by Elaine Viets
Helen thought of her own cat, Thumbs, a six-toed beauty with golden eyes. Would she have the courage to do the kind thing if the time came? She hoped so, but she didn’t want to think about it.
“Hi, there, Lulu,” Betty said, as the store’s dog came over to greet her. “Don’t you look pretty?” Lulu was working the room, modeling a yellow sundress and matching yellow-painted nails.
“That dog gets more manicures than I do,” Helen said.
Jeff came rushing out of the back room. “Betty!” he said, and air-kissed her in a way that let Helen know the woman was important.
“Betty is very generous to our favorite animal charities,” Jeff oozed, “but she’s not afraid to get her hands dirty. She also cleans out the cages at the animal shelter every Friday.”
“I know how to shovel the shit,” Betty said, with a raucous laugh.
Todd came out of the grooming room. “I hate that fan. It’s too noisy,” he said, like a spoiled child.
“I’ll buy you a new one.” Jeff sounded desperate. “Helen, take special care of Betty for me while I get Todd settled.” He steered Todd back inside the grooming room. Helen could hear Jeff pleading over the barking dogs. “Please, Todd, just work the cage room for a few days until Jonathon cools off.”
“Do you have this dog bed in red corduroy?” Betty asked.
“Let me check in the back,” Helen said.
The dog beds were on the upper shelves, naturally. Helen was standing on a ladder in the back of the stockroom when she realized she wasn’t alone. Todd had slipped in. He was by the door, with his back to her, punching in numbers on his cell phone. Helen froze. Should she tell him she was here? But Todd was talking on the phone. She couldn’t hear what he was saying, but she didn’t want to interrupt. Then Todd raised his voice. It had a hard, nasty edge Helen had never heard before.
“Listen,” Todd said. “I don’t care how you get the money, but I want it.” He paused, but the air was electric with his silent anger. “That’s your problem, not mine.” Todd snapped his cell phone shut. He stomped out of the stockroom. Helen was relieved he hadn’t seen her.
Well, well, Helen thought. Pretty Todd could be quite ugly. Did someone owe him money? Or was he shaking down one of the women who gave him those expensive presents? Or one of the men? It wasn’t any of Helen’s business. She shoved the dog beds back on the shelf and went out front to Betty.
“Sorry,” Helen said. “Nothing in red.”
Betty added the brown corduroy bed to her other purchases. Helen rang them up and helped her carry them out to the car. Barney the bichon wheezed along beside them. The parking lot was a long walk for his short legs.
Helen returned to find Jeff standing in his shop, wringing his hands. “I can’t find Todd and I can’t reach Jonathon on his cell phone. We have ten dogs waiting to be groomed, and Barkley is due in now.”
Helen had never seen Jeff so upset. “They’ll be back,” she said. “It’s good that the groomers took a break. They needed to cool off, both of them.”
“I guess you’re right,” Jeff said. “You’re friends with Jonathon. You know him.”
Helen stopped herself before she said, “I’m not a friend, exactly.” She’d never spoken to the star away from the store. Even there, she rarely exchanged more than a polite, “How are you today?” They didn’t have much in common. Jonathon was wildly emotional. Helen was quiet and dull by his standards. But Jonathon didn’t slam her with the seething contempt he saved for Todd. There seemed to be some unspoken bond between them.
Maybe it’s because we have the same attitude toward animals, Helen thought. We like them, but we don’t kiss them or do baby talk. They aren’t furry children. The bell rang and more customers poured into the shop, demanding bags of food, stainless-steel bowls, treats, and toys. She was too busy to consider her relationship with Jonathon.
By three thirty the Pampered Pet was back to normal, if Helen could use that word to describe the Saturday chaos. Todd was in the cage room, kissing his dogs. Jonathon groomed his animals in solitary splendor. Six dogs were ready to go home. The others would be finished by closing, including the priceless Barkley.
When there was a lull, Helen said, “Is Jonathon OK?”
“Yes, thank goodness.” Jeff leaned against the counter. He looked tired.
“He seems so . . . retro,” Helen said.
“You mean he acts like an old queen,” Jeff said.
