The Dead-End Job Mysteries Box Set 2

by Elaine Viets

  “That’s all they eat for one meal?” Helen said.

  “For one day,” Carla said. “They eat protein only—no fruit or bread. They avoid carbs the way you’d run from heroin.”

  Debbi approached the reception desk. This time, she seemed shy and tentative. “Excuse me,” she said with a small voice. She pushed what looked like a candy bar toward Carla. “That’s for you. It’s an energy bar. Double Dutch chocolate. When I can eat, it’s my favorite. It has no carbs and three grams of protein. I’m sorry I yelled. I tell myself I won’t get mad and next thing I know, I’m screaming. I’m just so angry since my dad died.”

  Carla’s face softened. “I’m sorry. That was awful.”

  “Nobody’s sorry he’s dead,” Debbi said.

  Helen noticed a brief flare of anger, like a lit match in the dark.

  “He killed a harmless old lady when he held up that convenience store,” Debbi said. “I’m glad the manager shot him. Except everyone knows I’m the Granny Killer’s daughter.”

  “Nobody blames you for what your father did,” Carla said.

  “They do,” Debbi said. “I hear them talking about me wherever I go.”

  “They are talking about you,” Carla said. “You’re a strong woman. Your trainers say you’ll be a star. You’ll get that trophy.”

  “I want it bad,” Debbi said. “I want everyone to know that I’m a champion. I’m not worthless like my father.”

  “You’re not, sweetie,” Carla said.

  “Are you still mad at me?”

  “I’m concerned,” Carla said. “We all want you to succeed. If you yell at a judge, you could be disqualified. Maybe a doctor could give you something so you wouldn’t be so angry.”

  “Can’t afford a doctor,” Debbi said.

  There it was again, Helen thought. That flash of anger.

  “Mom and I don’t have health insurance. But once I win the novice title and the endorsement money rolls in, I can see a doctor. I’d better leave now.”

  Debbi bobbed her head good-bye and walked awkwardly toward the door.

  “That poor thing,” Helen said. “Starving herself for a trophy. Why do the women do that to themselves?”

  “For the glory, the awards and the prizes,” Carla said. “Same as the male athletes. Too bad women don’t win as much money. Guys can win ten times more. There’s a lot of discrimination against strong women, but not at Fantastic Fitness. If any of our members—Paula, Kristi, Tansi or Debbi—wins a title, we’ll display their photos and trophies in our Hall of Fame, along with our other winners’ prizes.”

  The hall trophy case was just outside the Xtreme Shop. It could have been in any high school hall—if the students were built like comic-book superheroes.

  CHAPTER 6

  “Honey, I’m home!” Helen called out the old sitcom line as she breezed into Phil’s apartment. “It’s only two o’clock and I’ve finished work. I even got some exercise, and then I walked home. I—”

  Helen saw Phil’s face and stopped her runaway report. “Something’s wrong,” she said. The apartment smelled of burnt coffee. Half-empty mugs were scattered on the table and the kitchen counter. Three cups were on his desk next to the computer, mute testimony to Phil’s frustrated efforts.

  “Way wrong,” Phil said. “Our case is dead before I even started. I can’t find any official paper on Mark’s accident. I spent the morning searching for the records in Plantation. There’s no police report, no incident or accident report, no autopsy.”

  “Gus was right,” Helen said. “There is a conspiracy.”

  “Not necessarily,” Phil said. “Mark has been dead a quarter of a century. Paper trails are easy to lose. Could be the police report was destroyed after all this time. I talked with Barry, an old-timer who retired from the force. Barry doesn’t remember any suicide shooting from 1986.”

  “It’s been a while,” Helen said.

  “It has,” Phil said. “But Mark’s accident was dramatic, and Barry has a good memory. He was new to the force twenty-five years ago. I checked with Gus again. He insisted his brother’s shooting happened in Plantation. Gus says his sister told him it was there. I need official paper.”

  “What about the murder investigation files?” Helen asked. “The murder book, I think it’s called. Don’t the police keep that?”

  “Could be the cops never started one,” Phil said. “Barry said they could have closed this case before it became a murder investigation. I spent the morning checking records and drew a blank.

