by Elaine Viets
Final Sail
( Dead End Job Mystery - 11 )
Elaine Viets
Also by Elaine Viets
Dead-End Job Mystery Series
Shop till You Drop
Murder Between the Covers
Dying to Call You
Just Murdered
Murder Unleashed
Murder with Reservations
Clubbed to Death
Killer Cuts
Half-Price Homicide
Pumped for Murder
Josie Marcus, Mystery Shopper Series
Dying in Style
High Heels Are Murder
Accessory to Murder
Murder with All the Trimmings
The Fashion Hound Murders
An Uplifting Murder
Death on a Platter
A DEAD-END JOB MYSTERY
Elaine Viets
For Victoria,
who really should kill
people—on paper.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Final Sail would have been totally at sea without the help of Victoria Allman. She’s a yacht chef who writes as well as she cooks. Many of the meals aboard the fictional Belted Earl came from Victoria’s two cooking memoirs: Sea Fare: A Chef’s Journey Across the Ocean and SEAsoned: A Chef’s Journey with her Captain (NorLightsPress). The recipes are fabulous.
Victoria’s captain is also her husband, Captain Patrick Allman. His help was invaluable. Gina Soacat, the yacht’s head stewardess, taught me the finer points of yacht cleaning, including running the vacuum cleaner in the tracks.
One mystery still remains: Victoria, Captain Patrick and Gina would not reveal their yacht’s owners.
A very special thanks must go to my editor, Sandra Harding, for her insights and her patience, and to the ever-helpful Elizabeth Bistrow at NAL. Writers love to complain about copy editors, but this one saved my hide. Thank you!
My agent, David Hendin, gave excellent advice, and my husband, Don Crinklaw, is my first reader and best critic.
Old salt and sailboater Barry Talley steered me across the treacherous Gulf Stream and mystery writer Marcia Talley provided photos and other information about the Bahamas.
I am deeply grateful to my friend and former newspaper editor Dick Richmond for his help.
Tom Adair, a retired forensic scientist, helped with the forensics. Enjoy his blog at forensics4fiction.wordpress.com. Mystery writer Joanna Campbell Slan told me how the rich really advertise for household help. Sue Schlueter gave wardrobe advice for my yacht-goers.
Mary Lynn Reed, when she isn’t providing Phil with fake references, is a real friend. Valerie Cannata gave me her name for my TV reporter. Nancie Hays let me turn her into a lawyer.
Suzanne Schoomer is a fine chef who generously lent her name in return for a large donation to a worthy cause.
The real Margery Flax is much younger but just as crafty as the fictional Margery—and both love purple. She does wish the Coronado landlady drove a hotter car, but it’s a Florida law that anyone over age seventy must drive a large white car.
Helen still works those dead-end jobs, but now that she and Phil have their own private eye agency, she takes them to solve cases. Private investigator William Simon gave invaluable information about this business. Detective R. C. White, Fort Lauderdale Police Department (retired), is also working on his PI license. He gave me the benefit of his insights and information.
Rick McMahan, ATF special agent and one heck of a writer, helped. MarySue Carl and author Eileen Dreyer assisted with hospital procedure. Fort Lauderdale attorney Vladimira Libansky, Esq., helped with the legal issues. Luci Zahray, internationally known poison expert, uses her powers only for good—and to help mystery writers like me.
Like the song says, I get by with a little help from my friends. They include Karen Grace, who spent many hours discussing these characters and their motivation, Alan Portman, Molly Portman, Doris Ann Norris, Kay Gordy, Jack Klobnak, Robert Levine and Janet Smith. Mary Alice Gorman gave me promotional advice. I can’t forget supersaleswoman Carole Wantz, who could sell beer at a temperance meeting.
Boynton Beach librarian Anne Watts lent me her six-toed cat, Thumbs, for this series. Once again, I am grateful to all the librarians who helped with this book, especially the staff of the St. Louis Public Library and Broward County Library. Librarians are the original search engines.
