Murder Between the Covers dj-2

by Elaine Viets

  Simon was a patient who needed his diseased gums lasered. Alas, after she married him, she realized her new husband also had a diseased soul. If Jillian ever left him, Simon would make sure she never gazed upon her darling baby Jarrod again. The corrupt de Quincys were so powerful, they could do anything, even tear a mother from her child. Night after night, Jillian endured Simon’s embraces while she thought only of her true love, Lance.

  Helen read about Simon de Quincy’s countless cruelties and inadequate dental hygiene until her gaze glazed and she fell asleep. She woke again at three-thirty. No woman could endure this on her own. It would take another pot of coffee.

  She made it extra strong. Then she resumed reading. She was 190 pages into the book. Jillian and Lance had gazed at each other sixty-seven times.

  What was it about romances and gazing? Helen figured that’s why it took the couple so long to get into the sack.

  When gazes rarely went below the neck, it took time to get down to business.

  I have no romance, she thought.

  Helen got up, stretched, then poured her eighth cup of the night. The caffeine buzz would keep her awake until next week. Come on, she told herself. You have work to do.

  She resumed the painful task of reading.

  The vile Simon de Quincy was snoring on the white satin chaise longue, still wearing his muddy riding boots. The dreaded riding crop, the source of so much humiliation, was gripped in one hairy hand. A black silk tunic clutched his broad chest, just as she had once desired to clutch him in wifely lust, before he had crushed her spirit and her love. A bottle of priceless Napoleon brandy was beside him. It had fallen over.

  Its precious liquid spilled out on a mahogany table that had graced the de Quincy mansion for four generations.

  That was another problem Helen had with romances.

  Why didn’t the guy wear normal clothes? You could be a villain in jeans and deck shoes. Well, a Florida villain, anyway.

  De Quincy’s filthy snores grew louder. Jillian knew the utter degradation she would face when he awoke.

  Simon would beat her and force her to... she would feel his thrusting... he would fondle her... no, she could not endure that again. She was sickened at the very thought. Last night, she had forced herself to keep quiet as his hands slid over her tender camellia-white body, knowing her precious Jarrod was in the next room. But she swore it would not happen again. She felt as if an angel was leading her to their unhallowed marital bed, the scene of many despairing pairings.

  She picked up a lace pillow that had been embroidered by a de Quincy maiden two hundred years ago, and put it over Simon’s face. He hardly struggled. When the riding crop fell from his wretched hand, she knew the man who defiled her was dead.

  “Oh, Lance, Lance, I did it for you,” Jillian cried in an agony of triumph. And then she heard the boudoir door creak.

  After slogging through mountains of rocky prose, Helen had hit pay dirt. The drunken Simon had been smothered.

  Just like the drunken Page Turner and poor Mr. Davies.

  Maybe it wouldn’t convince Detective Gilbert, but Melanie’s favorite method of murder definitely had Helen’s attention.

  She set the coffee cup down and read. There was no chance she’d fall asleep now.

  Jillian got away with Simon’s murder, thanks to those bluebell eyes, which she batted shamelessly, and a devilmay-care police investigation.

  But that did not free Jillian. After Simon’s death, she was blackmailed by the de Quincy family retainer, the oppressive housekeeper, Mrs. Hermione Buncaster. Mrs. B. had photographed Jillian as she put the fatal pillow over Simon’s face. She had the photos under lock and key. It took months of frantic searching to discover their hiding place. Of course, the resourceful Jillian had a way to save herself.

  Little did Mrs. Buncaster know that Jillian had befriended a small-time burglar named Melvin Larkey.

  He, too, was a patient at the dental clinic. Jillian taught him to floss nightly, and saved his teeth from dreadful plaque buildup. “You showed me how to pick me teeth proper, little missy,” said Mel. “In gratitude, I’ll show you how to pick a lock.”

  Jillian vowed to use her new lock-picking powers only for good. Thanks to Mel, she could save herself and her innocent son.

  Jillian was a lock picker? Now that was interesting.

  Helen bet this was another autobiographical detail. It took skill and patience to wield teeth-cleaning tools. It was a small step to picking locks. And locks didn’t squirm and yell, “Ouch.”

