by Elaine Viets
“I’m not hungry,” Helen said. “It’s only seven thirty, but I think I’ll crash. I’m declaring this rotten day officially over.”
But the day wasn’t finished with her. There was a screech of brakes in the parking lot and the sound of slamming doors. Margery peered through the palm trees. “There’s a big Crown Victoria blocking in all our cars. Looks like we’ve got plainclothes cops.”
“Awk!” Pete said, and flapped his wings. Green feathers flew on the wind.
Peggy’s porcelain skin lost all its color. A few months ago she’d been taken away from the Coronado in handcuffs. The memory of that night still left her shaken. Peggy hid her fear with a bad joke. “Are the cops coming to arrest the tenants in 2C already?” she said.
No one laughed. Helen knew who they were after.
Two men in dark suits moved swiftly down the Coronado’s cracked sidewalk to the pool. One was tall and skinny, with a red, acne-scarred face. His arms and legs were loose and too long, as if the factory-installed models weren’t available. He seemed in constant motion. His suit flapped, his Adam’s apple bobbed, and his no-color hair stuck straight up. He should have looked like a comical country boy. Instead he seemed full of menace.
The other man was short, solid, and very still. He was built like a Russian nesting doll, with a shiny bald head, no neck, and feral yellow-brown eyes. He kept them trained on Helen as he flashed a badge.
“Helen Hawthorne,” he said. It was a demand. “Detective Jim Crayton.” He didn’t wait for her to answer.
He knows who I am, Helen thought.
“This is my partner, Detective Skip McGoogan. We’re Stately Palms homicide. We’d like to talk to you.”
“About what?” Helen said, although she already knew. The demons were swinging their hammers relentlessly in her head. Her mouth was dry. This wasn’t a hangover. It was fear. Over by the pool gate, the dancing palm tree was doing the hurricane hula. It told Helen what she already knew: Bad things were coming.
“I’ll stay with you, Helen,” Margery said. She was no longer the languid Marlboro smoker. She’d turned into a purple crusader. Peggy stood beside her, arms crossed, ready to defend her friend despite her own fear. Pete patrolled Peggy’s shoulder, his celery stick abandoned on the pool deck.
Helen didn’t want any of them there, especially Margery. Her landlady might tell the police that Helen had discovered Tammie’s body. Margery would do it for Helen’s own good. She couldn’t risk that.
“No, you go on inside,” Helen said. “I’ll be fine.”
“You’re sure?” Margery asked.
Helen nodded.
“In that case,” Margery said, “I’ll put on my bathrobe and get comfortable.”
That was her landlady’s unsubtle way of telling Helen she should confess. Now Helen was sure she’d made the right decision. Margery liked to meddle.
When her landlady and Peggy had disappeared into the darkness, Helen chose a chair from the poolside umbrella table. Reclining in a chaise would make Helen feel vulnerable. The brightly striped umbrella, made for sunnier times, seemed to mock this occasion. Crayton, the Russian-doll detective, pulled out a chair, too. The screech of metal legs on concrete made Helen wince.
Detective McGoogan sat next to him, leaving Helen isolated on her side of the table. Even sitting down, the detective was in perpetual motion. McGoogan scratched his scalp, which explained why his hair stuck straight up, then ran his huge hand across his pitted face, rubbed his nose, and drummed his fingers on the table.
Helen itched just watching him.
“What time did you go to Tammie Grimsby’s house today?” Detective Crayton, the Russian doll, asked. McGoogan fiddled with his cuff link.
“I picked up her dog, Prince, at noon for a grooming appointment,” Helen said. “I tried to return him about four o’clock, but Tammie never answered her door. Why? Is there a problem?”
“You could say that,” Crayton said. “She’s dead.”
“No,” Helen said. She sounded like a ham actor. “What happened?”
“She was murdered,” Detective Crayton said. McGoogan straightened his tie and scratched his wrist.
“No,” Helen said.
“Yes,” Crayton said. “You’re sure no one was at home? You didn’t hear anyone in the house?” McGoogan twisted his shirt button.
“No,” Helen said. Did she know any other word? “I knocked and rang the bell. No one answered. Then I left.”
