by Elaine Viets
“You!” He pointed to the other guard with a neck like a tree trunk.
“Do the same thing with the rest of the customer care staff as they arrive. A different room for each one and no talking. We’re following procedure. I run this department by the book.”
“But what about the office?” Jessica said. “Who’ll take care of the members?”
“They can take care of themselves for one day. This office is closed. It’s a crime scene.”
“Oh, man,” Jessica whispered. “Those phones will be radioactive tomorrow. What’s happening?”
“I said no talking!” Noote barked, and Jessica clamped her mouth shut. She looked frightened.
Helen and Jessica rode off in silence in the silly striped golf cart. The guard made Helen ride up front. Jessica sat alone in the back, clutching her purse like a security blanket. Helen saw Xaviera and Cam strolling down the path together, laughing and chatting. Their day was about to be ruined, too.
At the hotel, security confiscated Helen’s cell phone. She was stashed in the Granada Room, a poky meeting place that was almost never used. It had been stripped of everything but a folding chair and a bare table.
Helen stared out the window at the parking lot. She could hear the sirens baying. It looked like half the police cars in South Florida were out there, parked at haphazard angles. There were also crime scene vans, unmarked cars and vehicles whose purpose she couldn’t begin to identify.
She paced up and down on the worn carpet, too restless to sit. The room was warm, but her teeth were still chattering. Shock, she thought. I’m in shock. She unwrapped an energy bar, took two bites, then remembered Brenda’s last angry words to her about eating in the office. She saw Brenda’s battered, bloody body and lost her appetite. Helen threw the rest of the bar away.
She wished she could feel bad about Brenda, but she was glad the woman was dead. That made her feel worse. She couldn’t feel anything about Dr. Dell. He’d been a bully, too. If nice Mr. Giles had died, she’d be weeping buckets. This numb hatred made her feel sick and dirty.
Helen counted the cracks in the plaster ceiling. She counted the dead flies on the window sill. She’d started counting police cars when she was called in for questioning by Golden Palms homicide.
A uniformed officer escorted her to another meeting room. Helen didn’t know Detective O’Shaughnessy, but he seemed to know her. He treated her with respectful contempt, as if she could do a lot of damage—like a ticking bomb. She guessed that’s what happened when you had Gabe Accomac for your lawyer.
The homicide detective could have been Marshall Noote’s younger brother. His hair was sandy blond instead of gray, but he had the same military haircut, thick neck and beefy face. She’d bet O’Shaughnessy’s father and grandfather had been cops, too. The detective never mentioned her missing ex, but Rob seemed to be there, spreading suspicion and discord, the way he did when he was alive.
Now he’d caused the deaths of two more people. Helen was convinced Brenda was murdered for the Winderstine file. She didn’t say that, of course. She didn’t mention the file at all. She didn’t want to talk about her deal with the Black Widow.
She had trouble concentrating on the detective’s questions. He asked if Dr. Dell had any enemies. Helen said she didn’t know. She’d only met him briefly when he had a question about his bill.
Was the doctor having an affair with Brenda?
“I don’t know,” Helen said. Well, she didn’t. Not for sure.
Did Brenda have any enemies?
Helen knew she’d better answer this truthfully. “She didn’t have a lot of friends among the customer care staff. But that was office politics. I don’t think anyone would kill her for that.”
“Then why would they kill her?” the detective asked.
“I don’t know,” Helen lied.
He didn’t believe her. He asked her the same questions again and again. She tried to keep her answers straight. She wanted to put her head down on the table and sleep. Finally, O’Shaughnessy let her go after she signed a statement. A tech took her fingerprints “for the process of elimination.” Helen wondered why the police bothered. They’d find staff fingerprints on every surface in the office.
She retrieved her cell phone from security and found a text message: “We’re all meeting at Cam’s condo after.”
Helen didn’t have to ask after what. The message had the address to Cam’s new condo in Fort Lauderdale. He lived in a big pink building on the Intracoastal Waterway. Cam’s building had all the signs of Florida luxury: bubbling fountains, pricey landscaping, acres of awnings and a grumpy security guard who made her hide the unsightly Toad behind the garage.
