by Elaine Viets
She crunched across the theater parking lot, heading for the bus stop. A car pulled into the lot and blocked her exit. It was one of those plain sedans that might as well have “Unmarked Police Car” painted on the door.
Detective Janet Smith got out of the driver’s side. She looked lean and mean. Her partner, Detective Bill McIntyre, looked malevolent and muscular. The two of them stood side by side in gray suits, their arms folded.
Helen could hear the blood rushing in her ears. How did they find her?
“Just thought I’d give you the results of your DNA test,” Detective Smith said. “We found your blood on the dress. We also found your fingerprints on the dress and the closet door.”
“Of course you did,” Helen said, trying not to panic. “I helped put the dress on Kiki. I hung it in the closet.”
“And the blood?” Detective Smith said.
“I told you. I cut my hand and bled on both dresses—the wedding gown and the rose dress.”
“We checked the wedding gown. We didn’t find any blood,” Smith said.
“That’s because I cleaned it off. Then the bride threw hot coffee all over the dress.”
“We should have found traces,” Smith said. Helen wondered if the detective was telling the truth. Maybe she should get that lawyer Colby Cox. Helen had about seven thousand dollars stashed in her suitcase. That should buy her a few hours of help. Right now she’d give it all to make these two disappear.
“How did it feel when you cut the victim’s fingernails?” Detective Smith said.
Helen saw those pathetic gold claws again and nearly threw up.
“Are you going to arrest me?” she asked.
“Let’s just say we’re a step closer,” Detective Smith said. “Don’t leave town.” Detective McIntyre said nothing, which was even more ominous. They got into the car and drove off.
As Helen waited for the bus home, she couldn’t stop shivering. Her encounter with the cops frightened her. Her DNA was in all the wrong places. Was anyone else’s blood on that dress? She should have asked. But they probably wouldn’t have told her.
If the police weren’t scary enough, there was Jason. He frightened and confused her. Helen knew he was lying, but she also thought he was telling the truth. He believed Chauncey was no murderer. Donna Sue, whose opinion she respected, thought so, too.
The fight scene with Kiki probably happened pretty much the way Jason described it, Helen decided. But she thought he was leaving something out.
Did Jason murder Kiki in an impotent rage? Or did he stalk off and leave her, tipsy and trapped, alone with her killer? Kiki couldn’t run away in that hoop skirt. And why would Jason ask Desiree for money at her mother’s funeral?
It was almost midnight when Helen got to the Coronado. It was a warm night for December. She went by the pool, hoping for some company. Margery and Warren were drinking champagne in the moonlight.
“Come join us,” Margery said.
This time Helen did. She didn’t want to be alone. She didn’t want to think about the cops, Jason, or Phil. She wanted to believe that people could live happily ever after and have real love at age seventy-six. Her landlady sat on the chaise longue next to Warren, smoking a Marlboro. She had the smile of a satisfied woman.
Warren filled a flute with champagne and handed it to Helen. She toasted the couple, then took a sip. The bubbles tickled her tongue.
“Do you dance, Helen?” he said. His tanned skin was like fine old leather, and he had interesting crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Margery had herself quite a catch.
“I grew up in the dreaded disco era, Warren. I just bounce up and down.”
“You should take dancing lessons. Many young people do.” It didn’t sound like a sales pitch. Warren seemed to believe dancing was good for people. It had done wonders for Margery.
“I give lessons to brides and grooms,” Warren said. “Many couples dance together for the first time at their wedding. They’re afraid of tripping or looking foolish. A lesson or two from me, and they have a beautiful start to their married life.”
“I’m not planning to get married anytime soon,” Helen said.
“You never know. You’re certainly in the right business. I gave the most unusual lesson of my life at your store. An emergency dance lesson, if you will.”
“My store? You mean Millicent’s?”
