by Elaine Viets
“You will need one death certificate for every life insurance policy,” Cassie said, “if your mother has them, as well as pension plans, any property in her name, the IRS, all her credit cards, checking and savings accounts, CDs, stocks and bonds. Some banks require an original certificate for every account.”
Helen was adding up the money Larry would need for the death certificates to claim her mother’s small estate. She’d make sure Larry would buy every certificate he needed. Each ten-dollar charge would hurt that skinflint as if it were stripped from his hide.
“I’ll take three death certificates,” Helen said. “Might as well make the price an even five thousand. I’ll write you a check.”
“Very good,” Cassie said. “And could I interest you in our preneed payment plan? For just ten dollars a week—”
Helen interrupted. “Cassie, right now, I can barely afford to live, much less die.”
CHAPTER 11
The line straggled halfway down the block from Snapdragon’s, and it was only nine in the morning. Two television vans were parked out front. Helen nipped around the back and knocked on the store’s door. Vera peeked out and unlocked it.
“Quick!” Vera grabbed Helen by the wrist and hauled her into the back room. In the dim light, Helen could see Vera was not her usual stylish self. Her silky straight hair was badly frizzed. She had an ugly zit on her chin, and lint on her black clamdiggers.
“You look a little harried,” Helen said. “That forest green microfiber dustcloth clashes with your lime top.”
“Only old ladies like matchy-matchy,” Vera said. “Have you seen that crowd outside?”
“Tons of people. That’s good, right?” Helen said.
“Bad,” Vera said. “For two reasons: A zillion reporters want interviews and I don’t need that kind of publicity. And those aren’t customers. They’re tourists. They’re wearing more polyester than a seventies disco dancer. Half that crowd is carrying foam boxes from the Flo with dripping leftovers. Lookie loos will leave greasy fingerprints on my stock. They won’t buy anything. I need money. I have to make the rent and pay Roger.”
“Roger?” Helen asked.
“You met Roger the day Chrissy died,” Vera said. “The guy in the back room. The one you thought I was dating.”
“Oh, right. The muscleman with the tan,” Helen said. “I remember now.”
“Any woman with a pulse would remember him. Now that Chrissy’s gone, he’s my best designer source. Last month he brought in three instant sellers: a little white size-two Moschino with the tags still on it, the beaded Versace evening gown and the 7 For All Mankind jeans. They practically flew off the racks. Then he brought me True Religion jeans and T-shirts.”
“Where’s he get those clothes? Does he work in retail?” Helen asked.
“He parks cars at Cheri, the posh salon down the street. Roger makes minimum wage and tips. He probably charms the clothes off the women at the salon.
“Roger says he has a gift for picking bargains at garage sales in rich neighborhoods. I believe him. With those blue eyes, I’d believe anything he says. I have to come up with three hundred dollars to pay him for last month’s sales, and he’ll be in for his money this afternoon.”
“Do you think he shoplifts clothes?” Helen asked.
“Honey, I can’t afford thoughts like that,” Vera said. “Besides, some people tell the truth. I had an older man bring in a fabulous size-two Escada suit with a belt, scarf and shoes. All the pieces had the tags on them. The man said his wife wouldn’t be wearing them. He had on saggy jeans and a stained T-shirt. The dude looked like a bum.
“I thought, right, and figured he’s stolen them. Later, I learned his wife was a businesswoman who’d died of a stroke right before an important trip to New York. He was telling the truth.”
“While we’re on the subject of dead wives,” Helen said, “what do we do about the dressing room where Chrissy was killed? Is it closed off?”
“Can’t afford to close it,” Vera said. “We only have two. I’ve fixed it up.”
The back dressing room smelled of patchouli. A framed pastel print of a seashell hid the spot where Chrissy had been hanged. The floor had a pale blue rug. The chair was replaced by a white wicker stool. The new additions were all Snapdragon’s stock.
“Did you repaint the room?” Helen asked. “The walls are extra white.”
“Wasn’t time to repaint,” Vera said. “I hired Marquita and Evie to clean. Those two women have been working since six this morning. They washed down the walls and have been dusting like crazy. There was so much fingerprint powder, it looked like a black snowstorm.”
