by Elaine Viets
“Good,” Helen said. “He’ll be with his beloved J.Lo. What about Matt?”
Gayle threw a pile of blank order forms in the trash can. “The guy with the great dreadlocks? Matt was smart. We already knew that, since he had the good sense to walk out of here when his check bounced. He got a scholarship to law school. He wants to be a civil-rights lawyer.”
“And young Denny?”
“Wait till you hear that one. He went to a karaoke night at a club in Pompano a couple of weeks ago and did his Sting imitation. He’s working there now. His eighties oldies act is drawing huge crowds. The kid’s an overnight success. A South Beach club is talking with his new agent about a gig down there.”
“Just think, we saw it free when he sang to a floor mop,” Helen said wistfully.
“If he really gets famous, I’ll go down in history as the moron who made him scrub the counter he danced on.”
Helen laughed. “You were just doing your job. Will you be working at another bookstore?”
“No. Astrid and I are moving to Key West,” Gayle said, flattening and stacking more shipping boxes.
“What will you do there?”
“You don’t have to do anything in Key West,” Gayle said. “You just have to be.”
“What will you be?”
“Happy,” Gayle said, and she looked as happy as anyone could in deep black. “What about you?”
“I start Monday as a telemarketer,” Helen said, leaning on her broom. “I’ll call you at dinnertime one night.”
“And I’ll hang up on you,” Gayle said. She stopped folding boxes and looked at Helen. “Telemarketing is an awful job. Are you really going to do it?”
“The money’s good and I’m tough,” Helen said. She kicked an empty box to move it out of her way, but it didn’t budge. “Ouch. My toe. I think I broke my toe. This box is full.”
Gayle opened it up. “It’s a case of Burt Plank paperbacks. I’m not paying to send that old lecher’s books back. Will you do me a favor and strip the case?”
Burt Plank. At the mention of his name, Helen felt his fat hand crawling up her leg like a spider.
“My pleasure,” she said.
Madame Muffy, the preppy psychic, moved out of apartment 2C shortly after Page Turners closed. She would not be living in a mansion with a Turner family fortune. DNA tests proved conclusively that Madame Muffy was not the daughter of Page Turner III.
She promised to keep in touch, but like most people who made that promise, she didn’t. Helen had not thought about her in months. She and Margery were eating popcorn and watching an old movie on late-night TV when they saw an ad for Madame Miranda. The psychic looked exotic with her jangling beads, flapping fringe, and dangling earrings.
“Call Madame Miranda now. Know your future today,” she said, earrings swaying hypnotically. “I can feel your aura through the phone. I will find what’s blocking your road to future happiness. And order my new book, Madame Miranda’s Past Look at Your Future. For only twenty-nine ninety-five, you can have my book and a special reading. Operators are standing by. Call now for—”
“Holy shit,” Margery said, and nearly swallowed her cigarette. “It’s Madame Muffy. She took my advice and ditched the preppy getup and stupid name. Now she can afford TV ads.”
“Her prediction was right,” Helen said. “She just interpreted it wrong. The spirit voices told her she would come into a lot of money. She heard the words ‘book’ and ‘nine hundred.’ Muffy thought she would get a share of the nine-hundred-million-dollar fortune from the Turner bookstore family. Instead, she got a nine hundred number and wrote her own book.”
Melanie Devereaux DuShayne wept prettily during her double murder trial. She said she was driven to kill Page Turner “to ease her soul-searing shame.”
The prosecution argued that the deceased was a respected literary figure killed by a cold, premeditated murderer. The judge allowed police testimony about the videos, although they could not be shown in court. Page Turner looked like pond scum. If Melanie had not killed him, the jury would have.
Unfortunately, there was also Mr. Davies’ death. The jury, whose average age was seventy-three, did not take kindly to someone who snuffed out an elderly man like an old dog, no matter how blue her eyes and blond her hair. The judge was no spring chicken, either, although the scrawny old plucker rather looked like one. He agreed with their recommendation.
