by Elaine Viets
Her father? He was trying to stick his own daughter with her wedding expenses. Desiree wouldn’t pay more money to save him.
No, it didn’t make sense. Desiree was the logical candidate for Kiki’s killer. She had endured a lifetime of her mother’s barbs until she finally cracked. She would convince herself she killed her mother to save her husband’s career, but she really did it for her own sanity.
What was it Desiree had said? Helen could feel it flitting through her mind. Desiree had been talking about her mother and 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?”
Jason and Kiki had been embarrassingly amorous at the church. Kiki had dragged him back there for kinky sex. She’d put on the rose dress and he’d been turned off.
So how did Desiree know her mother had laughed at Jason?
Because she went back to the church after the rehearsal dinner.
Helen stopped dead on the sidewalk, and a man behind her nearly walked up her back. “Hey, lady, put on your brake lights if you’re going to stop like that,” he said.
Helen ignored him.
Rod. She had to find Rod. The chauffeur would know. Helen was six blocks from the Blue Note. She turned in that direction, long legs eating up the sidewalk.
The Blue Note still looked the same. It would always look the same. A guy was sitting at the bar, drinking away his sorrows. Tonight it wasn’t Rod.
Helen put a twenty on the bar. “I need to find the chauffeur Rod. It’s important.”
The balding bartender took the money and looked at the clock. “If you can wait until nine thirty or so, he may stop by, but I can’t guarantee it.”
Helen ordered a beer. Twenty minutes later, a yellow stretch Hummer pulled up in front of the Blue Note. A uniformed chauffeur got out. It was Rod, a trimmer, happier Rod. He seemed delighted to see Helen. Rod sat down next to her and ordered a club soda and a burger with no fries and no onions.
“I’m working for a limo rental place,” Rod said. “I drive this hummer of a Hummer. Lotta parties. The folks who rent this baby make sure everybody’s happy, especially the chauffeur. They tip big-time. I take them to the clubs on South Beach. I usually stop here for a sandwich before work.” Rod didn’t mention his acting ambitions. He liked the role of South Beach chauffeur.
“Listen, Rod, I have to ask you a question,” Helen said. “I saw you right after Kiki’s will was read. You weren’t feeling too good.”
“Are you kidding? I was wasted.”
“That, too,” Helen said. “You said something I wondered about: ‘She’s an evil little woman. Looking all sad and talking all soft. Had me thinking about crazy stuff I never would have considered. Almost did it, too.’ Were you talking about Kiki?”
“Heck, no,” Rod said. “I was talking about Desiree. She’s one scary woman. Used to sit in that Rolls when her mother wasn’t around and work on me. She’d say, ‘Mother is worth thirty million and you’re making what?’
“She’d stop and give me time to think about it. Then she’d start up again: ‘You’re in the will, you know. But not for long. She’s trying out new chauffeurs on your day off.’
“She had this soft, sad little voice. It was like having a bad angel whispering in my ear. She looked so pathetic, I felt sorry for her. Desiree got me in such a state I actually thought about killing Kiki, until I came to my senses. You probably think I’m crazy.”
“No,” Helen said. “I saw Desiree at work. At the bridal shop, Kiki rejected Chauncey’s desperate plea for money for his theater. She humiliated him in front of everyone. Desiree slithered in and said the only way he could get his money was to kill her mother.”
“She tried to get poor old Chauncey?” Rod said. “He’d never hurt anyone. He just wanted to save his theater.”
“She worked on me, too,” Helen said. “She had me convinced Millicent killed Kiki. When I finally figured out my boss was innocent, I felt like I’d recovered from a fever.”
Rod’s burger arrived. The bartender set it on the counter with a napkin and ketchup. Rod ordered another club soda.
“That’s it,” Rod said. “That’s what it was like for me, too. I told you I admired Kiki. I may have been in love with her, or maybe it was just her money. But I never thought of killing her until Desiree started working on me.”
“Could she manipulate her mother?” Helen said.
