by Elaine Viets
Maybe Alana is the key.
Helen parked her car in the pier lot, made Cy ten dollars richer, and barged through the throngs of strolling tourists toward Cerise, impatient to talk to the boutique manager.
“Hey, girlfriend!” Alana greeted her with a smile. “I’m having a terrific morning. Want to join me at that coffee shop for a chicken wrap and Key lime pie? My treat. I’m celebrating.”
“Glad to,” Helen said.
“Shelly, I’ll be at the coffee shop,” Alana called. The short, brown-haired woman gave her a big lipsticked smile and waved good-bye.
Alana seemed to glow with success today. Her golden hair was shiny and her sheer bronze top caught the sun. The customers at the coffee shop stared at her as she sat at a table with a view of the water.
“This sun matches my mood perfectly,” Alana said and stretched like a long-limbed golden cat.
For a beach business that catered to tourists, the coffee shop operated with stunning efficiency. Helen and Alana had their food and drinks minutes after they sat down.
“So tell me your good news,” Helen said, nibbling at her chicken wrap.
“Cy gave me that outfit I showed you,” she said. “I didn’t even have to do anything disgusting.”
“Very generous,” Helen said. Cy? Giving a sixteen-hundred-dollar gift to his girlfriend? What have you done? she wondered.
“It gets better. Today, the tourists are buying everything I set out—even the ugly sale stuff that’s been cluttering up the racks all season.”
“You are having a good day,” Helen said.
“You aren’t. You look sad,” Alana said. “What’s wrong?”
Helen thought this was the first time Alana had ever asked how she felt. “I was on the beach this morning when they found Joan, the server at Cy’s restaurant,” she said. “I liked her.”
“So I heard,” Alana said. “She committed suicide.”
She used the tone that someone might use to say, “She took an aspirin.” No sympathy and even less interest.
“Joan didn’t seem the suicidal type,” Helen said.
Alana shrugged. “Who can tell? Kef said she’d been depressed for a very long time.”
Kef? Helen was startled. Joan had told Helen that only Cy’s close friends from the old days called him by that drug nickname. “How long have you and Cy been friends?” Helen asked.
“A long time,” Alana said. “So long I’d rather not remember. Makes me feel old.”
I bet, Helen thought. I bet there’s a lot you’d like to forget.
“I used to do odd jobs for him in the eighties,” Alana said. “We weren’t doing the deed back then. We didn’t start screwing until he hired me to run his boutique and I had to work off my rent. The hard way.”
She giggled, then saw Helen’s face. “Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Alana said. “It’s not like I’m breaking up his marriage. It’s been dead a long time. He only stays married for the sake of his kid.”
Right, Helen thought. Heard that one before.
Her face must have betrayed her.
“Hey,” Alana said, “haven’t you ever done anything you’re not proud of?”
Bury my ex-husband in a basement, Helen thought.
Alana correctly read Helen’s silence as guilt. “Thought so,” she said.
But she couldn’t read the rest of Helen’s thoughts. She’d tolerated—even been mildly titillated by—Alana’s carefree morals. Now Helen started putting together the bits she’d gleaned: Alana knew Cy, also known as Kef, from the bad old days when he ran drugs.
Cy gave her that coveted expensive outfit and Alana bragged, I didn’t even have to do anything disgusting.
So what did Alana do? Did she make sure Joan would be at Riggs Pier the night of her death? How? Did she offer her a sales job at the boutique? A reference for a job at some other Riggs Beach restaurant or bar? Promise to take her to a beach restaurant for dinner?
That’s my guess, Helen thought. But if I’m wrong, I’ll cut off my access to Alana, and that will tick off Phil. Except he’s already angry. Let’s see how she reacts—or overreacts—when I press her about Joan. We’re almost finished with lunch anyway.
“How does it feel to kill someone?” Helen asked.
Alana stopped eating her pie.
“What?” she said, putting down her fork.
“I said, ‘How does it feel to kill someone?’” Helen repeated.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Alana said. But her eyes shifted uneasily. The wind grabbed her paper napkin and it fluttered away.
