by Elaine Viets
The Minotaurs had old money and lots of it. Letitia was a sweet widow of sixty-six who was kind to the staff, tipped lavishly and paid her club bill on time. She served on charity boards and volunteered for the duller, worthier club committees. It seemed a cruel twist that this selfless woman would have such a selfish child. Letitia had given her son everything—except character.
Helen looked up Chad’s picture in the computer. Typical trust fund baby. Young women thought his heavy-lidded eyes were sexy. Helen thought they were mean. His dirty-blond hair was combed over one eye and his square jaw had a Miami Vice stubble. He could have been movie-star handsome, except his mouth was weak and spoiled. Chad lived in his mother’s Golden Palms mansion and did not work.
The club was overrun with trust fund babies—wastrels who’d never done anything but inherit money. They spent their days charming the pants off young women and wrecking six-figure sports cars. They rarely took over the family business. Their brains were fried on coke and booze.
“It’s Chad,” Letitia said. Helen could hear her fighting back the tears. “I thought I’d better tell you before security calls your office. Chad’s a good boy. He just gets into bad company.”
Jack Daniel’s, mostly, Helen thought. According to his club bar bills, Chad drank Jack and Coke, a lethal combination. The sweet soda hid the taste of the alcohol, making the drinks go down easy. The caffeine kept him jazzed long after a normal drunk would sleep it off.
“Chad celebrated a little too much last night,” Letitia said. “He made off with one of the Endicott birds in the lobby.”
Chad definitely needed Jack’s help for that stunt. Elliott Endicott had installed a pair of fanciful wrought-iron parrots in the lobby in 1926. The birds stood four feet high and weighed a hundred pounds each. The parrots were the club’s icons. Even the New York decorator didn’t dare remove them. Members rubbed the birds’ beaks for luck when they made a merger, a marriage, or played bridge in the club room. Generations of brides posed with the parrots on their wedding day.
Staffers were forbidden to touch the birds except to clean them, and then they wore gloves. Naked fondling by the low-paid could ruin the parrots’ luck.
“I’ll take care of the restoration,” Letitia said. “And the divers.”
“Divers?” Helen said.
“Chad threw the parrot in the yacht club basin.”
“Oh,” Helen said. “I see.”
She didn’t see how Chad had carried the bird out of the lobby with club members and staff all around. He must have been lucky. Well, why not? The kid had already won the genetic lottery: He’d scored wealthy parents.
“I’m so sorry for the inconvenience I’ve caused you,” Letitia said.
“You didn’t cause us any inconvenience,” Helen said. Your son did, she thought, and he’ll never apologize. “I’ll note your intentions in your file and notify Solange.”
“Thank you,” Letitia said, with a dignity that hurt Helen’s heart. “He really is a good boy.”
Conventional wisdom said Letitia should try tough love, and make Chad get a job. From what Helen had seen in the Superior Club files, that didn’t work. It was like turning a peacock loose in the winter woods. Trust fund babies were like the exotic birds: bad-tempered, ornamental and useless.
Helen had not seen many happy endings for young men like Chad in the files. Some ODed. Others were car crash or speedboat fatalities. One tried suicide and botched that. He was now drooling in a Miami nursing home. Another tried to claim his corporate inheritance. The crafty board stripped the arrogant kid to his shorts.
The best Letitia could hope for was that her son would exile himself to Sedona, Montana, or some other trendy place, and produce an heir. Meanwhile, she endured the pity of friends and strangers and the exquisite pain of her son’s broken promises.
No one can wound you like the people you love, Helen thought.
Rob had hurt her so bad because Helen had loved him so much. Even her hate was a kind of tribute to their dead love. She should have been indifferent to his jibes by now. Helen’s knuckles were scabbed and bruised from their encounter last night. She hoped Rob’s mouth hurt twice as much.
Jessica was still on the phone. A worried frown creased her high, pale forehead. Her slim fingers slipped Helen a note that read, “Meet me in the restroom as soon as I finish this call. We need to talk.”
