The Dead-End Job Mysteries Box Set 1

by Elaine Viets

  Helen began to wonder about Christina.

  Chapter 3

  The rent was due today.

  Margery, her landlady, would be knocking on the door in half an hour. Fear cold as cemetery fog settled in on Helen. She didn’t have enough money for the rent. She was short by forty-one dollars. Panic seized her stomach, and she felt sick and dizzy. Helen didn’t take uncertainty well. She was meant to get a fat weekly paycheck with pension and benefits, not live from hand to mouth.

  She remembered her old life in St. Louis with its careless luxuries. Helen never thought twice about the manicures, massages, and hundred-dollar haircuts. She used to pass out twenty-dollar tips like business cards.

  But that was before she came home from work and found Rob kissing their neighbor Sandy. Their liplock was so passionate, Helen couldn’t have pried them apart with a crowbar. And she had a crowbar right there, next to Rob’s electric screwdriver. Helen still remembered how it felt when she picked up the crowbar and swung it as hard as she could—and heard that satisfying crunch. The rest of her memory seemed to come back in flashes: the horrible scene in court, her hurried flight from St. Louis, her long zigzag drive across the country to throw off any pursuers.

  And now, the long, slow days in South Florida. Days that were pleasant and sunny, at least most of the time. January in Florida was as close to heaven as Helen was likely to get. Even today’s rain beat January in St. Louis. Back home, Helen would have been scraping ice off her windshield and sliding to work on slippery roads. She’d be shivering in a heavy wool coat and damp smelly boots. Now, after work, she kicked off her suit and heels and put on her cutoffs and sandals.

  If Helen was being really honest, the only thing she missed about her old job was the money. Pensions and benefits bored her silly. She was glad she’d escaped that. But when she ran from St. Louis, she condemned herself to the prison of low-paying, dead-end jobs. She couldn’t take a decent job. She couldn’t have credit cards or a bank account. She would be too easy to trace.

  So Helen went from making more than a hundred thousand a year to two hundred sixty-eight dollars a week at Juliana’s. After she paid her rent, there wasn’t much left for food and electricity and other necessities. And that worried her. All the time.

  Helen threw herself wearily on the bed, and the old springs creaked. The lumpy pillows and turquoise chenille spread smelled slightly of the ever-present Florida mold and heat. She liked it. It was a vacation smell. Helen didn’t turn on the window air conditioner until half an hour before bedtime, to cut down her electric bill.

  She picked up Chocolate, the fat brown teddy bear on her bed, unzipped his back, and felt inside. Choc was a stuffed bear all right. He was stuffed with all her available cash. She counted out the rent money for the tenth time. The bear had not grown fatter overnight. Helen was still forty-one dollars short. She checked her purse. Two dollars and seventy-eight cents. There wasn’t a stray penny in the sofa cushions.

  It was worse than she thought.

  Where did her money go? She’d bought pantyhose on Tuesday. She got a run in her Donna Karan control tops, and nail polish did not stop it. Twelve dollars for new ones. Helen had to have the only job in South Florida that required stockings, and tall women could not buy cheap pantyhose. They weren’t long enough. The dry cleaning for her black suit was another job expense. And one night, when she was really feeling wild, she ordered a pepperoni pizza.

  Helen had another week until payday. She’d have to dip into her stash.

  She patted Chocolate on the back like a burped baby, then pulled down the miniblinds, double-locked the door, and opened the utility closet. Wedged between the water heater and the wall was the old Samsonite suitcase she got for her high school trip to Washington D.C. Inside was a mound of shabby old-lady underwear she bought at a yard sale for twenty-five cents. Helen figured no burglar would touch the cotton circle-stitched bras, snagged support hose, and enormous flower-sprigged panties. Under that graying cotton and stretched elastic was all the money she had in the world: seven thousand three hundred and twenty-four dollars. Minus, after today, another forty-one bucks.

  She counted out the money, promised herself that she would replace it this paycheck, and knew she would not.

