Dying to Call You dj-3

by Elaine Viets

  “Did she strike it rich?”

  Tammy poured the drink into a margarita glass, added a plastic gator and an orange slice, and set it on a tray for a server. She started washing glasses while she talked.

  “All I know is she was flashing lots of cash before she left, and it was more than tip money. One night, she came in and wanted change for five one-hundred-dollar bills. The next night, she had another five hundred. Then it was a thousand. That was cash, too.”

  “Where’d she get that kind of money?”

  “Some charity gig. She wanted me to work it, but I said no thanks. I’m not giving up a job with health insurance, no matter how much it pays in cash under the table. But Laredo was too young to worry about medical bills.”

  “Laredo never mentioned anything like that,” Helen said.

  “Are they hiring? I could always use some extra money.”

  That was the truth, at least. Helen might need another job soon, with stone-faced Penelope looking for an excuse to fire her.

  “Well, she left me some cards. I’ve got one here somewhere. I’ve sent a couple girls there.” Tammy dried her hands on a blue towel, then picked through a pile of papers by the cash register.

  “Here it is. You’re supposed to call and ask for Steve. It’s OK to mention my name.”

  She handed Helen a business card. It was plain white, with stark black numbers. No name, no address. There was nothing on it but a phone number.

  Helen thought the number looked naked and slightly sinister.

  Chapter 6

  It took three calls before Helen found Savannah. That meant three dashes to the lobby pay phone on her breaks, although you could hardly call them that. Helen got five minutes each hour. When she finally got Savannah, Helen was so rushed, she sounded like a telegram: “I found something. I’m off at one.”

  “Me, too,” Savannah said.

  She’d never noticed it before, but Savannah drawled her words. It took precious time. Helen had to clock back in in two minutes.

  “Sounds like we better meet,” Savannah said, drawing out each word with irritating slowness. “I don’t have the time or money for lunch. How about we find a bench on Las Olas about one fifteen?”

  “Fine.” Helen hung up and clocked in with thirty seconds to spare.

  There wasn’t a bench free on the entire street. Whole families and entire offices roosted on them all. The best bet was one bench occupied by a white-haired man primly eating a tuna sandwich, but he didn’t look like he’d be moving soon.

  Savannah sat down on the other end of the bench. The man glared at her and rustled his lunch bag. Savannah said loudly, “Helen, my period is really awful this month. There’s so much blood—that nasty black stuff—and I...”

  The white-haired man picked up his sandwich and fled.

  Helen was caught between horror and admiration. Today, Savannah looked like a dignified matron in a fussy ruffled dress and pink high heels. But she’d chased off a grown man with a few words.

  “I hated to do that, but I only have ten minutes.” Savannah pulled two soda cans out of her floppy purse. “Want a Vanilla Coke?”

  Helen found two slightly melted chocolate energy bars in her purse. “Chocolate, caffeine and sugar. All the major food groups are covered.”

  “I don’t know. The energy bar’s a little healthy,” Savannah said. “It might throw off my system.”

  The two munched and sipped, while Helen talked about Debbie the waitress and her dramatic mood change.

  “Here’s what burns my buns,” Savannah said. “You figured out Debbie was lying—but the cops didn’t.”

  “Were they male cops?” Helen said.

  “Yep. Cute young doughnut chompers.”

  “There’s your answer,” Helen said. “Debbie gives most men an instant lobotomy.”

  “I’ve got good news and bad news,” Savannah said.

  “Which do you want first?”

  “Let’s get the bad over with,” Helen said.

  “Hank busted me. I followed him nearly four hours yesterday. He ran errands—the dry cleaner, the bank, the gas station and this fancy salon for a haircut. Then he stopped at Publix. I pulled into the side entrance where I could watch him go in and out, thinking I was real clever. Next thing I know, he’s standing by my car. Snuck right up on me, and I didn’t even know it till I smelled his cologne.

  “He said, ‘Why are you following me in that junk heap?’ Hank’s a scary dude, Helen. Huge, too. And he’s got this one big old eyebrow all the way across his forehead. You’d think he’d get that fixed. They could’ve cut it in two when they did his hair.”

