by Elaine Viets
“The storm is getting worse,” he said. “I think we’d better close about four p.m.”
The door opened with a wind-snapping sound, and two water-soaked men entered. One was short and solid. The other shook himself like a wet dog. It was homicide detectives Crayton and McGoogan. Helen’s heart sank.
“Could we talk to you a minute?” Detective Crayton asked Helen. The rain had not improved his mood. McGoogan brushed water drops off his suit like dandruff.
She looked at Jeff, hoping he’d say that he needed her behind the register.
“I can handle this,” Jeff said. “Go on back to the stockroom where you can have some privacy.” And the customers won’t see you, Helen thought.
The curtains to the grooming side twitched. Helen wondered if Todd or Jonathon were watching. She did not hear the roar of the dog dryer. Was someone trying to listen? Helen hoped the flirtatious Lulu would join them and distract the detectives, but she stayed with Jeff.
Detective Crayton did not sit down this time. He remained standing. His bald head barely came to Helen’s nose, but the detective seemed to fill the room. “Just wanted to ask you a quick question about the second time you came to the victim’s house and attempted to deliver the dog,” Crayton said.
“Yes?” Here it comes, Helen thought.
“A neighbor said your store’s pink Cadillac was parked in front of the victim’s house for nearly twenty minutes around four o’clock that afternoon. That’s a long time to knock on anyone’s door. Are you sure you didn’t go inside the house on that second visit?”
Detective McGoogan scratched his ear.
“Why would I do that?” Helen said.
“I don’t know,” Crayton said. “Maybe to kill Mrs. Grimsby.”
McGoogan scraped a splash of mud off his trouser leg.
“No!” Helen said. “Never. How can you say that? The neighbor was wrong. I knocked on the door and no one answered, so I took the dog back to the store.”
“We have the tape from the guard’s shack,” Crayton said. He leaned forward. Helen took a step back. “You came into the country club grounds at three fifty-nine p.m. and you left at four twenty-four p.m. That was a long time to knock on a door.”
Detective McGoogan wound his watch.
“I got lost,” Helen said. “Very twisty roads in that development.”
“That so?” Detective Crayton said. He looked like a brick wall. An angry wall. “Because you had no trouble finding your way back the first time. Took you about three minutes. But that’s your story, right, and you’re sticking to it? Sure you don’t want to change anything?”
Detective McGoogan was staring straight at her, eyes fixed on her lying face.
“I can’t,” Helen said. “That’s what happened.”
“Don’t go anywhere, Miss Hawthorne. We’ll be talking with you again.”
They left. Helen heard the door slam in the wind. She could feel the panic clawing at her guts. She stayed in the stockroom for a moment, trying to recover. In the small windowless bathroom, she plastered on more lipstick, then wiped it off. It looked like a bloody slash in her dead-white face. Helen splashed water on her face, then took a deep breath and went into the store.
“Everything all right?” Jeff said.
“Fine,” Helen said. She was glad when a little woman in a yellow rain slicker struggled against the wind to enter the shop. Helen ran to help her inside. It was Elsie, Margery’s friend.
Elsie pulled off the slicker and draped it over the counter. Jeff’s eyes bugged. Elsie was seventy-eight. If her heart was as young as her wardrobe, Elsie’s ticker was about eighteen. She wore tight green satin low-rise pants, a yellow halter top, and turquoise high heels. Her substantial breasts hung low, which was good. They covered most of her bare middle. Helen thought the barbed-wire tattoo on her arm was probably henna. Elsie’s fluffy hair was orange with green streaks. The effect was surreal but oddly appealing, like an old colorized photo.
Elsie had a sweet, dithery manner. “Helen, dear, Margery didn’t tell me you were working here. I came in to pick up my Corkie. Today is her first cut. That’s an important time in a doggie’s life, and I didn’t want to miss it.”
“I’ll get her,” Helen said.
Corkie was a fluffy white dog with a black button nose, who’d waited patiently in her cage. She yipped ecstatically when she climbed into Elsie’s arms, then licked her face, removing most of her mistress’s makeup. Helen thought Corkie’s instincts were good, but she was in no position to be giving fashion advice today.
