by Elaine Viets
Jeff was standing stiffly at the stockroom table, surrounded by boxes of doggie chews. He reminded Helen of her grade-school principal, Sister Mary Monica.
“I’ve talked with the Stately Palms homicide detective, Helen,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me you found Tammie’s body when you tried to return Prince?” He even sounded like Sister Monica now. His voice was stern, but disappointed.
“I . . .” Helen realized she had no good reason. “I’m sorry, Jeff. I got scared and ran. It was stupid and the cops caught me.”
“You’ve jeopardized my store’s reputation,” Jeff said. “You used my delivery vehicle to commit a crime. Everyone knows the Pupmobile. The neighbors saw it there. How could you do this to me? I can understand your panicking and running from the police, but I thought I was the kind of employer you could come to when you were in trouble.”
“You are, Jeff. I am sorry.”
“You know what the worst part is? You lied to me,” he said.
Yes, she thought. But you lied to me. So we’re even.
“I’m sorry, Jeff,” she repeated.
There was nothing more to say. She expected Jeff to fire her. Instead he turned away and began unpacking boxes. Helen finished stocking the shelves. Jeff’s silence followed her like an accusation.
When Phil showed up in his black Jeep forty minutes later, Helen ran to it, grateful to be out of there. Phil pulled her into the Jeep and gave her a deep kiss.
“You’re so tense,” he said, rubbing her neck and shoulders. “What’s the matter?”
“Bad scene with Jeff.” She told him what happened. “Here’s what I don’t understand: Why would the detective call Jeff and tell him that now?”
“He wants to turn up the heat on you,” Phil said.
“It worked,” Helen said. “Jeff is angry at me and I don’t know how to fix it.”
They were at the entrance to the Stately Palms Country Club. The same semimilitary guard was there, looking alert and official. Phil showed her some identification with gold seals all over it. The guard did everything but salute.
“You certainly impressed her,” Helen said.
Phil shrugged. “That’s me,” he said. “Impressive.” He gave that lopsided grin that made Helen wish they were parking someplace far more secluded. Phil stopped at the entrance to the tennis courts. They could watch the cars coming out of the Grimsby driveway, but not attract the attention of the neighbors.
The street was quiet. An air-conditioning repairman left, a plumber arrived, a carpenter drove away in a white truck, but no one came or went at the Grimsby home.
“I checked the records, but I didn’t find anything for Jonathon under any of his names,” Phil said. “No arrests, no convictions, nothing about him even being questioned for a homicide. I think he was telling you the truth. He never killed anyone, in self-defense or otherwise.”
“Good,” Helen said. “At least my instincts are right about someone.”
“I did some checking on a Helen Hawthorne, too,” Phil said. “You don’t exist. No bank account, no phone, no driver’s license.”
Fear gripped Helen. She’d been afraid this was coming. The only thing she could do was fight back. “How dare you investigate me,” she said.
Phil brushed aside her anger and looked straight at her with hurt blue eyes. “Who are you, Helen?” he said. “What did you do? Why won’t you tell me? Don’t you love me?”
She could have taken anger. She would have fended it off with the shield of her own rage. But Phil was hurt, and that she couldn’t stand.
“I told you,” she said. “My ex-husband—”
“It’s more than that,” Phil said.
They both saw the battered brown car chugging toward them. It was small, square, and dented. The windows were down, and Helen could hear a Spanish-speaking announcer on the radio.
“It’s Lourdes,” she said.
Phil waited until there were at least two cars between them, then fell in behind Lourdes’s car. Tailing her was easy. The housekeeper drove slowly and carefully. She stopped at all the lights and never made risky dashes across intersections. It took nearly forty-five minutes to get to Hialeah. They drove in silence. Helen told herself they didn’t talk because they were concentrating on following Lourdes’s car.
The brown car turned left at a school surrounded by a chain-link fence, then into a street with cinder-block houses painted sun-faded Caribbean colors: turquoise, yellow, and pink. Lourdes parked in front of a turquoise house with a banana tree. The house had a chain-link-fenced yard filled with children. Dark-haired boys and girls were romping with a dark curly-haired dog.