“Give us a detailed account of your whereabouts from the time you left the store until you returned.”
Helen did. She only left out the part where she found Tammie, wiped down the door, dropped the dead woman’s robe in the Dumpster, and phoned the police. She tried to remember everything she said, because she knew the detectives would ask her again and again, trying to trip her up. It was hard to concentrate when McGoogan was rubbing his neck and pulling on his earlobe.
“Tell us about the argument the victim had with the groomer, Jonathon,” Crayton said.
So Todd had talked about the fight with Tammie, Helen thought. He wouldn’t miss a chance to stick it to his rival. Helen liked Jonathon and his theatrical style, but no matter how much she wanted to, she could not deny that this incident had happened. She tried to downplay it.
“Jonathon is a little temperamental,” she said. “He doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s grooming the dogs, and Tammie barged in on him. He asked her to leave. It wasn’t a big deal.”
“I heard he called the victim a bitch,” Detective Crayton said. “They had a screaming battle in the store. Then later that same day, he threatened the groomer Todd with ten-inch scissors. I guess that didn’t mean anything, either.”
Todd got his revenge for being shoved into the cage room, Helen thought.
“Jonathon was a little annoyed with Todd,” Helen said.
“He cut Todd’s throat with those scissors,” Crayton said. “I saw a two-inch-long wound on the man’s neck. That’s assault.”
“A cut?” Helen couldn’t hide her surprise. “I didn’t see any cut. I was there when it happened.”
Did Todd cut himself so he’d have something to show the police?
“How long have you known the victim, Tammie Grimsby?” Crayton said. McGoogan flicked something off his nails.
“Today was the first time I saw her,” Helen said. “She wanted help with a birthday party for her Yorkie, Prince. She also wanted to have him groomed. She didn’t have time to bring the dog back to the shop for his appointment, so Jeff arranged a pickup. It was the first time I’d ever done a pickup at her house.”
“You’ve had no prior dealings with the victim outside of the store?” Detective Crayton said. “You never went to any parties at her house, for instance?”
They know Tammie and Kent are swingers, Helen thought.
“Never,” she said. “Today was the first time I was ever at her house, and that was to get her dog.”
Now the other detective, McGoogan, stopped picking, flicking, and scratching. His cop’s eyes bored in on Helen. “And how was the victim dressed?” he said.
“Dressed?” Helen said.
“Is there an echo in here?” McGoogan said. “What was she wearing?”
Something shear, Helen wanted to say, as she pictured those scissors in Tammie’s chest.
“Nothing,” Helen said. “She was on her chaise longue and she wasn’t dressed at all.”
“Did she throw a towel over herself or anything?”
“No,” Helen said.
“And how did you react?” Crayton was back asking the questions again. McGoogan was scratching his elbow.
“I ignored it,” Helen said. “I picked up her dog and left.”
“You weren’t offended by her nudity?” he said. McGoogan pulled on his shirt collar.
“Rich people are eccentric,” Helen said.
“Anyone else in the Grimsby house while you were getting the dog?” Crayton said.
�
��Her husband, Kent.”
“And what was he wearing?”
“A Speedo,” Helen said. “He came out by the pool to talk to us.”
“About what?” Crayton said.
“He was going to test-drive a new car. A Porsche or a Ferrari, something fast.” Helen left out the part where Kent talked about his wife’s body—and hers.
“Did the victim get up off the chaise longue while you were there? Did she walk you to the door?”
“No,” Helen said. “She just laid there.” Or was it lay? She never got that straight. In Tammie’s case, either one was probably correct.
“So at the time that you left the house, the victim was on the chaise longue and her husband was by the pool. There was no one else in the home. No servants or guests?”
“No one,” Helen said. “No housekeeper came to the door. Kent said he had to get dressed for the test drive. Tammie pointed to the dog. Prince was sleeping in the sun. I picked him up and let myself out.”
“And what happened when you returned to the Grimsby home with the dog?”
How many times was she going to have to repeat this? “I knocked on the door. I rang the bell and shouted her name, but Tammie never came out. When I couldn’t get any answer, I drove Prince back to the shop.”
