The Dead-End Job Mysteries Box Set 2

by Elaine Viets

  “See you then,” Helen said, and shut off her phone as Phil’s black Jeep pulled up under the Sunset Rest portico.

  Helen felt like she was running toward life when she jumped into the Jeep. She admired her fiancé as his Jeep plunged into the stream of traffic. The wind ruffled his silver-white hair. The man was hot as Florida, but in a good way. Helen sighed with happiness. Phil was her reward after her wretched marriage to Rob.

  “Margery has a cold glass of wine for you,” Phil said. “There’s a beer waiting for me.”

  “I can use it,” Helen said. “I need to fortify myself before I call Larry, Mother’s husband.”

  “Margery and I will be at your side.” Phil reached over and squeezed her hand.

  “Good. You can restrain me from reaching down the phone and tearing out his throat,” Helen said.

  At the Coronado, Helen was touched to find that Phil had fixed lunch for the three of them. The food was set out on Margery’s kitchen table.

  “I got you and Margery salads with grilled chicken and made an onion-and-rye sandwich for myself,” Phil said. “There are cupcakes for dessert.”

  “What else is on your sandwich besides onion?” Margery asked.

  “Irish butter,” Phil said.

  “You’re eating a butter-and-onion sandwich?” Helen said.

  “You’re always telling me to eat healthy,” Phil said. “This is a Bermuda onion. It has powerful antioxidants.”

  “It has something else powerful, too,” Helen said, waving her hand. “At least it’s not Limburger.”

  “I can’t find that cheese down here.” Phil looked innocent as a puppy.

  “Good,” Helen said.

  “Listen, I don’t want to ruin your appetite further,” Margery said, “but you should start making arrangements to ship your mother’s body home to St. Louis.”

  “She’s not dead yet,” Helen said.

  “She will be soon, if the doctor’s right. It’s better to make those decisions now than trying to reach a funeral director at three in the morning. Trust me, that’s when old people pass. You’ll be too tired and upset to make rational decisions then.”

  “Do you know a good funeral director?” Helen asked.

  “I do, and a couple of bad ones. I’ll go with you, if you want.”

  “Thanks,” Helen said. “But I can’t deal with that today.”

  “How about tomorrow?” Margery asked. “We can leave about noon.”

  Fortified by two white wines, one salad and a cupcake, Helen was ready to call her stepfather. She could see Larry now, his bones covered with wrinkled skin like a baggy shirt, his hairless head hidden under a flat brown cap. Larry made polite noises of regret when she told him about Dolores. Helen thought she’d heard people sound more upset when their cat died.

  “I’ll make the arrangements to send Mother home,” Helen said.

  “Well, dear,” Larry said, in a voice that rustled like old paper, “I was thinking of having Dolores cremated.”

  “Mother wants to be buried in St. Louis, Larry. She left her funeral instructions in the desk in her living room, along with her will.”

  “I know, dear, but it’s so expensive to ship her body home. Cremation would be much better.”

  “You mean cheaper,” Helen said, her voice getting higher.

  “Well, yes, there are cost advantages. And we must be practical.”

  “You’ll cremate my mother over my dead body.” Or over Mom’s, Helen thought. She took a deep breath. Margery hovered in the background, frowning at her. Phil rubbed her back to calm her. Helen knew if she fought with Lawn Boy Larry, she’d get nowhere.

  She softened her voice and said, “Larry. Lawrence. Sir. You’re right, of course. But Mother was old-school Catholic. She was taught that cremation was wrong. I understand the Church has changed its view and cremation is allowed as long as you believe in the resurrection of the body. But Mother has already bought a plot next to her first husband and had her name carved on the tombstone. It’s paid for.”

  “But I have a coupon,” Larry said. “My friend Bert lives in Pompano Beach, which I think is near you. He sent me a coupon for a low-cost cremation. It’s good anywhere in Broward County, where you live. You can get Dolores cremated for only six hundred dollars. That includes the coffin.”

  Helen squeezed Phil’s hand so hard it turned red, then said, “Larry, this is my mother’s funeral, not a sale at Costco. She will not be thrown away like a full ashtray. She wants a funeral in her parish church with all of her friends there and she will have it.”