In the middle of the reunion, Jonathon stalked into the boutique side like a rock star, rhinestones flashing in the fluorescent light, orange satin shining, long mane waving. As he strode by Elsie, Helen was nearly blinded by their combined colors.
Elsie didn’t realize protocol required her not to speak to the star groomer. “Excuse me, young man,” she said in her soft, slightly trembly voice. “Don’t I know you?”
“I don’t think so,” Jonathon said. He looked at Elsie like she was a hair in his butter.
“I think I saw you at a pet shop in Tampa,” Elsie said, stopping his sparkling progress. “You worked there about four years ago.”
“I’ve never been to Tampa,” Jonathon said. He stepped around Elsie and talked briefly to Jeff about his schedule. The next thing Helen knew, Jonathon had packed up his scissors and left.
“I don’t think I am mistaken,” Elsie said. “I’m very good with faces. Well, it’s not important. I want a case of puppy food and some treats for Corkie. She’s a teacup poodle. Very expensive, she was, but I bought a lot of love.”
“She’s adorable,” Jeff said, and scratched the little dog’s ears. Corkie wagged her tail and whimpered happily. She was still a pup, but big for a teacup poodle. Helen thought Jeff was giving Corkie a close examination. Was there something wrong with Jonathon’s grooming?
Elsie packed Corkie into her carrying case and tottered out on her turquoise spikes. Helen followed with the dog food. The wind hit the women so hard, they had trouble talking. Helen made sure Elsie and her pup were safely in her red Miata. Then she stowed the dog food and treats in the backseat.
“I’m sure I’ve seen that young man before,” Elsie said, once she was inside the car. “That groomer. What’s his name?”
“Jonathon,” Helen said.
“I don’t think so,” Elsie said. “That’s not the name he used when I knew him.”
CHAPTER 13
Helen’s hair hung in wet tangles. Her soaked shirt stuck to her skin. Her shoes squished. All she did was carry Elsie’s dog food to the car, and she was drenched.
“The parking lot is flooding,” she told Jeff.
“The storm drains must have backed up,” he said.
“I’ll say. The water was up to my ankles. It will be over the curb and into the store soon.”
“I’d better get some dog towels to pack around the door,” Jeff said. He opened the grooming room dryer and threw Helen a warm towel.
“Ahh,” she said as she dried her face. “That’s heaven.”
Jeff draped a second warm towel around her shivering shoulders. “How well do you know Elsie?”
“She’s a friend of my landlady, Margery Flax,” Helen said. “Elsie is a sweetie.” Her hair was dripping on her soggy shoes.
“Maybe she’s too sweet,” Jeff said. “I think she was ripped off. Corkie isn’t a teacup poodle. Teapot is more like it. That dog is too big to be a teacup. Adult teacups weigh between three and four pounds, and that puppy is nearly five pounds now. It’s not even a full-blooded poodle. Did you see her nose? A poodle nose is pointed. Elsie’s dog has a button nose, like a bichon.”
“Elsie got scammed,” Helen said. “It isn’t the first time. She’s a con artist’s dream.”
“She probably spent a lot of money for that cute little mutt,” Jeff said. “Want some coffee?”
“Yes, I’m freezing in this air-conditioning.”
Jeff poured Helen a cup. She wrapped her hands around it to warm them. “Happens all the time,” Jeff said. “Naive dog lovers are willing to pay several thousand dollars for the current fashionable pedigreed pup. Instead, they get a mixed breed. They’re easy to cheat when they don’t know anything about dogs. I see it so often in this business. I hear so many sad stories from my customers who got clipped.
“There’s a couple of local pet shops that pull these scams. They display the dogs behind glass, like works of art. They wait for suckers like Elsie, who can’t tell a poodle from a Pomeranian. They’ll hand her a puppy. ‘Just hold it,’ the pet store people say. ‘Love is free.’
“Once Elsie has that lovable puppy in her hands, she’s hooked. She’ll pay whatever they want. The price depends on how rich Elsie looks. Since your friend has designer clothes and a new Miata, I bet she paid two or three thousand dollars for Corkie.
