by Elaine Viets
“He has an amazing vocabulary,” Helen said.
“A testimony to my many lonely nights,” Peggy said as she took her parrot back to her apartment.
When Helen heard Peggy’s car start, she said, “You handled that well, Phil. Peggy’s apron company sounds too good to be true. I wonder what the hitch is.”
“She’ll find out soon,” Phil said. “How are the arrangements for the trip to St. Louis?”
“We’re set for the day after tomorrow,” Helen said.
“Then you have to keep your promise,” Phil said. “We have to straighten out your legal problems, for better or worse.”
“Are you going to get down on your knees?” Helen said.
“If you want,” Phil said. “But they’ll pop.”
Helen took his hand. “I love you. I made a promise and I’ll keep it. But I don’t know where to start.”
“With your divorce decree. What county were you married in?”
“St. Louis County,” Helen said.
“It should be on record at the county courthouse,” Phil said. “We’ll start there. Then I’ll research the judge and we’ll look for a good lawyer.”
“And we’ll live happily—and legally—ever after,” Helen said. “But in the meantime, I’d better get dressed for work and let Vera know when I leave for St. Louis. Will you check that limo license-tag number for me sometime today? If we can prove Jordan was out with Danny the developer, it would help solve Chrissy’s murder.”
She checked her watch. “It’s time for me to go to work.”
“And I have my assignments,” Phil said. “Can I drive you to work?”
“Thanks. I need the walk,” Helen said.
At Snapdragon’s, Helen had her own second thoughts. Vera looked so bad, Helen wondered if the shop owner was sick. Instead of fit and thin, Vera looked washed-out and bony. Her arms were scrawny as Madonna’s. Her red lipstick made her face seem sickly white. She was in a bad mood.
“I’m sorry about your mother,” Vera said. “But if you go, you’ll leave me here alone, pestered by the police and the lookie loos.”
“I have no choice,” Helen said. “I can work tomorrow, but then I have to leave. If you want to fire me, I wouldn’t blame you.”
“No, no. It’s not your fault. I’ll get by,” Vera said. “My sister in Plantation is looking for work now that her kids are going back to school. She’ll complain about the drive, but she’ll help me out.”
“Good,” Helen said. “Thank you.”
“But I want you back here as soon as possible,” Vera said. “I hired you as a favor to Miguel Angel. I didn’t expect to wind up needing you.”
This odd mix of praise and blame was interrupted when a short, sturdy woman entered the shop. She looked like the perfect grandmother. Her blue pantsuit had a tabby cat on the front. She had fluffy white hair and a sweet smile. She opened a plastic grocery bag and brought out a purse wrapped in a white towel.
Perfect Grandma carefully peeled away the towel and said reverently, “This is a genuine Louis Vuitton.”
Helen could tell it was a fake and a poor one at that. The classic brown monogram Vuitton bag had missing stitches on the leather handle tabs. The brass fittings were dull and the nylon zipper looked cheap.
“Was it a gift?” Vera asked.
“Oh, yes,” Perfect Grandma said. “My dear son Edward and his wife brought it home from their Caribbean cruise. They bought me two designer handbags.” Her face was pink with pride. “I wouldn’t sell this one except that my Social Security doesn’t stretch as far as it used to. And I have my Gucci.” She patted another obvious imitation.
“The Louis Vuitton is a beautiful purse,” Vera said. She held it up and pretended to admire it. “I wish I could buy it, but we’re overstocked right now. But thank you for bringing it here.”
“Maybe later,” Perfect Grandma said, and swaddled the purse like a newborn.
When she left, Helen said, “You were sweet to her.”
Vera blushed. “Hey, I know I can be a bitch sometimes, but I had a grandma, too. I hope nobody tells her the truth about sonny boy’s gifts.”
“Listen,” Helen said. “Something happened last night that may solve Chrissy’s murder and get the police off your back.”
She told Vera about the limo and Jordan and Mark’s fight. “What if Danny and Jordan murdered Chrissy?” Helen said. “They could be in it together. Danny had the perfect alibi. Jordan killed his wife for him—and herself. Her payoff will be marriage to Danny.”