It was Barkley, the yuppie puppy. Helen had never seen her so animated, not even in her commercials. She leaped and barked with sheer joy, while the kids shouted and laughed and threw a tennis ball. Barkley would fetch it and bring it back to the tallest boy. Two girls would hug her, and the game would start over.
“That’s Barkley,” Helen said. “I almost hate to call the police. She seems so happy.”
“And Jeff seems so unhappy,” Phil said.
“You’re right. If Barkley isn’t found, it could ruin his shop.”
It could ruin me, too, she thought, but she didn’t say it. Phil would only ask more awkward questions.
“This will be my peace offering to Jeff,” she said. “He may forgive me when I tell him we found Barkley.”
But she took one last lingering look at the little dog leaping and rolling in the yard with the children. She was going to stop their fun. Barkley would probably go back to the cold and calculating Francis.
But if I don’t get the police off my back, I’ll be returned to cold and lonely St. Louis. Better you than me, poor puppy, Helen thought. They drove to a pay phone near a bodega, and Helen made an anonymous call to the police.
CHAPTER 28
The turquoise house was bathed in flickering bloody light from the police cars. Neighbors gathered in tense knots on the sidewalk. Two men gave Helen and Phil dark looks, and pointed to the Jeep.
“Let’s go,” Phil said. “We don’t belong here.”
They drove off to the sound of children crying. Helen felt like something that slithered. “What will happen to Lourdes?” she asked as they crawled through the traffic.
“Lourdes is a survivor,” Phil said. “She’ll claim she found the dog wandering in her neighborhood, and took care of it. I doubt if the police will make the connection between Lourdes and Francis. Willoughby’s husband isn’t going to tell them how he met her. Francis will pretend he’s happy to have his dog back. Lourdes will keep her mouth shut. She’s smart.”
“How do you know?” Helen said.
“Look what she did with the money Francis gave her.”
“What do you mean?” Helen said. “She didn’t do anything.”
“Exactly,” Phil said. “The police will notice nothing suspicious. She didn’t quit her job or buy a new car or a designer wardrobe. She drives a junker and wears her housekeeper’s uniform. She’ll be fine.”
Helen still felt guilty. She kept seeing that little curly-haired pup frolicking with the children. Helen had sacrificed Barkley’s good life to save her own.
Barkley is a dog, Helen told herself. She’ll be returned to her rightful owner.
She’s going back to the man who murdered her mistress, said a small voice. She’ll pine away, living with someone who doesn’t care about her.
Helen sighed and looked down at her traitorous fingers. They’d held the phone, punched in the numbers, and ratted out the pup. She saw the license-plate number she’d scribbled on her wrist earlier that day. The ink was smeared, but she could still read it.
“Ohmigod!” she said.
Phil slammed on the brakes. “What’s wrong?” he said. “Are you OK?”
“I’m fine,” Helen said sheepishly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you. I saw this license-plate number on my wrist and remembered I didn’t tell you what else happened to
day. Jeff disappeared again, and I went looking for him. He was in the van with that man, like Todd said. I wrote down the license number. Jeff looked me right in the eye and denied he’d left the store.”
“He’s probably cheating on his boyfriend,” Phil said. “I bet Jeff is sneaking off for a quickie.”
“No, it’s something else,” Helen said. “Jeff doesn’t have an alibi for the time Tammie died. He could have slipped out and stabbed her.”
“But why would he?” Phil said.
“I don’t know yet,” Helen said. “But I didn’t know there was a connection between Betty and Tammie until I found it. Jeff is up to something.”
“And you want me to check out the license plate and find out who he’s meeting?” Phil said.
“Please,” Helen said.
“It’s easy enough,” Phil said. “I have some contacts.”
They were back at the Coronado. A soft mist dimmed the harsh white light of the tropical moon. The palm trees shivered and sighed. It was a night made for secrets. Helen knew she could make her lover understand why she had to keep her secrets, if she could sit down and talk to him.
