The Dead-End Job Mysteries Box Set 2

by Elaine Viets

  “Of course I’ll do it,” Helen said. “What’s in this protein pack?”

  “A festival of junk food,” Margery said. “Beef and cheddar sticks, salami sticks, chili cheese corn chips, cashews, peanuts, a hot fudge sundae Pop-Tart, two kinds of cookies. There’s more, but you get the idea. It’s the death penalty by coronary.”

  “You’ve got the contraband tobacco,” Helen said. “Where are you getting the rolling papers?”

  Margery looked piously at the ceiling and said, “My pocket Bible is a great comfort to me.”

  “Huh?” Helen said. Margery had never used that particular B-word. But Nancie knew what she meant.

  “Margery, if you’re caught using Bible pages for rolling paper—if you’re caught with any contraband—you understand the penalties are severe.”

  “Worth the risk,” Margery said. “Besides, I’m a harmless old lady.” She tried to look sweet, and failed.

  “How’s the food in here?” Helen asked.

  Margery shrugged. “Bland. You know what BSO stands for?”

  “Broward Sheriff’s Office?”

  “Baloney Sandwiches Only.”

  “Would you like a Care Pack?” Helen asked.

  “Would I! I’ll pay you. I’m starving. I’ve got the munchies since I quit smoking.”

  “Quit?” Helen said.

  “Cut back,” Margery said.

  “I’ll send you one a day,” Helen said.

  “Can’t,” Margery said. “Like I said, prisoners are limited to one Care Pack a week.”

  “How are the other prisoners treating you, besides smuggling you contraband?” Helen asked.

  “Okay. Some are mean, some are crazy and some are mad-dog dangerous. Most like me because I killed my old man. They’ll be disappointed when they find out I’m innocent.”

  Nancie looked alarmed. “You aren’t talking to them about Zach’s murder, are you?”

  “I’ve watched enough TV to know about jailhouse snitches,” Margery said. “Right now, it helps if they think I’m a stone-cold killer.” She grinned like the old Margery.

  “Is there anything else I can get you?” Helen asked.

  “Yeah,” Margery said. “Out of here.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Sunday

  Sweat dripped into Phil’s eyes, but he couldn’t wipe it away. He was using both his hands to clean the clogged Coronado pool filter.

  Helen felt a mean stab of satisfaction when she found her man up to his elbows in rotting leaves and unidentifiable debris. She’d had to clean countless litter boxes for Trish’s case.

  “I’m nearly finished,” he said. “How did the jail visit go?”

  “Margery looks awful,” Helen said. “But she ID’ed all three men in the photo. Here’s the list.”

  “Good. I’ll shower and look them up on my computer,” Phil said.

  They heard the vacuum cleaner whining in Margery’s apartment.

  “Peggy’s still cleaning?” Helen asked.

  “She’ll be there awhile. The cops really trashed the place.”

  Helen tracked down Peggy in the living room, a dust rag slung over her shoulder. Her dark red hair seemed to glow as she vigorously vacuumed the purple rug. She shut off the howling machine when she saw Helen.

  “The living room looks good,” Helen said. “Smells like lemon furniture polish instead of smoke.”

  “Took me all morning to clean this room and the kitchen,” Peggy said. “You won’t believe the mess. The cops even dumped the coffee, sugar and flour canisters on the kitchen counter. How’s Margery?”

  “So-so,” Helen said. “She’s busy breaking laws in jail.” She told Peggy about the visit, then asked, “How can I help?”

  “Put the bedroom back together while I work on the bathroom.”

  Margery’s bedroom has been ransacked. The mattress was stripped, its covers heaped on the carpet. The contents of the dresser drawers and closet were dumped on the floor. Helen put away everything as best she could, washed the bedding and dusted. She was making the bed with clean lilac sheets when Phil knocked on the apartment door, fresh from his shower.

  “Looks good,” he said. “Smells nice, too.”

  He hugged Helen and she rubbed his strong back. “So do you,” she said, playfully yanking his slightly damp ponytail. She liked the contrast between his young face and silver hair. She also liked sultry love on a sweltering summer afternoon.

  “You don’t suppose we could go to your place—or mine?” she asked, her voice husky. She kissed him. He kissed her back, but didn’t linger.

