by Elaine Viets
Chapter 19
Thunka. Thunka. Thunka.
The music was loud, fast and hard, like bedsprings rocking. Am I thinking about bedsprings because I’m getting married, Helen wondered, or because I’m at a strip joint?
King’s Sexxx was as sleazy as its name. The shabby pink stucco building was striped with rust stains. It squatted in a black, nearly empty parking lot, broiling in the late-afternoon sun like a crab cake on a griddle. The club was nearly empty at five o’clock. Helen was glad. She didn’t want anyone to see her in King’s old strip bar.
Helen opened the door and blinked at the smoky darkness. She was hit by waves of pounding music. The bouncer looks like he should be wearing a prison jumpsuit, she thought. “You here for the audition?” he asked.
What audition? Helen wondered. But she had to see King’s old partner, Wyllis Drifford.
“Yes.” Her voice sounded small and shaky.
Helen followed the stoop-shouldered bouncer down a dark hall. The walls were painted dark brown, unless that was mold. The bouncer knocked on an office door and said, “’Nother one, boss. Should I send her in?”
The bouncer interpreted the answering grunt as a yes. He opened the door to a room with plywood paneling and a ratty green sofa. A greasy-looking guy with zits like measles sat behind a cheap desk, smoking an even cheaper, smelly cigar.
“Are you Wyllis Drifford?” Helen asked.
“Speak up,” he said. “I can’t hear you. You auditioning? Take off your blouse so I can see your tits.”
“What?” Helen said.
“Look, sweet cheeks, this is a strip joint, not a tea shop. You gonna show me your tits?”
“Can’t you say hello like any other man?” Helen asked.
“Not when I’m hiring dancers.”
“I’m not a dancer,” Helen said.
“You’re too old for the job, anyway.”
Helen longed to break his jaw. Instead, she said,“Then why did you want me to take off my blouse?”
“Wouldn’t hurt to look,” he said.
“I don’t want your disgusting job,” Helen said.
“Hey, don’t get so high and mighty. You came to me. I’m not in your office. My girls make three thousand a week in tips. I’ll bet that’s more than you make.”
“I bet their mothers are real proud,” Helen said.
Drifford crushed out his cigar on the yellow tile floor—adding another layer of grime—and said, “Why are you taking up my time?”
Here goes nothing, Helen thought. All he can do is throw me out. “Why did you sue your old partner?” she asked.
Drifford stood up. “He was a crook. Good-bye.” He shoved Helen out into the hall and slammed the office door. “Don’t come back.”
Helen nearly fell into the tattooed arms of the bouncer. “Where’s your car, lady?”
“I came by bus,” Helen said.
The bouncer smirked, as if he thought that was funny, and said,“Bus stop is over there.”
Helen was relieved when the bus finally rumbled up. All the way home, her cheeks burned in anger and embarrassment. Phil had never looked so good. He met her at the Coronado gate and greeted Helen like a fifties sitcom wife. “Hi, honey. How was your day?”
“Lousy,” Helen said.
He gave her a beer-flavored kiss and said, “Tell me all about it.”
Phil led her to an umbrella table by the Coronado pool and handed her a cold glass of white wine. On the table was a roast chicken, a salad and warm rolls. The table was set with blue plates, silverware and yellow paper napkins. A branch of purple bougainvillea was stuck in a beer bottle for a centerpiece.
Helen kissed him back. “This could make up for it. You’ve fixed dinner. That’s so sweet.”
“Well, I bought the chicken at Publix. I didn’t cook anything,” Phil said.
“And neither will I,” Helen said. “I’m so lucky to have you.” She kissed him again.
“Sit down and eat, before the chicken gets cold and the salad gets warm,” Phil said. “How many days till the wedding?”
“You know perfectly well it’s next Saturday,” Helen said between kisses. “At seven o’clock. Eight days from right now, unless I decide to take the job.”
“Miguel Angel offered you a different job?”
“No, I had a chance to audition at King’s Sexxx.”
“You what?” Phil said, nearly spitting out his beer. “You auditioned at King’s old strip club?”