“You lured Joan to the pier so Cy could kill her,” Helen said. “She would never get close enough to him. She couldn’t stand him. That’s how you got that outfit you wanted so bad. Maybe you didn’t throw Joan off the pier, but you handed her over to the man who did.”
Alana’s easygoing attitude quickly flared into anger. “You’re nuts!” she said, loud enough that people at the nearby tables stared at her again. “How can you even say that?”
“It’s true, isn’t it?” Helen said.
“I’m outta here,” Alana said. “Pay for your own lunch.”
She pulled a slim black wallet out of her purse, threw a twenty on the table and said, “Don’t come into my store, ever again. If you set foot inside the door, I’ll have you arrested for shoplifting.”
She flounced off to Cerise, followed by the stares of the other diners.
Interesting, Helen thought as she walked back to her car. Alana never denied what I said. She just erupted into anger. She’s guilty, but I can’t prove it.
Something else about that scene bothered her. She thought she had it, but it escaped her mind.
I’m too hot and upset to think straight, Helen decided. It will come back.
Inside the Igloo, Helen turned on the air-conditioning and called Valerie.
“Helen,” the TV reporter said, “I heard about that server who died. She was your source, wasn’t she?”
“Yes,” Helen said. “And she didn’t commit suicide.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice soft with sympathy. “The station wouldn’t let me cover the story because it involved Cy. But I still have my job. So far.”
“Can you talk?”
“Not on a cell phone,” Valerie said. “I’m finishing a story downtown. Meet me at Riverwalk by the gondola ride.”
Riverwalk Linear Park was a pleasant paved walkway along the New River in downtown Lauderdale, lined with yachts and restaurants. Helen loved the slender black Venetian gondola moored there. It had been fitted with a motor and was driven by Captain Pierre in a straw hat and striped gondolier’s costume.
Helen waited on a nearby bench and watched the yellow water taxi motor by. She heard Valerie clip-clopping in her high heels before she saw her.
The Valerie of the Crocs and cat T-shirt was once again dressed to kill. She wore elegant black-and-cranberry stilettos with a slim cranberry sleeveless dress.
“You look like your old self,” Helen said.
“I’m still in disgrace,” she said to Helen as she sat next to her on the bench.
“But putting on a brave face,” Helen said.
“They won’t let me say anything on camera, but I’ve been continuing the Riggs Beach investigation quietly on my own,” Valerie said. “Commissioner Charles Wyman has an uncanny habit of getting gifts just before a decisive vote.
“He got a new pool from a contractor who wanted city business—and a deal on the price. You might say an impossible deal. He got a new car at an amazing price, just before the city bought its fleet. There are canceled checks and bills of sale, but Commissioner Wyman owns way too many expensive things for someone making his salary.”
“Joan told me Wyman wanted Cy to give his daughter a wedding reception with steak and lobster dinners at the restaurant in January,” Helen said. “Of course, Cy couldn’t give that gift when his place burned down.”
“There went Wyman’s c
hance to sell his vote,” Valerie said.
“Maybe he can get Commissioner Frank Gordon’s vote at a discount,” Helen said.
“Are you kidding? Gordon will charge him double now,” Valerie said. “I don’t think even Cy has that much money to burn. Gotta run, Helen,” and Valerie was gone in a sophisticated streak of color.
Chic Valerie made Helen feel frumpy. She was already tired and discouraged. Helen hoped she could snag a glass of wine with Margery by the pool.
She was relieved that Phil’s Jeep wasn’t in the Coronado parking lot, and positively cheered that Margery was sitting by the pool.
“Come sit. Have some white wine and cashews,” Margery said. The evening breeze lightly stirred her lilac caftan. Her necklace of deep purple abalone shimmered in the dying light.
Helen poured herself a generous glass of wine and grabbed a handful of cashews. She could hear Thumbs complaining all the way across the yard.
“That cat doesn’t stop yowling all day,” Margery said.
“He misses me,” Helen said.
“More likely he misses food.” Helen’s landlady was no cat lover. “What are you going to do about that noise?”