  “Savannah,” Helen said. “What happened?”

  “Nothing. I hemmed and hawed and said I wasn’t following him, it was just a coincidence.

  “He said, ‘One more coincidence and I’ll call the cops and have you arrested for stalking.’ I think he meant it.”

  “We’re stuck,” Helen said. “I can’t follow him. If he busts me, I’ll lose my job and get sued. Besides, I don’t have a car.

  We’ll have to find some other way to get him. Give me the good news. I could use it.”

  “I found out something interesting. It wasn’t easy. Brideport doesn’t allow solicitors. I thought of collecting for a charity door-to-door, but those rich old buzzards would have called the police the minute I rang their bells. So I made me up some flyers.”

  She reached in her purse and handed one to Helen.

  “SAVANNAH’S SUPER-CLEAN SERVICE,” it began. “Excellent references. Will do windows and hands-and-knees scrubbing your housekeeper won’t touch. Cheap.”

  “Is that what you do for a living? Clean houses?” I’m getting lazy, Helen thought. I never bothered asking her occupation, but it would explain the bleach odor under the flowery perfume.

  “It’s one of my jobs. I have three. I’m an office manager by day. I work at a convenience store on State Road 7 four nights a week. In my spare time, I clean houses.” She said that last line with a straight face.

  “Jeez, Savannah. What happened?”

  “A bad divorce and some medical bills that weren’t covered by insurance.” Savannah shrugged. She was not looking for sympathy.

  “A dozen flyers from Kinko’s got me all over Brideport.

  Nobody turns away a cleaning woman, even if they have a housekeeper. In fact, some rich folks hire me to keep their housekeepers happy. What are these energy bars, anyway?

  They’re not bad.”

  “Pria bars,” Helen said. “I live on them.” She’d been trying to eat them instead of the salt-and-vinegar chips. Instead, she ate both. She’d gained another two pounds.

  “Most of that stuff tastes like chocolate-covered ceiling insulation.” Savannah looked at her watch and said, “I have to get back to work. I talked with the neighbors on either side of Hank Asporth. One was a lovely saleslady, Ms. Patterson.

  She sells medical equipment and travels all the time. Must make boo-coo bucks.

  “We got along real well. Ms. Patterson hired me to do her heavy cleaning. I told her I saw the police cars at her neighbor’s house the other night, and I wasn’t sure it was safe to work in Brideport. She assured me it was a secure neighborhood. She wasn’t home at the time, but Mr. Asporth told her the police were called for a false alarm.”

  “He would,” Helen said.

  “Mr. McArthur, the old man on the other side, was eighty-two and almost deaf. He was also lonely and liked to talk. We sat in his kitchen and drank coffee and ate butter cookies. He didn’t hear a thing that night, which was no surprise. I had to practically yell at him the whole time. Hank Asporth has a lot of girls at his house, but Mr. McArthur never heard any wild parties. The old man sounded kind of disappointed. His house could use a good cleaning, but he didn’t hire me.

  “There’s only one neighbor across the street, Mrs.

  Kercher. She lives on a big five-acre spread. She didn’t hear anything, but she saw something. A lit
tle yellow Honda was parked in Ms. Patterson’s drive for several hours that evening. That’s the medical saleslady’s driveway—the one who was out of town.

  “My sister drove an old yellow Honda.” Drove.

  “What does Ms. Patterson drive?”

  “A new black BMW,” Savannah said. “Her housekeeper has an old brown Ford. It was the first and last time Mrs.

  Kercher saw that yellow car. Too bad she didn’t see who drove it.

  “I think it was Laredo’s car. You can’t park on the street in Brideport. Before the police showed up, Hank Asporth moved Laredo’s car to the driveway next door. Nice old Hank takes in his neighbor’s mail. He knew the saleslady wouldn’t be back that night.”

  “Do you really think he’d have time to move a car and clean up any sign of a struggle before the police came?”

  “That’s the hitch. It doesn’t seem likely, does it?” Savannah said. “Do you think he had help?”

  “If he did, the police didn’t mention another person.

  Wouldn’t Hank have produced him as a witness? You know, ‘Officer, George and I were watching the movie all afternoon.’ Did Mrs. Kercher say she saw another car in Hank’s driveway?”

