by Elaine Viets
He’s overdoing it, Helen thought.
“What’s wrong? Don’t you want my manhattan?” he asked. “I promise it will be good.” He raised one eyebrow. He seemed confident and shy at the same time.
Helen had a hard time resisting Phil when he looked at her like that. Blossom was made of stronger stuff.
“I’d like one, but you’ve refused me so often, I’ve gotten used to making my own,” she said. “I’ll mix two manhattans, if you’ll drink one with me. We’ll try your recipe another day. You go out to the kitchen and get me the maraschino cherries. They’re in the fridge.”
She playfully shooed him out of the room, as if he were a bad boy. Helen sat frozen in her cold leather chair. She’s going to kill my husband right in front of me, she thought.
Blossom stood up in a swirl of dark hair and red lipstick. Her clingy black and red clothes screamed a warning: The most beautiful predators were also the deadliest.
Helen picked up her drink and tried to follow Blossom to the bar.
“No, you sit there and relax, Helen,” she said. “I’ll make these in a jiffy and sit back down.”
She doesn’t want me to see her make those drinks, Helen thought. She watched in the mirror, never taking her eyes off Blossom. The woman could ruin Helen’s life with one move.
Blossom took out two glasses. “Some people use off-brand liquor, but I like the best to make the best,” she said. She added a healthy jigger of Knob Creek to each glass, then a half ounce of Martini & Rossi sweet vermouth and dry vermouth.
All that’s missing are the bitters, Helen thought. She watched Blossom add a dash of Angostura to one glass—and not to the other. She set the manhattan without the Angostura near the ice bucket.
“Now, where is Phil with those cherries?” she asked.
“Is the kitchen far away?” Helen asked.
“On the other side of the house,” she said. “He’s sure taking his time.”
Blossom picked up the glass without the dash of Angostura.
“You left the bitters out of your drink,” Helen said, heading for the bar.
“I don’t want them,” Blossom said.
“But that’s what makes a manhattan,” Helen said. “Here. Let me add a splash.” She reached for the small bottle.
“No!” Blossom said.
“I don’t know why you don’t want it,” Helen said. “It’s the key to everything. Just a little?”
“Stay away from me with that stuff,” Blossom said. Her eyes were wild, her dark hair stood straight out and one false eyelash fluttered loose. Her cobwebby top caught on the edge of the bar and tore. Blossom didn’t notice. The woman who’d killed two people was falling apart. She was terrified of a four-ounce bottle, the weapon that had murdered her lover.
Helen decided to help her unravel. “Can’t imagine why you’re so upset,” she said. “What harm can a drop do?”
She unscrewed the cap. Blossom picked up the seltzer bottle and held it in front of her like a shield.
“I said stop it,” she screamed, her voice frantic. “Stop it now!”
“What? Are you going to shoot me with that thing, like a Three Stooges movie?” Helen asked.
“Yes,” Blossom said, and hit Helen in the face with a jet of seltzer.
Helen coughed and staggered back, wiping seltzer off her face. “You’re upset,” she said. “You’ve been under a strain because of Arthur’s illness. But that’s no way to treat your minister.”
“I don’t give a damn,” Blossom howled.
There was no pretending now. This was a fight. Blossom waved the bottle of dry vermouth at Helen’s head.
“Put that down,” Helen said.
“Get out,” Blossom said, and swung it at Helen. The bottle clipped her shoulder and landed on the leather chair, spilling out onto the seat. The fumes choked Helen, but she grabbed the cut-glass ice bucket and heaved it at Blossom.
She ducked, and the ice bucket hit the potpourri vase. It shattered, spilling its fragrant leaves and seeds on the tabletop. Helen heard something roll across the table and land softly on the thick carpet. She saw something brown and round. A ball? A wheel? A seed? It was rolling toward them on the carpet.
Blossom set down the sweet vermouth bottle, distracted by the moving brownish object.
Now Helen saw it clearly. It was a fat round seed. Blossom wrapped her hand around it as Helen whacked her on the head with the bottle of Knob Creek.