Jeff was about as flamboyant as a button-down shirt. He loved khaki shorts, beer, pot roast—and a hunky interior decorator named Bill.
“The seventies queen act is a little dated, but that’s how some groomers are,” Jeff said. “They can be very emotional. The temperament goes with the talent. I know Jonathon won’t stay here much longer. But I’ll enjoy the income while I can. I can handle the problems he creates, including the jealousy. Todd has been snippy lately, and I’m not talking about his scissors.”
“I have noticed his sulks.”
“Todd will be OK,” Jeff said. “He has his own following.”
Helen wondered if Todd would take his customers to another salon. His ego was nearly as big as Jonathon’s. She didn’t envy Jeff the delicate task of dealing with temperamental groomers.
“Listen, Jeff, I was embarrassed when Tammie made those remarks about rainbow ribbons,” Helen said. “I’m really sorry. You shouldn’t have to listen to that.”
“And you shouldn’t feel you have to apologize for rude straights—if that’s what she is,” Jeff said.
“What do you mean?”
“People who make nasty remarks about me being gay usually have problems trying to figure out which way they swing,” Jeff said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d had a lesbian episode. Or maybe she and her husband are into threesomes.”
Helen remembered Tammie’s bare chest and her husband’s wobbling Speedo. “That’s what Betty told me. Tammie and her husband are swingers.” The swingers scene was bigger, or at least more open, than in Helen’s hometown of St. Louis. Swingers clubs took out bold ads in the alternative papers. One even promised a free salad bar, although Helen never found naked people and fat-free dressing a tantalizing mix.
“In Fort Lauderdale, anything is possible,” Helen said. “But it’s getting late. I’d better deliver Prince to Miss No Stress.”
“How was Tammie at home?”
“Drunk and naked,” Helen said.
Jeff raised one eyebrow. But before he could say more, the shop was invaded by an enormous shaggy brown dog.
“I need to guard the stock,” he said. “It’s Willis.”
Willis was a lovable old bear of a dog who slyly helped himself to treats and toys. He knew how to nose open the bins to sneak bacon-and-cheese treats. He took toys from the rack and hid them in his neck fur. The shaggy shoplifter had to be watched every minute.
Helen went back to the grooming room to collect Prince, the party animal. Jonathon had done wonders with the Yorkie’s thin, flyaway hair. Now Prince had a regal coat. He was crowned with a jaunty blue bow.
“Looking good, big boy,” Helen said.
She put Prince in the soft-sided carrier with more turkey jerky. The Yorkie settled happily on the seat of the hot-pink Pupmobile. He was a sensible little animal. He deserved a better owner. Helen hoped she’d find the stressed-out Tammie sober and dressed. Or better yet, soberly dressed.
As they approached the country club, Helen looked down at her black pants. They seemed different. More like a tweed blend. She was covered in dog hair. Terrific. Well, if Helen had to look at Tammie’s hide, Tammie could put up with Helen’s hair.
At the country club, the somnolent security guard woke up long enough to wave Helen through. Helen thought she saw Betty the animal lover leaving, golf clubs in her car. But when Helen waved, the woman looked right through her. Helen decided she must be wrong. A lot of women in Florida looked like Betty.
Helen rang the doorbell to the Grimsby mansion. No one answered.
She knocked on the front door. It swung open.
“Hello?” Helen said.
Silence.
The little dog whimpered.
Enough, Helen thought. I am not going through this again.
She stood in the vast foyer and yelled, “Tammie, are you home?” The sound echoed off the marble.
That should be loud enough to get Tammie out of a drunken stupor, Helen thought. She waited five minutes, but there was no answer. The room was cold and dark as a mausoleum. Prince shivered. It felt like sun-warmed leaves moving in the breeze. The little dog seemed frightened. Helen wondered if he didn’t want to go home to his drunken owner.
Well, she couldn’t stay here all afternoon. She gave Prince a reassuring pat. Then Helen marched through the living room and straight down the hall to the master bedroom. She stopped in the bath and took the terry robe off the hook. She was not going to deal with a naked Tammie twice in one day.
On the pool deck, Helen blinked in the bright afternoon sun.
“Hello? Tammie?”
