by Elaine Viets
Cocktail dresses and long gowns glittered with sequins, rhinestones and bugle beads. As the dresses whirled slowly around, Helen saw flirty ruffles and frisky feathers.
Each dress was protected by a clear plastic zipped bag. They must look spectacular on Blossom’s well-toned figure. A red velvet number with a plunging front and back looked like the fabled “gownless evening strap” worn by a Hollywood starlet.
When did Blossom wear clothes like these with her elderly husband? And where? Certainly not at any soiree given by the staid silver hairs downstairs.
Helen slowly watched the dresses on the carousel until she came to a section of subdued silver and black gowns. Some were strapless, others had long sleeves, but all were elegant and tasteful. These were suitable for Arthur’s friends. So were the two racks of black, gray and pale peach suits.
Blossom’s casual clothes showed the same split personality: risqué halter tops with deep-cut necklines and V-cut backs. Blouses with sexy lace-up fronts, provocative corset styles and wisps of leopard prints with barely enough spots to cover the vital spots.
Club clothes, never meant for daylight. They contrasted oddly with schoolmarmish tailored skirts, pants and clamdiggers from Tory Burch, Brooks Brothers and Talbots, designed for a rich man’s wife.
Blossom’s shoes ranged from modest ballerina flats to an outrageous pair of purple cage sandals with six-inch stiletto heels. How did she walk in those? Helen wondered. She picked up the heel for a closer look. The strappy purple shoe weighed at least three pounds and the skinny heels looked lethal.
“Drop that weapon now,” said a voice behind her.
Helen jumped and the heel went flying across the peach carpet. She turned and saw her husband leaning against the doorframe, laughing.
“Phil!” she said. “I ought to stab you with that stiletto.”
“What are you doing in Blossom’s dressing room?” he said. “She could catch you poking around in her things.”
“She’s busy,” Helen said. “Why are you wearing white shorts and a blue polo shirt instead of your jeans?”
“The lady of the house gave me this uniform,” Phil said. He did a model’s turn in the dressing room.
“Shows off your buns nicely, Cabana Boy,” Helen said. “Where did she send you to buy that outfit?”
“She didn’t,” Phil said. “She guessed my size and had it waiting for me.”
“She’s been observing you closely,” Helen said. “When did she have time to run to the store and buy uniforms? She hired you the night her husband died.”
“Maybe she missed being at Arthur’s deathbed because she was uniform shopping,” Phil said.
“Maybe our client should suspect her stepmother,” Helen said. “Blossom said she was caught in the traffic from that accident on I-95.”
“Which isn’t on the way to the hospital,” Phil said. “But it is the fastest way to several malls. If Violet and Fran are right and Blossom poisoned Arthur, we’ve got a hell of a job. I checked out the place this morning while helping set up the reception. Besides the eight bedrooms and twelve baths, there are two dining rooms, a six-car garage and a pool house. I lost track of the halls, sitting rooms and living rooms.”
“Find any poison?”
“Lots,” Phil said. “Enough rat poison in the garage to kill everyone on Hendin Island.”
“They have rats?”
“In a big old house on the water? Sure. But I don’t think Arthur showed symptoms of that kind of poisoning. Where do I start?”
“Here,” Helen said. “The room Blossom wouldn’t let Fran enter. The housekeeper said Blossom was hiding something.”
“Then let’s find it,” Phil said. “You look through the clothes. I’ll check the drawers. Hurry. In case she comes back.”
Helen poked through the pockets and felt the hems of Blossom’s clothes. Phil searched the drawers, prying through sheer scarves and flimsy lingerie, probing behind and underneath the drawers. Phil looked in the air-conditioning vents. Helen crawled along the molding, feeling for hiding places. She tried to pull up the carpet, but it stayed securely nailed to the floor.
“Nothing,” Helen said. “Maybe she’s already used the poison.”
“If it existed anywhere but in the mind of her housekeeper,” Phil said.
“Maybe she was hiding those outré outfits,” Helen said. “Some of these clothes are costumes. How do we find the real Blossom? Aren’t you doing a background check on her?”
