by Elaine Viets
Desiree acted as if Helen were invisible. I mean nothing to her, Helen thought. Yet I helped put on her bridal gown—and put her husband in jail.
Helen gawked as the tiny figure strutted around the salon. Breasts and chins could be implanted, mousy hair could be dyed and styled, but where did Desiree get that air of authority?
It was only two months since her husband had been arrested for Kiki’s murder, but Desiree had transformed herself. Helen still wasn’t fully recovered from Luke’s attack. The wounds on her arm and chest were raw and pink, and she had trouble lifting heavy wedding dresses with her injured hand.
Helen went back to the salon too early. Millicent had sent flowers and called twice a week. One Friday, when Helen was lounging around her apartment in cat-furred shorts, the salon owner showed up at her door.
Millicent’s white hair, red nails, and trim black suit gave her extra authority, but she didn’t use it. Instead, Millicent begged. “Please come back,” she said. “Business is booming. I’ve hired new sales staff, but they have the personalities of palm trees. I need you, Helen.”
Helen needed the money. But she didn’t miss the bridal salon. The surging emotions, the frantic family fights, and sudden tear storms were tiring. The peevish brides depressed her. The happy ones opened old wounds in Helen’s heart.
She longed to be away from the bridal business. Each night, she checked the classified ads for another job, but the search seemed hopeless. The ad inviting her to “join the team of service professionals working in a luxury resort” turned out to be for valet car parkers.
Helen was disgusted that the best-paying women’s jobs were for “gentlemen’s escorts. Earn $1000 a day, no experience required.”
I bet, thought Helen and threw the paper across the floor. One page skidded under the coffee table. Thumbs promptly sat on it.
Helen crawled under the table to retrieve it. The cat’s paw was on an ad that said: “Pet grooming assistant and sales clerk—must love animals. Apply in person.” The Barker Brothers Pampered Pet Boutique was only four blocks from the Coronado.
“Thumbs, I love you,” Helen said. She opened a whole can of tuna to reward her big-pawed cat.
She put on her best black suit and walked over to the shop. Helen hit it off with the owner instantly. Helen didn’t have to tell Jeff that she loved animals—he spotted the cat hairs on her suit. They talked for almost two hours.
“You’re my first choice,” Jeff said. “But I have to wait until my partner, Ray, comes home in two weeks to make the final decision.”
Every time Helen studied the ads, she wondered: Who placed the awful ad in the City Times? If someone wanted to ruin Millicent’s business, they’d failed miserably. Yes, brides canceled their orders, and there were some slow weeks right after it ran. But those brides came back and brought more. The new clientele was hipper and richer. They thought the ad was “a total riot,” as one said.
Kiki’s murder had been good for business. Now even the victim’s daughter was returning.
The new Desiree completed her circuit of the shop. She marched back to Millicent and said, “Millie, darling, I’ve decided to forgive you for that tacky ad.”
Millicent blushed but said nothing. Helen stared at her.
“Now let’s find me a dress. I want to try on that one. That one. And that.” Desiree pointed to about thirty thousand dollars’ worth of dresses. They were bold, bosom- and back-baring styles.
“Is this for a special occasion?” Millicent said.
“Yes. My divorce. I want them all in black. Fetch them, please.” Desiree flounced back to the largest fitting room.
Helen followed Millicent to the dress racks and hissed, “You placed that ad?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. Helen knew Millicent had. She remembered Eric the ad taker saying the woman had long white hair and bloodred nail polish. Eric had also said she was “old. Older than my mom. I’d say she was about fifty-five.”
“I am not,” Millicent had cried in outrage.
Now her furious denial made sense.
Helen angrily paced the shop, afraid of her growing rage. Millicent pretended to be picking out black dresses. She wouldn’t look at Helen. Finally she said, “Helen, I had to put that ad in the paper. It was the only way to save my business. Kiki’s family refused to pay.”
“I feel like a complete fool,” Helen said.
Men had made a fool out of her often enough. But it was worse being betrayed by her own sex. Helen liked and trusted Millicent.
“You used me,” Helen said. “I investigated a murder because of that ad. I nearly got myself killed.”
“Helen, please, I didn’t mean it.”