They walked together on the old worn sidewalk to his apartment, their footsteps echoing in the dark silence. But when they got to Phil’s place, he did not invite her inside. “Good night, Helen.” Phil kissed her chastely on the cheek and shut the door.
Helen stood alone in front of his home, hating herself and hating her silence. She wished she had the courage to break it, but she knew she never would.
* * *
“You found Barkley? Helen, I could kiss you. You’ve saved my store.”
Jeff was jubilant, his anger at her forgotten. His brown eyes sparkled with relief. He danced around the shop in the hot morning sun. He hugged Helen. Then he gave Lulu a treat and draped a glamorous red feather boa around her neck.
“We’re saved, Lulu!” he said. “And Helen did it.” Lulu strutted alongside him, showing off the newest addition to her wardrobe.
“We’re not quite out of the woods. There’s still Jonathon,” Helen reminded him.
“Killing a customer is not as bad as losing a dog,” Jeff said.
“Since when?” Helen said.
“I was joking,” Jeff said, but his smile bared too many teeth. He’d meant it. “I’ve told you before, these dogs are children. I can survive anything except losing one. You’ve found Willoughby’s baby. You know, we’ve been darn lucky. Barkley’s kidnapping never made the news. All is well.”
Except for Willoughby, Helen wanted to say, but she swallowed those bitter words. “I have to ask you a big favor, Jeff.”
“Honey, you can have whatever your little heart desires,” Jeff said.
“I need you to get Lucinda the sex queen back to the store,” Helen said. “I have to ask her another question.”
“Is this for your investigation?” Jeff said. There was no sign of a smirk. Helen’s detecting abilities were treated with new respect.
“Yes,” Helen said.
“I can’t say no, not after what you’ve done. I’ll even make the ultimate sacrifice and give her something free. Lucinda bought one of those red velvet fainting couches for her poodle when she was in last time. I’ll offer her a velvet pillow for her new couch. I’ll wait till noon. That’s the earliest I can call someone like Lucinda.”
The word “free” worked the same magic for the rich as it did for the poor. It lured Lucinda into the store by two o’clock, the crack of dawn for her. She yawned and stretched and thrust out her implants. The bright sunlight showed the cracks around her lips and the indelible lines the long, lurid nights had stamped around her eyes.
Lucinda’s tiny tight T-shirt hugged her top. She had the body of a twenty-five-year-old, and she was hanging onto it. Lucinda was wrapped around another young man.
There was nothing shy about this guy. He had a pale, foxy face and a steel earplug the size of a spool of thread. This boy liked pain. He probably had a whole wardrobe of spiked collars and whips.
“You’ve got a pillow for me, Jeffie?” Lucinda said in a wheedling baby voice that made Helen grit her teeth.
“A selection, my dear,” Jeff said. “Pink, red, or purple?”
“Can I have them all?”
“Don’t be greedy,” Jeff said.
Lucinda’s pout made her look like a corrupt child. The young man whispered something in her ear and she laughed.
“I’ll take the pink one,” Lucinda said. “It matches my—Stop that, you bad boy. Put your hand back where it belongs.”
Jeff held up the red pillow. “You can have this one, too, if you’ll help Helen.”
“Help her how?” Lucinda said, suddenly suspicious.
“Just answer a few questions about Tammie’s parties,” he said.
“Are they anything delicate young ears should hear?” she asked coyly. She licked her pink lips.
Jeff rubbed his ears and said, “I think they can take it.”
Lucinda giggled. She was eager to impress her young man with her sophistication.
Helen thought that was her cue. “Thanks,” she said, stepping up to the counter. “I had a question about Willoughby and you’re the only one who can answer it.”
“The police never bothered talking to me. At least you recognize that I know something. You may ask me,” Lucinda said. She sounded like a queen granting a favor to a peasant.
“Did Willoughby like to party with anyone in particular at Tammie and Kent’s?” Helen said. “Was she attracted to one person?”
“Of course, silly,” Lucinda said. “She was hot for Tammie.”