  “Not yet,” he said. “We have work to do. I made an appointment for us at seven this evening. We’re talking to Carol Berman.”

  “Who?”

  “Carol is Mort’s assistant, remember?” Phil said. “Nancie says she’s smart and itching to tell someone what she knows. The Peerless Point detective never bothered talking to her.”

  “Are we meeting Carol at Mort’s office?”

  “No, at her town house, by the pool. I thought she’d be more forthcoming at her place and feel safer outside. A woman alone feels more comfortable talking if another woman is there.”

  “Good move,” Helen said. “Maybe we’ll finally have something useful for Nancie.”

  “I also found Mike Fernier, Zach’s scrawny friend who went to prison for dealing. He was released six months ago. He’s staying at a halfway house in Broward County. The other man in the photo, Xavier Dave, has switched from swindling widows to selling used cars. He rents a one-bedroom apartment two blocks from the Fisherman’s Tale.”

  “He hasn’t gone far since 1983,” Helen said. “Think he walked over to the bar for a Sunday-afternoon beer? We have time to go there before we meet Carol.”

  “It’s better if I go alone,” Phil said. He looked up and said, “Hey, Peggy. Good work on Margery’s apartment, but your shoulder looks bare without Pete.”

  “He’s not a fan of vacuums,” Peggy said.

  “I was just telling Helen why she shouldn’t go with me to the Fisherman’s Tale. It’s a dive,” Phil said. “If our subject is there, he won’t talk if I walk in with Helen.”

  “Then I’ll go there alone,” Helen said.

  “You could take your good friend—me,” Peggy said. “A cold beer would taste good now. We’ll drive over in Helen’s car, as soon as I change.”

  “Don’t dress up,” Phil said.

  The Fisherman’s Tale, decorated in early beer sign, was a cinder-block building on an industrial stretch of Powerline Road. It had the hallmarks of a dive: duct tape on the red vinyl bar stools, restrooms marked POINTERS and SETTERS, and a sign over the cash register that said, OUR CREDIT MANAGER IS HELEN WAITE. IF YOU WANT CREDIT, GO TO HELEN WAITE.

  Phil was at the bar, drinking a longneck Pabst and chatting with the bartender, a flabby, tattooed man whose stained apron protected a dingy T-shirt. Phil wore his redneck disguise: a dark ball cap with its own built-in curly brown mullet, dirty jeans, and a saggy T-shirt that read SILENCE IS GOLDEN, DUCT TAPE IS SILVER. Helen was amused that he blended in with the men at the bar. The only woman was a worn blonde whose tube top threatened to roll off her substantial chest. The gap-toothed man next to her never took his eyes off that trembling top.

  When Helen and Peggy walked in, the other men watched them with avid eyes. Helen was glad she couldn’t read minds, or she’d have to wallop the lot of them. She and Peggy quickly sat at a table near the bar.

  “Atmospheric,” Peggy said nervously.

  “If you like the scent of Pine-Sol,” Helen said, equally uneasy. “I don’t think they have table service. What can I get you?”

  “I still want that cold beer,” Peggy said.

  Helen ordered two cold ones at the bar. “Wanna glass?” the bartender asked, as he pulled two from the overhead rack. One had lipstick on the rim.

  “We’ll drink from the bottle, thanks,” she said.

  “You know how many men find that sexy, little la
dy?” he asked.

  “Heh-heh,” Helen said inanely, and hurried back to the table.

  After ten long minutes, Phil swaggered over with his beer and said, “Can I sit down, ladies?”

  “Sure, dude,” Peggy said, giggling and batting her eyelashes.

  “Our friend will be in Monday night,” he said, his voice low. “Ready to go?”

  “I was ready when I walked in here,” Helen said.

  They left the bar together. “I’ll drop you off at home, Peggy,” Helen said, “then Phil and I will drive over to see Mort’s assistant.”

  “Hurry. We’re cutting it close for a seven o’clock appointment,” Phil said. “It’s six-thirty now.”

  “Give me the keys to your Jeep and I’ll drive it home,” Peggy said.

  They waved good-bye and Phil climbed into the Igloo’s passenger seat. “Head east toward Ocean Drive,” he said. “When we get near Carol’s town house, I’ll give you directions. I’m going to call Mrs. Gender, director of the Gold Cup Coventry All Breed Cat Show.”

