by Elaine Viets
Then Helen spent three long hours with Margery. She was shocked by the change in her landlady. Margery had refused any food, even toast. She insisted on drinking a screwdriver. Then another. And another, until Helen refused to make more. She tried to give Margery straight orange juice, but her landlady wouldn’t touch it. Margery chain-smoked cigarettes instead. Worse, she never cussed or chewed Helen out.
Margery had become an instant old woman, just as Phil said. She mumbled, lost her way in sentences, wept that Mark was innocent and that she had killed Jordan. No one believed that last part but Margery.
Helen was glad that Mark was under arrest. As far as she was concerned, he was guilty of two murders: He’d killed Jordan and he’d killed Margery. The landlady Helen loved was gone.
Margery either fell asleep or passed out about nine o’clock. Helen had removed the burning cigarette from her landlady’s fingers, covered her with a blanket, carefully shut Margery’s door and gone to her apartment.
There she fed her cat, Thumbs, and scrambled herself an egg for dinner. Just when Helen thought she could get some sleep, Peggy came over with her box of aprons. Helen told her the awful news while Peggy worked on her aprons. At least her friend had left Pete at home. A prowling Thumbs made the little parrot nervous.
Tired as she was, Helen found comfort in Peggy’s company. Peggy insisted Margery was resilient and would soon be her old self. Helen wanted to believe her. It was midnight when Peggy finished the last apron. “I’m overnighting these tomorrow,” she told Helen. “Then the money will roll in and I’ll be free.”
“I hope so,” Helen said. She shut the door and finally fell asleep.
Morning came too soon. Now she was at Snapdragon’s, walking in a fog, wishing she could go to sleep and selling to a woman ecstatic over a pair of jeans.
The True Religion buyer carried off her purchase as if she were bearing frankincense and myrrh. A pocket-sized brunette breezed up to the counter holding a pair of high heels with polka-dot bows.
“These are so cute,” Ms. Pocket said. “How much? I don’t see a price tag, but they were with the summer bargains.”
Helen turned the shoes over, then said, “There is no price. Let me ask the boss.”
Vera, on the phone in her back office, waved Helen away.
“She’ll be here in a second,” Helen said.
“Sorry,” the miniature brunette said. “Gotta run. I see the parking patrol.”
Helen had barely stashed the polka-dot shoes under the counter before a tall dishwater blonde announced she was looking for a summer dress. Helen didn’t see many women her own height. It was refreshing to look another female in the eye.
Ms. Dishwater riffled through the racks, then picked the white gown Helen had worn for her aborted wedding. “This is lovely,” she said. “It looks new.”
“Only worn once,” Helen said. The words were torn from her heart. She’d been so happy when she’d put on that dress. Then, with a few words from her mother, Helen’s dreams were destroyed. She could no longer bear to look at the dress. Hiding it in her closet was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Vera had given her a generous consignment deal and Helen put the wedding dress out for sale.
Ms. Dishwater came out of the dressing room in Helen’s wedding gown and admired herself in the mirror. “I’ll take it,” she said.
“Excellent.” Helen fixed a smile on her face, carried the dress up front and wrapped it. She felt like she’d sold a piece of her heart for fifty bucks.
A Latina with dark eyes and blond highlights said, “Excuse me. How much is that Blue Willow jar?”
She pointed to a handsome ginger jar on a shelf out of her reach. Helen stretched to read the tag. “One hundred dollars.”
“That would be perfect for my neighbor,” the Latina said.
“She collects Blue Willow china?” Helen asked.
“No, her husband could use it for his wife’s ashes. She was shopping at Wal-Mart and she died.”
The Blue Willow woman made it sound like shopping at Wal-mart led to her death. From the pricey designer logos on her clothes, the Blue Willow woman was safe. Helen wondered if the lively Latina planned to fill another vacancy in the widower’s life. Too bad she left without buying anything.
“I see you sold your white dress,” Vera said, checking the sales receipts.
Helen was glad Vera didn’t call it “your wedding dress.”
“I’ll write you a check while I have the money,” Vera said. “Thanks to your sales, we may make it through the month.”
