by Elaine Viets
“Well, it has affected my colitis,” he said. “Just this morning . . .”
You asked for it, Helen thought, as Albert gave her the intimate details of his ailment. At least they were bonding. “I’ve never had an attack so explosive,” he finished. “It’s gotten much worse since Mr. Turner passed on. Stress, you know.”
“That’s terrible,” she cut in quickly. “His death seems to have caused so many problems. When Page left the store that Friday, I had no idea it would be the last time I’d see him alive. I went to a party, like it was any other day. Where did you go?”
“What I do on my own time is my business,” Albert said, and his lips zipped. So much for bonding.
He’s hiding something, Helen thought. And I’m going to find out what it is.
But not tonight. Tonight she had another task. It was even worse than listening to Albert. She had to call her mother in St. Louis. Once a month, at seven in the evening, she made the call. And dreaded it the rest of the time.
At home, Helen prepared herself. She shut the miniblinds and locked the door, then opened her utility closet and got out the battered Samsonite suitcase that held her seven-thousand-dollar stash. She rooted around in the old-lady underwear until she found the cell phone and a piece of pink cellophane from a gift basket.
She’d bought the cell phone in Kansas when she was on the run. She’d sent her sister Kathy a thousand dollars and hoped that would cover the bills for a long time. Her air conditioner was rattling so loud, it sounded like it was about to take off and join the mother ship. She had to turn it off so she could hear on the phone.
“Hi, Mom. How’s everything?” she said.
“Just fine,” said her mother in a high, clipped voice that signaled disaster. “Absolutely peachy. Kathy—you remember your sister?—was in the hospital with emergency surgery. I’m taking care of the kids. Of course, I couldn’t call you, because I don’t know where you are, and you won’t tell me.”
“Surgery? Oh, my God. What’s wrong?” Not Kathy, the only person she trusted.
“She had her gall bladder removed,” her mother said. She was dragging it out, reveling in Helen’s remorse and guilt.
“The doctor was able to do the so-called easy surgery, but her recovery has been slow. It didn’t help that you weren’t at your sister’s side when she needed you, because you’re busy ruining your life for a stupid, stubborn reason.”
“It’s not stupid,” burst out Helen. “Rob betrayed me—with Sandy, a woman he said he couldn’t stand.”
“He made a mistake. Men do that.”
“A mistake! Mother, that man didn’t have a job for seven years. He lived off me during that time. He was supposed to be oiling the patio furniture. I came home from work early and caught him with our next-door neighbor.”
“And instead of handling the situation with dignity, the way a daughter of mine should, you went crazy with a crowbar.”
Helen was not getting into this argument again. “Is Kathy home? I’d better call her before it’s too late.”
“You can’t hang up,” her mother said. “I want to talk to you. Helen, what if Kathy had died? What if something had happened to one of her children? Or me? You need to—”
Helen crinkled the pink cellophane. “Sorry, Mom, you’re breaking up. Bad connection. Good-bye, Mom, I love you.”
Now she really did have a headache. She was sweating heavily, and not just because the air conditioner was off. Helen dialed her sister’s number with shaky fingers.
“I’m fine, Helen,” Kathy insisted.
“You don’t sound fine. You sound weak.”
“I was asleep. Really, I’m OK. Tom has been making me dinner. Mom has the kids. I’m enjoying the rest. I may malinger a little longer.”
Helen wished she could see her sister so she’d know for sure. Instead, she resorted to their old childhood code. “Cross your heart and hope to die?”
“Cross my heart, Helen. You know Mom. She makes every scratch into a fatal illness.”
“I don’t think gall-bladder surgery is a scratch.”
“It’s not that big a deal. I had the keyhole surgery. You should see my scars. I’ve had bigger mosquito bites. I’m more worried about you, Helen. Are you OK? There are a lot of murders down there in Florida.”
“There are a lot of murders up there in St. Louis.”
“Yes, but mostly in the black part of town.”
Helen sighed. Kathy was good at closing her eyes to reality.