Helen signed in at the front desk and took the oak-paneled elevator to the tenth floor.
“Come in, come in,” Cam said. “You’re the last to arrive.”
The apartment was a knockout—a sweeping view of the Intracoastal Waterway. Cam’s apartment was furnished in Tropical Guy: a fat brown leather sofa and big comfortable chairs, wicker lamps, a teak elephant footstool and a woven sea-grass rug.
“Nice,” Helen said.
Cam looked at home here. His big, awkward frame blended well with the oversized furniture. The sofa seemed to swallow Jessica and Jackie. Both sat pale and silent, clutching their water bottles. Xaviera drummed her long painted nails on the chair arm.
Kitty perched on the teak elephant, sipping a diet soda. The woman who’d tried to undermine the manager was dead, but Brenda’s murder had brought Kitty more trouble. There were dark circles under her brown eyes.
Cam was too jittery to sit. He kept using his puffer. “My asthma is triggered by stress,” he said.
Xaviera rolled her eyes.
Jessica, the peacemaker, made them compare notes about the morning. Helen knew the most.
“You actually found the body?” Xaviera said.
“What did she look like?” Cam asked. “Was she all bloody and bashed in?”
“Please, no.” Jackie started making tiny hurt-mouse sounds. Her eyes were a raw red. Helen knew this wasn’t the first time she’d cried today.
Xaviera came over and hugged her. “Please, Jackie, do not cry. Brenda’s murder is a good thing. Whoever killed her did us all a favor. She can’t torment us anymore. She’s dead and I’m glad.” She looked defiantly around the room, daring anyone to disagree.
“I am, too,” Cam said.
“I won’t miss her,” Jessica said.
“I would have killed her myself, sweetpea, if she was in that office much longer,” Kitty said. One brown curl had collapsed on her forehead. “I’m in serious need of relaxation. Cam, do you have any wine?”
“I have something better,” Cam said, and carried out a hookah—the first Helen had seen outside a movie. “Wait till you try this. I use a mixture of half pot and half tobacco. A few puffs and you’re so incredibly mellow. You won’t care what happened today.”
“I don’t do drugs,” Jackie said.
“Oh, Jackie,” Xaviera said. “If anyone needs to relax, it’s you.”
“No, I prefer not to.” Jackie gathered up her battered Chanel purse and fled.
“What about you, Helen?” Cam said. “You don’t object, do you?”
“Of course not,” Helen said. “Can I use your john?”
“Down the hall,” Cam said.
Helen didn’t care about a little pot, but she didn’t like Cameron having a hold over her. The club had strict rules about drugs and could order random drug tests. She wished Kitty would leave now, before the hookah started bubbling. If their boss ever needed to discipline the crafty Cam, she wouldn’t be able to after a pot party.
Helen sat on the commode in Cam’s tasteful slate-gray bathroom and called Margery. “I have a situation,” she whispered into her cell phone. “I’ll explain later. I need you to call me back on my cell in about a minute. I have to get out of here. Make up an excuse.”
“I won’t have to,” Margery said. “Ma
rcella wants to see you. Now.”
CHAPTER 15
Monday started with a murder. Now it would end with the Black Widow. Could it get any worse?
Helen couldn’t see any way to escape meeting Rob’s wife again. She’d asked Margery to get her out of Cam’s condo. Her landlady had granted her wish. Some escape. The alternative was far worse than a silly pot party. Now Helen had to walk back into Marcella’s private, perfumed hell alone.
This time, no lawyered limo took her to the yacht club. Helen parked the rumbling Toad in the Superior Club’s employee lot and followed the path to the yacht basin.
It was dusk. Purple night clouds were sliding across the sky.The January air was cool. Flocks of black birds were settling in the trees for the night, twittering to each other.The hibiscus were closing. Their red ruffled parasols opened for one day in a great, gaudy show.Then it was all over.