“Did you drive straight back?”
“Yes,” Helen lied. She watched McGoogan pick at a crater on his red face.
“We’d like to have a tech take your fingerprints,” Detective Crayton said.
“Mine? Why?”
“For elimination purposes. We should find them on the door and the bell.”
Helen had a sick feeling. “Uh, sure,” she said.
“And Miss Hawthorne,” Detective Crayton said. “We’d like you to remain available for future questioning.”
Remain available for future questioning. It sounded like a curse. Remain available. Remain available. The words echoed in her dreams. That night Helen slept poorly, sick with worry and cheap wine.
When she got to the shop in the morning, Jeff looked like he’d had the same kind of night as Helen. His hair was flat and oily and his face was baggy as an old hound’s. His yellow polo shirt looked like he’d picked it up off the floor. Jeff hadn’t bothered dressing Lulu that morning. The store’s top model looked oddly naked in her own fur coat.
Jeff sat at the counter with his head in his hands, an extra-large coffee beside him. Helen said good morning. He grunted. She didn’t ask if the police had talked to him about Tammie. She knew that answer.
Only Todd looked sleek and cheerful. He came out of the back room carrying bags of dog food, his chest and arm muscles bulging against his white T-shirt. He had a bandage on his neck. Was this the site of Jonathon’s alleged attack?
“Did you hear the news, Helen?” Todd said. “Jonathon is at the police station. The detectives are questioning him about Tammie’s murder.”
“This is a disaster, personally and professionally,” Jeff said. “Jonathon is my top groomer.”
She could see Todd grip the dog-food bags until they crackled in protest. Jeff must be upset if he didn’t try to soothe Todd’s feelings. He was always so diplomatic.
“The police say he killed her with his grooming scissors,” Todd said.
“They didn’t say anything like that,” Jeff snapped. “The detectives asked a lot of questions about some grooming scissors. I think they were found at the scene.”
“Any fingerprints on the scissors?” Helen asked.
“They won’t say,” Jeff said.
“But they did say Jonathon was missing a pair of ten-inch scissors from his case,” Todd said. This time he didn’t hide the sly smile.
“Anyone could have swiped them,” Jeff said. “This place was a zoo Saturday.”
“Well, there you are,” Helen said. “Besides, Jonathon doesn’t have a history of violence, does he?”
She waited for Jeff to say no. Instead there was silence.
“Jeff?” Helen said.
Jeff talked into his coffee cup. “I’ve heard rumors that Jonathon killed a man in self-defense. This was twenty years ago, when he was first starting out. The way I heard it, Jonathon was walking home from a grooming salon in Miami, and a couple of men decided to amuse themselves by rolling queers. They attacked him and beat him up pretty badly. But Jonathon knew how to defend himself. He killed one attacker and the other ran away. No charges were filed.”
“Jonathon actually beat a man to death?” Helen said.
“No,” Jeff said. “They say Jonathon stabbed him. With grooming scissors.”
CHAPTER 8
An anguished cry came from the grooming-room cages. This wasn’t some spoiled poodle demanding a pat. It was the sound of heartbreak. Helen recognized it.
“That’s Prince,” she said. “Tammie’s Yorkie. He’s crying for his mistress.”
The little dog with the shrewd eyes and the silly bow had howled out his grief all morning.
“I’m sure Tammie’s husband has forgotten about him,” Jeff said. “Lord knows that poor man has enough on his mind. I’ll give Kent a call on his cell phone and find out when we can deliver the Yorkie. Helen, why don’t you get on the extension? You’re doing the driving. He may have special instructions.”
This was a phone call Helen didn’t want to miss. She wondered if Kent knew that the Yorkie’s groomer was a suspect in his wife’s murder. She had to hear how Jeff the diplomat would handle this situation.
Kent Grimsby answered on the second ring. “I’m so sorry about Tammie,” Jeff said.
“Yeah,” Kent said. “That fingerprint powder leaves a real mess. It’s everywhere. The cops still have the whole place sealed off as a crime scene. I couldn’t spend the night in my own freakin’ house. I had to sleep in a hotel. I couldn’t use my pool this morning. They won’t even let me get my own clothes. I called my lawyer and he chewed the chief’s ass. Now they’re saying I can get back in tomorrow. Can you believe it?”