“Yes, Millicent had a gay couple in the shop after hours. She sold the bride—a female impersonator named Lady George—a lovely dress. An Oscar de la Renta, if I remember correctly. It had this deep-pleated ruffle running down the back. Very graceful. The groom’s name was Gary. The couple admitted that they were nervous about dancing together at their reception.
“Millicent tried to send Gary and Lady George to my studio, but they didn’t want to be seen learning to dance where others could watch. I have those large windows, you know.
“So Millicent called me, and I came to her store. We went upstairs to the fitting area so the couple could have privacy, and I gave them dancing lessons. It took awhile, but they finally caught on. I think they’ll dance beautifully together, now that Lady George has mastered that ruffle.
“They danced until nearly three in morning. They were so touching. Your Millicent was magnificent. I knew she wanted to go home. It was a Friday night after all, and she’d just put together this big wedding as a special rush job. But she stayed there for them.”
“A Friday night?” Helen said. “In early December?”
“Yes. I asked after you, but she said you were at the rehearsal. Millicent opened the shop specially for Lady George, so the bride could make her dress selection with no observers.”
Now Helen understood Millicent’s secrecy. Society brides would not buy a gown if it had been tried on by a transvestite. Lady George would not feel comfortable undressing near women with all the factory-installed equipment.
Helen could imagine what Desiree’s snotty bridesmaids would say about Lady George. They’d flayed poor flapping Emily, and her only fault was a few extra pounds.
Millicent stayed late at the store to give Lady George the privacy she needed. Then she kept her customer’s secret. And what a secret it was. Helen could see the couple now, dancing among the dressmaker’s dummies.
I thought Millicent was a murderer. Instead, she was a decent person and a good businesswoman. Helen felt small-minded and mean. She wanted to creep away and hide.
Helen finished her champagne and said, “Good night. Thanks so much. And Warren, I’m really glad I talked with you.”
The moon lit her way back to her room. Millicent was innocent. She’d eliminated one suspect. Suddenly, she felt so tired. She tiptoed past Phil’s window, but she wasn’t quiet enough. He opened his door.
For a moment Helen was struck silent with longing. The light shone on his silvery hair and outlined his broad chest. He was wearing another blue shirt. She was a sucker for blue shirts and blue eyes.
“Helen, what’s going on? Two homicide detectives came here today, checking your alibi for that wedding rehearsal night.”
“What did you tell them?”
“That I was with you all night and left about seven in the morning.”
Helen couldn’t hide her relief.
“I’ve been so worried.” Phil’s eyes were soft with concern. “Why are the police asking about you?”
Phil’s sympathy almost melted her anger. But then she saw Kendra, wrapped around his trunk like poison ivy. To hell with his sympathy. She’d give him the facts and that was all.
“A customer at the bridal shop was murdered,” Helen said, as if there was nothing odd about that sentence. “The police found my fingerprints and DNA at the crime scene.”
“My God,” Phil said. “Please let me help you. I know a lawyer, a good one. I can investigate for you. I’ll do it for free. I have contacts with the police. I can talk with them—”
He reached out for her, but she stepped away, trapped in her shame, lost in
her ancient anger at another man.
“Good night, Phil.” She unlocked her door.
“Helen, don’t be like that. Helen—”
She shut the door on his protests and double locked it.
Chapter 21
Helen locked her door to keep Phil out—and herself in.
She longed to run out and throw herself into his arms. She missed him so much. Helen felt like he had been torn from her—no, amputated without an anesthetic—and she was bleeding all over everything.
Margery said she needed courage to forgive Phil and learn to trust men. Helen thought she needed an eraser to get rid of her awful memories. They replayed endlessly in her mind: Once again, she saw Kendra’s dyed red hair, cheap short skirt, and catlike smile as she clung to Helen’s man.
And Phil—he was standing in his bedroom like a gigged frog.
Let’s not forget your role, Helen told herself. She’d popped in half-naked and yelled “surprise” like a hooker at a bachelor party.