“She could play head games with the devil himself. Kiki was mean, but it was all on the surface. Desiree is sly. She keeps her malice hidden.”
“Desiree went back to the church after the rehearsal dinner, didn’t she?” Helen said.
“She did. I brought her. Jason was there with Kiki when we arrived. The lights were on in the bride’s dressing room. Jason came down the stairs with his fly unzipped and his shirt unbuttoned. One look at his face and you could figure out what happened—or didn’t happen.
“Desiree saw it right away. She did a number on Jason, telling him if he was a real man, he’d stand up to her mother. Jason is eye candy. He’s not big on brains. He wants a theatrical career, but he doesn’t want to work for it. That’s why he let Kiki paw him in the first place. I tried to talk Jason into leaving, but he wouldn’t listen.
“When Jason wouldn’t budge, I tried to get Desiree to go with me. She said she wanted to ride with Jason. I made one last effort to get him out of there. He insisted on staying. He said he wanted to salvage the situation. I knew it was hopeless. I left them both. Kiki was still upstairs.
“I’ve felt guilty ever since. If I’d persuaded Jason or Desiree to leave with me, would Kiki still be alive?” He paused, waiting for something. Helen realized Rod wanted her to absolve him.
“It’s not your fault,” she said. “Did you tell the police this?”
“No. I didn’t have any proof. Besides, someone else could have shown up later. The cops may catch whoever smothered Kiki, but they’ll never nail the real killer—Desiree.”
Rod drained his club soda and left some bills on the bar.
“Funny thing,” he said. “Desiree is about as sexy as my granny’s underwear, but she lives up to her name. She’s a real temptress.”
Chapter 26
Click click. Click click.
Helen heard the footsteps behind her.
Click click.
She looked over her shoulder and saw a tiny blonde in sky-high heels and a flirty skirt. The streetlights revealed she wasn’t as young as she first seemed.
Like Kiki.
The same lights drained the color from the woman’s face and painted her with spectral shadows. The wind brought her perfume—hothouse roses.
Helen knew it wasn’t Kiki. She was dead and buried in a rose-covered coffin.
“I thought you’d died,” a tinkly voice said.
Helen jumped.
“Sorry.” That was a deep baritone. “I had trouble parking the car.” A big man loped up beside the little blonde.
“Couldn’t you just pick it up and drop it in a parking spot?”
The man laughed at her outrageous flattery and the couple walked down the street arm in arm.
What the hell is the matter with me? Helen thought. Of course I saw Kiki. Fort Lauderdale has a hundred Kikis. Palm Beach has a thousand. When one dies, a dozen more take her place.
But how many had daughters like Desiree?
Desiree told Helen she didn’t care who killed her mother. Desiree planted murderous thoughts in men’s minds. Rod said that, but Helen had seen Desiree do it at the bridal salon with Chauncey. “You could pray for her to die, Chauncey,” she’d said, soft and insinuating as Eden’s snake. “She’s left you a hundred thousand in her will.”
Then Helen had an idea so monstrous it stopped her dead. What if Rod was telling the truth, but not the whole truth? Suppose Desiree had whispered her bad-angel advice to Rod in the Rolls—an
d he took it? Once her mother was dead, Desiree would reward the man who set her free. Did Rod really work for a limo company or did he own that shiny new Hummer? It would be the perfect present for a cooperative chauffeur.
The wind was picking up. A soda bottle clattered down the street. Something ghostly white drifted past Helen’s head. She ducked, her heart beating wildly.
It was a plastic grocery bag.
This had to stop. Are you a woman or a wimp? she asked herself.
Helen squared her shoulders and charged down the sidewalk. Strolling couples stepped out of her way. Las Olas’s perpetual winter-season revels were in full swing at this hour. Tourists wallowed in the warm night, knowing their less fortunate friends were freezing up north.
A red-faced drunk with brassy blond hair thrust himself in her path. “Hey, baby, wanna meet a real man?”
“Yes, I do. So beat it,” Helen said.
“Hey, that’s not nice,” he whined. But he backed away.
