The Dead-End Job Mysteries Box Set 2

by Elaine Viets

  “It’s sitting right outside,” he said.

  “Oh. Right,” Helen said. “Thanks. I don’t know why you’re helping me after all the trouble I caused.”

  “Because Ms. Deener’s not acting like an innocent woman. You accuse her of murder in front of witnesses. She threatens to sue, which makes sense. But then she refuses to talk to anyone and wants a lawyer.”

  “That is her right,” Helen said.

  “Maybe so, but it’s not how an innocent person acts,” the deputy said. “Now she’s got me curious.”

  “Mort’s house is at Forty-two Peerless Point. Big white house with all the arches.”

  “I know it. Wrought-iron gate, buncha statues and red bougainvillea. Good. That stretch is where most of the cameras are. I’ll see if her car was anywhere near his house around six Sunday night.”

  “Could be she was visiting him,” Helen said.

  “After he lost all her money and she made a scene at his office, she stops by for a friendly Sunday-night chat? I don’t think so. If her car was nowhere near his house, I’ll forget about it, and you, lady, are in big trouble.”

  Helen’s cell phone buzzed. “May I get that?” she asked.

  He nodded. It was Phil. “No luck on the print,” he told Helen. “It was too smudged. We’ll have to get her prints.”

  “Working on that now,” Helen said. “I’ll fill you in as soon as I have something.”

  The police were letting the Pet Day presenters leave, except for Helen and Lexie Deener. Helen tried to help pack up the cats, but Dee turned on her. “Get away from here,” she hissed. “You’re fired. Without references. And I’m docking you a day’s pay.” She stalked away.

  Jan came over to say good-bye. “Thank you,” she said. “You gave me a terrible shock, but now that I’m calmer, I understand why you did it. I hope you get Lexie. Are you coming to Mort’s funeral Thursday?”

  “I’ll try,” Helen said. “What about your job?”

  “Let Dee fire me,” Jan said. “I’m going.”

  “I enjoyed working with you,” Helen said. “I wish I could tell the cats good-bye.”

  “I’ll give them extra scratches,” Jan said. “They’re all too used to people leaving suddenly.”

  Dr. Bob, the veterinarian, saw her hauling the carriers and offered to help. Jan smiled at him, and he took Chessie’s show cage and curtains. They made a handsome couple, the black-haired, blue-eyed Jan and the boyish vet. Maybe it was his profession, but Helen thought he followed her with puppylike devotion.

  Helen paced the cafeteria, keeping far away from Lexie, glowering in her corner. The leopard-spotted insets on her suit rippled, and Helen thought the show judge’s blood-tipped nails twitched whenever she looked Helen’s way. She could almost feel the waves of hate rolling off Lexie.

  “Helen!” Valerie breezed in, hair perfect, smile glowing, trailed by the tubby, grumpy photographer. “I had no idea Pet Appreciation Day would be so exciting. I have to head back to the station now, but I can’t thank you enough.”

  Helen saw a tow truck pulling into the lot and Deputy Maddow loping into the cafeteria. “You might want to watch Lexie Deener,” Helen said.

  The deputy showed Lexie a warrant and said, “Ms. Deener, your car was photographed in the vicinity of Mortimer Barrymore’s Peerless Point home between five forty-seven and six-oh-six the night he was murdered. I have a warrant to examine your car, and I’m going to take you into custody for questioning. You have the right to remain silent . . .”

  “No!” Lexie screamed, as if she’d been knifed through the heart. “No, you can’t.”

  “The hell I can’t,” the deputy said.

  “You can’t tow my beautiful car with a hook-and-chain truck. You’ll damage the paint. You’ll ruin the transmission! You have to use a flatbed truck. Don’t hurt my beautiful Blackie!”

  Deputy Maddow finished cautioning Lexie Deener, but it took four deputies to take her into custody. She fought like a wildcat.

  CHAPTER 25

  Monday

  If Lexie Deener was distraught when the sheriff’s office towed her car, she would have screamed bloody murder at what happened next.

  The classic black ’86 Jaguar was sprayed with luminol inside and out. The lab found bloody handprints on the driver’s door, inside and out, and the red leather center console. A partial footprint smeared the carpet.

