by Elaine Viets
Zach had lived on the fifth floor of a soulless steel-and-glass building, all sharp angles and hard, shiny surfaces. Phil unlocked Zach’s black-lacquered door, and the PI pair was nearly snow-blinded by the white interior: a vast bone tile floor and hard white leather couches. The icy glass coffee table was angled so people sitting in the deathly pale chairs would bruise their legs when they stood. The air-conditioning was so cold, Helen felt snowbound.
“Do you think Zach decorated this place himself?” Helen asked.
Phil shrugged. “Do they have a whites-only furniture store for rich people?” he asked.
The only color came from the incredible view of Snakehead Bay out the curtainless windows. The bay was as blue and palm-fringed as a corny postcard.
Helen found a silver-framed photo under a snowy lamp. “Look at this,” she said, softly. “A wedding photo of Margery and Zach.”
“Handsome couple,” Phil said.
They were. Even in the domesticated dreariness of the fifties, Margery had flair. She wore a tea-length white wedding gown, the skirt a graceful bell of chiffon. A short veil covered her lustrous black hair. Zach was leading-man handsome, with broad shoulders and thick, dark curls. Their young smiles hurt Helen’s heart. They were glowing with love.
Knowing how their marriage ended made that photo unbearably sad.
Helen set the photo back on the end table as if it burned her hand.
That was the only picture in the room. Helen and Phil searched the couch, looked under the furniture, checked the cushions and baseboards.
“Nothing else,” Helen said. “No drawers, shelves or knickknacks. Let’s search the bedroom.”
More white, an endless Siberian winter. But in a drawer under Zach’s socks, Helen found a cache of bills, and spread them on the slick white bedspread.
“The main color here is red,” she told Phil. “Zach was deeply in debt. Not only was he behind on his mortgage and monthly condo fees, Zach also had overdue notices for four credit cards. He owed money for a fancy power saw, fine-quality hardwood, suede and sisal.”
“Those must be supplies for his Zen Cat Towers,” Phil said.
“And this two-inch stack is nothing but doctor bills and lab tests.” Helen patted that pile.
“He must have been really sick. Any idea what was wrong?” Phil asked.
Helen shook her head no. “We’ll take them with us and check,” she said. “I wonder why the police didn’t take them.”
“I’m guessing Detective Whelan didn’t graduate at the top of his police academy class,” Phil said. “The detective had a suspect, so why bother with a tedious investigation? His force did a sloppy search.”
Zach’s closet held only men’s clothes. “Look at these polo shirts. Two very different sizes, both fairly new,” Helen said, holding up both. “Zach must have lost at least twenty pounds in the last year or so. I wonder if he kept the larger clothes because he expected to get well?”
“Lots of men hang on to their favorite clothes,” Phil said. “They don’t weed through their closets as much as women do.”
Those were the only finds in Zach’s bedroom, except for an unopened box of condoms in his bedside table.
His workroom next door smelled pleasantly of wood shavings. The floor was waxed concrete, with a workbench along one side and neat racks and shelves of complicated tools. A partially finished cat tower was clamped onto the bench.
“I wonder how he got by making those towers in his home,” Helen said.
“Maybe one of his neighbors tipped off the company that sent him the cease-and-desist order,” Phil said.
In the bathroom, the medicine cabinet was empty and the closet held only linens. Even his toothbrush and toothpaste were gone. “The police must have taken everything in here,” Phil said.
They searched the narrow kitchen last. Zach was clearly no cook. Helen found the bare-minimum kitchen equipment: four cheap aluminum pots, a coffeemaker, stainless flatware and white china, all selected without thought for style or even function. The pantry held an unopened jar of peanut butter and three cans of beef noodle soup.
“Either he didn’t eat much or the police took his other food,” Helen said.
“They took everything in the fridge,” Phil said, looking inside.
“But left the food on the freezer side,” Helen said. “Vanilla ice cream and two homemade apple pies. One pie is cut into six slices, with two pieces missing. Each pie is dated and labeled in a flowery woman’s hand. I wonder if that’s Daisy’s writing and these are the pies she made Zach come back for?”
