The Dead-End Job Mysteries Box Set 2

by Elaine Viets

  “What’s his number?” Phil asked.

  “I have him on speed dial.” Margery opened her cell phone and hit a number.

  “Gus?” she asked. “You still want that detective? I’ve found a good agency—Coronado Investigations.” She listened a moment, then asked, “Can you meet him at his repair shop?”

  She looked at Phil. He nodded. So did Helen.

  “It’s they, Gus,” Margery said. “You’re hiring the best team of shamuses in South Florida. They don’t come cheap, but you can afford it after my car bills. What did you do last time on my Lincoln—a heart transplant? Coronado Investigations will see you at seven tomorrow night.”

  Peggy had her own cell phone out. She snapped it shut and said, “My friend Shelby really wants you to start, too. She’ll stop by at seven tomorrow morning before she goes to work.”

  “Amazing,” Helen said. “We got two jobs sitting by the pool.”

  “Enjoy the honeymoon,” Margery said. “It won’t ever be this easy again.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Shelby Minars was blond, desperate and drop-dead gorgeous—the proper client for a couple of PIs drunk on the romance of their profession.

  “Welcome, Shelby.” Phil smiled at Coronado Investigations’ first client. “You’re here at seven a.m. on the dot.”

  Shelby teetered in on red heels and flashed an uneasy smile. Helen thought Shelby looked young enough to be a schoolgirl in her red polka-dot sundress. She clutched her little white purse as if it were a life preserver.

  Helen and Phil sat in their matching black-and-chrome club chairs. Shelby arranged herself in the yellow client chair, crossing her pale legs. The painted toenails peeping through the open toes looked like Red Hots.

  Phil stared at Shelby’s toes with that silly smile still plastered on his face. He pulled himself out of his toe trance and raised his eyes to Shelby’s face.

  “How can we help?” Phil asked.

  “I’m going to kill my husband,” Shelby announced.

  “Be careful with statements like that,” Phil said. “We’re required to report threats to the police.”

  “I think my husband, Bryan, is cheating on me,” she said. “I think it’s true, but I don’t want it to be. I hope it’s not true. That’s why I need your agency.”

  We need you to pay the electric bill, Helen thought. “We can’t help you without facts,” she said. “Why do you believe your husband is unfaithful?”

  “I met Bryan in high school. We’ve been married seven years,” Shelby said. “We’ve always been happy. At least, I thought we were. We have a four-bedroom house in Rio Vista.”

  She paused, waiting for the congratulations.

  “Nice neighborhood,” Helen said. It was, too. Rio Vista’s biggest crime problem was golf-cart rustling.

  “Yes,” Shelby said. “Bryan got us a good deal on our home.”

  “Is he a doctor?” Phil asked.

  “A lot of doctors live in Rio Vista, but Bryan is a successful real estate salesman. At least, he was until the Florida real estate market tanked. My husband has been restless and worried since the housing market fell apart. He’s not getting commissions like he used to. Real estate isn’t expected to spring back anytime soon. We have plenty of money to live on, but Bryan had too much free time. He started drinking too much and taking long lunches. He put on twenty-five pounds. I couldn’t have my honey slipping into a depression, so I bought him a membership at Fantastic Fitness of Fort Lauderdale.”

  “That’s the big gym on Federal Highway?” Phil asked.

  Shelby nodded.

  “When did you buy the membership?” Helen asked.

  “Last June,” Shelby said. “Bryan didn’t seem enthusiastic about my gift at first. He’d work out maybe once a week and come back in forty-five minutes—and that included his drive time. About a month into his membership, Bryan changed. Now he goes to the gym seven days a week. He can spend five or six hours there.”

  “Is he really working out,” Phil asked, “or watching babes?”

  “He’s definitely working out. He looks so hot. Bryan is a mass of rippling muscle. Put him in a pirate shirt, and he could model for romance-novel covers.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Helen asked.

  Shelby studied her red-painted nails. “There’s no romance,” she said. “Not for me. My husband has lost interest in me.”

  “Maybe he’s tired from working out,” Helen said. “How old is Bryan?”