  “No. I asked her. The only car she remembers was the yellow Honda in the drive next door. But what was Laredo’s car doing there?”

  “Maybe your sister parked it over there so Hank wouldn’t see her coming,” Helen said.

  “Why would she do that?”

  Savannah had created more questions and found no answers. “I’m going to scrub floors at Ms. Patterson’s and see if I can find out anything more.”

  “I’ll call Steve and see if I can get that charity bartender’s gig,” Helen said.

  “At least we’re making money while we’re detecting.”

  Savannah dumped her soda can in the trash. “Back to work.”

  Helen called Steve from a pay phone. He wasn’t there.

  “Call back after eleven tonight,” a woman said. She slammed down the phone.

  Helen’s life seemed to be nothing but phone abuse, personally and professionally. In the boiler room, she hadn’t made a sale all morning. She longed for the quiet of survey duty. But Vito had put his foot down: “No sales, no surveys.”

  Tonight, she was working the boiler room.

  The jittery Nick was not sitting next to her. He did not show up for work. Helen wondered how much longer he would last. Shellie, a bouncy blond cheerleader type, took his seat. Helen found her more irritating than the junkie.

  Shellie oozed enthusiasm, squealing with delight when she said, “Yes, sir, Tank Titan is guaranteed to help reduce large chunks, odors and wet spots.”

  Helen felt a mean, secret satisfaction when she heard Shellie say, “Ewww. That’s disgusting.” She dropped the phone like it was covered with slime.

  “What did he want?” Helen said.

  “A blow job. Vito’s got to take that line about wet spots out of the sales pitch.”

  Helen was taking her own lumps. A Texas woman screamed, “It’s eight fifteen at night. We’re getting ready to settle into bed. We’re tired. We don’t appreciate calls this late.”

  They packed it in early, deep in the heart of Texas.

  Bill, the next caller, was rested and ready. Helen was halfway through her spiel when he said, “You have a good product there, Helen, but I have a better one. Have you ever thought of exploring the Amway opportunity? I could sponsor you. I’m an IBO—independent business owner, and—”

  “Uh, thanks, Bill. I gotta go. My doorbell’s ringing, Helen said. The words came automatically. It was what she always said to telemarketers, back when she had a phone.

  Helen didn’t think the night would ever end. But it finally did. At ten twenty, she was sitting out by the Coronado pool with Peggy and Margery. The lights on the turquoise water were as romantic as ever. The palm trees whispered night secrets. But Helen did not enjoy her evenings there anymore.

  Fred and Ethel, the new tenants in 2C, infested her enchanted place. Even the most harmless conversation triggered one of their diatribes.

  Tonight, they were smugly swigging root beer. Helen, Margery and Peggy were drinking cheap white wine. Pete was sitting on Peggy’s shoulder with his head under his wing. He couldn’t stand Fred and Ethel, either.

  Conversation was a struggle. There were long, uncomfortable silences. Peggy broke one by saying, “I think the starter’s going on my car. I’m going to need a new one.”

  “That’s what you get for driving a foreign car,” Fred said.

  “You pay for that foreign prestige. Nothing beats American-made. That’s what I always say.”

  Helen didn’t see much prestige in Peggy’s green Kia, but she couldn’t say that without hurting Peggy’s feelings.

  “American-made isn’t what it used to be,” Ethel said. Her eyes were small and hard as BBs. “You ask me, it’s the American workers. They want too much money for too little work.”

  No one asked her. The conversation lay there like a dead fish.

  Margery, who usually had an opinion on everything, puffed quietly on her Marlboro. Peggy said nothing. Even Pete stayed silent.

  Helen studied Ethel’s tightly permed hair. How did you get a style like that, she wondered? Did you go into a beauty shop and say, “I want to look like a complete frump?”

  “Our son, Fred Jr., is coming for a visit,” Ethel said. “He’s single. He’s a good Christian man, Helen. Doesn’t smoke or drink and fears the Lord.”

  “Uh, thanks, but I’m dating someone.”

  “What’s his name?” Ethel said. It was a demand and a challenge.