“I can use the check for my trip,” Helen said. “Mom should be ready to leave this evening. I have to give a death certificate to Detective McNally. He told me I couldn’t leave town, just like in the movies. He wanted the certificate for proof.”
“That jackass,” Vera said.
Helen shrugged. “At least I can go to her funeral.”
“Jordan’s murder has been a double loss for me,” Vera said. “She was a good customer and a good suspect. I thought we’d have this murder wrapped up.”
“No way McNally will consider Jordan the killer now,” Helen said. “Danny broke up with Jordan two weeks ago. He dumped her after a loud argument with lots of witnesses. Even she must have understood he’d never make her Mrs. Martlet.”
“Did your fiancé, Phil, find that out?” Vera asked.
“He did, but so did McNally,” Helen said. “The detective told me last night when he interviewed me about her death. The police knew Jordan had had an affair with Danny and that it was over. They’d interviewed the restaurant staff about the couple’s very public breakup. I hate to say it, but McNally is good.”
“He may be good, but he’s not fast enough,” Vera said. “Some of my trophy wives are afraid to come here since Chrissy’s murder. They won’t even pick up their husbands’ shirts. One sent her Latina maid. Mrs. Hamilton called me and said it was okay to let Graciela get the shirts, because she lived in Little Havana and was used to dangerous places.”
“Incredible,” Helen said.
“It’s already cost me one canceled event,” Vera said. “I was supposed to hold a fashion show for the Sexy Sixty Singles meeting. Now they’ve backed out. ‘Other plans,’ their event chair said. But I know it’s the bad publicity.”
“Would women age sixty and over buy your dresses?” Helen said. “You have lots of size twos.”
“There are mature small-sized women,” Vera said. “And any woman can carry a Dior purse, no matter what her dress size. We have first-rate shoes and accessories.”
“I didn’t mean to be weightist,” Helen said “Or ageist.”
“I could have made major money at that event,” Vera said. “Those ladies love designer purses. The only good thing about Jordan’s murder is I’m old news. The press has switched to staking out the Coronado instead of trying to interview me.”
“I know,” Helen said. “I had to slip out of my own apartment this morning like I owe a year’s back rent.”
“I’m still worried,” Vera said. “Snapdragon’s is a fragile business in a risky economy. How do we solve this murder and save my reputation—and your job?”
“Phil and I talked that over this morning,” Helen said. “Chrissy told Danny she knew all about the house of the seven toilets. She said it like a threat. The police couldn’t find any properties in Danny’s name besides his home, but Phil is a whiz at ferreting out facts. He’ll look at Danny’s property records today.”
“I thought he had his own job as a detective,” Vera said.
“He just finished an assignment,” Helen said. “Phil broke up a ring of thieves who were hiding stolen computers in the company’s Dumpster. The computers were still in the boxes. One of their cohorts would come by with a pickup truck about midnight, remove the computers and sell them. Phil worked as a janitor for a month before he cracked that case. He got his pay from the agency as well as his wages as a janitor. Now he has a little free time. If anyone can find that myst
erious house, Phil can.”
Helen realized she sounded like a proud wife. Well, she was. Almost.
“How long will you be in St. Louis?” Vera asked.
“Four, maybe five days,” Helen said. “I have some legal matters to straighten out. Then Phil and I can marry.”
“Too bad you sold your wedding dress,” Vera said.
“I wouldn’t wear it again,” Helen said. “Too many bad memories.”
The jingle of bells signaled another customer. That ended their last chance to talk until closing time. At five fifty-five, Vera was straightening the front of the store when she saw the polka-dot heels Helen had left on a shelf under the counter.
“Why are these high heels here?” Vera asked.
“A customer asked about them. They don’t have a tag. You were on the phone, remember? She had to leave.”
“Oh, that one,” Vera said. “These need a little work. I’ll see if I can freshen them. Have a safe trip. Come back to work as soon as you can.”
Helen barely felt the smothering heat on her walk home. Her mind was focused on the St. Louis trip, news of Phil’s records search and a cold glass of wine. She saw the two television news vans when she was a block away from the Coronado, and took a shortcut through the alley. She picked her way gingerly through a maze of spiderwebs and broken lawn furniture into the yard.