  With nimble fingers, Jillian unlocked the door to the housekeeper’s room. Mel would have been so proud. A Tandy DE345 lock looks difficult, but it always gives way after a few tries. The locked drawer, which had an old-fashioned Peerless lock, could have been opened with a hairpin. Jillian’s expert fingers knew its sordid secret in seconds. She took one last sweeping gaze around the room of her tormentor, then set fire to the photos and the negatives in the metal wastebasket. She gazed exultantly at the rising flames, and knew she was finally free.

  Mrs. B. left town and was never heard from again. Jillian married the honest dentist Lance at last. Helen hoped for their future happiness that their eyes didn’t go sliding anywhere.

  She closed the dreadful book and thought again of dear Mr. Davies. He may have given Helen the key to solve his own murder. Helen was wrong about Melanie. She’d made the same mistake as some men—if a woman was a blonde with a big chest, she must be dumb.

  The book was badly written, but Helen had learned a lot.

  Melanie thought it was OK to smother dissolute drunks.

  Her heroine got away with murder and lived happily ever after.

  Melanie was not disorganized. She wrote a whole book—a bad one, maybe, but even that took effort. She knew how to construct a murder plot.

  Melanie knew a thing or two about lock picking. And that meant she could have easily gotten into Peggy’s tented apartment.

  But even if she could get into the Coronado, where would she get the SCBA breathing gear? Helen doubted that even the most grateful patient would lend her that.

  Trevor said it cost two thousand dollars new. Helen didn’t think Melanie had that kind of money.

  Helen moved slowly around the bookstore that morning.

  She’d had less than three hours’ sleep. But she felt she was finally getting somewhere. On her lunch hour, she bought a double espresso and walked over to the Broward County Library to check out SCBA gear on the Internet. Unfortunately, every computer was taken, and it would be twenty minutes before one was free. That might not be enough time.

  Helen couldn’t wait. She found a pay phone, called her friend Sarah and prayed she was home.

  She answered on the fourth ring. “Hi, Helen, what are you doing?”

  Helen could see curly-haired Sarah in her Hollywood beach condo, her computer set up so she could watch the ocean. “I don’t have much time to talk. I have a suspect who may know how to pick locks.”

  “That would get him in the door.”

  “Her,” Helen said. “But I don’t know if she has access to SCBA breathing gear. Can you do an Internet search for me?”

  “Sure. What do you want me to look for?”

  “Can regular people buy it, or do you need a special license? Can you find it for less than two thousand dollars?”

  “Want to hang on while I search?” Sarah said.

  “Better not. I’ll call you at two.”

  By the time Helen walked back to the store, her lunch hour was nearly over. At one o’clock, she opened her cash register, and watched the hands loiter on the clock face. She didn’t think a court order would get them to move.

  Finally, it was two. She asked Brad to cover for her for five minutes. Back in the break room, she called Sarah.

  “I’ve got good news,” her friend said. “Anyone can buy SCBA equipment. In fact, after nine-eleven there’s been quite a bit of interest in it. People are buying it the way our grandfathers b
uilt nuclear bomb shelters in their backyards.

  They’re afraid of a poison-gas attack.”

  “If there was an attack, would you want to be one of the few survivors?”

  “No, thanks,” Sarah said. “I’d get stuck with the cleanup.

  The point is, anyone can buy this gear. It’s expensive new.

  But you can also buy it used. You can buy used thirty-minute units for around five hundred dollars.”

  “You did have good news,” Helen said. “I couldn’t see this woman spending two thousand dollars. But she might come up with five hundred. Suddenly, Page Turner’s death is positively cheap.”

  “OK, I did your research. Now tell me who your suspect is,” Sarah said.

  “Melanie, the print-on-demand author. She wears those plastic see-through heels. That’s why Mr. Davies said she looked like Cinderella. She’s got blond hair, too. I read her book last night. She’s a terrible writer. But her character smothers the bad guy, and then picks some locks to get the incriminating photos.”

  “Interesting,” Sarah said.

