by Elaine Viets
“The millionaire movie star,” Margery said. “That’s what the TV anchors are calling Luke. Kiki’s death was a good career move. He hasn’t even made the movie yet, and he’s a star. I guess the rest are the usual ghouls who want to see the chief actors in the Blood and Roses Murder.”
“I wonder if Desiree will be here,” Helen said. Margery swung her car into a spot on the street behind the theater. “Is that her? The little woman creeping in the stage door?” Margery pointed to a hunched black figure.
“Yep,” Helen said. “She’s only twenty or so, poor thing. She looks like an old woman.”
But she moved like a young one. When a TV reporter approached her with a microphone, Desiree sprinted through the door at a speed that Jackie Joyner-Kersee would envy.
Helen and Margery elbowed their way through the crowd and found their seats. The Sunnysea Shakespeare Playhouse was the grand name for a small theater in an old supermarket three blocks from Sunnysea beach. The chairs were molded white plastic, the sets were amateurishly painted, and the props seemed to be from the actors’ homes. Helen’s heart sank. It was going to be a long night. Maybe they could sneak out after the first act.
Helen had an even greater desire to run when the actors filed onstage for the first scene. It was Shakespeare in modern dress. Richard and his men wore jackboots and trench coats with Nazi insignia. The women wore 1930s evening dresses.
“I didn’t realize they had Goodwill in the fifteenth century,” Margery said.
“Why do directors have to tinker with Shakespeare and make him modern?” Helen said.
The dark-haired woman sitting in front of them turned around and glared. Helen thought she looked like one of the actors in Richard’s entourage. Oops. Had she insulted someone’s son or husband? After that, Helen didn’t dare say what she thought about Richard himself. She looked for Desiree and didn’t see her in the audience.
Luke, as the clubfooted noble, wore a black trench coat and a modern walking cast to “show his crippled spirit,” the program notes said. In case the audience still didn’t get it, he carried a cane. The hollow thumping he made on the old wooden floor was distracting.
Soon Helen didn’t notice. Luke glowed onstage. From the first familiar words, “Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this sun of York . . .” Helen could not take her eyes off the man.
Luke had seemed so handsome in the bridal salon. Now he was twisted with hate and malice. When Luke said he was “cheated of feature by dissembling nature, deformed, unfinished . . .” he really did look ugly.
How did he do that? Only the best actors were not afraid to make themselves unattractive for a role. Luke might well be a major talent. Helen reveled in his words. His voice was rich, without the orotund phoniness that afflicted so many Shakespearean actors. Helen was completely under the spell of the future Richard III.
“He’s carrying his cane in the wrong hand,” Margery said.
“Who?” Helen was jerked back to reality.
“Richard,” Margery said.
“I hadn’t noticed.”
But now she did. It was no longer Richard III onstage, but Luke stumping around, saying that he was “so lamely and unfashionable that dogs bark at me.”
“Actors!” Margery snorted. “Look at that. They always get it wrong. Only one I know who gets it right is the crippled coroner on CSI.”
“Shush,” Helen said. The woman in the row ahead was glaring at them again. Helen could hear nearby theatergoers stirring restlessly in their seats.
“He’s supposed to carry the cane on the side of his good leg, not the bad one,” Margery said. “I see it wrong in plays and movies all the time. Even the major names do it. Makes me crazy.”
“You’re making me crazy,” Helen said to her. “I want to watch the play.”
“Quiet!” commanded the glaring woman. Even Margery shut up. Helen happily entered the world of make-believe murder, until the lights went up at intermission.
“That Luke is one hell of an actor,” Margery said, as they strolled to the lobby. “He’s got quite a future.”
“Now that his mother-in-law doesn’t.” Helen regretted her words as they slipped out. “What did you think of the other actors?” she said quickly. “Elizabeth, King Edward’s queen, seems quite good.”
Margery checked her program. “Name is Donna Sue Hawser. She’s better than good, but I’m guessing she’s on the shady side of forty. Donna Sue’s lost her chance for the big time. Must be hell, knowing she could have made it and didn’t. All she needed was a little luck.”