  “You can do that on your cell phone?” Helen asked.

  “Our plan isn’t restricted to the US,” he said. “It’s eleven thirty in the UK. I hope Mrs. Gender is still awake.” He put the phone on speaker so Helen could hear.

  Jinny Gender was home and grumpy. “I’ve just returned from holiday,” she said. “You do know what time it is?”

  “I do and I’m sorry,” Phil said. “I’m calling from Fort Lauderdale, Florida, on the East Coast of the United States.”

  “I know where Florida is,” Jinny said sharply.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour, but it’s a matter of murder. I’m Phil Sagemont, a private investigator. Did the Coventry cat show fly in a Gold Cup judge from the United States, a Ms. Lexie Deener?”

  “No.”

  “Did your show give away a red souvenir medallion with a wild cat on it—a cougar or panther, some kind of big cat?”

  “Certainly not! Why would we do that?”

  “Some cat shows have wild cats on exhibit.”

  “In the States, maybe,” Jinny Gender said. “We believe it’s barbaric to keep a wild animal caged for the amusement of others. Good night, Mr. Sagemont.” She hung up.

  “That kills my theory on the medallion,” Phil said.

  They were in Lauderdale-by-the-Sea, a seaside community with a broad beach, sidewalk cafés, and midcentury modern apartments and houses.

  “Turn left here on Bougainvillea and you’re on Carol’s street,” Phil said. “Her town house is about halfway down.”

  Carol’s home, in a cluster of two-story pink stucco town houses, was as pretty as her street’s name. It was hidden behind a high wooden fence. Phil pressed the gate buzzer, and Carol met them. A cool beach blonde about Helen’s age, Carol had money and taste. She wore a classic aquamarine tunic and skinny white jeans. Helen had spent enough time in retail to recognize designer Tory Burch. Helen felt definitely down-market in her jeans and T-shirt.

  A fluffy white dog trotted at Carol’s white sandaled feet. “This is Tory,” she said, and led Helen and Phil back to a turquoise pool, where three glasses of iced tea waited at an umbrella table. Tory settled at her feet.

  “I miss Mort,” Carol said. “I worked for him for fifteen years and he was a wonderful employer. He even let me bring Tory to work. Not many employers will do that.”

  “You’re not a cat person?” Helen asked.

  Carol shrugged. “They’re nice, but they’re not my life. That’s how Mort felt about Justine.”

  “Who do you think killed him?” Helen asked.

  “I wish I knew,” Carol said. “He was such a good guy.”

  “Trish?” Phil suggested.

  “Their divorce was bitter, but Trish loved him in her fashion. Mort had a heart of gold, and Trish—I like her, but she’s a teeny bit of a gold digger.”

  “I heard Mort gave good financial advice,” Phil said.

  “Very good. That’s how I got the nest egg to make the down payment on this town house.”

  “Did he ever give bad advice?” Phil asked.

  “Nobody in this business is infallible,” Carol said. “Mort had a better record than most. He had to be good. He gave Trish a free hand on remodeling and redecorating those two huge houses. She was fond of antiques and two-hundred-dollar-a-yard fabric.

  “Some of his customers said they wanted high-yield, high-risk investments, but when those tanked, they were furious.”

  “Anyone in particular?” Phil asked.

  “I’d rather not say,” Carol said. “Mort kept his clients’ information confidential.”

  “But it’s not confidential, not really,” Helen said. “Not like something you’d say to a doctor or a lawyer. You don’t want to protect Mort’s killer, do you?”

  Carol shook her head no.

  “Did anyone threaten Mort when his advice went haywire?” Helen asked.

  “Two clients were very emotional. Both made scenes at the office. One was a man, Logan Lovechenko. He was a Russian, or maybe Ukrainian, businessman who wanted Mort to invest his considerable fortune. Mort wanted to diversify, but Logan insisted on high-risk Chinese investments, even after Mort warned him that the Asian markets are volatile. Logan didn’t lose everything, but he lost a lot.

  “He showed up here one day and said he expected Mort to make good on his losses. Mort couldn’t do that. Logan told Mort to drive carefully and left the office.”

  “Drive carefully?” Phil asked.

  “His exact words,” Carol said. “If Mort had been killed in a car crash, I would have insisted the police listen to me. But he wasn’t.”