Blossom collapsed on the floor, still clutching the seed in her hand. Helen stomped Blossom’s hand and she let go of it.
Helen picked up the seed. She was drenched with seltzer, stank of booze and was so bruised she could hardly move her arm.
Blossom did not move at all.
Phil strolled in with the jar of cherries, blinking in the dim liquor-scented chaos.
“Did I miss something?” he asked.
CHAPTER 37
Helen stared at the shattered shepherdess and wondered if Coronado Investigations’ insurance covered Sevres smashed in the line of duty. She was still dazed from her unexpected battle with Blossom. Where was Arthur’s widow?
Facedown on the rug, not moving. Not good, Helen thought.
Phil was still holding the jar of cherries and laughing like a loon. “You mean it worked?” he said. “The bluff worked?”
“What bluff?” Helen said. “What’s so funny?”
“Blossom actually believed you were pouring poison in her manhattan,” Phil said. He couldn’t stop laughing.
Helen was angry—and wet. Water dripped off her seltzered hair. She brushed her drenched bangs out of her eyes and said, “I would have, too. Dumped it right in her drink.”
“Still wouldn’t have poisoned her,” Phil said.
She didn’t like his smirk. “That’s the bottle on the bar,” she said.
Four ounces of nicotine tea had created a path of destruction through the forest of tables and chairs and the jungle ropes of braid and tassels: The seltzer bottle was stranded on the floor. The dry vermouth bottle had glugged itself empty on the chair. The cut-glass ice bucket had gouged deep furrows in the inlaid tabletop as it skidded sideways and splintered the shepherdess. Two useless tables were toppled.
Helen’s wine spritzer and the cashews had survived unharmed. So had the two manhattans.
“There is no poison in that Angostura bottle,” Phil said, pointing to it. “I bought those bitters and pretended that was the poison bottle. I wasn’t going to risk my life—or yours—playing with something deadly. The real poison bottle is still on the kitchen counter and the nicotine tea is in the jar under the sink. That bottle is safe as lemonade.” His mouth tilted upward in a quirky smile.
Helen wanted to slap it off his face. Anger arced through her. “Phil Sagemont, I can’t believe you let me think Blossom was poisoning your drink,” she said. The fight left her with an adrenaline overload and she unleashed it. “And what were you doing staring at her breasts?”
“I was undercover,” Phil said.
“Well, they weren’t!” Helen flounced behind the rosewood bar and reached for the phone. “I’m calling 911. Blossom hasn’t moved. She needs an ambulance.”
“Good Lord, she’s not dead, is she?” he asked. “I’d better check.”
Blossom was still sprawled on the dark carpet, a study in scarlet, jet-black and corpse white. Phil knelt down next to the fallen widow and lifted an eyelid. “She’s out cold, but she’s breathing.” He searched her scalp for a wound. “That’s quite a lump on her head.”
“They don’t call it Knob Creek bourbon for nothing,” Helen said. “I may have hurt her hand, too, when I stepped on it.”
Phil winced. “Remind me not to upset you,” he said.
“Too late,” she said.
Phil finally realized she was in no mood for jokes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Truly, I am. When Blossom wakes up, she’s going to accuse you of attacking her. The crime-scene techs should find enough evidence to support you
r story.”
Blossom whimpered softly.
“Let’s hope this is the seed from the suicide tree,” Helen said. She set it on the bar. “We should get the police here.”
“Let me make quick calls to Detective Mac Dorsey, our lawyer and Valerie Cannata,” he said. “Mac may need a warrant for that poison bottle.”
Helen handed him the phone.
“Her number’s in my cell phone,” he said. “Mac promised she’d wait for my call.”
She did. Helen heard Phil give his report, quick and professional. Then his voice changed. He was explaining, then pleading. Finally, he said, “So it’s okay? I’ll see you here,” and hit END.
“Something wrong?” Helen asked.
“Mac is just being cautious,” he said. “She wanted to know how I found the nicotine tea and the poisoned bitters. She was afraid I’d been breaking and entering. She forgot I’m the estate manager here. Then she asked if I was working undercover for the police or the DA.
