.
“No!” Margery said.
“Yes!” the detective said. “You have the right to remain silent . . .”
When he finished the well-known warning, Phil said, “Margery, don’t say another word. I’ll get Nancie Hays.”
Margery, stunned into silence, nodded at Phil. The detective took out his handcuffs. “Oh, come on,” Phil said. “You’ve got two burly cops for protection. Do you really think a seventy-six-year-old woman is going to attack you?”
The detective put the cuffs back. “Put out the cigarette, ma’am,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Vital, vigorous Margery seemed to shrivel before Helen’s eyes. She shuffled out between the two strapping cops, looking small and old.
As they reached the gate, Elsie appeared in a jaw-dropping outfit—a pink-flowered strapless dress, hot pink mules and cherry-pink hair. The dress revealed mounds of flabby white flesh. Helen wanted to throw a sheet over her.
“Margery, dear, what’s wrong?” Elsie said in her fluttery voice. “Why are these policemen here?”
“Because of you,” Margery snarled. “Get off my property!”
“But I came to beg your forgiveness—to say I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? You pathetic old fool,” Margery said, her voice hard. “This sorry mess is what happens when you meddle in people’s lives.”
Elsie burst into tears, and Phil took her protectively into his arms. She cried on his shoulder, leaving black mascara streaks. “I’m sorry, Phil, I really am.”
“Sh,” Phil said. “I know you are.” He rocked her in his arms.
“We must help her, you know,” Elsie said, her eyes shining with tears. “She loved that man to death.”
“Let’s hope not,” Phil said.
CHAPTER 19
Saturday/Sunday
“I’m much more at home with a good, clean murder than a nasty divorce,” Nancie said.
Home. Helen wished she were there now, at nine o’clock on a Saturday night. She wished she were sitting by the pool with her landlady, instead of trying to get Margery out of a murder charge.
“Well, now you have two murder cases,” Phil said, “Trish’s and Margery’s. Thank you for taking our landlady’s case.”
Before the Snakehead Bay detective had slammed the door on his unmarked car, Phil called Nancie. The lawyer promised to meet them at her office in an hour. He and Helen had shared their Bei Jing takeout with Elsie.
Now the PI pair were back at Nancie’s office. Even after a twelve-hour day, Nancie was ready for battle.
Helen forced herself to stay awake. Margery, her surrogate mother, was going to be charged with murder one, and Florida was a death-penalty state.
“That means you’ll both have to work doubly hard,” Nancie said. “And twice as fast. Where are you starting Margery’s investigation?”
“At Zach’s condo,” Phil said. “He left it to her.”
“I know,” Nancie said. “That’s one reason why Detective Whelan thinks she killed him.”
“But Zach was two months behind on the mortgage,” Phil said.
“Doesn’t matter. Property values are really going up in Florida again. If Margery makes those payments and sells his condo, she’ll get a nice chunk of change—providing she isn’t convicted of killing Zach. Then she can’t inherit it.”
“Margery gave me the keys to the condo,” Phil said, and held them up. “We’ll search tomorrow for anything the police missed. She also gave us a box of papers Zach left unclaimed and unopened since 1983.”
“The cops didn’t take them?” Nancie asked.
“Margery brought them to our office before the search warrant,” Helen said. “We expected her to be arrested.”
“Smart,” Nancie said.
“We’re opening that time capsule tomorrow,” Helen said.
“Helen, you look tired,” Nancie said. “Both of you need to go home now and get an early start Sunday morning.”
Helen was relieved to park the Igloo for the last time that night at the Coronado. The old building gleamed in the moonlight. Even the construction scaffolding had a silver sheen. The palm trees whispered invitations to linger in the soft, velvety night.
But the Coronado seemed oddly empty without Margery’s overwhelming presence. It looked the same, the way a dead person looks as if she’s asleep. But the essence was gone. Helen shivered in the warm evening air. She escaped with Phil into his apartment, and then to sleep.
Morning came too soon. Helen was awakened by Phil whistling in the shower and the fragrant aroma of hot coffee. Neither private eye was in the mood for love. They chugged their coffee and were at Zach’s Snakehead Bay condo by seven o’clock.