“I’ve been too busy working here,” Phil said. “I should have asked. How was Arthur’s funeral?”
“I got through it,” Helen said, and shrugged. “Had a slight problem with a drunken uncle. Violet was well behaved, except for an outburst against her stepmother in the limo after the burial, and nobody but Margery and me heard that. Violet doesn’t have Blossom’s charm, but we shouldn’t discount what she says.”
“She’s not getting a discount,” Phil said. “She’s paying full price.” He kissed Helen slowly, backing her against a chest of drawers while he unbuttoned her blouse. Helen kissed him back, then pushed him away.
“Not here,” she said, buttoning her blouse again. “What if Blossom finds her minister and her estate manager in a steamy embrace? We’re not supposed to know each other.”
“We’re not getting a chance to know each other,” Phil said. “You leave tomorrow on the yacht and I won’t see you for a week.”
“Then let’s hurry and pack Arthur’s things,” Helen said, “so we can be together tonight. I have to tour the yacht at three.” She thought that sentence sounded romantic.
She led the way to Arthur’s dressing room. A foot-high stack of flat boxes and packing supplies was piled on the carpet.
Phil unfolded a box and taped the bottom while Helen pulled suits off hangers.
“These look handmade,” she said. “Amazing details. Even the cuff buttons have real buttonholes. They aren’t stuck on the sleeves for show. The fabrics are gorgeous.” She lined the box with tissue paper, folded each suit neatly and packed it between more paper while Phil taped a second box.
“Blossom said I could choose the charity,” Helen said. “What about a homeless shelter?” She labeled the first box “Men’s Suits” and Phil taped it shut while she filled the second.
“Many shelters don’t take clothes,” Phil said. “They’re swamped with cast-off clothes. Florida has lots of old people and their clothes are donated when they die.”
“Too bad,” Helen said. “The city could have homeless men in hand-tailored suits and Turnbull & Asser shirts. Look at this.” She held up a shirt with a white collar and pale pink pinstripes.
“Good way to get the homeless hassled by the police,” Phil said. “Why don’t we give the clothes to Out of the Closet? They’re a chain of thrift stores. The proceeds help people with AIDS.”
Six boxes later, the suits and shirts were packed and Phil was emptying Arthur’s underwear drawers.
“Was Arthur a boxers or briefs man?” Helen asked.
“Boxers.” Phil held up a pair of dark blue boxers and read the label: “Hanro Fishbone cotton boxers.”
“He had good taste for an old guy,” Helen said.
“Or a young one,” Phil said.
“Those boxers sell for about seventy-five dollars each,” Helen said.
“I just packed a thousand dollars’ worth of men’s underwear,” Phil said. “They didn’t feel like plain old tightie whities. On to the socks.”
Phil opened a narrow drawer and whistled. “Look at these. Paisley, striped and tartan. Socks with clocks.”
“Beautiful,” Helen said. “Your socks are so plain. You either wear black or white.”
“Reflects my view of the world,” Phil said. “They’re easier to pair if I stick to two colors. Matching up these patterns would make me dizzy.”
“I doubt Arthur did his own laundry,” Helen said. “Did he make his money or inherit it?”
“Blossom told me this
is his childhood home, so I guess he came from big bucks and made more,” Phil said. “Hey, look what’s under these paisley socks.”
He lifted out a wedding photo in a mother-of-pearl frame. The groom was a twenty-something Arthur Zerling. The bride wore white satin with shoulder pads and carried a bouquet of honeysuckle.
“I’ll bet she’s Violet’s mother,” Helen said. “Honeysuckle was a pretty thing. She and Arthur made a handsome couple. I wonder why Arthur hid that wedding picture. Did he still love his first wife—or regret his second marriage?”
“Honeysuckle was a major part of his life,” Phil said. “Maybe he didn’t want to hurt Blossom’s feelings by displaying his first wife’s photo.”
Helen opened the top drawer of watches. “They’re all at two o’clock,” she said. “Someone kept these old-fashioned watches wound. Look, Phil, this platinum Rolex Oyster is engraved on the back. It says: To my love on our first anniversary. We have all the time in the world—HZ. That’s so sweet. HZ has to be Honeysuckle. I’m giving this watch to Violet. She should have this memento of her parents.”