  “But Helen, dear, that’s so wasteful. We can have a memorial service at church, and the ladies’ sodality will serve tea and sandwiches. Those are free. I’d have to make a slight donation, of course, but . . .”

  “I’m sure your donation will be skinnier than a heroin addict,” Helen said. Margery frowned at her, and Helen tried to rein in her rage. “Larry, my mother has left you her money and her house. Surely there should be enough money for her wishes.”

  “Well, dear, housing prices aren’t what they used to be—”

  Helen interrupted the dithering and shrieked, “I’ll pay the freakin’ shipping costs myself.”

  “And where will you get the money, dear?”

  “I’ll sell my body on the street, Larry. I’ll hold up a gas station. I’ll get the money some way. And my sins will be on your soul!”

  Margery clamped her hand over Helen’s mouth. “Shut up and think before you say another word,” she whispered in Helen’s ear, then took her hand away.

  “Larry,” Helen said slowly. “I’m sorry. My mother’s illness has upset me. I will pay for her funeral. It won’t cost you a penny.”

  “Well, that’s very generous, dear, but—”

  “And if you don’t say yes, my sister and I will start dialing all the women on the parish calling tree. We’ll contact every widow and tell them how you are treating our mother. Those women will be shocked. The parade of pot roasts will stop. No more free food, Larry. You’ll starve before you see another home-cooked meal. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Helen. Your mother said you could be forceful. Dolores can be buried in St. Louis. But I get to pick out the funeral home.”

  “Knock yourself out. Maybe you can make it a double ceremony.”

  Margery glared at Helen.

  “I’m sorry,” Larry said, “but I didn’t get that last sentence. Something on the double?”

  “I said thank you for a decision on the double,” Helen said.

  CHAPTER 10

  The Coral Rose Cafe was small and simple: two rooms scented with coffee and warm sugar. It was very Hollywood. The other Hollywood, the casual beach town between Miami and Fort Lauderdale. Helen’s breakfast with Vera was a break between death duties—her mother’s lingering exit and Chrissy’s violent end.

  Helen’s plan to order fresh fruit was derailed when she saw blueberry pancakes arrive at the next table. They were made with blueberries, not canned fruit. That counted as fresh fruit, didn’t it?

  “I have to order those,” she said to Vera. “After all, how often do I get blueberry pancakes with real maple syrup?”

  “As often as I snowmobile on Hollywood Beach,” Vera said. “I’m going for the eggs Benedict with portobello mushrooms.”

  Vera told the waitress, “Please don’t skimp on the hollandaise sauce. I’d like the fried potatoes and could you bring extra fruit bread?”

  How could Vera look so trim and muscular when she ate like a linebacker? Helen wondered. The woman was a mystery. Helen still hadn’t figured out how Vera managed frizz-free hair in the Florida humidity.

  When the waitress left with their order, Vera said, “How are you? You look a little ragged.”

  “I am. The doctor says Mom doesn’t have long.” Helen felt the tears rush in and said, “Let’s talk about something else.”

  “You were right,” Vera said. “Chrissy didn’t commit suicide. She was murdered. Detectiv
e McNally confirmed it. Chrissy was stunned with that Limoges pineapple, then hanged.”

  Helen winced.

  “At least she was unconscious when she died,” Vera said. “Poor little thing.”

  “Are the police still at the shop?” Helen asked.

  “I run into one every time I turn around,” she said. “Cops make me nervous. Detective McNally keeps asking questions like he thinks I killed Chrissy. I’m going to need a lawyer soon and there’s no money coming in.”

  “Why would he suspect you? You wouldn’t kill a good source,” Helen asked. “Chrissy brought in prime merchandise.”

  “McNally said I was in the back of the store when Chrissy was killed,” Vera said. “I was messing around with the silk scarves that morning. That’s true, but so were Roger and Commissioner Stranahan.”

  “But Loretta left before Chrissy was killed, didn’t she?” Helen said.

  “I personally let her out the back door. I gave her an alibi and let the cops loose on me,” Vera said.

  “I know Danny the developer killed his wife,” Helen said. “I wish we could prove it. You saw how he treated Chrissy. He yelled at her. He dragged her to the back like a caveman and bruised her arm. She was afraid of him.”

