by Elaine Viets
Margery was running her orange juicer. “I’m making screwdrivers,” she said over the high-pitched whine. “Help yourself to the food and drink.”
Helen suddenly remembered she was hungry and found herself a paper plate. A cooler was packed with iced soda, water, and wine. She helped herself to a cold bottle of clean water.
The table was overflowing with platters and dishes. Helen spotted a big bowl of Thai chicken salad, Peggy’s special recipe. The rest was comfort food: green beans in mushroom soup smothered with crunchy canned onion rings, sliced meat loaf, tuna casserole, chocolate cake, boxes of brownies and doughnuts, trays of deviled eggs, and thick ham sandwiches. Two bruised tomatoes sat unsliced on a plate.
“Did Cal bring the tomatoes?” Helen said.
“Again,” Margery said. “They look like the same ones he brought to the Labor Day picnic. That’s all he brought, too, except for the beer he’s drinking. Cheapest man on earth.”
There were better men to discuss, Helen decided. “Where’s Phil?” she asked.
She felt his long arms around her and his warm breath on her neck. He had a cold beer in one hand, and his kiss tasted deliciously bitter. Helen forgot all about her food.
“If you’re going to do that, go into the hall back there,” Margery said. “I can’t concentrate with you two making goo-goo eyes.”
They escaped gratefully into the dark hallway. Phil put his beer bottle on the floor. He had his hands under Helen’s shirt and was working them down into her jeans. Helen began quickly unbuttoning Phil. She gave a soft moan and pressed her hips against him. God, he felt good.
“Are you as hot as I am?” Phil said, as he feather-kissed her neck.
“Yes,” Helen said. “What is it about hurricanes?”
“The bedroom is full of sleeping bags, but maybe we can—”
“Oh, dear. Oh, my. Excuse me. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was on my way to—”
It was dear, dithery Elsie. Helen and Phil pulled apart. Helen was breathless and dizzy from Phil’s kisses, and embarrassed that her bare breasts were nearly hanging out of her unbuttoned shirt. It didn’t matter. So were Elsie’s. The punked-out septuagenarian was wearing red toreador pants, a blue satin push-up bra, and a black lace shirt. Lumps of bare flesh popped up everywhere, like a colony of prairie dogs.
Elsie took a step forward on her red spike heels and knocked over Phil’s bottle, sending cold beer across Margery’s hardwood floor. Helen could almost see the sticky alcohol eating the finish.
“I need to put Corkie to bed,” Elsie said, petting her fluffy white dog. “She’s sleeping.”
“We were about to head for bed, too,” Phil said. Helen kicked him.
“Oh, not so early, I hope,” Elsie said. “You’ll miss all the fun. You need to join the party.”
“Excuse me. Sorry, but this is the only route to the restroom,” Cal said. “And I need to get my sweater out of the bedroom.” He walked between them and stepped in the beer. “Did you know there’s beer on the floor here?”
“I was just going to the bedroom so my little dog, Corkie, can get a nap,” Elsie said. “Are you still coming, Phil?”
“Not a chance,” Phil said.
Helen kicked him again. “I think you’re right, Elsie,” she said. “We’d better join the party.”
Phil looked unhappy, but they both knew there was no privacy in Margery’s crowded apartment. Staying with each other was slow torture. It was better to separate for now. Phil rummaged in the hall closet for a towel to mop up his beer. He held the empty bottle strategically in front of him.
Helen went back out to the kitchen for her plate, then wandered into the living room. Peggy and Pete were watching the Weather Channel. It was strange to see the storm as a pulsing red blob on the TV map, when they could hear its lost-soul howls outside their walls.
“It appears now that the category-three hurricane may land at either West Palm Beach or Port Saint Lucie to the north,” the announcer said.
“That’s good news, isn’t it?” Alice asked.
“Not if you’re in Port Saint Lucie,” her cleaning partner, Doris, said. Helen and Elsie sat down on the couch to talk with the new neighbors in 2C.
“You clean houses for seniors,” Elsie said. “Isn’t that lovely?” Instead of her little dog, she was holding a screwdriver in a glass the size of a vase.
