Just Murdered dj-4

by Elaine Viets

  Detective McIntyre sat on the turquoise couch. His muscular frame dwarfed its spindly fifties design. Thumbs, her traitorous cat, jumped into his lap.

  “Can I get you some coffee?” Helen said.

  “No thanks,” both detectives said.

  A bad sign, Helen thought. Cops did not like to drink with suspects. She perched on the edge of the Barcalounger.

  “You don’t have a phone,” Detective McIntyre said. He ran his huge hand through Thumbs’s soft fur. The cat purred loudly. Detective Smith was examining a flea-market vase as if it were museum-quality Meissen.

  “I hate phones,” Helen said.

  “No credit cards, either.” He scratched Thumbs’s ears. The faithless cat rolled over in flagrant feline delight and presented his belly.

  “I’m trying to live within my means,” Helen said.

  “And no bank account.”

  “I don’t trust banks. Is that a crime?” Helen tried to say it boldly, but her voice quavered.

  “No. But it is a crime to interfere with a homicide investigation and threaten a potential witness. Jason said you’d threatened him.”

  “I threatened him? He threatened me. Ask his neighbor. She heard the whole thing.”

  “He told us what he’d overheard the night of the rehearsal. Jason says you had a fight with the victim.”

  Helen didn’t like Detective McIntyre’s tone. “I told you that.”

  “Only after we heard it from another source.”

  “I forgot. I was tired.” Helen sounded defensive.

  “You also forgot to mention that you threatened to kill Kiki. Jason said you shouted, ‘Don’t you threaten me, lady. If I lose this job, you’re a dead woman.’ ”

  “That’s a lie.” Helen leaped off the Barcalounger, red with rage. “I never said any such thing.”

  That lying scum. Helen wanted to wring Jason’s neck. Then she saw Detectives Smith and McIntyre staring at her. She’d certainly showed her temper. Helen settled back on the Barcalounger and tried to answer more calmly. “You must have noticed I didn’t lose my job.”

  “Kiki didn’t have time to complain. She was dead before the shop opened on Saturday,” Detective McIntyre said.

  “Jason is lying,” Helen said. “Are you going to take the word of a drug dealer?”

  “I’m not worried about someone who deals a little recreational Ecstasy,” McIntyre said. “I have a murder to solve. You’ve got no business messing in this investigation. I’m making it my business to find out why you’re so interested. Good-bye, Ms. Hawthorne.”

  Detective McIntyre put down her cat and brushed the hair off his trousers, then walked out. Detective Smith followed. This time she was the silent partner.

  Helen sank down on the couch, which was still warm from McIntyre’s bulky body. Thumbs bumped her hand, hoping for another scratch, but she didn’t respond.

  Why would Jason go to the police? It was a risky move for a drug dealer. Helen must have hit a nerve, but she didn’t know what it was. She couldn’t ask him. Not after the police warned her away.

  Did Jason panic because she noticed the bandage on his wrist? The police would have seen that, too. Was it something she said—or he said?

  Maybe Jason didn’t go to the police. Maybe the cops caught him dealing, and he traded lies to avoid an arrest. That made more sense.

  Now the two detectives were investigating her. How did they find out her financial information? Did they do a credit check? Was that legal?

  Helen didn’t know. She did know that the two detectives were smart. They would find out who she really was fast enough. Helen had to act soon or she’d be back in front of that wizened old judge in St. Louis. She could hear her mother, the new Mrs. Lawn Boy Larry, weeping. She could see her greedy ex-husband reaching for her money.

  Helen was sick with fear. I need help, she thought. I can’t do this alone. The walls in her little apartment seemed to close in on her. She couldn’t stay there like a wild thing in a trap.

  Phil! He was a private eye. He’d help her. He’d already offered. Why did she throw away his note? This was no time to keep up a silly tiff over black panties and a redheaded tramp. Not when she was headed for prison. Helen would be wearing a prison jumpsuit and Kendra would have years to work her cheap wiles on Phil.

  Helen ran to his apartment and pounded on the door, but Phil didn’t answer.

  “Phil! Are you there?”