“Helen, are you happy?” Kathy said. “I can’t see you living in two rooms with some old 1950s furniture, when you used to have a twelve-room mansion in St. Louis. You had Ralph Lauren fabrics and—”
“Yes, Kathy, I had all that. But you know what? It wasn’t me. I worked until eight or nine every night so I could buy things I didn’t want. For recreation, I went shopping, which got me in more debt.
“When I was divorcing Rob, I used to walk around the house at night and say, ‘I could live without this. I could live without that.’ I’d go through the house room by room. I could live without the dining room that seated twelve. Twelve people from the office I didn’t really like but wanted to impress. I could live without the formal living room, where I rarely relaxed. It was a showcase for parties to advance my career.
“Or the guest room, which never had any guests because I was too busy to stay in touch with my out-of-town friends. One day, I realized I could live without it all.
“Now I sit out by the pool here in Florida and drink wine and watch the sunset. It’s a better life for me. I’m much happier.”
“You’re sure?” Kathy said. “Cross your heart?”
“Cross my heart. Stay well, Kathy. I love you.”
She hung up. Helen missed her sister with an almost physical pain. Kathy understood her. She had stood by Helen during the divorce. Her ultra-Catholic mother wanted her to get back with Rob. Not Kathy. She’d told Helen, “I’m surprised you only took the crowbar to his car. I’d have broken every bone in his body.”
The memory of a naked Rob, running for his Land Cruiser, could still make Helen smile. He had abandoned Sandy and locked himself inside the SUV. Helen picked up a crowbar and smashed the windshield. By the time a terrified Sandy had called 911, Helen had trashed every inch of the vehicle.
There was no law against that. The car was registered in her name. She’d paid for it.
The police had laughed themselves silly at her bare-assed husband, cowering in the broken glass. He and Sandy did not press assault charges. They didn’t want Sandy’s husband to find out. He did anyway.
Helen filed for divorce. That’s when things went really bad.
Rob claimed that she earned her six-figure salary because he was a loyal house husband, subject to her wild mood swings. As proof, his lawyer showed photos of the beaten SUV and the police report. Rob’s many girlfriends testified that he’d done a lot around the house. A lot of screwing, maybe, but no hammering and sawing. He never finished any of his home-handyman projects. Helen had to pay contractors to undo his lousy work.
Throughout this fiasco, Helen’s high-priced lawyer sat there like a department-store dummy. He wouldn’t let her say a word. He didn’t want to upset the judge.
In the end, the judge gave Rob half their house, even though she’d made all the payments. She’d expected that. What she didn’t expect was when the judge gave Rob half her future earnings, because her successful career was based on his “love and support.”
That was when a red rage flamed up in Helen. She stood up in court, picked up the familiar black book with the gold lettering, and said, “I swear on this Bible that my husband Rob will not get another nickel of my salary.”
Later, the Bible turned out to be the Revised Missouri Statutes. But Helen considered the oath binding. She packed a suitcase and ran from St. Louis, driving a zigzag course across the country to throw the law and her ex off her trail. She wasn’t sure how far the courts would go to track dow
n a deadbeat wife, but Rob would work hard to avoid work.
On the road, she sold her silver Lexus to a crooked used-car dealer. He gave her a clunker that died in Fort Lauderdale. That’s how she wound up in South Florida, working dead-end jobs to avoid the corporate and government computers. Even if Rob found her, he’d get only half of her miserable paycheck. That wouldn’t keep him in imported beer.
Only her sister Kathy knew where she was. Helen couldn’t trust her mother. Rob would sweet-talk her address out of her mother.
It wasn’t a bad call, Helen lied to herself. She’d had worse. She packed away the phone and stretched out on the bed for just a minute. When she woke up the next morning, she was still in her work clothes, clutching her cat, Thumbs, like a teddy bear.
Helen went warily to her date with Gabriel. She had the warnings from Sarah and the knowledge of her own failures with men. The production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream was spellbinding. Even in an outdoor amphitheater, the ancient words overpowered the modern distractions of thumping car radios and traffic noise. She applauded vigorously when the actors took their bows. Then she and Gabe walked around downtown Hollywood. Helen liked the way his eyes crinkled. She was a sucker for eye crinkles.
