by Elaine Viets
She was surprised when Joe, Christina’s ex-boyfriend, called that Saturday afternoon and asked if Christina had left anything for him.
“Like what, Joe?” Helen said.
“A package, an envelope, a box, I dunno. But I know she was going to give it to me. So you find anything with my name on it, you call me day or night, no problemo, and I’ll pick it up. And, Helen, there will be a reward. A big one, you know what I mean?”
“I’m sorry, Joe, but I haven’t found anything.”
“She had something for me,” he said. “I want it. Now.”
Joe must have realized that sounded like a threat, because he softened his words. “I mean, I miss her, and it would be nice to have some way to remember her. We were kinda engaged.”
“Except you dumped her,” Helen said. “If she left you a package, I’d open it carefully. If it ticks, it may not be a watch.”
“She always said you were great with the jokes,” Joe said. “We split, but it was a misunderstanding. I . . . I loved her.” He managed a teary throb in his voice.
Right. You really loved Christina, she thought. That’s why you have never said Christina’s name, just “she” and “her.”
Joe’s voice grew softer, more persuasive. It oozed through the phone like honey. The receiver felt sticky. “Look, Helen, let me level with you. That cop, Dwight Handel—”
“Hansel,” Helen said.
“Yeah, him. He’s on me like white on rice. He thinks I killed her.”
“Why you?” Helen said. “Aren’t bodies in barrels mob hits?”
“The FBI said this was not a mob hit. It was made to look like one. They’re not interested in it. But this Dwight Handel—”
“Hansel,” Helen said again.
“Whatever. He’s definitely interested in me. I’ve had to get a lawyer. I’m not supposed to be talking about this, but I’ve got to have that package. I mean, it like clears my name.”
Sure it does.
“Don’t you have an alibi for the time Christina died?” she said, fishing for more facts.
“That’s just it,” he said. “The police can’t tell exactly when she was killed. She was kinda messed up after being in that leaky barrel for about a week. She was very decompressed.”
“Decomposed,” Helen said.
“That, too. They coulda figured it out by the stomach contents, but she didn’t eat nothing.”
And who’s fault was that? Helen wondered.
“All they can say for sure is it happened sometime between Saturday after she left the shop and Monday morning. I don’t have an alibi. I was alone the whole weekend, kicking back, watching videos and drinking beer.”
Joe never spent any time by himself, if he could help it. Helen knew that. Every weekend, he and Christina and a carload of friends went to the South Beach clubs. He couldn’t stand to be alone. He might hear his empty head rattle.
“The police think she was probably killed sometime Saturday after she got off work, though, because she got her last cell phone call at six-twenty-two.”
“Who called Christina?”
“Me,” Joe said.
Helen was relieved when Brittney came into Juliana’s about four that afternoon. She was wearing something white and drifting that made her look like a lovely lost soul. White was the color of mourning in some cultures. It certainly looked mournful on Brittney.
Brittney was different from the others. There were no odd overtones, no presents, no offers of money if Helen found any letters or packages. She wanted to talk about Christina. Helen thought Brittney sincerely grieved for her friend, although she did not look sad. How could she? Brittney could show no emotion.
She was the only one who seemed to care if Christina’s killer was caught.
“It’s just terrible about Christina,” Brittney said, her voice soft and fluttery as moth wings. “What are the police doing about it?”
“They searched her house. Then they searched the store,” Helen said.
“They find anything?” sighed Brittney. It sounded so hopeless when she said it.
“They found nothing,” Helen said.
But I did, she thought.
Chapter 24
Tara snapped on Monday.
It was almost closing time when she began screaming. No customers were in Juliana’s. Helen was grateful for that.
Helen was steaming the wrinkles out of the new stock, a hot, mindless job that had to be done before she could go home. Suddenly, Tara shrieked, “Put on another CD! I can’t listen to 10,000 Maniacs ten thousand times.”
Tara’s jaw was clenched, and so were her hands. Her rigid arms looked like they were clamped to her body with iron bands. 10,000 Maniacs could sound a little monotonous if you were in the wrong mood. But Helen didn’t think it should provoke a reaction like that. The strain of those blackmail pictures must be getting to Tara.