But Helen felt frustrated, powerless, and fed up. The pretty pink salon looked like a poisoned bonbon. The walls were closing in on her. The billowing bridal gowns reached out to smother her. The snake tangle of lace and ribbons threatened to strangle her.
Helen was sick of her species. Even the best people seemed calculating. The worst were impossibly cruel. Animals were better behaved. She craved their warm and accepting company. She didn’t know if she’d get the job at the pet groomer, but she had to leave here. She ran to the back room and grabbed her purse.
Millicent was staggering down the hall under her burden of black dresses. “Helen, are you really leaving?” she said.
“Good-bye, Millicent,” Helen said. “I admire you, but I can’t work for you anymore.”
“But where are you going?” Millicent seemed genuinely concerned.
“To the dogs,” Helen said.
Read on for a preview
of Elaine Viets’s next
Dead-End Job mystery
DOG GONE
Coming from Signet in May 2006
“I want this party to be perfect,” Tammie Grimsby said. “But I can’t take any stress. No stress at all.”
Oh, brother, Helen Hawthorne thought. The only stress in this woman’s life was on her spandex.
Tammie’s teeny white shorts showed the divide in her peachlike posterior. Her sports bra revealed considerable cleavage. Tammie’s stupendous diaphragm development produced a disappointing little-girl voice. The effect was outrageously, ridiculously sexy.
Why do I always get the weird customers? Helen wondered. But she knew the answer to that question. She was working in a weird business.
“This is a birthday party, right?” Helen said. She took the party orders at Jeff and Ray’s shop.
“For twenty guests.” Tammie sighed and her implants heaved like ships in a storm-tossed sea. “My little boy must be the star.”
“What about a birthday cake?” Helen said. “Customers love our peanut butter cakes.”
“Peanut butter makes my baby boy sick,” Tammie said.
“How about a nice garlic chicken cake with yogurt icing?” Helen said.
“No cake, period,” Tammie said. “With twenty guests, there will be fights. Besides, they’re all on diets. I don’t know why I did this to myself. It’s too much stress.”
Tammie had invited twenty tiny dogs to her Yorkie’s birthday party. Helen guessed they would all be white fluff muffins, except the birthday boy. Malteses, bichons frises and shih tzus, all yipping, yapping, sniffing and shedding. Dust-mop dogs. The whole party wouldn’t weigh as much as the well-toned Tammie.
Helen repeated the party line. “The Barker Brothers Pampered Pet Boutique in Fort Lauderdale prides itself on perfect pet parties,” she said solemnly. “Your Prince will have the best birthday money can buy.” If I can get his airhead owner to concentrate long enough, she thought.
Prince sat regally in the crook of Tammie’s arm. The Yorkie had the calculating eyes of a con artist.
“My itty-bitty baby eats only the finest fillet. I have to hand-feed him,” Tammie said.
Right, Helen thought. I’d live on fillet, too, if I could get away with it. On her pay, she was lucky she could afford hamburger.
The beady-eyed Yorkie stare
d at Helen, as if daring her to disagree. She didn’t begrudge the dog its soft life. Prince paid a high price for his fillet. Helen saw the intelligence in the dark eyes, and felt oddly sorry for the little Yorkie. Prince could manipulate the addlepated Tammie, but he knew he was stuck with her. Helen was glad Prince was a five-pound dog. If he had two legs, the Yorkie could run a drug ring—or the country.
Tammie picked up the little dog, kissed his nose and baby-talked, “You’re a particular puppy, aren’t you? Oh, yes, you are.”
At twenty, fluffy blond Tammie must have been endearing. At forty, she was annoying. Rather like some of Pampered Pet’s pampered pets, Helen thought sadly. Cute didn’t always age well.
“Those birthday cakes are ugly. Can’t you do something more artistic?” Tammie said.
Helen didn’t know how to answer her question. The cakes were bone-shaped, iced in white and decorated with sugar roses. Could you make a sugared bone more artistic?
Helen needed the shop diplomat. She signaled Jeff, one of the owners. Jeffrey Tennyson Barker looked like an elegant pedigreed pet himself, with his long nose, sensitive spaniel eyes and thick brown hair.