“Well, not exactly. I thought I’d better check with my future husband in case he had any objections to my new career as a stripper.”
“Please tell me that’s a joke,” Phil said.
“Sorta. Let’s eat. Then we’ll talk.” Helen clinked her wineglass against Phil’s beer bottle, then cut herself a generous portion of chicken breast. Phil only liked the dark meat—a sure sign to Helen that they were compatible.
“You’re going to make me wait until after dinner?” Phil asked.
“Anticipation adds spice,” Helen said.
When the chicken was reduced to a bony carcass and the salad bowl was empty, Helen lined up her knife and fork on her plate and said, “Now we can talk.”
“You go first,” Phil said. He was still gnawing a chicken leg.
“Things are not going well at the salon,” Helen said. “The police van is still camped out across the street and none of the big names are booking appointments. We’re overrun with nosy tourists, and most of them don’t tip. They’ll be gone once Miguel Angel is no longer in the news. Unless his name is cleared, I may not have a job when we return from the Keys.”
“Guess we’ll have to live on love,” Phil said.
“Or find out who killed King.” Helen gave him a chicken-flavored kiss.
“You’ve delayed long enough,” Phil said. “What did you learn when you talked to King’s old business partner?”
Helen told him about her botched “audition.”
“He said that to you?” Phil asked. “Where’s his office, so I can put out that cigar in his eye?”
“Oh, calm down,” Helen said. “I handled the jerk. I didn’t learn a darn thing, except that King’s ex-partner is a pig.”
Helen helped Phil carry the dinner dishes into his apartment. “Let me get dessert,” he said, producing a plate with one perfect chocolate cupcake.
“Aren’t you going to have one?” she asked.
“I have a beer to finish,” he said.
Helen ate the cupcake while sitting on his couch. They went back outside by the pool and watched the sun set. They sat in chaise longues side by side, holding hands.
“I didn’t do much better questioning Tiffany, King’s stripper ex-girlfriend,” Phil said, and took another sip of beer. “I tracked her down at Desiree’s Porthole.”
“Subtle name,” Helen said. “Where is this place?”
“It’s a dive near the airport. The Porthole is on a canal, which is the excuse for the nautical name.”
“Nice view?”
“If you like concrete-block buildings and potholed asphalt. The canal banks are covered with rusty boats and beer cans.”
“I hope it was nicer inside,” Helen said.
“The interior stunk like cigarettes and Pine-Sol. The strippers were old, bored and tired.”
“I thought you went there yesterday.”
“I did. The bouncer told me Tiffany wouldn’t be onstage until Friday afternoon, so I bought the booze for the wedding instead. Today I went back to see Tiffany. She appeared on stage as Monique, with a French maid outfit and a feather duster.”
“She never struck me as the domestic type,” Helen said.
“She isn’t. She quickly stripped down to a black thong,” Phil said.
“Black, hmm? She must be in mourning for King,” Helen said.
“She was a sad excuse for an exotic dancer, that’s for sure. A few old coots pushed dollar bills into her G-string, and she patted their bald heads with the feather dus
ter.”
“They must have loved that,” Helen said.
“Not if they saw where she put that feather duster during her act,” Phil said.
“Gross,” Helen said. “Did she pat you?”
“No, I tipped her a twenty, and she promised me a private session in the Velvet Room in the back.”
“Is the Velvet Room really velvet?” Helen asked.
“It had some kind of dark, plush fabric on the walls, the ceiling and the couch,” Phil said. “I didn’t want to look too closely. Tiffany charged me a hundred bucks for the private session, even though I told her I didn’t want sex. She said talking was more work.”
“Did you learn anything useful for your money?” Helen asked.
“Tiffany hated King. She said, ‘I stayed in shape, I got new tits and Botox, and he still married that bitch, Honey.’
“She said King used drugs. He didn’t sell them, but he knew people who did, which makes sense if he was a user. I asked if Honey had killed King. Tiffany said, ‘Hell, yes. Can I prove it? No, but I’d like to.’
“Then I asked, ‘Did you kill him?’
