Just Murdered dj-4

by Elaine Viets

  “I’ve been tied up in court on that charity orgy case, as you well know. Thanks to me, you’re not mixed up in it.”

  Oh, no. He wasn’t going slide by like that. “We spent last night together. Why didn’t you say something then?”

  “Because I knew you’d act this way.” If he’d searched the dictionary, he couldn’t find seven words that would make her madder. Phil looked like a high-school kid caught with a roach in his locker.

  “Helen, Kendra has an important gig in Fort Lauderdale. She doesn’t have enough money to stay at a hotel during the season. I told her she could sleep on my couch.”

  “Kendra!” Helen said. “What kind of country name is that?”

  “She’s crossover country.” Phil was talking too fast, the way her ex-husband, Rob, did when he was lying.

  “Oh, yeah?” Helen said. “What happens when she crosses over to your bed?”

  “See? I knew you wouldn’t understand,” Phil said.

  “I understand perfectly,” Helen said. “Your wife wants to sleep with you.”

  “Ex-wife,” Phil said. “She’s only here for her career. It’s all she’s ever cared about. You forgot. We’re getting divorced.”

  “You forgot. Divorced people don’t live together.”

  “The solution is simple,” Phil said. “I can move in with you. She can have my place.”

  Helen was outraged. “This is how you propose the next step in our relationship? What am I? A hotel? Maybe you don’t take us seriously, but I do.”

  “This is why I didn’t say anything about Kendra last night.” Phil was yelling. “You’re hysterical.”

  Helen felt her blood boil and her bleeding heart turn into a black charcoal briquette. The H word was her own personal H bomb. When a man called a woman hysterical, he meant she was crazy.

  “I am NOT hysterical,” she shouted. “I am justifiably angry.” She slammed the door in his face.

  There was another knock. Helen opened the door again and said, “I told you I never wanted to—Oh, hi, Margery.”

  Her landlady was wearing her usual purple shorts set, but now her face was a delicate heliotrope. Margery was mad. “What the hell is going on here? This is an apartment building, not a cat house. Phil’s got some redhead moving in with him and the two of you are screaming at each other on your doorstep. I won’t have it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Helen said. “But the redhead is Phil’s wife.”

  “What wife? He’s divorced.”

  “It’s not final for a month. Her name is Kendra and she’s a country-western singer. She’s got a gig here and she can’t afford a hotel, so she’s staying at his place.”

  “Dumb bastard. Phil was probably trying to help her out,” Margery said. “He’s well meaning but not too bright when it comes to exes. Why don’t you let him move in with you?”

  “Because he’s taking me for granted.” Helen was gripping her arms so tightly she left red marks on them. “He just assumed he could hang his clothes in my closet and put his toothbrush in my holder. I’m not going to let him.”

  “You want moonlight and roses?” Margery said. “At your age, you should know better.”

  But Helen had seen her landlady dancing by the pool with the silver-haired Warren. Margery had romance at seventy-six.

  “Come outside by the pool,” Margery said. “Peggy’s there. We’ll have some wine and talk it over. You need to think about this.”

  “I need to get dressed,” Helen said.

  “No, you don’t. In that big old robe, you’re wearing more clothes than Peggy and I combined.”

  Helen grabbed the box of pretzels from the kitchen counter and obediently followed her landlady to the pool. Peggy was stretched out on a chaise longue, with Pete patrolling her shoulder. Helen gave him a pretzel. Margery gave her a glass of wine.

  Peggy took one look at Helen and said, “What’s wrong?”

  “Phil’s wife moved in with him,” she said.

  “Awwwk!” Pete snapped the pretzel in two.

  Helen could feel the tears starting again, but she tried to stop them. “I am not crying over that man. He’s not worth it.” She downed a hefty jolt of wine. That made her feel safe and warm. “He’s living with a country singer named Kendra.”

  “That’s rotten,” Peggy said. She’d had her share of betrayal.

  Margery set fire to a Marlboro and said, “Helen, it’s not that bad. Phil’s divorce will be final in a month. He’s letting his ex stay with him while she sings at some club in Lauderdale. She can’t afford a hotel. He did something stupid trying to be nice. Don’t get all bent out of shape. Why are you doing this to yourself?”