“I like the seashell print there,” Helen said.
“The cops cut the hook right out of the wall,” Vera said. “The print covers the hole. I bought another dress hook and put it up on the opposite wall. Chrissy’s blood dripped onto the tile grout. Marquita and Evie couldn’t scrub it out, so I added the rug. The black fingerprint powder made the chair grungy. It’s in the back until I can repaint it.”
“The room looks fresh,” Helen said.
“I’ll probably have to redecorate the other room, too,” Vera said. She sounded gloomy.
“What can I do?” Helen asked.
“Straighten and size the women’s shirts while I put more summer shoes on display.”
Helen worked at buttoning shirts and returning the sizes to the right racks. She shook her head when she found a sharp hanger thrust through a sheer top, tearing the delicate fabric.
“More loss,” Vera said sadly. “I’ll ask our alterations woman if she can mend it.”
At nine fifty-five, Vera paid the two Latina cleaners and let them out the back door. At ten oh one, people impatiently rattled the front door. “I’d better let them in before they break the glass,” Vera said. “Battle stations. I’ll handle the reporters.”
A human waterfall poured through the pink door.
“May I help you?” Helen asked a woman with orange hair. Not red. Orange. She could have been a Sunkist spokeswoman.
“Just looking,” Ms. Orange said.
So was the woman behind her in a peach pantsuit. And the two women in strawberry tops. The shop looked like a fruit stand.
If Helen had a dollar for every time she heard “just looking,” Vera could have paid the rent and Roger.
The ghouls were worse than the lookie loos.
“Is this the dressing room where that lady . . . you know . . . died?” a breathy blonde asked. Her skin was so pale Helen was sure she bunked in a coffin. Her bloody lipstick was unsettling. She licked her lips. Helen thought Vampira was excited by this distant brush with death.
“Which scarf was she hanged with?” Vampira slid her hands along the silk scarves. Her nails were red, too.
“It’s not here,” Helen said. “The police took it.”
“Oh.” Vampira left.
Vera had cleverly positioned herself outside to talk to the reporters. She faced the street so the television viewers would see a family restaurant in the background. “It’s a terrible loss,” Helen could hear Vera say, “but the police will catch him. He wouldn’t dare come back here.”
By noon, Helen had had four women who wanted to see the “death dressing room.” Two more wanted to buy the “death scarf.” When the latest ghoul left at twelve thirty, Helen ran up front to Vera. “How are sales?”
“Nothing,” Vera said. “Nada. Zero. I told you all we’d have were lookie loos.”
“Would you mind if I lied to sell something?”
“Honey, you can strip naked and dance in the window if it will help make a sale. Just split your tips with me. We need the money.”
“I’ll need to cut off the scarf tags,” Helen said.
“Take the scissors and cut me a deal,” Vera said. “I need to make five hundred dollars minimum. Save the tags so I can keep track of the stock.”
Helen bird-dogged two more lookie loos before an older woman with a Bride o
f Dracula hairdo materialized. Her hair was dyed black with a dramatic white stripe and poufed like Elvis’s pompadour. Her long white cotton dress was a shroud.
Dracula’s Bride picked out a black Ferragamo scarf with dead-white flowers. “Is this the scarf she was hanged with?” Her voice fluttered like moth wings.
Helen’s skin crawled. She looked around, then whispered, “Don’t tell anyone, but that’s the death scarf. The police returned it this morning.”
“Was it cleaned?” Dracula’s Bride spoke in a cobwebbed whisper.
“No,” Helen said. “Not since Chrissy’s death.”
“How much?” Dracula’s Bride asked.
“We can’t sell it,” Helen said.
“I’ll pay anything.” Her eyes gleamed like a cat’s in heat.
“Not for sale,” Helen said.
“Please.” A cold, bony hand clutched Helen’s arm.
“Well, if you promise not to tell anyone . . .”
“Yes? Yes?” Dracula’s Bride asked.
