Final Sail dejm-11

by Elaine Viets

  Helen felt her stomach drop. Please, she thought, let me be wrong.

  The captain greeted Helen and Phil, then sat in the yellow client chair. They took their black leather-and-chrome chairs opposite him. Josiah hesitated, then said, “You were right, Helen. Louise is dead.”

  Helen reared back as if she’d been slapped. “No!” she said. She knew it was true, but she didn’t want it to be.

  “Some Bahamian fishermen found her body yesterday,” he said. “She was wearing her uniform, including her Belted Earl polo shirt. The Bahamian authorities made a tentative identification and Louise’s dental records confirmed it.

  “I’d been expecting bad news since I got back from immigration yesterday. Her boyfriend, Warren, was waiting for her at the marina. He asked me where she was and I knew then that she’d never made it home. I checked with the dockmaster at the Miami Beach Marina. They didn’t have a fishing charter called Aces High. The Bahamian officials confirmed they could not locate the charter.”

  “Mira killed her,” Helen whispered.

  “That’s my guess,” Josiah said.

  “But there’s no way to prove it,” she said. “At least Mira will go to prison for smuggling.”

  “There may still be a way to convict her for murder, too,” Josiah said. “A barrette with blond hair in it was found in Louise’s back pocket.”

  “Then they may have the killer’s DNA,” Phil said.

  “It’s being tested now,” the captain said.

  Helen grabbed the arms of her chair as if she needed to hold something solid. “Poor Louise,” she said. “I’d hoped she’d gone over the side unconscious. But she died alone in those wild waves, without any hope of rescue.”

  “She was determined to get her killer,” the captain said. “She spent her last few moments buttoning her killer’s hair and barrette into her pocket.”

  I hope they were only a few moments, Helen thought. In her mind, she heard the howling wind and felt the water slam the ship.

  “Do you know what the chances were of her body being found?” Josiah asked.

  That’s when Helen started crying. I won’t indulge in dramatics, she told herself. I knew her less than a day. But Louise complained about her job and I felt the same way, too. She was only twenty-three. Tears are unprofessional. They won’t help her.

  The harder Helen tried not to cry, the more she wept. Phil handed her his handkerchief and squeezed her hand. Helen mopped her eyes. Finally, her tears stopped.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Don’t apologize,” Josiah said. “You should cry for her. Louise was a brave woman who died a terrible death. Now she deserves justice.”

  “I may be able to help,” Helen said. “Was that barrette two-toned silver and about four inches long?”

  “Yes. How did you know?” the captain said.

  “Because Mira wore one and I admired it. She told me she bought it online at Head Games. The brand is Ficcare and the barrette costs about forty bucks.”

  Josiah pulled out a small notebook and wrote down the details. “Good,” he said. “If she bought it online, there should be a credit card record. That will help the investigators. This is all my fault. I should have known.”

  “You should have known what?” Helen said. “That Mira was a killer? We had a nice girlie talk about hair. She helped me with the laundry and bawled me out for putting a wet bucket on a marble floor. I didn’t have a clue she was a smuggler, much less a murderer.”

  “But still—” Josiah began.

  “What?” Phil asked. “You didn’t read Mira’s mind? You think killers are easy to spot, Captain? The police don’t. People get away with murder because they don’t look like killers.”

  Josiah refused to take that excuse. “If I’d listened to Helen—”

  “You still couldn’t have saved Louise,” Helen said. “Unless you saw her fall overboard, she didn’t have a chance.”

  “But I could have prepared her father,” Josiah said. “Louise is his only daughter. He’s a widower and lives in Kansas City, Missouri. He didn’t want her to work on the yacht, but she wanted adventure before she settled down. I had to break the news to him, then ask for her dental records. I’ve never heard a man cry like that before, and I hope I never do again. It was like I ripped out his heart.”

  “You did,” Phil said. “And he’ll never get over it.”

  The captain seemed to find comfort in Phil’s blunt statement. He sat back in his chair and looked a little less tense.

  “There is no way to tell a family their child is murdered,” Phil said. “My first case was a young girl who ran off to South Beach and became a coke whore. I had to tell her father his daughter had OD’d. You don’t get over it, ever. But you do learn to live with it.

