The Dead-End Job Mysteries Box Set 1

by Elaine Viets

  Joe stayed ten minutes and took three phone calls while he was there. Christina looked crestfallen when he left. “He didn’t kiss me good-bye. Why didn’t you tell me that the Moschino made me look fat?” she said to Helen.

  “Because you don’t look fat,” Helen said.

  But Christina would not be consoled. She weighed herself in the stockroom. “I’ve gained two pounds,” she said tragically, as if announcing she had cancer.

  Christina ate one plain rice cake for lunch and drank only water. She was determined to starve the two pounds off by the time Joe came back home.

  “My gut is heinous,” she said. Heinous was a favorite Juliana’s word, usually applied to such tragedies as a pimple or a broken fingernail.

  Christina took out her anger on the women trying to get into Juliana’s. She rejected one because she had on a Tommy Hilfiger T-shirt and another because she wore gold moccasins. A third was refused for a fake Rolex, although how Christina could tell from so far away Helen did not know.

  “And look at this one,” Christina said, as she buzzed in a blonde with a Juliana’s dress bag. “Melissa wants to return a dress. Guess she doesn’t know about our policy.”

  Melissa was a little blonde with large implants, a small chin, and sexy, slightly popped, gray eyes. Her pale, aristocratic, oval face made her look like she’d stepped out of an eighteenth-century English painting, except the upper crust didn’t show quite so much midriff back then.

  Yesterday, Melissa bought a gold Armani evening gown that bared her bony back and shoulders. A day later, Melissa was bringing it back. The long black bag with Juliana’s name in hot pink trailed behind her. Melissa’s hair was sliding out of its French roll, and the gray eyes were slightly red. She looked like she’d had a late night.

  “I’m returning this dress,” Melissa said. “My boyfriend hates it.”

  The gown had been worn. Helen could see sweat stains under the armpits and makeup on the neckline. Melissa was trying an old retailing scam: you wore an expensive dress to some event, then returned it the next day.

  “We have a one-return, no-return policy,” Christina said.

  “What’s that mean?” Melissa said, with an imperious tone to match her aristocratic looks.

  “You can return a dress once, but then you can never return.”

  Melissa looked shocked. Her pale oval face went a shade whiter. She had to make a quick decision. An Armani gown was major money. Melissa would either lose several thousand dollars now or her entrée to Juliana’s forever.

  “I . . . I think I could persuade him to change his mind,” Melissa said. The aristocrat, suddenly humbled, picked the bag off the counter.

  “A smart woman knows how to tell a man what to think,” Christina said.

  Then why did Joe think you were fat? Helen wondered.

  As soon as Melissa left, Christina began agonizing again about her weight. “Do I look fat in this outfit, Helen? Is it just my gut that’s fat, or am I putting weight on my butt, too? Is that cellulite on my thighs? Do you see any cellulite? Tell me the truth, now.” When Helen couldn’t take any more, she fled to the back room, saying she had to make a personal phone call.

  Helen rummaged in her unfashionably large purse until she found her Filofax and looked up Sarah’s home phone number. Helen had rented Sarah’s old apartment at the Coronado. They’d met when she was shown the apartment and hit it off instantly. Sarah had left her a meal in the fridge on moving day, a gesture Helen appreciated. They’d promised to get together but never did. Now she owed Sarah an apology for not opening the green door yesterday.

  Helen left a message on Sarah’s machine and hoped she would call back.

  Thank God, two favorites came in that afternoon to distract Christina: Brittney and Tiffany. There were no other customers for almost an hour. The women lounged on the black loveseats, talking like girls at a pajama party about clothes and boyfriends. Juliana’s women always had boyfriends, never lovers.

  Brittney, the woman who could not frown, wore an ice-blue pantsuit that made her sapphire-blue eyes hypnotic. Her matching sapphire-studded Rolex was pretty hypnotic, too.

  Tiffany was the woman with the bad eye job. She did look permanently startled, Helen thought, but it was cute on her. Tiffany reminded Helen of Bambi caught in the headlights. She wore a candy-pink pants outfit with frothy ruffles down the front and around the hips. Her platinum hair looked like spun sugar and her lips were cherry red. Her implants bulged out of her blouse. Tiffany’s elderly boyfriend had paid for her D cups, she’d told Helen last week, because “he liked to get his hands on his money.”