No answer. The naked legs with the bloody toes were again roasting in the sun. More flies crawled on the waxed limbs, but Tammie still didn’t shoo them away. She must be out cold, Helen thought.
Prince whimpered again and hid his head in her armpit. Could his sensitive nose pick up his owner’s alcohol? Poor little fellow. Helen wondered if the drunken Tammie had ever hurt Prince.
“It’s OK,” she said, and scratched his ears.
Helen walked around the umbrella table and saw three more drinks lined up next to the first glass. All were empty. Tammie’s head had fallen forward on her massive chest. Sure enough, she was naked. Helen was grateful that Tammie’s long blond hair covered her bare chest.
One look at that slumped figure, and Helen knew it would take gallons of strong black coffee to revive the hostess before Prince’s party. Well, it wasn’t her problem. She just had to deliver the dog.
“Tammie,” Helen said, and shook her. She needed Tammie’s signature on the delivery form. The alcohol odor nearly knocked Helen flat. Prince’s owner was dead drunk.
Then Tammie’s blond head lolled to one side.
Helen saw the ten-inch ice-tempered stainless-steel scissors sticking out of Tammie’s chest.
CHAPTER 4
Helen dropped the dog. She didn’t mean to. But those grooming scissors were driven into her mind as well as Tammie’s naked chest. The dead woman looked more than ever like an artist’s model. Now she was Still Life with Death. Her voluptuous body was a delicate gray-green. A dark trail of blood ran down her unnatural breasts. Tammie was frighteningly beautiful.
Helen literally lost her grip at the sight, and Prince went into a free fall.
She caught the Yorkie like a fumbled football before he hit the pool deck. Helen held him contritely to her chest and tried to soothe him. “Prince, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she said.
Prince made a small mewing sound, more like a cat than a dog. Then he raised his head and gave a single high-pitched howl. It was a cry of mourning. His loss hung in the air like a dark veil. Helen had no idea the pampered little animal could feel primal grief.
Helen’s own senses seemed supersharp. Everything was extra bright. She saw the sun glinting off the grooming shears in Tammie’s chest, heard the frantic buzzing flies, felt a slight breeze bring the first noxious death smells.
She saw Tammie’s long, strong hands hanging over the sides of the chaise. She was a muscular woman who could have fought death. But there were no cuts on her palms or arms. Tammie had not tried to defend herself. Death came as a surprise. She’d been stabbed by someone she did not fear and almost certainly knew. Who was it? Her husband? A friend? A lover?
Tammie’s killer had plunged the scissors through the skin and muscle just above her breasts with a single thrust. That was pure rage.
Helen was gripped with a less noble emotion than Prince. She felt raw panic. She had to get out of this death house. Tammie’s killer could still be inside.
She had to get away for another reason: She could not be involved in a murder. She could not have the police asking awkward questions. If they looked into her past, they’d find out she had attacked a naked woman in St. Louis. Helen could see Sandy now, fleeing from Helen’s wrath, searching for her cell phone in her pile of clothes. Helen had had a good reason for going after her, and Sandy had never filed charges. But she had called the police, and they had made a report. The detectives investigating Tammie’s homicide might believe that this time Helen had killed a woman. They’d see the motive for the attack was the same: sex.
Jeff had seen Tammie coming on to her at the store. Helen had complained that Tammie was drunk and naked. The cops would find out she was a swinger soon enough. Unwanted advances could be a powerful motive for murder.
And the weapon? It was a natural for Helen, too. She could have taken the grooming scissors from the Pampered Pet, where she worked. Where Jonathon worked. The star groomer used ten-inch scissors.
If I’m not the killer, then I’m working with one—or for one, she thought.
Helen would worry about that later. She had to get away first. She tried to remember if she’d touched anything in Tammie’s house.
Yes! Her fingerprints were all over the front door. What could she use to wipe them off? She looked frantically around the pool deck. Nothing. Tammie didn’t have a towel or a swimsuit cover-up. Helen was afraid to rummage for one in the bathroom and leave more traces of herself.
For one wicked moment she eyed Prince’s long fur, and considered him as a canine handy wipe. Then she caught his sad brown eyes under his ridiculous blue bow and felt ashamed. He’d suffered enough indignities. Besides, she finally noticed the terry robe she’d brought to cover Tammie. It was dropped at her feet.