  “Forty,” Shelby said. “I’m two years younger. Forty is a dangerous age for men. They get restless. There’s someone else. I’m sure. Almost sure. I need you to make sure.”

  “Have you seen any signs of infidelity?” Phil said.

  “I never caught him with another woman,” Shelby said.

  “There are other, less obvious clues,” Phil said. “One giveaway is when a spouse uses a different soap than you have at home.”

  “We use Irish Spring. But Bryan showers at the gym, so that won’t help.”

  “Have you found matchbooks from strange restaurants? An earring or feminine item of clothing in his car or gym bag? Numbers on his cell phone he calls often that you don’t recognize? Odd charges on your credit card statements?”

  “Bryan has lots of callers I don’t know on his cell phone,” Shelby said. “It’s part of his real estate job. There are no unusual charges on our credit cards. I haven’t found any lipstick on his shirts.

  “But I did catch him lying. A month ago, Bryan told me he was showing a house in Victoria Park. He left at noon Sunday, saying he was going to meet the Jacksons. At twelve thirty I got a call from Bryan’s office. Renee said the Jacksons were waiting at the office to see the house. She asked if I knew where Bryan was. His cell phone went straight into voice mail. I called, too, and he didn’t answer. Renee said not to bother—she’d take the Jacksons herself.

  “Bryan came back about five that afternoon and said the Jacksons had looked at the house, but he didn’t think they were interested. I didn’t mention Renee’s call, but I was suspicious. We hadn’t had . . .”

  Shelby stopped and looked at Helen and Phil with sad hazel eyes. “We haven’t had marital relations in more than six months. I’d asked him again and again if anything was wrong. He insisted he was fine. I offered to go to a marriage counselor. He said nothing was wrong. I didn’t believe him.

  “Bryan did something strange the next morning. He said he had to go to work—at six a.m. Nobody shows houses that early, and I said so. Bryan said he had a lot of paperwork. After the day before, I was suspicious. I waited fifteen minutes, then drove to his real estate office. No one was there. The lights were off. Fantastic Fitness is on my way home. I saw his car parked in the lot. I peeked in the gym window. Bryan was sweating on a treadmill.”

  “Anyone working out with him?” Phil asked.

  “Lots of people,” Shelby said. “But they were all men. I thought maybe Bryan wasn’t interested in me because I’m not as fit as the women at his gym.”

  Shelby gave a long pause, as if she expected Helen or Phil to protest that she looked fine. Both kept silent on that subject.

  “So what happened?” Helen said.

  “I bought a membership, too. I thought we could work out together. But Bryan wouldn’t go with me. If I went in the morning, he went in the afternoon. If I worked out in the afternoon, he went at night. I started dropping in at different times, hoping I’d catch him. As soon as he saw me, he’d make some excuse and leave. Then he’d sneak back to the gym later when I wasn’t around.”

  “How do you know that?” Phil asked.

  “I paid Carla, the girl at the reception desk, twenty dollars to let me see the check-ins on the computer,” Shelby said. “Bryan is shaping up for someone, and it isn’t me. I want you to find out who he’s seeing.”

  “I could work out at the gym and follow him,” Phil said.

  “That could be difficult,” Shelby said. “Bryan is sneaky and observant. It
would be too easy for him to figure out he’s being followed and change his hours like he did with me.”

  Shelby slipped off her red high heel. It dangled from her painted toes as she slowly swung her leg back and forth. Phil’s eyes were drawn to those Red Hots toes as if they were little magnets.

  “I have a better idea,” Shelby said. “The gym is looking for a receptionist. Maybe Helen could work there as a receptionist. If you wouldn’t mind, I mean.”

  “Why would I mind?” Helen said.

  “Well, being a detective is highly skilled. Receptionists just answer the phone and check in members. The job may be too low for you.”

  “No job is too low,” Helen said, and then looked at Shelby’s startled face. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind working as a receptionist.”

  “There are mirrors everywhere, and you could watch Bryan without him knowing he’s being watched,” she said. “You could keep the money you’ll make as a receptionist and I’ll pay, too. That way you get paid double, Helen.”

  “Nice,” Phil said. “I can answer phones. I’d make a terrific receptionist.”