  “Why didn’t he tell me Kendra was staying with him?” Helen cried.

  “He was probably scared you’d go ballistic. Which you did.”

  “I had a good reason,” Helen said. “She’s so nasty. She made these insinuating little remarks about us, like I was a mercy screw. It was degrading.”

  “Of course it was,” Margery said. “She wanted it that way. She’s a sly one. And you’re going to leave him alone with a hundred pounds of red-haired temptation? Helen, just let Phil move in with you. He’s there almost every night, anyway.”

  “I would if he said he loved me. But he wants to do it because I’m convenient.”

  “Helen Hawthorne,” Margery said. “If you let a man like Phil get away because you’re so stubborn, then you are a fool.”

  Helen wiped angry tears from her eyes. “He can go to hell,” she said.

  “Don’t worry,” Margery said. “He will.”

  Helen wanted desperately to change the subject. “Phil was just part of this wretched day. There’s a lot more. Kiki was murdered.”

  “Awwk,” Pete said.

  Margery dropped her cigarette. It glowed in the dusk. She retrieved it and said, “Another murder? How do you get mixed up in these things?”

  “Murder is easy at a wedding,” Helen said. “Everyone wants to kill the mother of the bride.”

  “The caterer did it,” Peggy said. “Or the photographer. Or the sister with the tattooed boyfriend who was banned from the ceremony.”

  “Nothing that simple,” Helen said. “Ordinary people have those problems. We’re talking major money. Let me tell you what happened.”

  When she finished, Margery said, “How much trouble are you in? Do you want me to retain Colby Cox for you? She’s expensive, but she owes me several favors.” Colby was one of the premier defense lawyers in South Florida.

  “No, there are enough other suspects to keep the cops busy,” Helen said.

  “The offer stands. I’ll call her anytime you need her,” Margery said. “Helen? Are you there, Helen?”

  Helen was staring at Phil’s door. It stayed closed. He had not followed her to the pool. He won’t even walk across the yard for me, Helen thought. Damn him. She took a drink, but her wineglass was empty. She refilled it and said, “I’m going to my room to brood.”

  “Good idea,” Margery said. “You’ve had a dog of a day. If you want company, knock on my door. I’ll be out till late tonight, but if you see my light, come on over.”

  “Going any place interesting?” Peggy said.

  “Dancing with Warren.” Helen thought Margery smiled like a woman with a secret.

  “Warren, now, is it? Is there romance for rent in 2C?” Peggy teased.

  “Please.” Margery blew a huge smoke screen. “Warren’s just for fun. He’s one of those rare men who likes women his own age. I go out with three other friends. He dances with all of us. I think he’s giving Elsie lessons. She’s seventy-eight and having the time of her life—if she doesn’t break her hip twirling on the dance floor.”

  “Never mind Elsie,” Peggy said. “What about Margery? Helen could get you a good price on a wedding dress.”

  Margery snorted. “Young people. You’ve got one thing on your mind.”

  “Sex?” Peggy said.

  “Marriage,” Margery sai
d. “I’m past the marrying stage. Men Warren’s age don’t want wives. They want a nurse with a purse. I’m not that desperate. He’s strictly recreation.”

  “Awwk,” Pete said.

  Helen wondered if she’d ever be smart enough to use men that way.

  Chapter 10

  Phil knocked on her door three times Saturday night. Helen refused to open it. Then, with perfect lover’s logic, she was angry that he didn’t knock at all on Sunday.

  Helen stayed inside all day, drinking cheap wine and brooding. She held a little film festival of failure in her head. Scenes from her marriage played again and again. She relived the afternoon she caught her cheating husband with their neighbor, Sandy. She saw Rob’s hairy butt bouncing in the air. How could she have loved a man who needed Nair on his rump?

  She saw herself struggling with Kendra’s suitcases while that red-haired vixen stabbed her in the back. Now Phil, the love of her life, was shacked up with the enemy.

  Helen downed more wine to make the misery movies go away. She was hungry, but she didn’t feel like cooking. She ate tuna out of the can. She thought Thumbs would join her for dinner, but he didn’t bother. Even the cat didn’t want her company.