  “I called Gus once again and went over the timeline with him. The first day, Mark went to the hospital with a gunshot wound to the head. He was in a coma. The surgeons operated. Mark died two days later. A week or so after, someone told the cops that Mark was bipolar and suicidal, and the case was closed.”

  “Wouldn’t Ahmet tell the cops that the day of the accident?” Helen asked. “If the shooting took place at Ahmet’s import-export business like Gus said, I assume the cops questioned the drug dealer after the shooting.”

  “The cops wouldn’t take Ahmet’s word alone,” Phil said. “They got confirmation from someone. Gus said Mark died the third day and the police closed the case as a suicide. That’s all he knows.”

  “Gus doesn’t want to believe his brother killed himself,” Helen said.

  “It’s a typical reaction when a family member commits suicide,” Phil said, “especially if they are Catholic or some religion that has strong prohibitions against it. Gus hung on to his grief for twenty-five years. We’re supposed to exorcise it.”

  “I can understand why he’d have trouble with his brother’s death,” Helen said. “I have a hard time believing that gorgeous man is gone, and I only saw him in a scratchy old video. He was so alive.”

  “I feel like a fraud taking a grief-stricken man’s money,” Phil said.

  “We’ve just started,” Helen said, rubbing his back. “You’ve worked cases before. You know they take time. Why are you reacting like this?”

  “At my old job, I mostly did work for rich people or corporations who used me like a servant. Gus isn’t rich like they are. He can get hurt. He’s hurting now.”

  “But that was true of that drug case you did so many years ago. That family wanted their daughter found.”

  “That was different,” Phil said. “I’m in charge now. I can’t blame my bosses anymore when things go wrong. I make the screwups.”

  “We do,” Helen said. “Together. Gus needs us. He needs to know what happened to his brother.”

  “Please don’t say he needs closure,” Phil said.

  “No,” Helen said, “but he needs to know the facts, and we need to find them. It’s too soon to give up. Maybe you’re looking for the records in the wrong place. Lots of Florida communities are brandnew. Did Plantation exist when Mark died in ’eighty-six?”

  “The city has been around since the fifties,” Phil said. “It has an important place in film history. The Caddyshack pool scene was shot at the Plantation Golf Course. It’s also a rich city. Mark died July seventh. Plantation has no record of any similar incident for four months either side of his death date. If we can show Gus the official records, maybe he will accept his brother’s death.”

  “If we need paper, why don’t we start with Mark’s funeral records?” Helen asked. “When my mom died, the funeral parlor had stacks of paperwork about her life and death.”

  Phil kissed her. “Did I say you were brilliant?”

  “Not often enough,” Helen said. “Do you know where Mark was laid out?”

  “It’s on Gus’s list. His brother’s visitation was at the Becca Funeral Home in Fort Lauderdale,” Phil said. “It’s a family-owned business. Been around since the 1920s. It’s only three o’clock. We have time to go there.”

  The funeral home was pink stucco with a red tile roof flanked by the inevitable palm trees. Inside, the satiny gold wallpaper made Helen feel like she was trapped in a giant jewelry box. Dark red flowers
and pale torch lamps added to the gloom. Helen shivered. The funeral home was cold, even by summer-in-Florida standards.

  “May I help you?” The woman had a severe gray suit, short gray hair and a face so immobile it seemed frozen by the funereal cold.

  Phil’s smile should have melted the woman. “We’re with Coronado Investigations. We are looking for records of a visitation you had here some time ago.”

  The glacier face shifted slightly. Now the woman seemed worried.

  “It’s okay,” Helen added. “We’re helping a family look into the cause of the man’s death. There’s no problem with the funeral home.”

  Phil showed her the paperwork Gus had signed.

  “I’m Jessica,” she said, her face thawing slightly. “Let me present this to our director. Mr. Harold is the fourth generation to run the Becca Funeral Home. Please take a seat.”

  Helen sat on a couch upholstered in mournful brown velvet and felt it swallow her. She’d have to punch her way out of its pillowy depths. The air was thick with the lifeless perfume of hothouse flowers.

  “Looks like a horror movie set,” Phil whispered.

  “Shush,” Helen said. “If I start giggling, we’ll be kicked out.”

