The Dead-End Job Mysteries Box Set 2

by Elaine Viets

  “Merp!” Chocolate protested when Helen picked her up. She didn’t like leaving her sunny spot, but soon began luxuriating in the soft strokes of the comb. Chocolate closed her coppery-gold eyes and let Helen groom her.

  “At the shows, the cats are displayed in cages on long folding tables—benches—while they wait their turns in the judging ring,” Jan said, pulling a clump of gray fur off her comb. “Each cage is like a miniature stage to show off the cats. Most cages are decorated with signs, toys and curtains. Dee’s cage curtains are custom-made and have to be dry-cleaned.”

  “Must be some cages,” Helen said.

  “They’re little jewel boxes,” Jan said. “Some breeders rent wire cages, but Dee has pop-up cages with mesh sides. Chessie has a black show cage with blue curtains. With a blue-eyed white, that combination is devastating. It really showcases her eyes. Red has a deep blue cage with copper curtains that make her eyes glow.”

  “Do the judges like the cages?” Helen asked.

  “They never see them,” Jan said. “But they’re a good way to get your cattery’s name in front of the spectators, especially if you’re selling kittens or have a stud.”

  Jan finished combing Mystery and set her on her carpeted shelf. Helen started to pick up Chocolate, but the Persian said, “Merr?” and patted Helen’s arm with one paw.

  “What’s she want?” Helen asked.

  “She wants to stay on the grooming table and watch you,” she said. Mystery jumped off her shelf and patted Helen’s sneaker.

  “And what can I do for you, Your Majesty?” Helen asked.

  “Lift her up and put her next to Chocolate,” Jan said. “They like to hang out together.”

  “She can’t jump up?” Helen asked.

  “Sure she can, but she’d rather you do it,” Jan said.

  Helen lifted up the fluffy gray-blue cat, who snuggled in her arms. “You’re like a warm teddy bear,” she said, scratching her soft silvery ears.

  Mystery and Chocolate curled themselves into muffins to watch Helen empty and wash the litter boxes, while Jan had assembled a long row of cat supplies, then packed a soft-sided bag with treats, cornstarch, Q-tips, ear cleaner, tissues, cotton balls and more.

  “Now what am I missing?” she said, half to herself.

  “Cat litter?” Helen asked.

  “No, they’ll have that at the show,” she said. “I’ll load the van, so all we have to pack tomorrow are the cats. Show check-in starts at seven thirty a.m., so be here at six thirty sharp.”

  Helen tried not to groan. She had no idea how late they’d be out tonight.

  “Hey, I have to come in at five thirty tomorrow to feed the cats,” Jan said. “I’ll get back from the dry cleaner about three thirty today, and we’ll bathe both show cats.”

  “Why so late for the baths?” Helen asked.

  “We’re lucky Dee’s letting us wash the cats the day before the show,” Jan said. “Usually she makes us bathe them the morning of the show. That would mean getting here at three a.m.”

  Helen winced.

  “This show is local. It gets really crazy when we have a road trip. You haven’t lived until you’ve washed two cats in a hotel bathroom.”

  Jan returned from the dry cleaner at three thirty. “Bath time. You take Red,” she said. “She’s easy to work with. She’ll need a vinegar rinse to get out every last bit of shampoo. I’ll wash Chessie. Her white coat needs special treatment for a show.”

  The red Persian was on her window shelf, watching cat TV, chirping at the birds gathered around the feeder and twitching her tail.

  “Sorry, baby,” Helen said, gathering the soft, fluffy cat into her arms. “We have to make you beautiful for the show.”

  “Merrr!” Red said, protesting slightly. Then she buried her soft head in Helen’s shoulder and licked her neck with her sandpaper tongue.

  “Thank you,” Helen said. “So nice of you to groom me first.”

  She set Red on the grooming table and laid out her supplies, while Jan worked on Chessie. “Her fluffy white coat needs some extras at showtime,” Jan said. “She’ll get a special whitening shampoo and a vinegar rinse.”

  “That’s a lot of work,” Helen said.

  “After a while, it becomes routine,” Jan said. She worked on the cat with swift, practiced movements. Helen thought the contrast between Jan’s black hair and Chessie’s snowy whiteness was a picture in itself.