It was also over for Brenda and the doctor. They’d gone out in a horrific splash of red. Then there were the arcs of blood all over the parking lot where Helen had last seen Rob. There was too much death in this little paradise. Helen shivered, but not from the cold.
Marcella’s white shark of a yacht loomed above her, dwarfing the club building. Once again, Helen was greeted on deck by the silent, shiny-domed Bruce. This time, she noticed the Brandy Alexander had five radar domes, shaped like Bruce’s round head.
She almost blurted that out, then reconsidered. Bruce had serious muscles. She didn’t think Marcella kept him around because he was ornamental.
Marcella was sitting on the back deck at the same white table with the flickering candles. Two outdoor heaters, like the ones used in expensive restaurants, warded off the night chill. Three more champagne goblets were lined up in front of Marcella—another trio of Bond martinis.
Bruce brought Helen a crystal glass of water with a thin lemon slice. It was exactly what she wanted, until the glass was in front of her. Then she wanted something, anything else.
Helen wondered if this was what it was like to be fabulously rich: Your every wish was anticipated, until you began to wish for something you couldn’t imagine.
Tonight, Marcella looked old and powerful. She hadn’t bothered putting on her harsh, bright makeup and her dark dyed hair washed the color from her face. Helen could see the predatory intelligence in the woman’s eyes. She wished she knew what Marcella was thinking—or maybe not. She’d seen eyes like Marcella’s only once, on a shark.
“I heard you found the bodies,” Marcella said, studying Helen with those flat eyes.
The club had clamped down on any information about the deadly scandal. The murders hadn’t made the news yet and Helen’s role would probably never be public. But Marcella could afford the finest spies.
Helen told her everything she knew: the half-naked Brenda and the fully dressed doctor, the missing file, which was missing again, and the bloody golf club.
While Helen talked, Marcella started spinning the champagne goblet between her red nails. “So do you think these murders are about sex or money?” Marcella went straight for the heart.
Spin. Spin. The martini goblet was whirling. Helen stared at it, hypnotized by the movement.
She shook herself free, then said, “Money. I think the killer tried to make the murders look like sex, but they were really about money. That missing file has valuable information.”
“Sonny Winderstine’s art collection?” Marcella asked.
“Yes. It gives the dates when Sonny and Sawyer will be out of the country and the collection will be easier to steal. I’m pretty sure that’s it, though there are other possibilities worth paying for in that file.”
“You mean the eight hundred dollars in arrears?”
“Yes,” Helen said.
“Ridiculous,” Marcella said. “No one here would care about that.” Helen felt the insult in those words: You might worry about petty cash, but my world doesn’t. The Black Widow’s martini whirled madly. Helen had to pull her eyes away from it to concentrate on the conversation.
“And you think Rob was buying this information?” Marcella asked.
“Absolutely,” Helen said. “I also think he’s dead. Otherwise, that file would be back where it belonged, Brenda would have her bribe money, and no one would be the wiser. It was just bad luck that Winderstine mouthed off in the club restaurant and Solange needed to see his file. It could have sat unnoticed under Brenda’s desk pad for months. Do you know Sawyer Winderstine?”
“Who?” Marcella said.
“Sawyer Winderstine,” Helen said. “The name on the file.”
“I’ve heard of his wife, Sonny,” Marcella said. “He’s nobody. Some tiresome climber who joined the club because it was good for business. I try not to associate with those people. Do you think this Winderstine person killed Brenda and that doctor?”
“No,” Helen said. “Winderstine is a corporate wonk. He wouldn’t have the nerve.”
“You’d be surprised how far a man will go to get what he wants,” Marcella said.
Helen gulped her water. The Black Widow knew exactly how far a man—or a woman—would go. She’d gone there.
“Winderstine didn’t need to kill anyone,” Helen said. “If he found out a member was selling information, he could complain to the club. Rob would be banned and Brenda would be fired. That’s easier, and more effective, than killing anyone.”
“So it would make more sense if Rob killed Winderstine,” Marcella said.