  Helen heard something that sounded like a cat crying. Then she realized it was a woman’s low moan of pleasure.

  “You son of a bitch.” Helen kicked at his door. The moans grew more intense. She saw a hefty rock in the garden nearby and thought of throwing it through his window. She decided Phil wasn’t worth the effort. She had to save herself.

  Margery! Margery would help. Her landlady knew everyone and everything. She’d solve this crisis.

  Margery’s place was still dark. Maybe she was napping. Helen hammered on the jalousie door until the glass rattled. She wanted Margery to appear in her purple chenille robe, grumpy and sleepy eyed.

  “Margery, wake up,” Helen called. But her landlady’s apartment stayed dark.

  Peggy! You’d never guess it to look at her, but the elegant redhead had been in trouble with the police before. Peggy had been led away in handcuffs from the Coronado. She knew what it felt like when the cops were after you. She’d help.

  “Peggy! Are you there?” Helen beat on the door. Nothing. She stood on Peggy’s doorstep in the desperate silence.

  “Peggy, help me,” Helen pleaded.

  Peggy was gone, too. Even Pete wasn’t squawking.

  Panic rose up in Helen like a river overflowing its banks. She was drowning in fear. What am I going to do? It’s six thirty and I’m all alone. The police are after me. Phil has two-timed me with his slutty ex-wife. My life is falling apart—

  Oh, get a grip, she told herself. Millions of women have managed to live without Phil. You can, too. Concentrate on what’s important. You’re going to be arrested for murder, unless you can figure out who did it.

  After all her investigating, what did she know: that Millicent and Chauncey were innocent? That the chauffeur thought he was going to be a millionaire when Kiki died? That Jason was crazed by ambition, disappointment, and drugs? That the bride’s lawyer father invited all the suspects to tamper with the crime scene? That the bride’s own behavior was also strange?

  Then it all fell into place. Helen had an idea so crazy she thought it just might work. She knew who killed Kiki—and how to prove it.

  The bride was the key to the murder.

  The morning of the wedding, Desiree had wished she could wear her fey cobweb dress. Helen told her it was the bride’s prerogative and started to go to the closet to get it. That’s when Desiree became hysterical. She would not let Helen open that closet. She insisted on wearing her ugly crystal gown. She used her mother’s anger as an excuse, even though Kiki was not there.

  After the wedding ceremony, the bride poured coffee all over the hated crystal dress—the dress her mother insisted she wear at the cathedral.

  Desiree had been too afraid to open the closet door before the wedding, but not too afraid to destroy a seven-thousand-dollar dress after the ceremony.

  Why?

  Because Desiree knew her dead mother was in that closet. If Helen opened the door before the wedding, Desiree couldn’t marry Luke. The wedding would be canceled because of the murder.

  But Desiree could ruin the crystal dress after the wedding. She knew her mother was no longer alive to punish the new Mrs. Luke Praine.

  Helen the dupe dutifully opened the door, the body was discovered, and Desiree walked off with thirty million dollars and a new movie-star husband.

  Helen’s reasoning wouldn’t convince the police, but maybe Desiree’s own words would. Helen rummaged in her closet for an old cassette recorder and stuck it in her purse. She would tape the bride’s confession.

  A phone. She needed
a phone next. Helen ran all the way to Las Olas. She stumbled over the uneven sidewalk and pitched face forward on the concrete.

  Two women helped her up. “Are you okay?” the older one asked.

  Of course she wasn’t okay. The police were going to arrest her for murder. Then Helen’s head cleared. “I’m fine, thanks. I just scraped my hand.”

  Both women looked doubtful. Helen hurried to the nearest pay phone. A shaven-headed college student was talking on it. Why didn’t he have a cell phone like everyone else his age? Helen glared at the kid until he hung up, then punched the numbers frantically.

  A woman answered. “Praine residence,” she said. Was she a maid? A housekeeper?

  “May I speak to Desiree?” Please be there, Helen thought.

  “Who’s calling, please?”

  Should she say her name? I have no choice, Helen decided. I’m the bait.

  “Helen Hawthorne.”

  “Please hold.”