Customer care staffers could use the bathrooms in the club locker rooms. Lesser staff were required to use the employee restrooms, dank affairs with antique plumbing, mottled mirrors and sickly lighting. The club locker rooms had English porcelain fixtures, marble floors, and mirrors that flattered face-lifts. The showers were stocked with luxurious towels, terry robes and slippers, and thick bars of fragrant coconut soap.
Helen and Jessica first checked the stalls to make sure no one was there.
“What’s up?” Helen said. “You look worried.”
“I am,” Jessica said. “Kitty isn’t here this morning. She had to see her divorce lawyer. Solange and Brenda spent a whole hour in Solange’s office with the door shut.”
“Uh-oh,” Helen said. “What’s Brenda the Bad plotting now?”
“Nothing good. And Kitty’s not here to defend us—or herself.”
“You don’t think the club would be dumb enough to promote Brenda,” Helen said.
Jessica looked at her. “You’ve seen their other decisions.”
“Right,” Helen said. “A place that will rip out an Elliott Endicott interior will do anything.”
“There’s something else going on,” Jessica said. “Xaviera’s boyfriend, Steven, is in club security. He calls her with the hot news. His current bulletin concerns you. Marcella, the Black Widow, reported her latest husband missing about nine this morning.”
Helen felt oddly frozen in the warm, coconut-scented room. “Her husband, Rob?” she said.
“He’s your husband, too,” Jessica said.
“Ex,” Helen said.
“Marcella told security Rob went for a walk after the Clapton concert. He didn’t come home all night. The last time anyone saw him was a little before midnight.”
Not true, Helen thought. The last time anyone saw Rob was after midnight. When he ambushed me in the employee parking lot. And I punched him. Ohmigod. Brenda saw us fighting. I’ve given her a bludgeon to use on me.
Helen’s head throbbed. So did her scabbed hand.
“Xaviera told the whole office,” Jessica said. “Brenda got this mean, secret look on her face, ducked into her office, made a quick call and left for almost an hour. When she came back, she was in Solange’s office with the door closed. I hope I’m wrong, Helen, but I think Brenda marched over to security and reported the fight in the parking lot.”
“But Rob asked her not to,” Helen said.
“Rob’s not here anymore,” Jessica said. “I’ve seen Brenda in action. She’ll put the worst possible spin on the incident. She’ll use this against you and Kitty both. She’ll claim you’re dangerous and Kitty was careless when she hired you. Do you want me to go to security and make a report?”
“No,” Helen said. “Not unless they ask you about it.”
Jessica had been stalking back and forth in her high heels, unable to contain her nervous energy. Now she turned and faced Helen. “Let me set the record straight, for your sake. Fighting is a firing offense.”
I’m only here a week and I’m going to be fired, Helen thought. After Margery called in her markers to get me this cushy job. I warned her I wasn’t cut out for this work.
“I don’t care,” Helen said.
But she did. She’d run up a lot of debts for this new job—her car, her cell phone, her new clothes. The Superior Club paid more than most jobs in Florida. How was she going to pay those bills with another minimum-wage job? She couldn’t get a better job if she was fired. She was trapped by her own greed.
“I care,” Jessica said. “I like you.”
“Look, why don’t w
e wait until we know more?” Helen said. “We’ll just bring trouble on ourselves if Brenda left the office for some harmless reason.”
“There’s nothing harmless about Brenda.”
“Please,” Helen said. “Don’t stir things up. What happened after I left last night?”
“Nothing,” Jessica said. “Brenda and I went to our cars. Rob started walking. Brenda offered him a ride, but he said it was a nice night for a stroll. But it wasn’t nice at all. It was windy and threatening to rain.”
“Rob loves storms,” Helen said. “He didn’t seem hurt?”
“He had a fat lip and a few drops of blood on his shirt. He didn’t sound groggy or confused when he talked to us. I last saw him in my rearview mirror, as I turned out of the parking lot. He was heading toward the yacht club. He was walking fine.”
“He probably met some woman in the bar and he’s shacked up in her room at the club,” Helen said. “It wouldn’t be the first time he’s done that.”