“Maybe,” Vera said. “But I can’t see Danny tying himself down with another wife. Why marry Jordan when he’s already had her? A rich, powerful man can get all the sex he wants. Chrissy was useful. She ran their household well and that was no small feat. She served on the proper charity boards and the committees that advanced Danny’s business. She was a genius at giving dinner parties. She could mend fences with some of the people Danny had angered. Jordan is too self-centered to be an asset to a difficult, ambitious man.
“If Jordan killed Chrissy, I think she acted alone,” Vera said.
“She wanted Danny single again. Personally, I don’t care if the killer was Jordan or if both of them were involved, as long as it gets the police off my back. Now all we have to do is convince Detective McNally to look at them.”
“We can call him,” Helen said.
Vera found his business card, dialed a number, listened, then said, “It’s Vera Salinda, Detective. Please call me.”
“He’s not there,” Vera said to Helen. “I don’t think I should say more in my message. He’ll be back in here soon enough.”
Helen sized stock and buttoned shirts until two o’clock. Then she said, “Vera, I’ve done as much as I can. I swear those shirts unbutton themselves at night.”
“Go. I’ll see you tomorrow,” Vera said.
Helen ducked out the back door to avoid the ever-present television cameras, and wondered if she should remind Vera to lock it during the day. Chrissy’s murder attracted some spooky shoppers. Walking into the heavy humid afternoon was like being smothered in wet wool. St. Louis wouldn’t be any cooler, but Helen thought it would be a relief to get away for a few days, even if it was for her mother’s funeral. This afternoon, she would catch up on her sleep. She’d work again tomorrow. Then she and Phil would leave the next day.
Her mother’s funeral would mark the formal end to Helen’s old unhappy life. Phil would help her start a new one here in Fort Lauderdale. By the time they returned home, Jordan would be arrested for Chrissy’s murder. Helen and Phil could get married and their life would return to normal—or as normal as it would ever be.
She was nearly at the Coronado when a siren interrupted her thoughts. Then a second. And a third, all howling like a coyote pack. The speeding cars were heading toward her street. Helen ran through the heat to the Coronado. Nearly a dozen cars and emergency vehicles were parked haphazardly in front, like a child’s abandoned toys. Phil stood at the edge of the parking lot, waving to the new arrivals.
“In here, Officers!” he said. “Right through the gate.”
Helen ran up to him. “What’s happened?” she asked.
“It’s Jordan,” Phil said. “She’s dead.”
CHAPTER 15
“Jordan can’t be dead,” Helen said. “I saw her this morning. She was fine.”
“Margery found her in the pool,” Phil said.
“She drowned? Jordan never goes swimming. She says the chlorine is bad for her hair.”
“She wasn’t swimming,” Phil said. “She was bashed in the head with a beer bottle. A Heineken bottle.”
“Oh,” Helen said. She was too stunned to move.
Was it the heat or the horrible news? Helen had trouble following this conversation. She’d just seen Jordan a few hours ago—angry, arrogant and oddly beautiful. Now she was dead. Worse, murdered.
“Mark killed her,” Helen said. “He killed her out of jealousy because she went out
with Danny last night.”
“Oh, it’s worse than that,” Phil said. “Much worse. You look kind of odd. Come over here in the shade and lean on Margery’s car bumper. I can’t take you inside to the patio. The police and techs are swarming over the Coronado like an overturned anthill.”
Helen sat down on the bumper of Margery’s big white Cadillac and felt a little better, but still dizzy. Mark had been drinking beer all night—beer that Phil gave him. Now Jordan was dead, murdered by a beer bottle. She could hear Phil talking, but he seemed a great distance away.
“I checked on that limo for you, like you asked,” Phil said. “Jordan wasn’t out with Danny—not last night. The limo was rented by a modeling agency. I tracked down the driver, Pat. I knew him from a drug case I did last year. His employer thought Pat was selling drugs and I proved him innocent, so he owes me.
“Pat said there were six people in the limo and Jordan was the last pickup. There were two other women models—a blonde and a redhead—along with a big-deal fashion photographer and his two assistants.