“Tiffany said, ‘If I’d killed him, it would have been a lot more painful. ’”
“She’s not bitter,” Helen said.
“Don’t interrupt,” Phil said. “I’m getting to the good part.” He finished his beer, deliberately making Helen wait. “I said, ‘You don’t like men, do you, Tiffany?’
“‘If you worked here, you wouldn’t like men, either,’ she said.
“I wasn’t going to let her get by with that. ‘I mean, you prefer sex with women. That’s why King dumped you, isn’t it?’”
“Wow, what happened next?” Helen asked.
“She let out a screech like a parrot, and two bouncers came roaring through the door. They were the size of refrigerators, and just as dumb. I rolled behind the black couch and crawled out the side door. It was so dark in there, they couldn’t see me.”
“So you got away without getting hurt?”
“Well, I’ve been washing my hands all afternoon. God knows what diseases I picked up on that floor.”
Helen quickly dropped his hand.
“Hey, you’re getting me for better or worse, including the cooties.”
Helen laughed, then said,“How did you know that Tiffany was gay?”
“Men like to believe strippers are dancing for them. But most of those women are really dancing for the money. She would have married King for the money, too.”
“That was a shrewd guess,” Helen said.
“Well, I also saw a short, gray-haired woman drop Tiffany off at work this afternoon, and the way those two kissed good-bye was not sisterly. Tiffany is on that stage for the money, not the men.”
“What’s the difference between Honey and Tiffany?” Helen asked.
“Honey wears more clothes,” Phil said. “Also, I don’t think she can twirl tassels.”
“Do you think Tiffany killed King?”
“She’s mad enough to kill. But I don’t know if she did.”
“Then neither one of us got much today,” Helen said.
“Well, I saw the autopsy report,” Phil said. “After reading it, I know why Miguel Angel didn’t want to listen to the TV news. King was murdered, like the news said. The report said there was chlorine water in his lungs, so he was alive when he hit the pool. There was bruising that might indicate a fight. His right hand was stomped with a heel from a dress shoe. That left an impression, like a spike in the back of his hand. There was also a slight abrasion on the palm of the same hand, where King was hanging on to the pool coping.”
Helen shivered. “King tried to crawl out of the pool and the killer stomped his hand. That was nasty.”
“So was the groom, from what I could tell.”
“Was the killer’s shoe a skinny heel, or a fat one?” Helen asked.
“Skinny. Probably a spike heel or high-heeled sandal.”
“That’s what the bride wore, too,” Helen said. “Maybe Honey did kill him.”
“But we don’t have any proof,” Phil said. “Just a lot of motives. We need to look at the women in the blue dresses and check their shoes.”
“At least that information leaves out Miguel Angel as the murderer,” Helen said.
“Unless he’d already changed into the bride’s blue dress and high heels,” Phil said. “Didn’t he disappear before the groom died?”
“Yes. But Miguel Angel disguised himself as a woman so he could escape the police after King’s body was found.”
“That’s what he told you,” Phil said. “Honey told King she was having a baby boy. She lied about that. Maybe Miguel Angel was lying, too.”
“No, Miguel Angel wouldn’t kill anyone,” Helen said.
“Helen, you don’t really know these people,” Phil said. “You work with Miguel Angel, but you don’t know him personally. He’s worked a lot of weddings. He knew this was being photographed. There were cameras everywhere. If he killed King, he’d be identified unless he disguised himself as a woman.”
“Too bad he chose a blue dress when half the women there wore the same color,” Helen said.
“Maybe,” Phil said, “it was the best way to hide.”
Chapter 20
“Miguel Angel, would you put on my veil, please?” Honey asked.
She had said those same words one week ago, but then the veil was white.
Today, the bride wore black. Her severe maternity suit looked like dark armor, and she needed it. Her late husband’s gossip rivals had branded Honey a murdering gold digger. They gleefully revealed that the bride was a “person of interest” in King’s murder investigation.