I’m grateful to the booksellers who recommend my novels to their customers.
To the sources who can’t be named, I appreciate your legal, medical and tax information.
Thank you, blog sisters. I rely on the advice and encouragement of the wise women in the Femmes Fatales (www.femmesfatales.typepad.com). You’ll enjoy what they have to say, too. Stop by our blog.
Finally, any errors are my own. You can tell me about them, or better yet, tell me you enjoyed this novel, at [email protected].
CHAPTER 1
“That woman is murdering my father,” Violet Zerling said. “We’re sitting here while he’s dying. And you—you’re letting her get away with it.”
Violet Zerling jabbed an accusing finger at attorney Nancie Hays. Violet was no delicate flower. She was twice the size of the slender lawyer and obviously upset.
Nancie wasn’t intimidated by the large woman. The lawyer was barely five feet tall, a hundred pounds and thirty years old, but tough and adept at handling difficult people. She had faced down—and successfully sued—a slipshod homicide detective and the small South Florida city that employed him. She’d fought to keep an innocent woman out of jail. Now she didn’t back away from Violet.
Nancie was all business, and so was her office. The carpet was a practical dark blue. Her plain white desk was piled with papers and folders. A workstation with a black computer, printer and fax machine was within rolling distance of her desk. Seated next to the workstation were the two partners of Coronado Investigations, Helen Hawthorne and Phil Sagemont. Nancie had called in the husband-and-wife PI team to help her new client.
Helen felt sorry for Violet, sitting rigidly in the lime green client chair. Her beige pantsuit was the same color as her short hair. The unflattering cut and drab color turned her face into a lump of dough.
Violet’s clothes and shoes said she had money and spent it badly. Despite her sturdy build, she seemed helpless. Helen thought Violet could be pretty. Why did she work to make herself unattractive?
I’m not here to solve that mystery, Helen told herself. We have to save a man’s life.
Nancie did not humor her client. “Violet, we’ve discussed this before,” she said, her voice sharp. “Your father did not leave any medical directives or sign a living will. In fact, he doesn’t have any will at all. Your stepmother—”
“That witch is not my mother,” Violet said. “She is Daddy’s second wife. She married my father for his money and now she’s killing him. She wants his ten million dollars. He’ll be dead soon, unless you do something. I need to save Daddy. Please. Before it’s too late.”
Violet burst into noisy tears. Helen had seen women turn weeping into an art form, shedding dainty droplets as if they were Swarovski crystals. Violet’s tears seemed torn from her heart. Helen would bet her PI license those tears were genuine.
Nancie, Helen and Phil waited out the tear storm until Violet sat sniffling in the client chair. Then Phil handed her his pocket handkerchief. Helen loved her husband for that old-fashioned courtesy.
Violet liked it, too. She dabbed at her reddened eyes, then thanked Phil. “You don’t meet many gentlemen these days,” she said. “I’ll have this laundered and return it to you.”
“Keep it,” Phil said. “That’s why I carry one.”
Violet stuffed Phil’s handkerchief into a lea
ther purse as beige and shapeless as its owner. The ugly bag was well made. It would probably last forever. Unfortunately.
“May I ask a question?” Phil asked.
Violet nodded.
“How does the rest of your family feel about your fight to keep your father alive?”
“There is no one else,” Violet said. “I’m an only child. Daddy is the last of the Zerling family. He doesn’t even have distant cousins.”
“And you’re not married, I take it?” Phil asked.
“I’m divorced,” Violet said. “My husband married me for my money and the marriage was not happy.” She looked down at her smooth, well-shaped hands. They belonged to a woman who did not work for a living.
“I might as well tell you,” Violet said. “You and Helen are detectives. You’ll find the whole sordid story of my divorce on the Internet. My marriage was miserable. My ex-husband drank and beat me. I had no idea he was like that when I fell in love with him. I was only twenty-one. Daddy opposed the marriage, but I had a trust fund from my grandmother, and I was determined to marry. My ex slapped me around on our honeymoon, and the marriage went downhill from there.