  Helen was slower than Jan and had to spend extra time getting the soap out of Red’s long fur. The two groomers finished combing and drying their cats about the same time.

  The cats were gorgeous—and they knew it. Both posed on their tables: Red, a flaming beauty, and Chessie, a dazzling snowball.

  “Look at them,” Helen said, “Fire and ice!”

  “Now we have to keep those coats pretty till tomorrow,” Jan said. She took four paper coffee filters, folded each in half and shredded the center to make a hole big enough for a cat’s head.

  “Here’s the scissors,” Helen said. “You can cut a hole.”

  “Cutting will shear those beautiful ruffs,” Jan said.

  She pulled a filter over each cat’s head. “There,” she said. “That keeps off water and food stains. We’re done.”

  “What about Midnight?” Helen asked.

  “Damn, I knew I forgot something,” Jan said. “Let’s go round him up.”

  The black cat was in a mischievous mood. When he saw Helen, he jumped off the living-room couch and hid in the shadows by the cluster of palms. As she approached, he sprang out. She chased him down the hall, past the cat portraits and trophies and around the kitchen island.

  “Herd him down the hall toward the cattery,” Jan said.

  Helen feinted as the cat tried to pass her by the fridge, and he ran past her down the hall.

  Jan popped up, Midnight ducked into the guest bath and Jan slammed the door. Helen and Jan leaned against the wall, breathless.

  “That little devil,” Jan said, brushing her dark hair out of her eyes. “This is no time for his tricks. I’ve got to go home and feed my cat before I see Mom tonight.”

  Her cat? Jan said she didn’t have a cat because she didn’t have time for one.

  “You open the door and I’ll stand back-up,” Jan said.

  Helen slowly opened the bathroom door, and Midnight stuck out his head.

  “Gotcha!” Helen said, and clamped her hands around his furry black body.

  “Mrrrow!” he said. Helen held him tightly, hoping he wouldn’t scratch her. Midnight kept his claws sheathed but whipped her arm with his tail. Back in the cattery, Midnight allowed her to comb him without running away.

  Jan fed the cats, then rechecked her show list. Helen brooded on Jan’s comment about feeding her cat at home. That was the second time she’d mentioned a cat she supposedly didn’t own.

  Did Jan kidnap Justine after she killed Mort?

  According to Amber, Mort’s former lover, his fiancée stood to inherit half his substantial fortune. The five hundred thousand Jan got for Justine’s ransom would also help her start over in style—and get some cash from Trish, who’d sneered at her as the Other Woman.

  I need to get into Jan’s home for a look, Helen thought.

  When Jan carried the clean litter boxes out to the van, Helen noticed her purse waiting on the counter. Helen removed Jan’s wallet and stashed it in her own purse. Just in time. Jan was back in the cattery.

  “All our work is done. It’s five thirty. I’m ready to go,” Jan said.

  “Me, too,” Helen said. “I’ll duck into the bathroom. See you here tomorrow, bright and early.”

  She waited until Jan left, then got in the Igloo and checked Jan’s address on her license. She lived in an apartment on Seventeenth Street, on Helen’s way home.

  She called Jan’s cell phone. “I found your wallet in the driveway,” Helen said.

  “Oh, lordy, it must have fallen out of my purse,” Jan said.

  “
I’ll drop it by on my way home,” Helen said.

  “No! I mean, that’s okay. You can give it to me tomorrow,” Jan said.

  “And what if you’re stopped by the police?” Helen said. “You don’t have a license, checkbook or credit cards.”

  “Well, okay,” Jan said. She recited her address. “I’m in unit two, next to the manager’s apartment.” She sounded reluctant. Helen was doubly suspicious.

  Jan lived in a grim beige eight-unit apartment with a parking lot and a scraggly palm tree. Helen rang the doorbell to her ground-floor unit, and Jan answered quickly. She blocked the entrance, but Helen thought she saw movement behind her. Something gray and catlike.

  Justine? Was the search over? Helen had to know.

  “Here’s your wallet,” she said, and pretended to stumble against the door.

  A gray-striped tabby came streaking out the front door. Helen captured the cat and it sliced her arm.

  “Ow!” she said.

  “Get in here,” Jan said, and pulled them both inside.