  When the technicians photographed and then dismantled the door, they chipped Blackie’s seven coats of black paint and clear lacquer and scratched the red hand-painted pinstripe. The pristine Connolly Leather panel was scarred when they processed the print on it. The hinges on the red leather center console were damaged when the compartment door was removed. The original Wilton wool carpet was cruelly sliced with a scalpel. The BSO needed the best evidence available.

  The footprint was inconclusive, but the handprints matched Lexie’s. The blood was A negative, Mort’s type. It occurs in about seven percent of the population.

  Lexie Deener was arrested for the murder of Mortimer Barrymore. She still refused to talk without a lawyer.

  Deputy Maddow told Helen that DNA tests were ordered. That’s when Nancie Hays stepped in.

  She didn’t threaten. She didn’t need to. Nancie’s fierce reputation was threat enough. She simply said that an innocent woman was still in jail and she needed to be freed as soon as possible. Her client’s husband was being buried Thursday morning, and Mrs. Barrymore had to attend his funeral for her health and mental well-being.

  Repeated calls by reporter Valerie Cannata asking for a statement about Lexie Deener’s arrest also probably helped speed the process.

  DNA tests normally take three to four weeks because of the huge case backlog. But a DNA test for a murder—especially a high-profile killing that had attracted an insistent lawyer and an investigative reporter—got a rush order.

  Back at the Coronado, Helen paced restlessly, waiting to hear the test results. If that wasn’t Mort’s blood in Lexie’s car, she’d be sued sideways. True, A negative was fairly rare. And while only seven percent had it, that was still a staggering number—more than sixty-two thousand men in Broward County alone.

  “Go take a shower,” Phil told her. “Your pacing is driving me crazy, and you’ve got cat hair on your clothes.”

  Helen showered and washed and dried her long brown hair, but the dryer failed to blow away her worries. Phil poured her a glass of wine, but she left it untouched. At four o’clock, Valerie called and said, “Helen, I can’t thank you enough. You’re the lead story on the five-o’clock news.”

  “So, it’s confirmed Lexie Deener killed Mort?” Helen asked hopefully.

  “Not quite, but I have enough for a story,” Valerie said.

  Helen nearly wore a groove in the terrazzo floor, waiting for the news at five. At four fifty, Phil popped his delicious, made-from-scratch popcorn, then forced her to sit on his black leather couch. He handed her the wineglass and said, “Drink.” He didn’t have to tell her to eat the popcorn. She absently munched handfuls until the news came on.

  When Valerie was on the trail of a hot story, she practically sizzled onscreen. She’d freshened her makeup and changed into an eye-catching lilac sheath for this story.

  Her story began with video of Lexie lecturing the Hasher School children. “Lexie Deener, a senior supervisor for a North Carolina medical equipment company and a Gold Cup Cat Fanciers’ Association show judge,” Valerie said, “was accused of murdering Peerless Point financier Mortimer Barrymore today by a partner in Coronado Investigations, the successful South Florida private-eye firm.”

  Helen groaned and took a gulp of wine while she watched herself on video calling Lexie a killer.

  “The incident occurred at the Hasher School Pet Appreciation Day. Mr. Barrymore’s estranged wife, socialite Trish Barrymore, has been charged with murdering her husband by the Peerless Point police.

  “Ms. Deener denied the allegations made by private investigato
r Helen Hawthorne, then refused to talk to anyone, including the police and this reporter.”

  More video of Lexie frowning and shaking her head.

  “BSO Deputy Webster Maddow checked the Peerless Point camera system and confirmed that a car fitting the description of Ms. Deener’s”—the camera panned the glossy black Jaguar—“was videoed in the vicinity of Mr. Barrymore’s home at the time police say he was bludgeoned to death.

  “Deputy Maddow obtained a warrant to tow Ms. Deener’s car to the lab.” The dramatic video of Lexie screaming that her car had to be towed on a flatbed truck followed.

  “As you can see, Ms. Deener was cautioned and taken into custody,” Valerie said. “Neither Deputy Maddow nor the BSO would comment further on the case, but two sources have confirmed that bloody handprints were found in Ms. Deener’s vintage Jaguar. The prints match Ms. Deener’s, and the blood type matches Mr. Barrymore’s.

