by Elaine Viets
Marcella wore a black pantsuit and bloodred lipstick—a Black Widow indeed. She looked ageless. It was not a good look. She did not belong to any time or place. Marcella was a lost soul.
“Congratulations,” Helen said. “I’ve worked with Michael at the club. I’m impressed.”
Marcella shrugged. She didn’t care what Helen thought.
“You’ve known Margery since you were young secretaries, right?”
“Yes,” Marcella said.
“Why do you stay friends with her? You’re rich and she’s—”
“Still my best friend,” Marcella interrupted. “Do you know how broke I used to be? I lived on tomato soup and canned tuna. Margery let me borrow her black Victor Costa cocktail dress that I wore on my first date. She also paid for my beauty salon appointment. That snagged me my first husband—and a fortune. Margery’s never asked me for anything, and I know she’s been through some hard times. She’s the only person I can count on to tell me the truth. Yes, I can buy and sell her, but Margery doesn’t give a damn. She’s her own woman.”
Helen thought it was sad that Marcella didn’t trust any of the men in her life. Bruce was a servant and her many husbands were dead, except for Rob, the thief and liar. Helen didn’t envy Marcella her money. It bought her a lonely life.
“How did you get a divorce so fast?” Helen said. “It took me way too long to get rid of Rob.”
“I didn’t need one,” Marcella said. “There was no marriage.”
“Marcella, you can tell that to your new husband. But I saw you and Rob on your wedding day on this boat.”
“You saw us in white suits with a lot of flowers. Did you see us getting married?”
“No.”
“Did you see any documentation?” Marcella said.
“There was a marriage,” Helen said. “I can’t prove it, but I know it. I’m going to sketch out a scenario. You can nod yes or no. You owe me that much after what I did.
“I’m guessing the minister who married you and Rob has been paid to forget the ceremony. Either he didn’t file the paperwork properly, or some money changed hands with a clerk or two and it vanished. Computers make it easy to lose records, especially in Florida. I suspect your wedding was conducted by someone who was a bit borderline in the first place—not affiliated with any established church. Possibly even a mail-order minister. You or your attorney, or whoever chose the minister, deliberately built a trapdoor in the marriage from the beginning, in case you wanted to bail out.
“I’m thinking the witnesses won’t be a problem. They probably came from some cruise ship or hotel and they’re long gone. And with no paperwork, there’s no way to track down their names.”
Helen watched Marcella. She thought she saw a nod. Or maybe the boat just rocked a little.
“The minister—I’m going to guess he’s no longer in Fort Lauderdale. He’s suddenly come into enough money to realize his dream and open a wedding chapel in Reno.”
“Las Vegas,” Marcella said. “We’re honeymooning in Las Vegas.”
“Going to be hard to take the boat there,” Helen said.
“We’ll fly,” Marcella said. “The sea doesn’t always have happy associations for me.”
“Why aren’t you a widow?” Helen asked.
“Widowhood was getting tiresome,” Marcella said. “And Rob was seen in Palm Beach County. He nearly destroyed that jewelry shop.”
“Oh,” Helen said. “I forgot about that.”
Marcella was too smart to let herself be blackmailed by that greedy little store owner. Simpler to pay off a slightly sleazy minister and a couple of clerks. They’d have more to lose if word got out.
“If Rob’s body didn’t show up for some reason, it would take ages to get him declared dead. I wanted to marry again. I gave Rob some money to go away.”
“Where?”
“I didn’t ask,” Marcella said. “He signed all the papers my lawyer needed and took off as soon as the check cleared.”
“How much did he get?” Helen said.
“Only a million.” She waved her hand as if the money was unimportant. “My jewelry was returned. Rob agreed to clear out and not contest anything.”
“You rewarded his treachery with a million dollars?” Helen could not believe how her ex skated through every disaster.
“It won’t be a reward,” Marcella said. “He went for a cruise with me and got a little taste of what will happen if he doesn’t keep his agreement. He promised never to come near me again. Besides, a million isn’t much. Not after what he’s used to. He’ll go through the money in no time and be even more desperate.”
