by Elaine Viets
Phil pulled them both off his head. The dreads were attached to the hat. “No problem, mon,” he said in a bad Jamaican accent. “All in one. They sell them in souvenir shops.”
“I’ve seen pale guys on vacation with Rasta tams and dreads,” Helen said. “I didn’t realize they were wearing wig hats.”
“It takes many beers to look this stupid,” Phil said, abandoning the accent.
“That’s good for one trip,” Helen said. “But what happens if you don’t catch Blossom the first time?”
“Wait and see,” Phil said, shutting himself back into the bathroom.
While she waited, Helen mentally inventoried the contents of her carryall: underwear, sandals, casual T-shirts and shorts, sample-sized toiletries.
“Ta-da!” Phil threw open the bathroom door. Now he sported a camo visor with a burst of wild brown hair on the crown, like a clump of dead grass. A “Guns, God and Guts” T-shirt stretched across his chest. His jeans needed a wash. Phil twirled so Helen could see the jeans’ sagging seat.
“No wonder Thumbs hissed at the hair,” Helen said. “If he sees the whole outfit, he may never come out from under the bed.”
“You don’t like Bubba?” Phil asked. “I was hoping you’d admire my new look.” He waited for a reaction.
Helen laughed.
“Laugh away. You haven’t seen Jimmy Ray,” Phil said. “He’ll be here in a moment.”
Phil shut the door while Helen zipped up the navy carryall. There would be just enough room for her uniform shorts and polo shirts.
My uniforms might be crumpled, she thought, but I’ll be ironing eighteen hours a day. I can press my own clothes, too.
The bathroom door opened again. Phil lounged in the doorway. “Wanna go to the dump and shoot rats?” he asked.
Now he wore a greasy Marlins cap with dirty-blond curls hanging down the back of his neck. He had the same saggy jeans and a smiley face T-shirt with a gray bar across the mouth. “Silence Is Golden, Duct Tape Is Silver,” the shirt read.
“What is that hairstyle?” Helen asked. “A half mullet?”
“Something fishy, darlin’,” he drawled. He gripped a tin of Skoal chewing tobacco in one hand and a Dr Pepper in the other.
“When did you start drinking Dr Pepper?” Helen asked.
“I’m recycling,” Phil said. “That’s where I spit my ’baccy juice.”
“Ew,” Helen said.
“Exactly the reaction I wanted, little lady,” he said. “Glad you appreciate my accessories.”
“There isn’t more, is there?” she asked.
“That’s how I like my women—begging for more,” he said, his fake redneck accent thickening. “You-all wait here a minute. I got another surprise.”
When the bathroom door shut, Thumbs slunk out from under the bed, looked around, then raced out of the bedroom before Phil debuted his next disguise.
This time, he had his distinctive silver hair tucked under a clean blue ball cap. He wore a fresh blue coverall that said BOB on the pocket, and carried a blue toolbox.
“What’s the problem with your air-conditioning, ma’am?” Phil asked politely.
“Nothing,” Helen said. “I am totally cool. Bob looks reliable enough to let inside my house. But how are Bob and his buddies going to tail Blossom? She must know you drive a black Jeep. You park it at her house.”
“I worked that out, too,” Phil said. “I’m having a rental car delivered to the parking lot next to the entrance of Hendin Island. It’s a medical office building. The rental stays there until I need it. If Blossom leaves the house, I run to the parking lot and follow her. With the traffic on Las Olas, it takes a while to turn out of Hendin Island Road. She won’t get far. Rental cars are anonymous. Even a great detective like me has trouble finding my own rental unless I park it by some landmark.”
“Blossom is no dummy,” Helen said. “She might catch on if the same rental keeps following her.”
“Also thought of that,” Phil said. “Once I use the rental, I exchange it for another. I have full-sized cars from Chevy Impalas to Hyundai Sonatas waiting in the wings.”
“Bob is going to drive a Chevy Impala to fix the air-conditioning?” Helen asked.
“Of course not,” Phil said. “Good catch. You’re thinking like a detective. I rented a white panel truck for Bob. The truck is in the parking lot, too. I slipped the building manager a little cash to park there and had magnetized signs made up at the copy shop for the van.”