The selfish twit. He never mentioned his dead wife, Helen thought.
“It must be horrible,” Jeff said. “I’m sure you’ve forgotten in the confusion”—he was too tactful to mention the word “murder”—“but your Yorkie, Prince, is staying with us. We can keep him until you’re back home. The delivery will be free of charge and we won’t bill you for the boarding, but Prince needs to go home. He’s very distressed. We hope he’ll be less upset when he’s back in familiar surroundings. When would you like Helen to bring him home?”
“Never,” Kent said. “That thing’s not mine. It’s hers. I hate it. It’s nothing but a long-haired rat.”
“But, sir, what am I going to do with—”
Kent cut him off. “You can put it to sleep for all I care. I never want to see that useless little bastard again. All it ever did was bark and piss.”
“But—” Jeff said.
“Don’t try to bring that nasty yapper here. I’ll wring its neck right in front of you. Got that?”
Kent slammed down the phone.
Helen’s ears rang from Kent’s phone slam. She shook her head to clear it. That was a bad idea. Her head clanged and wobbled. She was still rocky from last night’s wine, but her anger at Kent’s cruelty was burning away her hangover.
“That creep,” she said. “I can’t believe Kent would do that. Prince is a terrific dog. He’s loyal and smart—everything Kent isn’t. I’d love to beat some sense into that gym-sculpted hunk of lard.”
“You’ll never get any sense into Kent’s rock head,” Jeff said. His long spaniel face was paler than usual. He was shaken by Kent’s threats to kill Prince.
“How can he threaten that harmless little animal?” Helen said. “Prince is the only living reminder of his murdered wife.”
“I think you just answered your question,” Jeff said.
“Does he hate Tammie that much?” Helen said. “Do you think he hated his wife enough to kill her?”
“He certainly doesn’t sound like a grievin
g husband,” Jeff said. “Prince is more upset over Tammie’s death than he is.”
“How are we going to make Kent take care of that dog?” Helen said.
“We aren’t,” Jeff said. “I won’t turn Prince over to that heartless maniac. I’ll find him a decent home.”
Jeff had an amazing ability to find homes for stray kittens, lost dogs, and other abandoned animals. He knew whose dog or cat had died and when his customers were ready to adopt another pet.
“If you could find a home for that Jack Russell, you should be able to place a two-year-old Yorkie,” Helen said.
“Gizmo was my greatest triumph,” Jeff said.
The old, white-muzzled Jack Russell terrier was brought in by a weeping blonde who hobbled in on needle-nosed Prada slingbacks. “We’re moving to a condo that won’t allow animals, and my husband says I have to get rid of Gizmo,” she said. “My husband says Gizmo’s too old and I should put him to sleep. But I can’t. There’s nothing wrong with him. I’ve had him for ten years. You have to help me.
“Here.” She’d handed Jeff the dignified old dog, who studied him with trusting eyes. The woman’s tears stained Jeff’s counter. She wasn’t a regular customer, but Jeff promised to find Gizmo a home.
“Personally, I’d get rid of the husband,” Helen said when the weeping woman left.
“Gizmo won’t keep her in Prada,” Jeff said. “She’s made her choice and she has to live with it—and herself.”
At ten years old, Gizmo was hardly an ideal age for adoption. But thirty phone calls later, Jeff found the dog a home. A man was looking for a four-legged fishing buddy, and he enjoyed older dogs. Like most Jack Russells, Gizmo loved the water. The man and his old dog now spent many hours fishing together, eating ham sandwiches, and drinking beer.
A mournful yowl reminded Jeff of his current duty.
“I hope I do half as well finding a home for Prince.” Jeff flexed his dialing finger and said, “Now the magic begins.”
While Jeff made his calls, Helen waited on customers and Todd gave Lulu a bath, a massage, and a manicure. Wish I could have a day of beauty, Helen thought. No wonder Lulu looks like a million bucks and I look like a dog.