“We’d really like to clean your home,” skinny Alice said.
Burly Doris nodded enthusiastically. “We can help you.”
“Thank you, dear, but Gert has been cleaning for me for thirty years,” Elsie said. “I wouldn’t dream of using anyone else. She knows all the old remedies, the ones my mother used. Much better for the environment than some of those products they have now. When I had my new closet put in and the workers left plaster dust all over my tile floors, Gert got it up in two shakes with warm water and white vinegar.”
“White vinegar?” Doris said. “That’s for salads.”
“It’s the most useful cleaning product this side of baking soda,” Elsie insisted.
“Now it’s baking soda. Are you a cleaner or a cook?” Alice said, laughing.
Helen wondered how good they were at housecleaning. Even she knew about baking soda and white vinegar. But Alice and Doris seemed to lose interest in the subject. They drifted toward the TV to watch the weather report.
Helen settled in for a talk with Elsie. It didn’t take long to learn that she’d bought her little dog on credit, just as Jeff suspected.
“Teacup poodles are so expensive,” Elsie said. “The bank wouldn’t lend me the money, even though I told them it was an investment. She’ll only grow more beautiful. But that nice store gave me the money. I pay them fifty dollars a month.”
Helen didn’t have the nerve to ask how many months Elsie would be making those payments. She concentrated on her plate of food instead.
Elsie took a healthy sip of her screwdriver. “I just love fresh orange juice,” she said, and belched delicately. Helen didn’t think that was from the orange juice. “I wanted to ask you about that young man who groomed Corkie. He did a very nice job. But I’m sure he worked at a store in Tampa. I know it was him, but he went by another name in those days. He didn’t look so picturesque, either. His hair used to be very short, almost a military cut, when he lived in Tampa.”
“Tampa?” Helen said. “Jonathon has never mentioned Tampa. What was the name of the store?”
“It’s out of business,” Elsie said. “It had a bad reputation. Charged high prices for its puppies, but their papers and shots turned out to be fakes. The store said they had a vet look at the animals, but they never got any treatment. So many of the little puppies and kittens died. They were supposed to be treated for their coughs, infections, and other newborn illnesses, but they weren’t. The ones who survived didn’t have any of the shots they were supposed to have. The pet shop gave the owners a certificate for a free visit to a veterinarian—then sent them to the same crooked vet who signed the fake papers. That’s how they stayed in business as long as they did. It was a terrible story. Terrible.”
“How did you know about it?” Helen said.
“My granddaughter, Allison, worked there. She quit because her conscience hurt her. She couldn’t stand all those poor puppies dying.”
“Did she report the store to the authorities?”
“No,” Elsie said. “She couldn’t, dear. She helped fill out the fake papers for the crooked vet. Then he’d sign them. The owner told her to. Allison was only seventeen. She didn’t know it was wrong at first. Then she figured it out. Allison wanted to go to law school. It wouldn’t have looked good on her record to be involved in a fraud. Not at all. Allison’s father is an attorney, a real straight arrow. He would have had a fit. She came to me and I said it was OK to stay quiet. Allison had her future to consider. Besides, the store closed, and I don’t think that vet is practicing anymore.”
Elsie took a tea-party sip of her screwdriver, t
hen a good long gulp.
“Who was the crooked vet? Was he called Kent Grimsby?” Helen said.
“Oh, dear, no,” Elsie said. “Nothing like that. His first name started with an L. Lenny? Lester? No, it was like a romance novel. Lance. That was it. Very muscular he was, but not handsome at all. I wish I could remember his last name, but I’m not sure I ever heard it. My niece called him Dr. Lance. Silly name, that, don’t you think? Lance was married to a very pretty girl. I think she was his assistant or accountant or something.”
“Was her name Tammie?” Helen said.
“No, no, it was Wanda. A very old-fashioned name. You don’t hear it much anymore. Wanda, yes. That was it.”
“Do you remember anything else about her?” Helen was desperate for more information.