“I tried to hide the bruises, but I couldn’t fool Daddy. He knew why I wore heavy makeup and long sleeves in August. He never said ‘I told you so.’ But he was there for me. It took me more than a year to walk away from my marriage. After my ex put me in the hospital, I got the courage to leave him.
“He wouldn’t let go of his meal ticket without a fight. He accused me of living a wild life. We were tabloid material for months. I couldn’t have made it without Daddy. I changed my name back to Zerling after the divorce.
“My family’s money never brought me happiness. I can’t trust my judgment about men. I’ve set aside that phase of my life.”
“Oh!” Helen said. She was a new bride and couldn’t imagine life without love, though her first husband had been a disaster.
“It’s better that way,” Violet said. “I can’t make any more mistakes.”
Now Helen understood Violet’s dowdy appearance. It hid a badly wounded woman.
“We aren’t here to talk about me,” Violet said. “I have to save my father.”
“Violet, I wish I could do more,” Nancie said. “Legally, Blossom is Arthur’s next of kin. He’s being given the best possible care, but he had a heart attack and he’s in a coma.”
“No! He was poisoned,” Violet said. “She did it. That’s why he’s in a coma.”
“There’s no proof,” Nancie said. “Your father’s housekeeper, Frances, accused Blossom of poisoning Mr. Zerling. Fran took two samples to the police. They were analyzed. The so-called poison turned out to be harmless spices, turmeric and cumin.”
“Fran was right to be suspicious,” Violet said. “That woman never even scrambled an egg. Suddenly, she decided to fix Daddy a spicy curry dinner. A meat-and-potatoes man like Daddy, eating curry. Guess what? He got deathly ill after he ate it. Fran said she made a big pot of curry, but there wasn’t a crumb left. That woman dumped it down the disposal.”
“After her husband took sick?” Nancie asked. “You couldn’t expect her to eat it.”
“It disappeared before Daddy was sick.”
“Blossom ate the same meal as your father,” Nancie said.
“She poisoned Daddy’s dinner,” Violet said. “That’s what I told the police. They didn’t listen.”
“They can’t,” Nancie said. “Not after Fran. The doctors said he had a heart attack. They didn’t see any symptoms of poison.”
“They didn’t look. That woman’s got a boyfriend,” Violet said. “She left Daddy’s house to meet a man. Fran saw her.”
“Fran never actually saw Blossom with a man,” Nancie said.
“That woman left at midnight,” Violet said.
“She could have been going for a drive,” Nancie said.
“Dressed in a short skirt and a low-cut blouse?” Violet asked. “Fran reported that woman’s suspicious behavior to the police. Blossom fired my father’s housekeeper. Threw poor Fran out of her home.”
“Can you blame her?” Nancie asked. “Let’s look at the facts: Mr. Zerling has a heart condition. He uses nitroglycerin pills. He also took Viagra. That’s not recommended for a man with his health issues. I’m surprised his doctor prescribed it.”
“He didn’t,” Violet said. “His Fort Lauderdale doctor refused. Daddy got the blue pills from India. That woman told him he was a stud and he believed her.”
“It’s not illegal to encourage your husband to take Viagra,” Nancie said.
“You didn’t see the way she flaunted herself at him,” Violet said. “I did. Daddy was taking twice the recommended dose. I know he’ll pull through if I take care of him. Daddy is a fighter.”
“What else could you do for him?” Nancie asked. “The doctors are doing everything they can. They say there’s almost no chance of recovery. According to Blossom, your father said, ‘If anything happens to me, pull the plug. I don’t want to be a vegetable.’ She wants him to die with dignity. Your father is an old man who’s had a massive heart attack.”
“He’s only eighty-four,” Violet said. “That’s not old, not in our family. His father, my grandpapa, lived to be ninety-seven. His mother passed away at a hundred and two. Daddy could go on for another ten, twenty years if he hadn’t married that woman. She murdered him.”