  “You look just like Jayne Mansfield,” Helen said.

  “Whoth that?” Tiffany said, looking adorably blank.

  “A movie star,” Helen said.

  “Thath nithe,” Tiffany said, looking pleased. “What movieth hath thee been in?”

  “None any more,” Christina said. “She’s dead. And why are you lisping?”

  “Juth had my tongue pierthed,” Tiffany said, and stuck out her tongue to reveal a gold stud. “I thould talk fine in a day or two.”

  Helen was repulsed. “Why would you want your tongue pierced?” she said.

  Brittney snorted Evian water through her nose. Christina rolled her eyes. Helen knew she’d said something hopelessly Midwestern. Only Tiffany took her question seriously.

  “The oral thex ith fantathtic,” she said, and giggled.

  “What?” Helen said.

  “She says the oral sex is fantastic,” Brittney said.

  Tiffany giggled again. “No, my boyfriend thayth that.”

  Then they all shrieked with laughter like schoolgirls. Helen was actually wiping tears from her eyes. It felt good to laugh this hard. She loved this store. She had to be wrong about Christina skimming money. She had to be.

  “Speaking of boyfriends, how’s Joe?” Brittney said in that soft, sighing voice, and Helen could feel the mood shift.

  “He won’t be in town for my birthday. He has to go to the Keys. But we’re going clubbing when he gets back.”

  “Which ones?” Brittney said. “Kiss? Tantra? Rain? I hope he takes you to Mynt. It’s the prettiest. They pipe scents like sage and mint through the air conditioner. Did I tell you I saw Queen Latifah there one night? And the Back-street Boys? Of course Bash is reopening. That might be fun. I partied there one night with Sean Penn.”

  But Christina knew how to yank the spotlight back. “I was there the night Leonardo DiCaprio whipped off his shirt and danced on a speaker,” she said. “Titanic had just opened and it was huge.”

  “Titanic, even,” Helen said. Everyone ignored her.

  “But that’s not the best part. Joe has promised to bring me something special,” Christina said. Her voice was too neutral.

  “Oooh,” Tiffany said. “Ith thith the ring at latht?”

  “I hope so. But I’d settle for a tennis bracelet.”

  “You would not. You want the ring,” Brittney said.

  Christina nodded. “I’ve waited long enough,” she said. “This is put-up or shut-up time. I’m almost forty. I want to be married.”

  “It’s overrated,” Helen said. “I was married for seventeen years.”

  “Divorced is better than never being married,” Christina said. “At least some man wanted you enough to stand up at an altar and say so. No one’s ever wanted me that way.”

  “They juth want uth every other way,” Tiffany said, and it sounded sadder with her lisp.

  “But not when we’re old and wrinkled. Not forever,” Brittney said in that caressing whisper, and for once Helen could see the emotion in her beautiful expressionless face.

  “It wasn’t forever,” Helen said. “It was only for seventeen years.”

  “That’s forever for us,” she sighed. In seventeen years, Brittney would be beyond the help of any Brazilian doctor.

  It wasn’t true that no man wanted to marry them, Helen thought. Lots of interesting, honorabl
e men would want them for their brides. But it was true that no super-rich man would marry them. Helen felt sorry for these waiflike women. She knew they were in a trap of their own devising, but it was still a lonely one. She was relieved when the doorbell rang, and she didn’t have to answer Brittney.

  Christina looked up. “It’s Venetia.”

  “I have to go. I can’t stand that woman,” Brittney said.

  “Me either,” Tiffany said.

  Venetia was even thinner than most of Juliana’s women. She looked like an articulated skeleton in a Chanel suit. When she stretched out her hand to examine a shirt, Helen thought she could count all twenty-six bones. Venetia’s wrist was a collection of knobs. She had a strange, jittery way of moving and an odd dirty look to her skin. Helen was glad that Venetia ignored her.

  “I want one of your special purses,” she said to Christina, “and I want it now.” Her voice was harsh and high.