  Finally Helen fell asleep. In her dream, she opened the closet door and Kiki’s dead hands reached for her. She was trying to drag Helen into her cold world.

  Helen woke up, alone and sweating, dry mouthed and headachy. She stumbled into the bathroom, drank a handful of cold water, and went back to bed.

  Now she couldn’t sleep. She kept thinking about Kiki, who’d died alone. We made Kiki into some insatiable sexual siren when she was dead and stuffed in a closet, Helen thought. Poor Kiki. She had a lot of sex, but no love. She had millions, but died without dignity. Helen wondered if anyone would mourn her. Who was cruel enough to stuff her in a closet?

  Helen’s own bedroom closet seemed to pulsate in the dark. The door was white as a tomb. She couldn’t sleep staring at it.

  Thud! Thud! Thud!

  The sound came from the closet, urgent and oddly muffled.

  Kiki! Helen thought. She’s after me.

  “She’s dead, you idiot. And you’re drunk.” Helen thought she said those words out loud. She almost put her fear down to the fantods, when she heard another thud.

  Thud! Thud! The door seemed to bulge out from the blows.

  Helen switched on the bedroom light and picked up the heavy alarm clock for a bludgeon. Whatever is in there, she decided, wasn’t strong enough to open the door. I can overpower it. Helen got behind the door and threw it open, ready to attack.

  Thumbs came sprawling out. He stood up, shook himself, and meowed angrily. His giant paws were tangled in an old sweater. He must have fallen asleep in a pile of winter clothes and woke up trapped in the heavy wool. That’s why the thud sounded so muffled.

  Helen picked him up and soothed his ruffled fur. “I’m sorry, old boy.”

  Thumbs struggled out of her arms and marched into the kitchen, demanding dinner. Helen opened a can of tuna just for him. Thumbs wolfed it down, took a bath, then followed her into the bedroom and curled up next to her. She was forgiven.

  She woke up Monday morning, clutching her cat.

  Helen’s tongue felt like a knitted tea cozy. Her eyes were an unfortunate fuchsia. The matching zit on her nose was a stop sign in her pale face. She tried to put on makeup, but her lipstick was a bloody slash. Her eyeliner looked like it was done with crayon. She washed her face clean. Millicent would have to take her as she was.

  Helen switched on the local TV news while she put on her clothes. The announcer said, “Another bizarre twist in the Blood and Roses Murder. Police say an autopsy has revealed the cause of death for socialite Kiki Shenrad. The mother of the bride was smothered with her daughter’s wedding dress sometime after the rehearsal dinner Friday night. A bridal shop employee found her body in a closet at the church Saturday.”

  Ohmigod, Helen thought. That’s me. I’m the employee. This is the biggest murder to hit Lauderdale in years. Kiki was a socialite worth thirty million bucks. Her son-in-law was a movie actor. Her heiress daughter was a new bride. Her death would be national news for sure.

  Rob! He’ll find me. And so will the court. Helen watched a video clip of the bride and groom leaving the church in a shower of rose petals. Then Kiki’s body bag was rolled down the same steps. Helen felt queasy and knew it wasn’t from the hangover.

  She ran outside for the morning paper. Sure enough, Kiki was front-page news. DEATH COMES TO THE WEDDING: MOTHER OF THE BRIDE MURDERED, said the morning paper. The free paper, the City Times, had a more irreverent headline: ONE DEAD MOTHER.

  Millicent’s will be swarming with TV cameras, Helen thought. I need a disguise. I have to find some way to get in and out of that shop without being noticed.

  Helen remembered that Margery had a khaki work shirt with BILLY on the pocket. She knocked on Margery’s door. Helen could hear her landlady’s TV going. “. . . in the Blood and Roses Murder. We’ve learned that the death dress cost three thousand dollars at Millicent’s bridal salon on Las Olas.”

  Her landlady was wearing her purple chenille robe and red sponge curlers. “Thought that might be you. The TV people are all over your shop, shooting the dresses in the windows,” Margery said.

  “I’m trying to keep them from shooting me. Can I borrow your BILLY work shirt?”

  “Here.” Margery handed her the shirt, still warm from the iron. “I’ve already dug it out. I thought you might need to wear it again. I have to tell you, Billy never worked this hard in his life.”