“Well, she was blond and had a very large chest,” Elsie said. “I think they were implants. But that’s not very helpful, is it? So many young women get that surgery. I’m lucky I am naturally well-endowed.” She stared down toward her waist at her large bosom. “Let’s see. There must be something else I can tell you about them. Wanda was very much into physical fitness.”
That sounded like Tammie, too. “Is she a friend of your niece’s? Did they stay in touch after the store closed?” Helen asked.
“I’m afraid not,” Elsie said. “Wanda did something rather awful, you see. She asked my little niece to be part of a threesome. Wanda had only been married a year or so, too. Can you imagine—asking an innocent seventeen-year-old? She offered her drugs, too.”
“Yes,” Helen said. “I mean, no.” Sex and drugs were an easier way to identify Tammie and Kent than any scar or tattoo. “What happened to the couple?”
“They moved out of the area. I don’t know where,” Elsie said.
I do, Helen thought. They swung over to Fort Lauderdale and changed their names. But Kent Grimsby still had his same love of animals. No wonder he didn’t care what happened to poor Prince. He didn’t care about any animal.
“I’m glad he’s not a vet anymore,” Elsie said. “He shouldn’t be. That shop was terrible. It had the worst groomers. One shaved off a poor dog’s nipples. Shaved them right off.”
Helen winced and grabbed her chest. Her plate sat untouched beside her, forgotten in the tales of cruelty and mutilation.
Elsie took another gulp of her drink. Those screwdrivers were aptly named, Helen thought. They definitely unlocked something in Elsie.
“Another groomer hurt a show dog, a lovely standard poodle,” Elsie said. “It was supposed to compete in a big Tampa show. Everyone thought it would win best in show. The groomer gave the owner special drops for the dog’s eyes. Supposed to brighten them, he said. The drops were special, all right. They were liquid soap. The dog’s eyes watered so much it couldn’t be in the show. Temporarily blinded that sweet animal. It recovered eventually. The winner was a complete surprise—a Westie. Nice dog, but no one had expected it to win. There were rumors that the groomer was paid to ruin the favorite’s chances, but they were never proven.”
“That’s terrible,” Helen said. “Who would do that to a defenseless dog?”
Elsie finished off the rest of her screwdriver. Helen waited patiently.
“Why, that young man with the long blond hair,” Elsie said. “The one who calls himself Jonathon.”
CHAPTER 16
At midnight, green fireworks exploded outside the window. Helen peered through a slit in the plywood and watched the gorgeous, glowing green show high on an electrical pole near the Coronado. Sparks in shades from tender lettuce to bright lime shot straight up. Then there was an eerie green glow.
Suddenly the lights went out.
“Transformer blew,” Margery said.
Helen thought the destruction was beautiful. Some guilty primal part of her was thrilled to see trees crack and fall. She liked to watch gas grills fly through the air and coconuts turn into torpedoes.
But when the green explosion died, everything in and around the Coronado went black. The darkness extended into infinity. The only other light was a single candle flickering in a distant window.
That lonely sight unnerved Helen. She wasn’t frightened by the fireworks or the theatrical howling of the wind, but the isolation got to her. They were alone together in this little apartment. They might as well have been adrift on the ocean. Helen couldn’t even run to that single candle in the distance. She’d be cut down by flying debris.
The storm grew more violent, until the glass slats rattled in the boarded-up jalousie door. The wind snagged on a piece of aluminum and made a raucous blatting sound.
Phil slept through the hurricane, and that irritated Helen. Why couldn’t he be afraid like a normal person? He slept in a peaceful curl, oblivious to the roaring storm. His blue eyes were closed. His long, dramatic white hair swept his shoulders. Normally she thought Phil looked sweet when he slept, like an innocent little boy. Tonight she wanted to slap him.
Elsie and the two cleaning women, Doris and Alice, were also out cold. But they’d chugged screwdrivers until they passed out. Now the three women snored together on the living room floor, wrapped around one another like kittens in a basket. Margery had thrown a blanket over them.
Peggy had also had a few too many. She snoozed on the couch, mouth open. Peggy was one of those rare women who actually looked attractive sleeping that way. Pete slept beside her, his head tucked under his wing.
Cal was stretched out in the purple recliner in a miasma of beer fumes, making occasional smelly eruptions.