HONEY’S IN A STICKY MESS gloated one blogger. Another gossip site showed a video of the dazed bride leaving the emergency room on her fatal wedding day, escorted by her lawyer. She was still wearing her bridal gown, but it no longer resembled the magnificent Sex and the City dress. Honey’s wedding dress was torn and wrinkled, and her expensively coiffed hair straggled down her shoulders. Her pregnancy was obvious in the drenched dress, and one gossip columnist gleefully asked, “Is that a King-sized baby bump?”
The new widow looked even more pregnant today. Despite her bulk, she seemed fragile in her dark mourning suit. Her face was pale and lined, and shiny patches of concealer showed where she’d tried to cover the dark circles under her eyes. Honey’s beauty and confidence were gone. She moved and spoke with such slowness Helen wondered if the bride was on heavy tranquilizers. She couldn’t be, could she? Not with the baby?
Was King’s death really only a week ago? Helen couldn’t tell if Honey was suffering from the dreadful publicity or if she’d really loved her husband of one hour.
“I’m so glad you came to the house,” Honey said, her voice dying to a whisper. “I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to see me anymore.”
Honey had called the salon and begged Miguel Angel to style her hair for King’s memorial service. Miguel Angel had refused, and Honey doubled his fee.
Helen talked Miguel Angel into it. “I’ll go as your assistant,” she said. “How else can we get into that house? Maybe we can find something that will clear your name. Besides, you don’t have any important appointments today.”
“Or next week. Or the week after that, thanks to her,” Ana Luisa said. “It’s all vultures. Miguel Angel, you can’t afford to say no. Honey is rich and famous. She tips. Go.”
Miguel Angel went. Helen rode with him in his rattling Jeep. He dodged the news vans parked along the narrow street and pulled into the semicircular driveway.
King’s mansion still showed the chaos of his death. The burned tent and overturned tables were gone, but Helen saw the glitter of crushed crystal stars in the pink pavers. The flower beds were trampled and the shrubbery broken.
The lawn had been resodded to cover the tire marks gouged into it from the emergency vehicles. One side of the house was streaked with black smoke and some windows were board
ed, but the repairs had started. Helen heard the pounding of hammers and the screech of a power saw. Yellow CAUTION tape blocked the entrance to the backyard.
The front door had a black wreath. Its dark ribbon fluttered in the heavy, damp breeze. A maid in a white uniform answered the doorbell and ushered Helen and Miguel Angel upstairs to the master bedroom, where Honey now slept alone in the huge round bed. There was no sign of Honey’s wedding finery. What had the bride done with her bedraggled twenty-thousand-dollar dress? Packed it away? Given it to charity? Thrown it out?
Probably not that last choice. King’s competitors would stoop to searching his garbage in the name of news. The fatal dress would be quite a find.
Honey was seated at the vanity. She rose when they entered the room, and Miguel Angel took her hand. “How are you doing?” he asked.
“As well as can be expected,” she said.
“Sit. Let me fix your makeup,” he said.
“I plan to hide my face under a veil,” she said. “It will give me some privacy.”
“You can do that, but let me fix you up a bit.” Miguel Angel wiped away her amateur makeup job and began repainting her face. Honey let him work without saying a word. For the next half hour, there were only his soft commands—“Look up. Up,” “Don’t blink,” “Hold still”—while he used pencils, brushes and sponges to hide the ravages.
When Miguel finished Honey’s makeup, he said,“There. That’s better. Now you look dignified.”
Miguel Angel styled Honey’s hair in a severe updo, while Helen handed him pins, brushes and hair spray from his salon case. The police still had the black traveling case he’d brought here for the wedding.
Then he pinned on the black mourning veil, as she requested.
Honey stood up and twirled around, in a parody of last week’s performance. “What do you think of my suit?” she asked. “Jessica Alba wore one just like it.”
“Very attractive,” Helen said.
“The veil is a copy of the one First Lady Jackie Kennedy wore to John F. Kennedy’s funeral,” Honey said.
“Oh,” Helen said. It was all she could manage.
Helen had seen the funeral photos of the widowed first lady holding the hands of her two orphaned children. On Jacqueline Kennedy, the black veil seemed dignified and touching. On Honey, it was overdone and tasteless. She was the widow of a gossip columnist, not a world leader.