He ducked back into the bathroom. Helen heard more rustling, then Phil returned with two plastic signs that read PALM BEACH COOL GUYS AIR-CONDITIONING SERVICE.
“Slap these on the sides, and Bob looks like the real deal,” he said. “There was an extra charge for fast service, but Violet says she doesn’t mind paying. I can keep doing this for weeks.”
“Do you think Violet and Fran are right and Blossom killed her husband, Arthur?” Helen asked.
“The more I find out about Blossom, the more I think she did,” Phil said. “At first, I discounted a lot of what Violet said as jealousy. The housekeeper may not know curry, but she knew something was off. After you discovered those wild clothes in Blossom’s dressing room, I started to think Fran did see her leaving to meet a lover. I wish I had a better idea how Blossom killed her husband.”
Helen felt uneasy. Talking about Arthur triggered her worries about her dead ex-husband and the blackmailer. Just my luck he’ll call when I’m out of the country, Helen thought.
“Where did you go?” Phil asked. “You zoned out on me.”
“Sorry,” Helen said. “Nervous about my trip. Promise me if my sister Kathy calls while I’m gone, you’ll contact me.”
“Hey, what brought that on? Kathy’s fine.”
“I know,” Helen said, “but a lot can go wrong. She has two little kids.” And I’m lying to you and I feel terrible that I can’t tell you, she thought.
Phil put his arms around Helen. “Hey there, are you that worried?” he asked.
She felt like a lower life-form. “It’s the yacht,” she said. “That’s a new world for me. I wish I knew more about emerald smuggling. Do you know any smugglers?”
“Me?” Phil said. “Would true-blue Bob the cool repairman know shady characters like that?”
“Certainly not,” Helen said. “But Phil the private detective would. He’d meet them in the line of duty.”
“Hm,” Phil said. “Let me think. I know bikers who beat up people for cash. I could get you a bargain rate on a hit man who’d give you up if the cops looked at him sideways. I know low-level drug dealers, a clutch of shoplifters… . Wait a minute. I forgot about Max. Max Rupert Crutchley.
“He tends to romanticize his smuggling. But I know for a fact Max was a scuba diver and a treasure hunter. Found some Spanish treasure off the Florida coast. Shipwreck-salvage treasure hunters blow through cash like coke addicts and they always need investors. A potential investor hired me to investigate Max. He wanted to make sure Max wasn’t running drugs. Max was clean and I said so. I knew he was bringing in emeralds, but I kept quiet about them.”
“Why?” Helen said.
“Didn’t like the twit who hired me. When I made a suggestion, he said, ‘We don’t pay you to think. We pay you to find out. Is he or is he not smuggling drugs?’
“‘He’s not,’ I said.
“The twit never asked about emeralds and I never mentioned them.”
“Do you think Max would talk about emerald smuggling?” Helen asked.
“After a few beers, we may have trouble shutting him up,” Phil said. “When do you have to report to the yacht?”
“Seven tomorrow night,” Helen said.
“I get off work at five,” Phil said. “I’ll call Max and see if we can have an early dinner with him tomorrow. What time do you sail?”
“The Belted Earl is a motor yacht,” Helen said. “We cruise at nine o’clock for Atlantis.”
“A moonlight cruise,” Phil s
aid. “Romantic.”
“Just me and my scrub brush,” Helen said. “We’ll work all night, but the yacht gets into the Bahamas about ten the next morning. That way the crew can check in with immigration, run errands in port and hit the bars while the owners go to Atlantis.”
“You sound like an old salt already,” Phil said. “The crew really goes drinking after working all night and most of the day?”
“That’s what Mira said. They’re still in their twenties,” Helen said. “At forty-two, I don’t party so hearty anymore.”
“What are you packing?”
“I pick up my uniforms tomorrow,” she said. “The rest is ready.” She held up the bulging zippered bag.
“That’s all?” Phil raised an eyebrow in surprise.
“There isn’t room on board for lots of crew luggage,” she said. “I’ll bring this and carry my BlackBerry in my purse, so I can keep in touch with you. The captain said calls from the Bahamas to the U.S. are outrageous—a hundred dollars or so for a few minutes. He agreed I could put the phone charges on his bill.”
“You got that in writing, I hope?” Phil asked.