The Pampered Pet was his baby. Jeff took a touching delight in his upscale boutique. He fussed endlessly over its racks of dresses and fake furs, jewelry showcases, and the glass cases of bonbons on lace doilies, all for dogs. The store also had a salon for grooming canine hair and nails. Jeff loved pleasing customers, even the impossible ones like Tammie.
“If you don’t want a cake, may I suggest our doggie bags?” Jeff said. He pulled out a small bag dotted with black paw prints. “We fill it with treats for your guests. Each treat is beautifully prepared.”
They were, too. The display case’s pastel bonbons were delicately iced and decorated. They were all canine treats: doggie doughnuts, Barkin-Robbins ice-cream cones, lady paws, and pupcakes—miniature cupcakes with sprinkles. Each doggie delicacy ran between one and three bucks.
Tammie was pawing through the racks of dog clothes. “I need a special outfit for my doggie on his day. Ooooh, this is perfect.”
She pulled out a blue sweatshirt embroidered with PRINCE. It had a matching bandanna with a silver crown. Tammie shoved the dog’s head and front paws into the shirt. The outfit hung on him.
“Ooh. It’s too big.” Tammie stuck out her lower lip in a pout. She also stuck out her chest, giving Helen a look at more cleavage.
“It will have to be tailored,” Jeff said.
“I can take it to Evie, the seamstress,” she said. “The party’s this evening, but if I pay extra, she’ll fix it. But that’s sooo stressful. You’ll decorate the doggie bags?”
“Certainly,” Jeff said. “We’ll put colored ribbons on the bags. Does your party have a theme color, such as red or blue? Or would you prefer a rainbow assortment?”
“No rainbow,” Tammie said. “I don’t want anyone to think my dog is gay.”
“My dog is a diesel dyke,” Jeff said sweetly.
“My Princey needs his hair done for the party,” Tammie said. “How can I have him groomed if we have to go to the seamstress? I want this party perfect but I can’t take the stress. I just can’t.”
“We have a delivery service,” Jeff said. “We can pick up your dog or take him home, or both. Do you want to leave him with us now for grooming? Helen will bring him back to your home for a small fee.”
“No, silly, he has a fitting at the seamstress’s, remember? It’s ten o’clock now. Can your girl pick him up at noon? He has to be back home by four. The party is at six and Prince needs a nap before his big night.”
Jeff checked the date book. “No problem. Jonathon can take Prince.”
Jeff pronounced the name with awe. Jonathon was the prima donna assoluta of the Lauderdale grooming world. He was famous for his towering rages, which made him suddenly pack up his case of supersharp scissors and move to yet another grooming salon. He’d been at the Barker Brothers for six weeks now, and Jeff gloried in the groomer’s full date book.
“Good,” Tammie said. “I’ll just go back and meet the groomer.”
“No!” Panic smothered Jeff’s pride. “Jonathon hates visitors.” The star’s contract guaranteed him no personal contact with salon customers, and he’d quit other grooming shops when it had been violated.
But Tammie the gym rat easily outdistanced the sedentary Jeff. There was a shriek and a yelp from the grooming room, followed by an anguished cry: “I am an artist. I cannot work like this.”
His precious Jonathon was in distress. Jeff sped to his rescue. “Coming!” he shouted. Helen followed.
The star was majestic in his outrage—and his outfit. He wore a flaring royal purple satin disco suit.
Jonathon’s vintage seventies suit was outshone by his magnificent mane, streaked seven shades of blond. It was the envy of any woman who entered a beauty salon. Helen had never seen a hint of dark roots. She suspected Jonathon did his own hair at home with a complicated system of mirrors. Helen had no idea when Jonathon had the time. His own body rivaled Tammie’s for gym-produced perfection. He had a cleft chin, a chiseled Roman nose, and the tiniest feet Helen had ever seen on a six-foot man. That was probably why his purple platform shoes didn’t look like concrete blocks.
“Every great artist has a temperament,” Jeff soothed. “Everyone at your party will recognize a Jonathon cut.”
Tammie craved Jonathon’s cachet. Jonathon’s complexion lapsed into a light lavender. The crisis was averted.