The regulars were relaxing around the Coronado pool. Phil saluted her with a beer and a kiss.
“Good boy! Pete’s a good boy!” the parrot said, eyeing Phil’s spicy chips from his perch on Peggy’s shoulder.
“Pete’s a fat boy,” Peggy said. “You’re still on a diet. You have to eat like a bird. Have another asparagus spear.”
Helen felt sick when she saw Margery. At least, she thought that worn, wrinkled woman was her landlady. All the bold colors were gone. Margery wore beige pants, a plain white shirt and no nail polish. Her gray hair was dull as unpolished silver. The only sign of the old Margery was the low-hanging cloud of cigarette smoke.
“Sit down and have a drink,” Margery said, patting the box of wine. Her voice lacked its usual authority. She sounded like—Helen hated to even think it—a sweet old woman.
“The funeral home left a message for you,” Margery said. “Your mother is ready to go home tomorrow. You can pick up the death certificates anytime. The home asked again, are you sure you don’t want a private viewing before your mother goes home?”
“No,” Helen said. “I don’t want to see her body. Is that awful?”
“Not really,” Margery said. “You’ve already said your good-byes. Better to keep her alive in your memory.”
What if your last memory of your mother was the worst? Helen wondered. It would never be erased. She couldn’t ask this meek, frail Margery.
“You’ll be at the wake in St. Louis, won’t you?” Margery said. “You’ll see her then. This is a good funeral home here. They’ll do good work on your mother. You need your rest tonight. When do you leave for St. Louis?”
“Tomorrow morning,” Helen said. “Will you watch the cat while we’re gone?”
“Of course,” Margery said. Helen wished her landlady had made her usual snarky remarks about disliking cats.
“I can look in on Thumbs, too,” Peggy said.
“Bad boy!” Pete said, and moved restlessly on her shoulder. The mention of a cat frightened him.
“I have news,” Peggy said. “I sent my first shipment of aprons off this morning and ordered a hundred more. I’m on my way to making five thousand dollars a month.”
“Shouldn’t you see how they like the first shipment?” Phil asked.
“I’m just gluing things on the aprons,” Peggy said. “What can go wrong?”
In Helen’s experience, that question always led to trouble, but she wasn’t going to burst her friend’s bubble.
Phil kept pressing. “When do you find out if your work is accepted?” he asked.
“They’ll send me an e-mail tomorrow morning,” Peggy said. “Why are you being so suspicious? I’ll keep my job until I make three thousand dollars a month with this new project.”
Helen heard the exasperation in her friend’s voice and quickly switched the subject. “How did your property search go today, Phil?”
“Not so good,” Phil said. “The only house I can find is the one Danny lives in. I’ve checked his name, Chrissy’s name and his corporation’s name.”
“Well, that’s it,” Helen said.
“Not quite,” he said. “When we get back, I’ll check Dade and Palm Beach counties. That’s a bigger job. I’ll need more time.”
Everyone ignored the subject of Jordan and Mark, though their names seemed to be flashing overhead in neon. After an awkward silence, Helen said, “Think I’ll go pack.”
“How can I help?” Phil asked.
“Would you pick up Mom’s death certificates and drop one off at the Hendin Island police station?”
“No problem,” Phil said, kissing her. “Go get some sleep.”
“Don’t forget to lock your door,” Margery said. “There’s been a series of burglaries in this neighborhood.”
Helen studied her landlady’s dull clothes and wan face. For the first time, she felt real fear. Margery—feisty, funny Margery—might be gone forever.
CHAPTER 17
“I can’t believe St. Louis has a Hustler store,” Helen said.
Helen and Phil had picked up a rental car at the airport. Helen left the rental lot and was driving past the Hustler Hollywood store. The huge neon-lit shop stood out among the square utilitarian buildings like, well, a hustler in church.
“What’s wrong with it? It’s by the airport,” Phil said. “I don’t see any kids around here. Besides, we have one in Fort Lauderdale.”