  Jessica returned. She was smiling, but her face looked—Helen’s mind skittered away from the word—stiff.

  “We’ll be happy to help,” Jessica said. “Follow me.”

  They trailed behind Jessica like lost ducklings down the drab gold hall with the dark visitation rooms. Helen was relieved they were all empty.

  The ordinary office with its oak veneer desk, fax, phone and computers seemed almost cheerful. Jessica pulled a leather-bound ledger off a shelf. “We did our records by hand back then,” she said. “I think they have more dignity than the computer entries.”

  She opened the pages to Mark Behr’s “Record of Funeral.” It had cost $6,518.61. Mark had been buried in a Regal Steel Blue casket. Helen read the details with horrified fascination. Each seemed to add more weight to this sorrowful story. The funeral home had charged extra for dressing the body, for underwear, for hose (were those socks?) and slippers.

  Mark’s family had paid for candles and candelabra, for an organist and a singer. They’d paid $150 for a second limousine. Flowers had cost $410. They’d ordered five hundred prayer cards for $50. The family had rented a tent to shade the mourners from the hot summer sun.

  The last detail was the saddest: Mark’s mother had paid for the funeral in installments. It was stamped PAID a year after her son’s death.

  Helen fought back her tears. That poor woman. Every month, she got a fresh reminder of her son’s death. You never knew Mark, she told herself. Quit being so dramatic. You have a job to do.

  She heard Phil ask, “Is there a death certificate?”

  “Let me check the files.” Jessica opened another door, and Helen got a glimpse of gray ranks of file cabinets.

  Jessica was back in five minutes. “Here’s a copy.”

  Phil’s eyebrows shot up when he read the certificate. Helen knew he’d found something. Phil put on his poker face. “I appreciate your time,” he said. “What do we owe you for the copy?”

  “Nothing,” Jessica said. “We’re happy to be of service. We hope you’ll remember the Becca Funeral Home in your time of need.”

  “We will,” Phil said. “We hope we won’t need you anytime soon.”

  Helen couldn’t wait until they got to Phil’s Jeep.

  “What is it?” she said. “Tell me.”

  “The death certificate says Mark died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound.”

  “That doesn’t explain your smug look,” Helen said. “We already knew that.”

  “Look.” His finger pointed to a box that read PLACE OF INJURY. Typed in it was “a motor vehicle” at “3868 Palmwood Blvd., Sunset Palms, FL.”

  “Sunset Palms is nowhere near Plantation,” Phil said. “Why did Gus tell us the wrong town?”

  CHAPTER 7

  “Look at that knockout!” Phil said. “She’s amazing.”

  Helen studied the boxy turquoise-and-white beast with vestigial fins. Its grill had a smug grin, as if it knew it was a classic. Gus had the hood open, a blanket protecting the front fender.

  “Is that an old Chevy?” Helen asked.

  “That’s like asking if the Mona Lisa is an oil painting,” Phil said. “Gus is working on a 1956 Chevy Bel Air. A two-tone convertible with fabulous chrome.” His voice was soft with reverence for the old beauty.

  “Evening,” Gus said, and wiped his hands on a rag. He looked beat. A red-haired boy sat in a toy car next to Gus. His pedal car was a miniature version of the gleaming ’56 turquoise Chevy.

  “Cool car,” Phil said. “Are you Gus the Third?”

  “Yeah!” The boy held up a yellow plastic wrench. “I help PawPaw!” he said.

  “He loves cars just like you do,” Helen said.

  Gus straightened his shoulders and patted his grandson’s fiery curls. “I’m hoping he’ll take over the shop when he grows up.”

  Gus smiled hopefully at Phil and Helen. “You find out something already?”

  “We did,” Phil said. “Mark’s shooting didn’t happen in Plantation. It was in Sunset Palms. Why did you send us to the other end of Broward County?”

  Gus looked confused. “What do you mean Sunset Palms? Mark was shot in Plantation. My mom and my sister said so. They can’t both be wrong.”

  “They were,” Phil said. “Look, Gus, it’s your money. If you want to pay for a wild goose chase, that’s fine with me.”