Prince was shivering now, even in the afternoon sun. He must be in shock. Helen tucked him tenderly into the folds of the robe, feeling guilty. How could she even think of using that poor dog to wipe away the evidence of his mistress’s death? Helen carried him through the cavernous house to the front door. She held him tightly while she rubbed the robe’s sleeve over the front door panels, frame, knob, and bell. She pushed in the lock button, then wiped it down again.
If the killer’s prints were on that door, I’m destroying evidence, she thought. But killers wore gloves, didn’t they? Not always, said a little voice. Sometimes they made stupid mistakes. Especially when they killed in an unplanned frenzy. You could be helping a murderer go free.
Something small and twisted slithered into her soul, a guilty imp who would torment her during the long nights. Helen didn’t have time to indulge it right now. She wiped down the front door once more. Holding the robe, she slammed it shut, then ran to the pink Pupmobile. Could she drive anything more conspicuous?
Prince whimpered as she put him in the pet caddy. She gave him another pat, but he couldn’t stop shivering. Even turkey jerky didn’t calm him.
Poor Prince. She wondered if Tammie deserved such loyalty. Helen scratched the dog’s ears until he stopped shaking. She felt shaky herself, but she had to get back to the shop. Prince would be OK there. Jeff would protect him until Tammie’s husband took the little dog home. The shop owner had a soft heart.
The security guard was snoring in his kiosk when Helen left the country club. He didn’t even wake up to wave her through the gate. Good. As the Pupmobile idled noisily in the Saturday afternoon traffic, Helen concocted her story for Jeff. She’d tell her boss that Tammie didn’t answer when she rang the doorbell. Helen had knocked and beat on the door, but nobody opened it. Finally she’d left.
Helen never went inside Tammie’s house, never saw her dead body, never heard the buzzing flies or saw the sun shining on the groomer’s scissors. She looked at her face in the mirror. How was she going to pretend she was fine when her skin was flour-white and her eyes were wide with fear?
I’ll paint on some color, she thought, and reached for her purse. That’s when she saw th
e white robe on the car seat. Ohmigod! She’d brought Tammie’s robe with her. How stupid was that?
Helen had to get rid of it. She pulled into a strip mall, then realized she was driving a block-long pink Cadillac. Someone was sure to see her poking around in the Dumpster.
A bigger mall half a block away had an Old Navy, a Marshalls, a Target store, a bagel shop, and a bank, like every other shopping center. She parked the Pupmobile and picked up Prince. It was too hot to leave him in the car. She tucked him into the crook of her arm. Now she was just another shopper carrying her little dog—and a big fluffy white bathrobe.
Helen hiked two blocks to a depressing string of doctors’ offices, a nail salon, and a Chinese restaurant. It was so anonymous, Helen doubted she could even find it again. She threw the robe in a Dumpster behind the building. Prince yipped.
Flies crawled over the Dumpster, just like they were crawling over Tammie’s body. Prince’s owner was lying dead by her pool. Helen remembered Tammie’s blank eyes and gray-green skin. What if some innocent partygoer found Tammie’s body and had a heart attack? What if her husband, Kent, wasn’t the killer? He didn’t deserve to stumble on that dreadful scene. His last memory of his wife would be of a flyblown corpse. A maid, a neighbor, a child who lost her ball—any of them could find Tammie and have nightmares forever.
Helen had to call the police. She knew it was risky, but she couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t.
A pay phone rose like a mirage in front of her. Then she saw that the phone had been vandalized. The cord dangled without a receiver.
Was that a sign not to call?
Nope, it was a sign she was in a rough area of Lauderdale. The next phone worked. She dialed the police nonemergency number.
“I want to report a murder,” Helen said quickly. The officer who answered tried to interrupt, but she bulldozed ahead. “It’s at the Grimsby house. Stately Palms Country Club. There’s a dead woman by the pool.”
Helen hung up. She hadn’t tried to disguise her voice. She wondered if the call was being taped. She ran back to the car and drove the six blocks to the Pampered Pet.