“That’s different,” Helen said. “Lauderdale is a tourist town. St. Louis is a family city.”
“How do you think people get children?” Phil asked. “Is St. Louis a sinless city?”
“Heck, no. Dad was the neighborhood skirt chaser,” Helen said. “No one but Mom was surprised when he was caught in the sack with another woman. But that was straightforward Midwestern sin, not cheap, flashy Hustler sin. I can’t see a St. Louis soccer mom sneaking into Hustler to buy a Slutty Senoritas video or a crotchless tanga.”
“No one will see her there except other sinners, who also have to be discreet,” Phil said. “And you seem to know a lot about cheap, flashy sin.”
“Peggy told me,” Helen said, hoping she didn’t blush. “She went with Daniel, her lawyer boyfriend, to the Hustler Hollywood on Federal Highway. Just to look at things.”
“Uh-huh.” Phil grinned at her. “We’re on Natural Bridge Road. Where is the natural bridge?”
“Legend says there used to be one nearly two hundred years ago, but it’s long gone,” Helen said. “The only bridges around seem to be overpasses. Natural Bridge Road has some cool vintage architecture, though, like the Goody Goody Diner.”
After several turns, Helen wound up on a major highway.
“Are you lost?” Phil asked.
“There’s a lot of new highway construction,” she said. “I think I can still find Kathy and Tom’s house from here.”
“Why not stop and ask directions?” Phil said.
“No, I’ll find something I recognize soon,” Helen said. She felt a little frantic driving in her former home, as if she was trying to find the city she used to know.
“I thought only guys refused to ask directions,” Phil said.
“Wait! Here’s Lindbergh Boulevard,” Helen said, hailing it like an old friend at a party. “Now I can find Kathy’s house.”
“I don’t mind driving around,” Phil said. “This is a good-looking city. Are we going to see the Arch?”
“That’s downtown,” Helen said. “We can make time to see it, if you want.”
“I want to drop my bags at the hotel and get to work on your divorce research. That’s our priority.”
“Look at that,” Helen said, more to herself than Phil. “Schneithorst’s has morphed into three restaurants with a rooftop beer garden.”
She turned to him and said, “Schneithorst’s is an old German restaurant.”
“I kind of guessed that,” Phil said. “Can I get a beer there?”
“Sure. It’s a watering hole for the old rich, and not just their money is old. Your silver-white hair would fit in nicely, but you’re younger than most of that crowd.”
“Jeez, you don’t have to insult the place because I wanted a beer there,” Phil said. He looked hurt.
“Sorry,” Helen said. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. Coming home stirs up old memories.”
“It must be tough after more than two years,” Phil said. “You didn’t leave here with a happy good-bye party from your friends.”
“I didn’t have any friends,” Helen said. “Just people I worked with. I ran away from St. Louis late at night, and didn’t care where I went. I just wanted to get away. The only people I miss here are Kathy and Tom and their kids. Mom had sided with Rob during the divorce and that hurt. It’s unsettling to be back home. I recognize some places, but others are gone or changed. The city looks like a new photo superimposed over an old one. It’s confusing.”
They drove in silence that was oddly comforting, until they passed a series of estates. “Look at that house,” Phil said. “It has a stainless steel beer keg for a mailbox. I wouldn’t mind getting my bills out of one of those. Do people that rich drink beer?”
“I think beer bought that mansion. If I remember right, it was owned—maybe it still is—by someone in the Busch family. The beer-baron Busches, not the politicians.”
“I’m not used to a place where everything is old,” Phil said. “South Florida was built yesterday.”
“And will be torn down tomorrow,” Helen said.
“Sad but true,” Phil said. “Refresh me on our plans for today.”
“After we drop our suitcases at the hotel, I’ll drive us to Tom and Kathy’s house. I’ll stay there and help Kathy with the final arrangements for Mom. The wake is tomorrow at noon and the funeral is the next day. This afternoon, you’ll take my car and drive to the St. Louis County Courthouse to start researching my divorce. You’ll meet us back at Tom and Kathy’s for a barbecue tonight.”