“Whoa, dude, what a ball breaker,” said his sidekick, who had a loud shirt and a louder voice.
Yes, I am, Helen thought. And it feels good. It feels better than fainting at the sight of a plastic bag. No one alive or dead is following me. I have nothing to fear. I’m bigger than most muggers.
As she turned off Las Olas, away from its bright lights, Helen saw something move in the dark foliage near the sidewalk.
“Hello?” she said. “Anyone there?”
No sound. The rose of Sharon bush shook, but not from the rising wind. Something was in there. Helen swatted the bush with her purse. A skinny striped cat streaked out and disappeared into the night.
Face your fear and it runs away.
Helen was secretly relieved when she finally saw the Coronado, its white walls glowing like a phantom ship in the darkness. The only light was from Phil’s apartment. Once again, she saw Kendra’s red lace bra on the couch and heard her passionate moans from his bedroom.
There’s your real fear. You’re not scared of subtropical spooks and assassins. You’re afraid you’ve lost the man you love. She felt a painful twinge of sadness, then a healing flash of anger.
Helen picked her way up the cracked sidewalk, hoping she wouldn’t encounter Phil tonight. She wished the Coronado wasn’t so dark. Even the pool lights were off. Peggy and her boyfriend must be having a late-night water frolic. Helen felt a stab of envy. If Phil hadn’t fallen for his trampy ex, they could be enjoying the night, too.
I’m such a lousy judge of men, Helen thought. Her eyes filled with tears. Then she saw a subtle shift in the shadows by the pool. Someone was there.
She made her way cautiously across the lawn toward the pool, hoping she wouldn’t stumble over the sprinklers. The yard was so dark. If she heard splashing in the pool, she’d back away. She didn’t want to catch Peggy and her policeman in flagrante.
But there was no sound. Even the eternally rustling palms were still. Wait! There it was. Someone was definitely by the pool.
“Peggy?” she called. “Is that you?”
No answer.
Helen could make out a lumpy, flour-sack figure with a tight perm, sensible shoes, and a cane. An old woman in a housedress was standing by the pool. Helen almost laughed in relief. She’d been afraid of a harmless old woman. Probably one of Margery’s friends, waiting for her to come home.
Helen walked confidently toward the pool. “May I help you, ma’am?”
“What?” a quavery voice said. “I can’t hear you.”
Helen could see the woman stumping toward her, dragging her right foot, cane in her right hand. Poor old soul.
Helen stopped. Right hand? Shouldn’t the cane be in her left hand?
That hesitation saved her life. The old woman moved forward with sudden swiftness. The heavy cane came crashing toward Helen’s head, but she ducked before it connected. The cane hit the concrete with a cracking thwak!
There was a whistling noise and the cane swung at her again. Helen reached around wildly for a weapon. She nearly fell over the hose coiled on the concrete deck, but she found the long-handled pool net.
She swung it at the old woman’s head and heard a much younger voice say, “Ouch. Shit, that hurt.”
A gray wig rolled across the concrete and into the pool. That wasn’t an old woman. It was a man. She could see his face in the dark.
She heard a click sound and the cane swiped at her chest, slicing through her shirt. It left a stinging streak on her upper arm.
What the—?
A sword cane. An actor’s prop. What had Donna Sue, the secretary-queen, told her? Actors loved sword canes. She also said swordplay killed people. Helen saw the blood welling up on her arm. He’d cut her. Helen swung at him again, and he ducked.
Her attacker was trained in the art of stage fighting. He used the heavy cane like a sword, thrusting and parrying. Helen tried to block him with the long-handled pool net.
Clang! Bang!
The sword cane connected with the pool net and the shock vibrated up her arms. She felt another stinging slash. A cut opened on her hand. Blood droplets splashed her face—her own blood.
Helen swung wildly. The net’s aluminum handle deflected the sword blows, but Helen wasn’t sure how long it would last. It was bent in the middle and slippery from her blood.
Helen had one chance to save herself. She swung the net as hard as she could and knocked her attacker off balance. He stumbled over the coiled hose and tumbled into the pool.