“Pat said the models posed for photos on South Beach until almost midnight. After that, the whole party hit the clubs, then went out for breakfast. He dropped Jordan at the Coronado about five fifty that morning. Pat said there was a lot of champagne, some drugs and no sex. He drives one of those block-long limos with a hot tub inside. He says he’s seen some wild nights, but this wasn’t one of them. Not by his standards.”
“Jordan died for nothing,” Helen said.
“Not quite. Mark was right that Jordan was having an affair with Danny,” Phil said. “I also talked with a valet for a high-priced restaurant on Las Olas. His name is Taylor. You couldn’t get out of the restaurant he works at for less than two hundred dollars, even if you ordered a hamburger. That would be made of organic beef and served with artichoke fries or mango salsa.
“Taylor said Jordan met Danny for dinner at least six times at the restaurant where he valets. After dinner, they’d drive off in Danny’s black BMW. Danny drove his own car. He never rented a limo. Taylor didn’t know where they went, but the valet thought Jordan was hot. He said Jordan stuck to Danny like Velcro. Her head would be bobbing up and down at steering-wheel level before the car pulled away from the curb.”
“That’s a little too much information,” Helen said.
“Taylor seemed to regard Danny as his own personal soap opera,” Phil said. “He waited eagerly for the next episode. Taylor says Danny called it off with Jordan about two weeks ago. Jordan tried to get into Danny’s car as usual, but Danny said he wanted to go home.
“Jordan was ‘acting clingy as usual,’ Taylor said. She threw her purse at Danny. Other people were coming out of the restaurant. Jordan shrieked that Danny had promised to marry her and divorce his wife. They were gathering a crowd. Danny left Jordan right there on the sidewalk and roared off like demons were chasing him. The valet never saw Jordan with Danny again.
“According to Taylor, Jordan wasn’t the first woman who tried to pressure Danny into marriage. Stupid move. He always ran away when women did that. Danny came back the next evening and gave Taylor a twenty to forget what he saw.”
“But he told you anyway?” Helen asked.
“I gave him fifty to remember,” Phil said, and winked.
“You were so clever finding Taylor,” Helen said. “There are a lot of valets in Fort Lauderdale. How did you find him?”
“Some clever woman told me she’d heard Danny liked to meet his dates for dinner on Las Olas,” Phil said. “I picked the overpriced restaurants and found Taylor after two tries.”
“Poor Jordan,” Helen said. “What a terrible waste of a pretty young woman.”
“Jordan’s murder is bad, but I’m also worried about Margery,” Phil said. “Margery aged twenty years after she found Jordan’s body. She looks like an old woman.”
“She is seventy-six,” Helen reminded him.
“I know, but Margery has never looked or acted her age,” Phil said. “Even her wrinkles had style. Now she seems frail. She walks like she’s old and creaky. Her colorful outfit just looks crazy. She’s not making a whole lot of sense, either.”
“I’d better go see her,” Helen said, and started to stand up.
“You can’t,” Phil said. “She’s with the police. They’ll take her statement for hours. They should have isolated me, too, but the first responder was young and inexperienced. I offered to flag down the other emergency vehicles, and he let me go outside and help. I’ll stick around for a statement, but that young cop will get his ass chewed when the detective in charge starts making sense of this scene.”
“Tell me what’s wrong with Margery,” Helen said. “She’s been like a mother to me since I got to Fort Lauderdale. Margery is prickly as a cactus, but she protects me in her own way. She always tells the truth, even if it hurts. I can’t lose both mothers in one week.”
Phil took a deep breath and said, “Margery blames herself for sending Jordan and Mark upstairs together. She says she should have taken Jordan to her home and protected her from her angry boyfriend. Margery feels like she sent Jordan to her death.”
“I can see why she’d say that,” Helen said.
“Here’s what doesn’t make sense,” Phil said. “Margery claims Jordan was killed by a burglar. She says there have been break-ins in the neighborhood.”
“Is that true?” Helen asked.
“There are always break-ins in this area,” Phil said. “The burglary rates go up in hard times. But Jordan was beaten savagely. Her murder looks more like an enraged lover than a surprised burglar. Our landlady says Mark didn’t murder Jordan because Margery found him passed out in bed. She wants me to investigate Jordan’s death and save Mark. I’ll go through the motions for her sake, but he’s guilty as hell.”