“The store tells Elsie she has a registered, pedigreed teacup poodle. The teacup isn’t even an AKC variety. The store gave her fake papers. It’s a swindle, but dog owners rarely complain. By the time they find out they’ve been cheated, they’re in love. They wouldn’t dream of returning their dog.”
Helen knew they’d never pry Corkie away from Elsie.
“The crooked shops get away with their con jobs. It makes me sick. You know what really gets me?” Jeff said. “A lot of people can’t afford those fake pedigreed pups. The crooked shops sell the pet on credit. The dog owner winds up paying on a high-interest loan forever.”
“Poor Elsie. That sounds like something she’d do,” Helen said. “She never reads the fine print in contracts.”
“Are you going to tell her that Corkie isn’t a teacup poodle?” Jeff said.
“Why?” Helen said. “Elsie would never return that little dog. Besides, I saw the scar on her tummy. Corkie has been spayed. She won’t be bred. Telling Elsie the truth now would only upset her.”
“I guess it’s never good to know the truth about the one you love,” Jeff said. He went back to make more coffee.
Was it? Helen wondered, as she dried her damp hair with a dog dryer. The blast of warm air felt good, but the sound nearly deafened her.
Would Phil feel that way? He was flying into a hurricane for her, if the airport was open in this weather. She longed for her lover, but she was afraid to see him. When Phil looked into her eyes, would he believe her reasons for not telling him about Tammie? Would he wonder what else she was hiding from him? Would she tell him?
After she smashed her marriage with her swinging crowbar, Helen had dated a prize collection of drunks, druggies, and deadbeats. For a while she’d had a crush on Cal, her Canadian neighbor at the Coronado. She’d loved the charming way he said “a-boot” for “about.” His habit of forgetting his wallet when they went out to dinner was less charming. Helen had also dated a man who forgot he was married, and one who forgot she was single. He’d given Helen bruises when she’d talked to another man.
Helen was a loser in the dating game until she met Phil. She’d given up on the male species. Then he’d walked into her life. Actually, he’d been living next door for months on end. But she didn’t see him—literally—until a few months ago. It wasn’t love at first sight. Helen’s first encounter with her dream lover had been an embarrassing nightmare. But then she’d saved him from drowning, and he’d saved her from getting in too deep with the law. Now, after the beating her heart took from her ex-husband, she was slowly learning to love and trust another man. When she thought about their last night together on Phil’s black silk sheets, Helen felt hot, and it had nothing to do with the roaring hair dryer.
“Helen,” Jeff called. “Can you take care of Mrs. Thompson?”
The store was suddenly deluged with customers. Helen didn’t have time to think of Phil, Elsie’s nonpoodle, or her mysterious remark about Jonathon: “That’s not the name he used when I knew him.”
As the weather worsened, people were frantic to buy for their pets. Helen hauled out bags of dog food and cans of cat food until her arms ached. Customers did not stop to talk anymore. They no longer speculated on the path of the storm. They wanted to run their essential errands and get home. Streets were flooding. Shops were locking their doors. Drawbridges across the Intracoastal Waterway were closing. People bought, paid, and rushed out the door. They all gave the same touching good-bye: “Be safe.”
Be safe. It was what we wish most for ourselves and others, Helen thought.
Helen and Jeff worked for more than an hour before there was a break in the flood of customers. Todd came out of the grooming room looking dazed about the same time. His white T-shirt was covered with brown dog hair, and his jeans had stains Helen didn’t want to examine too closely. Todd smelled like a wet dog. Only his diamond Cartier watch retained its rich glow.
“I’m starved,” Todd said. “I’m going to the Briny Irish Pub for a bacon cheeseburger.”
That was the bar two doors down. “Is it still open?” Helen said.
“Before a storm?” Todd said. “Are you kidding? It will be packed. People need courage to face the hurricane.”
Todd was gone five minutes when Jeff said, “Have you seen Lulu?”
They searched the store for his dog, but didn’t find her. Lulu’s bed was empty, her toys abandoned, her food bowls untouched.
“She must have followed Todd to the Briny Irish,” Jeff said. “The customers love sharing their bacon slices and seasoned fries with Lulu. My dog, the bar slut. I’d better get her. Will you mind the store for me?”