“Sorry, I tuned it out,” Helen said. “I’ll find something else.”
The store had more than two hundred forty CDs in two tall towers, but the same six seemed to get played over and over. The CDs at the bottom of the towers were thick with dust. Helen reached down and pulled out Billboard’s Top Hits 1975-1979. No wonder that one was never played. These were strictly moldy oldies. Who wanted to hear Captain & Tennille?
Helen was about to shove it back into the rack when she stopped. One of those ancient hits was “Love Will Keep Us Together.” The song on Tara’s flyer.
Helen opened the plastic CD case. Inside was the usual paper insert. It looked too thick. She pulled it out and opened it. Folded inside were three photos.
Tara was in a big round bed with two men and a woman. The four were so tangled together, Helen got dizzy trying to figure out who was doing what to whom.
The other woman was African-American, with a beautiful body. Helen could not see her face. The men were flabby and white as mushrooms. Helen couldn’t identify them, either, although one had an impressive head of white hair. The other was bald as a baby, but he was doing very grown-up things.
Only Tara was clearly visible. All of Tara. And she was definitely not a virgin bride. “Love Will Keep Us Together” was Christina’s nasty little joke. She knew these pictures would destroy Paulie’s love and split the couple forever.
“Find anything?” Tara called back to the storeroom. She sounded calmer.
“How about listening to Andrea Bocelli?” Helen asked. It was one of the same six CDs they always played.
“Sure,” Tara said. “A little opera will class up the place.”
She’ll be back here any second, Helen thought. She shoved the photos into the CD case, and brushed off her skirt
Helen did not dare tell Tara to go home early. She would be suspicious. Instead, the two women closed the store together as usual. Tara went to her car, and Helen set off walking in the direction of the Coronado apartments. She waited until she saw Tara drive toward the highway and disappear from view.
Only then did Helen turn around and go back to Juliana’s. She turned off the alarm system and the security cameras. Back in the stockroom, she stripped off her jacket and knelt before the first CD tower.
Helen pulled a CD from the bottom of the rack and saw her fingerprints in the dust on the case. She could not leave fingerprints on blackmail evidence. Oh God, she’d already left fingerprints. How could she be so dumb?
Helen found a paper towel and cleaned the Captain & Tennille CD inside and out and then wiped the liner and the photos, hoping she hadn’t left any partial prints on some stray corner.
I need gloves, she thought. But who wore gloves in South Florida?
Wait. There were gloves in the store. Helen opened the second drawer in the accessory cabinet and pulled out a pair of white kid twelve-button gloves. Juliana’s customers occasionally needed them for formal evenings. Helen rolled up her blouse sleeves, and carefully pulled on the long white gloves with the tiny pearl buttons. At Juliana’s, she thought, you searched in style.
&n
bsp; When she found the next set of photos, Helen was glad she was wearing gloves. She didn’t want to touch them. They repelled her, and yet she could not stop looking at them.
Helen also understood why Sharmayne wanted her to send that envelope without opening it. The supermodel was wrong. Christina had not put those photos in an envelope. They were in a Nick Lowe CD with a song called “The Beast in Me.”
The photos of Sharmayne with that handsome dog Big Boy gave new meaning to the term animal lover.
Niki’s crime seemed mild in comparison. The blackmail evidence was hidden in the cast recording of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, which had that old showstopper “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.” Inside was a copy of Niki’s arrest record and a short news story. Her mug shot lacked the air-brushed perfection of Playboy photography. Niki looked stunned and desperate.
Niki had been arrested for burglary. She went to the parties where the women dripped diamonds and figured out which ones had jewelry worth stealing. Then she passed this information on to two professional burglars. Niki had “cooperated with the authorities,” the news story said, and received probation. Niki sold out her friends to avoid prison.
Diamonds were her best friend. Niki was not loyal to her accomplices. Both were sentenced to fifteen years.