“You bet.” Helen tossed the fat carryall on the floor. “I’m following another rule for new crew: Never bring more than you can carry off in a hurry. If things go bad, I can abandon these T-shirts and sandals.”
She pulled Phil down on the bed. His cap slid off when she ran her fingers through his long hair and she tugged on the coverall’s zipper.
“Why don’t you slip out of that, Bob?” Helen said. “I’m feeling hot.”
CHAPTER 16
“Helen!” Phil called her on the phone, talking fast. “Blossom is on the move. I’m tailing her.”
“Where? What? What’s going on?” Helen had been snoozing since Phil left for the Zerling mansion this morning. Today was her last chance to relax before she started working on the yacht.
“I’m following Blossom,” Phil said. “She’s acting suspicious. She told me she was going shopping, but I thought, Why tell me? I’m the hired help. Did I wake you?”
“Never mind that. Where are you now?” Helen asked.
“Sitting behind her red Porsche at the stop sign. She’s trying to turn out of Hendin Island onto Federal Highway. She—”
An angry horn blast and screeching brakes interrupted him. Helen winced, held her breath, then asked, “Was that an accident?”
“Almost,” Phil said. “Blossom nearly got creamed trying to make a left through the traffic while talking on her cell phone. She’s still at the stop sign, but at least she put down her phone.”
“What if she looks in her rearview mirror and sees you?” Helen asked.
“She won’t recognize me,” Phil said. “I’m Jimmy Ray, driving a rented Chevy.”
“Jimmy Ray with the greasy gimme cap and half mullet?” Helen asked.
“Don’t dis Jimmy,” Phil said. “He’s doing a good job. There she goes. She made it this time. Hang on. I’m following her.”
Helen heard more honks. “Phil,” she shouted into the phone. “Be careful.”
“Can’t talk, darlin’,” he said. “Jimmy Ray is chasing Blossom.”
Helen waited for Phil to report back and paced the terrazzo floor. He was a good driver, but he was driving a strange car. Blossom sounded reckless. What if Phil got hurt trying to follow her?
Helen wandered into her living room, plumped a pillow on the turquoise Barcalounger and noticed a light layer of dust on her kidney-shaped coffee table. Cleaning could wait until she got home from the Belted Earl, she decided. She’d be dusting enough on the yacht.
Helen surveyed the midcentury antiques in her living room. She’d learned to like their colorful, playful forms. Margery had bought them when the Coronado was new. They’d aged gracefully, like the building.
She carried her empty coffee cup into the kitchen and checked the clock. Three thirty-two.
“Phil? Are you still there?” Helen said into her phone.
No answer. Phil must have left his cell phone on in the passenger seat. She heard ordinary street sounds, the soothing ocean roar of the traffic, the hiss of a bus’s brakes. Those were more reassuring than furious horns and frantic screeches. He must be safely working.
She felt Thumbs rubbing his furry head against her bare legs.
“You only love me when it’s dinnertime,” she told the cat, as she scratched his ears. He nudged her hand and patted his food bowl with his mittenlike paw. She poured him dry food and fresh water. “Phil will take care of you while I’m gone,” she said. “He’ll spoil you rotten.”
Thumbs, face down in his food, ignored her.
Helen went back to pacing. She checked the clock again. The hands were moving so slowly she wondered if it was broken. She checked her watch. No, it was only three thirty-eight.
“Phil?” she said into the phone. “Where are you?”
“Dixie Highway,” he said. “Near a grungy convenience store.”
“Doesn’t sound as upscale as Blossom’s Hendin Island home,” Helen said.
“No mansions in sight,” he said. “This strip mall has an auto-parts dealer, a thrift store and a radiator shop. Blossom just turned into the lot. I’m pulling into the pawnshop lot across the street to watch her.”
“Is she going to a Seven-Eleven?” Helen asked.
“Too high-class,” he said. “This is a nameless, paintless cinder block dump. Sells giant sodas, cigarettes, lottery tickets and chili dogs with a side of salmonella. It’s also a pickup spot for day laborers. I’ve passed it early in the morning when the contractors’ trucks arrive. The day laborers are a rough-looking crew. A sensible woman wouldn’t walk in that store alone. Hell, I’d think twice about it. It looks like a holdup waiting to happen.