  “Phil,” Helen said. “Lives nearby. You must have seen him.”

  Peggy choked on her wine. “I think I’ll turn in.” Pete woke up and screeched his approval.

  “We’re tuckered out, too,” Fred said. “Think we’ll head inside.” He patted his gourd-like gut as if it were a baby. Ethel followed respectfully behind him.

  When Helen heard their apartment door slam she said, “How can you stand them?”

  “It doesn’t hurt to spend some time with normal people, Margery said.

  “Normal does not have to mean boring,” Helen said.

  She left her landlady sitting alone in the darkness. It was soothing to walk through Phil’s perpetual pot fog to her own apartment. She breathed in the sharp, oily sensimilla smell.

  Phil was too laid-back to criticize his neighbors. He was too invisible to bother them. Fred and Ethel could take a leaf from his book. A spiky green leaf.

  Thumbs, her six-toed cat, greeted her at the door. Helen scratched his gray ears until he purred. Then she found some change. It was getting harder to find a pay phone. They all seemed to be occupied by kids making drug deals or Canadians too cheap to use their hotel phones.

  It was eleven thirty when she finally called Steve. He answered on the first ring.

  “I hear you’re looking for servers for charity parties, Helen said.

  “Where’d you find out about us?” His voice was abrupt and demanding. Helen wondered if it was his New York accent, or if the guy was just rude.

  “Tammy at Gator Bill’s gave me your card,” she said.

  “Tammy has a good eye for talent,” Steve said, sounding friendlier.

  How could Tammy spot a talent for bartending by watching Helen drink club soda?

  “Ever tend bar before?” Steve said.

  “Yes,” Helen lied.

  “It’s not hard. We’ll put you on a portable bar outside by the pool. It will be just your wine, beer, liquor and your soft drinks. Your blender drinks and specialty martinis will be at the main bar. You won’t have to do those.”

  Helen relaxed. Even she could open a beer.

  “You’ll be working with your movers and shakers. We got your doctors, your lawyers, your school board members, people like that. They live in your better areas, like Brideport. They bankroll your worthy causes. Saturday night, it’s the
Langley School in Lauderdale.”

  That was worthy indeed. Langley was one of the richest schools in the area.

  “Can you work then?”

  Helen could. There was no telemarketing on Saturday night.

  “Wear a white shirt and black pants. You’ll work the first party. You’ll get two hundred dollars for three hours. There’s another party after that for the heavy hitters. If we like you, we’ll ask you to work the second party next time. That pays five hundred. Cash. You keep your tips, of course.”

  This was some bartending gig. It paid almost a week’s wages to pour wine and beer. That was way too much money, especially for South Florida.

  So what exactly did Steve want her to do? Bartending couldn’t be all that was expected of her.

  Chapter 7

  Helen did not have a car, but she treated herself to a water taxi for her well-paying bartending job Saturday night. Fort Lauderdale had more than two hundred miles of canals. For five dollars, she could ride all day on a water taxi. It made regular stops on a route like a bus.

  The little yellow boat met her at the dock behind the Riverside Hotel on Las Olas. The setting sun stained the sky a brilliant flamingo and turned the water a delicate pink, like the inside of a seashell.

  Fort Lauderdale floated on oceans of money. Billionaires’ yachts had their own helicopter landing pads. Casino ships took seagoing suckers on cruises to nowhere. Cruise ships pampered the over-privileged.

  Tonight, Helen felt a kinship with the moneyed boaters. In any other city, I’d be sitting in a bus in rush-hour traffic, eating exhaust, Helen thought. In Fort Lauderdale, I’m riding to work like a Venetian doge.

  And working in a palace. Mindy and Melton Mowbrys’ mansion was in the obscenely rich part of Brideport, where houses were the size of shopping malls. Their owners were perpetually in the papers. One Sunday, they’d be praised in the society pages. The next Sunday, they’d be indicted on the front page.

  The Mowbry mansion was bristling with towers and bursting with bay windows, slathered with pink stucco and encrusted with red barrel tile. The architecture looked like Mizner on magic mushrooms. The massive wood and wrought iron double doors belonged on a Spanish cathedral.