by Elaine Viets
The things I do for information, Helen thought, as she grabbed piles of soiled newspapers with her gloved hands. Betty scrubbed the cage bottoms and sides with brisk, efficient movements.
Helen was grateful for the hard work. It kept her mind off the heartbreaking shelter scene. All those beautiful animals, unloved and abandoned. Some tried so hard to make new people take them home. They put on desperate little shows, begging, wagging, dancing. Others slumped despondently in their cages.
Betty knew all the animals’ stories. “See that gorgeous little Maltese?” she said, pointing to a small white dog pawing at her cage bars. “Her owner abandoned her because she didn’t match the new couch.”
“The dog as an accessory,” Helen said. “How cruel.”
“You won’t believe what people do. That big gray Persian cat? He was dumped off because the new boyfriend didn’t like him. His person had that cat ten years, but she abandoned him for a man she knew one week. People who do that should be shot. How can they hurt helpless animals?”
“The same way they hurt helpless children,” Helen said.
“I could go on all day about the animals here,” Betty said. “But Margery says you need help. I know everybody worth knowing in Lauderdale—that means everyone with an open wallet. Ask away, and I’ll try to answer your questions.”
“Did you know Tammie Grimsby?”
“The woman who got murdered? Sure did. I’m not surprised she came to a bad end. She was headed for trouble, one way or another. She and Kent had too much money and not enough sense. Some people take scuba lessons or join a book club. They did coke and threesomes. Did you know Tammie once asked me to join them?”
Helen sucked in her breath, and not because she had a smelly load of newspapers.
“Don’t look so surprised. I clean up pretty good.”
Helen looked at Betty’s thin, weathered face with the high cheekbones and elegant nose. When her hair wasn’t scraped back, she’d be a good-looking woman.
“I’m surprised she didn’t come on to you,” Betty said.
“I think she did,” Helen said. “I pretended not to notice.”
Betty crawled into a cage on the bottom row. Helen had a brief attack of the fantods looking at that small space.
“Here.” Betty handed Helen more smelly paper. Helen smiled. She couldn’t brood around Betty. That woman was too brisk and practical to indulge her fantasies. Helen went back to cleaning cages.
“Tammie did the hunting for her husband, Kent,” Betty said, giving Helen some useful dirt. “That’s not a good sign. Kent was bored with his wife. He’d probably find a replacement soon—maybe one of the women Tammie brought home. I suspect that’s why she went after older broads like me. Thought we’d be flattered, and we’d also be no competition for her. Tammie was no spring chicken. Did you ever talk to her?”
“Yep. Tammie was dumber than a box of rocks,” Helen said.
“But sexy,” Betty said.
Helen remembered the disturbing feelings the naked Tammie had stirred in her, and said nothing.
“Still, that wears off after a while,” Betty said. “Especially if you had to listen to Tammie. I think Kent wanted rid of her. But he couldn’t afford to divorce her. I heard he had no prenup.”
“He must have been really in love to marry her without legal protection,” Helen said.
“The only one Kent ever loved was himself. I figure she had something on him,” Betty said. “I had a pretty good idea what it was, too. Kent used to go by another name.”
“Lance,” Helen said.
“That’s it. Then you know Kent used to be a vet, but he doesn’t practice anymore. He told me he was retired. But I got a detective on it. I have the money to satisfy my curiosity. He’d made millions in the business and left under a cloud. Tammie helped him in some way, as his accountant or office assistant.”
“Kent made millions as a veterinarian? Is that possible?” Helen said.
“If you’re dishonest enough,” Betty said. “Most vets I know are kinder than the average people doctor and treat their patients better. But there’s a market for vets without consciences.”
“Was he involved with a crooked pet store?” Helen said.
“So you do know the stories. Kent—or Lance, as he was then—was in cahoots with a pet store that sold puppy-mill dogs. Customers paid for shots and treatments that never happened. Doc Kent would sign the papers stating that he’d given the pups and kittens their shots, or treated them for health problems, when all he’d done was autograph a big blank block of paper.