  “Channel Seventy-seven is the only station with this story, and we will continue to keep you updated as it develops.”

  A commercial for laundry soap followed. Helen realized she was sitting with her mouth open, holding a handful of popcorn.

  Phil was all smiles. “Valerie played the story straight, but still gave the impression that Lexie is guilty,” he said. “Nice plug for our business, too.”

  “I just hope we have a business,” Helen said. “We’re dead if that’s not Mort’s blood.”

  “Of course it’s Mort’s,” Phil said. “Who else would it belong to? You worry too much.”

  And you don’t worry enough, Helen wanted to say.

  She glanced at her watch. “It’s five thirty,” she said. “Aren’t you supposed to go to the Fisherman’s Tale tonight and meet Zach’s dodgy friend, Xavier Dave?”

  “You’re right, darlin’,” Phil said in his annoying fake-redneck drawl. “Got me a new T-shirt at a thrift shop for my disguise, too.”

  Five minutes later, he was wearing his ball cap with the built-in mullet, seat-sprung pants, and a stretched-out T-shirt sporting a Lab holding a six-pack and this legend: REDNECK RETRIEVER—CUZ I’M FIXIN TO HAVE ME A COLD ONE.

  “How much did you pay for that shirt?” Helen asked.

  “Twenty-five whole cents,” he said.

  “You wuz robbed,” she said, grinning and gathering her keys and her purse.

  “Whoa, whoa, where are you going?” he asked.

  “To the Fisherman’s Tale, so I can eavesdrop. I’ll meet you there.”

  “But that’s no place for a woman alone. Sleazy guys will try to pick you up,” Phil said.

  “That’s their problem,” Helen said. “I’m in no mood to play wifey and wait for you at home.”

  She unlocked her car, waved good-bye and drove to the Fisherman’s Tale.

  Phil was already seated at the bar when Helen entered. She was slapped in the face by Pine-Sol and stale air. The same lowlifes seemed to be at the bar, except this time the lone woman had carrot-red hair and no front teeth.

  Helen’s skin crawled when she felt the bar-goers eyeing her. She swung by the bar to buy a beer, and saw Phil slide two twenties across the water-ringed surface, way too much for a beer in this joint.

  “That’s him at the table behind you,” the bartender said. Phil slapped down another twenty and said, “Gimme a couple bags of peanuts, two packs of beef jerky and a beer for my friend at that table.”

  He took both beers and the snacks and invited himself to sit down. Helen ignored the bartender’s ham-fisted efforts at flirting and sat at the sticky table behind Phil, where she could listen.

  If Xavier Dave was a car salesman, he wasn’t a successful one. He wore the only sports jacket in the bar, navy with shiny elbows. His shirt was dingy white, and the cuffs of his khakis were frayed. His red tie hung limp around his neck, as if it had surrendered.

  Helen looked up and saw a scrawny man with a Guns N’ Roses T-shirt and stringy hair that could be called dirty blond for its color and condition. “Why’s a pretty little thing like you all alone?” he asked.

  “Because I like it that way,” Helen snarled, and he backed away.

  “Okay, okay,” he said. “If I wanted to be yelled at, I’d be home with my old lady.”

  Phil and his offerings of beer and snacks had sparked a conversation with Xavier Dave. Helen tuned in.

  “You can call me XD,” he said.

  “You had it right, Phil. Ol’ Zach really did a number on poor Mike.”

  Mike, Helen thought. That would be Mike Fernier, the skinny red-haired guy who went to prison for dealing years ago.

  “Zach owed Mike twenty grand, and when the feds started nosing around, Zach disappeared with the money. Now Mike’s out of jail and wants his money. He coulda rolled on Zach, like you said, but he didn’t. Mike asked him nicely for the money. Said Zach could pay him back in installments.

  “Zach taunted him, telling him, ‘I ain’t got it. So sue me.’ Mike needs that money. The only job he can get is with a lawn service, and it’s hot, sweaty work, killing weeds and cutting grass. Cuttin’ grass. How do you like that? Some friend Zach was.”

  “Mike deserves to get his money back,” Phil said, nodding sympathetically.

  “Damn right he does,” XD said.

  “Like I said, I’m working for Zach’s estate,” Phil said.

  Technically true, Helen thought. Margery did inherit Zach’s condo and life insurance.