“Nothing,” Helen said. “I can’t. Phil changed the locks.”
“And didn’t give me a key like he’s supposed to,” Margery said, “or I’d let you in to feed that fur bag. How’s the murder case going?”
“Up in smoke, and I mean that for real,” Helen said. She updated Margery on their latest failures.
“Do you think there’s any chance Phil will forgive me?” Helen said. “I don’t understand why he’s behaving this way.”
“Most women don’t understand men,” Margery said. “Women are tough and practical. Men are romantics, especially guys like Phil. You didn’t tell Phil about the blackmail when you got married, did you?”
“I meant to,” Helen began.
“But you married him with a lie. And you’ve kept lying your entire marriage. Phil is hurt and disappointed. It will take him a while to get over it.”
“What if he doesn’t?” Helen said.
“You’re a good private eye, Helen. You’re practical. You’ll find another PI job. You got over Rob and you’ll get over Phil.”
“But I don’t want to,” Helen said.
“You will. If you have to,” Margery said.
CHAPTER 32
Helen was furious—almost as angry as Thumbs. She could hear her cat screeching and shrieking while she wrote her report about Daniel’s pay-phone calling card. It was hard to believe that soft, furry body produced such harsh, intense sounds.
The big-pawed cat’s cries were impatient, insistent and incessant. No wonder people thought felines were the devil’s familiar, Helen thought. Thumbs was wicked loud.
She tried to concentrate on her report, but her head ached. So did her heart. Just stop, cat, she thought. Shut up, please. He answered with an otherworldly wail.
“Thumbs,” she called through the wall. “Thumbs, it’s me, Helen. It’s okay.”
He redoubled his efforts. Margery wouldn’t put up with this noise much longer, Helen thought. And neither will I.
At 9:12 Helen searched her apartment for something heavy to break the glass slats in Phil’s jalousie door and rescue her cat. The heavy pottery ashtray on the coffee table—a turquoise triangle. She grabbed it by one pointed end when she heard Phil’s door rattle, then slam shut.
Thumbs stopped howling a few minutes later. Phil must have fed him.
The silence was a blessing.
Helen waited more than an hour for Phil to respond to her report. She gave him time to shower and eat. He usually checked his e-mail after dinner. She’d dug up first-rate information. Her facts contradicted his assumptions. Would Phil admit he was wrong about Daniel? Would he turn their investigation back in that direction?
She started checking her e-mail every five minutes, then every two. No ding announcing an incoming message. She kept her cell phone at her side. No ring. Her apartment grew chilly as the night deepened. Helen slipped on a sweater.
She gave him a full hour. Then fifteen more minutes, which stretched like taffy into half an hour.
Nothing. Not a peep. That man was pigheaded.
Phil won’t admit I’m right, Helen thought. He sure as hell won’t admit he’s wrong. But I’m supposed to wear sackcloth and ashes because I made a mistake. Enough. I’m no martyr.
The silence grew so loud, it seemed worse than Thumbs’ screeching. She couldn’t stand the tension.
She flicked on her CD player—the Rolling Stones’ “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction.” Mick’s voice matched her mood. He sang with a sly, angry taunt. He insinuated. He sneered. And then he screamed.
Phil hated this rock classic. He liked Eric Clapton’s overrated guitar sounds: CLAPTON IS GOD. Hah. That was Phil’s favorite T-shirt. The Stones pledged their allegiance to drink and the devil, the way rock stars should. They didn’t think they were God.
“Satisfaction” finished and she played it again.
And again.
That’s when Phil erupted. “Hey, Helen,” he yelled through the wall. “Can you keep it down?”
“Keep what down?” Helen shouted back.
“That shrieking you call music.”
Helen opened her door. “It is music,” she shouted. “The whole world says so.”
“Not me,” Phil said, slamming out of his apartment and glaring at her. “Keith Richards is nothing but a junkie. A brain-damaged junkie who fell out of a tree. He has holes in his head. For real.”
“You have holes in your head if you think Clapton is better,” Helen screamed. “He’s a racist who wanted the wogs out of England. Nice guy, Phil. Real nice.”