“When the little animals died, well, that happens, doesn’t it? The owner would get another puppy, and if it was a hardy soul, it would survive. Maybe Doc Kent told himself he was improving the gene pool. I don’t know how people like that think. I do know the good people of Tampa were catching on to the pet-shop scam. Doc Kent changed his name, packed up his money and his wife, and moved to this side. He never mentions how he used to make a living. He can’t. The animal lovers would lynch him. We tolerate a lot of things in Lauderdale, but not that.”
“Why do you?” Helen said.
“Oh, I hurt him—right in the wallet. I hit those two up for donations for the shelter. We’re talking staggering amounts. All I have to do is mention the word ‘Tampa’ and they write me big, fat checks. If that’s blackmail, well, I do it for a good cause. But if you know about it, their secret must be out.”
Helen shrugged. She didn’t want to reveal that Elsie was her source. “What happened to the crooked pet shop?” she said.
“It’s closed and the owner took off. There’s no proof and no witnesses.”
Except for Elsie’s granddaughter with the guilty conscience, Helen thought. That young woman couldn’t complain to the authorities. She was part of the scam. She wanted to be a lawyer, and puppy abuse wouldn’t look good on her résumé. She’d never turn in Doc Kent.
“That’s good information about Tammie,” Helen said. Betty had confirmed everything she’d learned from Elsie. Well, almost everything.
“I deal in grade-A gossip,” Betty said, sweeping up a large pile of dog doo. Barney was curled up in the corner, sound asleep. “Who else can I help you with?”
“What do you know about Willoughby and Francis Barclay?” Helen said.
“Not much. I tried to get their dog, Barkley, as the featured guest for a shelter event, but the Barclays wanted to charge us an arm and a leg. Refused to waive the dog’s personal appearance fee, even to help other animals. They’re a greedy couple.”
“Not anymore,” Helen said. “She’s dead.”
“Well, I’ll be.” Betty looked at the long row of clean cages. “We’re done. Good job. I owe you a drink. Did you bring extra clothes, like I told you?”
“Sure did,” Helen said.
“Wash up and change in the restroom. I’ll take you out for a beer and a Greek salad. I hope you have an appetite after mucking out those cages.”
Helen was surprised to find she did. The sun was shining when they left the shelter, and it was a pleasant day. They drove in Betty’s lumbering SUV to the Sea Ranch Diner near a little beach community called Lauderdale by the Sea.
The Sea Ranch was in a beige shopping center with a Spanish-tile roof. It had one remarkable feature: The center was topped by a vast, improbable half of a concrete dome. It looked like someone had dropped the Hollywood Bowl on the shopping center and painted it bright blue with fat white clouds.
“I love it,” Helen said.
“We all do. Makes no architectural sense whatsoever,” Betty said.
They took a table outside under the preposterous dome. Barney followed them as fast as his short legs would carry him.
“He wants his usual,” Betty said.
“Barney! How’s my boy?” the waitress said, as she set down a bowl of ice water for the dog.
“I’ll have my usual, too,” Betty said. “And she wants the same.”
“You serve dogs?” Hel
en said, when the waitress brought them salads mounded with snowdrifts of feta cheese.
“Dogs, cats, birds, we serve them all,” the thin blonde said. “People, too.”
“Fort Lauderdale isn’t exactly Paris, but it has a lot of restaurants where you can take your dog,” Betty said. “OK, who else do you want to pump me about?”
“What do you know about Jonathon, the star groomer?” Helen asked.
“Nothing, except he’s the hottest groomer in town. Does wonders with little dogs. Everyone wants a Jonathon cut.”
“Know anything about his love life?” Helen asked.
“I suspect he’s gay,” Betty said, “but I’ve never seen him with anyone, male or female.”
“Margery’s friend Elsie says she recognized Jonathon. He used to work at a pet shop in Tampa,” Helen said. “She says Jonathon temporarily blinded a show dog. Sound familiar?”