  “I might be able to help out you and your friend,” Phil said.

  “You think?” XD said.

  He sounded absurdly hopeful. Nobody’s as gullible as a con artist, Helen thought.

  “Do you think Mike was mad enough to poison Zach?” Phil asked. “Not that I care. I never knew the man personally, but he didn’t seem to be any great loss.”

  “That twenty thou would have made Mike’s life much easier,” XD said. “I was here when he asked Zach for it. He was real polite about it, but Zach refused to give him a nickel. Next time Mike came in and talked to Zach, trying to reason with him, they ended up fighting. Mike swung at Zach and they broke a chair, and Mike got himself eighty-sixed.

  “Now Mike’s barred from this place permanently. It ain’t fair. But I think Mike would hesitate before killing someone. He’s afraid of going back to jail again.

  “You ask me, Zach did himself in. He started losing his health about six or eight months ago and felt life wasn’t worth living. I’m not surprised Zach committed suicide.”

  Another one for the suicide theory, Helen thought.

  “Maybe. But rat poison is a nasty way to go,” Phil said.

  “He was tired of doctors running tests on him,” Mike said. “Kept saying they didn’t find anything, but Zach always felt kind of unwell.”

  “What was wrong?” Phil asked. “Can I get you another beer?”

  “You sure can, and more of that beef jerky.”

  Helen waited for Phil to return, mentally circling her table with barbed wire to keep the barflies away. They were still watching her, and she was uneasy.

  Phil was back with two cold ones and another round of snacks. “You were telling me Zach hadn’t been feeling well for six months or so.”

  “Yeah. He had a rash he couldn’t get rid of on his stomach and numb, tingly fingers—which didn’t help in his line of work. He lost all his hair. You’d never guess it, he had such a good wig, but he hated being bald, and he had the trots all the time. It was wearing him down.

  “He told me he was ready to end it all. He didn’t like guns, so I don’t think he’d shoot himself. I could see him pouring rat poison in his beer, though.

  “Zach felt even lower because he tried to hook up with his ex-wife, Margery, and she wouldn’t give him the time of day. He actually got on his knees and begged her, and she kicked him in the nuts. She’s a real piece of work.

  “When Margery told him to get lost, he just gave up. You might think it’s silly for someone our age to die of love, but that’s what finished him. You ask m
e, Margery killed Zach.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Monday/Tuesday

  Zach didn’t commit suicide. Helen knew it. Phil’s conversation with XD convinced her she was right: A man as vain as Zach wouldn’t deliberately lose his hair. Someone poisoned him.

  She was so excited by this insight, she could hardly wait to get back to the Coronado. She muttered and growled at the traffic on her way home from the Fisherman’s Tale. Each red light, every snarled intersection kept her from looking up the symptoms for arsenic poisoning on her computer.

  At home in Phil’s apartment, she breezed past her husband on her way to the computer. “Good work at the bar,” she said, kissing him lightly. “Inspiring, too. I’m checking a theory.”

  “What theory?” Phil asked.

  “Let me get the facts first,” she said.

  She got the information—almost too much. She read it and then read it again. It confirmed her suspicions.

  “Phil, Margery couldn’t have poisoned Zach with weed killer,” she said. “Listen to the symptoms if he’d swallowed a big slug of arsenic-based weed killer: He’d have had nausea, vomiting, massive diarrhea and more, ending in heart failure.

  “I don’t see anything about instant hair loss, and we know he wore a wig. Margery saw him popping Tums, so he must have had nausea, but the other symptoms sound so severe he couldn’t have walked into Beachie’s restaurant.”

  “He barely walked out, remember?” Phil said. “He had to be helped out.”

  “Okay, he was sick,” Helen said. “Definitely. But what he had sounds more like a low-dose poisoning over a long time. That’s where he’d get the rash on his gut, the hair loss, numb fingers and generally lousy feeling.”

  “So, you’re saying the cops, his doctors and the medical examiner made a mistake?” Phil asked. Thumbs jumped into his lap, and he idly scratched the cat’s ears.

  “Highly likely,” Helen said. “The detective saw Margery using weed killer, knew she inherited Zach’s estate and hated his guts. He jumped to the conclusion that she killed her ex.”