“Does Blossom know you’re doing that?” Phil asked, packing more socks into the box.
“She said I could dispose of the watches any way I wished,” Helen said.
“Really?” Phil lifted one eyebrow.
“She never said I couldn’t give that watch to Violet.”
“But you didn’t ask, did you?” Phil said.
“No.” Helen’s eyes shifted away.
“Because you were afraid she’d say no,” Phil said.
“I can’t predict what she’d say,” Helen said, and looked her husband straight in the eye.
“Ever study the spirit versus the letter of the law, Reverend?” Phil asked.
“Didn’t have time,” Helen said. “I was ordained in the click of a mouse.”
“If you give Violet that watch,” he said, “what will you do when she runs and shows it to Blossom?”
“Violet’s not getting the watch until this case is closed,” Helen said. “If we prove Blossom killed her father, it will be her parting gift.”
“And if we don’t?” Phil asked.
“Then it’s a consolation prize,” Helen said.
CHAPTER 13
“Ahoy!” Helen called, as she stood at the back of the yacht. Was that the right way to hail a ship’s crew?
From the rear, the Belted Earl was about thirty feet wide and looked like a triple stack of elegant porches. The lowest deck was tea-colored teak with rattan furniture upholstered in the colors of the Caribbean Sea: light blue, azure, turquoise and navy. A clear plastic railing was a shield against the workaday world.
Half a dozen white yachts were anchored at the concrete dock on a branch of the New River, protected by an open metal-roofed shed. Helen saw uniformed staffers polishing brightwork and carrying cases and crates aboard. She thought the sleek Belted Earl made the other yachts look tubby.
“Hello? Anybody home?” she tried again.
The deck doors burst open and a slim blonde in white shorts and a polo shirt waved and said, “Hi! Are you Helen?”
She flashed a cheerleader’s smile, ran lightly down the gangplank and held out her hand. “I’m Mira, chief stewardess of the Belted Earl. I’ll show you where you’ll be working and sleeping—if you get any time to sleep. We cruise at nine tomorrow night and the captain will see you at seven thirty.”
Mira had small, doll-like features and a muscular, compact body. Her blond hair was pulled back with a two-toned silver barrette. Helen followed her along the narrow teak deck until Mira opened a door. Helen stepped over the raised threshold into a kitchen bigger than her own.
“The galley is the chef’s domain,” Mira said. “Suzanne cooks for the owners and crew. We eat well.”
“She must have a terrific view from this window when you’re at sea,” Helen said.
“She’s so busy, I doubt if Suzanne has much time to admire the view,” Mira said. “When we’re in port, you can see the crew washing the boat next door. They’re pretty scenic.” She winked. “And single.”
“I’ve got one, thanks.” Helen had removed her wedding ring for this assignment. Her finger felt naked without it.
“Just because you’re on a diet doesn’t mean you can’t look at the menu,” Mira said.
She giggled, then turned serious. “This is the dining room and wet bar. The main salon is beyond the oak divider.”
Helen liked this floating mansion better than the gloomy barrel-tiled monstrosity on Hendin Island. The yacht’s rooms were comfortably roomy, not dark, intimidating caves. They were brightened by big windows and warm honey-colored wood.
“Beautiful wood,” she said.
“Custom-carved oak,” Mira said. “You’ll dust and polish it twice a day.”
Now Helen noticed the room was unnaturally dust free. “I guess I’ll vacuum this carpet, too,” she said.
“The captain said you’ve worked as a hotel maid, so you’re an experienced cleaner,” Mira said. “You know to stay in the tracks.”
“Tracks?”
“We don’t run a vacuum over the carpet every which way,” Mira said. “We vacuum the way you mow a lawn, so there aren’t random tracks.”
Mira opened a door off the main salon. “This is the on-deck head,” she said. “We have ten heads for the guests, including their stateroom baths.” This one made the Coronado bathrooms look like outhouses. The commode was a beige sculpture. The granite sink had gold fixtures. Two fluffy hand towels embroidered with THE BELTED EARL hung on a brass rack.