Must have been hell for Luke, knowing he was about to lose his main chance, Helen thought. But he was lucky. Conveniently lucky.
Helen was really glad she didn’t say those words. She felt a tug on her sleeve and jumped. Desiree appeared soundlessly at her side. The new bride was drowned in black. Her shapeless mourning clothes seemed to swallow her. Her eyes had dark rings under them.
Desiree grabbed Helen’s hand and pulled her away from Margery. “I must talk with you. After the show,” she said in a tense whisper. “Someplace where the people here won’t go.”
“There’s Lester’s Diner,” Helen said. “But I’m with a friend. She’s my ride. Can Margery come with us?”
“No, I want to talk to you about my mother’s death,” Desiree said. Her eyes had a frantic, feral look. “It’s important. Don’t worry. I’ll take you home. Meet me in the lobby after the show.” She vanished through the backstage curtains.
“What was that all about?” Margery said.
“Desiree wants to meet with me and talk about Kiki. She wants someplace where the theatergoers don’t usually go. I suggested Lester’s Diner.”
“You’re asking a woman worth thirty million dollars to go to Lester’s?” Margery said.
“It will be a new experience for her.”
“That’s for sure,” Margery said. “Well, I don’t mind. I like Lester’s pancakes.”
“She doesn’t want you there. She wants to talk to me alone. She insisted and I said yes. She might tell me something useful.”
“I don’t like this,” Margery said. “Let me follow you. I won’t even come in. I’ll sit in the parking lot. I can keep an eye on you through Lester’s plateglass windows.”
“No! Desiree will see your car and get suspicious.” Margery drove a white Cadillac the size of a sunporch. It was hard to miss. “She’ll bring me home. She’s not going to hurt me, Margery. She knows I’m telling you where we’re going. Her request is a little weird, but she’s perfectly safe.”
“Helen, that woman scares me,” Margery said.
“She scares me, too. But she might know who killed her mother.”
“Probably just has to look in the mirror,” Margery said.
“Do you really believe that?” Helen said.
“I believe she is one sick chick. I don’t like this,” Margery said. “If you’re not home by midnight, I’m calling the police.”
“Good,” Helen said. “That’s exactly what I want.”
Chapter 16
Everything about Lester’s Diner was huge: the gray booths piped in red, the plateglass windows, even the coffee cups. They held fourteen ounces of java and looked like soup bowls with handles.
The china was thicker than an alderman’s head. Helen loved the diner’s shiny metal and neon. It was bright, noisy, and reassuring.
Helen needed its cheerful comfort after the trip there. They drove through stop-and-go tourist traffic. The conversation was also stop-and-go: strained chatter punctuated by awkward silences. Desiree drove a black BMW, a modest car by her mother’s standards. Luke sat in front, drained by his performance.
Helen tried to praise Luke’s acting, but he cut her off in midcompliment. “I was okay,” he said. “I don’t think that audience cared much about Shakespeare.”
“You were better than okay,” Helen said. “You were the real thing. It was a privilege to watch you.”
Luke shrugged. He seemed to need her praise and despise it at the same time. “The rest of the cast was first-rate,” Helen said. “Especially the woman who played Edward’s queen.”
“Oh, you mean Donna Sue,” Desiree said. “She works for my father. She’s a secretary.” Dismissed.
Helen filed that information away. She now had an in at Brendan’s law firm. After that, all three gave up trying to say anything.
Helen wondered why the heiress wanted to talk to her. She’d never known a rich woman who cared what a poor one thought.
Helen was grateful when they finally pulled into Lester’s lot. Heads turned when Luke walked into the diner. The man had star power. No one noticed his tiny, chinless bride.
Luke seemed attentive to Desiree, but Helen couldn’t tell if it was true love or a good act. His new bride clung to Luke. When his cell phone rang, which was every three minutes, he had to pry her fingers off his arm to check the number.
“Is this place real?” Desiree asked Helen.