  Helen had arrived in Florida a month ago with ten thousand dollars in cash. It was a shock to learn that landlords here demanded a security deposit plus first and last month’s rent. That ate up nineteen hundred fifty dollars. Her worthless car needed eight hundred dollars in repairs, and Helen didn’t want to spend the money to fix it. She walked to work and hitched rides to the supermarket with folks at the Coronado apartments. But there were times when her pride wouldn’t let her mooch any more, and she took a cab. She’d needed a root canal three weeks ago. That was five hundred dollars, and the pain prescription was thirty-eight dollars. She had no medical insurance, either.

  Helen had thought she was lucky when she landed a job at the diner the day she arrived in Fort Lauderdale, within walking distance of where she was staying. The owner was a flabby Greek in a stained white apron who had a mustache like a dead mouse. The man beamed when Helen asked to be paid in cash. His English was uncertain, but “off the books” were three words he understood. Helen made decent money in tips, too. Also off the books.

  On the third day, she dropped a trayful of glassware in the kitchen. “I’m so sorry,” Helen said.

  “Dat’s OK. We find a way to make it up,” the flabby Greek said, and he put his sweaty hands right on her breasts and rubbed his gross gut against her belly.

  Helen reached behind her, found a meat mallet, and hit the randy Greek on his head. Then she walked out the diner door without collecting her pay.

  She pounded the pavement for another ten days before she found the job at Juliana’s, and that was sheer luck. Sherry, the previous sales associate, did not show up for work one Monday. Her phone was disconnected, and her landlord said Sherry had moved out in the middle of the night, owing back rent. That happened a lot in South Florida.

  Christina had been running the shop by herself for almost a week when Helen walked in looking for work. She was hired on the spot. The money wasn’t as good as at the diner, but every time Helen thought of looking for something better, she remembered the Greek gripping her breasts with hands like hairy suction cups.

  The suitcase snapped shut with a tired snick. Helen felt tired, too. She wanted to put up her aching feet. Her apartment was two rooms, a bedroom that opened onto a patio and a bigger room that served as living room, kitchen, and dining room. The furniture was from the 1950s. Some New York decorator would pay a fortune for the boomerang coffee table and the turquoise lamps shaped like nuclear reactors. The turquoise couch had an exuberant black triangle pattern. But the piece she loved most was a genuine Barcalounger. Lord, that monster was comfortable.

  Before Helen could throw herself into it, the doorbell rang. Through the glass slats of the jalousie door, she saw her landlady, Margery Flax, with a tall glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

  Margery walked into the room like she owned it, which she did. “Here, drink this. You need your Vitamin C,” she said, shoving the glass into Helen’s hand.

  Helen sniffed the glass. It looked like orange juice, but it smelled sort of bitter and perfume-y. There was a lime slice on the rim.

  “What’s this?”

  “A screwdriver,” Margery said.

  “Only in South Florida do sweet old ladies fix you screwdrivers so you get your Vitamin C,” Helen said.

  “I’m not sweet, I’m no lady, and I’m not old,” Margery said indignantly. “I’m only seventy-six.”

  “You’re right. I was being ageist,” Helen said contritely.

  “Well, I’m not that young, either,” Margery said. “But I don’t go on about it.”

  Seventy-six years in the Florida sun had left Margery’s fair skin as brown and wrinkled as an old paper bag. Two packs of Marlboros a day didn’t help. Juliana’s customer
s would be horrified by Margery’s skin. But Helen thought Margery’s lived-in face was attractive. Margery had shrewd brown eyes and straight gray hair that curved at her chin. She painted her toenails bright red, wore a silver toe ring and sexy Italian sandals. “The legs are the last to go,” Margery said, and she showed off hers in purple shorts.

  Margery was a commanding woman. After ordering Helen to drink the screwdriver, Margery now ordered her out of the apartment.

  “It’s a nice night. Go on out by the pool and talk to people. Peggy’s out there.”

  “What about Cal?” Helen said.

  “Hah,” Margery snorted, and blew smoke out her nose like a dragon. “That tightwad. What do you see in him?”

  “I like the way he says ‘ah-boot’ for ‘about.’ ”

  “Now, there’s the basis for a good relationship,” Margery said.

  Cal was a snowbird from Toronto. He was forty-five and divorced, with a nicely weathered face and good legs. Helen liked a well-shaped calf, and down here, where men wore shorts to almost everything but funerals, she had much to admire.