“No,” Helen said. “That wouldn’t make any sense at all. Rob had no reason to kill anyone.”
Why am I defending my ex? she wondered. Because he’s an adulterer and a leech, not a killer.
“Rob needed a mole inside customer care,” Helen said. “He wouldn’t kill Brenda. He’d use her and pay her. But I don’t think he bought that information in the Winderstine file yet. There’s no evidence that anyone has acted on it. I can check, but I’m sure the Winderstine art collection is still safe at home.”
“Well, somebody killed that woman and the doctor,” Marcella said. “I need to know why. There are too many cops poking around that office. If this art thing leaks . . .”
She didn’t finish the rest of the sentence. She didn’t have to. If her husband was selling club information, Marcella would be shunned by the only society that still accepted her.
She stopped spinning the martini and tossed it off in one gulp. “I need to find Rob.”
The Black Widow gripped the glass so hard, the fragile stem snapped. “I need to know what he’s done.” A thin red line of blood ran down her fingers.
Marcella didn’t notice.
CHAPTER 16
Helen drove home, feeling like she’d been wrapped in ice. The January night and the double murder were chilling. But that wasn’t what left her cold. The Black Widow froze Helen down to the bone. The woman wasn’t human.
Helen had seen Marcella slice her fingers till the blood ran, yet she didn’t react. Could the Black Widow even feel pain? Did she know what she inflicted on herself and other people?
Helen had left Marcella staring into the dark water. The silent, servile Bruce had guided her to the dock. Then Helen ran for her car as if the devil were after her.
I have to get free of this woman, she thought. I was so close. Then Brenda got herself killed and ruined everything.
No, I let that file sit there overnight and lost my chance. And Brenda lost her life.
Who killed Brenda? And why? Helen pounded the Toad’s steering wheel in frustration. She couldn’t think of a single reason. Brenda’s death made no sense. Neither did the doctor’s.
Helen was relieved when she finally saw the warm yellow glow of the Coronado’s windows. She pulled the lumbering Toad into the parking lot and sat there in the dark. She felt overwhelmed and defeated. The day had been too long and it had held too many horrors: the battered bodies, the missing file, the meeting with Marcella. She put her head down on the hard steering wheel and closed her eyes, too tired
to move.
“Helen? Are you OK?”
Helen sat up suddenly. Phil was knocking on her car window. His silver hair formed a halo around his long thin face. Peggy and Margery stood behind him, looking worried. Peggy’s skin was paper white in the streetlights. She looked like a beautiful wraith. Margery’s wrinkles were deep as furrows in a dry field.
Helen cranked down the Toad’s window. “Sorry. I must have fallen asleep.”
“When’s the last time you ate?” Margery said.
Helen remembered the energy bar she’d thrown away. Lunch had been lost in the police interrogation.
“Breakfast,” Helen said.
“That was twelve hours ago,” Margery said. “You need food.”
“I’ll heat up some chicken soup,” Peggy said.
“I’ll make you a sandwich,” Phil said. “I have turkey and rye bread.”
That sounded good to Helen, until she remembered that Phil’s sandwiches often had strange, smelly surprises. “No sour cream or raw onions,” she said.
“But those make it interesting,” Phil said.
“No ketchup, red pepper flakes or hot sauce,” Helen said.
“You like it too bland,” Phil said.
“Just slap some turkey on bread and don’t argue,” Margery said, shooing Phil toward his apartment. She waved her lit cigarette like a cattle prod. “Helen is light-headed from stress and hunger. Two bodies in one day are too much.”
Helen hadn’t told her landlady about the murders. She wondered if Marcella had filled her in.
“I’m taking her to my place,” Margery said. “Bring the food there.”
Margery’s soft purple recliner felt like welcoming arms. Helen sank into the old easy chair, and Margery brought her hot coffee. Helen wrapped her hands around it to warm them. She heard the beep of a microwave, and her landlady came back with a heated brownie.
“Eat dessert first,” she said. “Life is short.”
“It certainly was for Brenda and Dr. Dell,” Helen said.