Helen had worked herself into a meltdown rage when a blue envelope came skidding under her door. She opened it and read the note: I love you, it said. Please let me help—Phil.
She crumpled the note into a ball and threw it against the wall. Thumbs jumped off the couch and batted it around the floor, doing flips and leaps. Helen sat down for a moment in her turquoise Barcalounger to watch the big cat play.
She woke up at three A.M.
Ugh. She hated when she did that. Her face was greasy with old makeup. Her mouth was dry. It hardly seemed worth going to bed when she had to be up in another three hours, but Helen dragged herself to her bedroom.
As soon as she hit the mattress, she was wide-awake. Helen stared at the ceiling and thought of her champagne nights with Phil. What would he drink with Kendra: Ripple? Cold Duck? Mad Dog 20/20?
Finally she cried herself into a restless sleep.
The morning didn’t look any better and she looked worse. Helen winced when she glanced in the mirror. The bags under her eyes were prizewinners. She could haul bowling balls in them.
Helen fished two ice cubes out of the freezer, put them on her bags for a bit, then checked the mirror again.
Great. Now the bags were bright red. She looked like she had eye hives. Worse, her concealer didn’t stick well to semifrozen bags. She quit trying to paint over them and got dressed.
As she slipped on her right shoe, Helen felt something in the toe. She pulled out Phil’s crumpled note. Thumbs had dropped it in her shoe.
I love you. Please let me help—Phil.
I love you, too, she thought, but you can’t help me until you help yourself. I’ve been a fool, but so have you. I’ll have to save myself.
Helen wondered if Margery had talked with the homicide detectives yet. She’d better warn her. Helen knocked on her landlady’s door. It was opened by a fluffy old woman in pink hot pants. Her orange mules matched her hair. A snug green sweater bared her substantial midriff.
Helen blinked. The woman was kind of cute in a surreal way. She reminded Helen of a punked-out Miss Marple. She even had the same soft, dithery voice.
“Oh, you must want Margery,” the woman said. “I’ll get her. You just wait here.”
Margery came out in a purple bathrobe, trailing a cloud of cigarette smoke. She moved like a hibernating bear that had been awakened two months early. Last night’s champagne must have taken its toll.
“Another hard night of dancing with Warren?” Helen said. “Did you two go out on the town after I went to bed?”
“I’ve had my last dance with that old coot,” Margery said. “We’ve got problems. Elsie’s in trouble and it’s Warren’s fault.”
Elsie’s middle bulged a bit, but Helen was pretty sure she wasn’t pregnant.
“What happened?”
Elsie folded her liver-spotted hands on her pink lap and looked like a contrite schoolgirl. “I signed a bad contract,” she said in her fluttery voice. “Margery’s going to help me get out of it.”
“So far, I haven’t been much help,” Margery said.
“I should have listened to you before I signed,” Elsie said. “You were afraid Warren ran one of those dance studios that signed people up for lifetime contracts.”
“Which at our age is about six months.” Margery lit another cigarette. It glowed like a red eye. Helen felt there were enough of those in the room already.
“I checked like she told me,” Elsie said. “It was only a two-year contract. But I should have read the rest of it. I couldn’t make any sense out of that legal gobbledygook. My Jim used to do that for me. Now that he’s gone, I’m not so good at coping.”
“The contract was only for two years,” Margery said. “But the payments were two thousand dollars a month for twenty-four months.”
Helen was stunned. “Two grand a month for dancing lessons? That’s a mortgage payment.”
“Elsie signed a contract for forty-eight thousand dollars in dance lessons.”
“I had no idea it was so expensive until I got the first statement,” Elsie said. “I had two free lessons. Then I paid only fifty dollars for the first month. I thought I was paying fifty dollars a month for two years.”
“That’s outrageous,” Helen said.
“It’s an old scam,” Margery said. “I checked it out on the Internet.”
“You have a computer?” Helen said.