  “Cal is intelligent and a good talker. I love listening to his stories about Canada.”

  “Talk is cheap,” Margery said. “And so is Cal.”

  “Oh, Margery, you’re so prejudiced against Canadians. They’re nice quiet people. They make good tourists. They never kill themselves by diving into swimming pools from the tenth floor, like the drunken college kids at spring break. And not all Canadians are cheap.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Margery said, cigarette dangling from her lip like a movie tough. “Don’t ever go to dinner with him. Listen, sweetie, I’ve got ads in the paper to rent 2C. I’ll find you someone better than Cal.” She took Helen’s rent money and disappeared out the door in a cloud of smoke.

  Helen turned on the fan to chase out the cigarette smoke. Now she would have to go sit by the pool just to breathe. She loved Margery but wished she wouldn’t go on about the cheap Canadians. South Florida residents had a love-hate relationship with their Canadian visitors, who showed up about November and went back north after Easter. The Floridians needed their tourist dollars but claimed the Canadians were cheap. Servers called them “special waters,” because so many Canadians ordered the cheapest dinner special and drank only free tap water.

  Helen opened her sliding glass patio door and stepped into the warm, soft Florida night. She was immediately enveloped in a cloud of marijuana smoke from the apartment next door. Phil the invisible pothead lived next to Helen. She’d never seen him the whole time she’d lived there. In fact, she would not believe Phil existed if she didn’t smell the pungent pot wafting through his jalousie doors.

  The Coronado Tropic Apartments looked glamorous in the subtropic evening light. Margery and her long-dead husband built the apartments in 1949. The two-story Art Deco building had an exuberant S-curve. The sweeping lines were somewhat spoiled by the rusty, rattling air conditioners that stuck out of the windows like rude tongues. The Coronado was painted ice-cream white with turquoise trim and built around a turquoise-tiled swimming pool.

  Cal was sitting on the edge of the pool, his pale Canadian legs dangling in the water. Helen liked it that Cal wore a clean white T-shirt. Too many men in Florida proudly displayed big hairy bellies.

  Peggy, in 2B, was sitting next to Cal. Peggy was wearing a black one-piece suit and a green parrot on her shoulder. A live parrot with a pretty patch of gray feathers on his breast. Peggy never went anywhere without Pete, her Quaker parrot. She even took Pete to her office. Pets were strictly forbidden at the Coronado, so when Margery was around, everyone had to pretend Pete didn’t exist. It wasn’t easy. Pete let out the most ferocious squawks.

  Since Margery was not there, Helen gently stroked the bird’s soft feathers. The parrot danced back and forth on Peggy’s shoulder, flapped his wings once, and settled down. Peggy did not. She grew increasingly agitated as she talked with Cal. “Don’t blame me,” she snapped. “I didn’t vote for him.”

  “That could not happen in Canada,” Cal said. “Our system of government would not permit it.”

  A voice on the other side of the bougainvillea said, “If Canada is such a great place, Cal, why aren’t you there?”

  Out stepped Margery, defender of America, in purple shorts and red toenails.

  “Well?” she said. She folded her arms and waited for Cal’s answer. Everyone knew Cal only went home to Toronto long enough to qualify for his free national health insurance. Then he returned to Florida.

  “I never said America was bad,” Cal said finally. “I said Canada did some things better.”

  “Squaaak!” Pete said. Helen jumped. Everyone else politely ignored the parrot.

  “Think I’ll turn in,” Cal said.

  “Me, too,” Helen said. She did not like the way Margery had treated Cal.

  Helen and Cal walked back to their apartments, palm trees whispering behind their backs. Helen, who could always talk to Cal, suddenly felt shy. He seemed tongue-tied, too. Finally, he said, “Want to come in? I found some Molson’s on sale.”

  “No, thanks,” Helen said. “I’m tired, and I have to get up early for work tomorrow.”

  She studied his face in the fading light. Cal’s lips were a little thin, and his nose was a little long to be truly handsome. But the gray eyes were intelligent. It was a strong face, she decided. Manly. His blond hair had gone to gray at the sideburns. It looked distinguished. His neck was just right, not too thick or too scrawny. His shoulders were muscular. She was afraid to consider anything lower. Helen felt too lonely. It had been a long time since she had been with a man, and her ex-husband had hurt her badly.