  Helen was afraid to ask who Billy was. She took the shirt. Back in her apartment, she put on her khaki pants and sensible shoes. She packed a cardboard box, threw in the City Times paper to read at lunch, and taped the box shut. She carried a clipboard under her arm.

  Millicent’s back parking lot was swarming with TV trucks. They paid no attention to the box-bearing Helen. She rang the doorbell just before nine. “Express package delivery,” she yelled.

  A harried Millicent answered the back door. “I didn’t order—”

  “Millicent, it’s me. I don’t want to turn up on TV.”

  Millicent gave her a shrewd look. “Come on in. But how are you going to wait on customers in that outfit?”

  Helen pulled a dress, her good shoes, pantyhose, and purse out of the cardboard box. “Voila!” she said.

  Millicent managed a smile. She’d had a bad weekend, too. Thick concealer couldn’t quite hide the dark circles under her brown eyes. Her high heels were scuffed. One bloodred nail was chipped.

  “The police interviewed me for two hours,” Millicent said. “Desiree told them I had a fight with her mother Friday night.”

  “Are you a suspect?” Helen secretly hoped she was. She hoped the police had lots of suspects to keep them busy.

  “I don’t know,” Millicent said. “But Desiree found out the cops talked to me. She says the estate won’t pay my bill until my name is cleared. She told me, ‘It’s just a precaution. I don’t want my mother’s murderer to profit.’ ”

  “That’s lousy,” Helen said. “After all you did for her.”

  Including maybe kill her mother.

  Millicent ran her bloodred nails through her white hair. “Helen, what am I going to do? I need that money now. What if the cops never catch the killer?”

  Helen was saved from answering by a ringing phone.

  “It’s probably another reporter wanting to see the death dress—that blasted rose gown,” Millicent said.

  “I’ll tell them to get lost,” Helen said. “You look like you could use some coffee. Why don’t you make us a pot?” Millicent was so upset, she didn’t notice her employee was ordering her around.

  Helen scrambled for the phone. “Millicent’s. How may I help you?”

  “You can die, that’s how!”

  “Excuse me?” Helen said.

  “How can you do this to my mother?” the woman shrieked. �
�I’ll ruin you. I swear to God. I’ll sue. I’ll—”

  Helen winced. “Desiree, is that you? This is Helen. What’s wrong?” Besides the fact that your mother was murdered at your wedding.

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know. I’m calling about your disgusting ad in the City Times.”

  Helen struggled to make sense of this. The hangover didn’t help. “What ad?”

  “The ad that makes my mother’s murder into a joke,” Desiree screeched. “Are you so greedy you have to sell dresses over her dead body?”

  Helen wished her head wasn’t pounding. She wished this call made sense.

  “Desiree, we never advertise in the City Times. Let me take a look at the paper. I’ll have Millicent call you right back.”

  “Don’t bother,” Desiree said. “I’m calling my father. He’ll sue you into the next century. Millicent will be lucky if she sells dresses at Wal-Mart when he finishes with her.”

  Desiree hung up the phone so hard, Helen’s ears rang. She needed coffee before she could confront this. The phone jangled again.

  “I’ll get that,” Millicent called from the front room. “Maybe I should tell the reporters yes. Photographing the death dress could be good advertising.”

  “Millicent, don’t! Wait! There’s some sort of problem—” Helen ran out to stop her. The pain in her head went all the way down to her feet.

  She was too late. Millicent picked up the phone. Helen could hear her saying, “Cancel? Ellen, why would you want to cancel?”

  Helen pulled the popular free tabloid from the cardboard box. She found the ONE DEAD MOTHER murder story. Right next to it was a full-page ad framed with ribbons and bridal bells.

  MILLICENT’S—WEDDINGS TO DIE FOR! the headline said. Helen felt sick. No wonder Desiree was angry. This was utterly tasteless.

  The copy was worse: “Want a beautiful wedding? Tired of ugly relatives? You need Millicent’s, Fort Lauderdale’s most fashionable bridal salon. See us for all—and we do mean all—your wedding needs.”

  “Oh, my God.” Helen sprinted back inside the store calling, “Millicent!”