by Elaine Viets
Helen didn’t tell Jeff what she was doing. She knew he wouldn’t want her talking to a woman threatening a lawsuit. He’d think it was too risky. She figured they had nothing to lose.
Helen had looked up Willoughby’s address in Jeff’s files. The Barclay couple had moved into a new mansion shortly after their pup snagged her big contract. Willoughby told Detective Brogers that she’d kicked out her husband, but she still lived in their new home. Like most mansions, it was near a bus route. The rich needed their houses cleaned, their dogs walked, and their children watched.
Helen bought an energy bar for a late lunch and ate it while she waited for her bus. The passengers sat tense and straight-backed, clutching shopping bags crammed with water jugs, peanut butter, and bread. Hurricane food. The air was electric with their edgy energy and end-of-the-day sweat. Babies cried. Mothers snapped at their children. Men complained about their jobs and their wives. Helen was glad when the bus reached her stop.
The Island of Malta was in a cluster of man-made islands off Las Olas in downtown Lauderdale. Five years ago the islands had been lined with charming old Florida homes, sensible one-story houses with breeze-ways and jalousie windows.
Many were gone now, torn down for three-story stucco mansions. Squeezed into minilots, the new mansions looked like elephants herded into tiny pens.
Willoughby’s mansion had a portico with gawky white columns, like a teenager who’d grown too fast. The half-circle drive was barely wide enough for a Mercedes. Helen counted at least four styles of windows on the house, from Palladian to bulging bay. It reminded Helen of her own tract mansion in St. Louis. She didn’t miss it.
Helen rang the doorbell. Willoughby answered. When she saw Helen, her face turned into a primitive mask of hate. “You husband stealer. What do you want?”
Helen was stunned. She’d expected any reaction but this. “Husband stealer? What are you talking about?”
“I heard you were flirting with my husband at the shop. You let him grope you, you slut. You just want a rich man. Well, let me tell you, when I finish with him, he won’t have a dime.”
Helen was still trying to figure this out. Someone must have told Willoughby about Francis feeling her up, but they put a nasty spin on it. Did a customer see that humiliating scene? Did Todd or Jonathon tell Detective Brogers to save their own skin? That damned detective was capable of twisting the truth.
“Wait a minute,” Helen said. “I don’t know where you heard that, but it’s a lie. I wasn’t flirting with him. Your husband put his hand on me, and I stomped him good and hard. You must know he’s handy. I guess that’s one reason why you’re divorcing him.”
Helen didn’t add that she couldn’t steal what this woman didn’t want—or that she wouldn’t let Francis touch her if she spent six months alone in a lighthouse.
“Now can we talk about what’s really important—getting your dog back?”
“You’d better be here to tell me you’ve found Barkley,” Willoughby said. But there wasn’t much threat in her words. The bounce was gone from her curls and her step. She had great dark circles under her eyes. Willoughby was worried. Helen suspected this stucco splendor would go on the sheriff’s auction block if the dog wasn’t found.
“I have an idea about how to get her,” Helen said. “But I need to come in and talk to you.”
Willoughby opened the door reluctantly. Helen slid in before the woman changed her mind. The front hall glared with mirrors and marble. Tiny spotlights set off a gold-framed painting of Willoughby signed by Rax. She looked like a young queen about to ascend her throne. Helen thought the least the couple could do was put up a portrait of Barkley. After all, the dog bought the place.
Willoughby didn’t look like the confident woman in the painting. She was wearing something pale and ruffled that undoubtedly had a designer label. But in her own home, Willoughby seemed overwhelmed by her expensive outfit, as if it were wearing her.
Helen followed Willoughby into a great room with a view of the pool. She watched the wind rip pink and purple flowers off the bushes and toss them like confetti. The pool deck led to a boat dock, where a white Hatteras cruiser rocked wildly in the water.
Willoughby went to a wet bar. With silver tongs she dropped ice in a wineglass, then poured herself an Evian water and topped it with a thin lemon slice. She didn’t offer Helen a drink. Helen was thirsty after her bus ride, but she said nothing. She was inside the house. That was enough.