  “Chrissy was so afraid of him, she bruised my arm,” Vera said. “She grabbed it and made me promise I wouldn’t tell Danny about the money she made at my store. She even gave me the pony-hair purse as a bribe. I’m keeping it, too. I earned it. I showed my bruises to McNally, but the detective said I could have gotten them from anyone, even a boyfriend.

  “Danny is as protected as the manatee. The police will be gone tomorrow, or so they say. I think they’ll be harder to get rid of than roaches. At least I can open the store again at ten o’clock. I hope I’ll have customers. Can you work tomorrow?”

  “Unless Mom takes a sudden turn for the worse,” Helen said.

  “Are you sure you’re ready to come to work?” Vera asked.

  “Please,” Helen said. “It will take my mind off things. I have to make my mother’s funeral arrangements this afternoon.”

  Helen was grateful when plates of fragrant food arrived with a basket of warm breakfast bread and the conversation ended. She slathered on butter and poured half the Vermont syrup crop for 2009 on her cakes. The two women dined in blissful silence for a few minutes.

  Then Helen asked, “I don’t understand why Detective McNally is going after you. Isn’t the husband the chief suspect when a wife dies?”

  “I thought so, but the cops are all over me like fleas on a hound. Aw, crap. I’ve dripped hollandaise on my Lilly Pulitzer shirt.” Vera dunked her napkin in her water glass and dabbed at the stain on the turquoise-and-white-striped shirt.

  “New shirt?” Helen asked.

  “New old shirt,” Vera said. “Mrs. Vanderbilt brought it in. I think she wore it once.”

  “Why did you code name your Lilly Pulitzer source Mrs. Vanderbilt?” Helen asked. “She’s a dreadful snob, right?”

  “Right. She sees herself as the social arbiter of Hendin Island. She’s pleased to be named after the creator of the Four Hundred. My Mrs. Vanderbilt has never seen any photos of the society leader. The real Mrs. V. was no size two.”

  “Your major jeans source is Sookie Stackhouse,” Helen said, “but she doesn’t look anything like Anna Paquin, the True Blood actress.”

  “My Sookie dates a real bloodsucker,” Vera said. “My code names are little jokes, and the jokes are on my ladies. But they don’t know it.” Vera’s smile was a hard bloodred slash.

  “Why name them at all?” Helen asked.

  “Helps me keep track of things.” Vera took another sip of coffee. “In their world, it would be a disaster if anyone found out Mrs. Big Bucks was buying Mrs. Fat Cat’s castoffs. Planets would collide and stars would fall from the sky. So I choose buyers from outside their orbits.

  “My Glenn Close serves on a lot of boards and wears serious suits. Emily usually buys them. She’s a drug rep who needs to dress well when she visits doctors’ offices, but she can’t afford designer suits. The rest of Glenn’s suits are usually bought by Commissioner Stranahan and Tara, an up-and-coming young lawyer.”

  “What if your Glenn’s husband had an affair with Tara?” Helen asked. “Wouldn’t he notice she was wearing his wife’s old suit?”

  “That’s the sad part,” Vera said. “Once the honeymoon is over, the trophy wives are invisible to their husbands. Glenn’s husband would rip that secondhand suit off Tara so fast, he’d never see it.”

  Helen forked in another mouthful of blueberry pancake. “What I don’t get is why Chrissy had to sell her clothes at Snapdragon’s in the first place. Her maneuvers cost Danny a fortune, just so she could have some spending money. Danny would have been better off giving her three grand rather than having her collect two hundred fifty after you sold a purse that he bought for three thousand dollars.”

  “It’s not about money,” Vera said. “It’s about control. Some of these rich men give their wives allowances like little kids, but the women have no money of their own. The wives have unlimited shopping at places like the Galleria. They’re on a tight leash. The clever ones figure out how to get off the leash. They buy expensive things, wait until the store’s return policy expires, then sell the clothes to me on consignment. They only get a fraction of the money back, but it’s their money, not their husband’s. The husband keeps the illusion that he’s in control. The leashed wives have their secret bank accounts or stashes for their cash. Maybe they use it to buy gold cigarette lighters for their boy toys, or drugs, or maybe they’re saving it to pay a divorce lawyer. But they are desperate for money of their own.”