  There was a long wait. Helen’s hands were so sweaty the phone turned slippery. What if Desiree wouldn’t talk to her? What if Desiree didn’t remember who she was? Finally, she heard a soft voice.

  “This is Desiree.”

  She could picture the little bride’s chinless face and intelligent eyes. She could see her, clinging frantically to her groom while he pried her hands off his arm.

  “It’s Helen, from Millicent’s. I buttoned up your wedding dress.” Great. Next she’d say, I opened the closet door when your mother fell out.

  “I remember you, Helen.” Desiree gave a little laugh. “We had dinner at Lester’s, remember? I told you to call if you found out anything.”

  Relief flooded through Helen. Desiree just handed her the opening she needed.

  “I’ve been looking into your mother’s death, like you asked me to,” Helen said. “I think I’ve found something interesting.”

  “What?” Desiree said. Her breathy little voice quickened.

  “I can’t tell you on the phone,” Helen said. “Is there any way I can see you?”

  “Come over right now. My home is only a few blocks from your apartment. Should I send a car?”

  Desiree definitely wanted to hear what Helen had to say.

  “I’ll walk over. I need the exercise.”

  This is perfectly safe, Helen thought. I won’t be alone in the house. Desiree’s housekeeper will be there. I can meet with the killer.

  Chapter 25

  “Luke is taking the housekeeper home,” Desiree said when she opened her front door.

  Helen froze. Was she alone here with Desiree? Surely not. A place this big had to be infested with servants. But the mansion was silent as a midnight grave. The bride wore a black dress that could have passed as a nun’s habit if it had a cross. Her flat shoes belonged on a woman of sixty. There were no makeup circles under her eyes tonight.

  Desiree lived in a 1920s pink stucco palace a few blocks and several light years from the Coronado. It was done in the Early Funeral Parlor style favored by Florida’s old money. The gloomy entrance hall was dominated by a vast marble-topped table and a weeping fern in a black urn. The hall opened onto even larger rooms. Helen expected brass signs to announce “Wescott viewing, Parlor A.”

  “It’s a lovely evening. I thought we could have tea in the garden. Unless you’d rather have cocktails.” Desiree seemed suddenly concerned about a salesclerk’s needs. At her wedding, the bride wouldn’t let Helen have a cup of coffee. Instead, she threw it on her crystal dress.

  “I’d like that very much,” Helen said fervently. It would be easier to escape if she was outside. “Tea is fine.”

  Helen didn’t plan to drink anything, including the tea. She didn’t trust anything Desiree would serve.

  She followed Desiree across several acres of carpet and through the French doors. Tea, iced and hot, crust-less sandwiches, and tiny cookies waited on a glass-topped table. The garden was a dreary expanse of dark green bushes clipped into fantastic animals and wrought-iron flamingos. Helen guessed the rich didn’t buy pink plastic flamingos, but they would have brightened up the yard.

  While Desiree busied herself with the tea things, Helen reached into her bag and flicked on the tape recorder.

  “How are you feeling?” Helen said.

  Desiree’s eyes teared. Helen suspected that no one had asked her that question, not even Luke.

  “The funeral was a nightmare,” Desiree said, handing Helen a nearly transparent cup painted with yellow flowers. “I don’t remember most of it. The worst part was finding something for Mother to wear. I had to choose her clothes for all eternity.”

  Desiree paused at this solemn thought, then put six sugary cookies on her plate. “I finally decided on the pink dress she wore when we shopped for my wedding gown. It had so many memories.”

  All of them bad. “That day was unforgettable,” Helen said truthfully. She wondered if Kiki was buried with or without her underwear.

  “I really wanted to bury her in the rose dress,” Desiree said. The cookies had disappeared, with only a powder-sugar trail marking their place on the plate. She helped herself to six more. Helen ate nothing, but Desiree didn’t seem to notice.

  “The dress she died in?” That was creepy.

  “She loved it so,” Desiree said. “But the police wouldn’t release it. They said it was part of the ongoing investigation. Luke said I couldn’t do it, anyway. He said you couldn’t close the casket on that hoop—if you squash it down, it pops back up.”

  “He’s probably right,” Helen said.