“Once I convinced her I wasn’t a government agent, she said this was a lawful search. I have to show the investigating cops I found evidence in two murders. They can’t even open that kitchen cabinet. I have to point and say, ‘Lookie here, Officers.’”
“Why is Mac carrying on?” Helen asked. “She knows us.”
“She also knows the laws about illegal searches,” Phil said. “They’re tricky. She doesn’t want this evidence thrown out. Mac’s on her way. Zack is her case, but this isn’t her jurisdiction. We’re in Hendin Island’s.”
Helen groaned. “Detective Richard McNally.”
“She knows him,” Phil said. “They get along fine.”
“He knows me,” Helen said. “We don’t.”
“We’ll have our lawyer here for protection,” he said. “We’ll need Nancie when the police question us. After I call her, I’ll give Valerie a ring. We promised her a scoop.”
“Don’t call Valerie,” Helen said. “The police will check your cell phone. You can explain the calls to Detective Mac and our lawyer, but the cops will be furious if you call a reporter to a crime scene.”
“I’ll ask Nancie to call Valerie,” Phil said. “Here goes. I hope our lawyer is easier than the detective.”
She wasn’t.
Once again Phil delivered his report, calm and professional. Then he grew increasingly upset. “She what! You have to get her permission? In writing? How long will that take? Okay, okay, I understand it’s the law. Does she have to come here, too? Good. Yes, I promise. Helen will, too. Please, hurry. And don’t forget Valerie.” He hung up and sighed.
“What was that all about?” Helen asked.
“I should have known this,” Phil said. “We’d discussed it in Nancie’s office. Our PI work is privileged under Florida law. We need Violet’s permission to tell the cops, or we can lose our license for breaking client confidentiality.”
“Violet won’t stop us, will she?” Helen asked.
“Hell, no. Violet will demand we tell the cops. The hard part will be keeping her away from here. Nancie promises she’ll do it, but she wants Violet’s permission in writing.”
“I sure hope Violet’s at home now,” Helen said.
“Me, too,” Phil said. “Nancie insists neither one of us talk to the cops unless she’s with us. The police will probably split us up. We have to tell them that we want to help, but we will only talk with our attorney present.”
Blossom moaned like something in a midnight churchyard.
“You took the words right out of my mouth, Blossom,” Helen said.
“Is she coming around yet?” Phil whispered.
“Not quite,” Helen said. “But soon.”
“Brace yourself,” Phil said. “I’m calling 911.”
Helen found her wine spritzer and downed the whole drink. She needed fortification.
“Better eat those cashews, too,” Phil said. “It’s five o’clock. We’ll be here until midnight, at least.”
Helen was still munching when a wave of blue uniforms washed through the mansion. She and Phil were immediately isolated in separate rooms. Both recited Nancie’s canned speech: “Yes, Officer, I want to cooperate, but I need my lawyer.”
Both received Miranda cautions. Helen took comfort in the words the police officer recited: “You have the right to an attorney and to have one here with you during questioning, now or in the future.”
Come on, Nancie, she prayed.
Detective Mac Dorsey arrived next. She’d been promoted to detective partly because of a case Helen and Phil had worked—and her colleague had bungled. Mac was a strong, sturdy woman. Since her promotion, she’d developed a knack for finding well-tailored pantsuits in resale shops.
She saw Phil first. “I’d love to talk to you, Detective Dorsey,” Phil said. He didn’t dare call her Mac in public. “But I have to wait for our attorney, Nancie Hays.”
“Maybe Helen has more sense,” Dorsey said, and stalked off to the sitting room where Helen was counting the tassels on the furniture, lampshades and curtains.
“Come on, Helen,” Dorsey said. “You know me.”
“I know the law, too,” Helen said. “We can’t talk until the lawyer gets our client’s permission. She’ll be here as fast as she can. Meanwhile, the crime-scene folks have lots to do.”