  “You didn’t kill Louise. She’s dead because Mira killed her.”

  “Is Mira going to be prosecuted in the Bahamas?” Helen asked.

  “She’s already in custody here for smuggling,” the captain said. “The crime took place on a ship registered in the United States and was probably committed somewhere between Florida and the Bahamas. It will be treated as a U.S. crime.”

  “When is the funeral?” Helen asked.

  “It will be in Kansas City as soon as her body is sent home,” the captain said. “Her father made it clear he wants nothing to do with Fort Lauderdale. We’ll hold a memorial service for her later.”

  He sighed, stood up and said, “Thank you, Helen, for catching Mira. At least she’s no longer on my ship. I want my bill. Here’s your stewardess pay.”

  Josiah didn’t bother looking over Coronado Investigations’ carefully itemized bill. He simply wrote a check for the full amount. Helen didn’t charge him for the broken china cup. She figured she did more damage. She’d also dyed the crew polos pink.

  Josiah shook hands with Helen and Phil. They stood at the door and watched his bowed back as he left the Coronado.

  “I wonder how long he’s going to carry that weight,” Helen asked.

  “A long time,” Phil said. “He’s a good man.”

  He glanced at the clock on their office wall. “It’s eight oh three. Time to change into my Cabana Boy suit and work for Blossom.”

  Helen and Phil walked hand in hand across the Coronado courtyard on a cool April morning. They waved at Margery, who was skimming dead leaves out of the pool with a long-handled net.

  “You’re a great detective,” Helen said. “Solve this mystery for me, Phil: How did Margery know we went to the taco truck last night?”

  “Because we talked about it on the way to the Jeep,” Phil said.

  “Oh,” Helen said. “That was no big deal.”

  “Once I told you, the mystery is gone,” Phil said.

  Thumbs greeted Helen at the door. “So I’m forgiven, am I?” she said. “Took you long enough.” The cat flopped down on the floor and she scratched his thick fur.

  While Phil dressed, Helen brewed more coffee. She took a cup into the bedroom and asked, “What will you do if you find one of the poisons at Blossom’s?”

  “Call you. That triggers the next phase of the investigation,” he said.

  “You can’t call me from Blossom’s house,” Helen asked. “You’re not supposed to know Arthur’s minister. What if someone overhears you? You don’t trust cell phones.”

  “I’ll call you on my cell phone and pretend to order a new pool filter cartridge,” Phil said. “Then you can meet me at the post office on Las Olas.”

  “The cute one with the blue awning?” she asked.

  “That’s the one. The whole neighborhood goes there. I can return a broken air conditioner part.”

  “I’ll be home all day,” Helen said, “catching up on my sleep and waiting for your call.”

  “There’s no guarantee I’ll find any poison today,” Phil said. “I still have dozens of rooms to search.”

  “I have confidence in you,” she said, and kissed him good-bye.

  I
t felt good to be in her own bed. Thumbs curled up next to Helen and they both fell asleep. She had no idea where she was when she answered her ringing cell phone.

  “This is Phil Sagemont,” he said, his voice impersonal. “Do you carry Intex type B pool filter cartridges?”

  “Huh?” Helen said, still foggy with sleep.

  “This is Phil,” he said, emphasizing his name. “Mrs. Zerling’s estate manager. Do you have Intex B pool filter cartridges?”

  Now Helen was awake enough to remember his code. “I’m supposed to meet you at the post office, right?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Phil said. “I prefer the post office, not FedEx.”

  “See you there in twenty minutes,” Helen said.

  When she ran into the little post office, Phil was at the counter, mailing a flat-rate box. He turned and said, “Helen! Good to see you.”

  “It’s been too long,” she said. “Tell me what’s happening.”

  “Got time for a short stroll?” he asked.

  The post office was in Helen’s favorite section of Las Olas, the part she thought had personality. Helen and Phil strolled past the old Floridian diner, where locals and tourists ate huge lunches. At an outside table, a brown pup sat at his owner’s feet, accepting pats and praise.

  “I know how Blossom killed her boyfriend,” Phil said. “I found the poison under the kitchen sink: a jug of water with ten cigarettes in it.”