  “I’m sure you would,” Shelby said. “But the club doesn’t hire guys for the reception desk. That job is for women only. The men are trainers and salesmen. They make more money.”

  “That sounds like a lawsuit,” Helen said. “I used to be a director of human resources at a big company. They were careful about gender bias.”

  Shelby nervously swung her leg. Her red heel dangled from a single toe. Phil’s eyes were glued to the painted pinkie.

  “The club promotes the women to trainers, too, as soon as they buff up,” Shelby said. “The women are so happy to make more money and get away from the desk, they never complain. The club lets the receptionists work out for free, so you could get in shape, too. I mean, if you wanted. You look just fine.”

  “I hate working out,” Helen said.

  “Me, too,” Shelby said. “At the gym the trainers said an early-morning workout gives you energy for the rest of the day, but it just left me exhausted. Phil, you’re ripped enough to be a trainer, but Bryan already has one. Her name is Jan Kurtz.”

  Phil tore his eyes away from Shelby’s tootsies to ask, “Could Bryan be having an affair with this Jan?”

  “I don’t think so,” Shelby said. “Carla at the front desk says Jan is having an affair with Nick. He’s another client. Nick is married, but that doesn’t seem to stop anyone there.”

  “Sounds like an interesting place,” Phil said. “Helen, you could get paid to be in this soap opera.”

  “We’ll need a recent picture of Bryan,” Helen said.

  “I have one with me,” Shelby said, pulling a snapshot from her purse. Helen raised one eyebrow. Bryan wore a Speedo that barely covered his private parts. The man had to shave down there, too.

  “Isn’t he amazing?” Shelby asked.

  “Let me get you a contract, Shelby,” Helen said. “If you come over to my desk, I’ll explain the terms and rates.”

  Shelby slipped her red heel back on and trotted over to Helen’s desk. She nodded as Helen talked about the payment schedule, barely glanced at the contract before she signed it, and wrote a check for one thousand dollars.

  “These desks are amazing,” she said, running her small, painted paw over the beat-up gray surface.

  Phil looked like a pooch that had been patted on the head. He was proud of the battered gunmetal desks. To him, they were vintage. As a final romantic private eye touch, he’d added a framed poster of Humphrey Bogart as Sam Spade.

  “They’re so old,” Shelby said. “Did you get them at a museum or something? And who’s the funny-looking guy with the bird statue in the poster?”

  “Sam Spade,” Phil said. “From The Maltese Falcon. It’s a classic detective movie.”

  “I don’t like old movies,” Shelby said, wrinkling her nose, “but my grandfather watches them. He’s got lots of time now that he’s in assisted living.”

  Phil looked like he’d been walloped with a walker. Shelby waved good-bye as she tripped across the terrazzo.

  “Thank you, Shelby,” Helen said.

  “Bye,” Phil said.

  Helen kissed Phil on his ear and said, “See you, Gramps. I’m off to get a job at the gym.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Fantastic Fitness of Fort Lauderdale looked like a gym on steroids. Walls stuck out at gravity-defying angles. Windows appeared in improbable places. The gym was bigger than many corporate headquarters.

  The automatic doors opened with the whoosh! of a spacecraft’s air lock. Helen was hit with a blast of refrigerated air and pounding techno-pop. A wall of muscle blocked her way inside.

  “I’m Logan,” he said.

  Logan was built like an anatomy chart. All the muscle groups were visible under his skin. Helen could even see his chest muscles through his tight tank top. She caught the outline of more muscle under his tiny white shorts. Veins were popped out on his neck, thighs and biceps. Even his chin had muscles. The center dimple looked like it had been installed with a drill bit.

  “I’m here to apply for the receptionist’s job,” Helen said.

  “Oh,” Logan said, not bothering to hide his disappointment. “We’re offering some fantastic deals.”

  “I’m sure you are,” Helen said. “But I want to work here, just like you.”

  “I’m the head salesman,” Logan said, as if he were a god frowning down from Olympus. “I have two Testarossas and a ten-bedroom house. I doubt if you could sell half as well as I do.”

  “Probably not,” Helen said. “But I’m good at dealing with customers.”