  “Would you like to go to dinner this Saturday night?” Cal said.

  Helen thought of Margery’s warning.

  “Yes, I would,” she said, defiantly, as if Margery were listening. “I’d like that very much.”

  “Good,” he said. “I was thinking ah-boot”—There. He’d said it again. Helen loved the way Cal pronounced that word.—“going to Cap’s Place. It’s an old Florida restaurant from the rum-running days. You can only reach it by boat.”

  “But you don’t have a boat,” Helen said.

  “They’ll send one to pick us up,” Cal said.

  Suddenly, Helen didn’t feel tired at all. She felt like she was walking on richly scented clouds. Not all of those clouds were her neighbor Phil’s pot smoke, either.

  Chapter 4

  On Friday, Helen met Christina’s boyfriend, Joe.

  She’d heard Christina talking to Joe on the phone almost daily at the store. Helen cringed every time she thought of those conversations. Christina’s voice would get little-girl cute, and she’d say, “Whatever you want, Big Beary-Warey. I want what you want. No, no, you’re the important one. My opinion doesn’t matter. Now, what would you like for dinner?”

  Ugh. It was pathetic, Helen thought. So 1950s. She couldn’t understand how the clever Christina could abase herself for this man. She hoped he was worth it.

  Helen didn’t know much about Joe except he’d made a lot of money in real estate. Christina told her that he “owned a bunch of warehouses around Port Everglades,” the major Lauderdale shipping area.

  Christina was desperate to marry Joe. Helen knew she had a condo in low-rent Sunnysea Beach, but she spent most weekends with Joe in his five-bedroom mansion in Fort Lauderdale.

  Ever since she moved in with Joe, Christina had expected an engagement ring. She thought she’d get one for Christmas. Now her birthday was coming up. Joe said he had to be in the Keys on business, but he promised to bring Christina a birthday present from Key West. He said it would be “special” and “just what she’d always wanted.”

  Joe was also stopping by that morning before he left for his trip. Christina was in a dither at this unusual honor. She’d changed into three outfits before she settled on a dramatic scoop-front, hot-pink Moschino number with purple Fendi mules. Helen thought the ensemble looked ho
okerish. It was the fashion mistake an unsure woman would make. Christina was not confident of her lover.

  Christina kept looking out the front window until she spotted Joe’s fire-engine red car as it went down Las Olas. “It’s Joe’s Ferrari!” she said, as excited as a teenager on her first date. In South Florida, when a man made a lot of new money, he either bought a hundred-foot yacht or a Ferrari.

  “It’s a Ferrari Barchetta,” Christina said, as if that should mean something. When Helen didn’t respond, she said, “There are only four hundred forty-eight in the whole world.”

  “Why did he drive by? There’s valet parking right in front,” Helen said.

  “He likes to use the meters,” Christina said. She sounded defensive.

  A nickel squeezer, Helen thought. The guy’s driving a Ferrari and saving five bucks on parking.

  Christina ran to hit the buzzer, and Joe walked through the green door, a conquering hero holding his cell phone like a scepter. Dressed in black Hugo Boss, Joe looked like the high school bully all grown up. His dark wavy hair had a small, angry bald patch on the crown. His face was square and scowling. He had beefy shoulders and an aggressive walk.

  Christina seemed to grow smaller around him. She fluttered about, kissing him, patting him, hugging him.

  She introduced Helen, then said to Joe, “Do you like my outfit?”

  “It’s nice,” he said indifferently. “But are you getting a gut?” Helen hadn’t noticed it before, but Christina had a tiny bulge around the middle. Unfortunately, her revealing outfit showed it.

  “Are you?” Helen said to Joe. She knew it was rude, but Helen couldn’t stand the hurt look in Christina’s eyes. Like a lot of powerful men in Lauderdale, Joe was overweight, but expected the women he dated to be rail-thin.

  To her surprise, Joe laughed and patted his substantial stomach. “Yeah, honey, I am. Can’t help it. It’s generic.”

  He means genetic, Helen thought. I can’t believe Christina wants to marry this dolt.