“Tammie was bi?” Helen said. Again, she remembered the uneasy feeling she had around Prince’s naked owner.
“Tammie was hot, period. I even tried her myself, and I don’t go for chicks. Gay, straight, bi didn’t apply to Tammie. She’s more like omni . . . omver . . . oooh . . .” Her pink, puffy lips had trouble spitting out the word.
“Omnivorous?” Helen said.
“Right. Tammie wanted everyone.”
Interesting word, “omnivorous,” Helen thought. There’s a hint of prey about it. Had Tammie preyed on Francis’s naive wife? Did Willoughby start having sex with Tammie to get even with her husband, and then it turned into something serious?
“Is that why Willoughby and Francis fought?” Helen said.
“He wanted Willoughby to come home with him,” Lucinda said. “I told you that. Weren’t you listening? Willoughby wanted to stay with Tammie.”
“You didn’t mention Tammie last time we talked,” Helen said. “You just said that Willoughby wanted to stay at the party.”
“Oh. Well. I was pretty stressed last time. I took something to relax,” Lucinda said, waving her pink-tipped hands.
Helen remembered the pinpoint pupils. “But now I have a good tension reliever.” She bit the young man on his unplugged ear.
He didn’t flinch.
Jeff watched the couple grope each other as they walked across the parking lot. “I wonder what will happen to my two innocent pillows,” he said.
“You sacrificed them to a good cause,” Helen said.
“Did you learn anything useful?” Jeff said.
“Definitely. I think Francis murdered his wife,” she said. “Willoughby wouldn’t come home with him. She wanted to stay with Tammie. It was bad enough losing her to another man. Another woman was too much. Francis killed his wife in a jealous rage.”
“Why didn’t he kill her the night of the party?” Jeff said.
“Francis needed time to build up his resentment. I bet Willoughby taunted him the night of the hurricane. She’d been hanging around Tammie, who was good at that. People who’ve lived together know exactly which buttons to push to make their partners crazy.”
“It’s a good theory,” Jeff said. “But it’s nothing you can take to the police.”
“No, but Francis bears watching, and I’m going to do it.”
“Do you have h
is new address?” Jeff said.
“His wife gave it to me when I started looking for Barkley,” Helen said. “That seems about a hundred years ago.”
Helen took Francis’s new address as more proof he was shrewd about money. He’d moved to a condo in Hallandale Beach, a town south of Lauderdale known as “God’s waiting room.” Francis was about half the age of the average resident. Many of the old people were dying off. Younger ones could pick up bargain real estate in Hallandale. Families in New York and Connecticut were anxious to sell off Mom’s condo and settle her estate.
Helen called Margery from the shop. “Want to go to Hallandale?”
“Do I look that old?” Margery said.
“I’m following Francis the wife killer,” Helen said. “I need backup.”
“You on the outs with Phil?” Margery said.
“No, no,” Helen lied. “He’s checking out some names for me.”
“Hmpf,” Margery said. She didn’t believe Helen. “Sure, I’ll go. When do you want me to pick you up?”
“I get off at five,” Helen said.
“Take the rest of the afternoon off,” Jeff said, walking in on her call. He was still caught up in the euphoria of Barkley’s return.
“You can pick me up now,” Helen said.
Ten minutes later, her landlady pulled up in her white car. The inside was a haze of cigarette smoke. Helen coughed and put on her seat belt. Margery drove like a native, avoiding I-95 and U.S. 1, weaving expertly through the crazed traffic on the Dixie Highway.
Francis the self-made widower lived in a gated community off Hallandale Boulevard. They checked the condo directory at the door for his unit number—118.
“He’s here,” Helen said. “His car is parked in his numbered spot. Let’s wait and see if he comes out.”
“Why aren’t we going in after him?” Margery said.
“He’ll feel safer in his home, more likely to lie. I want to get him outside in public, where I can rattle him.”
“It’s your show,” Margery said, and pulled into a guest parking spot two rows away. They sat with the windows rolled down. Helen watched flame-red flowers drift down from a canopied tree.