  “I have a lovely little beaded 1920s number.”

  “Fine. Get it. Right now,” Venetia ordered.

  While she waited for Christina to return, the stick woman bounced impatiently up and down on one foot, twirled her hair, scratched her arm. Venetia made Helen so nervous that she moved to the mahogany sideboard and started folding a sweater that did not need folding. It was cashmere, light and luxurious. Just touching it was a pleasure, so Helen folded and refolded it while she waited for Christina to return.

  Christina had a sideline selling evening purses that she bought at rummage sales and antique shops. She cleaned their delicate silver clasps, restored their beading, and put in new silk linings. They were collectibles. They must be addictive, Helen thought. Some women came in two or three times a month for Christina’s purses. Helen could see why. She’d collect them if she had the money. They were miniature works of art.

  The women always paid cash, and Helen figured Christina must have some deal with the store owner, where Mr. Roget got a cut. She kept the purses on a special shelf high in the stockroom, so they wouldn’t get mixed up with the regular stock.

  Christina came out carrying an exquisite little black beaded number with a pink heart in the center and an ornate silver clasp.

  “Let me see the inside,” Venetia said.

  “It’s pink silk,” Christina said. “The clasp is tricky. I’ll open it for you.”

  But Venetia impatiently ripped the purse from Christina’s hands. It flew open, and brightly colored candies scattered all over the carpet.

  No, wait. That wasn’t candy, Helen thought. Those were pills and capsules. Oh God. Drugs. That’s what was in the special purses. She didn’t want to see this.

  Helen picked up the sweater and, hugging it like a teddy bear, she carried it to the stockroom and stayed there.

  What was Christina doing? Helen asked herself. Does she think I’m so stupid I won’t notice she is selling drugs and skimming money?

  Exactly, Helen decided. I am naive about things like tongue piercing. But I worked in a corporation for twenty years. I know a crook when I see one.

  In a way, Helen didn’t blame Christina. The head saleswoman made thousands for Juliana’s cheap owner and was paid only eighteen thousand a year, plus a miserly commission. There was no way anyone could live well on that money. Not the way Christina had to dress for this job.

  Helen would have to make some decisions. Should she say something to the store owner about Christina’s drug dealing? He should know if illegal activities were going on in his store. But what if Mr. Roget was getting a cut on the sale of the purses’ contents? The store owner hung onto his nickels. Did he love money enough to turn a blind eye to drug sales in his own store? He had the perfect excuse if Christina was caught: he was far away, in another country. How could he know what was going on?

  What about an anonymous call to the police? Another bad idea. If her boss was caught dealing, Helen’s reputation could be ruined, too. If Juliana’s was ever raided, Helen’s name could wind up in the newspapers, and that would be a disaster. She had to start looking for another job.

  When Helen finally came out of the stockroom, Venetia was gone. Helen’s foot crunched on something, and she picked it up. It was a pill about the size of an aspirin, but yellow. It had a designer logo.

  Even Helen knew what Ecstasy looked like.

  Chapter 5

  “Joe’s back!” Christina crowed when Helen came into work the next day. “He says he has my birthday present, and he wants to give it to me tonight. We’re doing the South Beach clubs first, then going to his house for my present. He says he has something I’ll love forever. It’s a ring. I know it.”

  Helen had never seen Christina look so pretty. Her face seemed lighted from within. The deep lines around her mouth were almost erased. Her hair shone like burnished gold.

  “Joe’s going to pick me up after work,” she said. “In a limo!” She was beside herself with excitement.

  Helen hoped that Joe really was going to give Christina a ring. It would solve everything. The head saleswoman would marry her rich man and live happily ever after. She wouldn’t have to skim money or sell drugs. Helen wouldn’t have to worry about finding another job. She could stay at Juliana’s.

  When she went out for lunch, Helen saw a flyer on a telephone pole that said “WANTED: WOMEN 21 TO 65! Earn $35 an hour. No experience necessary.” Helen called the number. A bar on East Sample Road was looking for lingerie models.