  “Do you know who killed my mother?” Desiree reached for more cookies.

  “I have my suspicions,” Helen said, “but I wanted to talk with you first, to clear some things up. I heard your mother also fought with Luke.”

  “They had a disagreement. It wasn’t serious.” Desiree studied her teacup. She wouldn’t look at Helen.

  Helen’s next words were cruel, but she had to say them. “Luke said he wouldn’t marry you if your mother didn’t let him act in that movie.”

  “He didn’t mean it!” Desiree said. “She makes people say terrible things.”

  Makes. Kiki still lived in her daughter’s head.

  “Luke loves me. He could have had richer and prettier women, but Luke married me. He’s so beautiful. You don’t know what it’s like to be plain and to love pretty things. I like to look at him. Even his feet are pretty.” Desiree’s thin lips were trembling. The drab skin underneath folded oddly into her neck.

  “Oh, Desiree,” Helen said. “He’s not a statue.”

  “But he is a work of art. He’s also an artist. And he’s mine.” Her eyes glittered with greed. Helen knew then that Desiree would kill to possess the man she wanted. She would murder her mother to make Luke happy. Once Kiki was dead, Luke could have his career.

  Desiree started flinging accusations wildly. “I think that chauffeur, Rod Somebody, killed Mother. He thought she’d left him a million dollars, but she didn’t. Or it could be Jason. Mother laughed at him when he couldn’t, you know . . . perform. You remember the famous Sex on the Beach case, where that guy strangled his girlfriend because she laughed at him when he couldn’t do it?”

  “That’s two suspects,” Helen said. “Which one is it—Rod or Jason?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t care. She’s dead. Nothing will bring her back.”

  At least you hope so, Helen thought. She wanted to see how far she could push the bride.

  “Desiree, I don’t know how to say this, but what if Luke killed her?”

  “He didn’t!” the bride said. “It had to be the other two. I know Luke didn’t do it. I know for a fact!”

  Because you did it, Helen thought. But she pushed a little harder. “If anything happens to you, Luke would be a very rich widower.”

  “I’m not like my mother,” Desiree said. “I won’t stand in his way. I’ll give him everything. What else could he want?”

  Helen looked at the chinless little fa
ce, the drooping hair, the muddy skin. She thought how Desiree clung to her husband and how he pried her fingers off his arm. She’d killed for that man, but he couldn’t stand her touching him.

  “His freedom,” Helen said. She heard the crunch of gravel and thought Luke might have returned. It was time for her to go.

  “I don’t like you.” The handle of Desiree’s teacup snapped in two. “You better watch what you say.”

  “I’ll be very careful,” Helen said. “Starting with this statement: I know there’s a murderer in this house. I have the evidence. I will ruin the killer.”

  “I don’t believe you. But if you really have the evidence, you can show it to me now,” Desiree said. “I’ll pay good money for it—more than you’d make in a year.”

  Triumph leaped through Helen like an electric charge. Gotcha! “You’ve proved my statement,” Helen said. “I think I’d rather show it to the police.”

  “Say one word, and I’ll sue you for slander,” Desiree said.

  “That’s the advantage of being broke,” Helen said. “I’ve got nothing to lose.”

  Her bluff worked. Desiree was the killer. Helen knew it. Why else would she try to buy Helen’s evidence? She patted the cassette recorder. She thought that tape would make the police detectives start asking the right questions.

  As she headed home with quick, sure strides, something nagged at her. She couldn’t quite get at it. What was it that Desiree had said?

  Maybe the little bride was protecting someone besides her husband. Her father, perhaps, driven to the brink of bankruptcy by Kiki’s wild spending.

  Helen did not believe Kiki’s murder was premeditated. She probably said something cruel and her killer exploded in rage, reaching for the wedding dress and pressing it down on her face to shut her up. Then the killer shoved her body in a closet.

  Fast, quick, and deadly.

  But who did it?

  Jason, with his monstrous actor’s ego, believed Kiki should help him because she was rich and he was pretty. She’d turned him down and laughed at him. But Desiree wouldn’t protect him. Unless he was blackmailing her. Maybe that was the evidence that Desiree wanted to buy.