“It’s five hundred dollars. Nonreturnable. But only if the shop owner says yes. I’ll ask Vera for you. Wait here.”
Helen hurried up front. “I’ve sold her this for five hundred bucks,” she whispered. “Act reluctant to sell it.”
“You’re kidding,” Vera whispered.
“Start acting,” Helen said, “if you want your money.”
“No!” Vera said loudly. “I can’t let that scarf go! It’s too precious.”
“Please,” Helen said, equally loud. “She’ll take care of it. She’ll respect it.”
“Five twenty-five!” cried the Bride of Dracula from the back of the store.
She streaked up front and burst into a scary smile when Vera said, “Sold. But only if you keep your promise not to tell anyone its origin.”
“Can I tell my boyfriend?” Dracula’s Bride said. “I’ll swear him to secrecy. But Brad will find it . . . exciting.”
“What if he blabs?” Vera asked.
“He never tells anyone what we do,” the Bride said. “I’ll sign a paper if you want. And I’ll make it five hundred fifty.” She stroked the scarf, then quickly counted out the cash. Helen was wrapping the scarf while Vera made an award-winning show of reluctance. “All right, if he can keep his mouth shut,” she said.
“Oh, he’ll be quiet,” Dracula’s Bride said. “He likes to—”
“Here’s your purchase,” Helen interrupted. She shoved the pink Snapdragon’s bag at the Bride and pushed her toward the door.
After she left, Vera said, “You wuss. I wanted to know what her boyfriend liked to do.”
“If I found out, it could ruin my love life,” Helen said. “I might have to take the veil or live in a lighthouse or something. And was his name Brad, or Vlad, as in Vlad the Impaler?”
“I don’t care if he’s Stone Cold Steve Austin,” Vera said. “You got me five hundred fifty dollars for a thirty-dollar scarf. Now I can pay Roger.”
After the sale to the Bride of Dracula, the lookie loos seemed easier to tolerate. Two teenage girls spent half an hour trying on rings and giggling while Helen stood guard. Rings were one of the store’s most shoplifted items. The brown-haired girl bought her birthstone—an amethyst—for the second sale of the day.
Helen wrapped up the ring. She was ready with a “May I help you?” when the door opened. The words died on her lips. This was a tough customer and an unwelcome one—Detective Richard McNally.
“Is Ms. Salinda here?” he asked.
Vera came out of her office carrying six shirts to be tagged. She hung them on the dry-cleaning hook at the counter.
“You want to talk to me?” There was a touch of defiance in Vera’s voice. Helen tried to slip away, but Detective McNally said, “Don’t go far, Ms Hawthorne. We may have a question for you, too.
“We want to know where you get your clothes, Vera,” he said.
“This shirt is from a Palm Beach woman,” she said, indicating her lime top. “I got some things from Chrissy, as I told you before. A Hendin Island woman is another good source.”
“So your sources are all women?” he asked.
“Desperate housewives. Well-dressed women who need cash,” Vera said.
With that, Roger walked in. He looked like he’d stepped off a Malibu beach. He was carrying a soda can and three evening dresses, carefully wrapped in clear plastic. Even ten feet away, Helen could see expensive beading and sequins on the long dresses.
Roger’s blue eyes widened when he saw the detective, and he started to back out.
“May we help you, sir?” McNally said, blocking his exit. “Or maybe I should say ‘ma’am.’ Vera told me she only buys clothes from women.”
“Uh, no. Yes. I brought these in for dry cleaning.” Roger was stuttering.
“They look a little small for you, Roger,” McNally said.
“I’m running an errand for a lady at the salon. I said I’d drop off her dry cleaning.”
“She keeps her dry cleaning in plastic?” McNally asked.
“The beads and sequins fall off if you aren’t careful,” Roger said.
“Funny how clothes get dirty on hangers in the stores,” McNally said. “I see tags on these.”
“I—she—uh, the lady likes them cleaned before she wears them. You never know who tries them on in a store. They might have bugs or something.”
“Right,” McNally said. “Neiman Marcus is infested with bedbugs. But one escaped and is standing in front of me.”