  “Why is that poison?” Helen asked.

  “I think she made nicotine tea. Just add hot water to cigarettes and it creates a lethal brew. Seven drops are enough to kill a man.”

  “Does Blossom smoke?” Helen asked.

  “No, but she can buy cigarettes. She left a four-ounce bottle of Angostura bitters on the kitchen sink. I unscrewed the cap and sniffed it. There was a definite tobacco odor. The bottle looks like the one I thought held hot sauce.”

  “So you think she put nicotine tea in Zack’s salsa?”

  “It would be easy,” Phil said, “especially by the third or fourth beer.”

  “Why would she keep it in the kitchen?” Helen asked.

  “She fired the housekeeper,” Phil said, “and she has her meals delivered. No one else uses the kitchen. I have an idea how we can trap her, but I’ll need your spiritual guidance, Reverend Hawthorne.”

  “At your service,” Helen said.

  “It’s two o’clock. I want you to make a condolence call to the new widow about four this afternoon. That’s when she has a perfect manhattan. She told me to go buy more Angostura bitters. She’s been after me to make her a drink. So far, all I’ve made are excuses.

  “When you’re there, she’ll suggest we have drinks. You ask for your usual white wine. I’ll start making her a manhattan and tell her I didn’t have to buy the bitters—I found a nearly full bottle on the kitchen sink.

  “Then we’ll see how she reacts when I pick up that little bottle of nicotine tea and pour it in her drink. Reverend Hawthorne will be there as a witness. I’ve tipped our friend Detective Mac Dorsey that we may have more information about that food poisoning case.”

  “Both of us working on the side of the angels,” Helen said.

  CHAPTER 36

  Lightning flashes of panic streaked through Helen as she turned into Blossom’s driveway. She and Phil were playing with fire. Worse—with a clever killer who used silent poisons. One misstep and Helen would be a widow.

  This time, she had no trouble finding the Zerling mansion. Helen recognized the surreal sprawl of pink stucco towering over the tall ficus hedge. She parked the Igloo, gathered her courage and smoothed her prim gray suit. She was the Reverend Helen Hawthorne on a pastoral visit, pattering across the pink pavers in her sensible heels.

  The valet and the black wreath from Arthur’s funeral reception were gone. Today, Blossom answered the massive arched door.

  Helen had to force herself not to react to the new widow’s outfit. Her lacy black top clung like a cobweb and her red silk pants were tighter than a tourniquet. Red and black. Death and blood. The warning colors of a deadly spider that killed its mate. Blossom didn’t bother toning down her extravagant beauty at home. Her hair hung long, thick and free, and her false eyelashes fluttered like trapped moths.

  “Reverend Hawthorne, what a nice surprise,” Blossom said, and showed a blood-rimmed smile.

  “Call me Helen, please. I wanted to see how you were doing. I should have called first, but—”

  “No, I’m glad you stopped by,” Blossom said. “I’ve been meaning to call you. I need your help. Come have a drink. You do drink, don’t you?”

  “Definitely,” Helen said. She followed Blossom through the gloomy corridors to a room that looked like a British club in Masterpiece Theatre. It was crammed with leather wing chairs, tufted hassocks and small, fussy tables. An inlaid table supported by eight husky, half-clad nymphs dominated the room. The nymphs held up the one spot of color: a pretty vase with a coy shepherdess and an ardent shepherd.

  “What a charming vase,” Helen said.

  “Thank you. That’s a porcelain potpourri vase,” she said. “The shepherdess is French. Sevres. I love how she flirts with the shepherd.”

  Blossom gently lifted the gold-trimmed slotted cover. “Inhale,” she said.

  Could you inhale a poison and die? Helen decided to chance it. She took a deep breath and hoped it wasn’t her last. “Heavenly,” she said.

  “Glad you like it,” Blossom said. “It’s lavender from Provence, cinnamon, sandalwood and more.”

  Behind the table, a magnificent rosewood bar sprawled along one wall, carved with lush nymphs, busty mermaids and other boozy dreams. The mirrored back bar glittered with cut-glass decanters and liquor bottles.