  “My grandmother did that,” Helen said. “She wasn’t rich, but she was a traditional wife. My grandfather wouldn’t give her spending money. She was on a tight household budget, figured down to the last can of cleanser. She’d wait until Grandpa had a few beers and fell asleep. Then she’d tiptoe into their bedroom and take his pocket change. But that was almost a hundred years ago.”

  “In the world of the rich, marriage hasn’t changed that much,” Vera said. She mopped up the last of her hollandaise sauce with a triangle of English muffin.

  “What about murder?” Helen asked.

  “That’s why Chrissy’s murder is so complicated,” Vera said. “All the suspects are either rich or politicians.”

  “Don’t forget bargain-hunting Jordan,” Helen said. “She was there, too, and alone in the back.”

  “She’s poor but weird,” Vera said.

  “What about Roger?” Helen asked. “He’s not rich.”

  “He’s a hanger-on. Or maybe that’s banger-on. He likes to bed his rich ladies. There are no normal suspects.”

  Helen was home before noon. She changed into a dark pantsuit and climbed into Margery’s big white rectangular car. The cozy, sugar-scented Coral Rose Cafe vanished in a cloud of Margery’s cigarette smoke as they drove to the Florida Family Funeral Home.

  Even on the porch, the air smelled of hothouse flowers and felt heavier, as if accumulated sorrow weighed it down. A grandfather clock gave a single, solemn bong! as Helen and Margery entered the funeral home.

  “Why do grandfather clocks sound so gloomy in funeral homes?” Helen asked.

  “What do you expect?” Margery asked. “It’s a place for grieving. Though some funerals I’ve been to needed a cuckoo clock—and a referee.”

  Helen barely recognized her landlady this afternoon. Margery wore a pale lavender shirtwaist. Matching pumps hid her orange pedicure. Her fingernail polish was a subdued pink. She’d left her wild outfits and gladiator sandals at the Coronado.

  Margery had stubbed out her cigarette on the porch, but Helen thought smoke still trailed after her.

  “Why are you staring at me?” Margery asked.

  “You’re dressed for a June Cleaver look-alike contest.”

  “I’m trying to look like a respectable citizen who can fork over e
nough dough for a funeral,” Margery said. “You don’t have any money.”

  “I have eight hundred dollars in cash,” Helen said.

  “Hah. This will cost five thousand minimum. Where will you get the other forty-two hundred?”

  “Phil gave me the money.”

  “Good,” Margery said. “That’s what a fiancé is supposed to do.”

  “His gift comes with strings,” Helen said. “He made me promise that when we fly to St. Louis for the funeral, we’ll hire a good lawyer to fight my divorce. He wants all the paperwork in order so we can get married legally.”

  “Thank the Lord,” Margery said. “And why are you whispering? We’re not in church.”

  “It’s all the stained glass and candles,” Helen said.

  A sober-suited receptionist appeared. “We have an appointment with Cassie, your preneed specialist,” Margery told her.

  The receptionist seated them in an office the size of an upright coffin, painted a lugubrious shade of pink. There was room for an undersized desk, two client chairs and a rack of pamphlets headlined Plan for Dignity at the End of Life.

  Cassie squeezed in between the wall and the desk and sat down. The preneed specialist looked like an overgrown cheerleader: small, smiley and chirpy. She had a perky dark bob and a cat pin on her gray suit. A black cat.

  Cassie arranged her smiling face into a professionally sad expression. “Now, how may we help you—Miss . . . ?”

  “I’m Helen Hawthorne and this is my friend Margery Flax. We’re here about my mother. She’s in a nursing home in Fort Lauderdale. Her doctor says she hasn’t much time left. Mother was down here on a trip and took ill suddenly. She wants to be buried in St. Louis, where she’s lived all her life. I want to make the arrangements now, while I can think clearly.”

  “Wise,” Cassie said. “We offer thoughtful care and affordable dignity. Let me explain the process.

  “When the time comes, we would pick up your mother and bring her to our care. She will be washed, embalmed and dressed here. We will have her transported by plane to St. Louis. We will ask that you call the St. Louis funeral home to receive her at the airport. Picking her up and preparing her in our care is twenty-eight hundred ninety-five dollars.”