  “I’m Frank, the owner,” he said. His voice oozed out of the phone like oil. Snake oil. “Our customers ain’t the youngest, you get my drift. Age ain’t a problem, long as you got yourself a good figure and big boobs. Forty’s young to them. They don’t mind a good-looking granny. Like ’em better than the young stuff, sometimes. Your older gal appreciates the attention and ain’t so inhibited, you know what I mean?”

  Helen hung up the phone while Frank was still oozing. Once again she felt the Greek diner owner’s gut bump against her and his hairy paws on her chest and shuddered. Helen wanted this evening with Joe to succeed almost as much as Christina did.

  When the store closed at six that night, Christina was waiting for Joe at the green door.

  She was wearing a short black Gucci dress that managed to bare lots of skin and still look sophisticated instead of trampy. Her legs were impossibly long in her sleek Charles Jourdan heels. Her blonde hair was pulled into a low knot. Christina looked confident and ready for her brilliant future.

  “How do I look?” she asked Helen.

  “Stunning,” Helen said.

  “Do you think he’ll like it?” Christina said, and twirled gracefully. Do you think he’ll like me, was the unspoken question.

  “He’d be a fool not to,” Helen said. But she thought Joe was a fool.

  Joe’s limousine was a black Mercedes superstretch. The driver opened the door for Christina, and she looked so happy, Helen was afraid for her. The last thing she saw, before the limousine door closed with an expensive chunk! were Christina’s long, slender legs sliding across the black leather upholstery. They looked white and vulnerable.

  Helen hoped that Joe wouldn’t disappoint Christina again. She resolved not to say anything to Christina tomorrow, no matter how great her curiosity. She would wait for Christina to tell her.

  Helen couldn’t spend any more time thinking about Christina. She had her own date with Cal that night. He was picking her up at seven. She was as excited and hopeful as a teenager. Helen tried on six outfits and four pairs of shoes before deciding on a slim black pantsuit and flat strappy sandals. She was determined to look graceful when she climbed into the boat.

  She wondered if she should bring some money. Would they split the tab, or would Cal pay for their meal? She didn’t know how dating worked any more, but she was not going to ask the women at Juliana’s. Helen didn’t want their men or their lives.

  Money is power, woman, she told herself. Give yourself some. She boldly pulled a hundred dollars out of Chocolate the bear and stuffed it into her
little black purse.

  Cal showed up at her door in South Florida formalwear: long khaki pants and a blue cotton shirt open at the collar and rolled up at the sleeves. Helen was a sucker for rolled sleeves.

  “You look lovely,” Cal said, and Helen glowed. It had been a long time since a man had admired her.

  “You look pretty good yourself,” she said, and felt shy again.

  The drive to Lighthouse Point took almost an hour in Cal’s dented Buick. On the way, Cal entertained her with stories of his marathon drives from Toronto to Florida, his daughter the marketing expert, and his grandchild, the world’s most brilliant two-year-old.

  “How long have you been divorced?” she said, finally.

  “Almost fifteen years. My ex-wife is a fine woman.”

  “You don’t sound bitter,” Helen said.

  “I’m not. The divorce was my own fault. I was at the office until late every night, and she found someone else.”

  Helen was silent for a moment. “What are you thinking?” Cal said.

  “How nice it is that you got over your wife. There’s nothing worse than spending an evening with the undivorced.”

  “Are they like the undead?” Cal said.

  “Exactly,” Helen said. “Like the undead, the undivorced are in a state neither dead nor alive. They’re obsessed with their exes and spend the whole evening describing their faults and draining the life out of you.”

  “You haven’t mentioned your ex-husband. I gather you’re over him?”

  “Yes,” Helen said, so abruptly it cut the conversation like an ax blade. There was an awkward silence until Cal said, “Here’s the parking lot for Cap’s.”

  Cal parked, and they walked a short distance to the dock. The waterway was lined with high-priced, low-slung homes and boats that were bigger and whiter than the Coronado Tropic Apartments. But Helen saw no sign of the restaurant, and there was no attendant or phone on the deserted dock.

  “How does Cap’s know we’re here?” Helen said.

  “They always do,” Cal said. “I see the boat now.” He pointed toward an open motor launch heading their way.