  “You need to talk to Derek, the day manager. I’ll have the girl at the desk call him.”

  Logan gave orders to the “girl.” Helen wondered if a phone receiver was too heavy for the musclehead to lift. Everything about him was too much, from his muscles to his mansion. Why did he need to tell her he had two Ferraris?

  A bouncy brunette in a short skirt strutted through the door. Logan’s muscle mass headed her way, cutting off a pack of other overdeveloped salesmen. Helen saw Logan steer his prey toward a cubicle by the window.

  She turned back to the jutting steel reception desk.

  “I’m Carla,” the receptionist said, flashing a warm smile. “The manager is on his way down. I hope you get the job. I need help at this desk.”

  The light darkened behind Helen as though an approaching storm front had moved in.

  “I’m Derek.” His voice was surprisingly light and his Caribbean lilt was pretty.

  Derek’s muscles stood out in hard lumps, like monster roast coffee beans. His shaved dark head looked obscenely naked. A roadmap of veins snaked across his abdomen.

  “You’re here for the receptionist’s job?” Derek asked. “I need you to fill out an application. Sit down at the desk in that cubicle and start writing.”

  Helen did. The gym’s treadmills and stationary bikes hummed like beehives. The music pounded and the weight machines clanged.

  Ten minutes later, Derek’s bulk nearly filled the glass cubicle. The chair groaned as he sat down. The gym manager frowned at Helen’s application and said, “You’re a smart lady with a college degree. Why do you want to work here? We can only afford to pay minimum wage.”

  “I like the atmosphere,” Helen said. “Lots of energy. I want to work at something more exciting than retail.”

  “Some days, you’ll get more excitement than you want,” Derek said. “I can promise that our customers are never dull. The pay isn’t much at first, but there are opportunities for advancement and your workouts are free. It wouldn’t hurt you to buff up. I see the beginnings of a belly and some biceps sag.”

  Derek’s assessment of her figure stung, but Helen reminded herself that Shelby Minars was paying her to work here and investigate Bryan. Those free workouts would give Helen more time to study their client’s husband.

  “Anyone can benefit from exercise,” Helen said and smile
d at Derek.

  I’ve started exercising already, she thought. I read somewhere it takes fifteen muscles to smile and only seven to flip someone off.

  “That’s the right attitude,” Derek said. “Can you start work today? Carla’s going to be here all day, and I want her to train you.”

  Carla was on the phone when the manager took Helen back to the reception desk. “Yes, ma’am,” she said. “I’m sure it was the bank’s mistake. If you could get the money to us before your next training session . . . Thank you.”

  Carla hung up the phone, pushed her dark curls off her face and sighed. “I wish you didn’t have to hear that, but it’s part of the job. We have to make clear-up calls when members get behind in their payments.”

  “I used to be a telemarketer,” Helen said. “People can be pretty rude on the phone.”

  “This woman wasn’t bad,” Carla said. “She didn’t hang up or cuss me out. She used the old ‘bank mistake’ routine. You’ll hear more inventive excuses now that you’re working here. Welcome aboard. Let’s start with a tour of the place. I’ll ask Derek to watch the desk for me. He’s a sweetheart.”

  She waved Derek over to the reception desk. “No problem,” he said with the lovely island accent and smiled. Even his teeth looked strong.

  Helen could smell the women’s locker room at the end of the hall, a pleasant scent of steam and coconut soap. Three women lounged on flowered couches, sipping ice water. A fourth dried her hair in the dressing area.

  “It’s nicer than the country club where I used to work,” Helen said.

  “This is a club for our regulars,” Carla said. “Heck, it’s home. That’s the lounge with the couches. The showers and toilets are in here. The stall doors go down to the floor for privacy—in some cases, a little too much privacy. We get same-sex couples in the stalls. The day managers have to break up fights in the men’s locker room when a gay guy hits on a straight one.”

  “What about the gay women?”

  “Straight women usually don’t get upset if gay females make a pass at them. Guess they don’t feel their womanhood is in question. Some gay women use the sauna or hot tub as a trysting place. If you get a complaint at the desk, you’ll have to tell the ladies to find a more private location.”