“Helen will stop by your home at noon to pick up Prince,” he said, and deftly directed her out the grooming salon door.
The boutique’s bell rang.
“Helen, would you get that customer, please, while I talk to Jonathon?” Jeff said.
Two more birthday cakes and ten pounds of treats later, it was time to pick up Prince. Tammie and her husband, Kent Grimsby, lived about ten minutes from the Pampered Pet. Helen drove the shop’s hot pink Cadillac, a florid gas guzzler from the seventies known as the Pupmobile. She didn’t like pet pickups. The car was long as a hook-and-ladder truck. Helen was driving with a fake license in another name. She was on the run from her ex and the court in Saint Louis and had to stay out of government computers. Driving with a fake license in a huge hot pink car in the crazed Florida traffic was no way to keep a low profile.
But she couldn’t tell Jeff what was wrong. Instead, Helen drove as slowly as a seventy year old. The car felt unnatural at this funereal pace. Outraged SUVs honked and roared around her as she steered the house-sized pink Pupmobile down U.S. 1.
How did I ever get reduced to this? Helen thought.
She pulled the Pupmobile up to the kiosk at the Stately Palms Country Club. The ancient white-haired guard napping inside didn’t notice its long, lurid form. Helen tapped lightly on the horn, and the guard waved the Pupmobile through. She wondered why he was there. The old guy wasn’t even ornamental.
The Grimsby mansion looked like a convention center constructed on cost overruns. Helen expected a marquee in the yard to say: “Appearing this week—”
She parked the Caddy in the circular drive and rang the doorbell. No one answered. Hmm. Must be out of order.
Helen knocked hard on the dark polished front door. It swung open.
Odd. Usually a maid or housekeeper did door duty in the posh homes. Some even had British butlers.
“Hello?” Helen stepped into the entrance hall. “Anyone home?”
The double living room was decorated like a Palm Beach funeral parlor. Huge gold mirrors reflected tapestries, taupe fabrics, tassels and fringe. The gloomy urns could hold several loved ones.
The house was designed to show off the Grimsby dough. Helen could not imagine the owners really living in the place. She couldn’t see Tammie eating popcorn and watching a movie or Kent drinking a beer and barbecuing in the backyard. Did megamillionaires drink beer and watch movies?
“Hello?” Helen said, and tiptoed through the living room. Now she was
in a dining room that seated twenty. The table looked like a mahogany runway. The candelabra could have lit up a castle. Over the sideboard was a painting of Tammie in an evening dress. She looked like a nineteenth-century robber baron’s wife. The painting was signed with a flourish—“Rax.”
“Hello?” A little louder this time. The last thing Helen wanted was to be arrested for breaking and entering.
The breakfast room was next. Helen was sure she’d seen it in an old Architectural Digest. She wondered what you ate for breakfast in a room like this: A soufflé of nightingale tongues? Shirred eggs and lamb kidneys? Oats rolled on the thighs of Scottish virgins?
Helen grew more uneasy as she went through a country kitchen the size of a French province. The video room was bigger than the local multiplex.
“Anyone here?” The silence was unnatural. Did she have the right time?
Helen checked her watch. It was 12:02. Tammie might have acted like an airhead, but that party was important to her. She wouldn’t forget Prince’s noon hair appointment.
Maybe Tammie was taking a nap, recovering from the stress of party planning. Helen wandered through a labyrinth of halls hung with murky British landscapes until she found the master bedroom. The canopy bed looked like it slept six starlets. The miniature canopy bed next to it could hold one Yorkie. Both were empty. So was the master bath. The white terry robe on the door belonged in a hotel.
“Tammie? Prince?” she called. No one answered.
Now Helen was seriously worried. She eyed the bedroom phone. Maybe she should call Jeff. Maybe she should call 911. No, she couldn’t bring in the police. They’d ask awkward questions.
Helen kept searching for signs of life.
The French doors in the master bedroom opened onto the pool, which was slightly smaller than Lake Okeechobee. Gaily striped awnings—no, wait, Tammie would never have anything gay—sheltered umbrella tables and teak lounges. Under a vast umbrella, Helen saw two tanned legs on a teak lounge, spread wide and unmoving. The toenails were bloodred.