“Welcome to the twenty-first century,” Margery said. “Got my own Hotmail account, too. I use the library’s computers. Best time to go is early afternoon. All the old farts are napping and the kids are still in school. I did a search on the Net and found out how these phony dance schools operate. They give the victim some cheap dance lessons, sign her up for a contract, and then she learns she’s committed to thousands of dollars.”
“How do they hide those outrageous prices in the contract?” Helen asked.
“They don’t bother,” Margery said. “Con artists know people rarely read the fine print. At our age, we can’t see it without a magnifying glass. That’s how they got Elsie for nearly fifty grand.”
“I don’t have that kind of money any more,” Elsie said. “I made some bad investments.” She dropped her voice and said the dreaded words: “Enron. And World-C om.”
Helen shuddered. She’d done the same thing. “That’s terrible. You need a lawyer.”
Elsie hung her head. “My son is a lawyer. That’s the problem. Milton will find out if I go to one. He knows everyone. Fort Lauderdale is such a small town. He’s been trying to get me into one of those assisted-living facilities. If Milton knew what a fool I was with those dance lessons, he’d put me in a home for sure and get power of attorney over what’s left of my money.”
Elsie’s chins trembled. Her young clothes made her seem older and more helpless.
“Milt’s a bit of a stick,” Margery said, her cigarette glaring at Helen. “He wants his mom to put on a shawl and sit in a rocking chair.”
“He’s a good boy,” Elsie said, loyally.
“I didn’t say he wasn’t,” Margery said. “But Milt wore pin-striped diapers.”
“Takes after his father,” Elsie said. “Except Jim enjoyed my wild side. Said I had moxie. Milton says I embarrass him.”
“I warned you about wearing that leather miniskirt to his firm’s Christmas party,” Margery said.
“The legs are the last thing to go on a girl,” Elsie said. “Mine are still worth showing off.”
They were pretty good, Helen thought, but the thighs drooped a bit.
“We’ve got to help Elsie,” Margery said. “I introduced her to that crook. I’ll get her out of this if it’s the last thing I do. Elsie, you go on home. I need to think.”
Elsie tottered out on her orange mules.
“What do you want?” Margery snarled at Helen. “I know you didn’t come over to meet Elsie.”
“Were the police by to speak with you yesterday?”
“No, I was out all day with Warren, that
son of a bugger. I drank champagne with him until two. What kind of trouble are you in now?”
“None,” Helen lied. Her voice went too high and Margery looked at her sharply. “The police are checking my alibi for the night of Desiree’s rehearsal dinner, that’s all.”
“You were with Phil from eleven o’clock on. He left about seven a.m.”
“Jeez. Were you watching?”
“I know everything that goes on here,” Margery said. “Peggy’s still dating her policeman, but I think that romance is about over, thank God. Those two would sneak down to the swimming pool at midnight and wake me up. Thought if they turned off the pool lights I wouldn’t know what they were doing in the water.”
Helen’s cheeks burned at this revelation about her friend.
“Cal is currently in Canada. He says he wants to spend Christmas with his grandchild, but he’s really worried about his residence dates. He needs to spend more time in his home country. No Canadian wants to lose that national health insurance.”
“Amazing,” Helen said.
“Oh, yeah. I know everything. Except that Warren rooked my friend with his dance lessons right under my nose. Are you working today?”
“One o’clock to six,” Helen said.
“Good,” Margery said. “Warren leaves about nine thirty to open his dance studio. You can wait with me until he’s gone. I have a passkey. We need to look at his apartment.”
Margery changed into purple shorts and red tennis shoes. “The rubber soles will give me traction if I have to run for it,” she said.
“What exactly are you expecting to find?” Helen asked.
“Something that will help me nail his crooked hide to the wall.”
They drank coffee in a heavy silence. At nine thirty-three, Warren went whistling down the walk to the parking lot, golden sun shining on his silver hair.
“What a waste,” Margery said. “There aren’t many men his age with their own hair and teeth, and this one turns out to be a con artist.”