But it might be the last time he tried it on the Black Widow, she thought.
“One more thing,” Jessica said. “You don’t have the Winderstine file, do you? The paper file is missing.”
“No, why? Do you need it?” Helen said.
“I don’t. Solange does. Apparently Mr. Sawyer Winderstine had a bit too much to drink last night. He passed out on the terrace and the valet had to load him into a cab. Solange wants to send him a letter of reprimand.”
“By current club standards, his offense seems mild. Mr. Casabella has done far worse,” Helen said. “I’ve seen his file. Chad Minotaur just threw the club’s lucky bird in the yacht basin, and I doubt he’ll get a letter. His mother will get stuck with the recovery and restoration costs.”
“Mr. Winderstine spends a lot less than Angelo Casabella or the Minotaurs,” Jessica said. “We’d better get back before we’re missed.”
As they walked back to their desks, Helen heard sirens screaming close by.
“Please. Not another heart attack on the golf course,” Jessica said. “The paperwork will bury us.”
Did someone find Rob’s body and call the cops? Helen wondered. Did Marcella make herself a widow one more time?
She and Jessica ran out on the loading dock for a look. “Two Golden Palms police cars are tearing up the main drive, sirens on,” Jessica said. “The members will have a fit.”
“Are the cops going to the main building?” Helen asked.
“No, they’re headed toward the employee lot,” Jessica said. “I wonder what happened.”
They didn’t have to wait long to find out. Xaviera was on the phone, with her head down and her voice low, sure sign of a personal call. When she hung up, Xaviera said, “That was my boyfriend, Steven. Security found a lot of blood in the employee lot. They also found a torn shirt with blood on it back by the Dumpsters.”
Helen relaxed a little. Must have been a busy night in the employee lot, she thought. There was another fight after I left.
Cameron, who’d been on the phone, poked his head up from his desk.
“They need more security in that area,” he said. “It’s not safe. Outsiders come over that parking lot fence all the time. Rough types. They break into the employees’ cars. I’ve seen homeless guys camping back by the Dumpsters.”
“Homeless men don’t wear Tommy Bahama shirts,” Xaviera said.
But Rob did. Helen felt her blood drain from her face.
CHAPTER 6
“Helen Hawthorne, could you come with us?”
Marshall Noote was used to delivering bad news. He told parents when an unruly child broke his arm running on the pool deck. He asked obstreperous club members to leave the Pink Parrot bar. He escorted freshly fired employees to their cars, then posted their photos in the gatehouse, so they couldn’t come back.
Now the head of club security blocked Helen’s aisle at work. He was flanked by two burly security guards with grim expressions. Unless Helen threw herself through a sealed window, she was trapped.
This was a hanging party. She could almost see the rope. Rob was missing. She’d punched him on club property. Brenda the bad boss had snitched.
Steven, Xaviera’s boyfriend, wasn’t one of the security guards. Helen wondered if Noote had deliberately cut him out of this assignment. These two guards were older, overweight, and uncomfortably stuffed into their Superior Club blazers.
“Just a moment,” Helen said. She was stalling for time. She had one advantage. She was back in a corner and Noote didn’t have a clear view of her. For once, she blessed the clutter in the customer care office. If security came after her, they’d have to squeeze past Cam and Jessica’s bulky desks and tall chairs and step around purses, file boxes and wastebaskets. Three big men couldn’t fit in the narrow aisle. They’d have to wait for Helen to come out.
Good. She needed a moment to think.
Noote was an ex-cop from Boston, and he’d think like someone in law enforcement.
Quick, Helen asked herself. Do I have anything that would make a cop curious?
My fake driver’s license.
“Ah-hah-choo!” Helen faked a juicy sneeze and palmed the license out of her purse. Then she pretended to search for a tissue in her desk drawer. Customer care staffers could not keep anything personal, even a tissue box, on top of the antique desks.
Helen was about to slide the license into her middle drawer when she realized human resources would pack up her things if she was fired. She didn’t want them finding that fake license.