“Then he’ll come after me,” Helen said. “He can do that. If you and Rob were never married, then he’ll try to collect the money the court says I owed him. I thought I was rid of him when he met you. Now I’m back where I started.”
“That’s your problem,” Marcella said. “You had two chances to kill him.”
CHAPTER 30
“This isn’t a good picture of me,” Jake Dourwich said.
This was the fourth time Jake nixed his club card photo.
The man was worse than an aging Hollywood actor. Helen was stuck in the hot little photo booth, snapping photos he refused to approve.
“It looks just like you, Jakie,” cooed his wife, Tiffany.
It did. That made it one scary photo. Jake Dourwich looked like a snake with a suntan.
“It sucks. I don’t like my eyes,” Jake said.
Helen didn’t, either. Jake’s eyes were flat, black and merciless. A predator’s eyes, watching a yummy little bunny. Helen could take fifty photos of Jake, but nothing would make his eyes look human.
“Take another,” Jake ordered Helen.
“I want to go to lunch,” whined his wife. Tiffany was a skinny blonde whose tiny white halter dress showed off enormous boobs and a little potbelly. Tiffany was pouting, unless her lips had overdosed on collagen.
“Shut up,” Jake said.
“You shut up,” Tiffany said.
Their daughter, a sweet chubby child with newly budded breasts, slipped behind a file cabinet, trying to make herself disappear. Helen felt sorry for the girl. She deserved better parents.
Helen pressed the button for the fifth photo while Jake hissed insults at his wife. Then she showed him the latest picture on the computer monitor.
“This sucks, too,” Jake said. “What’s wrong with you? These photos are shit.”
I only photograph what’s standing there, Helen wanted to say. But she remembered her enormous credit card bill and even bigger car repair bills. “The lighting seems to cast some shadows, sir,” she lied tactfully. “I can’t adjust it. Maybe if you wore your sunglasses.”
“Yeah, Jakie,” his wife said. “Wear your Gucci glasses.”
Jake slipped on his shades with the gold logo. Now he looked like a drug dealer, but at least that was halfway human. Helen pressed the button again, and the new photo appeared on the computer screen. Jake looked better with those scary eyes covered.
“I like it,” Jake said, and gave Helen a thumbs-up.
Helen ushered Jake and his family out of the customer care office with their new member cards. She returned to find Xaviera arguing with a man who looked like sculpted lard.
“Whaddya mean, I blew six hundred bucks at the bar? I didn’t drink that much.” Mr. Lard loomed over Xaviera, his face red and greasy with rage. His thick New York accent made his words more threatening.
Xaviera didn’t back away. “These receipts have your signature, sir.” She handed him a fat file.
He flipped through the receipts, then slammed them on the desk and snarled, “Why don’t you speak American? I’m sick of you people.”
Helen had seen this reaction before. When faced with an ugly truth, the club members insulted the messenger.
“Why don’t you?” Xaviera said. “Your accent is worse than mine.”
The man grabbed the receipts and stomped out.
“Please,” Jessica said. “That’s unfair. Pigs are intelligent.”
Xaviera and Jessica burst into giggles. Helen tried to laugh along with them, but she was losing her sense of humor. She didn’t like the club members—and she didn’t like herself.
Helen had spent part of last night cursing her luck. Her ex had married a serial husband killer and slithered away with his life and a million dollars. She spent the rest of the night wondering what kind of woman she was: She’d wanted her ex-husband murdered.
A woman with plenty of company, she decided. Many women wanted their ex-husbands six feet under. But none came as close as I did.
At least the Brandy Alexander was gone. The Black Widow’s white yacht no longer haunted her. It had sailed after the sunset wedding last evening. Helen had no idea if Marcella was really going to Vegas with her new husband. All she knew was the view out her office window was once again a postcard with pretty palm trees and blue water.
The view inside had improved, too. Brenda’s office was finally opened, repainted and redecorated. The blood-soaked carpet and desk had been replaced. But no one staked a claim on Brenda’s empty room, even though it was prime private space. Cam walked past the door holding his bottle of hand sanitizer like a cross before a vampire.