Melanie was sentenced to life in prison without possibility of parole for the murders of Page Turner III and Zebediah Davies. She was a model prisoner and developed a prison dental education program.
Her POD book, Love and Murder—Forever: A Mysterious Romance or Romantic Mystery, sold briskly, thanks to the trial publicity.
Helen, Peggy, and Pete were out by the pool one morning some time after the trial, reading the paper. Helen noticed a hickey on Peggy’s neck, on the other side from where Pete sat. She was still dating the cop.
Peggy had yet another scheme to win the lottery. “Next week is a full moon. Nobody knows why, but double numbers are more likely to win during a full moon.”
“You mean like twenty-two, forty-four, sixty-six?” Helen said.
“Exactly. Some think the double numbers affect the balance of the balls, and, combined with the gravitational pull of the moon, it’s enough to tip them into the winning slots.”
Helen figured this was more moonshine, but she was glad to see Peggy back at her old pastime. She was trying to find the news story about the newest Lotto winner for Peggy when she said, “Hey, here’s an article about Melanie.”
She read the headline: Killer Deal for Convicted Murderer.
“Melanie’s getting a million bucks for writing three mysterious romances or romantic mysteries,” Helen said. “A New York publisher has picked her up. Critics compare her potential to Danielle Steel’s.”
“I don’t believe it,” Peggy said. “I lose weeks of my life, not to mention my bed and my butcher knife, and she gets a million bucks. I thought you couldn’t profit from your crimes.”
“Awwwk,” Pete said.
“Took the words out of my mouth,” Peggy said.
“She’s writing fiction,” Helen said. “That doesn’t count. Maybe you could send her a bill for your time. It says here her new novels are very pro-police.”
“I guess she is pro-police. The cops locked up the wrong person. If you hadn’t started investigating, I’d be sitting on death row.”
“Not with Colby for a lawyer,” Helen said. “Here’s a quote from her editor. She says, ‘Melanie is the perfect writer. She has no distractions. I only wish the rest of them were locked up.’ ”
Helen felt her guilt over her role in Melanie’s murders melt away as she read the story of her new contract.
“I think Melanie got what she wanted,” Helen said, “a successful writing career, lots of attention, plenty of romance, but no dastardly men.”
“If only the prison uniforms had ruffles, she’d be in heaven,” Peggy said.
Dying to Call You
To all the people I called who were in the shower, at supper or asleep: I’m really sorry. I hope you’ll forgive me when you read this book about telemarketing.
Acknowledgments
The boiler room in this book resembles none of the telemarketing companies I’ve worked for, except in this way: Most telemarketers have rotten jobs. Hang up on them gently, please.
As always, I want to thank my husband, Don Crinklaw, for his extraordinary help and patience. My agent, David Hendin, is still the best.
Special thanks to my editor, Kara Cesare, who devoted long hours to editing and guiding this project, her assistant, Rose Hilliard, and to the Signet copy editor and production staff.
Many people helped with this book. I hope I didn’t leave anyone out.
Thanks to Captain Brian Chalk for his help with the boat chase scene, and to Charles A. Intriago, president of Alert Global Media, Inc., and the Money Laundering Alert newsletter.
/> Thanks to Joanne Sinchuk and John Spera at south Florida’s largest mystery bookstore, Murder on the Beach, in Delray Beach, Florida.
Thanks also to Valerie Cannata, Colby Cox, Jinny Gender, Karen Grace, Kay Gordy, and Janet Smith.
Rita Scott does indeed make cat toys packed with the most powerful catnip in kittendom. They have sent my cats into frenzies of ecstasy.
Special thanks to the law enforcement men and women who answered countless questions on weapons, police interrogations, and emergency procedures. Rick McMahan, ATF special agent; the Broward County sheriff’s office, and the United States Coast Guard. Thanks to Robin Burcell, author of Cold Case. Particular thanks to Detective RC White, Fort Lauderdale Police Department (retired). Any mistakes are mine, not theirs.