“What do you mean?”
“Is it one of those new diners made to look old?”
“No, Lester’s has been around since 1967.”
“It’s a hoot,” Desiree said.
The hostess showed them to a booth the size of a motel room. Their waitress called them honey, poured coffee, and took their orders. Luke drank his coffee black. He asked for a salad with lemon juice and a hamburger with no bun—the diet of an actor facing the camera.
Desiree wanted a three-egg omelet, pancakes, extra-crisp bacon, and a side of sausage. She added enough cream to turn her coffee beige, then three packets of sugar.
“I wanted to thank you for your help when—” Desiree stopped and took a deep breath. “When my mother was found. I don’t think I’ll ever get over it.”
Luke patted her hand on cue.
“I’m sorry,” Helen said.
“I didn’t get to tell Mother good-bye,” Desiree said. “We didn’t part on good terms. I’m learning to forgive her and bury my resentment.”
Helen flashed on Kiki’s rose-covered coffin. You buried something, she thought. But it was a knife in your mother’s back.
The waitress arrived with platters of food, most of them for Desiree. Helen caught Luke staring longingly at the crispy bacon. He didn’t look at his wife with the same hunger. Desiree poured an astonishing amount of syrup on her pancakes. The woman craved sweetness.
Helen pushed her single egg around on her plate, too nervous to eat.
“An actor friend used to work at that bookstore with you,” Luke said. “He said you solved a murder.”
“He was wrong,” Helen said. “I didn’t do anything.” She didn’t want any connection with that mess.
“We need your help.” Luke batted those long lashes and handed her a card with the couple’s phone number on it. “The police aren’t doing enough about Desiree’s mother. We thought you might know something.”
Helen knew he wouldn’t pay her for that knowledge. Luke was a user.
“You’re probably closer to the investigation than I am,” Helen said. “Who do you think killed Mrs. Shenrad?”
“Well, I don’t want to say anything bad about another actor, but Jason’s behavior at the funeral was unacceptable.”
“He was disgusting,” Desiree burst out. “He cornered me at the funeral and said it was Mother’s last wish that I give him twenty thousand dollars. Can you believe that?” Helen knew the bride was upset. She’d quit eating.
“I can believe anything about Jason,” Helen said. “Did you tell the police?”
“No, it was too embarrassing.”
Embarrassing? Why would that be embarrassing? Unless lover boy’s request was blackmail. Maybe Jason had photos of the naked philanthropist getting a big contribution.
Would Jason blackmail Desiree at her mother’s funeral? Well, the guy would have sex in a church.
Luke’s phone rang again. He checked the number and said, “Excuse me. My agent in California. I have to take this one.” He headed outside. Desiree went back to her abandoned plate. Her bacon crunched like bones.
This was Helen’s chance to get some information from Desiree. “It must be exciting to have your husband in a major movie,” Helen said. “I don’t know why your mother objected in the first place.”
“I think my marriage made Mother feel old and frightened. She tried to get control any way she could.”
Helen wondered if that soothing theory came from a shrink.
“It’s so terribly sad that our last day together was that dreadful wedding rehearsal.” Desiree paused at this solemn thought, then attacked her bacon again. “I was humiliated by Mother’s behavior. How would you like that to be your last memory of your mother?”
Helen had enough trouble thinking about her mother and Lawn Boy Larry. She wondered if he wore that flat cap to bed.
“You’re not your mother,” Helen said. “You’re not responsible for her behavior.”
Desiree dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. Was the bride so beaten down she needed a shop clerk’s good opinion? Or was she an actor, too? Helen studied the dark circles under Desiree’s eyes. The left one was slightly smeared. Desiree had enhanced her grief with makeup.
Luke was still pacing the parking lot and talking on the phone.
“Desiree, do you really think Jason killed your mother?”
“I don’t know.” Desiree shifted uneasily and looked around for her husband. She was lying, Helen thought.
“Is there anyone else you think might be the murderer?”
“Yes,” Desiree’s eyes turned flat and mean. “Millicent.”