“The heads are cleaned after each use,” Mira said. “That will be mainly your job.”
“Every time?” Helen tried to hide her disbelief.
“Yes,” Mira said. “I’m sure you cleaned toilets at the hotel.”
“Yes,” Helen said. She doubted the men on the yacht had better aim than the hotel guests. If they missed on land, how steady would they be on a shifting ship?
“You’ll also clean the sink, the counter, the mirror, and empty the wastebasket. The toilet paper has to be folded into points after every use. It’s stowed under the sink.”
She opened the carved oak cabinet doors to show stacks of TP, towels and bars of deliciously fragrant Bvlgari soap.
“The labels on the toilet paper rolls should face out on the shelves,” Mira said. “Towels are changed every time. They’re kept folded with their labels facing the same way. Most guests use the liquid soap, but if a bar is used, we put out a fresh one.”
“Bvlgari is twenty dollars a bar,” Helen said.
“Fifteen,” Mira corrected.
“What happens to the used bar?”
“The crew gets it,” Mira said. “One of our perks. Don’t expect to load up on fancy soap. You’d be surprised how many people don’t wash their hands.”
“How do you know if a guest has used the head?” Helen was proud she’d remembered the nautical term.
“We keep in touch by radio.” Mira pulled a two-way radio off her belt. “You’ll get one, too. If I’m serving in the main salon and you’re doing laundry, I’ll radio you, ‘Guest X is coming back, used the on-deck head,’ and then you’ll clean it.
“The master stateroom and baths are forward on this deck,” she said.
Helen wanted to sink into the depths of the cushiony azure bed piled with dark blue pillows. It faced a sixty-inch television. Who’d watch TV when they had a bed like that? she wondered. She caught herself before she said anything. Mira didn’t know she was a newlywed.
“Most rich people’s homes are either fussy or gaudy,” Helen said. “I could actually live here.”
“All you need is twelve million for the yacht and another million a year to run it,” Mira said.
“I’d better start buying lottery tickets,” Helen said.
“Let’s go downstairs,” Mira said. “The crew quarters and guest rooms are on the lower deck.”
Helen was grateful they wa
lked down an ordinary tile staircase instead of climbing a ship’s ladder. “This room is the crew mess and galley,” Mira said.
A beige wraparound booth and table took up the port side. Above it, a wall-mounted TV was tuned to the news. The dock and the yacht interior were displayed on four screens.
Across the room was a small galley. Mira opened a fridge stocked with food, soda and bottled water. “What do you drink?” she asked. “I run on Red Bull.”
“Water’s fine,” Helen said.
“We’ve got a whole shelf,” Mira said. “Help yourself. Any allergies or food you don’t like?”
“Liver,” Helen said.
“Never serve it.”
“Do you really care what I like?” Helen asked.
“When we cruise, you may work twenty hours a day. If the owners come home at four a.m., we have to be ready to serve them drinks and sandwiches or an early breakfast. It’s a demanding job. We try to keep you happy in little ways.”
Two stacked washer-dryer sets churned and hummed next to the galley. Helen noticed the washers were on the bottom and stifled a groan. She’d have to stoop to load them.
“We do laundry from six a.m. till midnight,” Mira said.
“I guess so, if you change the towels after one use,” Helen said.
Mira barged ahead. “We also do the guests’ laundry and ironing, including their underwear.”
“You iron underwear?” Helen didn’t own an iron.
“We have to stop washing and drying at twelve so the crew can sleep,” Mira said.
How am I going to find an emerald smuggler if I’m working twenty hours a day? Helen wondered. If my heart sinks any lower, I’ll need a salvage company.
“You must carry a lot of water to wash clothes eighteen hours a day,” she said.
“The yacht makes its own freshwater,” Mira said. “It pumps seawater.” She turned a metal wheel about the size of a steering wheel. “The secret passage and crew quarters are through this hatch.”
Helen followed her into a narrow, windowless hall. Mira slid open a door. “You’ll share this with Louise, the second stewardess.” The cabin was big enough for two bunks and a three-drawer cabinet. The narrow bathroom was no bigger than Helen’s, but much cleaner.