  “Now you know my secret,” she said, taking the big, green-eyed tabby from Helen. “This is Grover,” she said, scratching the cat’s thick fur. His eyes were dramatically outlined in black stripes and his nose looked like a red rubber eraser.

  She hugged him. “I love him, but my landlady doesn’t allow pets. She’ll make me give him away.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Friday

  “A toast!” Margery said. “A toast to the lucky grass widow! Hey, Helen. Come join us!”

  Their landlady slouched in a chaise, her purple caftan hanging crookedly off one shoulder. She waved at Helen with a wide, sloppy swing and the wine sloshed in her glass.

  Phil hunched in his chair, his face creased with concern. Margery’s cigarette was burning the arm of her chaise. Phil ground it out on the concrete. Their landlady didn’t notice, but Helen did.

  “Margery, are you okay?” She hurried over to them.

  “On topsh the world,” Margery said, her words slurred. “My darling ex-husband left me his condo. I’m an heiress of a luxsh—a luxsher—a luxury condo in beautiful Snakehead Bay. Sweets for the sweet! Snakes for the snake! I got the good news from Zachie boy’s lawyer this afternoon.”

  “That’s good,” Helen said.

  “Why?” Margery glared at Helen. “What’s good about it? He’s behind on the mortgage, the four-flusher.”

  “Because as soon as the police release the condo, Phil and I can search it for clues and find out who really killed him.”

  “Be my guest,” Margery said. “Maybe you’ll have better luck than old Phil here today. He says there are no surveillance cameras inside the restaurant except by the cash register. So nobody saw me not poison the son of a bitch.”

  “You look tired, Margery,” Helen said.

  “I’m not tired,” she said. “I’m drunk. Say it! You’re drunk, Margery.”

  “Come on, Margery,” Helen said. “Let’s go inside. Phil will help.”

  Phil took Margery’s liver-spotted hands and pulled her up out of the chaise. Margery flung her arms around him.

  “You’ve got some shoulders on you, boy,” she said, as they walked toward her apartment. “Just like Zach. Been a long time since I’ve felt a young man’s arms around me. You gonna carry me over the threshold? That’s what Zach did. Carried me over the threshold and then broke my heart. Well, he’s dead now and I’m dead drunk. In the morning, he’ll still be dead and I’ll be . . .”

  Margery’s voice wobbled, then stopped. Two tears, then four, then a bitter rainstorm ran down her wrinkled face. Helen had never seen their landlady cry. Her heart ached for the pain she must feel.

  She opened Margery’s door, rushed inside and pulled back the purple bedcovers. Phil gently settled Margery on the lavender sheets. She was asleep by the time Helen tucked the covers around her.

  She held Phil’s hand all the way back to their apartments. “I’ll change into my dancing clothes and meet you out here in twenty minutes,” she said. “Don’t forget to feed Thumbs.”

  She was ready in fifteen. Helen felt odd teetering around in three-inch ankle straps after wearing shorts and sneakers, but Phil’s reaction made it worthwhile.

  “Wow!” he said. “You look dazzling.”

  Helen liked how her wide-legged silk palazzo pants swirled when she walked and her silver spaghetti-strap top showed off her well-toned arms. Evidently, cat lifting was good exercise. She’d added a black-and-silver belt and long, dangly earrings for her night of dancing.

  “You look pretty handsome yourself,” she said. “I can’t remember the last time you wore a jacket and tie.”

  “Miss Sherry’s Academy of Dance taught me well,” he said.

  “You took dance lessons?” Helen said.

  “Until I was twelve. My mom insisted,” Phil said.

  “I wish I could dance,” Helen said. “My grandma was a lovely dancer. I have two left feet.”

  “Just follow the beat and your partner’s lead,” he said, and took her in his arms. He hummed “I Only Have Eyes for You,” and they danced along the narrow sidewalk in front of their adjoining apartments.

  “I wish we could dance here all night,” Helen said. “But we have to go to the Coral Room to find out more about Daisy, Zach’s old flame. I’ll meet you there.”

  “We’ll learn more if we go separately,” Phil reminded her.

  Helen wished she were riding with Phil. Driving in those wide pants was difficult. She pulled the floaty fabric up past her knees to keep her pants from tangling in the brake and accelerator pedals.