Jackie’s desk was still empty. One drawer stuck out like an accusing finger. No matter how many times Helen closed it, she’d find it open again.
It was a little after eleven o’clock when Xaviera’s phone rang. Helen could tell by the way she covered the receiver that Xaviera was talking to her blond boyfriend, Steven. Suddenly, she stood up and shrieked.
“It’s either a proposal of marriage or major news,” Jessica said.
“I have major news,” Xaviera shouted.
“Are you OK?” Kitty, their little brunette boss, came running out of her office, looking worried.
Solange, her red hair artfully tangled, stood in her doorway. She was dressed in a casually expensive green linen pantsuit. “What is that noise, girls? I expect professional behavior in this office.”
“They found Jackie,” Xaviera said.
“When?” Solange asked, her lecture on professionalism abandoned.
“Yesterday,” Xaviera said.
“Where?” Jessica asked.
“Working in the café at the Down and Dirty Discount store in Ocala.”
“Yuck,” Helen said. “I won’t shop at Down and Dirty. There’s one chain that lives up to its name.”
“Makes Wal-Mart look like Nieman Marcus,” Jessica said.
“My boyfriend, Steven, says Jackie was in bad shape. She’d lost weight and stank like old hot dogs and greasy popcorn. She had blisters on her hands from the fry cooker.”
“Elegant Jackie was covered with grease?” Helen almost forgave the woman.
“Steven said she gave up when the officers came to her counter. ‘Take me to prison,’ she said. ‘It can’t be any worse than this.’”
“She’s got that right,” Helen said. She knew from personal experience that a bad job was a prison sentence. She’d worked as a telemarketer, selling septic tank cleaner. Six weeks into that job, Helen understood why companies hired prisoners for telephone work. If she went to hell, she’d be a telemarketer.
“What a sad end for a woman who used to be a social leader at this club,” Kitty said. Her brown eyes were brimming with tears. “I liked Jackie. I’m sorry she’s come to this.”
“Why are the police keeping it quiet?” Cam said. “You’d think Golden Palms would tell the world they caught a double killer.”
“Right,” Jessica said. “They really want the networks camping out in the city, asking some of the richest people in Florida rude questions.”
“And branding Golden Palms as the home of a double murderer,” Xaviera said. “Jackie had a Golden Palms address. She used to belong to this club and she killed a member. What’s that going to do to property values?”
“It’s best we keep that information quiet,” Solange said. “Back to work, people. We’ve wasted enough time gossiping.” She shooed them back to their desks.
Despite Solange’s command, the staff did little work. FedEx packages didn’t go out. Member requests were ignored. Ringing phones went unanswered, except for Xaviera’s. Her Steven supplied hourly updates.
At noon, Xaviera reported, “Jackie has a public defender.”
“She’s screwed,” Cam said. “She’s probably got some kid fresh out of college.”
“No,” Xaviera said. “There was some kind of conflict with the PD’s office and her ex-husband. She’s getting an attorney from a top private firm as her public defender.”
“Good,” Helen said, then wondered why she was rooting for the woman who’d tried to kill her.
Because I’ve been in her shoes, she thought. Or close enough. In her mind, Helen had murdered her tormentor, Rob, so many times, she should be arrested.
“Twelve thirty,” Cam said. “It’s Helen’s turn for lunch.”
“I don’t want to miss the next update,” Helen said.
“I’ll fill you in,” Jessica promised.
Helen rushed through lunch in the staff cafeteria, not sure if she ate a hamburger or a ham sandwich. She was back at her desk by one o’clock.
At one-oh-seven, Xaviera reported, “Steven says they’re trying to work out a plea.”
“Think she’ll confess to killing Brenda and Dr. Dell?” Jessica asked.
“And me,” Helen said. “She tried to kill me.”
“She’ll have to, won’t she?” Xaviera said.
“Aren’t they moving awfully fast?” Cam said.