“No,” Betty said. But she wouldn’t look at Helen. Instead, she made a big deal of bending down to scratch Barney, which kept her face hidden.
She’s lying, Helen thought.
“Think it’s the same crooked shop that Kent was connected with?” Helen said.
“Don’t know,” Betty said. She lavished more attention on the sleeping Barney. Another lie, Helen decided.
“So you don’t know if Jonathon was in cahoots with Kent in Tampa.”
“I doubt it, but I don’t know,” Betty said.
Odd. She could tell Helen everything about the other people connected with that crooked pet shop.
“Didn’t you used to live in Tampa?” Helen asked.
“It’s a big place,” Betty said. She still wouldn’t look at Helen. “I can’t know everything.”
But Helen knew that Betty loved animals. Jonathon had abused a dog once upon a time. And now he was arrested for Tammie’s murder.
She also knew Tammie had propositioned Betty. Betty claimed to be flattered. But Helen didn’t find Tammie’s attention flattering. Tammie lived off the money of an animal abuser—and maybe helped him.
Betty said people who hurt helpless animals should be shot. Should they also be stabbed? How much did Betty love animals? What exactly would she do for them? Would she frame one animal abuser for the murder of another? That would be a neat bit of justice.
Maybe the murder was much simpler. Maybe Tammie refused to shell out any more money, and mocked Betty and her love of animals. Would Betty strike back in anger? One swift stab with the shears would be easy for a woman who played golf and did weekly bouts of manual labor.
Helen asked one last question. She figured she had nothing to lose. “Was that your car I saw leaving the country club when I was delivering Tammie’s Yorkie?”
“You mean the day Tammie was killed? Are you asking if I was leaving the scene of the crime?”
“Yes,” Helen said. There was a long silence, broken only by Barney’s snores. He was sleeping with his head resting on his water dish.
Betty put three tens on the table and picked up her fat little dog.
“I won’t dignify that with an answer,” she said. “You can find your own way home. A long walk might clear your head.”
CHAPTER 22
“Betty is a killer? My friend Betty? What have you been snorting?” Margery’s laughter was loud, but there was nothing merry about it. She was purple with fury. Even the dark veins on the backs of her clenched hands were throbbing with rage.
Helen was afraid Margery would rip the wineglass from her hand and smash it on the Coronado’s pool deck.
Margery marched back and forth on the concrete, as if the only way she could control her wrath was to keep moving. It boiled and bubbled inside her, a red-hot geyser ready to explode. Anger aged her. Margery looked gnarled and witchy.
At first Helen was stunned by Margery’s violent reaction. On second thought, it made sense. Margery was loyal to her friends, and that included Betty. She would protect them all. Margery had given Helen a friend’s name, and now Helen had made an ugly accusation against her. Under other circumstances she would have admired Margery’s passionate defense of her friend. But it was scary facing her landlady.
Peggy, sitting in the chaise longue, seemed paralyzed. Pete didn’t say a word. He huddled in the curve of Peggy’s neck, as if seeking shelter from the storm of Margery’s rage.
So much for a quiet sunset by the pool, Helen thought. They were supposed to be having a posthurricane celebration in the wind-stripped garden. The night was balmy. The remaining palm leaves rustled invitingly. Everything said to relax. Except Margery, who crackled with electric irascibility.
How was Helen going to defuse this? She felt like she should be in a bomb cage, wearing a padded suit. She took a deep breath and said, “Margery, it’s just a theory. I’m sorry it made you mad. But since you know Betty better than I do, I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me what’s wrong with it.”
“What’s wrong? Everything!” Margery said. “Betty might shoot you, but she’d never make up some twisted plot. She’s not devious. She never lies.”
Yes, she does, Helen thought. She lied to me today—twice. I’d bet a week’s pay she was not telling me the truth about Tampa. But you’re in no mood to hear that, so I’ll keep my mouth shut.
Helen was familiar with those so-called hearty honest types from her time in the corporate world. She knew that backslapping men and “straight-talking” women could be as devious as anyone. More so, because Helen didn’t expect them to lie to her. But they did just the same.