Jerry Sanford, author of Miami Heat and federal prosecutor for the northern district of Florida, answered many complicated legal questions.
Thanks to the librarians at the Broward County library and the St. Louis public library who researched my questions, no matter how strange, and always answered with a straight face.
Thanks to public relations expert Jack Klobnak, and to my friend Carole Wantz, who takes such joy in books and book-selling.
Special thanks to librarian Anne Watts, the person who lives with Thumbs. Thumbs is a real cat and a real polydactyl.
Chapter 1
“Hi, Mrs. Grimes. This is Helen with—”
“Not interested.” Click.
“Hi, Mr. Lester, this is Helen with Tank Titan Septic System Cleaner. We make—”
“I told you people to take my name off this list.” Click.
“Hi, Mr. Hardy, this is Helen with Tank Titan Septic System Cleaner. We make a septic-tank cleaner for your home system that is guaranteed to help reduce large chunks, odors and wet spots . . .”
“You just woke me up, bitch. Call here again and I’ll kill you.” Click.
“Have a good day, sir,” Helen said, as he hung up on her.
It was ten o’clock in the morning. Helen Hawthorne had made more than a hundred calls all over the country in two hours, waking up people in Connecticut, irritating them in Iowa, ticking them off in Texas.
She hadn’t sold anything so far today. She was desperate. So was everyone else in the telemarketing boiler room. Desperation was ground into the foul wrinkled carpet. It clung to the dirty computer screens. It soaked into the scuffed white walls.
How did scuff marks get eight feet up on the walls? Helen wondered.
“Let’s hear you selling, people,” Vito the manager said, as he prowled the aisles, making sure everyone was calling. “Loud and proud.”
There was nothing proud about this job, although it was loud. All sixty telemarketers were shouting their sales spiel into the phones.
Suddenly, Helen’s computer went blank. It crashed again, making it the third time in a week.
Vita screamed like a wounded animal. “Goddamn it, I’m paying thousands to these computer geeks, and these worthless machines still don’t work. How can I make money when nobody’s calling? Don’t sit on your heinies, people. Everyone in the break room for a pep talk.”
Vito was always giving pep talks, so the boiler room would meet the quotas set by the New York headquarters. Helen had seen some of the quota makers when they visited the Fort Lauderdale office. They looked like elegant reptiles.
Getting sixty telemarketers into an eight-by-ten break room was like cramming college kids into a Volkswagen. Her coworkers fell mostly into three groups: Hopeful but poorly educated young Hispanics and African-Americans. Middle-class, middle-aged whites down on their luck. Plus a sprinkling of felons and junkies. Helen was on the run from the court and her ex-husband, so she knew what group she belonged in. At least she did not look twitchy and tattooed.
Helen suspected Vito, the manager, had been in trouble with the law. During one pep talk, he’d said, “I know this place looks like a shithole, but you sell a product that works, a product you can be proud of. If you didn’t, the ATF guys would come busting through that door, and you’d be down on the floor with guns to your heads.”
Helen was pretty sure the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives didn’t investigate boiler-room fraud, but she figured Vito knew what a government gun to your head felt like.
Vito was an energetic package of round, pink muscle. His arms looked like thick rolls of bologna. His fingers were sausages. His head was round and pink. Even his black hair looked muscular.
He paced back and forth, then pointed at a young woman with skin like brown satin. “Taniqua, why aren’t you selling today?”
“My computer be acting strange,” she said. “It keep calling New York. They be talking about some kinda terror alert. They scared. Not my fault I ain’t selling.”
“It is your fault,” Vito said. “So what if there’s an orange alert? I know people are worried about terrorism, but the twin towers have tumbled and you still have to flush your toilet. Life goes on.
“Richie, why didn’t you sell anything this morning?”
“Because people got mad and hung up on me. One guy was ninety-seven and said he didn’t need a seven-year supply.”
“So sell him the three-year supply,” Vito said. “People live to be a hundred all the time.”
A kid from the computer room, who looked like a mouse with a moustache, stuck his head in the door and said, “Computers are up.”