“Steven says Golden Palms doesn’t want a murder trial splashing the city’s name all over the media,” Xaviera said. “They want to expedite this, so Jackie goes away quietly.”
Good, Helen thought. She didn’t want her name all over the news, either.
A little before two o’clock, Xaviera had another bulletin: “They think Jackie is going to confess to both murders. She says she’s sorry about you, Helen. Her court-appointed lawyer is still trying to work out a plea.”
“Jackie should get a medal,” Cam said. “I mean, not for trying to kill you, Helen. For getting rid of Brenda.”
“Cam is a big ‘no man is an island’ fan,” Jessica said.
“I didn’t see that movie,” Cam said.
Jessica and Helen burst out laughing.
“I can’t help it if you guys are old,” Cam said. He stuck out his lower lip like a giant baby.
At three o’clock, Steven called again. “Wait till you hear this.” Xaviera nearly levitated in her excitement. Kitty and Solange came out of their offices, drawn by the promise of fresh, hot news.
“Jackie was selling club information from the customer care files,” Xaviera said.
“That’s outrageous,” Kitty said.
Solange moaned and pulled at her already tangled red hair. Her look was sliding from casual to crazed. A button dangled loose on her jacket and her linen suit had more wrinkles than a Shar-Pei puppy.
“Who bought the information?” Jessica said.
“That Rob guy, the one who didn’t marry the Black Widow,” Xaviera said. “He was selling it to other club members, mostly.”
Solange gave a graveyard groan and twisted the fiery strands around her fingers.
“What kind of information?” Jessica asked.
“The only one Jackie mentioned was a sale to a divorce lawyer,” Xaviera said. “The lawyer bought information that a husband had his club bills mailed to a PO box. The husband didn’t want his wife to know he was taking his cookie to lunch here. The lawyer also found the husband had a separate bank account in the Bahamas. The husband had kept that asset well hidden.”
“I hope the lawyer nailed the bastard,” Kitty said.
“Kitty!” Solange said, her voice shrill with fear. “If word gets out, we’re
all in trouble. We better pray Jackie takes that plea. Otherwise, we could lose our jobs.”
Not we, Helen thought. You. It happened on your watch.
“Xaviera, what else do you know?” Solange sounded desperate for good news.
“Jackie said she faxed Rob seven club members’ files. She made about seven thousand dollars and used it for her rent and car payments. She was months behind. Then Brenda discovered the missing Winderstine file in Jackie’s desk during one of her compulsive cleaning attacks.”
“Winderstine!” Solange said. “Why would anyone want his file?”
“He was going to be a CFO, until his company found out he was sixty days behind in his club bills. They decided if he couldn’t handle his finances, he couldn’t handle theirs.”
Solange looked like she was going to faint. She clutched the counter to steady herself and said, “If Winderstine finds out, he’ll sue.”
“You shouldn’t have made such a fuss over that file.” Xaviera must be feeling feisty, dishing important information she got from Steven.
“Jackie came in early to sneak the Winderstine file back in the cabinet,” Xaviera said. “That’s when Brenda confronted her. She’d come in early, too. Brenda guessed Jackie was selling information. She wanted the cash that Jackie had been getting—all of it. Jackie said the money was gone, and she still owed thousands. Brenda gave Jackie a week to come up with the money or she was fired.
“Jackie actually got down on her knees and pleaded with that heartless witch,” Xaviera said. “She said this would ruin her. She promised to give Brenda her future earnings.
“Brenda said, ‘You’re going to do that anyway. You deserve to be fired. I’m trying to help. Do it my way and you keep your job. Otherwise, you’re on the street, and nobody will hire you, loser.’
“Jackie finally had enough. ‘I’m the loser?’ she said. ‘You play golf with Blythe St. Ives, the club member no one else will play with—and you have to lose. How pathetic is that? You couldn’t even afford your own breast surgery. You had to sleep with Doctor Dell, a man who looks like an ape. You got fake boobs for fake sex. I’ve had my problems, but I’ve always had my pride.’