“My boss? You think Millicent is a murderer?” Helen started to laugh, then saw Desiree was serious.
Helen waited while Desiree slit three sausages. “Millicent placed that awful ad. I know she did. It was revenge. She was furious when Mother forgot her checkbook. Millicent stormed over to the rehearsal dinner.”
Hmm. Her boss didn’t mention that.
“She threatened Mother at the restaurant. She lured her outside, away from the other guests. I saw her.”
Oh, boy. No wonder the police questioned Millicent. “Threatened her how?” Helen asked.
“Millicent said if she didn’t get the check by Saturday morning, she’d rip those dresses off my bridesmaids’ backs.”
“That doesn’t sound like much of a threat,” Helen said.
“Then she said, ‘After all I did for you, Kiki Shenrad, you are the biggest ingrate in Broward County. I could strangle you with my bare hands.’ ”
“People say things like that all the time,” Helen said.
“But the people they threaten don’t turn up dead. Mother said she’d bring the check the morning of the wedding. Then Mother told Millicent to leave the premises immediately or she’d call the police. She left after that.”
She’d have to, Helen thought. A police report of an altercation with a prominent customer over money would ruin Millicent.
“I could see where she might be angry. But why would Millicent kill the woman who writes the checks?”
“Mother always paid, but she was in no hurry,” Desiree said. “She delayed as long as she could. People with means do that. It would be faster and easier for Millicent to collect the money from Mother’s estate. But I’m going to make sure she has a very hard time. And you can tell her that.”
Desiree pushed her empty plate aside and looked out the window. “It’s Luke. He’s waving to me. He wants me to come outside. He must have good news. I’ll meet you at the car.”
“But—” Helen said.
Desiree threw down her napkin and ran out. She wrapped herself around Luke’s waist while he talked on the phone.
Helen paid their bill.
If Luke’s call was good news, he didn’t share it with Helen. Nor did the couple thank her for picking up their dinner tab. Helen guessed she should be grateful they gave her a ride home.
As she sat in silen
ce in the Beemer, Desiree’s accusation worked its way through Helen like a slow poison. Little distrustful memories stabbed at her: Why didn’t Millicent say that Kiki would give her a big check at the wedding? She could have left a message at Margery’s.
Because she knew Kiki was dead, an ugly little voice whispered.
Helen could see an enraged Millicent following Kiki to the church, waiting till Jason left, then fighting over money and smothering Kiki with the dress she wouldn’t pay for.
Unless Jason killed her.
Or maybe it was Desiree, the little bride with the big fake bags under her eyes. Desiree had to paint on her grief. Her husband Luke was some actor—but so was his wife.
“I turn left off Las Olas?” Desiree said.
“Then right,” Helen said. “It’s that big white building.”
The Beemer pulled in front of the Coronado. Helen wished that Desiree did not know where she lived.
As she walked to her apartment, Helen saw a shadow figure on Phil’s closed blinds. The woman swayed, swung her long hair, and sang, “You can’t divorce my heart. It’s the part that will always love you.”
Kendra.
Was she rehearsing—or giving Phil a private performance?
Helen slammed the door to her apartment, but she couldn’t shut out Kendra’s song. All thoughts of murder—Kiki’s murder, anyway—vanished. She was tormented by jealousy, loss, and love.
It’s your fault, she told herself. You drove Phil away.
Why didn’t he tell me about her? Helen’s heart cried. She paced restlessly as the rooms grew smaller. Tonight her cozy apartment seemed claustrophobic. She couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t sit out by the pool. She might run into Margery and Warren, or Peggy and her policeman. Everyone had a lover but her. Even Kendra. Especially Kendra.
Helen couldn’t stand being shut up with her thoughts. Although it was midnight, she found herself walking—no, stomping—through the dark streets. Helen knew it was foolish to wander alone in the poorly lit lanes. But she couldn’t bear the laughing couples and bright lights of Las Olas. She was too angry, and though she wouldn’t admit it, too wounded.