“Quit wasting time,” Vito said to the telemarketers. “Everybody back to work. I need sales, people. First one to sell gets a free trip to Meyer Lansky’s grave.”
Helen’s computer started dialing State Center, Iowa.
“Hi, Mr. Harmon,” Helen began. She made it past the crucial first paragraph. She steamed through the section about “one of your neighbors in State Center gave me your name as a homeowner with a septic tank.” He still didn’t stop her.
She told him that Tank Titan contained natural bacteria “that will break down and liquefy. And liquidity is just as important in septic tanks as it is in banks, right, Mr. Harmon?”
“Why, yes,” he said. He was still with her.
She told him the product was simple and easy to use. “Just flush a package down your commode once a month.” He let her keep talking. She was on her way to a sale.
She made her final pitch: “We guarantee complete satisfaction with your septic-tank system for seven years, Mr. Harmon, or you’ll get one hundred percent of your money back. Does that sound fair to you, Mr. Harmon?”
“Why, yes it does,” he said, in his soft country accent. “What’s this gonna cost me?”
“Right now, we are offering an eighty-four-pack supply that will last you seven years for only two hundred ninety-nine dollars. That’s less than twelve cents a day for septic peace of mind.”
There was a long silence. Helen feared she’d lost him and the sale. Then he said, “I guess I do need this product. I’ve kinda let things go since my wife died. We were married thirty-seven years. She died last March.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Harmon,” Helen said.
“I miss her each and every day. I dream about her at night and then I wake up and the bed is empty, and I know she’s never going to be beside me again.”
Helen had to get him back on track. “I am sorry, Mr. Harmon,” she said again. She started reading from her pitch. “But I am sure our product will bring you complete satisfaction.”
Ouch. That was a bad choice of words. She expected him to slam down the phone, but he didn’t. “What is your address so I can send it out to you?” she said.
The lonely man ordered the full seven-year supply, probably just to hear a woman talk to him, even if she was discussing raw sewage.
Helen recorded her sale on the big board on the scuffed wall. Then she wrote down the address on scrap paper for her records. She’d get a ten-dollar commission, but Helen felt like one of the larger chunks in Mr. Harmon’s septic tank. Too many telemarketing sales were made to the old and the lonely.
To feel better, she became Telemarketing Goddess. It was a dangerous game. Helen could only risk playing it for ten minutes at a time.
After each call, telemarketers hit one of eight choices on their computers: NOT INTERESTED. ANSWERING MACHINE. SALE. HAS TANK TITAN. WRONG NUMBER. CALL BACK. DOESN’T SPEAK ENGLISH. REMOVE FROM LIST.
“REMOVE FROM LIST” were the three words telemarketing companies dreaded. It meant that person could never be called again. If the company disobeyed the command, it could be fined major money. Vito threw out a different amount each pep talk. Sometimes the fine was ten thousand dollars, other times it was twenty-five thousand. He warned that consumers could record their remove requests and collect in court if their orders were ignored.
But if the person didn’t say those three little words, they were fair game. Helen was supposed to remove rude people from the list even without the magic words. Tank Titan didn’t want any more enemies. But she ignored that rule when she was Telemarketing Goddess.
The computer was now dialing Montana, catching septic-tank owners in the morning before they went to work.
Helen launched into her spiel. An angry man interrupted her with, “You got a lot of balls calling here at eight in the morning.”
“Sorry, sir,” Helen said.
He started clubbing her with ugly, unprintable names, but Helen listened with a smile. He’d never said the three magic words. When he slammed down the phone, Helen hit the CALL BACK button. Septic-tank calls would pursue him from eight in the morning till nine at night.
A woman with a soft voice answered the next call. Helen could hear the lung-busting cry of a newborn. The woman struggled to listen to Helen over the howling baby. “I’m really sorry, but I’m kind of busy right now,” she said.
“That’s OK.” Helen removed the woman from the list without being asked and sent her to telemarketing heaven. She’d never be bothered again.