After Sharmayne, Niki’s sin seemed human and forgivable. But Niki’s new husband would not be taking her to any diamond-studded Star Island parties if it was known she liked to help jewel thieves. In fact, the wedding might not have come off at all, whether Desiree was dead or alive. Jimmy the Shirt might have a dubious reputation, but he’d want his wife to be above reproach.
Tara. Sharmayne. Niki. Three song titles down. Four to go.
Helen opened one CD after another before she found the Paul Simon album with “Mother and Child Reunion.” By now Helen had caught on to Christina’s ugly little jokes. This one would be bad.
It was. Venetia, the Mother of the Year, was photographed with a boy about twelve, and she was not holding his hand. Helen wanted to gag. How could any woman do that with someone so young? The boy wasn’t even attractive. His nakedness made him seem newly hatched.
Helen wondered if the photos were Venetia’s idea or the boy’s and how they fell into Christina’s hands. Maybe Christina paid the kid for them. What did she give him—money or drugs? Helen closed the CD case, once again grateful for the gloves.
Helen found one more set of photos that night. She almost overlooked them, but the odd CD title caught her eye: Celtic Harp on the Prairie. Helen could not imagine Juliana’s South Beach club set listening to “Beautiful Dreamer.” It hadn’t been a hit in a hundred years. But then Helen noticed another harp song was “Silver Threads Among the Gold.” Christina had scrawled that same title on the nursing home newsletter.
Helen opened the CD case gingerly, bracing herself for another stomach-turning sight. When she saw a mug shot and an arrest record, she sighed with relief.
Two gold watches, a Mont Blanc pen valued at six hundred dollars, and a diamond pendant worth three thousand were reported stolen from residents at the Sunny Gables nursing home. Police found these items in a car belonging to Employee of the Year Cindy, now known as Tiffany with the bad eye job. In the mug shot, Tiffany looked flat-faced with shock. Her blond hair was straggly, and her eyes were bloodshot. Helen saw no trace of the big-busted blond beauty who bought so much at Juliana’s.
The owners of the pen and the watches refused to press charges after their valuables were returned. But Mrs. Vera Crinklaw was determined to see Tiffany in court over the theft of her diamond pendant. Helen remembered Mrs. C. from the nursing home newsletter. She had refused to be charmed by Tiffany. She knew there was something wrong about the little slyboots, and she wanted public vindication.
Alas, Mrs. C. died of pneumonia before Tiffany’s trial. Her heir considered the case closed when he got the pendant back. Tiffany thought she’d got away with it, until Christina. If Tiffany’s rich old boyfriend Burt ever discovered her past, she could kiss him good-bye.
Helen now had five good reasons for blackmail. And five good reasons to kill Christina.
She wondered what blackmail evidence Christina had on Joe. She hadn’t found any Dylan CDs with “You Gotta Serve Somebody.” Nor had she seen any sign of Don Ho’s “Tiny Bubbles.”
Helen still had another CD tower to search, but she had to leave. It was almost time for the birthday call to her mother in St. Louis. She would be frantic if Helen didn’t call on time. She put all the incriminating evidence back in the CD tower. She thought it was the safest place.
Helen felt leaden and tired on the walk home. She’d seen too much. She had nothing to look forward to tonight but a talk with her mother filled with tears and regrets. She stripped off her suit, put on some cutoffs, and sat down on the bed. It squeaked mournfully. She checked her watch. Twenty minutes to go. She’d better get the suitcase from Margery. That’s where she hid the cell phone.
Margery was talking on the phone and handed the suitcase to Helen without a word. On the way back, Helen lingered in the warm evening. Palm trees rustled their sultry song. The air was soft and warm and scented with ocean salt and swimming pool chlorine. The setting sun turned the pool a pearly pink. Purple bougainvillea petals floated on the water.
It was so hopelessly romantic that Helen wished for just a minute she was still married to Rob and they were alone in the water and he was covering her mouth with wet chlorine kisses. Rob was a good kisser.