Willoughby plopped down on a pale beige leather couch. Helen bet Barkley never got near it. Helen sat down on another slippery leather sofa section and set loose an avalanche of needlepoint pillows. She picked them off the floor, then said, “I’m very sorry about Barkley.”
“You should be,” Willoughby said. “You gave my dog to my husband. She’s gone and you’re responsible.”
Helen felt her tact tearing away like the flower petals. “You should have warned us you had sole custody of your dog. You didn’t tell us your husband couldn’t pick up Barkley.”
“I did. Besides, did I have to give you a list of all the people who couldn’t pick up my dog?” Willoughby said. “I dropped it off at your store and I should have picked it up. Period. I don’t have to give you any information about my private life.”
“It.” Barkley was an “it” to her owner. Willoughby didn’t really love the perky puppy, just the money she brought in. Maybe my plan has a chance, Helen thought. She took a deep breath and started in. “Jeff will lose everything if you sue, Willoughby. His reputation, his shop. I’ll lose my job.” Helen didn’t mention that she had much more to lose, including her freedom, if this story went public.
“And I’ve lost my income,” Willoughby said. “I’m bankrupt if that dog isn’t found. Do you know what the payments are on this house? Or the maintenance? The pool service alone costs a fortune.”
Not to mention the landscaping, Helen thought, as a palm frond sailed through the air. It’s already gone with the wind.
“Suing us won’t help you,” Helen said. “Jeff doesn’t have one million dollars, much less fifty million. The only one who’ll get any money is your lawyer. Please give us a chance to find Barkley. You don’t want this story getting out to the media. A catfight over a dog won’t help you.”
I could have used a better choice of words, Helen thought.
But Willoughby was listening. She leaned forward and said, “What choice do I have? Barkley has to be on the set in Miami Monday or the department store contract is canceled.”
“There’s a hurricane coming,” Helen said. “It’s supposed to be a bad one. When it hits, electricity and phone lines will be down, bridges will be out, roads will be flooded. Barkley’s shoot will be canceled. Things won’t get back to normal for weeks. No one will expect you to produce Barkley during a major hurricane. The papers will have other news to print besides a lost-dog story. You have some time to save the situation. Please let us find Barkley for you.”
Willoughby considered Helen’s words. She could almost hear the wheels turning in the blonde’s frilly brain. Finally she said, “You have one week.”
Helen nearly collapsed with relief. It was the first time she’d felt at ease since Willoughby screamed at her in the store. Helen wanted to sink into the sofa’s soft surface and snooze on the piles of pillows. Her plan would work if the weather cooperated. She was probably the only person in Broward County who hoped the hurricane would hit.
“Then we’ve got a deal,” Helen said. “But you’ll have to help me.”
“I’m not giving you any money,” Willoughby said in a hard, flat voice. Her hand shook slightly, and the ice clinked in her glass.
“I’m not asking for any,” Helen said. “I need you to answer some questions. Do you think anyone besides your husband could have kidnapped your dog?”
“No,” Willoughby said. “The police aren’t sure he did it, but I know it was Francis. He hates me. He’s never forgiven me for filing for divorce and getting temp
orary custody of Barkley.”
Willoughby didn’t mention that she’d also exiled her husband from the McMansion. Francis had lost everything—his wife, his income, and his home. Helen wondered how much rage was in that pale little nonentity with the restless hands.
“I thought Detective Brogers was going to talk to your husband.”
“He did, for all the good it did. Francis claimed someone impersonated him at your store. He says he never took Barkley.”
“Could the police get a search warrant for his home?”
“They didn’t need one,” Willoughby said. “Francis let the detective inside his condo to look for the dog. He made a big deal out of inviting him in to search. Brogers says he checked the entire place, including the closets and the storage room. There was no sign of a dog, not even any food or water bowls. But I know Francis has it. He’s hidden it somewhere. Francis is too smart to keep Barkley at his condo. Oh, there’s another thing. Francis has an alibi. He says he was at the mall when the dog was stolen.”
“Which mall?” Helen said. Florida had more malls than mosquitoes.