“Ah-choo!” she said again. “Jessica, may I have a tissue?”
Jessica, deep in a phone conversation with a difficult member, nodded absently. The actress had incredible concentration. She could build an invisible wall around herself.
Helen slipped her fake license into a side pocket in Jessica’s purse, then unzipped the purse and grabbed a tissue. She blew her nose noisily. Cam, the big hypochondriac, reached for his spray bottle of alcohol to ward off her airborne germs.
“Now, Miss Hawthorne,” Noote said. It was a command.
“Sorry,” she said. “Allergies.” That excuse worked any time of the year in Florida.
Helen squeezed past the desks and chairs to join Noote. The security guards surrounded her. She breathed in Old Spice and sunbaked wool. She felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room.
Helen didn’t trust herself to say anything else, not even good-bye to her colleagues. She was afraid her voice would shake. Jackie looked more frightened than Helen felt, as if security might come for her next. Jessica was still oblivious, locked in her phone conversation. Xaviera was frantically punching numbers on her phone, probably calling Steven for inside information. Cam was spraying his phone with alcohol.
Brenda came out of her office and gave Helen a triumphant smile.
“We’ll call you if we need you, Brenda,” Noote said.
Brenda, was it? Helen thought. Definitely a lynching party. Outside, the bright sun nearly blinded her, and she stumbled on the flagstones. The burly guard on her left took her elbow. Helen shook him off.
Security escorted her around the back of the main building to a courtyard that was more like a tropical alley.
HR, Helen thought. My job is definitely toast.
Noote opened the door for her. She climbed the narrow back staircase to the office marked DIRECTOR — HUMAN RESOURCES. One security guard was in front of her. Two were behind her.
The HR office had been hacked out of a corner of the hall, an awkward arrangement of odd angles, a dusty window, and white paint thick as cake frosting. The director, Paige, sat at a beat-up wooden desk. It was old, but definitely no antique. Paige was a thin blonde with prominent teeth and a wide lipsticked mouth. The effect was oddly sexy. Helen had met her a week ago when she’d been hired. Now Paige was going to fire her.
“Let’s go in here where we have privacy,” Paige said, opening a door to a bare room that might have been a former closet. It was just big enough for a f
olding table and three plastic chairs. On the table were a blue pen and a yellow legal pad.
Paige showed her to the table and said, “Helen, we understand there was a problem in the parking lot last night with one of the guests. We’d like you to write down your side of the story. I’ll be back in a few minutes. If you finish before I come back, just open the door.”
Helen had worked in HR in her other life. They’re going to fire me by the book, she thought. Well, I give them points for that. I’ll write down my side of the story, without Brenda’s embellishments. I hope Jessica will back me up, but if not, at least I’ll have my story on the record.
There was no phone or computer in the room, so Helen could not contact Jessica before she wrote her statement. That was also standard procedure.
Helen wrote that her ex had surprised her in the dark parking lot and she’d swung at him. That was the story Rob had told Brenda and Jessica, and she wasn’t going to contradict him. Besides, it was true enough. God knows she was surprised to see the SOB.
She added that Rob had asked Brenda to forget the incident because it was his fault that Helen hit him. (It was. It was his fault any way you looked at it.) “I didn’t hit him very hard,” Helen wrote. “There were only two small spots of blood on his shirt, and Rob seemed fine when I drove out of the parking lot to go home.”
She reread her statement, crossed out “seemed fine” and changed it to “was fine.”
Helen was about to open the door, when Paige came in with the head of security. Noote took the chair next to Paige.
Noote’s here as a witness, Helen thought. They’re following procedure right down the line. She wondered where the other guards were. They couldn’t fit in the little room.
Paige read Helen’s statement carefully and made some notes on her own legal pad. Helen tried not to fidget. Finally Paige said, “I see that you admit to hitting a club member.”
“He surprised me in the dark,” Helen said. “That parking lot can be pretty creepy.”
“A witness says you were arguing loudly,” Paige said.
“Brenda would say anything to make an employee of Kitty’s look bad.”