“At least this part is easy. Blossom’s flashy red sports car sticks out like a sore thumb in the lot. She’s parking the Porsche by the door, next to a beat-up van with its back doors wired shut. Wait! She’s getting out.”
“She’s not going inside, is she?” Helen asked.
“She’s heading toward the door. Is that woman nuts, wearing jeans that tight? Now she’s sashayed past the door to the pay phone. She’s gripping her purse and she’s got an orange card in her hand, like a credit card. Man, that phone looks filthy. I don’t know how she can hold the receiver to her face. She’s punching in numbers. Looks like someone answered. Now she’s talking and giggling. Blossom looks like a very merry widow.”
“Can you hear her?” Helen asked.
“Not across the street,” Phil said. “Jimmy Ray can’t get too close. But I can take some pictures. She’s still talking and laughing. That’s right, Blossom, smile for the camera. Gotcha!” Helen heard the camera click.
“Oh, this is good,” Phil said. “This is major.”
“It is?” Helen said.
“Think about it,” Phil said. “Why would Blossom use a pay phone, when she has landlines in the house and a cell phone in her purse?”
“Her cell phone battery was running low?” Helen guessed.
“Then she’d make the call from home,” Phil said. “Instead, she drives to this risky place. Why?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Because she doesn’t want a record of this call.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Helen said. “She’s a rich widow. She doesn’t answer to anyone.”
“She doesn’t have the money yet,” Phil said. “Arthur’s estate is still in probate and will be for months. The court likes to give creditors time to collect their debts. Anybody who watches TV knows cell phone calls are easily traced. Someone could see Blossom’s phone bills and start asking questions. She knows Arthur’s daughter is looking for trouble. Blossom doesn’t want to give Violet an opening.”
“Sounds far-fetched,” Helen said.
“It’s not,” Phil said. “Blossom is smart. With ten million dollars at stake, she’s taking no chances. She’s being extra careful until she gets Arthur’s fortune. Wait! She hung up the pho
ne. She’s hurrying back to her car. Blossom just turned onto Dixie Highway.”
“Toward her home?” Helen asked.
“Toward downtown Lauderdale. Too early to say if she’s going back to Hendin Island or somewhere else. Gotta go.”
“Wait!” Helen said.
He must have tossed his phone on the car seat. Helen heard Phil’s car crunch over gravel. Then it seemed to be traveling on a smooth road. At least he didn’t hang up.
At last he came back on the phone. “We’re at a stoplight,” Phil said. “I’m two cars behind her.”
“Phil, what if you’re still following her when it’s time for us to meet Max?” Helen asked.
“Then you’ll have to handle dinner alone,” Phil said.
“I’d better get dressed,” Helen said.
“I’ll meet you at the restaurant,” Phil said. “The light’s changed.”
Silence.
Helen hit the speaker button and carried the phone with her into the bedroom to change into her white dress uniform. Helen pulled her skort off the hanger. She hadn’t worn that skirt-shorts combination since she was a teenager.
She was brushing her long brown hair when Phil came back on the line, talking in short, excited bursts. “Helen! She’s not going home. She’s parking! In a lot off Las Olas. Jimmy Ray is going to follow her. Wait there.”
“Where am I going?” Helen said, but Phil was gone again. Judging by the muffled sounds coming from the cell phone, he’d jammed it into his (or Jimmy Ray’s) pocket.
She buttoned her white jacket. The sleeves were perfectly tailored for her long arms.
Phil was on the phone again. Now his voice was a whisper. “She’s gone into a boutique on a side street near Las Olas. A girlie place called Grisette’s.”
“Isn’t grisette a French name for a prostitute?” Helen said.
“That’s a little harsh,” Phil said. “Grisettes are generous girls. They take no money for helping their fellow men.”
“What’s the shop look like?” Helen said.
“The clothes in the window are mostly black, but they don’t look like something a new widow would wear. Blossom is pressing a buzzer… Now a saleswoman is letting her inside. Jimmy Ray isn’t going to try getting in there. He’ll sit at the sidewalk café across the street, get himself a nice six-dollar coffee and put it on his expense account. This could take a while. Helen, I’m hanging up. I’ll call you when she comes out.”