“What happened?” Helen asked. “Start from the beginning, so I can make sense of things. I’m hungry and groggy from lack of sleep.”
“Margery took a nap after lunch,” Phil said. “She woke up about one o’clock and went out to hose off the concrete sidewalks and pool deck like she does most afternoons. She saw dark drops on the sidewalk by the bougainvillea and thought coffee or paint had been spilled there. She looked closer and realized the drops were blood. She followed the trail of drops to the pool.
“Jordan was on the bottom of the pool. Margery called for me and we pulled her out. I tried CPR, but it was no use. One look at Jordan’s crushed skull and I figured she was dead when she went into the water.
“After we got Jordan out of the pool, Margery called 911. While we waited for the paramedics to arrive, Margery and I followed the blood drops in the other direction. They led straight upstairs to 2C.
“Margery opened the apartment door—it wasn’t locked—and found Mark passed out on the bed, surrounded by empty beer bottles. There was blood spatter all over the living room, bloody towels in the bathroom and diluted blood running down the sink. Even the soap was bloody. I thought it was obvious what happened: Mark killed Jordan while she was sleeping on the couch, dragged her outside when Margery and I were in our apartments and threw her body in the pool. After that, Mark tried to clean himself up, then drank himself into a stupor. Margery didn’t agree.
“We couldn’t wake him. Mark kept flopping back on the bed. His skin was clammy and his breathing was shallow. He’d drunk the two twelve-packs I gave him and a six of Coors. That’s enough to give a man his size acute alcohol poisoning. The paramedics took Mark to the hospital and two police officers went with him.”
“I don’t understand. Why does Margery believe he’s innocent?” Helen asked.
“Margery said Mark didn’t know Jordan was dead because he was unconscious. The burglar came into their apartment, attacked Jordan, dragged her body to the pool and Mark slept through it.”
“Then who tried to wash off her blood in their apartment sink?” Helen asked.
“Margery said it was the burglar. I’m sure the bloody fingerprints in
that bathroom will show Mark was the killer. Margery insisted on calling a lawyer, Colby Cox, to be with Mark when he wakes up in the hospital.”
“Was the murder weapon in 2C?” Helen asked.
“There were lots of beer bottles,” Phil said, “but the cops found the murder weapon in the trash can near the pool. Mark had carried it outside, possibly to finish off Jordan, then dutifully followed Margery’s rules about not leaving glass near the pool. It was dropped in the trash can. He didn’t even try to hide it. The bottle is covered with blood and fingerprints and has some long hair on it. I’d bet you my next paycheck the fingerprints will turn out to be his.”
A white Crown Victoria screeched up in front of the Coronado and stopped defiantly under a NO PARKING sign. Helen’s heart sank when she saw the driver. Detective Richard McNally, tall, gray and somber, unfolded from the seat and walked up the drive.
“What a surprise,” he said.
“I thought you were on the Hendin Island force,” Helen said.
“I was called here because a person of interest in my investigation was murdered—Jordan Drubb,” he said. “And what do I find? Another person of interest happens to be on the scene. The Queen of Coincidence, Helen Hawthorne.”
“I told you Jordan lived here,” Helen said.
“Yes, you did,” Detective McNally said. “But you didn’t say she’d die here, too.”
CHAPTER 16
“You have True Religion!” The woman had the glowing eyes and long, pale face of a young novice nun.
“I do?” Helen said.
“Yes,” she said. “You have the True Religion jeans with the horseshoe-flap pocket. The same ones Halle Berry wore. Except hers cost three hundred dollars and yours are only seventy and they’re my size. I can’t believe it.”
“We have Gucci and Versace, too,” Helen said.
“No, these are all I want,” the novice said, and plunked them on the counter.
Helen’s fingers moved slowly over the cash register keys as she rang up the jeans. She had the IQ of a squid this morning. She’d been questioned by the police and Detective McNally until six o’clock last night. McNally had even called Vera to ask what time Helen left work.