“Can I show you something?” Gabriel asked. “It’s only a few blocks away.”
They walked to a pretty residential neighborhood with older homes. He stopped at an empty lot landscaped with fan-shaped palms and a fish pond. In the center was a concrete foundation.
“This will be my dream house,” he said. “I’m finishing it a little at a time. What do you think the perfect house needs?”
Two people who love each other, Helen wanted to say. Instead she discussed fireplaces, hardwood floors, and granite countertops. They walked and talked, then drank cold beer and ate spicy peanut noodles at a Thai restaurant.
At last, he took her home to the Coronado. The night was thick with her neighbor’s cannabis fog. Helen knew Phil’s dreams were smoke. Gabriel’s dream was solid concrete. Maybe they could build on it together.
“Let me in,” Gabe said quietly. “I’ve shown you my dream. Let me be part of yours.” He kissed her, and his lips were soft and warm and his body was hard and insistent.
Helen unlocked the door.
Chapter 20
Helen woke up alone.
She was sure last night was a dream, a wonderful dream, until she saw the blond hair on her pillow. Gabriel had definitely been in her bed, and this morning he was a hair balder. She smiled and stretched. She did not want a perfect man, but she’d had a perfect night.
She padded out to the kitchen. On the sink was a chocolate croissant, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and a single red rose. Gabriel definitely understood a woman’s needs.
There was also a note:
Dear Helen,
I hated to leave you, but I had to be on the job at six this morning. I’ll be working late into the night, but I’ll think of you all day. Thanks for letting me share my dream house with you. I’ll stop by the store tomorrow, but if you’re too busy to talk, I’ll understand. See you soon, dream lover.
Gabriel
P.S.: Your air conditioner was rattling, so I fixed it.
Helen sighed. This man was too good to be true. So sensitive. So understanding. It wasn’t until her cat nearly tripped her that she realized Thumbs had been weaving through her legs, demanding breakfast.
“Sorry, boy,” she said, giving him a pat. “I’m in a daze here.”
She fed Thumbs, made coffee, then took her breakfast outside to the table by the pool.
“Well, well, somebody had a good night,” Margery said. She looked like a grape Popsicle in a purple shorts outfit that showed off her tanned legs. At seventy-six, Margery had legs most women would envy.
Helen took a big bite of croissant so she wouldn’t have to answer.
Margery sipped her coffee, lit a cigarette, and said, “How’s the investigation going, Sherlock?”
“I think I have a lead.” Helen didn’t mention that everything she found out so far made Peggy guiltier. “It’s Albert. When I asked him where he was the night Page died, he got angry and refused to tell me.”
“He sounds guilty, all right. Albert the one with the stick up his ass?”
Helen nodded.
“Those are the worst kind.” Margery blew a massive cloud of smoke. “What’s his motive?”
“He’s fifty-six, has an old mother to support, no health insurance if he loses this job, and no prospects for more work.”
“Turner took everything from him. A stupid thing to do. How will you find out what this Albert was doing?”
“I’ll think of something,” Helen said, licking the last of the chocolate croissant off her fingers. “I’d better get to work. I’m due in at nine.”
It’s like love, Sarah had told her. Just let it happen naturally. Well, love had happened last night. Maybe Albert’s alibi would happen, too.
“He’s so vicious,” Brad said. “Do you know what Albert did?” The little bookseller was in the break room, trembling with anger. His color was a dangerous red.
“He showed me this.” He had a magazine, rolled up as if he was going to swat a puppy.
“I didn’t even know it existed.” Brad looked ready to shred the magazine with his bare hands. “This piece of trash makes fun of J.Lo’s . . . demeans her . . .”
“Her what?” Helen said.
“Her derriere! How can they do this to a sweet, sensitive woman?”
He unrolled a MAD magazine. Helen hadn’t read one since she was a kid, but it didn’t look much different. Brad found the offending page with shaking fingers, a satire called “People Who Should Have Won This Year’s Nobel Prizes.”