Got him! she thought. Then he grabbed the pool net and dragged Helen in with him.
She hit the water with a belly flop and a loud “Oof!” It was cold. The guy grabbed her and tried to pull her under. She kicked his legs. They splashed around wildly. The man was stronger than Helen, but his old-lady shoes and long-sleeved dress weighed him down in the water.
Helen grabbed the attacker’s slick, rubbery face and clawed his eye.
He pulled her hair so hard she feared it would come out by the roots.
She pushed him under water. He grabbed her little finger and bent it back. Helen screamed and brought her knee up toward his groin, but she couldn’t get much momentum in the water. She had swallowed half the pool and her eyes stung from the chlorine.
She sank her teeth into his hand and he let go of her finger. She tasted his blood this time, a savage salty triumph.
There was a blinding flash. For a moment Helen couldn’t see anything. Then her vision cleared. The pool lights were on. She saw three gun barrels pointed at her.
Margery, Peggy, and Phil were standing around the pool, guns drawn. All three looked like they’d dressed in the dark. Phil hadn’t had time to put on his shirt.
“What the hell is going on here?” Margery said.
“Don’t shoot, it’s me!” Helen said.
“Of course it’s you,” Margery said. “Who else would be sword fighting with my pool net? Who’s the other musketeer?”
“He tried to kill me. He slashed me with a sword cane.”
Helen could hear sirens screaming nearby. Her attacker made a desperate dive for the ladder on the other side.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Helen grabbed his collar and yanked him back toward her. His dress tore down the front. Its long sleeves tangled his arms and held them together like handcuffs.
Helen goggled at his naked chest. Her attacker had huge pendulous breasts with hot-pink nipples. They were foam rubber.
“Holy cow, you can buy a sagging chest,” Helen said.
“I got mine free for my birthday,” Margery said.
“Helen, you’re worse than a man,” Peggy said. “Quit looking at tits and tell us who he is.”
“You’re blocking the light,” Helen said. “I think it’s Jason, recapping his sword-fight scene from Richard the Third.”
Helen saw the blood running down her arm. She would need stitches. She’d probably have an ugly scar. She was so angry, she grabbed her assailant by his hair and dunked him once more.
�
��Helen! Do I have to come in there after you? Who is it?” Margery howled. The sirens howled with her. The cops were almost at the Coronado.
Helen dragged the choking, spluttering man over to the lights for a good look. She stared at his handsome actor’s face, then blinked.
“Luke!” she said. “You’re the killer.”
Chapter 27
“Helen, you’re safe.”
Phil’s voice was a caress. Helen’s eyes teared at his tenderness.
Phil knelt down to pull her out of the pool, a semi-naked knight at her service. Helen took his strong hands and remembered how they felt on her bare skin.
Then she thought of them unhooking Kendra’s red lace bra.
“You idiot,” Helen said as he pulled her up onto the concrete.
“What?” Phil’s eyes widened in surprise, and he let go of her. Helen fell back in the pool with a seismic splash, drenching everyone.
“What the hell was that for?” Margery said. Her gray hair hung in wet hanks, but she kept her gun trained on Luke’s fake foam chest. He didn’t move.
“What are you doing?” a dripping Peggy said. She looked like the winner of a wet T-shirt contest.
Helen could handle a murderer, but a lover was another matter. A woman had only so much courage each day. This time, she climbed out of the pool on her own, using the ladder.
“I’ll talk to you later,” she said to Phil, who looked stunned.
“I think she’s light-headed,” Margery said. “Helen, you’re bleeding. We’ll get you help.”
Blood trickled down Helen’s arm and dribbled on her feet. Blood smeared her chest. Blood streaked her face like savage paint. Blood was pulsing off the Coronado walls and pool. Helen finally figured out that red was the police lights. The pool seemed to be swimming in red.
Helen started to sway.
“She needs an ambulance,” Phil said.
“Then call one and get some clean towels,” Margery said. She kept her gun trained on Luke.