“Sawgrass Mills.”
“The outlet mall?” Helen said.
“The one with more than four hundred stores,” Willoughby said. “It’s supposed to be the biggest mall in Florida. It’s two miles long. They bring shoppers in on tour buses. You can buy mall tour tickets at the big hotels.”
Helen wondered if Willoughby had statistics on all the major malls. The woman was definitely a power shopper.
“I never shop there for my clothes, of course,” Willoughby said. “They would be at least a year out-of-date in an outlet mall.” She paused dramatically.
The awkward silence continued. Helen finally figured out that Willoughby was waiting for her to admire her outfit. “I can see your clothes are up-to-the-minute,” Helen said.
Willoughby smiled and took another sip of Evian. “Francis doesn’t care about fashion. He likes to roam around and look at things. He calls it people-watching.” Willoughby clearly could not understand her husband’s fascination with others. People were supposed to watch her.
“Francis knows that on a Saturday afternoon some fifty thousand shoppers can swarm into the Sawgrass stores. He showed Detective Brogers a dated and time-stamped receipt for a meal at the mall. He was supposedly eating a hamburger when Barkley was taken from your store. Except I don’t believe it. Who keeps a receipt like that? It was for cash, too. That’s how I knew it was a phony. Francis pays for everything with a credit card.”
“Did you tell the police?” Helen said.
“Yes. Francis explained that, too. He said he couldn’t afford to use his credit cards since I filed for divorce. I don’t believe that. I think he went through the mall trash cans until he found a receipt with the right time on it. It wouldn’t be difficult, not with thousands of shoppers eating there. Somebody would throw away a receipt he could use. There are more than thirty places to eat in that mall.”
Helen wondered if Francis was really that crafty, or if his soon-to-be ex was so blinded by hatred that she wanted Francis to be the kidnapper.
“Where did he eat?” Helen said.
“He didn’t,” Willoughby said. “He lied.”
Helen tried again. “At what restaurant did he claim he had the hamburger?”
“The Golden Calf.”
“Do the police think your dog was kidnapped for money?” Helen asked.
“I haven’t received a ransom demand. I would have been contacted by now. Who else would take it?”
“There are a lot of sick puppies out there,” Helen said. Why am I dogged with animal puns? she wondered.
Willoughby was too intent on blaming her husband to notice. “Francis took that dog,” she said. “He didn’t kidnap it for ransom. He’s doing this to spite me. He doesn’t need the money. We got a nice chunk of money up front when we signed exclusively with the Davis stores. He took his share and invested it.”
Willoughby blew her half on the house and the boat, while Francis saved his. The little bland man had brains.
“Francis has stashed that dog somewhere,” Willoughby said. “He’s going to keep Barkley until the Davis department stores contract is canceled and my dog’s career is ruined. I know how Francis thinks.”
“Where do you think he hid Barkley?”
“I have no idea,” Willoughby said, and drained her glass. “I just know he did.”
“Does he have family here in Florida?”
“No, his mother is his only relative, and she lives in Connecticut,” Willoughby said. “Mrs. Barclay wouldn’t steal my dog. She’s a lovely woman. She’s also eighty years old.”
“What about his friends?”
“Francis doesn’t have any,” Willoughby said.
Helen could believe that. “Lovers?” she said.
Willoughby looked uneasy. “He doesn’t have a girlfriend.”
Ha, Helen thought. Your husband is a hound and you know it. But she’d been revolted by his touch. She suspected other women would feel the same way. Maybe he didn’t have a girlfriend. Why the careful wording? Was his ass-grabbing an act? Fort Lauderdale was the gayest city this side of San Francisco.
“Boyfriends?” Helen said.
That got a reaction. “Francis is not gay!”
The lady doth protest way too much, Helen thought, but she let the subject go. “Do you have Francis’s new address?”
“Why do you need it?” Willoughby sounded suspicious. Was she still afraid Helen would cross over to the enemy?
“In case I want to follow him for surveillance,” Helen said.
Willoughby liked that idea. She handed over the address.