The booze that knocked out most of the hurricane party only made Helen restless. She and her cat Thumbs paced as the storm screamed around them. The windblown assault on the building was constant. Frightening, unknown objects battered the plywood with pops and thuds. Helen thought it was like being stuck in an endless MRI.
Thumbs stayed at Helen’s side as she stepped past the sleeping bodies. The golden-eyed cat took his patrol duties seriously, carefully placing his big paws so he didn’t step on anyone or anything. His tail was curled into a question mark as he solemnly padded beside Helen.
The wind was so intense the sliding glass doors bulged in and out. The doors were boarded and Margery had covered them with slanting zigzags of tape so the glass wouldn’t explode in the room. But now they moved. Helen and Thumbs stopped and stared, mesmerized by the pulsing doors. Each time, the doors’ bulge was a little bigger. Helen was sure they were going to blow apart. She was right in the path of the glass shards, but she couldn’t tear herself away. The doors seemed to be breathing, sucking her toward them, like the doors in that novel, The Haunting of Hill House.
Margery broke the spell. “Why don’t you get the hell away from those doors before you get hurt?” she said. Her landlady was standing in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen, carrying a Coleman lantern. The yellow glow gave her purple cutoffs and eggplant T-shirt a burnished sheen. Her cigarette burned like a distant beacon.
“Wind getting to you?” Margery asked.
Helen nodded.
“Let’s let the folks in here sleep. Come into the kitchen and talk. I have some iced drinks in the cooler or coffee in the thermos. In the morning, when Cal and Phil are awake, we can get the generator going and make more hot coffee.”
Margery moved as carefully as Thumbs in her red tennis shoes. The kitchen was warm, but bearable. The Coronado’s thick old walls held in the last of the cool air-conditioning. Helen decided caffeine would make her more jittery. She took a bottle of cold water and cut a big piece of chocolate cake. She remembered Phil staggering when he tried to carry her to the car, but she wasn’t going to worry about her weight now. She could be blown away any minute. Besides, calories didn’t stick when she was this scared. The fat would slide right off her shaking bones.
Margery and Helen talked for an hour about what happened at the Pampered Pet, who might have locked her in that cage and why.
“Maybe it has something to do with the dognapping,” Helen
said. “After all, I found out the husband, Francis, probably picked his alibi receipt out of the trash.”
“Did you tell him about your suspicions?” Margery said.
“Uh, no,” Helen said. “Of course not.”
“So he read your mind, rushed over to the Pampered Pet, and locked you in a cage?”
“It sounds pretty stupid when you say it that way,” Helen said. “But it all sounds stupid.”
“Maybe it was Jonathon or Todd. Do you think it’s connected with Tammie’s murder?” Margery said.
“Todd was wrestling with a big dog in a small car,” Helen said. “I don’t think he’d feel like coming back to the shop to lock me in a cage.”
“But he could have, couldn’t he?” Margery took a generous swig from her glass. Amazingly, Helen’s landlady was still pounding down screwdrivers, but she showed no sign of being drunk. The woman had the capacity of a shipload of sailors on leave.
“It’s possible,” Helen said. “But I don’t think he did it. Todd’s not serious enough. You know what I mean?”
“That boy may have more depth than you give him credit for. What about Jonathon?”
“I can’t believe it’s Jonathon,” Helen said.
“You always were a sucker for a pretty suit,” Margery said.
“It’s true Jonathon’s wardrobe keeps me entertained. I can’t believe he did it. He’s accused of stabbing Tammie.” He stabbed a man in Miami, a small voice whispered. “So why didn’t he stab me?” It was more an answer to her thoughts than to Margery. “Why attack me at all? What do I know?”
“Something you don’t know you know,” Margery said.
“You sound like a riddle,” Helen snapped, then felt bad for her ill temper. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. Elsie thinks there’s something off about Jonathon.” Helen told Margery about Elsie’s revelations, then said, “Do you think what she says is true?”
“Yes,” Margery said. “Elsie may be a little dippy when it comes to money, but her memory is sharp. If she says she knew Jonathon under another name, then she did.”