  Phil was behind the bar, as they’d planned. With his silver white hair and white uniform, Helen thought he looked like a ghost in that cave of a room. Her heart was cold with fear. Suddenly, the plan they’d hatched together seemed foolish. She was glad the dark velvet curtains shut out the light. She didn’t want Blossom to see her face when Helen was introduced to her own husband.

  “This is my man, Phil Sagemont,” Blossom said.

  Helen felt her hackles rise at that possessive “my man.” She politely extended her hand and said, “I’m Helen Hawthorne.”

  “She’s a minister,” Blossom said. “She conducted Arthur’s service.” She leaned forward and gave Phil a good view of her firm breasts. He stared. Helen wanted to kick him.

  He tore his eyes away from the temptation and said, “I’m Phil, Mrs. Zerling’s estate manager.” His handshake was firm and dry. He slyly winked at her. Helen didn’t smile back.

  “I thought we could talk in here,” Blossom said. “What would you like? Phil can make our drinks.”

  So now he’s a bartender and an estate manager? Helen thought.

  “White wine with a splash of soda,” she said. She was too keyed up to drink a glass of wine. The alcohol would go to her head.

  “Would you like ice with your spritzer?” Phil asked. “The wine is already chilled.”

  Helen saw the cold mound of cubes in the heavy cut-glass ice bucket on the bar, next to an old-fashioned seltzer bottle. “No, thanks,” she said.

  Phil took a tall glass from a shelf under the bar and began building Helen’s drink. Blossom sat in a brown leather wing chair near the table and Helen took the chair next to it. The air-conditioned leather felt smooth and cool, but she had too much at stake to relax.

  “Cashews?” Blossom handed Helen a silver dish.

  Could you tamper with cashews? she wondered. “No, thanks.” Helen abandoned them on a small, pointless table.

  “Would you like a snack?” Blossom asked. “A sandwich?”

  “Not hungry,” Helen said. Those were the first honest words she’d spoken since her arrival. “I’m glad you don’t mind me dropping in like this.”

  The prompt worked. “I needed to talk to you. As you know, Arthur died without a will,” Bloss
om said, “and my lawyer says I’m entitled to his entire estate. I don’t need all ten million and I don’t want his daughter to be an enemy. Arthur wouldn’t like that. Violet is well-fixed, but I want to offer her a settlement of two million dollars.”

  The same going-away present you offered your dead lover, Helen thought.

  “Well, what do you think?” Blossom asked. She congratulated herself with a smug smile.

  “Very generous,” Helen said. “But why do you need me?”

  “I want you to be the go-between,” Blossom said. “Violet doesn’t like me. She won’t even talk to me.”

  “You both have lawyers,” Helen said. “Surely they could negotiate this.”

  “Lawyers are so cold and formal,” Blossom said. “I know Violet won’t be my friend, but I’d like her to hate me a little less. There would be something in it for you, too. What do you need—a church van? A chapel? A vacation for yourself, so you can serve your flock better?”

  Blossom might have been the devil herself, tempting Helen to forget her duties, weaving her into the plot to get rid of Violet. The widow was relaxed, almost languid, as she tried to buy Helen’s soul.

  “I can’t take your money,” Helen said, “but I will pass on your message and make sure Violet understands your offer.”

  Every last treacherous detail, she thought.

  Phil brought Helen’s drink on a scalloped silver tray and set it down on a linen cocktail napkin. “I’m ready to make you that perfect manhattan, Mrs. Zerling. I have all the ingredients—sweet vermouth, dry vermouth and bourbon.”

  “I hope you bought the Angostura bitters like I asked,” Blossom said.

  “Didn’t have to,” Phil said. “I found a nearly full bottle on the kitchen sink. We can use it. See?” He held up a bottle.

  “No!” Blossom said, sitting straight up in her chair. She forced a smile and said, “I mean, I don’t want a perfect manhattan after all.”

  “Sure you do,” Phil said, and smiled. “You’ve asked for one nearly every night, and I’ve always said no. Well, tonight’s the night. My manhattans are perfection on the rocks. It’s all in the wrist.” He waved the Angostura bottle at her. “A dash of these bitters and you won’t be the same woman.”