“Amateur police work,” Phil said, shaking his head. He checked the cabinet under the kitchen sink. “Nothing here but dish soap, lemon furniture polish and window cleaner.”
“That’s not how you look under a sink,” Helen said. She kneeled down and began pulling out bottles and boxes. “You missed the scouring pads, the floor cleaner, cleanser and two dried-out sponges. What’s behind this plastic scrub bucket? Hello? Something’s hiding in the back corner.” She pulled out a yellow box. “Rat poison!”
“Hah, I was right,” Phil said. “He committed suicide.”
“If he did, why would he hide the box?” Helen asked.
“Because Margery couldn’t collect on his life insurance policy if he killed himself,” Phil said. “She refused to see him anymore, so the miserable old coot committed suicide and left everything to his one true love. It’s the one unselfish thing he’s done in years.”
“Sorry, I’m not buying it,” Helen said.
“A new building like this wouldn’t have rats,” Phil said.
“Rats are everywhere,” Helen said. “Especially around waterfront property. Let’s go home and look in that box of old papers.”
Peggy was reading the newspaper and sipping coffee by the pool when Helen and Phil returned at ten thirty that morning. Pete the parrot sat on her shoulder.
“Can he read the New York Times?” Helen asked.
“Yes, but he can’t do the crossword puzzle,” Peggy said.
“Hello!” Pete said.
“Morning, handsome dude,” Helen said.
“Woo-hoo!” Pete said.
“Have you seen Margery?” Peggy asked. “Her car’s here, but she’s not up yet. Should we check on her?”
“We’ve got bad news,” Helen said. “Margery was arrested for Zach’s murder.”
“Awk!” Pete said.
“Took the words out of my mouth, Pete,” Helen said. She and Phil explained what happened and how they’d taken on Margery’s case.
“Do you think the police messed up her apartment when they searched it?” Peggy asked.
“I’m sure they did,” Phil said.
“Then that’s today’s chore,” Peggy said. “I’ll clean her apartment.”
“I’ll do the yard work and keep the pool clean,” Phil said.
“Right now, we both have to help get her out of jail,” Helen said. “Let’s open that box, Phil.”
Upstairs in the Coronado office, the battered box showed its age. The Florida humidity had softened the brown cardboard and curled the ends of the packing tape.
“Not as heavy as I’d like,” Helen said, as she peeled off the tape.
“Look,” she said, “an old newspaper. Look at those Flashdance fashions! I forgot about leg warmers. Here’s a story about Star Wars, but they’re talking about missiles, not the movie.”
Phil took the paper away from Helen. “While you’re strolling down Memory Lane, Margery is rotting in jail.”
“Right. Sorry.”
“You look through these business papers, and I’ll check the photos,” Phil said.
Helen rifled through old Coronado leases, receipts for repairs and other apartment business. “I wonder why Margery packed these instead of using them for her taxes,” she said.
“She probably wasn’t thinking straight,” Phil said. “Hey, talk about Flashdance, I think this is an old photo of Zach and Daisy.”
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br /> Zach had a mullet, a shoulder-padded jacket and a guilty smirk. Daisy’s gray sweatshirt hung off one shoulder. She had the period’s frizzy blond hair, earrings the size of doorknobs, purple jelly shoes and neon orange short-shorts. She was wrapped around Zach like a vine.
“I believe those are called booty shorts in today’s fashion lingo,” Helen said. “Even then she was a bit on the plump side.”
“Voluptuous,” Phil corrected.
Helen glared at him.
“But nowhere near as good-looking as Margery,” Phil added quickly.
“Ever notice that? Unless you’ve got a middle-aged guy on the prowl for a younger model, the other woman isn’t as attractive as the wife. It’s like the unfaithful husband needs a rest from having to live up to his wife.”
He pulled out a yellowing color photo. “Hey, look at this,” he said.