  At least it was a quick trip. The Coral Room was an Art Deco ballroom on Federal Highway. Outside, the old building featured flashing coral neon. Its sign was a landmark—a tuxedoed man dancing with a sophisticated thirties woman in a long ruffled dress.

  Outside the vast ballroom, men and women in elegant dress lined up, many carrying bags with their dancing shoes. Helen remembered her grandmother’s dancing shoes. Their suede soles never touched a sidewalk.

  As she entered, Helen heard a recording of “This Can’t Be Love.” Some people in line were tapping their toes, anxious to start. Helen guessed the women outnumbered the men by five to one, and, at forty-two, she was one of the youngest. Dresses ranged from short cocktail frocks with flirty skirts to evening gowns. The men wore anything from Hawaiian shirts to suits.

  She paid her ten-dollar fee and got her ticket for a free drink. The ballroom was a step back in time: five thousand square feet of beautifully cared-for hardwood, surrounded by small black tables and chairs. The bandstand was empty, and the walls were decorated with framed autographed photos and posters of Glenn Miller, Benny Goodman, Frank Sinatra, even Fred and Ginger. They’d all headlined at the Coral Room.

  Helen saw Phil dancing with Daisy. She envied the two of them gracefully gliding around the floor. Phil winked at her, and when they whirled past he nodded toward the tables by the bar. Helen hoped that was the section claimed by Daisy’s fun-loving lady friends. She ordered a club soda from the bar and sat at an empty table at the edge of the section.

  The song ended and Des O’Connor sang “Red Roses for a Blue Lady.” That’s a slow fox trot, if I remember right, she thought. And this is like high school. Once again, I’m a wallflower.

  But then a balding man in his seventies came over. “Care to dance?” he asked.

  Saved! Helen thought. “I’d love to. But I’m a little rusty.”

  “A pretty lady like you?” he said. “I’ll have you warmed up in no time.” He smelled of bay rum, and his white shirt crackled with starch.

  “My name’s Helen,” she said, as he led her onto the dance floor.

  “Bob,” he said, and those were the last words they exchanged. Helen stumbled and tried to right herself. Now she was off beat. Her feet couldn’t follow his. Bob moved too fast for her, and then too slow. He held up his arm, and she gathered she was supposed to twirl. She tripped in her too-high heels.


  That’s when Bob dropped her hand like a dead fish and walked away.

  Helen was abandoned on the dance floor.

  This is worse than high school, Helen thought. Boys didn’t dance with me then, but I’ve never been marooned on the floor before.

  She stood like a statue while couples moved effortlessly to the music. Phil floated past with Daisy in rhinestones and ruffled hot pink chiffon. She was chattering and pointing at Helen.

  I have to get off the floor, Helen thought.

  She made her way back to her table, her face flaming with embarrassment, and sat down. Across from her, a stylish woman in her late sixties sipped a gin and tonic.

  “I saw that,” she said. “Bob abandoned you. That was rude.”

  “It’s not his fault,” Helen said. “I’m a terrible dancer.”

  “No, you’re not,” she said. “My name’s Susan. Bob can dance, but he’s not a good leader. That’s the secret of a good ballroom dancer. A good leader will make his partner move in the right way, position his body so your feet naturally follow his. He gives his partner little physical cues so you’ll know what to do. At the very least, he talks to you and tells you what he’s going to do. Well, I’ll talk to him, all right. He won’t do that again.”

  “No, please,” Helen said. “Just forget it. I’m fine. Really.”

  Susan was dressed like an experienced dancer in a long, full-skirted silver chiffon dress and silver dancing shoes with two-inch heels.

  “If I can give you one tip, your heels are too high,” Susan said. “For ballroom dancing they should be around two inches. It’s easier to stumble in higher heels.”

  “Do you dance a lot?” Helen asked, hoping to change the subject.

  “Every Friday night,” she said. “I’m with a group of women who love to dance, and this is the best ballroom in town. It has a ‘floating’ floor. There’s cork or rubber under that wood. People think ballroom dancing is slow, but it’s fast. Good exercise. And with the right partner, it’s better than sex.”

  Helen wasn’t sure about that.

  “Don’t let one bad experience spoil dancing for you,” Susan said. “Get out there and dance with someone good, a real leader. Like that man with Daisy.”