“One last thing. Do you have a photograph of Francis?”
“Why?” Willoughby said. She still didn’t quite trust Helen.
“I’d like to ask around at the mall and see if anyone can identify him.”
Willoughby went to a cherry-wood secretary near the window. She opened a slim drawer and took out a silver-framed photo. It had been lying facedown. Helen saw it was a wedding photo of Willoughby and Francis. Willoughby was radiant in white lace and ribbons. Francis had no more expression than the plastic groom on a wedding cake. What had the beaming bride seen in him? Was it only money? Helen studied his blank face. It was the man who’d felt her up. She’d definitely given Barkley to Francis, but Helen didn’t know whether to be relieved or not.
Willoughby slid the photo from the frame, then took a shiny pair of scissors from the same drawer. They had to be at least ten inches long. She cut the groom out of the picture with one swift, sharp stroke.
“Here,” she said. “Take this.”
CHAPTER 11
Waiting for a hurricane was like sitting on death row, Helen decided. She knew the lethal hour, but still hoped for a reprieve. Hurricanes were as unpredictable as governors, and subject to as many unseen pressures.
Maybe the monster storm would suddenly swing up to Palm Beach. (Dear God, please hit the rich for a change, instead of the poor mobile-home dwellers.) Maybe it would head even farther north to Orlando. (Smite Disney World, oh Lord.) Or go south into the Keys. (They’re used to it.) Best of all, let it blow harmlessly out to sea. Please let it hit anywhere, anyplace, but my place.
That was the prayer for the hurricane-zone dwellers, and Helen recited it when she left Willoughby’s house.
Yes, she needed a hurricane to make her plan work. But now that she was getting a taste of the oncoming storm, she wasn’t sure she wanted to go through with it. The wind battered the palm trees and sent trash in swirling circles. Flying particles of sand stung her eyes. Street signs flapped and hummed, ready to pull loose and fly like Frisbees.
Helen felt restless and uneasy. She did not want to go home. Phil was still in Washington, and she couldn’t face her lonely apartment. It was only five o’clock. She had Francis’s picture stashed in her purse. Helen caught a bus to Sawgrass Mills Mall.
The bus ride to
ok nearly an hour in vicious traffic. Cars scurried like scalded roaches through red lights, over yellow lines, into wrong lanes. Pickups flipped off anyone who was in their way. SUV drivers yelled into their cell phones and ran pedestrians out of the crosswalks.
Helen’s bus lurched past gas stations with angry, honking lines at the pumps. At one gas station, Helen saw a burly man take a swing at a guy who blocked his access. For once she was glad to be riding the bus.
At last she reached the sprawling Sawgrass Mills Mall. The bus let her off at the Pink Flamingo entrance. Each entrance was named after a different tropical animal—Pink Flamingo, White Seahorse, Yellow Toucan. As she approached the doors, recorded reminders said, “You are entering the Pink Flamingo entrance. . . .”
For Helen, the mall was a preview of hell, where she would forever long for what she could not have. Her shoes were resoled and her black Escada pants were shiny with age, but the mall’s designer styles, even heavily discounted, were too expensive for her. She was six feet tall and couldn’t wear the sensibly priced brands most women bought. They were too short for Helen’s extra-long arms and legs.
A sleek designer pantsuit with a long coat caught her eye in a shop window, and she stood there, wondering if maybe she could hold up a convenience store and buy it. She was almost grateful when a short woman shoved her out of the way. Helen tore her eyes from the displays and started searching for the Golden Calf, where Francis claimed he was eating when Barkley was stolen.
The stores were as frantic as on Christmas Eve. Nothing stopped the relentless shopping, not even the threat of a category-three hurricane. People had to buy before it all blew away.
The food court smelled deliciously of fried grease. Helen realized she was hungry. Not “I’d like some dinner” hungry, but “I could eat a side of beef” ravenous. Hurricanes did that. The energy bar she’d downed on the way to Willoughby’s house was long gone. Helen stopped at a chocolate shop for a big bar of Cadbury dark chocolate, then studied the mall map for the Golden Calf.