Her anger felt hot and reckless, as if she was skimming across a lake of fire, almost out of control. She was tired of being a humble mouse, through with repenting. She put her hands on her hips, threw her head back and glared at her husband.
Phil glared back, his shoulder-length silver hair loose, his lean face a dark red, hateful mask.
“Yeah, and how about Mick Jagger,” he sneered. “The great Mick was shortchanged. His women didn’t get any satisfaction. So much for sex, drugs and rock and roll. He—”
“Shut up!”
Margery stepped between the warring couple, hair flying, nostrils flaring, cords standing out in her neck. Her caftan surrounded her, an angry purple storm.
Now that she had their attention, her voice was soft, fast and furious. “I said quiet! Right now. Both of you.
“I had the misfortune to be the minister who tied the knot for you two. I should have strangled you both. What are you doing, disturbing the peace of my apartments at eleven o’clock? Arguing about rock stars like two half-wit teens. What is this? A stupid contest?
“You, Phil, shouting that Mick Jagger has small equipment. You think that’s news? He calls it the ‘tiny todger.’
“You, Helen, insulting Eric Clapton. Like he cares.
“I’ve tried to stay neutral, but no longer.
“Helen Hawthorne, you’re a fool. You should have told the police about Rob. You should have told us you were being blackmailed. But you said nothing. You’ve paid dearly for that lesson.
“Phil, you’re an idiot. You’ve acted like a jerk ever since Helen confessed. Yes, she was wrong. But you were, too. You should have waved your arms, shouted, pouted and then forgiven her. She would have been grateful and you two could have lived happily ever after. Instead, you’ve been a two-bit drama queen.”
Margery pointed an angry, red-tipped nail first at Phil and then Helen. Helen suddenly realized that for the first time ever, Margery didn’t have a cigarette in her hand.
“I’ve had enough of both of you,” their landlady said. “You’re squabbling when you should be solving a major case. A nice woman died and a good man may lose his business. And that poor server was murdered helping you ingrates. Have you found her killer yet?”
Sh
e glared at them both.
“Well? I didn’t think so.
“Listen and listen good, both of you. You will work out your difficulties, or you will leave the Coronado. You have forty-eight hours or you’re both evicted. Got that?”
A tiny mew came from Phil’s apartment.
“If I hear another sound from that bellowing fleabag, he goes to the pound.”
Phil shrugged and ducked into his apartment to quiet the cat.
Helen couldn’t stop the electric rush of adrenaline through her body. She was too angry to sleep or even sit still. She headed for her car. She needed a walk along the water to cool down.
Helen meant to stop at Fort Lauderdale Beach, but the Igloo had been to Riggs Beach so often lately, the Cruiser headed there automatically.
Cy’s parking lot was nearly empty. The wind carried the dead campfire scent of the burned restaurant. She could see Sunny Jim’s yellow trailer locked up for the night. Why were his security lights so dim? And why were there no lights on the beach? Riggs Beach was a tourist town. That meant bright lights and noise.
Of course, she thought. It’s turtle season. Turtles outrank even tourists in South Florida.
From March to October, two-hundred-pound loggerhead turtles crawled ashore to lay their eggs on the South Florida beaches. Lights were banned to save the two-inch long hatchlings. The baby turtles followed the moonlight to the sea but were distracted by bright lights. Before the light ban, newly hatched turtles were killed trying to cross the highway, led astray by the glittering hotels. Some even turned up at a hotel tiki bar.
Tonight, no artificial lights outshone the bright white moon.
In the moon glow, Helen saw couples strolling on the sand. They made her feel safe walking alone. She locked her purse in the car, stuck her keys in her pocket, and gave Cy’s parking lot the second ten-spot of the day.
She walked into the wind, hoping to tire herself out. The ocean breeze helped cool her fury. The sand stung her face and made her cry.
These tears are caused by sand, she thought. Not because of my lost love and ruined marriage.
And I’m a liar as well as a fool. Helen stared out at the moon-silvered sea. The long day had caught up with her. She wanted to sleep.