“Oh, the eighties,” Helen groaned. “That red-haired guy in the neon green Adidas tracksuit looks like a giant leprechaun. The preppie in the black shirt and khakis is okay, but boring.”
“The guy with the red headband and wild brown hair is a John McEnroe look-alike,” Phil said.
“Who?” Helen asked.
“McEnroe. Tennis star and tantrum thrower. Zach’s mullet is outstanding.”
“Well, he was a fisherman,” Helen said. “That wife-beater shirt sure shows off his muscles.”
“If he wasn’t dead, I’d be jealous,” Phil said.
“You have nothing to worry about,” Helen said, and kissed him. He kissed her back hard, then pulled away.
“Look where those four men are standing,” he said. “In front of the Fisherman’s Tale. I know that bar.”
“Of course you do,” Helen said, disappointed that he’d stopped when things were getting interesting.
“I mean, it’s still in business,” Phil said. “It’s a hangout for locals. We might be able to track down Zach’s old friends.”
CHAPTER 20
Sunday
“Nancie, we’ve got a problem,” Helen said.
“We’ve got a lot of problems,” the lawyer said. “What can’t wait till Monday morning?”
“Phil found an eighties photo of Zach Flax with three men, and we need Margery to identify them. If I visit her at the North Broward jail, I can’t take in the photo to show her.”
“You wouldn’t want to, either,” Nancie said. “Citizen jail visits are recorded. Attorney visits are not. I can have a face-to-face visit with her and bring in files and photos. You’ll go with me, but I’ll have to fax a request. I’ll try to speed it up.”
“Today?” Helen asked.
“Yes, as soon as you’re approved,” Nancie said.
They were lucky. Nancie called an hour later. “You’re good to go. I’ll swing by and pick you up. On the way there, you can tell me what else you found in Zach’s condo and that old box.”
The trip to the North Broward jail lasted just long enough for Helen to fill in Nancie on Zach’s clothes in two sizes, the stack of medical bills, the overdue bills and the rat poison under the sink.
“Interesting,” the lawyer said.
“Why?” Helen asked.
“Not sure yet.”
Maddening, Helen thought. The North Broward Bureau, the official name for the North Broward county jail, was run by the sheriff’s office. Inside, Helen whispered, “This is grim as an old prison movie.”
“Not if you’re an inmate,” Nancie said. “In the Broward jail system, this is nirvana.”
The guard checked their IDs, searched them and their things. The two women were shown to a small room and Margery was brought in.
Helen tried to hide her shock. She barely recognized her landlady. Margery’s steel-gray bob was oily and limp. She’d had wrinkles for as long as Helen had known her, but Margery’s skin was like elegant origami. Now her face and neck sagged in graceless folds.
Helen had never seen Margery in any color but purple. She looked jaundiced in her prison scrubs. Her nicotine-stained hands, deprived of their ever-present cigarette, moved restlessly.
She reached greedily for the yellowing photo, as if grateful for the distraction, and studied the picture.
“Yeah, I know those bums,” Margery said. “They were Zach’s shady buddies, one more worthless than the other. Zach was the leader of the pack.”
She absently slid a big metal paper clip off a legal document Nancie had left on the table and unbent it.
“We’re trying to track them down,” Helen said. “Maybe one had a motive to kill Zach or knew someone who did. We need anything you can tell us.”
“You’re talking thirty years ago,” Margery said. “I spent as little time as I could with those barflies.”
The paper clip was nearly straight.
“Try. Please? For me?” Helen said, like a mother coaxing a toddler to eat green peas.
Margery frowned at the photo and twiddled the paper clip. “Okay, the red-haired guy in the green tracksuit—the one who looks like the GEICO gecko—went to prison for dealing about the same time that Zach and I split. His name’s Mike . . . Mike Fernier. Yeah. That’s him.”
That’s one, Helen thought, and wrote down the name. “And the boring preppie in the black shirt and khakis?”