  “That’s because I left out the dull parts,” Helen said.

  “Here’s how I see it: Melanie, a blond, blue-eyed dental assistant, hungers for romance. She meets Page Turner and imagines this wonderful future. She’ll have a mad, passionate affair with the bookstore owner. They’ll have great liter-ary discussions, and, incidentally, he’ll promote her book.

  She falls into Page Turner’s clutches.”

  “Did you say clutches?” Sarah said.

  “It’s not my fault. I’ve been reading Melanie’s romantic mystery or mysterious romance.

  “Page sees it differently. He has her for a quickie on his couch. He expected her to go quietly. But Melanie isn’t like the others. She had dreams not just for herself, but her beloved book. Page Turner shattered those precious dreams. So Melanie struck back at her seducer.”

  “How much longer before you talk normally?” Sarah said.

  “It should wear off shortly,” Helen said. “What do you think?”

  “It has possibilities. How are you going to get this accursed murderess arrested for her vile deeds? Please don’t say you’re going after her alone.”

  “Not me. I’m not one of those half-wit heroines who runs into the empty house looking for the killer. When I get off work, I’ll go check the lock on Peggy’s door. If it’s a Tandy, I’ll call Detective Gilbert. Even if isn’t, I’ll call him.

  But that brand will make my case stronger.

  “Gilbert can get a search warrant and check Melanie’s apartment for lock-picking tools and SCBA gear. He can get those Cinderella shoes and probably other evidence I can’t think of. He’ll have the murderer of Mr. Davies and Page Turner and Peggy will go free.”

  “Helen, you’re more romantic than Melanie. You really do believe in happy endings,” Sarah said.

  Helen went back to her cash register. The clock hands continued to crawl. At three p.m., the letter carrier brought in the store mail. She handed the big stack to Helen and said, “There’s a package for you.”

  Helen never got mail. But the package definitely had her name on it. It looked like a shoebox wrapped in brown paper. There was no return address. Helen did not like this.

  Dr. Rich could be sending her something, or Gabriel. Neither one would give her a pleasant present. She shook the box. It sounded harmless. She held it up to her ear. No ticking.

  Here goes, she thought. She pulled off the brown paper, then lifted the lid.

  What she saw inside made her gag.

  It was a dead parrot.

  Chapter 28

  Helen gathered her courage and looked again. The green feathers were too bright. That color was not found in nature.

  It wasn’t a dead parrot. It was a Styrofoam bird covered with dyed green feathers. Helen could breathe again. Pete was OK. She saw she’d been clutching the counter for support. Gayle was standing next to her, looking worried.

  “What’s wrong, Helen?” she said. “Are you sick again?”

  “Someone sent me this weird thing,” Helen said.

  Gayle looked in the box. “Is that a dead bird? No, it’s a fake. But it looks dead. That’s horrible. There’s a note in the box. It looks weird, too.”

  The letters were cut out of magazines and newspapers and pasted to plain white paper. The note said, If Peggy wishes to gaze upon her darling bird again, you must stop your sleuthing. Cease or her beloved pet will feel the cold gaze of mortality.

  “‘Cold gaze of mortality’?” Gayle said. “What does that mean?”

  “Someone’s going to kill Pete the parrot,” Helen said.

  “Should I call the cops? What sicko wrote that?”

  “I have a good idea. I’ve got to go home. Someone may hurt Pete.”

  “Go on. I’ll cover for you,” Gayle said, but Helen was already running out of the store. If her investigating led to Pete’s death, she’d never forgive herself. Peggy would never forgive her, either. Peggy might give up if anything happened to Pete.

  Helen couldn’t bear the thought. She came to a street corner and was held up by the world’s longest red light.

  Twice, she tried to dash across. Twice, cars nearly ran her down. Angry drivers honked at her. One man leaned out the window and yelled, “Are you trying to get killed, lady?”

  I’m trying to stop a death, she thought. She willed herself to take deep breaths until the light finally changed.

  Pete will be OK, she told herself. He’s with Margery.

  She’s tough and smart.