“Why would she commit murder?” Margery shouted. Pete scooted in closer to Peggy for protection. “Betty has no reason to kill Tammie.”
“Betty loves animals,” Helen said. “Tammie helped that goon she married when he was the vet for that crooked pet shop in Tampa. They killed kittens and puppies. Jonathon worked there, too, and blinded a show dog.”
“You can’t prove any of that,” Margery said. “You’re guessing. So let me give you a fact. Here’s one: I know for a fact that Betty would haul off and slug Kent if she caught him abusing animals. She did it before, and she was arrested for it. But she would not murder Kent’s wife and then frame Jonathon for it. That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.
“Besides, Kent didn’t care about Tammie. He was bored with her, and a divorce would be expensive. Tammie’s death was convenient. Why would Betty help him by killing his wife? I swear, Helen Hawthorne, ever since you got locked in that cage, your head hasn’t been screwed on straight.”
Well, that last sentence was true enough, Helen thought.
Margery was still raging. “If Betty wanted revenge on Kent, she’d go after him. What reason does she have for killing Tammie?”
That was the problem: Helen didn’t know the reason. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t one. Betty’s conversation had been full of strange hints and detours.
Betty had said that Kent and Tammie were into threesomes, and she’d turned them down. But what if she didn’t? What if she said yes and Tammie had humiliated her? Betty had been oddly, touchingly proud of her looks. “Don’t look so surprised,” she’d told Helen. “I clean up pretty good.” Had Tammie made a bitter enemy during a wild night at her home in Fort Lauderdale? Or had Betty known the couple in Tampa—in the biblical sense?
“Well?” Margery said.
“How did you meet Betty?” Helen asked.
“She rented a furnished apartment here for two months while her house was being built.”
“Did she live in 2C?” Helen said. That would be proof, at least in Helen’s mind, that something was off about Betty.
“No, she lived in your place.” Margery’s smile was triumphant, but not very nice.
“Why was Betty speeding out of the Stately Palms Country Club moments after Tammie’s death?” Helen said. “She was there when Tammie died.”
“Did you ask her?” Margery said.
“Yes, she refused to answer,” Helen said.
“Exactly what an innocent per
son would do,” Margery said.
Or a guilty one, Helen thought.
Margery had quit pacing. She settled onto a chaise and lit a cigarette with slightly trembling fingers. The smoke seemed to calm her.
“What do you know about Betty?” Helen said. “She’s not from here, is she?”
“No,” Margery said. “At least, I don’t think so. I know she lived on the other side for a while.”
“Tampa?” Helen said.
“Someplace like that.” Margery waved her hand vaguely toward the west. Either that, or she was swatting a mosquito. “She had a mansion in some gated community. Betty claimed it was too white-bread on the west coast and moved over here. It’s obvious Betty has had money all her life. She said once that she went to private schools. That’s all I know about her. Betty’s not one to brag.”
Was Betty naturally modest, or deliberately hiding her past? Helen kept that question to herself, too. She felt oddly disoriented. She’d thought she could talk to Margery about anything, but she’d bungled this badly. Now Margery felt betrayed, and so did Helen.
Peggy kept a tactful silence in the chaise longue, sipping wine and waiting for the two women to work it out.
Helen wasn’t good at confronting problems. She’d run from her husband, she’d run from the court, and now she ran from this. Instead of telling Margery her doubts about Betty, Helen changed the subject.
“Maybe you can help me with something else,” Helen said. “I’m looking for someone who would talk to me about the threesomes at Tammie’s house.”
Besides Betty the good old girl.
“Excuse me. You’re asking me?” Margery said. “I already gave you the name of one friend and you decided she was a killer. I’m not helping you this time. I don’t know anything.”
“Yes, you do,” Helen said. “I bet you know someone who could tell me about society’s risque side.” She tried a lopsided grin. Peggy and Pete stayed motionless on the chaise longue, as if under a spell.