“Mr. Zerling is still alive,” Nancie said gently.
“Not for long,” Violet said. “He’s on a ventilator. My father is unconscious, wrapped like a mummy in tubes and wires. That machine makes the most horrible sound. I tried to see Daddy in the ICU, but that woman won’t let me in his room. She says I give off bad vibes.”
Helen saw tears welling up in Violet’s eyes again.
“That’s her right,” Nancie said. “Unfortunately, the law is on Blossom’s side. The judge denied your petition for guardianship.”
“If I may interrupt,” Phil said, “I find it hard to believe that a businessman like your father didn’t have a will or a medical directive.”
“Daddy hated lawyers,” Violet said. “After my divorce, he set up a trust to run his companies if anything happened to him, and settled half his personal wealth on me. Then he made even more money. Daddy said he’d make a will when he was old.”
“But he was eighty-four,” Phil said.
“That’s not as strange as it sounds, Phil,” the lawyer said. “Even smart people aren’t rational about wills. They’re afraid if they sign one, they’re signing their death warrant. They put it off until it’s too late. Mr. Zerling is an amazing man, but he is old.”
“Daddy is strong,” Violet said. “He will get better.”
He will recover—he won’t. Helen rode that same seesaw during her mother’s last illness. Her heart couldn’t accept what her mind knew.
Nancie turned toward Violet and her voice softened. “Violet, dear, I know this is hard for you to hear, but you must prepare yourself for the worst. Your father may not recover.”
From the depths of her beige purse, Violet pulled out a photo of a white-haired man on a glossy black stallion and handed it to Helen. She saw a square-jawed older man with a straight back and strong hands gripping the reins. He looked fit and muscular. Helen handed the photo to Phil.
“Look at him! Is this the photo of a man who would give up?” Violet’s eyes burned with fanatic fire and her pale skin was tinged with pink. For a moment, Helen got a glimpse of the vital woman she could be.
“That’s my father on his eighty-fourth birthday, three months before he met her,” Violet said. “He barely looks sixty. Blossom has reduced him to a thing on a machine. Soon Daddy will be nothing at all. He’ll be dead and she’ll have his millions and spend them on her boyfriend.”
“Violet,” Nancie soothed, “you must be careful what you say. That statement is actionable.”
“I’m saying it to you in your office,” Violet said. “These detectives work for
you, right?”
“Yes,” Nancie said. “When Helen and Phil work for my firm, their investigation is protected by attorney-client privilege. Also, under Florida law, client communications with private investigators are protected. They can lose their licenses if they breach confidentiality.”
“Good,” Violet said. “That means I’m doubly protected. I want to prove she’s killing Daddy. Then I can be in charge of his care.”
“Violet,” Nancie said, “your father may not live long enough for that to happen.”
“If you can’t save my father, I want her in jail for murder. I have the money to get what I want.
“His millions may kill my father,” she said. “I want my money to save him.”
CHAPTER 2
“I have the money to get what I want.”
Violet’s sentence sounded sweet to Helen: Nancie’s new client had just handed their struggling PI agency an unlimited expense account. Her reasons sounded noble: She wanted to save her father.
But Helen also detected discordant notes: Violet had used “I” twice, plus “money” and “want.” She’d packed a lot of ego into nine short words. She’d mentioned her father’s millions and her own money.
If Violet solved her problems by throwing money at them, she could give Helen and Phil’s newborn agency a healthy cash infusion.
But that sentence also signaled Violet could be difficult, demanding and determined to get her way. She was so eaten with hatred that she could not say her stepmother’s name. It was an unnerving pattern. Violet didn’t mention her ex-husband’s name, either. She’d erased the man, if not the damage he did to her.
Violet was in the grip of powerful emotions. Her desire for revenge could hinder their investigation.
You’ve spent years in retail, Helen told herself. This isn’t the first difficult person you’ve had to handle. Phil has enough charm for both of us, and Nancie stood up to a whole city and got her way. We can handle one rich, wounded client.