Helen sold two more bags of dog food while Jeff looked for Lulu. Jan Kurtz was the only person who didn’t come in to buy food. Jan was a cool, elegant widow who lived in a high-rise on the Galt Ocean Mile with her black poodle, Snickers. Jan had a penchant for pink. She always wore pink clothes and accessories. Snickers had a pink leash, bows, and toenails.
Helen didn’t recognize the Jan who stood at her counter, her hair damp and flattened, her clothes crumpled. Jan’s eyes were puffy and her makeup was carelessly applied. She looked bedraggled, and it wasn’t entirely due to the storm.
Jan held up a rain-spotted pink gift bag. “This is for Todd,” she told Helen.
This new Jan moved constantly, like a worried hummingbird. She tapped her fingers on the counter and her heels on the floor. Her car keys jingled. Did the storm have her that rattled?
“Todd’s out right now,” Helen said. “He should be back in half an hour. Do you want to wait for him?”
Jan looked uneasy. “I need to get to my friend’s house in Plantation before the roads flood. I’ve been evacuated, and the traffic is terrible. I just wanted to drop this bag off for Todd.”
“I’ll make sure he gets it,” Helen said.
“You promise?” Jan sounded desperate.
“Absolutely,” Helen said, hoping she looked trustworthy. Jan hesitated. A gust of wind rattled the plywood. She handed Helen the gift bag, then rushed out into the storm.
Todd got gifts all the time, but his ladies didn’t usually act so spooked. And who would bring a gift for their boy toy during a hurricane? Helen had to peek inside that bag. I need to know, she told herself. This could be part of a murder investigation. I’m not stealing anything. The bag was handed to me. If God didn’t want me to see this, She wouldn’t have put it in my hands.
Helen parted the damp pink tissue paper. It hid a big chocolate brownie with gooey icing. What was so vital about that? There had to be something more in that bag. It was too heavy for one brownie. Besides, nobody carried on that way about a brownie, not even if she made it with Alice B. Toklas’s favorite recipe.
Helen lifted the brownie and found another layer of paper. She shoved it aside and saw a roll of hundred-dollar bills nesting inside. Helen quickly counted them. Jan had packed two thousand dollars in cash under the brownie. That was one sweet treat.
Helen heard the warning jangle of the boutique bell, and shoved the brownie back on top of the money just as Jeff en
tered. He was carrying a wet and sullen Lulu. Todd trailed behind them with a foam go-box.
“Todd, Jan Kurtz left this bag for you,” Helen said.
Todd yanked the bag from her hand so fast he nearly dislocated her fingers. “Oh, she knows how I love brownies,” he said, but he didn’t look inside the bag.
“It looked very rich,” Helen said, and could have kicked herself.
Todd clutched the brownie bag to his chest. He did not stash it on the back-room shelf where the employees kept their belongings. He carried it into the cage room with him.
By two o’clock, a deathly quiet descended on the store. There were no more customers. Most of the major nearby businesses, including the bank, were closed. The drawbridges over the Intracoastal Waterway were closed, too. Police cars with flashing lights guarded the entrances to the beach. More patrol cars moved slowly down the deserted streets, light bars strobing red, tires kicking up great fishtails of water. The city had an eerie war-zone feel.
A lashing wind beat on the boutique’s boarded windows. The plywood creaked and groaned. The flooded parking lot was almost empty. The store lights flickered once, then twice.
“We’d better close,” Jeff said. “The electricity is going out soon. I want you all safely home. I’ll balance the cash register.”
“I’ll take the last grooming dog home,” Todd said. “Call Mrs. Carter and tell her I’m on my way. She can’t get here until four.”
“Is that Brandy, the Saint Bernard?” Jeff said. “Will she fit in your car?”
“Brandy is a good dog,” Todd said. “She’s not a problem.”
Helen wondered if Todd had kissed the Saint Bernard. You didn’t trifle with the affections of a dog as big as Brandy.
Helen was sweeping the grooming room when a woman came rushing into the store. She was about fifty, with the stiffly sprayed hair that announced “standing appointment.” “I need a thirty-pound sack of dog food, and then I’m going to the salon next door for an emergency manicure.”