Detective Richard NcNally was next. Detective McNally’s sedate dark suit, white shirt and tie looked weirdly out of place in South Florida, land of sartorial outrage. McNally was even more unhappy with Phil than Detective Dorsey. His face turned the same shade of puce as his tie while Phil recited his speech.
“Hays can’t be two places at once,” McNally said.
“I’m willing to wait while she’s with Helen. Then she can be present during my questioning.”
“That could take all night,” McNally said.
“I have nowhere to go and I’m being paid by the hour,” Phil said. He smiled. McNally didn’t smile back.
The detective had better luck with Helen. Actually, he had better timing.
She had counted forty-seven tassels and was estimating the yards of fringe on the chairs and lampshades when McNally interrupted her.
“Well, well,” he said. “Ms. Helen Hawthorne. Again. This is like a family reunion.”
The Addams family, Helen wanted to say. We’ve got the right decor. She congratulated herself for keeping her mouth shut.
Nancie Hays heard his remark as she flew through the sitting room door. The little whirlwind in a suit set the fringe flapping.
“Sarcasm is unprofessional, Detective,” the attorney said, crisply. “Ms. Hawthorne and Mr. Sagemont are aware this is a serious matter and they are willing to cooperate with the police. They have the right to an attorney and I insist on being present during their questioning. Now, if you’ll excuse us, I’ll chat briefly with my client.”
All night and a good part of the morning, Helen and Phil explained why they were at the Zerling mansion, why they thought Blossom was a killer, how she murdered first Arthur and then Zack. The police knew ten million good reasons for Arthur’s murder. Phil supplied the rationale for Blossom getting rid of her greedy boyfriend.
The couple repeated their stories again and again, while their lawyer stood by in her dark-framed glasses like an owl in a brown suit.
Shortly after the first wave of police arrived, Blossom woke up. She was read her Miranda rights, and waived them. She claimed Helen attacked her. An ambulance took her to the ER.
Police officers sniffed the Angostura bitters bottle on the kitchen counter and detected a definite odor of nicotine. Phil pointed out the soggy cigarette butts floating in a jar under the sink. One cop gagged.
Even though the doctors believed food poisoning had killed Zack, samples of his blood and urine had been saved in case of criminal or civil liability. There was enough for further tests.
The brown seedlike object was bagged as evidence and sent to an expert for identification.
By eight thirty in th
e morning, Helen looked like she’d crawled out of the wreckage of an F5 tornado. Her eyes were red, her suit was torn and her shoulder was bruised.
She felt terrific.
Detective Richard McNally had applied for a court order to exhume the body of Arthur Zerling.
CHAPTER 38
Helen squinted at the glaring sun as she and Phil tottered out of the Zerling mansion. Nancie Hays marched beside them with a gunslinger’s swagger.
The morning air felt cool and fresh. Helen did not. “I need coffee,” she said.
“And you’ll get it,” the lawyer said. “At my office.” Her brown suit wasn’t even wrinkled. How did she do it? Helen wondered.
“Can’t I go home and change?” she asked. “Please?”
“No,” Nancie said. “My legal services come with a high price. We have to meet with our client in half an hour.”
“But I can’t—” Phil said.
“No whining,” Nancie said. “Violet signed that release last night when we needed it. She cooperated. Now she has every right to know what happened. I’ll stop for bagels and meet you at my office.”
“I can’t face Violet without at least eight hours’ sleep,” Helen said.
“I promise you’ll be pleasantly surprised,” Nancie said. “She is a changed woman.”
“I could use a pleasant surprise,” Helen said as she climbed into the Igloo. Phil followed behind her in the Jeep. They both drove carefully around the official vehicles scattered on the driveway.
Nancie’s office parking lot was empty. Helen tried to comb her hair in the rearview mirror, but her bruised shoulder ached when she raised her arm.
Forget it, she decided. Violet should see I’ve been in a battle. Phil parked next to her, jumped out with surprising energy and opened her car door. Helen gingerly unfolded herself from the Igloo and leaned against his shoulder.
“It’s over,” she said.
“Almost,” he said, rocking her in his arms. “I think that’s Violet’s Saturn parking under the palm tree.”