  She’s seventy-six years old. What chance did an old woman have if a killer surprised her? Helen redoubled her running efforts. She tripped on an uneven sidewalk and fell forward, landing on both hands. Her palms were scraped, but nothing felt broken. She wasted no more time looking for potential damage. Helen ran.

  She could see the turquoise Coronado sign on the ice-cream-white building. She could hear the rattling air conditioners. Best of all, she heard a parrot squawk. She hoped it was Pete and not one of the wild birds in the palm trees.

  Helen knocked on Margery’s door.

  Silence.

  “Margery! Margery, are you home?” She hammered her fists until the jalousie glass rattled and her knuckles were raw.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming. Hold your horses.” Never had bad-tempered words sounded so good. Her landlady opened the door. She’d clearly been asleep. One side of her hair was flattened, her red lipstick was smeared, and there were sheet wrinkles in her skin.

  “Where’s Pete?” Helen said.

  “Asleep, too, for a change. That’s how I finally got some shut-eye.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course. His cage is right over—”

  But his cage wasn’t there. Only the stand and a scattered pile of seed remained. “Where’d he go?” Margery said, bewildered. “How the heck did someone get into my place and steal that parrot?”

  Helen looked at the door lock. “Lock picks. You have a Tandy DE345 lock. The killer picked it and took Pete. It’s Melanie. She killed Page Turner. She kidnapped Pete to make me stop looking for her. She says she’ll kill him. She has a cat. A big mean Siamese. He’ll tear Pete to pieces, if she doesn’t.”

  “Oh, Lord, if anything happens to Pete, Peggy will kill both of us,” Margery said, then looked at Helen. “I didn’t mean that.”

  “I know,” Helen said.

  “Do you know where this Melanie lives?”

  “No, but I know how to find her. Where’s your phone book?”

  Helen called the Mr. Goodtooth Clinic. “Melanie has left for the day,” the receptionist said.

  Melanie took the afternoon off for a little bird-napping, Helen thought.

  “Do you have her home phone? This is Page Turners bookstore. We’re trying to get in touch with her.”

  “Page Turners! I know she’s been wanting a book signing at your store. She’ll be so disappointed she missed your call. Melan
ie left early to go to a wedding at the Tree of Life Baptist church. You need her home phone? She may still be at home getting dressed. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you called.”

  “Could I have her address also?” Helen said. “We want to send her our author-information packet.”

  The receptionist obligingly gave out Melanie’s address and phone number.

  “I’ll drive you there,” Margery said. She had miraculously put herself back together during that short phone call.

  They made it in ten minutes, with Margery breaking the speed limit. Melanie lived in a spectacularly ugly 1970s apartment complex. Helen expected the Saturday Night Fever John Travolta to come dancing out the door.

  “That’s her building—two-twelve,” Margery said. “She’s in apartment A on the first floor.”

  Even from the parking lot, Helen could hear outraged squawking and cat yowls.

  “Pete!” Helen said. “Pete’s in trouble. Those aren’t his usual squawks.”

  Margery rang the doorbell and yelled, “Melanie, it’s your aunt Purdy. Are you home?”

  “Aunt who?”

  “That’s in case the neighbors are watching,” Margery said. “Nobody’s home. Can you pick a lock?”

  “No, but I can break a window.” Helen grabbed a big rock out of the planter and smashed one of the slitlike windows beside the front door. Two more sweeps removed most of the glass shards. She squeezed her hand in and unlocked the dead bolt. She got a long scratch on her arm, but it didn’t bleed much.

  “I’m coming in with you,” Margery said.

  “I need you to stand guard out here,” Helen said. “Yell if she comes back.”

  Helen followed the cat yowls and parrot squawks to Pete.

  His cage was in the guest room on a dresser spread with newspaper. The room was a riot of cabbage-rose wallpaper, cat hair, and bird feathers.

  Pete sat unharmed in his cage, his eyes glittering with rage. A scowling Siamese cowered under the bed. Fear puffed its fur to twice its size. The cat hissed at Helen and started toward her, but Pete squawked again and the animal backed under the bed. Helen grabbed the cage, shut the door on the cat, and ran out of the room.