MAD gave an honorable mention for the Nobel prize for chemistry to “Jennifer Lopez . . . who in conjunction with Du Pont, developed a synthetic fabric capable of containing her ass.” The cartoon showed Lopez with PASS and DON’T PASS signs on her bulging bottom.
For Brad’s sake, Helen suppressed a smile.
“It’s so sexist,” said the skinny bookseller, whose own rear was flat as Nebraska. “J.Lo is not fat. She’s not like these half-starved actresses. She’s a grown woman with curves.”
“That she is,” Helen said. “If more entertainers were built like her, life would be easier for the average woman. Brad, this won’t hurt J.Lo. Her fans know better.”
“It’s mean,” Brad said. “I don’t read MAD. I wouldn’t have seen it and it wouldn’t have upset me. But Albert couldn’t wait to show it to me.”
“Albert’s gotten meaner since the store-closing rumors started,” Helen said.
“Those aren’t rumors, sweetie. This place will be history soon.”
It was natural to go to the next topic, Helen thought. As natural as falling in love. “I know Albert hated what Page was doing. No one seems to know where he went that Friday evening. Do you think he killed Page Turner?”
Brad started, then his face lit with a malicious smile. “I know what he was doing that night. I saw him, quite by accident. He swore me to secrecy. He had to. It was awful.”
“Tell me,” Helen whispered.
“That would break my vow. But I can show you. Then I won’t be telling you, will I? Albert doesn’t deserve my secrecy. Not after what he did.”
“When can I see?” said Helen.
“Tonight. He can’t stop himself. He does it three or four times a week. Meet me in front of the store at nine p.m. And wear black.”
Wear black? What was Albert doing at night? Was he a burglar? A grave robber?
The hands crawled around the clock. Finally, it was nine and she was in black, waiting in front of the bookstore. Brad picked her up in a rusty little blue car that looked like a running shoe. They chugged into the lot of a chain bookstore. A sign at the door announced, OPEN-MIKE POETRY NIGHT—9:00 P.M. TONIGHT.
“What are we doing here?” Helen said.
“Shhh. Don’t talk,” Brad said. “Si
t in the back row on the floor and keep your head down. If he spots you, he’ll bolt.”
About forty black-clad poetry lovers were perched on folding chairs or sprawled on the floor. A young woman with luminous white skin was standing in front of the microphone, reciting her poem in a flat, uninflected voice.
“My milk is the feast of goddesses. My right breast is Juno. My left is Hera,” she droned.
“Aren’t they the same person?” Helen whispered.
“It’s about feelings, not facts,” Brad said. People gave them dirty looks. Brad shut up.
“And from my womb flows Venus and rebellion,” the poet said in a monotone, then stopped. The audience applauded loudly. The poem was over.
A thin man who looked like Ichabod Crane in a beret stepped up to the microphone. He was dressed entirely in black, like a Beat poet of fifty years ago. It was Albert. Helen hardly recognized him without his stiff white shirt. He adjusted the microphone and began reading in a high, thin voice:
“Pain.
“Pain.
“Pain is a red scream in my head.
“Pain is a cry in my heart . . .”
“Pain is listening to this,” Helen whispered.
“I told you it was awful. Page Turner deserved to die. The English language does not deserve this torture.”
“Shhh!” someone hissed.
Helen had seen enough. She and Brad scooted to the end of the row and ducked out the back.
“Lord, that was awful,” Helen said. “No wonder Albert didn’t want me to know what he was doing.”
“At a competing bookstore, too,” Brad said. “He’s addicted to open-mike poetry nights. Hits all the bookstores and coffeehouses. Saturdays, he does two.”
“Why didn’t anyone laugh at his bad poetry?”
“Because they’ll be getting up and reading their own bad poetry.”
“But I don’t understand why a sensitive poet like Albert would read a true crime book called Smother Love.”
“Isn’t that the one about Darryl Eugene Crow? He’s known as the prison poet. His poetry sounds a lot like Albert’s.”
“Thank you for showing me, Brad. That was painful, but instructive.”