“Uh, can I leave my dry cleaning and go?” Roger asked.
“For now,” McNally said. There was a trace of a smile. A smirk, actually.
“I’d like them back Tuesday,” Roger said, hardly pausing between words. He set down his soda can, then dropped the dresses on the counter as if they were on fire. He was out the door.
“Well, he seemed desperate all right,” McNally said. “But I don’t think Roger is a housewife.”
As if on cue, a size zero appeared lugging a green shopping bag brimming with clothes. She was blond as a Christmas angel. Vera seemed to regard her as a heavenly savior.
“Kelly,” she said, “what a pleasant surprise.” Helen had never heard Vera give such an effusive welcome.
“I’m cleaning out my closet,” Kelly said, “and I wanted to bring you some summer clothes while you can still sell them. I have Versace, D&G, Gucci and—oopsie, this Vera Wang still has the tag on it. Please don’t tell my husband. Jason would have a fit if he knew I never wore it. These are shopping errors. My head cleared when I got home, so I didn’t wear them in public. I don’t know why I ever bought that hot pink Ed Hardy shirt. There are too many imitators. My maid bought one almost like it at Target. I was mortified. And these white clamdiggers make my ass look wider than Roseanne Barr’s.”
She looked up and saw Detective McNally. “Excuse my language.” She attempted a blush.
“I’m sure he’s not offended,” Vera said. “Let’s talk price quickly and I’ll send you on your way.”
Vera made an offer that Helen thought was overgenerous. She suspected it was out of gratitude for Kelly’s timely arrival. The woman didn’t argue. Kelly signed the agreement and flew out of the store.
“Well, I hope that answered your questions about my sources, Detective,” Vera said. “Now, may I ask you one? Why hasn’t Danny been arrested for Chrissy’s murder? I thought the husband was always a prime suspect. Or do you give developers a pass?”
Helen could hear the anger in McNally’s voice. “He would be, Vera, except for one complication. He was in a meeting for the Orchid House development fifteen blocks away at the time of his wife’s death. Danny has thirty witnesses.”
“And how did you know the time of death?”
“His wife told us,” Detective McNally said. “The victim’s watch stopped when she was attacked. It fell to the floor and broke. Oh, one more thing. Ms. Hawthorne, your fingerprints were on that watch. And on the murder weapon.”
; CHAPTER 12
A shattering silence followed Detective McNally’s statement. The street sounds outside Snapdragon’s Second Thoughts disappeared. A flock of chattering tourists passing the shop seemed to make no sound.
Helen’s shocked brain scrambled to hold on to Detective McNally’s words: Your fingerprints. On that watch. And the murder weapon.
Finally, Helen managed to ask two questions that made sense: “Why would my fingerprints be on a scarf? Can you get fingerprints off a scarf?”
“Your fingerprints weren’t on the scarf, Ms. Hawthorne,” McNally said. “Mrs. Martlet was coldcocked by a white porcelain pineapple. We found her blood and hair on it and your fingerprints on the bottom of the ornament.”
“I dusted it,” Helen said. “I hated it, too. I never thought pineapples were ornamental, but rich people put them on everything. They like those stupid monkeys, too. They bring in monkey lamps, bookends and candlesticks to sell. Some of them are wearing turbans. The monkeys, not the rich people. I don’t get it.”
Detective McNally interrupted. “Now that we have your opinions on decorating,” he said, “let’s go back to your fingerprints.”
Helen had bought enough time to gather her scattered thoughts. “My fingerprints should be on that pineapple,” she said, and grew more confident. “They should be all over this shop. It’s my job to dust the stock. You should be surprised if my fingerprints aren’t on anything in this shop.”
“Mrs. Martlet’s watch wasn’t part of the stock,” McNally said.
“I thought the glass on Chrissy’s watch face was broken,” Helen said.
“We found your thumbprint on the metal back.”
“Oh. Right. Chrissy dropped her watch. The clasp was broken. I picked it up, followed her to the dressing room and handed it to her.”
“And you didn’t tell me?” McNally asked.
“I forgot.”
“How many times did you go over the events on the day of the murder?”