  “Was Logan with the Russian mob?” Phil asked.

  “Mort didn’t stereotype people of Russian or Italian descent,” Carol said. “I do know that Logan used to live in Brighton Beach when he first came to America.”

  “Who was the other man?” Helen asked.

  “Woman,” Carol said. “She was in sales. Medical equipment. Lives in North Carolina but comes down here often. She’s also a cat-show judge, of all things.”

  “Really?” Helen said. She and Phil were now hyperalert.

  “Her name was Dexie? Dixie? No, Lexie,” Carol said. “That’s it. Lexie Deener. She stormed into Mort’s office, mad as, well, a wet cat.”

  Helen, who knew about wet cats, didn’t correct her.

  “Lexie said his so-called insider advice had lost her entire pension. ‘I was planning to retire next year,’ she told Mort. ‘Now I’ll have to work until I drop. I’ll do everything in my power to ruin you. I’ll make sure that damn cat of yours never wins a ribbon. Not in my ring.’”

  “You heard all that listening at Mort’s door?” Helen asked. Carol didn’t seem the type.

  “Oh no,” she said. “He recorded it and asked me to make a transcript. Mort did that when he was worried his clients would be trouble. He kept a tiny recorder in the pen cup on his desk.”

  “I thought single-party recordings were illegal in Florida,” Helen said.

  “They are,” Phil said. “But so is accepting investment tips in exchange for favorable judgments at a cat show.”

  “When was Mort threatened by Lexie?” Helen asked.

  “The Friday before he died,” Carol said.

  “And the Russian?”

  “That took place about two weeks before he was killed,” Carol said.

  They talked a little longer, then thanked Carol, and she walked them to her gate.

  Inside the Igloo, Phil said, “Mort liked beautiful women. Do you think he was having an affair with Carol Berman?”

  “No,” Helen said. “Mort’s beauties are all cat crazy, and Carol could take them or leave them.”

  “Sounds like Mort didn’t mind investing mob money,” Phil said. “He was playing a dangerous game.”

  “What’s our next step?” Helen asked.

  “I’ll look into Logan tomorrow and check his alibis and Lexie’s for th
e night Mort was killed,” Phil said. “I’ll check if any of Mort’s neighbors saw any strange cars in Mort’s drive.”

  “Good luck with that,” Helen said. “Peerless Point estates are so big you can’t even see the house next door. Judge Lexie will be at the pet-day assembly tomorrow. I’ll snag her water bottle or soda can and see if we can get her prints off it. Maybe she’s the unknown print on the medallion.”

  “So what?” Phil said. “The medallion wasn’t given out at the Coventry cat show. We don’t know where it’s from. That unknown fingerprint could belong to a jeweler, a parking valet, even a bumbling Peerless Point cop.”

  “So we’re back where we started,” Helen said.

  “Worse,” Phil said. “We’re behind.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Monday

  Monday morning started with a sting. Helen was at Dee’s cattery at six a.m., under-coffeed, covered in cat hair and choking on vinegar fumes.

  “Monday morning was wash day for my grandma,” Helen said. “But she never washed cats.” She wondered what her small, practical St. Louis grandmother would make of these coddled cats.

  “Red and Chessie have to look pretty at the Hasher School Pet Appreciation Day this morning,” Jan said.

  The vinegar fumes from the rinse stung Helen’s eyes. Worse than the vinegar sting was the bitter knowledge that she and Phil had failed—twice. His theory about the cat medallion found near Mort’s body was dead wrong. Judge Lexie had never been to the Coventry cat show. And Helen’s suspicion that Jan was hiding Justine was equally off base.

  Where did that bloodred medallion come from? Who dropped it? Was the unknown print on it from Mort’s killer? If the private eyes knew that, they’d be closer to solving the case.

  They had no leads for Margery’s case, either. Phil wasn’t even sure Zach had been murdered.

  All Helen could do this morning was wash cats, talk to Jan and hope she could save two innocent women trapped in jail.

  Helen was rinsing the last of the vinegar while Red watched her with those hypnotic copper eyes. “So, how did our two beauties do at the show Sunday?” she asked.

  “Not bad,” Jan said as she shouted over the dryer. Chessie’s flat fur looked comical, but Helen would never laugh at the proud beauty.