  “I don’t know how things got so tangled up,” Gus said. “Mark died a long time ago. They were in shock. We all were.”

  “So shocked both women got the scene of the shooting wrong?” Phil asked.

  “You weren’t there,” Gus said. “You don’t know what our family went through. You never knew Mark. That’s why I showed you the video, to give you some idea what he was like. When my brother was shot, it was total confusion at the hospital. First the doctors said he was going to make it—then they did a one-eighty and said he wouldn’t pull through.

  “Mom was so upset I thought she was gonna die before Mark. My sister was half-crazy. Mom and Bernie wandered around the hospital like lost souls. I had to sit them down and force them to eat. I don’t think Mom ever got over Mark’s death, and Bernie changed completely. I can ask her myself why she got the location wrong.”

  “No!” Helen said.

  Gus frowned. “You’re telling me I can’t talk to my own sister?”

  “Of course you can,” Helen said. “But it would be better if we asked Bernie the details about Mark’s death.”

  “When it’s an emotional issue, it’s helpful to have a third party ask the tough questions,” Phil said. “It’s our job. We can ask the hard questions you can’t. That’s why you’re paying us. Remember, when this case is over, we’ll never see you or your sister again. You’ll have to sit across the table from her at Thanksgiving dinner.”

  “Can I at least call Bernie and tell her you’re coming?” Gus asked.

  “We’d rather you didn’t,” Phil said. “Helen will ask the questions. She’s good with people. We want you to be by your phone, in case Bernie calls you to confirm that you’ve hired us to look into Mark’s death. We need you for backup, Gus.”

  “Okay,” he said, but Gus wasn’t happy. “When are you going?”

  “I thought I’d drive out about nine tomorrow morning,” Helen said.

  “If you need to reach me, have Bernie call my cell,” Gus said. “I’ll be here at the shop.”

  He carefully eased his head back under the Chevy’s hood, like a lion tamer sticking his head in the mouth of a beautiful killer. Little Gus waved good-bye.

  On the ride home, Helen said, “Little Gus’s pedal car was amazing. I can see why Gus worries that his grandson may have the family tendency for suicide. He has everything else—their looks, their hair, their fascination with classic
cars.”

  “You don’t have to turn into your family,” Phil said. “You aren’t anything like your mother.”

  “I try not to be,” Helen said. “But sometimes I look in the mirror and think I see her.”

  Phil laughed, leaned over and kissed her. “Not a trace,” he said. “I’d know.”

  The car behind them honked, and the Jeep inched through Fort Lauderdale’s rush-hour traffic. Heat shimmered on the road, and the air was thick with car exhaust and the stink of melting asphalt.

  The Jeep was not air-conditioned. Phil didn’t seem to notice the heat. Helen felt like she was on a griddle instead of Federal Highway. The cool Coronado seemed light-years away.

  “You sure I can’t go with you tomorrow morning to talk to Bernie?” Phil asked.

  “Nope,” she said. “Bernie’s interrogation requires my special skills. I’ll do the talking.”

  “I might be better at talking to women,” Phil said and waggled his eyebrows.

  Sweat dripped down Helen’s forehead. “This could turn into girl talk,” she said. “A man would be a liability when we really dish. I’ll handle it.”

  “You aren’t worried, are you?” Phil asked. He grinned at her.

  “Of course not,” Helen said.

  She hadn’t forgotten how Bernie had undulated into Granddaddy’s Bar during Mark’s birthday video, wearing skintight leather and a flame red bra. Helen knew Phil was nothing like her unfaithful ex-husband, Rob, but the man was human. Helen had been a trusting fool during her first marriage. She wouldn’t make that mistake again. She wouldn’t push her new husband into the path of a fiery-haired temptress.

  “Bernie and her husband, Kevin, must have some bucks if they live in Weston,” Helen said. “Didn’t some magazine say Weston had some of the richest residents in the country? I wonder what Bernie’s husband does.”

  Phil turned off Federal toward tree-shaded Las Olas. Helen felt cooler already. Almost home.

  “I can answer that,” Phil said. “I checked him out. Kevin Maynard Bennett is a health insurance executive. Their son, Kevin Maynard Junior, goes to Nova University. Your husband, Phil, could use a drink.”