Then she remembered the August afternoon she came home from work early, hoping Rob would do just that in their pool in St. Louis. Instead, she found her husband kissing their little blond neighbor Sandy. That’s when she’d picked up the crowbar and changed everything.
Well, there was nothing Helen could do about that now. It was almost seven o’clock. Time for the call home. Helen went inside, locked the doors, and closed the blinds. Then she rooted around in the old lady underwear until she found the cell phone and the piece of pink cellophane. She dialed the number.
“Happy birthday, Mom,” she said.
“Happy?” her mother wailed. It quickly turned into a whine. “I should be happy when my daughter is a fugitive? Oh, Helen, why can’t you come home? That’s the only birthday present I want. I talked with Robbie, and he said he’ll forgive you.”
“He’ll forgive me!” Helen shouted, her anger rising in a red tide. “He’ll forgive me! I didn’t do anything.”
“You wrecked his car,” her mother said.
“Of course, I wrecked his car. I found him and Sandy shagging on our patio.”
The scene flashed again in front of her. Rob and Sandy were naked on the teak chaise longue, his hairy bottom in the air, her freshly waxed legs waving like antennae. Rob was supposed to be oiling the wood and doing patio maintenance. Instead, he was nailing Sandy. And Rob always said he didn’t like Sandy.
Helen had picked up the crowbar she found next to Rob’s electric screwdriver. She brought the crowbar down on the chaise with a satisfying crak! Rob jumped up off (and out of) Sandy. Sandy scurried behind a pot of pink impatiens for protection, but not before Helen noticed she was not a real blonde.
Rob abandoned his lady love and tried to hide in his Land Cruiser. He scrambled in and locked the doors, but Helen had the crowbar. She still remembered the satisfying sound it made as she destroyed the big SUV. First, she mulched the windshield while Rob cowered in the front seat, arms up to protect his head from flying glass. Next, she broke all the other windows. Then she cracked the headlights and tail-lights and splintered the side mirrors.
She was busy bashing the doors when Sandy crawled to the pile of clothes on the patio and picked up her cell phone. Helen was having so much fun she did not hear Sandy calling 911. The police laughed their heads off when they saw the naked Rob hiding in the car. He tried to get Helen arrested for destruction of property, but the car was registered in her name. After all, she’d paid for it. Rob and Sandy did not press attempt
ed assault charges. Sandy was too afraid her husband would find out how she’d spent her afternoon. He did anyway.
Unfortunately, Helen’s insurance would not cover self-inflicted damage. And Rob’s photos of the battered Land Cruiser and the police report on the domestic disturbance call did not help her court case.
She realized her mother was still talking. “. . . Everything could be worked out, Helen, if you’d just get back together with your husband.”
Helen’s hands itched for a crowbar. “He’s not my husband, Mom. We’re divorced.”
“Divorce isn’t recognized by the Church, Helen,” her mother said. “The Pope said so. If you should ever remarry, you’ll burn in hell.”
“The Pope’s wrong,” Helen said. “When I lived with that mooch Rob, I was already in hell. Anything else would be heaven. Mom, don’t you remember what my life was like? When Rob quit his sales job, he quit looking for work and lived off me.”
“He wasn’t living off you, dear. He just couldn’t find a job on his level.”
“For seven years?” Helen said, angry all over again.
“And he did a lot around your house. He remodeled the kitchen and the bathrooms, and—”
Helen interrupted. “Mom, he didn’t do anything but tear up those rooms. I had to hire people to finish what he started. I paid for those renovations myself. Meanwhile, he was screwing every woman in the neighborhood.”
“Helen, I have no desire to hear that language. And while I don’t want to be critical of my own daughter, perhaps if you’d been home more instead of working those long hours, your husband might have been more faithful.”
“Mother!”
“Well, men have different appetites than we do, dear. I know you think I’m old-fashioned, but it’s true. Robbie could still be a good husband if you’d just come home and do what the judge said.”
“Never!” Helen said. “I’ll starve first.”
“But you don’t have to,” her mother said. She started her wailing whine again. “Helen, you could have a decent high-paying job—”