“He was anything but boring,” Margery said, twisting the paper clip into a reverse S. “You aren’t the first woman to underestimate him. Back when I knew him, he sold burial insurance. Made his living cheating widows and orphans. His name’s Xavier Dave Duncan. ‘My name is Xavier Dave, like Jesus Saves,’ he’d say, and give his smarmy grin. No idea what he’s doing now. Hope he’s roasting in hell.”
Two down. One to go. “What about the brown-haired guy with the red headband?” Helen asked.
“Dick. He’s dead, and good riddance,” Margery said, and bent the paper clip into a lopsided rectangle. “Shot in a drug bust in the late eighties. No big loss. He probably got Zach into the drug business.
“Look how much Zach has changed,” she said, shaking her head. “He used to be such a big, strapping man. When he turned up at my place again, I was surprised he was in such bad shape.”
“Bad shape? He was—what?—seventy-six?” Helen asked.
“Yep. Same age as me,” Margery said. “But I expected him to age better. He liked his beer, but he worked out and didn’t smoke like I did. Damn, I’d sell my soul for a cigarette. Can’t smoke in here. Not officially, anyway.”
Now the paper clip was twisted around itself.
“When Zach walked through my gate, I could tell he was sick.”
“I sure couldn’t,” Helen said.
“You’re too young,” Margery said. “All old people still look alike to you. I’ve lost the ability to tell a twenty-year-old from a thirty-year-old—they all look young. But I can tell a healthy seventy-six from a sick one.”
“You’re right,” Helen said. “We found bills in his condo for lots of different medical tests. The docs were looking for something, but we don’t know what. What made you think he was sick?”
“He was popping Tums like candy,” Margery said.
“Really? I never noticed,” Helen said.
Margery snorted, and for a moment seemed like her old self. “Well, I sure as hell did. He also reeked of garlic.”
“I never got close enough to tell,” Helen said. “Maybe he had Italian food.”
“He hated garlic,” Margery said. “Even you could see he’d lost weight. He tried to hide it, but his clothes were hanging off him.”
“I did notice the weight loss,” Helen said. “We found two separate sets of clothes, one fat and one thin, at his condo. I suspect he lost about twenty pounds.”
“More like thirty,” Margery said. “Old men get skinny, but they don’t lose that much weight unless something’s wrong.”
“At least he had his own hair,” Helen said.
“The hell he did,” Margery said. “That’s a hairpiece. A good one, but definitely not his hair.”
“He might,” Margery said slowly. “His father died of cancer. Thirty years ago, Zach had a real fear of going that way. But he always said he’d take himself out with pills and scotch. He wouldn’t slowly poison himself, especially not if he lost his hair. Zach was always proud of his hair. Men hate being bald, you know. Zach would take the easy way out. He always did.”
“He was also behind on his mortgage,” Nancie said, “heavily in debt, and facing possible legal action for those cat towers he made.”
“He told me they were moneymakers,” Margery said. “What was wrong with them?”
“A company accused him of being a copycat,” Helen said. “Pardon the pun.”
Margery rolled her eyes. “Figures,” she said.
“Phil thinks he killed himself,” Helen said. “I’m not so sure.”
“Then you better come up with a good suspect, Helen,” Nancie said. “Right now, suicide is our best defense. Now, how are you, Margery?”
“How do you think? I can’t smoke.” The paper clip was scrunched into a tangled ball.
“You said you can’t smoke officially,” Helen said. She was used to her landlady’s sly ways.
“You can get anything you want in prison,” Margery said. “I’ve scored some tobacco, but the price was high.”
“How high?” Helen asked.
“The jail has these things called Care Packs that family and friends can send. You buy them online through a Web site. I need you to send ten weeks of the thirty-dollar protein-pack Care Packs for this inmate here.” She handed Helen a scrap of paper. “This has her prisoner ID number, name and the Care Pack Web site. Don’t lose the ID number. That’s more important than her name.
“She gets one protein pack a week. You can’t order more, and it has to start right away.”
“You paid three hundred dollars for tobacco?” Helen asked.
“I’ve been smoking for sixty years and I had to go cold turkey,” Margery said. “I would have signed away the Coronado for a smoke.”